“FERNSBY, I’M ELOPING.”
After settling Helen and Carys at his house, Rhys wasted no time in going to his office and summoning his private secretary for an emergency meeting.
The statement was received with impressive sangfroid: Mrs. Fernsby displayed no reaction other than adjusting her spectacles. “Where and when, sir?”
“North Wales. Tonight.”
It wasn’t soon enough. Now that an actual wedding ceremony with Helen was within his grasp, he was in a fever to make it happen. He felt damnably giddy, poised at the brink of doing something foolish.
The feeling reminded him of an afternoon, late the previous summer, when he had been drinking with Tom Severin and some of their cohorts in a public house. They had watched some bees that had flown in through a window and settled on an abandoned pewter quartern with a few drops of rum left in it. The bees had guzzled the rum and had become noticeably inebriated, trying to fly away in dizzy, aimless loops, while one bee had simply reclined with its heels up at the bottom of the mug. Rhys and the others had found it uproarious, especially since they had been drinking steadily and were full up to the knocker themselves.
Now Rhys had far more sympathy for the bees, knowing exactly how they had felt. This was what love did to a man, turned him into nothing more than a half-crocked bee, flying upside down and in circles.
“If you intend to marry by special license,” Mrs. Fernsby said, “there might be a problem.”
He gave her a questioning glance.
“As far as I know,” Mrs. Fernsby continued, “the Archbishop only grants special licenses to peers or peeresses in their own right, members of Parliament, privy councilors, and judges. I’m not certain whether Lady Helen has the right or not, since hers is only a courtesy title. I’ll try and find out.”
“Tell the Archbishop to make an exception if necessary. Remind him that he owes me a favor.”
“What favor?”
“He’ll know,” Rhys said. Filled with vigor, he paced around his desk. “We’ll take my private train carriage to Caernarvon. Arrange for a suite at the Royal Hotel for at least a week.”
“Will you want Quincy to travel with you?”
“Aye, and find a lady’s maid to come with us.”
Now Fernsby was beginning to look perturbed. “Mr. Winterborne, one can’t simply ‘find’ a lady’s maid. There’s a process—putting notices in the paper—conducting interviews—reading recommendations—”
“Fernsby, of the hundreds of women I employ, can you not find one who can arrange a lady’s hair and button the back of a dress?”
“I believe there’s slightly more to the job than that, sir,” she said dryly. “But I will find someone.”
“While you’re at it, hire a nursemaid as well.”
Mrs. Fernsby stopped writing. “A nursemaid as well,” she said dazedly.
“Aye, we’ll be bringing a four-year-old girl with us. Also, she’ll need clothes and toys. Put one of the sales clerks in charge of that.”
“I see.”
“And Lady Helen will need some new things to wear. Have Mrs. Allenby take care of it. Tell her I want to see Lady Helen in anything other than black.” Tapping his fingers on the desk, he mused, “I suppose it might be too much to ask for a wedding dress . . .”
“Mr. Winterborne,” Mrs. Fernsby exclaimed, “do you actually expect all this to be accomplished by tonight?”
“Fernsby, you have the greater part of a day, as long as you don’t lollygag over lunch.” As she began to protest, Rhys said, “I’ll handle the arrangements for the special train.”
“What about all the rest of it?” she called after him, as he strode from his office. “What about flowers? A cake? What about—”
“Don’t bother me with details,” he said over his shoulder. “Just make it all happen.”
“SO NOW WE’RE friends again,” Tom Severin said in satisfaction, stretching out his legs and resting them on the large bronze desk in his fifth-floor office.
“Only because I want something,” Rhys said. “Not because I have any liking for you.”
“My friends don’t have to like me,” Severin assured him. “In fact, I prefer it if they don’t.”
Rhys sternly held back a grin. “The friendship is contingent upon whether or not you can actually provide the favor,” he reminded him.
Severin held up a hand in a brief staying gesture. “A moment.” He raised his voice. “Barnaby! The information I requested?”
“Here it is, sir.” Severin’s personal secretary, a stocky fellow with rumpled clothing and hair that sprang in a wild mass of uncombed curls, hurried into the office with a sheaf of papers. He set them carefully on the desk. “Four private stations I’ve found so far, sir. Awaiting confirmation on the fifth.”
As the secretary hastened away, Severin picked up the pages and sorted through them. “What about this one?” he asked, handing a paper to Rhys. “A small bespoke station with a dedicated line connecting to the Great Western route. We can run a special train from there to Caernarvon. The station building is a two-story structure with a drawing room for entertaining prior to departure. No crowd, no tickets, no waiting. My general manager will personally see to it that your private carriages are coupled with our best rolling stock, including a new locomotive and extra passenger carriages with compartments for servants.”
Rhys smiled, glancing briefly over the page before giving it back to him. “There’s no way in hell that any other man in England could provide all this on such short notice.”
“Two other men in England could,” Severin said modestly. “But they wouldn’t give it to you as a wedding present, as I’m doing.”
“Thank you, Tom.”
“Barnaby,” Severin called, and the secretary rushed back in. Severin handed the page to him. “This station. Everything has to be ready by tonight. Make certain Winterborne’s private carriage is stocked with ice and fresh water after it’s delivered.”
“Yes, sir.” Barnaby nodded wildly and ran out.
Severin sent Rhys an inquiring glance. “Do you want to walk to a food shop for lunch? Or at least have a whiskey here?”
Rhys shook his head regretfully. “I have too much to do. Let’s meet after I return from Wales.” It occurred to him that he would be a married man then. Helen, in his bed every night, and sharing breakfast with him every morning . . . for a moment he was lost in a daydream, imagining ordinary life with her, the multitude of small pleasures he would never take for granted.
“Of course.” Severin’s blue-green eyes were friendly and inquisitive. The angle of the light on his face caught his right eye, illuminating the extra green. “This takes a bit of getting used to,” he said. “All this smiling and good spirits. You’ve never been one of those lighthearted fellows.”
“I’m not lighthearted, I’m . . . wholehearted.”
Severin smiled reflectively as they stood to shake hands. “It must be nice,” he mused, “to be any kind of hearted.”
RHYS RETURNED TO Winterborne’s, finding that most of his executive staff was rushing about at a berserk pace that rivaled Barnaby’s. Sales clerks and dressmakers’ assistants carried stacks of white boxes and armloads of garments to his private office, where his social secretary, Miss Edevane, was making detailed packing lists. Things were being accomplished, he observed with satisfaction. He decided to find Fernsby and ask about her progress.
As he approached her desk, he found himself following behind Dr. Havelock. The older man carried a tray bearing silver-covered dishes, a glass of iced lemonade, and a tiny vase containing a perfect half-open rosebud.
“Havelock?”
The lionesque head turned as the older man glanced over his shoulder. “Winterborne,” he said gruffly.
“Who is that for?” Rhys asked.
“Not you.” Havelock proceeded to Fernsby’s desk and placed the tray on it. “I heard about the frenzy you’ve created up here, obligating your entire office staff and three other departments to work themselves to the bone. All the fuses lit at once, as usual. Why must an elopement happen with such all-fired haste?”
“Elopements aren’t usually known for being slow,” Rhys pointed out.
“Are there parents in pursuit? A rival lover determined to prevent the wedding? No—only an impatient bridegroom who won’t cool his heels long enough to allow his hardworking secretary enough time for lunch!”
Just then, Mrs. Fernsby came to her desk. Her gaze fell on Rhys first. “Sir, we found a temporary lady’s maid: one of Mrs. Allenby’s assistants in the dressmaking department. Mrs. Allenby is altering at least two finished dresses from an order placed by a customer with similar measurements to Lady Helen—the customer agreed as long as we replace them with free dresses of more costly design. As for the nursemaid, Miss Edevane has a younger sister who would be delighted to accompany you and Lady Helen to take care of the . . .” Her voice trailed away as she noticed the other man standing nearby. “Dr. Havelock. Has something gone awry?”
“No, Mrs. Fernsby,” Havelock said, “but something might well go awry if you forego proper nutrition, especially at the bruising pace Winterborne has set.” He guided her to the desk and urged her to sit.
“You brought lunch for me?” Mrs. Fernsby asked in bewilderment, picking up the linen napkin on the tray and placing it on her lap.
“Indeed.” Havelock glanced at her covertly, assessing her reaction. A flash of triumph entered his eyes as he saw how pleased she was, and he quickly covered it with another burst of indignation. “If it were left to Winterborne, you would soon be carried to my door in a state of nervous exhaustion and malnourishment. And I already have enough patients to attend to.” He removed the silver covers, and turned the rosebud so that it was shown to its best advantage.
“I am rather hungry,” Mrs. Fernsby said delicately, as if she could hardly summon the strength to lift a fork. “Will you keep me company, Dr. Havelock?”
“I suppose I must,” came his enthusiastic response, “to make certain Winterborne allows you fifteen minutes of peace.”
Rhys tried to sound grudging. “Very well, Fernsby. You can have food. But only because Havelock insists on it.” Before turning away, he exchanged a quick glance with Mrs. Fernsby, and her eyes twinkled at him.