Page 6 of The Seduction of an English Scoundrel

Lord Belshire gave the marquess an anxious look. “I don’t suppose you know anything about where Nigel is.”

A cold determination settled on Grayson’s face. His reply struck straight to the center of Jane’s heart.

“I intend to find out what happened today, believe me.” He looked directly at Jane, as if trying to penetrate the shadows of the wedding veil that framed her face. “I know this is a difficult time for you, but please tell me—did you and Nigel have a fight by any chance?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly. She and Nigel had parted the best of friends, in complete agreement that they did not belong together as man and wife. “No. No fights.”

Sedgecroft pursed his lips as if he suspected something vital had been omitted from her response. “No little lovers’ quarrel that you might have forgotten in all the excitement? No misunderstandings?”

Jane took a moment to answer, murmuring, “Nigel and I understood each other perfectly.”

“He must be dead,” Lady Belshire said, gazing disconsolately around the chapel. “Jane, I think it would be wise to accept Sedgecroft’s kind offer.”

Jane looked aghast. “Mama, I am not going to be borne through the crowds like a . . . a football.”

Lady Belshire fanned her pink cheeks in embarrassment. “I meant his offer of the carriage, Jane. My goodness, there is no need for the common folk to be gossiping over this.”

Lord Belshire gave his wife a grim smile. “Steel yourself, Athena. The story will be printed in all its nasty scandal in the evening papers. There is nothing to do but brazen it out as best we can. Sedgecroft?”

The marquess stirred, as if wondering how he’d managed to become personally involved in this family drama.

“One of my brothers will escort your daughter home while I take care of matters here,” he answered. “The guests may as well enjoy the wedding breakfast.” He squared his impressive shoulders, his gaze burning with a blue fire that took Jane’s breath away. “I will make this right,” he added softly, his voice underlaid with all the arrogance of his aristocratic background.

For a dangerous moment Jane almost laughed out loud. Here she stood at the altar with an infamous rogue who had never spoken two words to her in her life, vowing to avenge a wrong that had actually not occurred.

The promise might certainly be meant to reassure her, given by a man who had probably never accepted a rejection in his life. Instead, it had the opposite effect. Rather than feeling comforted, every self-protective instinct that Jane possessed came hurtling forward in warning.

By sabotaging her own marriage, she had thought to make herself safe. Instead, a danger far more insidious than any she could have previously imagined stood before her. Indeed, her scheme today might have brought her to the very gates of hell . . . with the devil himself waiting to claim her deceptive soul.

Chapter 2

Weed, the senior footman in Sedgecroft’s London residence, reported to his master less than an hour later in the huge reception hall. Here, beneath a domed ceiling the wedding breakfast had been laid out in a splendor of sparkling crystal, Sèvres china, and polished silverware on crisp white linen tablecloths. After a spell of awkward hesitation, the guests had attacked the lobster salad and champagne as if everything were perfectly normal.

As if the high-backed Chippendale chairs reserved for the bride and bridegroom were not sadly empty.

As if their toplofty host were not presiding over the celebration like a medieval warlord who had ordered his vassals to enjoy themselves while he brooded on plans for his revenge.

“I did as you asked,” Weed said in an undertone, bending over Grayson on the pretext of refilling his champagne glass. “Our pigeon has flown the coop.”

Grayson’s face tightened dangerously. He had little tolerance for a man who lacked the guts to fulfill whatever promises he had been foolish enough to make, especially when that man was a family relation who had used Grayson’s chapel to commit his social crime. “Are you certain?”

“His wardrobe and drawers have been emptied, my lord. The servants claimed to have no inkling of his plans—his valet reported the bed unoccupied when he brought up the shaving water earlier this morning. Seeing as Sir Nigel’s carriage was still on the premises, everyone assumed he’d gone for an early-morning walk to calm his nerves.”

“And never returned,” Grayson said in contempt, his opinion of his cousin lowering by the minute. It might have been better all the way around if Nigel had been run over by a hackney or some sort of ridiculous excuse for leaving that young woman at the altar.

“I suppose there is still the possibility of foul play,” Weed said doubtfully.

Grayson’s brother, Heath, sauntered up to the other side of the chair. “What has happened?” he asked quietly, smiling at the guests who watched him, matrons marking him as a desirable target for their unwed daughters, assuming his elusive heart could be caught. The marquess, of course, would rank first on their list, but no eligible young woman had yet attracted his eye, either, although many had gone to preposterous lengths in this pursuit.

The taming of the Boscastle clan and ensuing matrimonial capture challenged a good many of the ton’s wedlock-obsessed mamas. All that wealth, those excessive good looks, their generosity to the few they held dear . . .

“Nigel’s gone missing on us,” Grayson said, his tapered fingers curled around the scrolled stem of his glass.

“Missing?” Heath gave a cynical laugh. “In the middle of London on his wedding day? I do not think so.”

Grayson arched his brow. “Nor do I. The point is, he cannot be found. The question remains, why.”

Heath folded his arms across his chest. “We shall need a Bow Street man.”