Busy? What on earth could be keeping him so busy he couldn’t take a quarter hour out of his schedule to see her? Busy seeing to his own pleasures, no doubt. Rudeness, that’s all it was.
The cathedral’s clock struck the hour. The ceremony was now scheduled to begin.
And still no sign of the bride.
A cold chill of unease slithered down her spine, a sensation not the least relieved by Lord Hedington striding into the vestibule, his brows bunched into a severe frown. Meredith emerged from the shadows.
“Your grace, are you certain Lady Sarah was feeling well?”
“She claimed she felt fine, but I’m worried, I admit. The chit is never late. Prides herself on her promptness, unlike most females.” He shook his head. “I should never have agreed to come to the church without her, but she was so insistent-” His words broke off, and he heaved a sigh of clear relief. “Here comes the Hedington carriage now. Thank goodness.”
Meredith looked out the door and relief rushed through her at the sight of the elegant black coach, drawn by four matching grays. The coachman halted the carriage in the cathedral’s curved drive, and a liveried footman hopped down and trotted up the steps.
“Your grace,” the young man said, “I have a message for Lord Greybourne.” He held out a wax-sealed envelope. “Lady Sarah instructed me to deliver it just before the ceremony was to begin.”
“Lady Sarah instructed you?” The duke looked over the footman’s shoulder toward the coach. “Where
The footman’s eyes rounded. “Is she not here? She departed for St. Paul’s only moments after you left, your grace.”
“But if you have the carriage, what did she travel in?” the duke asked, his voice tight.
“Baron Weycroft called, your grace,” the footman reported, “Lady Sarah, along with her abigail, departed with him in his coach.”
The duke’s expression turned to one of confusion. “Weycroft, you say? I’ve not seen him, either. Well, at least she is not alone, although it’s deuced odd that they’ve not arrived. Ye gods, I hope they haven’t broken a wheel or some such.”
“We did not pass them on the road here, your grace,” the footman said, his countenance as confused and concerned as the duke’s.
“The note,” Meredith said, nodding toward the vellum, and pushing down her rising sense of dread. “Let us deliver it to Lord Greybourne at once. Surely it will offer the answers we seek.”
A knock sounded at the door and Philip and his father exchanged a glance. Unease slithered through Philip. Had Lady Sarah arrived? “Come in,” he said.
The door opened and Lord Hedington stalked into the room, every line of his body bristling with obvious tension and concern. With his bushy brows, jowly cheeks, oversized ears, and the folds of skin drooping under his protruding eyes, Lord Hedington bore a striking, and remarkably unfortunate, resemblance to a hound. An unfamiliar woman, fashionably garbed in a dark blue gown, remained standing in the open doorway. Her gaze panned the room, as if looking for someone else, then their gazes met. Philip fancied that confusion, and then surprise, flared in her eyes.
“May I assist you, Miss…?”
Color washed over her cheeks, and she performed a quick curtsy. “I am Miss Meredith Chilton-Grizedale, my lord. I am-”
“She’s the matchmaker who arranged for you to marry my daughter,” Lord Hedington said in a tight voice from behind Philip.
Philip stared at her, certain he failed to hide his surprise. Upon hearing his father talk about the formidable Miss Chilton-Grizedale, he’d formed a mental picture of a stern, gray-haired, grandmotherly sort that in no way resembled this young woman standing before him. Pushing his glasses higher on his nose, he noted that she appeared as surprised as he. He was staring, but couldn’t seem to drag his gaze away from her. And for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. Obviously due to his surprise, for she certainly was not a woman one would ever call beautiful. Her features were too irregular. Too unconventional.
Recalling himself, he offered her a formal bow. “A pleasure to meet you, miss.” After she entered the room, Philip closed the door behind her, then turned toward Lord Hedington. “Has Lady Sarah arrived?”
The duke raised his quizzing glass, thus now resembling a hound with one magnified eye, and peered at Philip. “No,” said Lord Hedington, “and she certainly should have, as she departed for St. Paul’s over an hour ago.” He thrust out his hand. “But she sent this note to you. It just arrived. I demand you open it at once and tell me what the devil is going on.”
Philip took the envelope and stared at it for several long seconds. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut, prayed his relief did not show, then forced his gaze upward from the vellum. Three pairs of eyes stared at him with varying degrees of distress. His father appeared more than a bit suspicious. Lady Sarah’s father appeared worried. And Miss Meredith Chilton-Grizedale appeared deeply troubled.
Philip broke the seal. The slight crackling of the vellum as he unfolded it echoed in the silent room. Drawing a deep breath, he lowered his gaze to the paper.
Philip had barely finished scanning the few lines when Lord Hedington tapped his quizzing glass upon the vellum and demanded, “For God’s sake, what does she write? Is she all right?”
Philip raised his gaze and met the duke’s eyes. “Yes, your grace.”
“Then why the devil is she not here? Where is she?”
Calm descended over Philip, and he drew his first easy breath in what seemed like months. She’d jilted him. Thank God. “I do not know exactly where she is, but she does not wish for you to worry about her safety. Still, I believe the main point is that she is not here. Nor is she coming.”
“Not coming?” the duke thundered. “Balderdash. Of course she’s coming. She’s getting married. Here. To you. Today.” He yanked his watch fob from his waistcoat pocket and snapped it opened. “Five minutes ago.”
“I’m afraid not.” Philip handed the single sheet of vellum to the duke, who snatched the paper from his fingers. Seconds after scanning the words, the duke’s fierce scowl darkened further.
“What the devil is this ‘curse’ she refers to?” he asked, passing the paper to Philip’s father. Philip noted that a wide-eyed Miss Chilton-Grizedale, whose complexion had taken on a faintly greenish hue, had sidled closer to his father to peer at the letter.
Before Philip could reply, his father looked up from the note and their eyes met. The icy anger and disappointment in his father’s gaze hit Philip hard. Harder than it should have. Certainly harder than he wanted to admit. Damn it, he was no longer a green lad who sought his father’s approval.
Father, instead of directing his ire where he clearly wanted to, turned the full force of his frigidly calm fury upon Lord Hedington. “This is an outrage. What sort of addlepated, beef-witted chit is your daughter, Hedington? How dare she write that she will not marry my son. And
Anger flashed in Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s eyes, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Lord Hedington’s
