Inside, the church was dark and somewhat chilly with the faint smell of mildew lingering in the air. Above the altar, a small rose window hung in the shadows, the light outside too dim to tell what color the glass might be. Tony and George walked down the uncarpeted nave, their footsteps echoing off the old stones. Several candles were lit at the front near the altar, supplementing the feeble light from the clerestory. A small group was gathered there. She saw Oscar, Ralph, and Violet as well as her imminent husband, Cecil, and his brother, Freddy. Ralph was sporting a yellowing black eye.

“Ah, the bride, I presume?” The vicar peered over half-moon glasses. “Quite. Quite. And your name is, umm”—he consulted a piece of notepaper stuck in his Bible—“George Regina Catherine Maitland? Yes? But what an odd name for a woman.”

She cleared her throat, tamping down hysterical laughter and sudden nausea. Oh, please, Lord, not now. “Actually, my given name is Georgina.”

“Georgiana?” the vicar asked.

“No, Georgina.” Did it really matter? If this silly man said the wrong name during the service, would she not be married to Cecil?

“Georgina. Quite. Now, then, if we are all here and ready?” The assembled nobility nodded meekly. “Then let us proceed. Young lady, please stand here.”

He shuffled them around until George and Cecil were side by side with Tony at George’s side and Freddy as best man at Cecil’s.

“Good.” The vicar blinked at them, then spent a prolonged minute ruffling his paper and Bible. He cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved,” he began in a strange falsetto.

George winced. The poor man must think it more carrying.

“We are gathered here—”

Bang!

The sound of the church doors smacking against the wall reverberated throughout the church. The group turned as one to look.

Four men marched grimly up the aisle, trailed by one small boy.

The vicar frowned. “Rude. Quite rude. Astonishing what people think they can get away with these days.”

But the men had reached the altar now.

“Excuse me, but I believe you have my lady,” one of them said in a quiet, deep voice that sent veritable chills down George’s spine.

Harry.

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-one

The shriek of steel against steel echoed from the walls of the little church as every man in the wedding party drew his sword simultaneously. Followed immediately by Bennet, de Raaf, and Iddesleigh unsheathing their weapons. Bennet looked very serious. He’d shoved Will into a pew as soon as they’d neared the altar, and now he held his sword high and his body angled. De Raaf’s pale, pockmarked face was alert, his arm steady. Iddesleigh had a bored expression and handled his sword carelessly, his long, lace-draped fingers nearly limp. Of course, Iddesleigh was probably more dangerous than any of them with a sword.

Harry sighed.