The Bad Luck Wedding Night, Bad Luck Wedding series #5 (Bad Luck Abroad trilogy) (8 page)

In regard to your inquiry concerning Lady S, I will be happy to offer the information I have been able to gather at my club during the past week.

Lady S. is the widow of the seventh Viscount S. She has three children, all boys now away at school, the oldest of whom was eight years of age when he inherited the title upon his father's death. The lady's name is without scandal, although she is said to be actively husband-hunting.

The state of her finances is not widely known. Acquaintances say she gets along better with men than with women, and she is admired for her beauty and wit. However, I suspect you and your sisters' reaction to Lady S. is on the mark since I also learned that upon occasion she has been referred to as the Ice Queen. One gentleman told me she can freeze a person with only a look.

That is a summary of the information I have uncovered to this point in my investigation. I admit to having enjoyed the effort thus far.

Please convey my greetings to your sisters I remain your servant.

Pratt

Summer 1886

Glencoltran Castle, Scotland

Dear
Mr. Franklin,

I will be returning to London within the week, and I require your legal advice. I would be pleased if you would call upon me at Weston House to discuss a most delicate matter. In preparation, you might research the legal particulars surrounding marriages made abroad.

Weston

Summer 1886

Hunterbourne Manor

Dear Sarah,

I take up my pen to formally request you visit England at your earliest convenience. Charlotte has formed yet another attachment, and the subject of a wedding is being bandied about. I require your professional help.

Enclosed please find information involving travel options and accommodations. Arrangements will, of course, be at my expense.

You will like England in summertime, Sarah. I recall what Texas is like in August.

Weston

Summer 1886

Fort Worth, Texas

Dear Nick,

While I appreciate the superior accommodations you arranged, I must respectfully decline your invitation to visit. I have weddings booked throughout the summer and into the fall I cannot possibly get away.

I am enclosing a list of questions you should ask the wedding designers you interview on Charlotte's behalf. They should help you make your hiring decision.

I hope this will not interfere with our exchanges of letters. I value the friendship we have developed over the years.

Sarah

Summer 1886

Hunterbourne Manor

Dear Sarah,

You'll be pleased to learn that the questions you sent proved useful during my interviews of prospective wedding planners. I have hired a talented consultant, and she should be arriving in Fort Worth shortly to fill in for you while you are away.

Also, Mrs. Rollingsworth will arrive with a special bolt of fabric, a gift for the McBride ladies as a token of my thanks for allowing you this leave of absence from your business. Lest you find yourself envious, you should know I have stored over a dozen bolts of similarly fine fabrics from the Orient. You may have your pick of them when you visit

I look forward to seeing you again.

Weston

Summer 1886

Fort Worth

Dear Nick,

Mrs. Rollingsworth arrived in Fort Worth safely. However, her services are not required. I told you I must refuse your invitation to visit.

Under the circumstances, Jenny and Claire McBride must regretfully refuse your most lovely gift. Their personal notes accompany this letter.

However, we are interested in purchasing this bolt of fabric and any others you would be willing to furnish. The cloth is quite fine, Nick. We are willing to pay a fair price.

Sarah

Summer 1886

Hunterbourne Manor

Dear Sarah,

You misunderstood. That was not an invitation, rather a directive. I am your husband and I require your presence. Wedding plans continue here, plus we have other matters to discuss. You will come to England. Consider the fabric part of your professional fee.

Weston

Fall 1886

Fort Worth, Texas

No.

Sarah

Fall 1886

Hunterbourne Manor

Sarah,

This letter is to introduce you to Mr. Rand Jenkins. He will escort you to Scotland, where we will meet at Rowanclere Castle the second week of December. Failure to accompany him will have dire consequences for you and your precious business.

I am quite serious, Sarah. It is in your best interests to cooperate.

Nick

It's bad luck to have an odd number of wedding guests.

Chapter 5

January 1888

Glencoltran Castle

Scottish Highlands

Nicholas, Lord Weston, eyed the drawing room door and grimaced. He'd rather walk the Khyber Pass barefoot in January than join in the evening's coming festivities. His sister Charlotte's prospective mother-in-law was slated to sing. His sister Charlotte's prospective mother-in-law sounded like a yak in season when she attempted an aria.

Nick thought longingly of the privacy of his study and began to turn away.

"Gweeshtens," came his Scots sister Gillian's amused voice. "Is that the stench of retreat I'm smelling, Nicholas?"

Nick folded his arms and glowered. "Oh hush. What is it about the females in my family anyway? Always sneaking about. You and Aurora are particularly talented."

"Dinna worry." Gillian patted his arm. "She'll not be sneaking out of Glencoltran without your ken."

"Only because we have four feet of new snow on the ground. Aurora is a determined girl. Fancies herself in love and she's little more than a child." Then, as rarely occurred any longer, the Scots of his youth rolled off his tongue. "He's nothing but a back-jaw, ill-deedit limmer out to ruin her, Gilly. I'll not have it. I'll keep her here in the Highlands till she's auld and gray afore I'll stand for her sneaking out to run off with the likes of Willie Hart."

Gillian shook her head and clucked her tongue. "I missed ye sorely, Nicholas, but I do believe some parts of my life were easier without my overprotective older brother around."

As his scowl deepened, she laughed and hooked her arm through his. "Enough worry over Aurora tonight. She'll nae be going anywhere anytime soon. Tonight your presence is required in the drawing room, where you need to be charming to Charlotte's future guid-mither."

"I know," Nick replied, feeling as well as sounding like a petulant young boy. "But I warn you, Gillian. That woman cannot sing. It's torture to put ourselves through this. I would do everyone a favor if I rushed into that room and yelled 'fire.' "

His Scots sister put her hands on her hips, leaned forward, and studied him keenly. "You heard the rude comments Lady Pratt made about Charlotte."

He nodded. "I don't like them. I believe Charlotte is destined for unhappiness if she marries into that family."

"She loves him."

"She's eighteen. She's too young to know what love is. Believe me, I know about that."

Gillian rapped his shin with her shoe. "You said you liked him, Nicholas. You gave them your blessing."

"That was before I met his mother. She is a dragon in disguise. Charlotte's not strong enough to withstand her."

"I hope you're wrong, but Charlotte is a sweet, gentle girl. Melanie and Aurora say she is much like your mother."

"And look what my father did to
her."

"Aha, there's the difference, brother. Your
father
destroyed your mother's will. It wasn't her guid-mother who did it. I like Charlotte's beau. It took a strong man to convince his mother to travel north in winter. I believe Lord Pratt will defend his bride to her. Mark my words."

"I hope you are right. Otherwise, he'll have me to answer to."

A warm sparkle filled her brilliant blue eyes, and her face glowed with love. "So fierce and protective. You make me think of one of those Bengal tigers you and my Jake saw on your travels. You are a credit to your title, Lord Weston. A credit to your family—both the English and the Scottish ones."

"Thank you, Two."

She snorted, just as he had expected. Gillian didn't appreciate Nick's recent jest of numbering his sisters by birth order. That, of course, made him use the term more often. Leaning over, he kissed her cheek, then offered her his arm. "Now, as much as I dread the hour to come, I imagine we've skulked out here in the hallway long enough. I know that bruiser of a husband of yours is waiting for you within. May I escort you to the musicale?"

At that point Lady Pratt warmed up her voice by singing a scale. Gillian winced. "Ach, upon reflection, I do believe Jake can wait. I find I am suffering a maternal craving."

Immediately Nick grew concerned, and his gaze dropped to her blossoming waistline. "What do you need, love? Milk? A piece of chicken? An Arbroath smokie?"

"Nae, I canna abide fish this week. Not like last." She jerked her head toward the sitting room and said, "What I need now is peace."

"Then why are we standing here?"

Twenty minutes later they were hidden away in the library. Nick refilled his sister's water glass, then took a seat beside her on a brocade upholstered settee with a glass of his favorite Rowanclere malt. She eyed his whisky and sighed. Having grown up on excellent whisky, Gillian Delaney ordinarily could drink the Russian tsar under the table, but her pregnancy had soured her on the taste of spirits. Because she constantly bemoaned the fact, Nick particularly enjoyed partaking in front of her.

Such meanness, after all, was what brothers were for.

As she grumbled at him, he chuckled into his drink. His thoughts returned to Gillian's comment that he was a credit to his family. He was glad she believed it so. His own father certainly hadn't shared that point of view, and it was because of him that Nick had spent years believing this beloved sister had died. "If he wasn't already dead, I'd shoot him."

Gillian lowered her water glass. "Brooding about your father again, Nick?"

"Aye." The old bastard was winning from the grave. Nick had thought the game was over when word reached him in Calcutta that the Third Marquess of Weston had cocked up his toes. He should have known the blackguard wouldn't let such a minor thing as death defeat him in his vendetta against his son.

The so-called Great Game, the clandestine struggle between Britain and Russia for mastery of Central Asia wasn't the only competition—or even the primary one—for Nick's attention during the years he'd spent in Asia. His personal Great Game had been the battle to stay alive and thereby thwart his father's plans.

It was an ugly truth he'd learned after leaving Fort Worth and traveling to England in response to his father's summons. Nick hadn't been called home and welcomed into the bosom of his family, not by a long shot. He'd been the third marquess's designated sacrificial lamb.

Nick's father had been a political animal, with a special interest in foreign affairs, particularly those of India. Rumor had it that he'd lobbied to be named viceroy before Lord Lytton was named to the job, but his level of dedication had been doubted. Wracked by grief over the loss of his heir and second son and still unwilling to recognize the legitimacy of his third son's birth, Nick's father had sought to prove the naysayers wrong by suggesting to old friends from the Political and Secret Department of the India Office in London that his surviving son would make an effective British agent.

What better way for a man to prove his patriotism than to sacrifice his only son and heir to the secret service? the old marquess had said almost a decade ago.