“Now that Heathgate has made his entrance,” Fairly said, pouring Gareth a drink, “perhaps you’d care to start your tale again. You had just explained that Astrid ingested a potentially fatal dose of poison while enjoying a solitary breakfast this morning.”
“Sweet, suffering angels,” Gareth expostulated, scowling thunderously. “If there’s more, I don’t need to hear it. Marry her and move the hell out of England until the child is of age—at least until then.”
Andrew felt a nudge of relief, because his brother had anticipated the next worry: How to keep Astrid and her child safe once Andrew had guaranteed himself the legal entitlement to do so.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Fairly said. “What haven’t you told us?”
Andrew glanced at the clock again—he was, after all, a bridegroom—and set his drink aside. Whether it was wedding-day nerves, lingering upset over Astrid’s brush with death, or sympathy for his intended’s tentative digestion, Andrew could not countenance swilling spirits.
“Dr. DuPont told me Douglas had already interrogated him about whether Astrid might have thrown herself down the steps to harm or lose the baby. Astrid did indeed tumble the length of the Allens’ front stairway, but her best recollection is that she may have been pushed.”
“Pushed?” Gareth began. “Then why the hell would Douglas—?”
Andrew held up a hand and continued speaking. “The doctor was careful this morning to question Astrid regarding anything she might have taken, intentionally or otherwise, to induce a miscarriage. When Douglas interrogated DuPont earlier, DuPont told Douglas a woman would have to be crazy to try to lose a child by causing herself serious bodily harm.”
“And there we have it,” Fairly said, running a finger around the rim of his glass. “The contingency plan. If Astrid isn’t killed outright, she is made to look as if she has homicidal intentions toward her unborn child. I would not put it past Douglas to raise suspicions regarding the miscarriage she had last year.”
The slight uneasiness in Andrew’s guts rose higher, like seasickness as the sight of dry land receded. “I’d forgotten about that.”
Gareth sat and used a handkerchief to swat dust from his boots. “And not to cheer anybody up, Douglas will have a motive for Astrid’s resentment of the pregnancy when he can demonstrate the late viscount stole from his own wife.”
“And did so,” Andrew added bleakly, “to maintain his well-compensated mistress.” In the ensuing silence, Brenner topped off everyone’s glass, then put the stopper—a damned cherub—back in the decanter.
“Was there ever such a cheerful wedding party?” Brenner asked, his brogue slightly in evidence. His comment restored Andrew’s balance a bit, which was fortunate, because the bishop soon joined them, eyeing their drinks with a knowing smile.
“Are we fortifying ourselves, gentlemen?” he asked genially. “I believe many a wedding is thus celebrated in advance, and wouldn’t mind a tot m’self.” He had no sooner downed his “tot” in a single swallow than Astrid joined them, her attire plain lavender and her complexion pale.
But, oh, she did smile when she spied her brother standing across the room. That smile helped settle something in Andrew’s mind, helped him breathe more easily.
“You came,” she said, hugging Fairly fiercely.
“Odd,” Gareth said from his place behind her, “my sibling greeted me the same way.”
“Gareth!” If anything, Gareth’s hug was more fierce than Fairly’s had been, fierce enough to convey both his love and Felicity’s. Gareth kissed Astrid’s cheek and kept an arm around her shoulders. “Felicity sends her best wishes, but she no longer hugs anyone, she docks alongside them, so great are her dimensions.”
“That’s quite enough!” Astrid chided, but his humor had succeeded in bringing the roses to her cheeks and the light back in her eye.
Within moments, Astrid and Andrew were poised before the bishop, and Fairly was responding to the question regarding who gives the bride in marriage. With Gareth and Fairly on either side of them, they spoke their vows, Astrid quietly, and Andrew in the tones of a man who knew this wedding was right, even if the marriage itself would suffer a world of problems.
They were pronounced man and wife together, the ring one chosen by Felicity from several owned by Astrid’s mother. Documents were signed, and the bishop was sent on his way with a celebratory bottle of Gareth’s finest.
“If you two can manage from here,” Gareth said, “then I will return to Willowdale and report every detail of the ceremony to my lady wife. I should make it home before dark if I start now.”