Page 50 of Lady Emily’s Matchmaking Mishap (Merry Spinsters, Charming Rogues #5)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Emily’s wedding dress was the most beautiful she’d ever worn: a white French gauze layered over satin, the hem decorated with a delicate flounce of Brussels lace, above a row of pale pink rosebuds with leaves. The same roses were woven into her hair, which for once cooperated. It was brushed up and curled beautifully over her forehead and sides of her face. The maid had to wield a sturdy papillote iron to create these curls. She was wearing fine silk stockings and slippers.

For once, Emily thought she actually looked pretty as she critically studied her reflection in the mirror. It was a shame to go through all that trouble for just a few hours. By midday at the latest, the charade would be over and she and Cissy would find themselves in the carriage home to Meadowview Cottage. Why didn’t that thought fill her with the satisfaction she’d hoped for?

“You look lovely, Emmy,” her sister said. “I would embrace you, but then it would ruin your outfit.”

She looked lovely herself, like a ray of sunshine in yellow primrose silk.

The three aunts were waiting for her in the hall below.

Jane stepped forward and handed her a small bouquet of violets. “Here,” she said gruffly. “Wolferton said they were your favourite.”

Emily took the bouquet and buried her face in it. The sweet smell of the flowers brought tears to her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“You’ll do,” Araminta proclaimed with a sniff. She was wearing a huge turban with a feather in it. “Now, let’s proceed and get this thing done and over with. Afterwards, we will have all the time we need to admire each other’s dresses.” With those words, she ushered Emily and Cissy into the carriage that was waiting for them outside the townhouse.

St George’s was rather gloomy inside, Emily thought. Perhaps it was because of the overcast, rainy weather, for there was no sunlight coming through the stained glass windows. The pews were made of heavy, dark wood and only a single chandelier was lit with candles.

Wolferton was already waiting by the altar, along with the priest and Lord Hamish.

No one else was there. She’d known it was going to be a quiet affair, but that not even Chippendale was to be there struck Emily as odd.

Somewhat unnerved, she walked down the aisle and looked questioningly at the Duke. Wasn’t now the time for him to turn and make a speech, to apologise to his aunts and to call the game over?

But Wolferton returned her gaze solemnly and took her hand in his.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here today in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony... ”

Dear sweet heaven. The priest had actually started the ceremony. Now what? She shifted nervously and attempted to catch his eye, but Wolferton merely squeezed her hand.

Emily fidgeted, growing increasingly hot in her dress. Her fingers grew clammy and sweat pooled in her armpits. The priest talked and talked. “Do something,” she mouthed voicelessly.

“Patience,” he mouthed back.

Emily nearly huffed. Patience! The man was asking her to sit on tenterhooks and be patient? It was like having ants crawling all over one’s body and not being allowed to brush them off.

Emily shifted again and saw that all three aunts had taken out their handkerchiefs and were dabbing at the corners of their eyes. Emily sighed. The leaden guilt weighed her down.

What they were doing simply wasn’t right. To lead them on in this manner. To play this charade, only to interrupt it in the middle of the climax, to declare it a ruse and that they’d never had any real intention of getting married in the first place.

How cruel could one be?

Why had she ever agreed to this?

Emily was growing increasingly agitated. As if sensing this, Wolferton moved closer to her, increasing the pressure of his hand as if to reassure her.

Much good that did. For now she felt his heat and his smell was in her nose, that bewitching smell of sandalwood and mint…

“If any man can show just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace?—”

“—Yes, I shall speak!” a male voice interrupted, his voice echoing in the church.

“Eh?” The priest squinted over his spectacles, evidently shocked.

Wolferton froze.

Emily gasped.

So this was what he had planned. Very clever of him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Araminta spoke up.

A gentleman emerged from behind a pillar and stepped into the aisle.

He was tall and lean and sombrely dressed, and there was something decidedly familiar about him.

“On what grounds do you have the temerity to interrupt this wedding?” Wolferton asked coldly.

Well done, Emily thought. He really was an excellent actor. The plan was splendid. A wedding interrupted by outside forces, and no one was to blame.

“On account of deception. You cannot possibly marry her. If you do, your marriage will be invalid. This woman is not who she claims to be. She is an impostor.”

The word rang out loud and clear.

“What nonsense is this?” Jane cried, stepping in front of Emily as if to protect her.

The man walked down the aisle and stopped in front of her. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord John Hepplewhite. This woman—” he pointed an accusing finger at Emily “—is a liar and an impostor. She has been living with my aunt for years, lying to her, deceiving her, taking advantage of her, pretending to be her niece.”

A sickening feeling pooled in Emily’s stomach.

Wolferton gripped her hand so tightly that he almost crushed her fingers. “Prove it.” He said in a clipped voice.

“I have proof.” Lord John curled his lips into a sneer. “Step forward.”

Out of the shadows stepped an elderly man, leaning heavily on a stick.

Emily and Cissy gasped in unison.

“Who the devil is he?” Wolferton demanded.

“The name is Jim Campbell,” the man said in a thick Scottish accent.

“Look at that woman,” Lord John commanded.

The man leaned on his stick and scrunched up his eyes as he looked at her. “I am looking.”

“Do you recognise her?”

“Aye. As clear as daylight, even though it’s been several years.” He weighed his head back and forth.

“Who is she?”

“That’s Miss Eliza Starling, of course.” His head bobbed up and down. “Lived with Lady MacGregor for nearly three years. And that over there is Miss Lavinia. How are you, Miss Lavinia? You’re as pretty as ever.”

“Jim,” Emily whispered.

Lord John heard. He smiled, pleased. “You do recognise him, don’t you? He was Lady MacGregor’s butler.”

“I don’t understand,” the priest interrupted. “So the bride was known by another name. What exactly are you saying?”

“I am saying that she is not Lady Poppy Featherstone, as she claims. She has many names. Eliza Starling was just one of them. I knew her as Lady Honey Hepplewhite. God knows how many other names she’s had.” He waved a dismissive hand. “She is, as I said, an impostor.”

“And?” the Duke’s cool voice interrupted. “Bringing forth a man who claims to have known my bride under a different name is no proof of anything at all.”

Lord John shrugged. “Then perhaps I should let her marry you. Don’t you see I’m doing you a favour by preventing you from entering into an illegal union? She isn’t Lady Poppy Featherstone.”

They all spoke at the same time.

“Nonsense, there is nothing wrong, I tell you,” Wolferton insisted.

Emily put a hand on his arm. Perhaps they should just let the charade end. She wished it hadn’t been quite so dramatic. She looked around and saw only dismayed faces: Mabel looked pained, Jane shook her head and Araminta frowned. Cissy had her face buried in her hands. Was she crying?

Emily sighed. It was time to end this.

She smiled sadly at Wolferton, who continued to argue with Lord John. Then she cleared her throat. “If I could have your attention... ”

But no one was listening, and everyone was talking at the same time. She looked around. There was a small handbell in the front pew, which must have been left there by mistake. She walked over to it, picked it up, and rang it. The clear, clean sound of the bell startled everyone and finally she had their attention.

“Thank you. Now. If you would allow me a word.” She turned to the old man. “Jim Campbell. It is good to see you, and that you are still alive and well. He was indeed Lady MacGregor’s butler. He was a good butler, and very loyal, and I believe he was as fond of us as we were of him.” She stepped up to him and squeezed his gnarled hands. He looked up at her with watery eyes.

“God bless you, Miss Starling. I did. Happiest time of my life serving you and your sister and Lady MacGregor. Happiest time.”

She gave him a wavering smile. “It is true that both my sister, and I lived with her as Lady MacGregor’s granddaughters—under a different name.”

Lord John nodded in satisfaction.

Wolferton scowled. “Now look here?—”

Emily raised a hand. “Let me finish. Please.” She turned back to the audience, who’d been listening intently. “It is true. We lived with Lady MacGregor under another name. It started as a simple mistake. She’d mistaken us for her granddaughters, who had died long ago. We thought it wouldn’t hurt to make an old lady happy by keeping her company and pretending we were the girls she so longed for.” Emily closed her eyes. “I tried to tell her the truth, but she refused to listen. She preferred the fantasy. So we lived with her. We had a home, and she had the family she so longed for.” Emily’s voice trembled. “We were heartbroken when she died, for we had grown to love her dearly. She died happy, thinking we were her girls.”

“Aye, she did.” Jim nodded. “She believed it to her dying breath. Not that it hurt anyone, I say.”

“We didn’t stay for the reading of the will; if she left us anything, we don’t know, for we didn’t take anything that wasn’t ours when we met her. We never stole or took anything that wasn’t given to us freely.”

“That is not the point. The point is that you committed a crime by pretending to be someone you were not,” Lord John argued. “According to English law, she committed fraud because her actions involved deliberate deception.”

“That’s debatable,” intervened Wolferton. “This is more an ethical question than a legal one.”

The priest shook his head. “But back to the point. If she was not Miss Eliza Starling, and if, as you claim, she is not Lady Poppy Featherstone,”—he turned to Emily—“then who are you?”

Emily opened her mouth. “I am... ”

“This is all a farrago of nonsense, of course.” The strong, iron voice rang through the church.

There was the sound of a stick slapping the marble, along with the rustling of silk. A lady in grey, stiffer than a pole of iron, with a nose sharper than a hawk’s and eyes colder than slate, walked down the aisle with a swish, swish, swish. Next to her, holding her arm, was a smaller, lither lady who Emily recognised immediately.

“Aunt Henrietta!” she exclaimed.

The two women stopped at the front of the altar, ignoring everyone, the outbursts, the gasps, the exclamations. Both Emily and Cissy rushed forward to embrace Aunt Henrietta, who was visibly moved.

“Honey, child. Annabelle. I have missed you both. My girls.”

The lady in grey standing beside her pulled out a quizzing glass and pointed it at Emily.

Ignoring everyone, the lady stepped up to Emily, took her chin in her gnarled hand, and lifted it. Her iron eyes bored into Emily’s skull. She felt dizzy.

Behind her was none other than Chippendale, who, quite unlike his usual mincing self, rushed forward and wiped his brow. “I apologise. It took me a devil of a time to find her, but I finally did.” He looked around. “Did I miss anything?”

“Well, thank heavens,” Wolferton grumbled. “You certainly took your time to get here.”

The woman in grey lifted her cane and slammed it back to the ground, making an impressive sound. Everyone stopped talking immediately.

“Lord John.” Wolferton turned to the man whose eyes were popping out of his head. “Please introduce these ladies to the rest of us.”

Lord John wilted visibly. “This is my Aunt, Lady Henrietta Hepplewhite.” He gestured at the smaller lady. Then he made a helpless gesture toward the lady in grey. “Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Strathmore.” He cleared his throat. “My grandmother. Why are you here, grandmamma?”

“To tell you that you are undoubtedly a fool, unworthy to bear the name of Hepplewhite.” She gave him a withering look.

“But... ”

“Your Grace.” The priest bowed so low that his wig almost flew off. “Can you clear up this confusion?”

“There is no confusion. You are all acting like buffoons. Everything is as clear as crystal when you have eyes on your face. This—” she gestured to Emily. “Is Lady Emily Hepplewhite. She has been called Emily White all her life. Whatever other names she has adopted—Poppy, Honey, Lily, whatever other flower name—it matters not. She is of good stock, the very best. She is the daughter of an earl, my own dear son, Edmund.”

“So you’re saying, you’re saying... ” Lord John’s eyes almost popped out of his face.

“I am saying, foolish boy, that this is your cousin. You share the same blood. This is your Uncle Edmund’s girl.” Her face softened as she turned back to Emily. “My granddaughter.”