Page 52 of The Marquess' Wicked Wager
Albert remembered Janine well enough, Edna having recounted his father’s misdeed after the fact. It seemed the two were in cahoots, and where one might go… “What doesJaninesay?”
“Your father.” Her neck bobbed. “He knows what we intend and is racing up to Scotland.”
Albert got to his feet. “He will never make it in time, Edna. He’s fool to think he will.” His jaw ticked. “Was it your father—”
“No, my father did not do this. Janine supposes a member of staff in your uncle’s employ was paid to tip him off.” She threw the letter aside and hung her head in her hands.
He darted over to her before she could let out the first of her sobs. “Edna,please.” He was completely disarmed by her crying, filled with anger. “This is a threat. A cruel, empty threat. Even if he thinks to forestall the wedding, he does not possess power over space and time.” Cupping her cheeks, he swore, “He will not make it.”
* * *
The smithy at the edge of Gretna Greene was as uninspiring a place as there could even be. And yet, when Albert had sought a spot for their elopement, none had come more highly recommended for its discretion. In the week before their leaving for Mileton, he had secured a time and an officiant. All that remained was to head through its doors and stand by the anvil...and to walk out a married man.
If not for the looming threat of his father, he might have approached the day with some humor. There was no amusement on Edna’s expression, that much was certain. He squeezed her hand as the carriage bobbed along the village road. It stopped before the shop, and Albert was first to descend. He cast a glance over the whitewashed walls of the building which was detached from all others on its own little lane. A sign near the drive read,Blackthorn Cottage, Fillihugh’s Shop and Smithy.
And then, in the courtyard, he spied a most curious sight. For who should be standing beside the bramble lining the way, but his uncle, Violet, and Bloomsday?
Edna reared up beside him. “Violet isn’t dressed for slaughter,” she noted, seizing his hand in her own.
The three of them eyed Edna and Albert cautiously with expressions that were unreadable. It was only when they were within arm’s reach that anyone sought to speak. Naturally, it was Violet.
“I have been advised to keep myself in check,” she said first, glaring at Jonathan. “Do not think that we are not so very cross with the both of you for our being here because weare.” She withdrew her fan from her reticule. It was the same shocking pink shade as her gown. “I mean,really? Eloping with the Scots? Why, I have half a mind to—” She flicked her fan open, seething behind it.
Thankfully, his uncle was the one to speak next. “What Violet is so eloquently trying to say is this—why did the both of you feel you could not tell us about your plans?”
Edna was locked in a silent battle of wits with her father, so it was Albert who answered. “Simply put, uncle, we knew you would not agree.”
“Agree? There are more important things than our agreeing, Albie.” He shook his head, and the few strands of hair that remained to him wafted in the wind.
“Between the lies, the subterfuge, the leaving in the middle of our party—” Violet snapped her fan shut. “I taught you better, Edna. Really, I thought I did.”
“I’m sorry,” Edna mumbled. “It felt as though it was the only path left open to us. Between the mess we made of things, and papa’s disapproval—” She cut herself off, not wanting to poke the otherwise quiet bear.
Albert looked to Bloomsday, whose mustache was twitching. “I love your daughter, My Lord. I intend to make her my wife for no other reason than that love. She is the most brilliant, brave, foolhardy girl I have ever known, and I fear neither of us shall ever live in happiness if you seek to break this match.” He locked gazes with Edna, and it gave him strength. “I have no right to make demands of any of you, but I will allow not a thing, nor a person, to come between us ever again.”
Suddenly, the sound of sobbing carried on the wind. “Well,” Violet said between pants, “Who can argue with that?” Mood changing quicker than she changed fashions, Violet clapped her hands together.
“A word.” It was Edna’s father, grumbling. “I require a word with my daughter.”
Albert didn’t want to let her go, afraid he might never hold her again for their parting. She gave him a resilient little nod and stepped away.
* * *
“I don’t care what Violet says,” her father began as they walked down the lane. “Ican argue with your match, and I dare say I should.”
They came to a stop over a bridge which arched over a small, babbling brook. A mill sat on the horizon, and Edna studied it to stop from crying. There had been far too many tears already. She needed to tread carefully, she knew, if she was to win her father over...and that did not involve blubbering. Never blubbering.
“Papa…” she hesitated, her hands curling around the walkway’s ledge. “You must know—and I mean this from the bottommost, truest part of my heart—I never intended to go behind your back. I would never dream of hurting or hindering you in any way...but I rightfully feel that you have forced my hand.”
“Edna—”
“No!” The assurance of her cry all but rocked her off the bridge. “Father, you have spoken quite enough. It is time you listen—Ilovethe Marquess. I adore him. I will not waste my breath trying to convince you of his goodness again, for you have clearly made up your mind on his character. Unfairly, untruly.” She knew her cheeks were as red as the trim on her gown. “But this is my choice. I know what is right. He will keep me safe.”
Slowly, silence fell between them. Edna worried her father was thinking about how best to pick her up and carry her off with him as he would do when she was but a child and stayed in the garden overlong. He seemed to consider his words, doing that annoying, twirling of his mustache that never failed to irk her. And then, to her utmost surprise, he sighed. A long, heaving, conceding sigh.
“I do not believe the Marquess will keep you safe.”
“Papa—”
