Wedding Matilda (Redcakes Book 6) (19 page)

He cleared his throat again, wishing he could down his glass of wine in one long gulp. “I would hope we could wed soon. I have a special license. But there’s no need to be so fast about it that we draw talk.”

“No?” Sir Bartley said.

“No, sir,” Ewan assured him.

“Hmph,” his former employer said in response.

Matilda had gone scarlet. Ewan felt awash in sympathy, especially given this was not her first time having embarrassing news disseminated through her family. Never again. She’d be a respectable married lady soon enough, and a countess someday.

Soon, her time of shame would end, once and for all. If he couldn’t offer the woman he loved some happiness, what good was he? He wasn’t much of a man either, if he allowed his desire for physical passion to risk a premarital pregnancy. No, he would not attempt to make love to her again, not until they were wed. He must be a gentleman with her, even if her blazing cheeks reminded him of the way she looked in passion’s sway. Her shallow breaths plumped the soft rise of her breasts over the top of her dinner dress. How he wanted to bury his nose between those soft, scented mounds. He wondered if he could tease her nipples from behind their hidden prisons of whalebone and linen and suckle her until she moaned.

Gawain raised an eyebrow at him. Ewan shook his head ruefully.

“I am sure Ewan is too well trained in his habit of respecting our family to overstep his bounds with Matilda,” Gawain said, tapping his index finger against the dinner table. “I am sure his courtship has been a model of propriety.”

“Really,” Matilda muttered, just audible enough to hear.

“After all, dear sister, you did learn your lesson the last time. As much as we’ve all been pleased to have little Jacob, what led to his appearance in our family was regrettable,” Gawain said.

Gawain’s wife turned her head to Ewan. “Are you aware, Mr. Hales, that our own dear son Noel was born out of wedlock?”

Ewan choked on his wine. Really, he didn’t think he’d ever hear a conversation like this taking place around an earl’s table. “I may have been aware of that, but it’s long forgotten, Lady Redcake.”

She smiled serenely. “I just want you to be aware that, all teasing aside, any Redcake child will be welcomed by all of us, with no trifling worries about the baby’s birthdate. As a midwife, I’ll be more than happy to see to Matilda when the time comes.”

Matilda pushed back her chair and stood, trembling. “There is no child. The only child that should be of anyone’s concern is Jacob. Just Jacob, my missing son.” She turned and ran, the blue silk half cape attached to her dress fluttering as she moved from the room.

The men stood automatically. Ewan reached her before she fled and tucked her against his chest.

“Ann, my dear,” Gawain said mildly. “Most ladies do not care to discuss the mysteries of reproduction at the dining table.”

“I was merely attempting to generate a little enthusiasm and reassurance,” his wife said serenely.

“Please do not,” Matilda said. She let Ewan reseat her.

Ewan sighed and sat again. They spent the next half hour listening to Lady Redcake, who planned and replanned Matilda’s wedding three times. Ewan refused to make any comments. The wedding was the bride’s affair. All he needed to do was be available with the license. Dougal Alexander, however, was quite enthusiastic on the topic, sharing details of his Heathfield Farm wedding with his wife, Lady Elizabeth.

Gawain’s wife made a point of asking after Dougal’s foster daughter, careful to ensure Ewan recognized that Lady Elizabeth had taken in a foundling herself, yet another out-of-wedlock child embraced by kin of the Redcakes. Yes, they were a veritable tribe of bohemians.

No wonder Lord Fitzwalter was so skeptical of his alliance with the family, after his experience with Lord Ritten and the eccentric Walters. Yet Ewan had never felt so at home. He would have a family for the first time since early childhood. This band of outspoken, even outré Redcakes felt more like his clan that the Douglases ever could. He could admire no one any more than he admired Sir Bartley, Gawain, and his sisters.

As the conversation wound to an end, Ewan took Alexander aside. “Mr. Alexander, please do everything in your power to find Jacob. I am convinced he is in a house near to that Douglas warehouse.”

“He was recently,” Alexander agreed. “I will go door-tae-door if I have tae.”

“Thank you.” Ewan sank into his chair, wondering what they would do if he was wrong.

 

Matilda rang for Daisy once dinner was done, eager to get out of her confining evening dress and into a nightdress. The dress had seemed much too tight around the bosom. All that talk of matrimony and babies had her remembering the signs of early pregnancy. Of course, even if she had conceived, it could not matter yet. Ewan would marry her before she would have any suspicions at all. She could trust him. Detecting deception was a skill she’d worked hard to earn after her experience with Mr. Bliven. Mr. Bliven, who would be buried tomorrow. She wondered if he’d had any premonition of disaster in 1887, when he’d boarded that ship for India to escape from her. Had that supposed fiancée waiting for him there even existed? Gawain had been insistent over the years that Bliven had his good points, but Matilda had decided the man was quite mad. Unlike Ewan, who had been a positive rock in her family’s employment for years. Why, she’d never even seen him with a lock of hair out of place until Lord Fitzwalter had entered the man’s life. Between the earl and her, Ewan had experienced a sea change, yet he still seemed controlled, at least most of the time.

She climbed into bed and twisted her head into her pillow, breathing deeply of the lavender Mrs. Miller tucked around the linens, and tried to make herself relax.

“There, miss, you are all packed for tomorrow,” Daisy said. “Poor lamb. Would you like some hot milk?”

“No,” Matilda said. “That will be all. Go and help Mrs. Miller.”

“Yes, miss,” Daisy said, not moving.

“What is it?”

“You’re ever so lucky to have a nice beau,” Daisy said. “I feel sorry for that Izabela sometimes. All those men panting after her, but the silly chit couldn’t tell who the good ones were, and who were the villains. Makes a body wonder if she had a brain in her head. Why, to hear Mrs. Miller speak, that Gipsy trader is quite a man. And the butcher boy has prospects, you know. A nice butcher’s shop. I wouldn’t mind that.”

Matilda sat up. “Obviously you know something about the bad men Izabela chose. Have you remembered something about the most recent bad choice?”

“I think his name started with
W
,” Daisy said, after a moment of reflection. She shrugged. “I knew he was a bad one. It goes without saying.”

“Anything else?”

“No, miss. Nothing else. I am sorry. I just remember the name from Izabela saying her prayers.”

“Could I have missed any mail today?” Matilda asked.

“No, miss, you went through it all. You are most particular.”

Matilda stared at the ragged cuticles on her right hand. “There should have been a ransom note by now.”

“Maybe they won’t write again until they spent the first money. It was a lot of money, miss.”

She tucked her hands against her heart. “They won’t keep Jacob alive that long.”

“You never know. He’s an important boy, and such a dear. Why, I’m sure even an evil snatcher couldn’t help but fall in love with him.”

Daisy’s stouthearted faith made Matilda smile a little. “Thank you, Daisy. I very much appreciate that.” Matilda leaned back on her pillow.

Daisy turned down the gaslights and left the room. The door closed with a soft snick, leaving Matilda alone with a lamp and a softly glowing fire. Any woman would be lucky to have a man like Ewan. He had her best interests at heart, would make an excellent husband and father. Not to mention his status as an earl’s heir. But he deserved love, and she felt so utterly drained, incapable of passion or affection right now. She could not move forward without knowing her son’s fate. If she were Roman Catholic, this would be about the time at which she’d throw herself in the Avon Gorge, or join a convent to spend her life helping humanity with silent prayer. Anything more was quite beyond her.

Tomorrow, she’d have to watch as Jacob’s father was laid to rest. Theodore Bliven would have more tears shed over him than he quite possibly deserved. But the tears would be for all he’d lost, all that potential. His lost dream of an earldom, his marriage, his health.

“You were able to go blessedly to sleep, Mr. Bliven, while I lie here and suffer,” she whispered. “I suffer completely, while that beautiful man is downstairs, willing me to love him. How can I ever be worthy of Ewan Hales?”

I
t might not be seemly for a woman to attend a funeral, but it had been a long time since Matilda followed convention, and Gawain’s wife, Ann, Lady Redcake, had never been the type to follow rules either. Therefore, they arrived, in suitable black gowns, attended by Gawain and Ewan, in time for the Theodore Bliven viewing.

Mr. Bliven’s cousin, Hiram, patted Matilda’s hand sadly at the door. “You should have been his widow, Miss Redcake. I know he wanted it that way.”

“Yes. I underestimated the severity of his final illness,” she said, holding back a sneeze at the overwhelming scent of mixed lilies and amaryllis.

“All that trouble with poor Jacob cannot have helped matters any. Have you had any word?”

“Not since I was here last.” Her voice sounded tremulous and her eyes burned, but whether it was from emotion or the flowers she wasn’t sure.

Hiram Bliven patted her hand again. “You poor dear. I am so glad you have your family here to support you. The Marquess of Hatbrook is already inside.”

“I am glad he was able to come.”

“I do have something for you.” He turned to a small table and plucked a box from it, handing it to her.

“What is this?”

“A lock of hair and a photograph.” He saw her look of alarm and hurried to explain. “Not postmortem—I’ve always thought that a gruesome custom—but one from his university days. My brother and I thought you might like it for yourself. And his signet ring, for Jacob.”

Her hand shook as she accepted the box. “How kind of you. I’m sure Jacob will treasure these things. I’ll make the hair into a brooch or something.”

Gawain patted her shoulder. “Very decent of you, Bliven. Your brother was a good employee of mine, and I’m sorry India had such a dreadful effect on him.”

“He was never strong,” Lord Hatbrook said, coming to stand next to them. His austere face, never very full of expression, did not change, but Matilda sensed a certain softening around the eyes. “Measles, mumps, every chill and cold that came through school.”

“So he never should have gone to India?” Gawain said tersely.

“It was his choice,” Hatbrook said. “Matilda, I’m so sorry for your troubles and my family’s inability to be there for you.”

Hiram cleared his throat. “After the burial, our solicitor will read the will in his office. Miss Redcake, may I request your attendance?”

“Of course.” She forced a smile and nodded, then, carrying her box, went to sit in the back of the room, as far from the overpowering flowers as possible.

After half an hour, the coaches came and men closed the stout oak coffin, then carried it to the hearse. The family had paid for quite a nice funeral, with a procession on the way to the cemetery. Matilda and her family, plus Ewan, were taken to Hatbrook’s carriage to follow the official mourning coaches out of town. The procession went at a snail’s pace due to all the pages, though when they were out of town, the walkers climbed onto the coaches to speed up the trip.

Then they went to a chapel for the funeral service. Mr. Bliven was interred after that, but ladies were not allowed to be present for that. Matilda didn’t mind. She felt quite upset enough without watching the coffin of her one-time lover being lowered into the ground, and the morbid imaginings it would engender, that of a tiny coffin being buried next to Mr. Bliven’s sometime all too soon if they couldn’t find Jacob.

She couldn’t hold back her sobs any longer. Ann gripped her arm and stuffed a black-edged handkerchief under her veil as emotion racked her already exhausted body.

“Would you like to go to St. James’s Square, or even to Hatbrook House?” her sister-in-law asked, as the few other ladies in the chapel whispered in sympathetic murmurs.

Matilda shook her head and snuffled. “There’s the feast back at the house, and then I need to go to the solicitor’s office for the will reading.”

“A very long day for you, with the train back to Bristol tonight.”

“It can’t be helped. It’s those flowers. Irises always make my nose itch and my eyes water.”

“Why don’t we go wait in Hatbrook’s carriage?” Ann suggested.

Matilda nodded assent and rose, her still dripping eyes and nose hidden under her veil. For once, she understood the appeal of mourning garb.

After another half hour of waiting, staring blurrily out the window, Matilda saw the first men returning. Top hats bobbed down the dirt lane as the men walked between monuments, urns, and the occasional statue of a weeping angel.

Feeling as claustrophobic as if she were enclosed in a coffin herself, she rose and opened the carriage door, climbing awkwardly down the steps by herself just as the first men walked by.

“Had a son, you know,” the first man said to his companion.

Matilda wasn’t surprised Jacob was being gossiped about, but the knowing smirk on the man’s face confused her. She climbed back up the two steps, sheltering in the open doorway of Hatbrook’s carriage.

“Still missing?” said the second man in an arch voice.

The first man laughed openly. “Of course. Can’t have made Bliven’s final days easy.”

The second man chuckled and pulled a cigar case from his pocket. “Poor bastard.”

“Didn’t have nearly enough bad habits, if you ask me. Lost his health in India. His nerve, too. Really, despoiling just one Society miss?”

Matilda’s eyes opened wide at the insult. Behind her, Ann peered over her shoulder. Matilda put a firm hand to her sister-in-law’s shoulder and pushed her back.

“Don’t imagine those upstart Redcakes will find their bastard offspring anytime soon.”

“Not if I can help it.” The first man accepted a cigar as the two strolled out of earshot.

Matilda stepped back and carefully closed the carriage door, unbelieving that she’d managed to overhear as much as she had. Her mind spun as Ann opened her mouth. Who were those men? Had Jacob been taken to punish Mr. Bliven for something? And yet, venom had been directed toward her family, quite specifically.

“Did you hear?” she whispered.

“Some.” Ann nodded emphatically. “We have to find out who those men were.”

“Do you think they really know something?”

“I would consider them nothing more than nasty gossips, except for those final words.”

“ ‘Not if I can help it,’” Matilda repeated. “Oh, Ann, what did he look like? Help me remember.”

Keeping their voices low, they catalogued the man’s appearance. Between them, they decided the man’s hair was straight and ash brown. He had an upturned nose and thin lips, which would be recognizable, but his height and weight were very average. They had much less to say about the second man.

“His clothing was expensive,” Ann said.

“I agree. We have to hope those men return to Hiram Bliven’s home.”

“Could you see what carriage they entered?”

“I don’t even know if they came by carriage,” Matilda admitted. They continued to fret, peering through the carriage’s windows as the mourners returned.

Within ten minutes, the coachmen were back in place and the procession returned to its place of origin: Hiram Bliven’s home. Matilda and Ann spent the time explaining to Gawain, Hatbrook, and Ewan what they had overheard.

“I think you’ve given us enough description to find them, if they return,” Gawain said, his expression grim.

“What if they do not?” Ewan asked, his glance at Matilda sympathetic. They shared a long glance.

“At least we know someone at the funeral is likely to have been involved in the kidnapping. It’s one step closer to the answer,” Gawain said.

“I can’t believe Theo wanted his son kidnapped,” Hatbrook interjected. “I understand, Matilda, that this was your original theory, but Theo was much too ill to plan anything.”

“Then what is your idea?” Gawain asked.

“London Society is small. It doesn’t signify that the kidnappers were at the funeral.”

“Oh, it signifies,” Ewan said. “It means someone in fashionable Society is involved in this kidnapping business.”

“Like Bliven’s family. Who’s that, then? An earl, right?”

Hatbrook nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Lord Barstow.”

“How is he related?”

“Another cousin. He’s the one who remarried at fifty to a twenty-two-year-old cit’s daughter. Has an infant heir now.”

“Doesn’t seem likely he would care about Jacob,” Gawain mused. “But then there’s Fitzwalter. We keep circling around him.”

“It must go back to the wheat farms I purchased, and Fitzwalter,” Matilda said. “He doesn’t want me to marry Ewan either. Doesn’t think I’m good enough, and I don’t blame him.”

Ewan leaned over and took her hand, surprising her. “Never say that, Matilda. Never.”

She smiled sadly at him. “If you have family ruthless enough to kidnap my child over some silly wheat farms, then we are not worth the risk. You must never indicate a continued preference for me in public. It’s too dangerous.”

“We are in an enclosed carriage.”

“In the middle of a funeral procession, with enemies about,” Gawain said. “Matilda’s right, Ewan. I understand your desire to show possessiveness, but this is not the time.”

Ewan sat back, his jaw working. He stared out the window. Matilda wondered how they could ever make their relationship work under such circumstances. And if she conceived a child, pure disaster. She had to pray she had not, however much she wanted Jacob to have a brother or sister.

 

At Hiram Bliven’s home, ham and game pies were served in the room adjacent to where the viewing had been held, along with a tasteful assortment of desserts from Redcake’s. Mr. Bliven was probably having a hearty laugh at that from wherever he was now.

“Look down upon us and find Jacob. Send me a sign, something. You know we haven’t much time left.” She blinked back tears. “Lead me to those men, at the very least.”

No sign ensued. She continued to scan the crowd, walking through the fairly crowded rooms. The ratio of men to women was at least six to one. Every few minutes, she and Ann crossed paths and shook their heads at each other.

“Should we try upstairs?” Ann whispered.

“No one should be up there.”

“We have to hope they are here somewhere. We can’t give up our search.”

Gawain walked by with Ewan. The women consulted with them. The men promised to keep searching the main floor while the women tried upstairs.

They went up together, planning to say Matilda felt faint if they needed an excuse. In truth, she did feel woefully overheated in her heavy black dress and pushed her veil back as soon as they were out of sight of the main crowd.

“Stop.” Ann held out her hand. A beautiful sapphire ring adorned her glove.

Matilda saw a man appear in a doorway. She bent over the ring, exclaiming her admiration. The man passed by. In shock, she tightened her grip on Ann’s hand. It had been the second man; she was almost certain of it.

She let go of Ann and crept down the staircase slowly, to keep the steps from creaking. At the bend, she saw the man clap his top hat on his head as a footman opened the door. She glanced around the front hall and spotted Hatbrook, just inside the first parlor. Gesturing frantically, she pointed to him, then to the door.

Hatbrook frowned, rubbing his neck, then his eyes widened as he caught her meaning. He went to the footman at the door and whispered in the man’s ear, then straightened and shook his head at Matilda.

The footman must not have his name. She rushed down the stairs, holding her skirts. When she reached the tiles, she saw Ewan coming from the opposite direction. Moving as demurely as she could, she reached him an age later.

“The second man just went out the door. We still don’t know who he is. You have to follow him!”

Ewan nodded and pointed a finger behind him. Gawain appeared in the doorway, limping slightly. It must have been a difficult trudge for him through the muddy cemetery.

“We’ll follow him,” Gawain said.

“But your hats?” she fretted.

“Tell Hatbrook to get our things and join us,” her brother said, walking out the front door without a backward glance.

Matilda stared at his and Ewan’s backs as they walked down the front steps and crossed the path to the main street. They must have seen the man to the left because that was the direction they took. She turned back to Hatbrook.

He nodded. “I’ll get the hats and coats. They’ll keep him in sight. Stay here.”

“The first man might still be inside.”

“Keep your distance,” Hatbrook advised. “We don’t want the kidnappers to feel they are under any kind of threat. Something could happen to Jacob if they do.”

Her stomach lurched as she considered the possibility and knew Hatbrook was right. Her brother-in-law made sense, as usual.

She and Ann wandered through the Bliven home for another hour, but never saw the first man. “Do you think he left before we spotted the second man?”

Ann twisted her ring. “Possibly. He may never have entered the house at all.”

“Ladies?” the vicar said, appearing by their side in the second parlor. “We are ready to leave for the solicitor’s office now.”

“Very well,” Matilda said. The vicar went to collect his brother.

By the time they were back in Hatbrook’s carriage, headed for the solicitor’s office, she had a pounding headache. Heedless of the discomfort, she kept a close eye on the streets as they passed, just in case she saw either of their family members, Ewan, or the suspicious men, but men dressed so similarly she would not have had much luck recognizing them even if it had been a clear, sunny day.

 

Ewan held the hansom door as Gawain climbed in, then went to speak to the coachman. At least his quarry had been joined by a second man a moment ago, probably the other fellow they were looking for. “We need to follow those two men ahead. You see them? Pull over wherever they stop.”