The Wedding Escape (12 page)

And Jack could get on with his own damn life, free of any further responsibility for her.

“Please, Jack.” Amelia regarded him in desperation, sensing his reluctance to become further involved in her situation. “Please.”

Her grip upon him tightened, as if she were afraid that he might suddenly release her, abandoning her to whatever fate her parents had decided upon for her. And in that moment he remembered once again what it was to be desperate. The sensation washed over him in a dark, nauseating wave, stripping away his reticence, and leaving only the cold, sharp focus that had enabled him to survive.

“We can't get out by the main staircase, so we'll head toward the west hallway that leads to the kitchen,” he told her, swiftly evaluating their limited options for escape. “Once we get there, stay close to me.”

He began to lead her in a subtle, sweeping arc toward the exit he had decided on, thankful for the first time in his life that Genevieve had insisted he take dancing lessons. He wasn't good at it, but at least he knew how to move a woman around a ballroom without falling on his face. At that particular moment, the skill was proving invaluable.

His peripheral vision told him he and Amelia were quickly being surrounded. Having disposed of his tray, a highly aggravated Philmore was cutting through the crowd of dancers. John Belford was also striding toward Amelia with grim purpose, no doubt thinking that all his daughter needed was a good, stiff reminder that he was in charge of her life. Her two brothers, William and Freddy, had each taken a position at the bottom of the massive marble staircase, erroneously assuming that their sister would attempt to flee the same way she had come in.

Lord Whitcliffe remained with Amelia's mother, looking thoroughly disgruntled as he finished the remains of his drink.

Just one more minute of music,
thought Jack, broadening his steps as he led Amelia toward the corner of the ballroom.
That's all I need…

“That will do, Amelia.” Percy laid his gloved hand firmly upon her shoulder. “You've embarrassed both yourself and your family quite enough for one night. You will come with me quietly over to Whitcliffe so that you may apologize and make amends.”

“Take your hand off her.” Jack's voice was dangerously low. “Before I break it.”

“Look, old man, I don't know who you are, but this is a family matter—”

Jack jerked Percy's hand off Amelia's shoulder and twisted back the viscount's thumb just to the point before it would snap from its joint.

Percy howled with pain and collapsed on his knees to the floor. “My hand!” he wailed, cradling the gloved appendage. “You've broken it!”

“What in Sam Hill is going on in here?” demanded Arthur Fanshaw, who stood at the top of the stairs with his wife and cowering daughter.

“Move!” Jack pushed Amelia through the crowd of horrified couples ahead of him.

“Here now, stop!” John Belford thundered, not quite sure whether his daughter was in the process of running away or being abducted. “Stop them!”

The ballroom exploded into a crush of surging bodies as people fought to get closer to Jack and Amelia, while others, terrified that Jack was dangerously violent, scrambled away.

A high-pitched scream split the air. Amelia turned and saw her mother with her black ostrich plume fluttering wildly, shrieking with uncharacteristic abandon. Not to be outdone, other women joined the chorus. Some elected to swoon instead, forcing their partners to catch them and drag them off the dance floor.

“He's stealing my daughter—stop them!” bellowed Amelia's father, still trying to fight his way through the crowd.

Having reached the hallway leading to the kitchen, Jack and Amelia were suddenly confronted with a parade of servants bearing towering silver platters of food and refreshment.

Jack grabbed a tray of champagne and hurled it at the advancing throng behind him.

A shower of wine and crystal stemware rained upon the exquisitely attired mob, halting them in their tracks more efficiently than any firearm might have done. The sound of shattering crystal was followed by shrieks and shouts as people slipped and fell on the precariously wet floor.

“That old chap is plenty quick,” commented Lord Sullivan drunkenly, helping himself to another glass of whiskey. “Reminds me of myself when I was sixty. Never surrender, I say!” He raised his glass to Jack.

Following Jack's lead, Amelia grabbed a tray from the next footman and sent it flying through the air behind her, bombarding her pursuers with a colorful hailstorm of fruit.

“Doesn't look to me like that Belford girl is being abducted,” Lord Chesley observed, perilously close to toppling over. “Not with the way she's flinging food about.”

“Five hundred pounds says she and the old chap are successful,” proposed Lord Beardsley.

“A thousand pounds says they haven't a prayer,” Lord Dunlop countered, banging the floor with his cane. “It's just the two of them, and they're completely surrounded.”

“I'll take that wager and double it.” Lord Sullivan watched Amelia with admiration. “The odds may be against them, but that girl has got real spirit.”

“Let me go!” raged Amelia, kicking her feet wildly as someone wrapped their arms about her waist and plucked her off the floor.

Jack turned to see a footman had grabbed Amelia and was now valiantly fighting to save her. Jack heaved another tray onto the hapless fellow's head, burying him in an avalanche of coconut cake with whipped-cream topping.

Suddenly finding herself free, Amelia raced down the narrow corridor. She burst through the doors to the kitchen, where two dozen cooks and kitchen maids were frantically stirring, carving, ladling, and arranging, oblivious to the pandemonium exploding just beyond their steamy sanctuary.

“This way!” Jack led Amelia through the crowded maze of tables, sinks, and stoves toward the kitchen's back door, knocking bowls, pans, and trays of food onto the floor behind them as he went.

“Oliver!” he shouted, crashing through the back door, “Let's go!”

“Ye said ye'd come out nice and quiet,” Oliver complained, scowling as he drove the carriage out from the shadows, “an' instead ye barrel out shoutin' at the top o' yer lungs like a wild—”

“Amelia!” roared William, hurtling out of the kitchen, “Stop!” His hand snaked with bruising strength around her arm. “Have you gone completely mad?”

“Take your hand off her,” Jack commanded harshly, “or I'll—”

“No, Jack!” Despite her determination to escape, she would not permit her brother to be harmed. “You mustn't hurt him.”

“Let go of her, William.” Her brother Freddy appeared through the doorway, still holding his glass of champagne. “It's clear she wants to get away.”

“I don't give a damn what she wants,” William snapped. “She's made us all look like fools. It's time she thought about the family, for God's sake, instead of herself. You should be ashamed,” he told Amelia furiously, “humiliating Mother and Father this way!”

“Please, William, let me go.” Amelia regarded her brother earnestly. “I know it's hard for you to understand—no one can force you to do anything you don't want to do—”

“We all have to do things we don't like, Amelia,” William informed her flatly. “Even me. It's part of life.”

“More like it's part of being a Belford.” A thread of rancor darkened Freddy's tone. “Rather ironic, given that the rest of the world thinks having money means having freedom.” He downed the rest of his champagne.

“It's different for both of you,” Amelia objected. “Maybe you haven't always been able to make your own choices, but at least you both have some control regarding with whom you will live the rest of your life!”

“Mother is only trying to protect you, Amelia, the same way she always has.” William's voice grew marginally gentler. “Do you honestly believe you can choose just any suitor? Surely you must realize that it was your wealth that drew Philmore to you. At least with Whitcliffe you're getting something substantial in return.”

“I don't care about being a duchess,” Amelia told him. “Not if it means marrying an old man who doesn't even like me.”

“He'll like you once he gets to know you,” William assured her. “He won't be able to help himself. You'll see.” He turned toward the door, pulling her behind him.

Jack hesitated, wondering if any of William's arguments might eventually influence Amelia. He was reluctant to interfere now that her brothers had come after her.

“No, William.” Amelia jerked her wrist away from him. “I'm not going in with you. I'm leaving.”

“If you run away, you'll have nothing, Amy.” Freddy's expression was troubled. “Do you understand that?”

“I'll have my freedom,” she retaliated fiercely. “And I'd rather die than marry Whitcliffe.”

“This nonsense has gone on long enough,” William growled, taking hold of her wrist once again. “I'm taking you back into that ballroom, so stop behaving like a child and start acting like a duchess!”

“Let her go, William.” Freddy grabbed Amelia's other arm. “This is Amelia's decision to make, not yours.”

“Seem to me ye're goin' to have to decide if ye're helpin' the lass or no,” observed Oliver to Jack. “Or are ye hopin' she'll suddenly change her mind and go back to Whitcliffe all meek and quiet?”

“It would be damned simpler for me if she did,” Jack muttered.

“Aye, there's nae denyin' that,” Oliver agreed. “But it looks to me like the lass's mind is set, an' if ye dither much longer, there'll be nae ye can do to help her.” He tilted his head toward the growing rumble of agitated voices coming from the house.

Jack cursed.

“Let go of me, William!” Amelia commanded, fighting to break free from her brother's powerful grip. “Now!”

“I think you should do as she asks.”

William glowered at Jack. “I don't know who the hell you are, old man, but unless you want to find yourself sleeping behind the bars of a prison tonight, I suggest you get into your carriage and drive away.” He turned, hauling Amelia behind him.

Seizing the moment, Jack hoisted the back of William's evening coat over his head, imprisoning him within its black fabric.

“Get in the carriage!” Jack directed Amelia.

“You'd best drive fast.” Freddy advised Oliver. “I can hear more people coming.” He regarded his sister fondly. “Don't worry about Mother and Father, Amy,” he added cheerfully. “They'll calm down after a while.”

“Thank you, Freddy.” She could not imagine her parents ever forgiving her for the dreadful scene she had just caused.

“Go, Oliver.” Jack climbed into the carriage beside Amelia and slammed the door shut.

“Hang on!” Oliver snapped his whip against the horses and the carriage tore into the night.

“Stop!” raged Percy, stumbling out the kitchen door with John Belford, Lord Whitcliffe, and a shouting mob behind him. “Come back!”

“They went that way,” Freddy declared, blithely pointing in the wrong direction.

“Don't listen to him!” William's voice was muffled beneath his coat. “Whatever he says, he's lying!”

“Really, William, you shouldn't drink so much,” Freddy scolded. “It makes you say the most ridiculous things. I'm absolutely certain that the carriage went that way.” He pointed in the opposite route he had just indicated.

Lord Whitcliffe looked as if he were about to explode in frustration. “Which is it, you damn fool?”

“That way.” Freddy again gestured in the wrong direction. “I'm positive.”

“You're drunk,” observed John Belford in disgust.

“Not nearly as drunk as I would like to be.” Freddy hiccuped loudly, then turned and threaded his way through the curious crowd of onlookers back toward the ballroom, leaving Amelia's father, brother, and suitors staring in helpless fury into the darkness.

Chapter Six

T
HE CARRIAGE RACED THROUGH THE SILKY NIGHT,
leaving the brilliantly lit mansions of Mayfair and Bel-grave Square, with the strains of Mozart and the scent of blossoms and richly spiced food wafting upon the still summer air. After a time the glittering manors gave way to tenement buildings, their crumbling walls oozing the harsh sound and stench of human misery. Children cried while men and women brawled drunkenly, the ugly din resonating through the stink of sewage, boiled cabbage, and spoiled meat, and the smoky pall of thousands of braziers and grease lamps.

Amelia sat hunched within the folds of her evening gown. She could not bring herself to look at Jack, who sat opposite her in grim silence, stripping away the white tufts of hair that covered his head, brows and cheeks before rubbing at the chalky mask of his wrinkled face with a damp cloth. Instead she stared out her carriage window, overwhelmed by the ramifications of what she had just done, and the crude, unfamiliar world now unraveling before her.

Despite the late hour, the streets in which Oliver steered the carriage were teeming with activity. Drunken men and women stumbled from the taverns with heavy, dripping bottles pressed against their rotting mouths. Roars of laughter and outrage filled the night as the men clumsily groped their heavily painted female companions, who tolerated the mauling of their breasts and slobbering against their lips with weary enthusiasm.

Prostitutes,
Amelia realized, shocked.

She swallowed thickly. Just the previous day she had been destined to marry Lord Whitcliffe. Had she gone through with it, she would have been required to lie in his bed that very night—in exchange for the title and privileges she would have gained as his wife. She had railed and wept bitterly over her betrothal, but until the moment she decided to scramble out the window and down the church wall, she had all but accepted her fate. As hopeless as she had believed her situation to be, it could not compare to the desperate circumstances of the ragged, half-starved women on the streets before her.

She stared at her exquisite gown, feeling small and ashamed. She had never known what it was to be hungry to the point of pain, or shivering without any hope of finding shelter, or ill without the comfort of a soft, clean bed and the attention of servants and a reputable doctor. She knew nothing whatsoever about the dreadful lives these women were forced to endure. Even when she had dared to run away from her marriage, she had done so expecting to marry Percy and live a life of comfort as the esteemed wife of an English lord.

How could she possibly judge these women for what they did when she had no comprehension of the wretched nature of their lives?

“Turn down that alley, Oliver.” Jack's expression was hard as he stared out the back window at the street behind them.

“ 'Tis best to keep goin', lad,” Oliver barked over the clatter of the carriage wheels. “They couldna have started too quick after us, an' they're nae expectin' us to take Miss Amelia through a nasty puddle o' scum like this. They're still prowlin' about Mayfair, most like, thinkin' to find her hidin' in one of their mansions.”

“If no one is following us, then it won't matter if we lose a few minutes,” Jack insisted. “Stop the carriage over there.”

His tongue clacking with exasperation, Oliver reluctantly turned the horses down the alley Jack indicated.

“There now, ye see?” The old man scowled. “We're beggin' to have our throats cut sittin' here, with Miss Amelia flashin' all those bleedin' diamonds. We should just keep—”

He stopped, startled by the elegant black carriage that suddenly tore down the very street from which they had just turned. A stinging torrent of foul words erupted as drunken men and women scrambled out of the way to avoid being crushed beneath the expensive vehicle's heavy wheels.

“Percy!” Amelia gasped.

“I believe he's with your devoted brother William,” observed Jack dryly.

“But how would they know to look for me here?”

He shrugged. “He and Percy probably set out as quickly as they could and asked people if they had seen a carriage matching this description hurrying down the streets. Once they established which direction we were headed, they likely concluded the quickest way for you to get out of London is by ship. That's why they're going toward the docks.”

“And where are we going?”

“That depends. Do you have any relatives here beyond your immediate family, Amelia? Someone who would be willing to take you in?”

She shook her head. “I have no family here, other than my parents and brothers. They are all in America.”

Jack had suspected as much. “If I got you back to America, is there anyone there with whom you might stay? An aunt or uncle, perhaps, or even a close cousin?”

“None of my relatives would ever incur my father's wrath by letting me stay with them against his wishes. It isn't that they wouldn't wish to help me,” she quickly qualified. “It's just that my father has been very generous to all of them over the years—he bought many of them their homes, or gave them jobs in his company. They have a deep sense of loyalty to him….”

“They would be afraid that if they took you in he would cut them off,” Jack finished succinctly.

“Yes.”

“Fine. What about friends? Do you have any friends whose parents didn't have their homes purchased by your father, and who don't happen to also work for him? Someone who would be willing to give you shelter for a while, until you sort out what it is you want to do?”

Amelia thought for a moment. “I don't think so. The only friends I've ever made have been through social affairs that my parents have either planned or taken me to—and that generally means that their fathers have some business connection with mine. Of course they might be willing to put that at stake, but I have no way of knowing for certain. I might turn to one of them for help, only to discover they felt compelled to contact my parents and let them know where I am. Then my mother would simply pack me onto the next steamship back to London.”

Jack sank back in his seat. A dull throbbing had started at the base of his skull.

“Couldn't I just stay for a while at your parents' house here in London?” Amelia regarded him hopefully. At least London was familiar to her, and she felt at ease around Beaton and Lizzie, who had been so kind in helping her to prepare for her ill-fated meeting with Percy. “I promise I won't be any trouble—”

“It's too dangerous for you to remain in London, Amelia,” Jack said flatly. “Your face will be on the front page of every newspaper by tomorrow morning—or evening at the very latest—along with the details of the enormous reward your family is sure to offer for your return. You won't be able to so much as stick your head out a carriage window or open your mouth and reveal your American accent without someone chasing after you. We have to get you out of here.”

“Why don't we just take the lass home with us?” asked Oliver.

“No.”

He frowned. “Why not? Ye've just said yerself she canna stay here, and she's nae kin to go to in America. I'm sure Miss Genevieve would be pleased to have her.”

“She is not going to Genevieve's, Oliver. I don't want her or Haydon involved in this.”

“Right, then. She can stay at your house. Ye're scarcely there anyway.” Oliver winked at Amelia, pleased that he had solved the problem.

“Where do you live?” asked Amelia.

“I have a very small house in Inverness,” Jack admitted reluctantly, “but it isn't suitable…”

“ 'Tis warm and dry and pleasin' enough, if ye dinna mind the sight of a lot o' ships an' swords an' strange lookin' masks all around ye,” Oliver interjected. “Once we get a fire goin' an' brush some o' the dust out, I'm sure ye'll find it cozy.”

“I'm sure I will, Oliver,” she said with forced cheer. “It sounds lovely.”

She didn't want to go to Inverness. She had never been to Scotland, but everyone in London spoke of how bleak and gray and cold it was there, and how the people were rough and unrefined. All she wanted in that moment was to go home. To her father's beautifully appointed mansion on Fifth Avenue in New York, which boasted acres of polished marble and soft velvet and was fitted with all the latest amenities in hot-water plumbing and electric light. Or to the sunny estate her family owned in Newport, where she and her brothers had played every summer for as long as she could remember. The weather was gloriously warm and breezy there in August, and there were all kinds of splendid picnics and boating parties and lively balls to attend. She shivered, despite the warmth of the night and the heavy mantle of her gown. She had foolishly believed she was gaining her freedom when she tore out of that ballroom with Jack.

Without money, she was swiftly discovering, there was no freedom.

“I won't impose upon your hospitality for very long,” she assured Jack, aware that he was not pleased that she was going to be his guest. “I shall try to make other arrangements for my lodging as soon as I can.”

Jack said nothing. In truth, he had no idea what was to become of her. Amelia was suddenly in an extremely untenable position. She no longer had any marriage prospects. Given her sheltered existence and lack of marketable skills, he couldn't imagine that she would ever be able to find a job and support herself. By tomorrow all of England and Scotland would be looking for her because of the enormous reward her capture represented. Amelia Belford's life had been turned completely upside down, and he had helped her to heave it over.

Now what the hell was she supposed to do?

“You can stay at my house, for as long as you need to,” he told her. “It's not fancy, but it's comfortable enough.”

“Thank you.”

He rubbed his temples, fighting the pain pounding across his skull. “Your father will undoubtedly have the police monitoring every road from London and searching every train,” he reflected grimly, “so the only safe way to get you out is to put you on one of my ships.”

She regarded him in surprise. “Do you own a fleet, then?”

“The lad has his very own shipping line.” Oliver's aged face beamed with pride. “No doubt ye've heard of the North Star Shipping Company?”

Amelia shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“Really?” The old man looked disappointed. “Oh, well—'tis just a matter of time. Our Jack here has loved the sea since he was but a stripling, and is makin' quite a name for himself in the British shippin' industry.”

“Really?” Amelia regarded Jack with genuine admiration. “You didn't mention that.”

Jack shrugged, disliking the way Oliver was exaggerating. He owned a grand total of five ships, one of which was currently undergoing extensive repairs and was therefore not seaworthy, and one of which was a clipper ship and in little demand. “You never asked me what I did.”

“When I asked Lord Whitcliffe about how his family made their fortune, he was shocked,” Amelia explained. “He told me that in England a lady doesn't enquire about business affairs. It's considered vulgar. It's different in America, of course. At home men love to talk about their businesses and their investments with anyone who will listen. My father adores regaling people with his story about how he started as an impoverished farm boy and then went to the city and started his own railway line, which is now one of the biggest in the country.” She smiled fondly. “The toes of his feet are bent from having to squeeze them into the worn-out shoes of his older brother. With nine children to feed and clothe, there were no new shoes to be had. If he has too much to drink, Papa removes his shoes to show people, much to their horror. My mother has to run over and stop him. Mother hates it when he tells that story. She likes to pretend that she and my father came from very wealthy families—which isn't true. She was the daughter of a poor greengrocer, but she'd rather die than admit that to anyone.”

“There's nae shame in bein' poor,” observed Oliver. “There's oft more shame in bein' rich.”

“I thought things were different in America,” Jack remarked. “That people didn't measure you by whether you were born poor, but only by what you made of yourself in your lifetime.”

“It is different there,” Amelia assured him. “But people still take notice of how old one's wealth is—not by hundreds of years, of course, but whether it's first- or second- or third-generation. Here the men tell you about their ancient estates and illustrious pedigrees. They even boast about some illegitimate ancestor who was supposedly sired by royalty. But ask them about their business affairs and they act as if you were trying to uncover some dreadful family secret.”

“That's because so many of them are suffering financially,” explained Jack. “And few of them are willing to work and try to make a new fortune on their own. They would rather sit around the Marbury Club drinking themselves into a stupor, hoping some wealth falls into their laps.”

“Like marrying an heiress.” Amelia shook her head ruefully. “You must think I'm a terrible idiot, for having believed in Percy.”

Jack said nothing.

“I was an idiot,” she admitted with painful candor. “But my father always says, there's no shame in making mistakes, as long as you learn from them.”

“A stumble helps ye to right yer fall,” added Oliver philosophically. “An' if ye ne'er stumbled, how would ye learn to walk?” He chuckled. “Our Jack here stumbled so often, Miss Genevieve was always frettin' he would end up in jail—or worse. 'Twas only by luck and her fierce will that the lad managed to stay a step ahead of the law—that an' his uncommonly fast feet. One time, when he was about fifteen, he and the other children decided to fleece a wee shop in Inveraray—”