COLIN REACHED St. James, the first church outside Aldgate, just as the evening service was concluding.
The congregation was sparse. Religion had lost favor when Charles and his loose-moraled court took over London, and most people attended church only for baptisms, weddings, and funerals. Colin shifted impatiently, twisting his ring back and forth as the curate completed his sermon.
The minute the parishioners began shuffling out, Colin strode toward the pulpit, jostling shoulders in his haste.
“Excuse me, Father,” he called when he was but halfway down the aisle. “Did you marry a couple yesterday—he red-haired, and she small with black hair and—”
“Would you care to examine the marriage register, my son?”
Colin winced at the humor in the curate’s voice; clearly the man was no stranger to lovesick swains having their intended brides stolen out from under them.
The register was duly produced, and there were nine recorded weddings dated the previous day—none of them Robert’s or Amy’s.
“Did you see them?” Colin persisted. “Perhaps you know where—”
“No one came to be wed yesterday who wasn’t accommodated. Perhaps they went to St. Trinity?”
Colin was already out the door.
The marriage register at St. Trinity had logged eleven ceremonies, and Colin’s heart seemed to grow larger in his chest as he scrutinized the long list. When he reached the end without seeing either name, he stumbled to a front-row pew and plopped down.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” the plump curate asked kindly.
“No, which is a relief. They didn’t wed here, and they didn’t wed at St. James.” Amy was yet unmarried. Colin slumped on the bench, his pulse returning to normal.
Until another thought occurred to him.
He jumped up. “Is there another place in London where one can be wed—ah—in a hurry, without a license?”
Robert’s friends had recommended only the two, but—
“Nay.” The curate grinned, clearly pleased that he shared his lucrative business with but one other clergyman. “Not in London. In the countryside, near Oxford…”
Colin exhaled a long breath. “Too far to signify. They got a late start last night.”
The curate ran his tongue over his uneven teeth, thinking. “This couple, from late last night. He wouldn’t have had red hair, would he?”
Colin’s heart skipped. “Yes! And she’s small, dark-haired—”
“I never saw her. He said she was waiting outside, and she was likely to be…reluctant, I believe he termed it.”
Thank heavens. Having left Amy at the town house without so much as saying good-bye, a tiny, insecure part of Colin had been wondering if the blood could have been an honest accident, if Amy might marry Robert willingly, given the circumstances.
“I expect them back here in the morning.”
“I must find them tonight. She could be injured…”
The clergyman frowned. “They’re likely close at hand, as he’s planning an early return. Perhaps at a nearby inn. You might try Fenchurch Street.”
“Thank you, Father.” Colin was so relieved he felt like kissing the fat, bald man, but he thought that would be improper with a man of God. Instead, he dropped a coin into the collection box on his way out.
The curate hurried to retrieve it when the door shut. Silver. It wouldn’t quite cover the loss of the red-haired lad’s wedding fee, but it was something. His sudden—and unexpected—surge of sympathy for the young woman may have cost him a few shillings, but no matter. Over fifteen hundred paying couples a year found their way to his altar.
NO RANSOM NOTE arrived.
A crackling fire warmed the drawing room, but the cold knot inside Kendra refused to thaw. Ford sat next to her and held her hand, which may have provided a small comfort if Jason’s constant pacing weren’t driving her to distraction.
She bit the inside of her cheek, worrying the soft flesh with her teeth. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was partially at fault. She should have checked on Amy much earlier. She should have taken Robert’s threat more seriously. Over and over, she replayed yesterday’s scene in her mind, looking for a clue to his plans.
Suddenly, the blood drained from her face, and she sat up straighter. “I just remembered something,” she breathed.
Jason stopped in mid-track. “What?”
“He said he spent his time drinking at the King’s Arms. Maybe someone there—”
“Oh, that is useful information,” Ford scoffed. “The King’s Arms.” He rolled his eyes. “There must be two dozen of them in town, at least. Not to mention the King’s Head and other assorted royal body parts—why, half the taverns and inns have been renamed since the Restoration.”
Kendra stood. Planting her feet in a wide stance, she placed her hands on her hips. “I cannot just sit here, waiting, any longer,” she declared.
Ford’s gaze swung to Jason’s, inquiring, and Jason shrugged. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask around,” he said with a sigh.
And Kendra was out the door, leaving her brothers to follow in her wake.