What the Groom Wants (26 page)

Radley ground his teeth. It was a terrible habit, one that gave him headaches and made his jaw ache unbearably. It only happened in those interminable hours before a battle. Like now.

Where the hell was Damon?

He had his men scattered about the old neighborhood, hiding in shadows or in people’s homes, scouting for any sign of the bastard or his men. Meanwhile, Radley waited in the darkness of Wendy’s old flat, grinding his teeth and counting the seconds.

Had Damon found out about the plan? Obviously, he had, but how? And besides, he knew Damon. Even if the bastard had figured everything out, he’d still be here just to taunt Radley.

So what was going on?

A knock sounded on the door, and Radley tensed. He had his sword in his right fist, a dagger in his left, but he didn’t move. Something was off about that knock. It wasn’t bold enough to be Damon’s.

Another knock, and then the doorknob twisted. “Don’t hit me. Damon’s not coming.” Bernard’s voice. Damn it!

Radley crossed the room and jerked the door open. He’d barely seen Bernard’s face before he set his dagger tip to the man’s jaw. He wasn’t going to kill the man, but he was angry and needed to express it somehow.

“What happened? Is Wendy all right? Where’s Damon?”

Bernard swallowed, his body frozen, half in and half out of the room.

“Tell me!” Radley bellowed.

“They’re at the church getting married.”

“What!” It was all that he could do to stop his fist from twitching enough to pierce Bernard’s jaw.

“I’ll take you there, but we have to be quick.”

Radley jerked his weapons back, slamming them into their scabbards with barely leashed fury. He didn’t bother speaking to Bernard. The man knew Radley was poised on the edge of lethal violence. So with a quick nod, the man turned and led the way. He was fast, thank God, and before long, the two of them—plus a trail of Radley’s men—were running through the London streets to the church.

Bernard slowed as they got close, but Radley barely paused. He hadn’t wanted to think about what Bernard had said—hadn’t wanted to believe it—but the questions had circled, even as they ran through London. Why would Wendy do this? Why would she marry that bastard? Why couldn’t she trust him to handle it? Even if today’s plan hadn’t worked, he would have figured something else out. But not if she married the man! How could she do this?

He had no answers and wouldn’t until he could see for himself what was going on. So he ruthlessly shoved all doubt aside. With a flick of his wrist, he ordered his men to surround the church. Whatever was going on inside, he’d be damned if the Demon left the church alive.

Not now. Not after marrying her.

Why
had
she
done
it?

He stomped to the entrance and dragged the heavy doors open. What he saw inside made his heart go dead. But what he
heard
made his entire body freeze in horror.

Wendy stood at the top of the aisle, her face as ghostly pale as her white gown. She’d dropped a bouquet of flowers on the floor beside her feet, so nothing prevented his view of a heavy ring on her finger. He didn’t have to guess whose ring it was. Damon stood beside her, his expression twisting into one of pure hatred.

The reason for the man’s anger came in the form of Radley’s sister. Caroline was walking up the aisle, speaking in a loud voice as she moved. And even though her voice practically throbbed with emotion, her body was calm, her elegant figure straight and proud.

“Thin like a quill and weak. I was a girl at the time and knew nothing of men. I remember wondering if he meant to poke me with that? Like a pin. But it was too puny.” She waved a hand at him. “That’s why he carries knives, you know. They’re thicker than his cock.”

Snorts of laughter erupted around the church, quickly stifled when Damon surged forward.

“Kill her,” he rasped.

Wendy jerked on his hand. “You can’t! You promised!”

He shoved her aside, and she tripped and fell backwards against the altar. “I will do as I bloody well please.” Then he drew a pistol from inside his jacket. Radley jerked, rapidly evaluating his choices. There wasn’t time to dive in front of his sister before the blackguard could sight and fire.

Meanwhile, apparently oblivious to the threat, Caroline kept advancing, her words ringing through the room. “And he had a smell, you know? Like rancid meat. Are you sure he still has a cock, Wendy? It may have fallen off by now.”

Radley took three steps forward, moving to protect his sister. Too slow, too slow! Especially as the congregation started to rise. Two thugs noticed him and immediately intercepted. He knocked them down easily—not drawing blood yet—but there were too many between him and Caroline. He had enough time to look up, grateful to see that the Scot was suddenly there. He stood in front of Caroline, his expression dark, and a… was that a claymore in the man’s hand?

“I think that’s enough, love,” the man said, his voice low, but strong enough to be heard.

Radley looked from him to the altar. Damon had his pistol pointed straight at the Scot’s heart. Damn it, now Gregory would be shot. That was hardly better! Radley let out a roar and burst ahead, but the chaos was absolute. Everyone in the congregation was on his feet now. Many drew weapons, while others shrank back. And damnation, Caroline was still talking. No, she was laughing!

“You think killing me will stop the truth? Good lord, all the whores laugh about it, even the little ones—the boys too weak to fight you. Is that why you use them? Because they are small enough to make it feel tight on—”

There was more. She was relentless as she steadily pushed forward. Radley shoved ahead as well. He had to protect his sister. He had to get Wendy out of the way. He’d seen her already back on her feet and stalking toward Damon with murderous intent. And damn it, the Scot could only protect one side, and that claymore was impressive, but bad for fighting in such close quarters. Damon’s men in the pews were fouled by the people in the way, but that wouldn’t last long.

A fist came at Radley from his right, and a knife flashed on the left. He lost track of what was happening ahead as he fought in earnest. This was close-quarter battle—restricted by the pews. And to his shock, these were skilled fighting men, as used to their blades as their own arms and legs. He barely ducked a short sword before he let his fury burn into his actions. There was no holding back, not against these men. But even though he fought like a demon, he knew it was too late. There were too many skilled street fighters between him and the two women he cared most about.

And still, his sister’s voice rang loud and clear. In truth, it was the only thing that kept him grounded, though he wondered about her sanity.

“The doctors say he has frog cock. It smells like sewage, it’s green, and it croaks when you poke it.”

What the hell was she doing? Then he caught sight of a few more people. Not men heading for him, but others along the side. Bow Street men, by the look of them, keeping the street fighters away from Caroline.

It was at that moment he realized the truth. This was his plan, damn it. He had intended to taunt Damon to attack. He’d meant to be the one to gut the bastard. But apparently, the fight had shifted here. And it had put Caroline at risk as she all but begged Damon to kill her.

He couldn’t cut through the crowd fast enough. With a muffled curse, he leaped up on the back of the nearest pew. Solid wood, but it required delicate balance. Fortunately, he was a sailor used to climbing ropes in icy storms. This was as solid as open ground to him, and gave him the advantage of seeing the battle clearly.

Caroline was almost at the altar rail with the Scot standing before her, trying to protect her. But he was one man, and there were five ugly men hedging him in. The claymore held them back, but that wouldn’t last long. Bizarrely, no one had touched his sister, and now, he saw why. She wasn’t just protected by the Scot. There were others around her too. Footmen? Men who weren’t true fighters, but they were holding their own for now.

His gaze cut to the altar, where Wendy stood a half-step behind Damon, his face mottled with rage. His pistol was up, and his hands were steady as he sighted on Caroline. He didn’t have a clear shot, but apparently, that didn’t matter. Radley had a second at most. Any moment now, the men would back off the Scot, and he or Caroline would be shot through.

So Radley threw his dagger. It was a quick throw out of desperation, and it cost him as a man close managed to grab his leg. He twisted away, but suffered a slice along his thigh before a downward stroke of his sword ended the tussle. But it cost seconds, and in that time, a shot rang out.

Damon had fired.

Then the room seemed to detonate as a half-dozen shots came from all sides.

Everyone in the pews froze or cowered. Radley strained to see what had happened.

Damon was dead, but not from Radley’s dagger. His throw had been good, lodging deep in the man’s belly. It would have killed him eventually, but not immediately. No, what killed the man was a thin stiletto shoved through his neck and still held by Wendy. Or perhaps, it was the bullet hole through his face, thanks to Bernard, who now stepped out from the side vestibule. Or perhaps it was the half-dozen bullet holes riddling the man’s body without ever touching Wendy.

Radley looked around him, making sure that the people in the congregation weren’t fighting—they weren’t—before he looked to the walls of the church.

He saw Lords Crowle and Redhill, each priming a pistol. Mr. Morrison was putting his own weapon away, a grin on the thin man’s face, while an older man beside him grunted in satisfaction.

“I think that’s got things well in hand, don’t you, constable?” the runner asked.

“Sit everyone down, boys,” the constable said loudly, “while we sort things out.”

And so it was done. Everyone slowly settled into a seat—or was forcibly guided to one—while Radley stood on top of a pew and watched with slack-jawed astonishment.

The men were there. Not only the husbands of Wendy’s friends, but the constable’s men, and… He blinked as he looked at one of the men protecting Caroline’s back. “Seelye?”

The man snapped his head up. “Ah, there you are, your grace. Bloody good throw.”

What did he say to that? “Er, thank you.”

Then his eyes traveled back to Damon’s body, where Wendy now slowly stood. Blood stained her dress, and her eyes were wide, but she remained poised and quiet. Her brother had crossed to stand behind her until silence pounded from all sides.

Apparently, that was too much for the cleric, who had been cowering behind the altar. The man pushed up from behind his hiding place, his florid jowls quivering with terror.

“She did it! She brought madmen into my church! And she k-ki—”

“Killed the madman? That she did,” barked the constable as he climbed over an unconscious man and headed to the front. “Seems to me that we were all attending a wedding when suddenly, the groom orders a woman killed. Killed, and right in a church.” He glared at the assembled people. “Good thing I’m a friend of the bride here. Kept things under control, didn’t we, Miss Drew?”

Wendy opened her mouth, but the constable didn’t give her a chance. “Oh blighter, you’re not Miss Drew anymore, are you?”

Radley’s belly clenched as she paled, but she raised her gaze to his. “No, Constable,” she said in ringing tones. “I’m Mrs. Porter now, recently widowed.” Her gaze dropped to the assembled crowd. “And now, sole owner of Demon Damon’s property.”

Radley’s jaw went slack as the truth finally became clear. This hadn’t been a wedding. This had been a coup d’état! Wendy had married and then killed Damon in order to take over his businesses. And while Radley stood there gaping, Wendy leaned down and pulled her stiletto out of Damon’s neck before calmly wiping it on her gown. Then she looked at the assembled people.

“Does anyone have any problem with me stepping into my husband’s place?”

There were quiet murmurs, the shifting of feet, but no one said a word. Meanwhile, the constable nodded in approval.

“I should say not, Mrs. Porter. We all saw you wed, right and tight. We all heard him order Miss Caroline Lyncott’s murder. And you most helpfully dispatched the villain. I, for one, thank you for your service and would like you to call on me should you or your brother need my assistance.”

Mr. Morrison stepped forward and gave her an elegant bow. “Bow Street at your service, ma’am.”

Lords Crowle and Redhill were in the process of tucking away their pistols, but they waved cheerily from opposite sides of the church. “Seems like a capital idea,” said one. The other grinned his agreement.

Then Lord Hartfell tucked Caroline close to his side. He didn’t speak, but she did. “You saved his life, Wendy. I cannot thank you enough.”

Then it was one statement after another, first from the bawds, then from the less savory men who had been scowling in the pews. They voiced their support of her, while she nodded like a queen in her bloody gown, taking their vows of loyalty—for that’s what they were—as her due.

Then everyone was silent, even the sniveling priest, while Wendy turned her gaze to Radley. She didn’t speak, and neither did he. Radley was still struggling to absorb everything that had happened. Last night she had said she loved him. She had opened her body and her heart, and he had done the same. They had talked about their
children
, for God’s sake. And yet, not twelve hours later, she was another man’s widow and owner of half of Soho.

And into the silence, his sister crossed to his side and tugged on his trousers. “Do come down, Radley. It’s really not done, standing on the pews.”

“It’s really not done, inciting a riot in one either.”

She waved an airy hand. “Everything I said was the truth.”

He gaped at her, but then caught the flash of blonde hair tucked neatly beneath a hooded cape. It was another woman, slender and composed, as she sat next to Seelye. “Eleanor!”

She flipped the hood back, her eyes shining. “Yes, your grace?”