one observes at a bachelor gathering,” he added with an apologetic glance toward Maria. “I insisted he come home with me, but—as always—he and his friends ridiculed me for wanting to leave early. For acting responsibly, considering today’s wedding.”
His mother’s face tightened. “Are you not your brother’s keeper, Jude? You should have—”
“Jude! Jude, where the hell’s your brother?” Into the airless parlor stalked his father, whose expression said the devil had come to collect his due. “I’ve just quizzed McCaslin and Hackett—who look like Death itself dragged their arses out of bed. They have no idea of Jason’s whereabouts.” Lord Darington’s hair had gone white at the temples and his skin had assumed the patina of his advancing years, but he was still a battle cannon who fired first and asked questions later. “And here you are, looking as fresh as a daisy! As oblivious—or deceitful—as your brother’s fine-feathered friends!” he blustered. “What the hell’s going on here?”
Jude gripped his tripod, knowing three extra legs still didn’t give him a good one to stand on: in his white tie and tails, Phillip, Lord Darington, cut a formidable figure. Not a man to be trifled with, even when his wealth and standing weren’t being showcased at his heir’s wedding. “As I was telling Mum,” Jude rasped, hoping his story matched what Clive and Daniel had said, “when I informed Jason it was time to head home, he and his friends laughed at me!”
“As well they might,” his father replied stiffly.
Jude bit back insults he’d wanted to hurl at this pompous old goat for years. “Jason believes he can do no wrong. Who am I to imply otherwise?”
“That’s a dodge and you know it!” Lord Darington—for he had assumed his role as guardian of the family name and reputation—drilled Jude with his steely gray gaze. “McCaslin and that nutless wonder, Hackett, claim they last saw your brother at—” He glanced at his wife and daughter, then gripped Jude’s shoulder. “No more hiding under that camera’s cape. You can only imagine the consequences if we have no groom for today’s wedding!”
“But the ceremony must go on!” Jemma cried. “I’ve been preparing myself for weeks—”
“I shall not abide such an insult to our reputation! Not even the suggestion of it!” his mother said. She pointed toward the door. “Go! And don’t come back without my son!”
With a last apologetic glance at Maria, who stood like a porcelain statue, Jude followed his father. His temples pounded as though he’d imbibed as much brandy as his brother and those cohorts who’d led him on last night’s misadventures. And indeed, Clive McCaslin and Daniel Hackett appeared green around the gills outside the church doors, weaving and bleary-eyed. At the sight of Lord Darington, they tried in vain to square themselves up.
“Now tell me again! We have no ladies present, so where did you sots leave Jason?”
Clive swallowed as though trying not to retch. He looked to Jude for support, but Jude kept his mouth clamped shut, hoping McCaslin didn’t ask where he’d been last night. “Best I can remember, Miss Amelia—” He blinked and pointed at Dan. “You’re the man who suggested we take up a collection for—”
“Amelia Beddow? The madam who runs a house on the harbor?”
Jude flinched. Their father had escorted them to the madam’s establishment for their sixteenth birthday and paid the lady to make men of them—or of him, anyway. Jason had already dipped his stick when the daughters of their parents’ peers succumbed to his persuasive ways. And while her sporting girls had come and gone over the years, the enterprising Miss Beddow knew a gold mine for its worth, there amongst the sailors and ship captains and captains of London’s shipping industry. Surely she’d known better than to detain Jason on the eve of his much-publicized wedding….
Dan’s vomit splattered the foundation, a doleful sound that brought Jude out of his musings. His father’s face resembled a raw beefsteak, and had the vicar not stepped through the door, he might’ve shoved Dan and Clive against the church’s stone facade.
“Have we still not located the groom?” Father Stoutham tugged at his white collar, not daring to ask any further questions.
Lord Darington cursed. “Do you think we’d all be standing here, trying to nail down the truth, if—oh, here!” He pulled a thick wad of pound notes from his pocket. “I’m leaving you to maintain order until we get back! My wife and daughter are working themselves into a frenzy, and the gossip’s going to fly among the guests. Handle it for me!”
His father’s expression brooked no argument: Jude followed closely as they strode toward the carriage. Pearson, the driver, looked startled when he learned of their destination, but moments later they were clattering down the street and toward the harbor.
Across from him, his father looked suddenly older, despite his rage. “Why do I suspect you ducked out of the festivities as soon as Amelia Beddow came into the picture?” he demanded in a low voice. “You could’ve waited in the front parlor—”
“I had no idea!” Jude protested. “I left before there was any mention of visiting Miss Beddow’s!”
And it was true. Almost. Damn his brother for messing up everyone’s day—and not telling him! In a pinch, he could’ve stood in for his more adventurous twin—and God knows he’d wanted to, plenty of times—so the wedding could’ve proceeded. They could’ve claimed he, Jude, was the missing twin! To avoid scandal, his mother would’ve gone along with the ruse, and would throttle Jason the next time she saw him.
The look on Maria’s face as he’d left the parlor haunted him. She’d stood still and silent during the fuss his sister had kicked up, but she had to be hurt…concerned…heartsick. What awful thoughts must be racing through her mind, these minutes before her wedding? While Maria loved him dearly, she loved his brother in a deeper, different way. And what bride wanted to be crying in the parlor, worried about her man’s whereabouts, when she’d spent the past months dreaming of this moment—this biggest promise and celebration of her life?
And we left her to fend for herself while Mum and Jemma whirl like dervishes, he thought as the masts and piers of the harbor came into view. At least Rubio was there to help Stoutham control the gathering crowd. Things were bound to get ugly—or very interesting, depending on how their guests speculated about their long wait. And when all was said and done, Jason would have to learn to apologize, wouldn’t he? He owed all of them—his bride, most of all—a major explanation.
As the carriage clattered through the traffic toward the modest two-story building near the pier, however, the air of desolation around the place didn’t bode well. His father peered intently out his window, as though to see through the bordello’s drawn draperies. “Why the hell, on a Saturday afternoon, does Amelia’s place of business look deserted?”
“It’s early yet?” Jude offered, knowing it was the wrong thing to say.
His father nearly knocked the footman backward as he threw open the carriage door and strode toward the whorehouse. Lord Darington grabbed the handle, but the place was locked tight. “Open up, damn it! I know you’re in there!” he called out. He pounded continuously on the door as Jude peeked through a front parlor curtain.
Was that a movement, near the bar? The room looked dim and empty, yet someone stirred…shuffled unevenly toward them without making a reply.
“Amelia, we must talk! And you know why!” his father continued in an ominous voice. Heedless of the curious passersby, the iron-haired man in formal attire banged the heavy door with his fist—
Until the lock clicked and it flew open! His father nearly punched the young woman who stood scowling at them, jaded and unafraid. “And what might this mindless racket be about?” she demanded. “Can’t ya see the place ain’t open?”
“Why the hell not? I must talk to Amelia about—”
“Gone, she is. To Brighton, to work a convention. Not