Taming The Bride (Brides of Mayfair 2) (3 page)

Damnation! He didn’t want to have to explain himself to this dimwit. If Seton got sight of him, the story would be all over London in a matter of hours.

Alfred held still and watched Seton drool slobbering kisses over the poor creature in his arms. Though she was obviously a member of the
ton
, the young woman didn’t seem to mind Seton’s attentions.

Probably counting his money in her head to keep herself occupied
, Alfred thought.

As the sneeze came upon him, Alfred tried vainly to hold it in. But it only made his lips smack together loudly as a resounding “Ahh-CHOO!” echoed in the night.

At the noise, Lord Seton opened his eyes and stared directly at Alfred. It seemed to take a few moments for Seton to recognize that the thing he saw lurking in the bushes was a man’s face.

And it was the face of someone he knew.

“Egads…
Weston?
” the man asked, incredulous. “Is that you in there? Whatever are you doing lurking about in the bushes, man?”

“Lurking?” Alfred said, non-chalantly. “Certainly not. Just looking for my wallet. I seem to have lost it.”

Seton nodded. “Ah, bloody bad luck. Lady Fairfax and I will help you look for it, then.”

“No!” Alfred exclaimed, then cleared his throat and said more calmly, “I mean—there is no need. I would not want to interrupt your evening, Seton. I’ll find it soon enough, I’m sure.”

“Don’t be such a bloody hero, Weston,” Lord Seton said, moving about the bushes. “We would not dream of leaving you here to look for it alone, would we, my dear?”

Alfred ducked into the bushes, wincing as the branches scratched his skin.

The little red-haired strumpet would pay for this indignity
.

“Weston?” Seton called. “Where on earth have you got to, man?”

“In here,” Alfred replied from the sanctuary of the foliage. “I think I’ve found it. Yes, there it is. Bloody good luck. I thank you for your help, Seton. You need not detain yourselves further.”

“At least join us for a late supper, Weston,” Lord Seton pressed, peering into the dark branches that hid Alfred from view. “Come out of there and we’ll make an evening of it, the three of us. Eh, Weston? Weston?”

In desperation, Alfred pushed himself through the bushes. He felt the sting of more cuts from the dense branches as he forced his way through to the other side.

“Weston? Where are you?” he heard Seton calling.

Now Alfred was stuck out on the street, which was, for the moment, blessedly empty. Still holding his hat in front of him, Alfred ran, feeling the cold cobblestones beneath his feet and the chilly night air touching him in places he usually kept clothed.

“Weston!” he heard Seton shouting from behind him. “Have you gone bloody daft? You’re
naked
, man!”

At the commotion on the street, a few doors opened and heads popped out to see what was amiss. The gawking faces passed by in a blur as Alfred rounded the next corner and dashed behind a hedge. Panting, he stopped and caught his breath.

Now, all he had to do was pray that a coach would come by in the very near future. He folded his arms in front of him and did a little dance to keep warm.

He wanted to leap for joy when a coach rolled toward him, but decided against drawing any more attention to himself than he already had.

Alfred waved his hat furiously from around the hedge. The driver saw the movement and stopped, craning his neck to see who hailed him. Alfred sprang out of the dark foliage and dashed into the safety of the cab. Sighing with relief, he leaned out the open window and called his address out to the driver.

The coach jerked ahead and started down the street. Alfred settled back in the seat, trying to ignore the strange feeling of being completely naked in the cab of a coach. He would be home soon, he told himself, home and in his robe, drinking a nice brandy by the fire.

And while he drank the brandy and warmed himself up and stared at the orange flames of the fire, he would plan how to find the red-headed strumpet who had robbed him and left him naked in the night.

And exactly how he would make her pay.

Chapter 3

Alfred reached for his cup of coffee and downed a gulp. He looked across the table at his Great-Aunt Withypoll, who was still engrossed with the
Times
, then back at his plate of poached eggs, braised ham and biscuits with raspberry compote.

Cook had served up another magnificent breakfast this morning. And it was a good thing, too. Great-Aunt Withypoll had a very discerning palate.

“I say, what’s this, now? What’s this say?” the ancient lady said, squinting her eyes and bringing the paper right up to her nose.

“My dear Auntie, you must arrange to get spectacles,” Alfred said, taking a bite of ham. “Dr. Trask has recommended it.”

Lady Weston lowered the paper and glared at him. “You know I refuse to listen to that imbecile. Spectacles! Do you think my ancestor, the great Saxon Queen Withypoll—for whom I was named—wore spectacles? I think not. And I don’t need spectacles to see that you’ve made the
Times
, m’boy.” She whacked the paper with a gnarled hand and stared at him with disapproving eyes.

Alfred reached for the paper, but she grabbed it away. “I’ll read it, young pup,” she said, then cleared her throat and read aloud:

“WHO IS THE MYSTERY MAN OF DRURY LANE?

London theater-goers were treated to a unique sight last evening, as a mysterious man wearing nothing but a
beaver
was seen skulking about the bushes in wait there, to expose himself thus unclothed to innocent passersby.

Lord S________ and his
companion
, Lady F________ encountered the strange fellow after taking in a performance of ‘Much Ado About Nothing,’ at the Theater, though there is speculation as to the mystery man’s identity as being that of Lord W________, younger son of the Earl of H________.

Apparently, after laying in wait and spying on Lord

S________ and Lady F________ in his naked state, Lord W________, having been caught indulging in any number of lewd solitary amusements, ran down the street wearing nothing so much as his hat (though not upon his head!).

It is a mystery as to what may have caused Lord W________’s confounding actions last evening in Drury Lane. But tonight’s theater-goers are advised to keep watch for the be-hatted Mystery Man, as they may forgo the price of a ticket and be just as entertained.”

Alfred remained silent, waiting for the second wave of the onslaught.

The little woman stared at him with ice-blue eyes, which though clouded with age, still had the power to make a man quake in his boots.

As Alfred was trying not to do now.

“Nothing to say, eh?” she asked. “Nothing to say about all of London laughing at your schoolboy shenanigans?” Lady Weston shook her head in disappointment. “My word, a man your age running about naked as the day you were born. Is it true?”

Alfred sighed. “I’m afraid it is.”

“Well, I never heard of such a thing,” Lady Weston replied. “No doubt a bad habit you picked up in Italy when you were on your Tour—well, I don’t hold with it! You may be my favorite great-nephew, Alfred, but you try my patience. And it would be unwise to take advantage of an old woman’s affections, even if you no longer need me.”

“I will always need you, Auntie,” he replied, truthfully.

She looked unimpressed. “I admit, I favored you while you were growing up, and I fully supported you as my late husband’s heir to the barony, but now I am not so sure. Your brother Richard would never indulge in such scandalous actions.”

“My brother Richard is no fun,” Alfred replied, rising from his chair. He took her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it. “I swear, Auntie, it was all a misunderstanding. You must believe me.”

“Too much like my Bertram, you are, my boy,” she said, reluctantly giving a smile. “Same devilish eyes. Hmph. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were playing me like a violin, as you do with all the women.”

She laughed then and patted his arm. “Ah, Alfred…you always could make me laugh, even when I was angry with you. And that is why you are my favorite. But I am still quite cross with you. All of London will be tittering with amusement at your unfortunate adventure…and the Weston name should
never
be tittered at. You will have to find a way to make amends.”

“Anything, Auntie,” Alfred said, leaning back against the table. “My wish is your command, as always,”

Lady Weston gave a devilish smile of her own and said, “I have something in mind—though it would not be a difficult task for a man such as you. And it may help to quiet the gossip’s wagging tongues, as well. But tell me more of what happened last night.”

“It is quite embarrassing, Auntie, and I shall spare you the details,” Alfred replied. “But last night, as I was returning from the Theater, I was set upon by thieves—a man and a woman. As the woman distracted me with conversation and pretty smiles, her man, a big burly oaf, came out of his hiding place and with one hand about my throat, tried to choke the very breath from me. For a moment, I thought they had murder on their minds, but at the woman’s order, her man knocked me out with a blow to the back of my noggin, see?”

Alfred pointed to the lump on his head, and heard Great-Aunt Withypoll gasp as she felt the hard bump there.

“My dear, boy, are you alright?”

Alfred turned back to face her and waved away her concerns. “Oh, yes. Good thing I also inherited Great-Uncle Bertram’s hard head. At any rate, the next thing I knew, I woke up on the ground, hidden below some bushes, without a stitch of clothing on. This woman and her accomplice had made off with my clothes—but curiously left me my hat, watch and wallet—still full of money.”

Great-Aunt Withypoll nodded, looking suitably impressed. “A strange tale, indeed. What sort of thief would steal only the clothes upon your person and leave your valuables behind?”

Alfred shook his head, saying, “I’ve asked myself the same question. And my clothes would never have fit that big ape who so enjoyed choking me. It is a mystery, Auntie.”

“But however did you get home?” she asked.

“After being spotted in my state of dishabille by Lord Seton, who obviously felt obliged to share the story with the
Times
, I ran down the street and took refuge in a hedgerow until a coach came by. I flagged it down and returned here.”

Great-Aunt Withypoll’s sapphire eyes twinkled with mischief. “And what did you use to flag down the coach, Alfred? Do tell.”

Alfred smirked, amazed at her cheek. “My hat, madam…nothing but my hat. You know, for a woman at the grand age of eighty-seven, you have a terribly naughty mind.”

“From whom do you think you inherited yours?” she asked, deadpan.

“Well, I would have hoped it was from Great-Uncle Bertram.”

“No, no. Though you are the spitting image of him.” Lady Weston began to rise from her chair and Alfred assisted the tiny white-haired woman to her feet. “Let us go outside into the garden, Alfred, where I will tell you more about your task.”

They walked slowly down the hall, each step short and carefully placed on the white marble floor. Alfred felt the frailty of the old woman’s grasp on his arm, felt the brittle bones of the gnarled fingers clinging so dependently to him.

He looked down at her and felt his heart warm with affection. This indomitable woman had been the closest thing he’d had to a mother for most of his life. She and her late husband, Bertram, had practically raised Alfred and his brother, Richard. She and Alfred had always been very close.

His father, the Earl of Harrington, had insisted upon naming his sons after great English kings. But he’d never had much time for them, and even less when his wife, Lady Harrington, abandoned her family and ran off to Italy. Alfred was only eight at the time.

Soon after, Lord Harrington had placed his sons with his uncle, the eleventh Baron Weston, and his wife, to raise. Lord Harrington’s business commitments kept him very busy and he didn’t want his sons raised by servants.

It was strange, but sometimes Alfred still dreamed of the day his mother left…that cold winter day when his world had changed forever. He, a grown man of thirty, was still haunted by an eight-year-old’s broken heart. How pathetic.

He led Great-Aunt Withypoll outside into the back gardens of the townhouse. They walked slowly across the lush grass at the same steady pace, just as they did every day that she was in residence.

Great-Aunt Withypoll insisted on taking in an hour of fresh air each day, weather permitting, to invigorate her health, and it was obviously quite effective. For though her bones were becoming frail, her constitution was surely as strong as that of an ox.

He helped her to her seat on the marble bench next to her favorite pink rose bush and sat down beside her. “Now, Auntie, tell me what I must do to win back my place in your heart.”

“Foolish boy,” she replied. “I believe you are probably there to stay, after all. But you will certainly strengthen your position by fulfilling my task. All you need do is act as an escort to a young lady that I have taken under my wing—”

“Oh, Auntie,” he said, sighing. “I am still not recovered from my last assignment as escort to one of your protégée’s. Do you not remember Miss Honoria Walters and her penchant for eating onions? I squired her most dutifully without complaint about her breath, or her high-pitched giggle, or her propensity for tears, or the attentions of her tiny dog. Though I must say, Miss Walters was an improvement on the others you’ve forced me to escort about of late.”