The Wedding of the Century & Other Stories Read Free Page A

you for indulging me, Lord Justin.”
    Their walk had taken them around three sides of the palace, and it was only a short distance to the Versailles garden where the fete was being held. As they approached the festivities, a tall man saw them and walked over swiftly. It was Paul Curzon, who had gone to Eton with Justin, though they had never been more than acquaintances. Curzon had been active in the most social set, while Justin had paid an unfashionable amount of attention to his studies.
    After giving Justin a barely civil nod, Curzon said, “Lady Westron has been wondering what happened to you, Miss Vangelder.”
    Justin glanced at his companion and saw how her face lit up when Curzon spoke to her.
    â€œI was in no danger, Mr. Curzon,” she said, her voice proper but her eyes brimming with excitement. “I’m an avid gardener, you see, and Lord Justin very kindly consented to show me some of the lesser-known parts of the park.”
    In a careless tone that managed to imply that Justin was scarcely better than an under gardener, Curzon said, “You could not have chosen a better guide, for I’m sure that no one knows more about such matters than Lord Justin.” He offered Sunny his arm. “Now I shall take you to Lady Westron.”
    Sunny turned to Justin and said with sweet sincerity, “Thank you for the tour, my lord. I enjoyed it very much.”
    Yet as soon as she took Curzon’s arm, Justin saw that she forgot his existence. He watched them walk away together—two tall, blond, laughing people. They were like members of some superior race, set apart from the normal run of mankind.
    For the first time in his life, Justin found himself resenting Gavin for having been born first. The Sunny Vangelders of the world would always go to men like Gavin or Curzon.
    His aching regret was followed by deep, corroding anger. Damning himself for a fool, he turned and headed toward the house. Gavin’s fete could progress to its conclusion without him.

CHAPTER TWO
    Swindon Palace
Summer 1885
    J USTIN STARED OUT THE STUDY window at the dreary landscape, thinking that rain was appropriate for the day he had buried his only brother. After a gray, painful interval, a discreet cough reminded him that he was not alone. He turned to the family solicitor, who had formally read the will earlier in the afternoon. “Why did you ask to speak with me, Mr. Burrell?”
    â€œThough I’m sorry to intrude at such a time, your grace,” the solicitor said, “there are several pressing matters that must be addressed without delay.”
    Justin winced inwardly. Five days of being the ninth Duke of Thornborough was not long enough to accustom him to his new status. “I assume that you are going to tell me that the financial situation is difficult. I’m already aware of that.”
    Another little cough, this one embarrassed. “While you are extremely well-informed about estate matters, there are, ah, certain other items that you might not know of.”
    With sudden foreboding, Justin asked, “Had Gavin run up extensive personal debts?”
    â€œI’m afraid so, your grace. To the tune of…almost a hundred thousand pounds.”
    A hundred thousand pounds! How the devil had Gavin managed to spend so much? Justin wanted to swear out loud.
    Seeing his expression, Mr. Burrell said, “It was unfortunate that your brother’s death occurred just when it did.”
    â€œYou mean the fact that he died while on his way to marry May Russell? It certainly would have been more prudent to have waited until after the wedding,” Justin said bitterly.
    It would have been even more prudent if Gavin had stayed in the private Thornborough railway car. Instead, he had been taken by the charms of a French lady and had gone to her compartment. When the train crashed, the duke and his inamorata had both died, locked in a scandalous embrace. If Gavin had been in his