CHAPTER 1
“Disaster has struck!”
Charlotte, Countess of Wrexford, looked up from the half dozen checklists spread over the parlor table. “If that is a jest, it isn’t remotely amusing.”
“Would I jest over something as momentous as the impending nuptials of our dear friends?” replied her great-aunt Alison, dowager Countess of Peake. “Ye heavens, it has taken Kit and Cordelia long enough to admit that they are perfect together.”
It was true, conceded Charlotte with a wry sigh.
Her husband’s best friend, Christopher Sheffield, had dithered and dithered, thinking that the brilliant Lady Cordelia Mansfield would have no interest in leg-shackling herself to a rakehell fribble.
However, Cordelia had been smart enough to see Kit’s true colors—
Alison thumped her cane on the parquet floor, drawing Charlotte’s thoughts back to the present moment. “And so, I’m not about to let any last-minute tempest in a teapot bollox the wedding.”
“Tempest in a teapot?” repeated Charlotte, her eyes widening in alarm. “Good Lord, has something gone awry with plans for tonight’s welcoming supper in honor of Cordelia’s family?”
“No, no, McClellan has the kitchen running like a well-oiled machine. It’s the flowers for the ceremony!” replied the dowager.
“But the Weasels are in charge of the flowers, and Hawk is so very clever at designing the perfect combinations of colors and texture . . .”
Hawk and his older brother, Raven, had been wild orphan urchins living in London’s toughest slum until Charlotte had taken them under her wing several years ago, even though she had barely been making ends meet at the time.
They in turn, had deemed themselves her protectors, and had been dubbed “the Weasels” by the Earl of Wrexford for assaulting him during his first fraught encounter with Charlotte because they thought he was threatening her.
The initial clash of wills had turned to a wary friendship between the four of them, and then. ..
A smile touched her lips. Funny what strange twists Life could take.
She was now married to Wrexford, and the boys had long since been forgiven.
Indeed, through some clever sleight of hand by her husband, the boys now had fancy papers giving them a respectable pedigree and had become the earl’s legal wards, though their unofficial moniker had stuck, much to everyone’s amusement—
Thump-thump.
“Charlotte! Do stop woolgathering!”
“My apologies.” She was usually practical and pragmatic, but the upcoming nuptials had stirred all sorts of sentimental thoughts about family and friends—and how over the last few years the lines between the two had become blurred beyond recognition.
“I was just musing on how Love is an even more elemental bond than ties of blood.”
Alison’s gimlet gaze gave way to a softer twinkle. “True. How else to explain what binds together our exceedingly eccentric group?”
Their eyes met for a moment . . .
And then the dowager cleared her throat with a brusque cough. “Be that as it may, let us return to the subject of flowers. Because despite Hawk’s best efforts, the plans for the wedding flowers have gone to Hell in a handbasket!”
“We are very good at improvising,” soothed Charlotte. “But first, what is the problem? After all, we have a large hothouse here on the estate, and I know the head gardener has it filled with all manner of lovely blooms.”
“Yes, but Hawk had designed a lovely bridal bouquet for Cordelia featuring hydrangea,” explained Alison.
Charlotte was knowledgeable about a great many subjects, but botany was not one of them.
On getting naught but a blank look, the dowager rolled her eyes. “It’s a blooming shrub, and a certain mophead variety produces exquisite blue flowers which are a perfect match with the silk sash of Cordelia’s wedding dress.”
“It sounds lovely,” murmured Charlotte. “But I take it that something is amiss?”
“The wind and rain of last night’s dratted storm knocked off every last petal from the hydrangea shrubs,” intoned Alison.
“Blue flowers aren’t easy to come by.” A pause.
“Unless we organize a raiding party to break into the Duke of Devonshire’s conservatory at Chatsworth.
Word is, there is a whole section devoted to the color blue. ”
Charlotte didn’t like the martial gleam in the dowager’s eye. “The duke has no sense of humor—and larceny is not a trifling crime. Would you and the Weasels rather spend the wedding day in a cell in Newgate Prison instead of Wrexford Chapel?”
A sniff.
“I thought not,” she said dryly. “And so, I suggest that we improvise.” The corners of her mouth twitched in humor. “Perhaps I could use my paintbrushes to tint a selection of white roses the exact shade of blue to match Cordelia’s sash.”
Charlotte was a highly accomplished artist, though her skills were usually put to use poking fun at the peccadilloes of Polite Society, as well as making sure that the leading politicians and those who possessed wealth and influence did not abuse their power.
Working under the nom de plume A. J. Quill, she was London’s most infamous—and popular—satirical gadfly.
“Oiy, oiy!” Hawk rushed into the parlor, followed closely by Cordelia and McClellan, whose official title as lady’s maid to Charlotte did not begin to describe the full measure of her position within the family.
Trusted confidante, occasional sleuth, firm-handed taskmaster of the Weasels, baker of ambrosial ginger biscuits—McClellan was, in a word, the glue that helped bind their household together.
“No need for worry, Aunt Alison,” added Hawk, once he had caught his breath. “As m’lady often says, we are very good at improvising!”
Charlotte felt another sweet stirring of nostalgia. The boys had taken to calling her “m’lady” during the first days of their acquaintance, and though the relationship had undergone a number of profound changes since then, they all felt comfortable with it.
“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” drawled the dowager.
“Lilacs!” He looked expectantly at the maid. “It was Mac who came up with a very clever idea.”
“Watered silk,” explained McClellan. “I recalled seeing a length of lovely lilac-colored watered silk in the sewing room. As you know, the sheen is slightly iridescent and in sunlight its shimmer turns into a beguiling mix of lilac and steely blue.”
“It was Mr. Sheffield who asked me to include blue hydrangea in the bridal bouquet,” offered Hawk, “because their petals would bring out the blue of Lady Cordelia’s eyes.”
Alison batted her lashes, setting off flashes of sapphire. “Men find blue eyes very alluring.”
“So we had Lucy, who is the best seamstress of the house maids, replace the sash on my wedding dress,” interjected Cordelia, “and just tested the effect with a bouquet of lilacs and white dahlias, and—”
“And Sheffield will swoon on the spot when you walk down the aisle,” finished McClellan.
“Let us hope not!” said Alison with a mock shudder. “At least, not before the vows are said.”
“If he’s having second thoughts,” replied Cordelia lightly, “I do hope he’ll choose a less dramatic way to evade the parson’s mousetrap than keeling over in the chapel.”
“Oh, you know me, I seem to have a knack for making a mull of the best-laid plans.” Sheffield appeared in the doorway, his wind-tangled hair damp from the morning’s recent rain squall.
Cordelia’s eyes took on a sapphire-bright light as she looked at her fiancé. “Yes, but I rather like your mulls.” A pause. “They make life infinitely more . . . interesting.”
“Interesting?” repeated Sheffield as the two of them exchanged a very intimate smile.
Charlotte repressed a laugh. “Speaking of making a mull, how bad was the damage to the road leading into town?” Wrexford and Sheffield had ridden out after breakfast to survey the damage done by the fierce winds and heavy downpours of the previous evening.
“Several large trees fell, blocking all access,” answered Wrexford, who finished toweling his hair dry as he joined Sheffield in the doorway. “But we set a group of the tenant farmers to clearing the way, so the wedding guests coming from Cambridge tomorrow will have no difficulty getting here.”
“It was a truly hellish night,” added Sheffield, his expression turning serious. “The locals have heard that there is extensive damage throughout the area.”
“Perhaps that explains—” began Cordelia.
“The two of you look chilled to the bone,” observed McClellan before Cordelia could go on.
“I’ll go fetch some tea—as well as some good Scottish whisky.
” She ruffled a hand through Hawk’s hair.
“Why don’t you take the silk sample back to the sewing room and go find your brother.
” A wink. “There may be a platter of ginger biscuits waiting for you two Weasels when you join us.”
“Whisky would be very welcome, Mac,” said Wrexford as the boy scampered off. “Come, let us decamp to the comfort of the drawing room and its blazing fire.”
* * *
“I would make a jesting remark about today being the calm before the storm,” said the earl after pouring a wee dram of malt for himself and Sheffield. “But there is nothing humorous about the destruction that Nature can unleash when it’s in a foul temper.”
“Indeed,” agreed Sheffield. “But we mere mortals could do a much better job about being prepared for it. The state of our roads and bridges is shameful, and that’s because our thinking about transportation is, for the most part, still mired in the Dark Ages.”
“Don’t get Kit started,” counseled Cordelia. “Our shipping company is doing quite well, but as we’ve recently learned, it will be a while before technical innovations in steam power replace sails. And as he’s impatient to be involved in Progress, he has turned his gaze from water to land.”
“Yes, well, we have so much potential for economic growth right here on this speck of an island, if only we put our minds to improving transportation through hill and dale,” responded Sheffield.
“Think about it! Opening up the northern reaches of England and all of Scotland to commerce would be a boon to the country.”
Wrexford thought for a moment about the challenges, which were more daunting than they might seem at first. “I imagine you are thinking of steam-powered locomotives, which travel at great speed and smoothness over roads made of rails.” Sheffield had been an early investor in Puffing Billy, the prototype locomotive designed by their mutual friend William Hedley.
“However,” added the earl, “our island’s geology—the mountain ridges running up the spine of England, the steep gorges, the many rivers and isolated valleys tucked among the rocky hills—all present a very difficult engineering challenge for creating a network of roads, rails, and bridges to link our towns and cities together. ”
“The fact that it’s difficult should be motivating our brightest scientific minds and forward-thinking politicians to solve the challenges,” countered Sheffield.
“From what I hear, that fellow from Scotland, John McAdam, is doing some good work around Bristol in his position as commissioner of paving,” pointed out Charlotte. “I did a series of drawings on his innovations a while back—”
“McAdam’s efforts are hamstrung by a lack of funds,” interrupted Sheffield. “Now that the wars in Europe are over, we should be investing government funds in—”
A sharp rap of the dowager’s cane signaled for silence.
“Enough hot air about business and technology,” ordered Alison as McClellan carried in a large tray of refreshments. “We are gathered here at Wrexford Manor to eat, drink, and be merry in celebration of a joyous occasion. Solving the ills of the country can wait for a few days.”
“Oiy!” called Raven from the corridor. “At least none of us have stumbled over a dead body.”
Wrexford repressed a shiver as a quicksilver chill slid down his spine. Logic and empirical evidence were the backbone of his beliefs. Superstitions were based in ignorance and fear.
And yet . . .
“Don’t spit in the Grim Reaper’s eye, lad,” he muttered, tempted to sprinkle a libation to Eris, the goddess of chaos, on the expensive Axminster carpet. “And don’t let Harper eat all the ginger biscuits.”
The huge, iron-grey hound, who had already loped across the room and taken up a position by the tea table, turned his shaggy head and fixed the earl with a baleful look.
“One would think you were fed naught but bread and water,” growled Wrexford.
“Sweets are not good for you, Harper,” explained Hawk. Seeing Sheffield turn to exchange a private word with Cordelia, he quickly filched a slice of ham from the soon-to-be-bridegroom’s plate. “Here, have some gammon.”
Once the laughter died down, the talk quickly turned to lighter topics. Cordelia told a number of amusing anecdotes about past gatherings of her family, which prompted more chuckles, and Sheffield recounted a number of self-deprecating stories about his clashes with his imperious father.
“I think he’s still rather shocked that someone as smart as Cordelia actually agreed to marry me.”
“So am I,” quipped Wrexford.
As the dowager began a long and slightly naughty story about her own wedding, the earl took another sip of his whisky, savoring the mellow warmth of the spirits and flickering fire.
A quiet interlude in the country was a welcome respite.
The recent murder of an old family friend had forced him to confront his own fraught relationship with his late father.
And though the crime had been solved and justice meted out, allowing a number of lingering wounds to heal, Wrexford was intent on making final peace with his conflicted emotions.
Better late than never, he thought with a pang of regret. Perhaps the fact that he was now the official guardian to a pair of headstrong boys had made him far more understanding of the complexities of father-and-son relationships . . .
The chiming of the case clock on the mantel brought a sudden halt to the merriment around him.
“Good heavens!” said McClellan, shooting up from her chair. “Cordelia’s brother will be arriving shortly with her aunt and cousins! You must all hurry and dress for our gala pre-wedding supper.”