Tempting the Bride (6 page)

She hopped into the brougham, directed the coachman to a nearby post office, and made a telephone call to the Lexington town house, letting the staff know she’d be coming home on her own, accompanied by Millie’s maid; no need to send the carriage.

Now to the hotel—and Andrew.

Inside the carriage with all its shades drawn, she fiddled with the drawstring of her reticule. She thought she’d done enough, but what if she’d underprepared? Granted, her presence at the Savoy would raise no eyebrows—the hotel’s terrace was a popular place for a cup of afternoon tea. But would it not have been even better had she
disguised herself as a man with a big beard—or something of the sort?

Damn Hastings and his incessant warnings of disaster. She ought to be exhilarated at the prospect of seeing Andrew again so soon, not fretting about everything that could go wrong.

Enough with the troubling thoughts. She’d worked hard for this morsel of stolen time. She would clear her mind and relish her triumph.

Or at least, she would do her utmost.

H
astings did not expect to see Andrew Martin at the club. After Fitz had spoken to him earlier in the Season, Martin had avoided locales where he might run into any of the Fitzhugh siblings. But with Fitz away, Martin probably thought the club a safe venue for whiling away a few hours.

Except he wasn’t exactly
whiling
away the hours. He seemed distracted and jumpy, getting up from his chair every few minutes to pace about the periphery of the room. At some point during each circle, he’d pull out a piece of paper from the pocket of his day coat, read it, stuff it back into his pocket, sit down, chew his lips for some time, and then repeat the procedure all over again.

As his restlessness grew, so did Hastings’s. Why the hell was Martin so agitated? And why did he keep looking at that piece of paper?

The next time Martin crossed the room, Hastings rose and bumped into him.

He steadied Martin. “Sorry, there, old fellow.”

“My fault,” said Martin meekly.

Many children talked of running away with the Gypsies; Hastings had actually done so—more than once. His pickpocketing skills were rusty, but Martin was a spectacularly easy target.

Standing before a bookcase, his back to the room, Hastings looked down at the loot in his hand. It was a telegram.
Next Monday. The Savoy Hotel. Four o’clock in the afternoon. Ask
for the Quaids’ room.

He looked at the date on the telegram. Today was the Monday that had been specified—and soon it would strike four on the clock. Had Helena Fitzhugh sent the cable despite all his warnings to the contrary?

Martin sucked in a loud breath. Hastings turned around to the sight of him frantically feeling his pockets. The telegram tucked inside his sleeve, Hastings meandered to Martin’s chair and dropped the telegram on the floor.

“Something the matter?” he asked.

Martin turned around and exhaled in relief at the sight of the telegram next to Hastings’s shoes. “Nothing. I dropped a cable—that’s all.”

Hastings picked it up and held it out facedown toward Martin. “This one?”

“Yes, thank you, sir.”

Martin pocketed the telegram. But this time, instead of returning to his seat, he bade Hastings good day and walked out of the room.

The bastard was going to the Savoy Hotel.

There was no inherent malice to Martin. But he was born without a spine of his own and always yielded to whichever person exerted the greatest influence on him. On the matter of his marriage, he’d deferred to his mother. Earlier in the Season, he’d obeyed Fitz. And now he’d let
himself be once again persuaded by the forceful Helena Fitzhugh.

Hastings didn’t know whom he wanted to punch more, Martin or himself. Why did he still care? Why did he persist in manning his temple in the Sahara, praying for rain, when all about him the evidence of his failure stretched as far as the eyes could see?

On their own, his feet carried him toward the door. If he was going to drown his sorrows in whiskey, he preferred to do it at home, in the privacy of his own chambers, where his heartache would be visible to no one but himself.

Someone pulled him aside.

“You could be right after all, Hastings,” Monteth whispered. “I ran into Martin outside just now and tried to bring him in here, but he gave me all sorts of shifty reasons why he couldn’t have a drink with me.”

“A man not wanting to have a drink with you, Monteth, is not exactly reason for suspicion.”

“You don’t understand.” Monteth looked about the largely empty room and lowered his voice even more. “This morning I saw a letter the missus was writing. It said, ‘I will catch him in the act very soon.’ And guess to whom it was addressed? ‘My dear Alexandra’!”

Alexandra was Mrs. Martin’s Christian name.

“My goodness,” Hastings heard himself respond, sounding calm, almost detached. Or perhaps he was merely in shock, although a sharp cold was beginning to spread between his shoulder blades.

“Precisely. I tried to bring Martin back in here, where he can’t get into much trouble. But as I told you, he wanted none of it.”

“Right-ho,” Hastings managed. “Keep me abreast of
any interesting developments, will you? I must be off now. My lady awaits.”

He strolled toward the door, when it was all he could do not to sprint.

“Your lady?” called Monteth behind him. “But you haven’t a wife.”

Nor did Hastings want one who preferred another man. But should things go ill, his bachelor days would be numbered.

M
artin was no longer outside the club. Hastings hopped into a hansom cab and asked for the Savoy Hotel and great haste. It did not escape his attention that he might again stand guard while she trysted with Martin—but today he’d almost volunteer for the odious duty, if only he could thwart Mrs. Monteth.

As the hansom cab approached its destination, he saw Martin enter the hotel, looking left and right as he went, radiating quite the aura of a man who knew he was up to no good. Hastings wasted no time in alighting from the hansom. He crossed the lobby to the clerk’s station. “The Quaids’ room.”

“Room five on the top floor, sir.”

“I was told there would be a key waiting for me,” he fibbed.

“I’m sorry, sir. My instruction was that only the first person to ask for the room would be given a key.”

“And was the first person to ask for a key the gentleman of a minute ago?”

“No, sir. I gave the key to the lady who came a few minutes before him.”

Martin had not instigated this tryst, judging by the cable he’d received. Yet if Miss Fitzhugh had been the one to arrange for this meeting, she would not have needed to ask for a key. She would have been the one who’d issued the instruction to give the key to Martin.

The possibility that a third party was pulling the strings had just shot up to near certainty.

“How many keys do you have to the room?”

“Three, sir.”

“Where are the other two?”

“One is with the guest under whose name the room is registered. The other key we hold.”

And if Helena Fitzhugh had taken the third key, then she was definitely not the one under whose name the room was registered.

Hastings reached inside his day coat and slid across a one-pound note. “Give me the third key and say nothing of me to anyone.”

The clerk looked at the note for a long moment—then quickly pocketed it. “Here you go, sir.”

The key was heavy and cold in Hastings’s hand as he walked toward the lift. It had seemed imperative that he should have a key. But now that he did, he didn’t know what to do with it. He couldn’t very well interrupt a lovers’ rendezvous without clear and present danger.

A moment later, clear and present danger arrived in the form of Mrs. Monteth, approaching the clerk’s station.

His heart seized. Not the lift then, with its unpredictable speed. He walked to the stairs as fast as he dared without attracting undue attention, glancing at Mrs. Monteth every two seconds. The moment he was out of her sight, he sprinted up the steps, praying the lift would
require a long wait and then stop at every floor along the way.

His lungs burned. He ran faster.

T
he Savoy was not as tall as the hotel Helena had stayed at in New York City, but still, from the top floor it was a long drop to the ground. Helena stood just inside the balcony, waiting.

Sometimes it still seemed only last week that she and Andrew first met, and the world was glorious with the promise of happiness. Sometimes it seemed a lifetime ago, and she’d always had this crux of desolation in her heart.

A scratch came at the door. She rushed to open it. Andrew stood before her, his face at once glowing and apologetic. “Sorry I’m late. Monteth wanted to drag me back inside the club for a drink—and I always underestimate how long it takes to get anywhere in London nowadays.”

It didn’t matter why he was late; it mattered only that he was here. She pulled him in, shut the door, and threw her arms about him. “Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.”

How well she remembered the first time she’d hugged him, impulsively, after he’d told her he didn’t see why she wouldn’t make a terrific publisher. They’d been on the banks of her brother’s trout stream, having known each other all of a week. But what a glorious week, spending every waking minute together. She’d gone to sleep each night with an enormous smile on her face.

The present-day Andrew nuzzled her hair. “I’ve missed you terribly, Helena.”

The sound of pounding feet reverberated in the
passage—a vibration she felt in her own shins. Her chest tightened. Surely it couldn’t be Mrs. Monteth making such an uncivilized racket.

“I shouldn’t be here at all,” Andrew went on. “But ever since we ran into each other at the rail station the other day, your question of whether a promise to your brother was more important than a promise to you has agonized me. I did promise to be always at your side, didn’t I?”

She barely heard him. But she heard all too clearly the sound of a key turning in the lock. She sprang back from him as if he’d suddenly developed the pox.

But it was only Hastings, clutching onto the doorjamb, breathing hard.

“What are
you
doing here?” she cried, flabbergasted, relieved, and outraged. Her action might carry risks, but he had no right to interfere in such a crude manner.

“It’s not what it looks like,” blurted Andrew at the same time.

“I know what it is and I don’t care.” Hastings pushed the door shut behind them. “Mrs. Monteth is on her way up here. She also has a key.”

Helena was cold all over. “I don’t believe you.”

But there was no force in her words, only fear.

“Did you send the cable to Mr. Martin?” demanded Hastings.

“No, of course not. He sent the cable to me.”

“I didn’t,” Andrew protested. “I received one from you.”

She couldn’t speak at all.

“Mrs. Monteth must have been the one to send cables to you both,” said Hastings forcefully, “arranging for this meeting so she could catch you in the act.”

He opened the door a crack and looked out. “She’s
coming out of the lift as we speak. And—dear God—the senior Mrs. Martin is with her.”

“My mother?” Andrew’s voice quavered.

The elder Mrs. Martin set strenuous standards for her sons—Andrew had ever feared her. If she learned that he had compromised a young lady of otherwise fine standing, she’d hold him in contempt for the rest of her days. It would crush him.

Hastings closed the door and peered at the locking mechanism. “Someone has tampered with the door. It cannot be secured from inside.”

“What are we to do?” Andrew gazed at Helena beseechingly. “What are we to do?”

“Mrs. Monteth went to the clerk’s station after me,” said Hastings, holding the door shut with his person. “If the clerk kept quiet about me, as I’d asked, all she has learned is that a man and a woman had asked for the key. What do you want to do?”

The question was addressed to Helena.

She was surprised she heard Hastings so clearly—there seemed to be someone screaming inside her head. She swallowed. “Andrew, my dear, go into the bath and lock the door. If you love me, you will not make a single sound no matter what you hear.”

“But, Helena—”

“There is no time. Do as I say.”

Andrew still hesitated. She grabbed him by the elbow and shoved him into the bath. “Not a sound—or I’ll never forgive you.”

She shut the door of the bath in Andrew’s face and prayed she’d conveyed her point with enough authority.
When she turned around, Hastings was already stripping off his jacket and waistcoat.

He raised a brow. “You don’t mind, I hope?”

Without waiting for an answer, he pushed her onto the divan in the center of the room. His hand behind her skull was warm and strong. His other hand opened her jacket as he bent his head to her neck.

Her hair tumbled loose. His teeth grazed her neck, sending a hot jolt to her middle. His fingers worked the buttons of her blouse and pushed both the jacket and the blouse from her shoulders.

Their eyes met. Without hesitation he kissed her. His weight was solid. His hair—she didn’t know when her fingers had plunged into his hair—was cool and soft. And the hunger in his kiss…contrary to everything she knew, he made her feel as if he’d never kissed anyone before and never wanted to kiss anyone else.

Without ever making a conscious decision about it, she kissed him back.

The door burst open.

“Now I’ve caught you in delicto flagrante!” shouted Mrs. Monteth. “How do you explain yourself, Mr. Martin?”

Hastings swore, pulled away, and rose. “That is in flagrante delicto, you gorgon. And what is the meaning of this? Get out before I throw you out, the both of you.”

Helena barely remembered to squeal and clumsily right her clothes.

Mrs. Monteth was stunned. “Lord Hastings, but—but—”

“Leave, Mrs. Monteth. And you, too, Mrs. Martin. Can’t a man celebrate his elopement in peace?”

“Elopement?” Mrs. Martin, a bird of a woman, gasped.

Elopement?
Helena felt as if she’d been electrocuted. She hastily lowered her head.