Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

THERE WAS NOTHING Jessica could do to calm her nerves on the morning of her wedding.

She tried pacing in the nave. She tried braiding her hair. Her sisters distracted her by fussing with her gown, pinning flowers to the hem of her skirt…and just by being present. It was lovely having sisters again. She’d spent the past weeks with them. At the first service, her father had introduced her to the congregation and announced that he’d told a lie when he said she had passed away, and that he was deeply ashamed—but then he’d said nothing further, not one word against her. When he’d called the banns, everyone had forgotten everything else. And for the remainder of the time, she and her sisters had been free to take calls and talk to one another.

Then there had been Mark. He’d gone on walks with Jessica and her sisters. He’d held her hand chastely through three weeks’ worth of afternoon rambles through country lanes. She had dined with his brothers; he had engaged her father in a philosophical conversation that ended up with the two of them arguing over texts for hours. And after dinner last night, she’d scarcely had any time to see him alone. Still, he’d pressed her against the back wall of the garden in the few minutes they’d found and he’d kissed her—soft and sweet, but with the force of three weeks of pent-up longing. He’d kissed her until they were both dizzy with anticipation, until she could scarcely stand for wanting him. And then, when he’d finally pulled away, he’d whispered in her ear: “Tomorrow. Finally.”

She didn’t think that anyone had noticed their disappearance, but when Jessica had returned to the rest of the company, her sister had come up beside her and gently pulled an errant twig from her hair. “How lucky for you,” Ellen had said, with a sly, sideways look. “It seems that Sir Mark has no interest in being practical about chastity.”

It would almost hurt to leave her sisters again. They hummed about her now, Ellen patting the bows on her dress into place. It was tomorrow, finally, and a mass of butterflies seemed to attack her from inside. Charlotte went to join her husband in the front pew, and Ellen departed to take her place as maid of honor. Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes. For this small space of time, Jessica was utterly alone once more.

And then: “Hello?” A short man popped his head through the door of the vestry where she waited.

“Mr. Parret. What are you doing here?”

“You invited me.” He smiled cheerily. “Also, I wanted to give you this.”

He handed her a newspaper. Jessica unfolded it—and gasped.

Sir Mark: Married at last! proclaimed the headline.

“By the time the church bells have rung,” the man said gleefully, “all the other papers will have copied the details from me.”

This morning, she read, Sir Mark Turner wed Miss Jessica Carlisle, the daughter of Reverend Alton Carlisle of Watford. Our readers will be interested to note that she is the woman whose account appeared first in these pages. Our investigation has uncovered the details of her past, which we hereby recount.

Her fall, according to the article, was that she’d taken up reporting for a London scandal sheet at a young age and had been cast out by her family as a result. Nothing more. It made her sound…youthfully ambitious. In comparison to the truth, she sounded almost respectable.

“Mr. Parret,” Jessica said, shaking her head, “this is a pack of lies.”

He shook his head. “Nonsense. You were a re porteress—and quite young for one. Fully twenty years younger than me.”

“I suppose you couldn’t resist the money,” she teased.

A faint smile touched the man’s face. “This one, I’m distributing for free. Your…your brother-in-law-to-be came by the other day, and told me what you’d done. Mr. Turner—not the duke.”

“What did Mr. Smite Turner claim that I did?” she asked, puzzled.

“He told me that you’d insisted upon settling money on my Belinda.” Parret’s voice cracked. “Enough for her to have a Season. A dowry. For that, I would even tell lies for a reporteress.”

“He said that, did he?” Jessica hid a smile. She could already imagine how Smite would have done it—just a little cold in his delivery, and so distant. But Jessica had made no such settlement. Smite must have done it himself.

“You know—” she began.

“There’s no time to argue now.” Parret reached up and touched her veil, sliding a ribbon into place. “It’s already printed, and here comes your father. Even if you don’t mind keeping Sir Mark tapping his toes, you shouldn’t keep Her Majesty waiting.”

“Her Majesty!”