"I am very glad you both came, Papa," she a.s.sured him quite truthfully. Her father had never gone out of his way to earn her affection, but he had never been unkind either, and Dora loved him.

He offered her his arm and led her out to the waiting carriage. The sun was still shining from a clear sky. The air was warm and welcoming. Numerous birds, hidden among the branches of the trees in the park, were singing their hearts out.

Oh, let it all be a good omen, Dora thought.

8.

At five minutes to eleven it was unlikely there was an empty s.p.a.ce in any of the pews at St. George's Church on Hanover Square. Indeed, a few of the male guests were standing at the back and were even beginning to encroach upon the side aisles. Society weddings during the Season invariably drew a crowd of invited guests, but when the groom was a duke and the bride a virtual unknown, then the crowd was sure to be larger than usual. Even King George IV had explained that he would have been delighted to attend if a long-standing obligation did not oblige him to be out of town on the day in question.

The organist was playing quietly, muting the low hum of conversation.

George, seated at the front with his nephew, ought to have been feeling nervous. It was almost obligatory, was it not, for grooms to feel their neckcloths tighten about their throats and their palms grow clammy at this stage of the proceedings? But it was Julian who was showing signs of nerves as he patted one of his pockets to make sure the ring had not escaped its confines during the past five minutes.

George himself was feeling perfectly composed. No, actually he was feeling something more positive than that. He was aware of a boyish sort of eagerness as he awaited his bride. He was going to savor every word and every moment of the nuptial service with her at his side. The ceremony would usher them into the future they had chosen for themselves. It would be a perfect beginning to a marriage of perfect contentment-or so he firmly believed. He had hoped for it when he went into Gloucestershire to offer her marriage, but he had become convinced of it during the past month. She was the wife for whom he had unconsciously longed perhaps all his life, and he dared believe he was the husband she had dreamed of and been denied as a very young lady. Fate was a strange thing, though. He would not have been free for her at that time even if they had met.

"Is she late?" he murmured when it seemed to him that it must be at least eleven o' clock.

Julian pounced upon this small sign of weakness. "Aha!" he said, turning his head and grinning. "You are feeling it. But I very much doubt she is. Miss Debbins does not seem the sort who would ever keep someone waiting. But if she is late, she is certainly not going to be any later. I believe she has arrived."

Even as he spoke the bishop appeared at the front of the church, formally and gorgeously vested and flanked by two lesser mortals, mere clergymen. He signaled George to rise. The organ fell silent for a moment-and so did the congregation-and then began to play a solemn anthem. There was a rustling of heads turning to look back and a murmur of voices as the bride came into view and began to make her way along the nave on the arm of her father.

George's first strange thought as he turned and saw her was that she looked exactly like herself. Her blue dress, long-sleeved and round necked, simply designed and unadorned, suited her to perfection. Her straw bonnet was neat and small brimmed, and her hair beneath it was smoothly styled. She was wide-eyed and glanced neither to left nor to right as she approached, but she looked composed, even serene. Her eyes found him almost immediately and remained fixed upon him.

He felt a wave of warm affection for her and an utter certainty that everything was as it ought to be. He was going to be happy at last. So was she-he would see to that. He smiled, and she smiled back at him with a look of unguarded pleasure.

Then she was at his side, her father bowed and moved away to sit beside Lady Debbins in the front pew, and they turned together to be married. The congregation was forgotten, and George felt a sense of peace, of rightness. It was his wedding day, and within the next few minutes this woman beside him would be his wife. His own.

"Dearly beloved," the bishop said, and George gave his attention to the service. He wanted to remember every precious moment of it for the rest of his life.

". . . now come to be joined," the bishop was saying a few moments later in that distinctive voice of clergymen everywhere that carried to the farthest corner of the loftiest church. "If any of you can show just cause why they may not lawfully be married, speak now; or else for ever hold your peace."

He was addressing the congregation. Next he would ask the same question of the two of them, and then they would speak the vows that would bind them together for the rest of their lives. Despite himself, though, George felt the twinge of anxiety that all brides and grooms must experience during the beat of silence that followed the admonition. Someone coughed. The bishop drew breath to continue.

And the unthinkable happened.

A voice broke the silence from far back in the church before the bishop could resume-a male voice, distinct and loud and slightly trembling with emotion. It was a familiar voice, though George had not heard it for a number of years.

"I can show just cause."

And somehow it seemed to George that he had been expecting this, that it was inevitable.

There was a collective gasp of shock from the pews and a renewed rustle of silks and satins as the members of congregation, almost as one body, swung about in their seats to see who had spoken. George turned too, his eyes briefly meeting those of his bride as he did so. Even in that momentary glance he could see that she had turned suddenly pale. His blood felt as though it had turned to ice in his veins.

Anthony Meikle, Earl of Eastham, had made it easy for everyone to see him. He had stood and stepped out into the center of the nave. Or perhaps he had not been sitting down at all. Perhaps he had just arrived.

The bishop and the clergymen with him remained calm. The bishop held up a hand for silence and got it almost immediately.

"You will identify yourself, sir, and state the nature of the impediment," he said, still using his formal ecclesiastical voice.

Hugo, looking thunderous and menacing, was on his feet, George noticed almost dispa.s.sionately. So was Ralph a couple of places farther along the same pew, the slash of his facial scar making him look more fiercely piratical than usual.

In a dramatic gesture that looked too theatrical for any reputable stage, Eastham raised his right arm and pointed a slightly shaking finger at George.

"That man," he said, "the Duke of Stanbrook, is a murderer and a villain. He killed his first wife by pushing her off a high cliff on his estate in Cornwall to her death on the jagged rocks below. The d.u.c.h.ess of Stanbrook was my sister and would never under any circ.u.mstances have taken her own life. Stanbrook hated her, and he murdered her."

"Half sister," George heard someone murmur and realized it was himself.

There was a swell of sound from half the congregation, shushing sounds from the other half, and finally an expectant hush.

Anthony Meikle, now the Earl of Eastham, had made the same accusation immediately after Miriam's death twelve years ago to anyone who would listen-and a number of people did. He had made it despite the fact that he had been unable to offer anything by way of proof or even credible evidence. After the funeral he had vowed revenge. This, presumably, was it.

His rare appearance in London was explained. It struck George that he might have guessed that this or something like it would happen.

"You have evidence, sir, to prove this most serious of charges?" the bishop asked. "If you do, your proper course of action would be to take it to a magistrate or other law enforcement officer."

"Law enforcement!" Eastham exclaimed, his voice throbbing with contempt. "When he is a duke? He should hang by the neck until he is dead, and even that end would be too good for him. But of course it will not happen because he has the protection of his rank. I charge him with the truth nonetheless, and I charge you, my lord bishop, to do your duty and put an end to this farce of a marriage service. The Duke of Stanbrook must not be allowed to take a second wife when he murdered the first."

George turned his head to look at his bride again. She was as pale as chalk, and he wondered if she was about to faint. But she was looking steadily and apparently calmly at Eastham.

"I am afraid, sir," the bishop said, his voice stern, "that I must judge against your protest and continue with these proceedings. Your unsubstantiated accusation has failed to convince me that there is any valid impediment to the nuptials I am here to solemnize."

"There is none," George said. He made no attempt to raise his voice, though the silence was such that he did not doubt everyone could hear him. "I was the only witness to my wife's death, and I was too far away to save her."

"You are a filthy liar, Stanbrook," Eastham cried, and he took a few menacing steps forward. But Hugo and Ralph were already out in the nave and bearing down upon him, and Flavian was not far behind. Percy was pushing his way out of a pew on the other side of the aisle.

"Sir." The bishop's voice rang through the church with solemn authority. "Your objection to these proceedings has been heard and overruled. You will be seated now and hold your peace, or you will remove yourself from the church."

Eastham was not given the opportunity to choose. Hugo hooked an arm through one of his while Ralph did the like for the other, and between them they hurried him out backward, though he did not go quietly. Flavian and Percy followed after them. Percy did not reappear.

But George was only half aware of either what was happening or the renewed swell of sound from the pews. His eyes were fixed upon those of his bride, who had turned away from the spectacle to regard him.

"Do you wish to proceed?" he asked, his voice low. "We will postpone our wedding to another time if you prefer."

Or cancel it if she chose.

"I wish to proceed now." She did not hesitate, and her eyes remained steady on his. But her warm, radiant smile had gone. His own expression, he feared, was grim.

A heavy silence had fallen on the church, though it did not feel to George like a particularly hostile one. There was not a steady stream of guests making its outraged way to the doors, only the sound of boot heels on stone as his three friends made their way back to their places. But of course, almost everyone in the congregation would have heard that particular rumor long ago. It had caused a sensation in the neighborhood about Penderris Hall in the days and weeks following Miriam's death, and it was far too salacious a story not to have spread to other parts of the country, most notably London. There would always be those only too eager to cry murder after a violent death to which there had been only one witness, and that the woman's husband. The rumor had died with time and lack of either motive or evidence. It was doubtful that many people still believed it. Indeed, it was doubtful many people beyond the neighborhood of Penderris itself ever had.

The bishop proceeded with the service, picking up exactly where he had left off, and George tried to recapture his earlier mood and glanced at his bride to see if she had recaptured hers.

It was impossible, of course-and impossible to concentrate fully.

They spoke their vows with unfaltering voices, gazing directly at each other as they did so, and he fitted her wedding ring onto her finger while repeating the words the bishop read to him. Neither his own hand nor hers shook with even the slightest of tremors. Yet her hand was ice cold to his touch. He smiled at her and she smiled back. It took a conscious effort on his part, and doubtless on hers too. There was warmth in her smile but no radiance.

The bishop proclaimed them man and wife, and just like that, almost unnoticed, the moment he had antic.i.p.ated with such boyish eagerness came and pa.s.sed and they were married.

Had she known about those rumors surrounding his wife's death? George found himself wondering. Belatedly he thought that perhaps he ought to have raised the matter with her.

He drew her still ungloved hand through his arm when it came time to withdraw to the vestry for the signing of the register, and covered it with his own when he discovered that it was still cold. He curled his fingers about it to warm it, as though it were only her hand that needed comforting.

"I am so very sorry," he murmured.

"But it was not your fault," she said.

"I wanted our wedding to be perfect for you," he told her.

Her eyes looked fleetingly into his. "It was not your fault," she said again, "any more than it was mine."

But she had not a.s.sured him that it had been perfect.

They were both smiling when they came out of the vestry a few minutes later, the register having been signed and witnessed, the final seal placed on their marriage. A sea of smiling faces watched them from the pews, just as though nothing had happened to spoil the wedding and to set fashionable drawing rooms abuzz with gossip for days to come.

They walked slowly, nodding from side to side, picking out particular friends and relatives-Agnes with her upper lip caught between her teeth and tears swimming in her eyes; Philippa with her clasped hands held to her mouth; Gwen smiling and nodding beside the flame-haired Chloe; Imogen, her eyes, luminous with tenderness, moving from one to the other of them; Vincent gazing so directly toward them that it was almost impossible to believe that he was blind; Oliver Debbins gazing with frowning concern at his sister, his wife smiling; Ben with . . . tears in his eyes? The other Survivors, George noticed-Hugo, Ralph, Flavian, and, of course, that Survivor-by-marriage, Percy-were conspicuous by their absence, and it did not take a genius to guess where they had gone and what they were up to. Not, at least, when one had been involved in five other Survivor weddings during the past two years, one of them only a little over a month ago.

They were waiting outside the church, along with a sizable crowd of curious onlookers, who set up a cheer when the bride and groom emerged. The four men, as George had fully expected, had armed themselves with great handfuls of flower petals, which were soon being flung into the air to rain down upon George's head and his bride's. He took her by the hand, and they both laughed and made a dash for the open carriage that awaited them. It had been decked with flowers before George left home. Without looking, though, he knew that by now it would have acquired a less pretty cargo of noisy, metallic things tied to the back, ready to set up a deafening rumpus as soon as the vehicle was in motion.

George handed his bride into the carriage and followed her in. Another shower of multicolored petals rained about their heads. The church bells were ringing out the joyful tidings of a new marriage. The members of the congregation were beginning to spill out through the doors.

The sun was shining.

A hand touched George on the shoulder and squeezed.

"Don't worry," Percy said for his ears only. "He is gone and will not be reappearing for a while."

And then the coachman gave the signal for the horses to start, and every other sound was drowned out by the unholy din of the unofficial carriage decorations.

George settled his shoulders across one corner of the seat and took one of his bride's hands in both his own.

"Well, my dear d.u.c.h.ess," he said while she was forced to read his lips in order to hear.

She smiled and then grimaced and laughed at the noise.

He raised her hand to his lips and held it there while the carriage moved out of Hanover Square on its way to Portman Square, Chloe and Ralph having insisted upon hosting the wedding breakfast at Stockwood House.

George had intended to set his arm about her shoulders and kiss her on the lips for everyone outside the church to see. It was what his friends would expect. It would have been the perfect conclusion to a perfect wedding, the perfect start to a happy marriage.

He ought to have done it anyway. But it was too late now.

The day had been irrevocably spoiled.

The day had not been spoiled, Dora a.s.sured herself throughout the rest of it. What had happened in the church had been unfortunate-oh, what a ma.s.sive understatement!-but it had been dealt with swiftly and firmly, the man had been removed, and the nuptial service had resumed just as if the unpleasant interruption had not happened at all.

Apart from those brief moments, the wedding service had been perfect. So had the weather. Sunshine and warmth had greeted them when they stepped outside the church, and there had been the delightful surprise of a cheering crowd and the merry, laughing faces of their friends as they showered them with rose petals, just as she remembered their doing at Agnes's wedding last year. Even the deafening noise of the pots and pans they dragged behind the carriage all the way to Stockwood House had been amusing. Her husband had held her hand in both of his all the way there and sat half sideways on the seat, gazing at her with smiling eyes.

Chloe and Ralph's house had been festively decorated for the occasion with ribbons and bows and urns of flowers. The ballroom had looked more like a lavish garden than an indoor room and had quite taken Dora's breath away when she stepped into it on the arm of the duke. It had soon been packed with guests, all of whom had bowed or curtsied and smiled and offered congratulations and best wishes as they pa.s.sed along the receiving line. The food had been sumptuous, the speeches heartfelt and often laughter-provoking, and the wedding cake such a beautiful work of art that it had seemed a pity to cut it. And after the breakfast the guests had been in no hurry to leave but had moved into other rooms and out onto the terrace to linger and continue their conversations. But gradually the guests did begin to take their leave and finally only family and close friends remained.

Everything had been perfect.

No one had made any reference at all to what had happened during those five minutes in the church. It was almost as if Dora had imagined it.

At the end of the day what she remembered most were the smiles and laughter and unrelenting cheerfulness of so many people, all celebrating her nuptials. Why had it left her wanting to weep?

There had been those three or four minutes-definitely no longer than four-out of a long and eventful day that had been otherwise joyful and perfect. Like a worm at the heart of a perfect rose.

I can show just cause.

It was surely every bride's nightmare that someone would break that short silence in the nuptial service with just those words.

That man, the Duke of Stanbrook, is a murderer and a villain. He killed his first wife by pushing her off a high cliff on his estate in Cornwall to her death on the jagged rocks below. The d.u.c.h.ess of Stanbrook was my sister and would never under any circ.u.mstances have taken her own life. Stanbrook hated her, and he murdered her.

He should hang by the neck until he is dead. . . .The Duke of Stanbrook must not be allowed to take a second wife when he murdered the first.

It was almost incredible that the wedding and the breakfast had proceeded so normally, so merrily, so perfectly after those words had been spoken. How could they all have smiled the rest of the day away? How could he have smiled? How could she? Why had nothing been said?

It was unfair. It was so very unfair.

He was calling her "my dear," she noticed. She was calling him nothing. How could she continue to call him "Your Grace" when she was married to him? But how could she call him "George," when he had not invited her to do so? Did she need an invitation, though? He was her husband. And they were friends, were they not? A friendship had surely grown between them during the past month. But . . . did she know him? He had done forty-seven years of living before she even met him last year, more than half a lifetime. She really did not know him at all.

Well, of course she did not. They had spent only a month plus those few days last year together. She had felt she knew him, knew his spirit. But the truth was that she did not know him at all. Getting to know each other was what their marriage would be all about.

It was well into the evening when they arrived home. And even the homecoming should have felt perfect. The butler opened the double doors wide with something of a flourish, spilling light out onto the dusk-shaded steps, and bowed low. Behind him all the servants were gathered, standing formally in two lines extending along the hallway, the women on one side, the men on the other. Despite the lateness of the hour they were all smiling, their heads turned toward the doors. At what must have been a prearranged signal from someone, they all applauded as the Duke of Stanbrook led Dora over the threshold.

Someone must have dashed ahead from Stockwood House to warn the servants that they were on the way.

The butler had a speech to deliver, stiff but also endearing. The duke answered it and introduced Dora as his d.u.c.h.ess. More applause followed and more smiles, and she thanked them for the welcome and promised to get to know them all by name in the next few days.

A tea tray was brought up to the drawing room and Dora seated herself to pour-her first duty as a wife in her new home. They sat on either side of the fire, which was welcome in the coolness that had come with the dusk. And they talked about the day, agreeing in effect that it had been perfect.

As it had been.

Except for those few minutes.

Several times Dora thought she would broach the subject but could not steel her nerve. Several times she thought the duke was going to make mention of it, but when he spoke it was of something else, some other fond memory of the day.

He did not stop smiling. Neither, she realized, did she.

"You are tired, my dear," he said at last. "It has been a long and busy day. A happy one, though, would you not agree?"