The Bad Luck Wedding Night, Bad Luck Wedding series #5 (Bad Luck Abroad trilogy) (23 page)

Kimball crossed the room and took the seat behind the desk. She was compelled to fidget, locked beneath the stares of two such imposing men, and it took a conscious effort on her part to remain still.

Especially when Kimball arched a brow and commented, "You were close to Lord Chambers?"

Sarah glanced at Nick. Accusation gleamed from his narrowed eyes. She thought of Lady Steele, gave her chin a toss, and said, "He wanted to marry me. Of course that couldn't happen because of this pesky little marriage Nick and I have."

"Pesky little marriage?" Nick repeated.

Kimball pursed his lips as if fighting a smile. "I see."

"He was quite sympathetic once I explained the situation."

Thrumming his fingers on the desk, Nick reiterated, "Pesky little marriage?"

"Yes, pesky little marriage," Sarah snapped back.

Kimball cleared his throat. "Did you and Lord Chambers part on good terms?"

"Yes, we did. Trevor was a gentleman about the entire matter."

Her husband snorted. "What a prince."

Kimball said something Sarah didn't catch, distracted as she was by her husband. She'd heard the expression, but she didn't think she'd ever seen a lip actually curl before.

"Lady Weston?" Kimball said, his voice raised.

"Hmm?"

"I asked what you can tell me of Endicott."

"Mr. Endicott?" Sara looked from one man to the other, spied the grim look in their eyes, and decided she'd best pay attention. Cautiously, she said, "He's only a casual acquaintance. I know he has a fine eye for horses and old family ties to horse racing in England."

Kimball waited a moment for her to continue, and when she said no more asked, "Do you know why he might have made a trip to England?"

"No."

"What of Lord Chambers and Mr. Sheldon? Do you know why they would have made the journey?"

Sarah shook her head and asked, "Are you saying they're all over here now?"

Kimball's gaze never left Sarah's face. "Sheldon, Chambers, and Endicott arrived on the same ship."

Sarah was surprised. "Really? I can understand Trevor and Mr. Endicott traveling together because they're friends of a sort. I imagine Mr. Sheldon being with them is coincidence. Is the fact they've come to England the reason why you give credence to this plot?"

Nodding, Kimball said, "In part. To be honest, Lady Weston, I don't know what to think. I was hoping you could provide information that would shed light on the situation, but..." He allowed the sentence to trail off.

"I am convinced Trevor is not a party to any plot, Lord Kimball," Sarah said, folding her arms. Then, ignoring the storm clouds gathering on her husband's face, she added, "But I'll be happy to ask him about it if you'd like."

"No!" Nick exclaimed.

"An excellent idea," Kimball said at the same time. "We wouldn't want you to ask him about the plot directly, but sounding him out wouldn't hurt. I will provide an appropriate list of questions for you to choose from and—"

"Kim!" Nick interrupted, bounding to his feet. He placed both hands on the desk and leaned forward. "Have you completely lost your mind?
I'm
the professional here.
I'll
ask any questions that need to be asked. I'll see to any investigating that needs doing. Leave my wife out of it."

Kimball flashed a smile that had Sarah blinking as if a photographer's light had just exploded in her face. My heavens, the man was handsome when he smiled. "Calm down, Weston. What I have in mind is relatively safe for everyone involved."

"Relatively?" Nick repeated. "Relatively!"

Lord Kimball ignored him, addressing Sarah instead. "I understand that along with your partners, Mesdames McBride, you facilitate the most spectacular weddings."

Sarah smiled with pleasure at the compliment and demurred, "My job is easy when Jenny's Good Luck Wedding Dress designs put Worth to shame, and Claire's Magical Wedding Cakes are divine."

Casually lacing his fingers over his stomach, Lord Kimball shot another of those fabulous smiles. "I am confident your own contributions are quite exceptional. Lady Pratt certainly believes so. She has spread the word all over London that you've promised a wedding for her son and Nicholas's sister that Society will talk about for years to come. In May, I believe?"

"My." Sarah blinked. "You are quite well informed."

"Yes, Lady Weston. That is
my
job, you see."

Nick growled. "Quit flirting with my wife, Kimball. I won't allow her to become involved in this."

Sarah's brows winged up. "Allow me? Did you just say allow me?"

"Aye."

Idiot,
she said silently. Aloud she said, "What do you want me to do, Lord Kimball?"

"I thought perhaps you might host a party in honor of your friends from Texas. Either that, or another social event to which each of them can be invited. Perhaps an engagement ball for Charlotte. I would find it useful to observe the interaction between the men. We cannot be certain this plot involves but a single man."

"You can't be certain this plot even exits!" Nick snapped. He moved to stand behind her, laying a hand upon each shoulder. "I know you have a job to do, Kimball, but so do I. Mine is to protect the women in my family. I'll not have an investigation of this assassination plot tied in any manner to my sister's wedding festivities. I must insist you find another way to approach the problem."

Kimball arched a brow, and as the two men stared at one another, Sarah was reminded of a clash of Titans. Finally, the spymaster said, "Very well. Do you have any ideas to offer, Lord Weston?"

"Actually, I do." Nick folded his arms. "First, I want you to take that pup Willie Hart away from Glencoltran immediately after luncheon. My family and I will leave for London tomorrow, where the women will plan Charlotte's nuptials and I will investigate the trio of suspects—without involving my family."

"That's silly," Sarah protested. "You should at least allow me to introduce Trevor and the others to you. You'll have an instant rapport with them that way. They all like me."

Nick frowned at her, scowled at her, and glowered at her.

"It would save time," Kimball suggested. "Perhaps by half."

"Oh, all right. But only an introduction. No dances or picnics or intimate walks in the garden. We'll arrange an introduction in a public place, then you will make yourself scarce. Understand?"

"I understand." Whether she agreed to and accepted his shortsighted demand was something else entirely.

Sarah could hardly suppress a laugh as, deep inside her, excitement sizzled.
Just call me Secret Agent Sarah.

* * *

Luncheon conversation revealed that Gillian's husband, Jake, was slightly acquainted with one of the suspects, the one who'd wanted Sarah, Trevor Chambers. Since the Delaneys and Robyn were scheduled to return to Rowanclere that afternoon, Kimball decided to travel part of the way with them and interview Jake about the man Nick had mentally pegged as Lord Lovesick.

Nick would have liked to corner Jake himself and quiz him about the bounder, but at the moment, he had a more important matter than a possible plot against the queen that needed his attention. Robyn needed him.

He'd never known anyone who had such a difficult time saying good-bye as that girl. Every time they parted, be it for days or weeks or the occasional month that went by between visits, he made a point of spending an hour or two with her in play and reassurance. Even so, as the coach pulled away from Glencoltran Castle, his youngest sister leaned out the window and waved wildly as tears rolled down her face.

He gritted his teeth against the lump of emotion in his throat, then turned back toward the castle and caught the sympathetic looks on the faces of his wife and other sisters. "What are ye doing standing around? Dinna ye have wedding menus to make or something?"

The females, for once, knew better than to comment.

Nick spent the rest of the afternoon involved in estate business while the women packed and planned. Then, rather than joining them for dinner, he sent for a tray in his library and spent a few minutes thinking about how he wanted to approach his investigation. The first step was obvious. He'd meet with Tom Sheldon and do a bit of bargaining. The man Nick had known ten years ago would have sacrificed his right arm for the information Nick was prepared to give him. Could he have changed that much?

"We will see," Nick muttered as he buttered a roll.

While Nick ate his meal, he considered, then discarded, a dozen different approaches to the problem that had been placed before him. By the time he finished, he'd settled on a method of work. That done, he turned to dessert and a much more intriguing mental exercise. As the taste of cherry pie exploded on his tongue, Nick contemplated the first move in his plan to seduce his wife.

Should he wait until they arrived in London as originally intended or should he begin tonight? After learning about Lord Lovesick, he was inclined to make his first move now. Despite improvements in transportation in recent years, the trip south was still long and tedious. Why not give her something to think about along the way?

With that, Nick opened the leather-bound journal and picked up his pen.

* * *

Sarah's mind whirled from the events of the day as she made her way up to her room that evening after a particularly cutthroat game of cards with Aurora that stretched long past the usual time to retire. She'd been in no hurry to go to bed; she doubted she'd get any sleep at all. To think she might be acquainted with a terrorist, one who wrote poetry or painted lovely landscapes. Or had kissed her.

"No," she murmured, refusing to believe it. Trevor wouldn't plan something so horrible. He wouldn't. Maybe he had spoken bitterly of his family a time or two, and he did upon occasion rail against the political system and inheritance laws of England, but she'd never sensed wickedness in the man. Lust, yes, but not evil. Never that.

Now, Mr. Sheldon was another matter. He'd been quite outspoken about his resentment of his father. And he'd been the singularly most unhappy man she'd ever encountered. She could almost see him sinking into such a black malaise that he'd contemplate such villainy, but to actually go through with it?

She shook her head. She simply couldn't see it. And what about Mr. Endicott? He was a quiet, pleasant man who composed clever musical ditties—not someone she'd suspect of harboring the kind of hate such an act would require.

Probably the entire thing was a hoax. She didn't recall a Judge Boyette from any social events in Fort Worth. The man likely didn't even exist.

Upon entering her room, she consciously dragged her thoughts away from plots and directed it toward plans. Charlotte had finally settled on a theme for the engagement ball—turtledoves and hearts—and Sarah wanted to think of a way to repeat it in the wedding events. It could be something as subtle as color, she thought. However, considering the promise she'd made to Lady Pratt, she thought boldness more in order.

Sarah was so busy mulling over possibilities as she prepared for bed that she didn't notice the book lying on her pillow until she went to crawl between the sheets. It was bound in rich burgundy leather and gilded with scrollwork. She found no sign of a title on either cover or spine.

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, Sarah rested the book in her lap. The leather was softer than on any book she'd ever held, and as she traced the golden loops and swirls with her finger, she was somewhat reluctant to open it. Not because she dreaded to discover what was inside, but because she sensed it was something special. Something to be savored. Something important.

Her touch was almost reverent as she slowly opened the book and turned to the title page. Even before she read the words, she recognized Nick's handwriting. Her pulse tripped faster as she read aloud, "Sarah's Pillow Book."

Pillow Book? What's a Pillow Book?
Wetting her suddenly dry lips, she flipped the page.

My dearest Sarah,

Amidst all the chaos of today, my mind has returned time and again to our morning conversation, and the fact that the letters we have exchanged over the years have apparently meant as much to you as they have to me. Despite our physical proximity, I feel distant from you now. I miss that sense of intimacy the act of sitting down to write you provided. I want to be intimate with you, Sarah. So I will write to you. Will you read what I have to say? Will you allow me into your mind? Will you open this journal each night and take my words inside you? I will be satisfied with that. For now.

I wish no letters in return. Indeed, if you write, I will not read. I intend to be selfish about it, you see. Nor will I discuss my letters with you. What I have to say is not for the light of day. These are words for nighttime, for candlelight. For dreaming.

Ah, dreams. Do you dream, my darling lass? As you lay your head upon your pillow and snuggle deep into the covers to ward off the winter's chill, of what do you dream? Is it of peppermints and parasols? Laughter in a schoolroom, or the tangy scent of cedar on a campfire on a starlit summer night?

I'll tell you of my dreams.