The Bride Thief

Chapter Twenty-three

At ten that evening, Eric strode down the dark corridor toward his study, wanting nothing more than solitude and a stiff brandy. While he'd enjoyed Margaret's company on their outing to London, he was relieved to be home where he could be alone with his thoughts.

His thoughts. Bloody hell, Samantha had occupied them the entire day. On the coach rides to and from Town. While he'd awaited Margaret at the dressmaker's. As he'd secured passage for two aboard the Sea Maiden departing for the Continent the next evening, then again during his meeting with his solicitor, where he'd updated his Will to include provisions for her and any children resulting from their marriage-a marriage he wasn't certain would even take place.

He entered his study, closing the door behind him. Heading toward the crystal decanters, he halted halfway across the room at the sight of Arthur sitting in his usual chair, a tumbler of whiskey cradled between his work-roughened hands.

"We need to talk," Arthur said in a tone that set Eric's nerve endings on alert. Jerking his head toward the decanters, Arthur added, "Pour yerself a long one. Ye'll need it."

Twenty minutes later, with Arthur's disturbing words about Adam Straton's visit echoing in his ears, Eric poured himself a second hefty drink. Standing in front of the fire, he lifted his snifter in a wry salute. "Well, that's not particularly good news."

Concern flashed in the older man's eyes. "It's nothin' but bad news. The man is suspicious of ye. He'll be like a bloody dog with a bone, searchin' and pryin' til he sees ye swingin' from a noose. I think ye should take yerself on an extended trip. Somewhere far away."

"Actually, I've made plans to do just that. Under the guise of a wedding trip, I've purchased passage for Samantha and I to leave England after the wedding-provided she shows up for the wedding."

Arthur nodded slowly. "Right smart plan. Ain't unusual for yer class to be gone months on a weddin' trip. Years even."

"Exactly. I've made all the necessary arrangements, but I would ask that you keep an eye on Margaret for me. Make certain she settles in here and that she's… happy. Unless, of course, I'm still here."

"Ye know I will. But ye must leave no matter what-even if Miz Sammie leaves ye at the altar. Say ye're leavin' England to mend yer broken heart. The reason don't matter none, just so long as ye go."

"I can't do that. I couldn't leave Samantha to face the scandal alone. If she doesn't show up, I'll…" he dragged a hand through his hair and blew out a long breath. "Bloody hell, I don't know what I'll do. I'll just have to come up with another plan."

"They'll kill ye if ye don't leave." Tears glistened in Arthur's eyes. "I'll never forgive meself fer bein' so bloody careless, walkin' Champion that way. This entire mess lays on me."

Eric set his snifter on the mantel then crossed to Arthur. Crouching down until they were on eye level, he squeezed the distraught man's shoulder then pinned him with a steady stare.

"Stop blaming yourself. You had no way of knowing Straton was watching you. I've known and accepted from the beginning the consequences of my actions, and that is what they are-my actions. And I shall take responsibility for them. As for Straton, he can be as suspicious as he wants, but he can do nothing without proof. Even if he were to locate Champion's stall, that doesn't prove I'm the man he seeks."

"No, but the bastard could make yer life miserable. We'll have to make sure he finds no evidence against ye. And that means ye absolutely can't risk another rescue. Ever."

Eric nodded slowly, then offered what he hoped passed for an encouraging smile. "Agreed." But in his heart he suspected it was already too late.

The next morning Eric stood in an alcove tucked away to the right of the church's altar and glanced at his watch fob. Thirty minutes until the wedding ceremony was scheduled to begin.

Would Samantha show up?

Clutching the fob in one hand, he paced in the confining space. Would she show up-bloody hell, he'd asked himself that question a thousand times since he'd last seen her. The fact that she hadn't contacted him-did that mean she meant to marry him? Or that she'd cut him out of her life, scandal be damned?

Muted voices reached his ears and he parted the heavy green velvet drapes concealing the alcove enough to allow him to observe the gathering guests while remaining hidden.

It seemed as if every person in the village was turning up at the church to see the Earl of Wesley make Samantha Briggeham his countess. He scanned the growing crowd, noting Lydia Nordfield sitting on a long wooden pew, flanked by her daughters and sons-in-law. Arthur, Eversley, and a dozen long-time members of his staff occupied a rear pew.

His gaze roved over the crowd, noting names and faces, then settled on Margaret. She sat in the first pew, staring at her gloved hands clenched in her lap.

His heart twisted with sympathy and concern. She was no doubt thinking of her own wedding to that bastard Darvin. He considered going to her, but decided to give her some time with her private thoughts. Perhaps being here, in this church, was a good way for her to exorcise the demons haunting her.

He continued to hopefully scan the guests, but not one member of Samantha's family entered the church. Releasing the drape, he consulted his watch fob. Twenty-three minutes until the ceremony began.

Would Samantha show up?

Adam Straton walked toward the church, his heart pounding with conflicting emotions, his mind whirling. Last night, after observing Arthur Timstone head to the main house, he'd searched the Wesley stables. Noting that the building seemed longer on the outside than on the inside, he concentrated his efforts on the rear of the structure. Ten minutes later he located a cleverly hidden door. Pulling it open, he found himself in a spacious stall with a window fitted into the ceiling rather than the wall. Holding his low-lit lantern aloft, triumph pulsed through him. In the far corner stood the magnificent black horse.

There was no longer any doubt in his mind that Lord Wesley was the Bride Thief, but he needed more proof. He had no intention of arresting the man only to have him released due to a lack of evidence. And with any luck, that evidence would be presented to him within the hour. He slipped his timepiece from his waistcoat pocket, noting the time with satisfaction. His most trusted man, Farnsworth, was right now searching the earl's home. With Wesley Manor all but deserted while most of the staff attended the wedding, Farnsworth would hopefully locate the necessary evidence.

Replacing his watch fob, he increased his pace, his gaze settling on the guests entering the church. Yes, today would most likely see the end to the most perplexing, frustrating case of his career-a career rife with countless possibilities once he apprehended the notorious Bride Thief. Yet, while he should have felt nothing but triumph, his imminent victory somehow felt hollow. He liked Wesley. And he loved Margaret. He hated the thought of her losing her brother.

But he had to uphold the law.