The Wedding Escape by Karyn Monk Page A

with his fellow members by buying them drinks with his bride’s money.” Jack twisted his rough woolen cap in his hands and continued to wait impatiently for Lord Philmore to emerge.
    The ill-fitting clothes he had purchased from a shabby little shop far from the elegant enclave of Mayfair were cheap and poorly made, which was exactly what he had wanted. The loose brown trousers and coat were of crudely stitched wool, and the coarse cotton shirt beneath was thin and turning yellow. His polished leather boots had been replaced with an ugly pair of shoes that pinched his feet, but they were the largest the shop had. To complete his appearance Jack had rubbed his hands, face and outfit with a liberal application of dirt and grease. If Philmore was the kind of man Jack suspected he was, he would look no further than Jack’s clothes to judge and dismiss him in one swift glance.
    â€œHe could be in there hours yet,” Oliver muttered irritably. “Why don’t ye just march in there an’ tell his lordship ye’ve another bride waitin’ for him, an’ if he wants her ye can have her delivered to him safe an’ sound by tonight?”
    â€œThere he is.” Jack watched as a slender man of modest height emerged from the heavy doors of the Marbury Club. He wore a tailored charcoal coat over a crisply starched shirt and cravat, from which an enormous ruby pin winked in the sunshine. A silver-capped walking stick was tucked jauntily under one arm, and he was pulling on a cream-colored pair of leather gloves as he trotted down the stone staircase to his carriage, his buffed shoes tapping lightly beneath his graceful movements, his face set in the same self-satisfied expression Jack had seen in the newspaper that morning.
    â€œWhat are ye waitin’ for?” demanded Oliver impatiently. “Go talk to him afore he leaves—an’ dinna forget to take the polish off yer tongue!”
    Cramming his cap onto his head, Jack leapt down and raced over to Philmore’s carriage.
    â€œWhat the devil do you think you’re doing?” demanded Viscount Philmore as Jack jerked open his carriage door and climbed inside. “Here now—get out at once!”
    â€œShut yer gob and listen,” Jack growled.
    â€œHelp!” cried Philmore, rapping the wall that separated him from his sleepy driver.
    Misinterpreting the meaning of the agitated rap, the driver snapped the reins over the horses and the carriage lurched forward.
    â€œWhat do you want?” asked Viscount Philmore nervously, scooting like a frightened bug away from Jack.
    His cheeks and forehead were barely lined, indicating he was younger than Jack had initially thought, perhaps thirty-five or so, but no more. Yet there was a priggishness to him that made him seem older. It was as if all the whimsy and daring of his youth had been either frightened or beaten out of him at an early age, replacing it with a fussy, supercilious demeanor that Jack found patently ridiculous. Of course it was possible Philmore had always been that way, but Jack couldn’t imagine any self-respecting lad being quite so timid. How could this frightened little mannequin be the man with whom Amelia fancied herself in love? He supposed Philmore was handsome enough, with his neatly clipped red hair peering from beneath the shiny black of his hat and his fastidiously maintained mustache curled ever so slightly at the ends. Jack was no authority on what women found appealing in a man, but he was not so blinded by contempt that he could not concede that Philmore was not unattractive.
    Even so, the cowering little dandy was hardly the kind of man that Jack would have chosen for a highly spirited, independent-minded woman like Amelia.
    â€œI’ll give you everything I have in my billfold,” Lord Philmore bleated, slipping a gloved hand into his coat pocket. “Will that satisfy you?”
    â€œI don’t want yer money,” Jack