A Wedding Code Read online

  A Wedding Code

  Book Five in the

  Code Breakers Regency Romantic Suspense Series

  Jacki Delecki

  A Wedding Code

  As a renowned arbiter of fashion and design, Miss Amelia Bonnington’s upcoming nuptials to Lord Derrick Brinsley have become the most anticipated event of English society. Her plans to create the perfect wedding must be cast aside, however, when her best friend’s brother, a member of England’s top code breaking family, disappears.

  When his fiancée meddles in dangerous spy activity, Derrick, an undercover agent for his Majesty, must intervene. Now, it’s up to Amelia and Derrick to safely locate the missing brother, prevent another abduction, and thwart an assassination. Can they outwit the French spies and still have Amelia’s fairy tale wedding?

  Table of Contents

  A WEDDING CODE

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from A CANTATA OF LOVE

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  To Karuna, my dear friend and plot partner, who makes the challenges and frustrations of story-making a joy!

  Prologue

  Joseph Fouche paced in front of his desk, wearing a path in the deep Aubusson carpet. A servant, a damn sniveling servant, had delivered the message—Bonaparte didn’t even have the balls to face him.

  His failed attempt to assassinate King George had definitely threatened Bonaparte’s sense of his rightful ascendency as Emperor of France. Bonaparte now thought of himself as a bloody royal. Didn’t they just have a revolution to rid France of the bloodsucking aristos?

  Fouche clenched his hands into tight fists, trying to restrain himself from acting on his seething rage.

  With a single, careless note Bonaparte had stripped him of his position as the Minister of Police. With the same letter, Fouche became a very wealthy senator, thanks to the one million francs Bonaparte pillaged from the now-defunct Ministry of Police.

  With one official act, Fouche’s life’s work was destroyed, in spite of his years of devoted support while Bonaparte ascended. This was how the emperor repaid loyalty.

  He swore aloud. “Après moi, le deluge.” After me, the flood.

  He wouldn’t be so easily bought off. His very lifeblood had been pumped into shaping the Ministry of Police.

  Vengeance burned through his gut. Revenge thickened his blood and reverberated in his soul. He couldn’t retaliate against Bonaparte, since he had to assume he was being watched—probably by men he, himself, had trained. Not yet. But eventually he would deliver justice to his new “monarch.”

  A man who planned methodically, Fouche never acted rashly. He would extract retribution and inflict pain. He was not considered the most feared man in France without good reason. He would spare no one. At this stage, what did he have to lose?

  Thanks to his spies entrenched in the emperor’s office, he knew this day was coming long before it happened, and he was prepared, prepared to behave as if he easily acquiesced to the emperor’s wishes. His retribution would come much later.

  Since he had built his own spider web of informants, and always planned years in advance, he was ready to retaliate. First in England and then in France. And first on his list for retribution—Lord Rathbourne, head of British spies, or, as he was formally known, Director of the Abchurch offices. Fouche needed to act quickly, before he was stripped of his power.

  And after Rathbourne, the Marquis de Valmont. Valmont still lived because of Rathbourne. Valmont had been the mole who reported all of Fouche’s failures to the emperor.

  Fouche pulled the bell rope, and immediately the door was opened by his newly promoted assistant and assassin, Chasen, second in line since Valmont killed his top assassin. Oh, yes, Valmont would pay.

  The lanky blond gave the appearance of a feckless youth, until you glimpsed his black, cold, soulless eyes. Fouche trusted no one other than a trained killer to control access to his office door.

  “My minister, how may I be of service?” Chasen bowed.

  “Are Valmont’s nanny’s children, Adrien and Lisette Dubois, still alive?”

  “Yes, they remain in Bitche prison on charges of treason for assisting in the escape of the British spy Lord Kendal and Mademoiselle de Valmont.”

  “And their mother remains in the town of Berck?”

  “Yes, my minister. She still lives. You were too lenient with the old woman.”

  Fouche laughed aloud. “No one has ever accused me of leniency.” Maybe his new assistant would turn out to be entertaining. “Contact Commandant Maisonneuve to have them released under my command. You and they will be going to England.”

  “Monsieur?”

  “You heard me correctly. You are in charge of the Dubois siblings.”

  “It is an honor.” Chasen bowed again.

  “The mademoiselle and monsieur are going to assist me in finishing what Anatole failed to achieve. They are to call upon their former mistress, Mademoiselle de Valmont, now Lady Kendal, and beg for her assistance. And remind them of my kindness toward their mother when I did not send her to Bitche fort, with its unforgiving dungeons.”

  Fouche sat behind his desk and wrote the orders for their release. “I’m sure they will appreciate that I’ve spared their mother from prison and the brutal Commandant Maisonneuve.”

  “When do you wish us to depart for England?”

  Fouche handed him the paper. “You sail as soon as possible. Lady Rathbourne’s baby is due any day.”

  “Yes, my minister.” Chasen’s boyish face registered no reaction to the mention that an infant was to be his next victim. Anatole had trained his successor well.

  “Send in Maurice. He also travels to England. There is another matter to attend to.”

  No, he never acted rashly. He had prepared well for his final day as Minister of Police.

  Chapter One

  Miss Amelia Bonnington dropped the tangle of wedding ribbons and rushed into the morning room to assist Lady Henrietta Rathbourne. Amelia winced in sympathy at Hen’s valiant but unsuccessful attempts to adjust her very large and very pregnant abdomen into a comfortable position on the settee.

  Grabbing a pillow from a chair, Amelia tucked the cushion under Hen’s swollen feet. “Darling, does this help?”

  Not wanting to burden her best friend’s sensitive feelings, Amelia tried hard not to stare at the massive round hump straining against Hen’s morning gown. Amelia wasn’t sure she wanted her body to ever grow and distort in such an uncomfortable manner. “Would another pillow behind your back help?”

  “Nothing helps. I’m the size of a whale. It’s not surprising that I’m having a big baby, since Cord is such a large man.” Hen could barely wrap her arms around her middle.

  Amelia didn’t want to think about the imposing size of her fiancé, Lord Brinsley, and how large Derrick’s babies would be. Although Amelia was inches taller than Henrietta, Derrick was a giant, the tallest and broadest man of her acquaintance.

  Hen fanned her flushed face. “The entire family and staff are tiptoeing around me as if I might explode at any moment, like a Guy Fawkes firecracker.”

  It was true. The usually calm and composed Hen would tear up at the most unpredictable moments, leaving everyone around her baffled as to how to respond.

>   Amelia squeezed her friend’s hand. “Everyone is concerned. And it’s obvious that you’re uncomfortable now that your time is near.”

  Henrietta stroked her abdomen in a protective, soothing circular motion. “Cord is constantly monitoring my growth. Every time he looks at me, I see him estimating the size of the baby. My enormous expansion has cracked his impenetrable confidence. He doesn’t say anything, but I can see he is worried that the baby is too big for my small frame. And when my husband, the bravest and most fearless leader of our country, appears fearful, I feel a need to shelter him from what comes next.”

  Amelia shook her head. “But my dearest, you know Cord likes to be in control of everything and everyone. I’m sure he is struggling with this birthing business.”

  “My husband is used to bending all of England, even the king, to his will. His inability to control nature is driving him mad.” Hen shifted on the settee, looking miserable.

  Amelia jumped back up from her chair and repositioned the pillow under Hen’s feet. “Does that help?”

  Hen winced when Amelia moved her feet. “And Michael,” she continued. “You know my brother can’t hide a blasted feeling. It’s all there on his face—fear and worry.”

  “It’s normal for the men to worry. Besides, what other part can they play in the pregnancy?”

  Hen rolled her bright green eyes toward the ceiling. “Well, we know what part Cord played in the onset of my condition”

  The childhood friends laughed together. And Amelia was relieved to see Hen able to muster some semblance of her usual wit.

  “I still have days before the birth, according to Dr. Oglethorpe, which means I’ll be able to attend your wedding.”

  Amelia didn’t want to think about her best friend missing her wedding, which was but two days away. Hen refused to follow convention, and planned to attend despite her pregnant state, and Amelia supported her decision. She and Hen always planned to play a part in each other’s weddings. They had shared their fantasies of romance, their future husbands, and dream weddings since they were eight years old.

  “I’m so very weary of discussing the size of my abdomen and ankles. How are all the wedding details coming?”

  “You don’t have to pretend interest. I know you couldn’t care less about colors, fabrics, or flowers.”

  “True. I was prodigiously grateful when you did everything for my wedding. How is Derrick faring with your need for perfection?”

  Amelia had orchestrated Hen’s, then Gwyneth’s, and, most recently, Gabby’s weddings. The brides were all dramatically in love and could scarcely be bothered with the kind of details that could turn a simple wedding into a glorious affair.

  Their weddings were the talk of all London because of Amelia’s eye for design. After Beau Brummel, Amelia was considered the highest arbiter of women’s fashion. Although she hated the image of herself as another boring society woman whose only interest was fashion. She was an artist who saw color and shapes in everything around her.

  Amelia grumbled. “I really don’t need to have everything perfect.”

  Hen shifted on the settee and raised both eyebrows, accenting her round emerald eyes. “You changed the ribbon on my wedding dress at least five times to get the exact color of green moss. And the color of the hydrangeas and the candles… Should I go on?”

  Amelia resisted pointing out that Hen looked magnificent on her wedding day because of Amelia’s meticulous attention to every aspect of the event.

  Hen fingered the sleeve of her gown. “And your protégé is worse. He couldn’t be more persnickety.”

  “Pierpont is a wonderful help. He knows a great deal about fabrics, flowers, and proper etiquette.” Amelia wanted to bite her tongue. She sounded like the snobbish society ladies she detested.

  “I can’t like him. There is something very cagey about him,” Hen added.

  “You’ve been listening to Derrick, haven’t you?”

  Hen shook her head. “Derrick hasn’t said a word to me.”

  Amelia raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

  “Derrick barely speaks to me. I think he’s intimidated by my size and my waddle.”

  Amelia snickered. “You might be right. It is rather startling to think that the two bravest men in England are afraid of one pregnant woman.”

  “Amelia, I don’t care about Pierpont. But I do care about you. You did a remarkable job with all our weddings, but you were left exhausted and barely able to enjoy the festivities. I want you to enjoy your time as the bride.”

  Amelia had relished doing her close friends’ weddings. But for her own dream wedding, she envisioned a thousand ways she wanted it to be perfect. And therein lay the problem. She couldn’t decide. Every small detail became exaggerated and daunting, and she debated with herself for hours over everything. And perhaps Hen was correct about Pierpont. He did seem to add to her anxiety by questioning every one of her decisions, making her second-guess herself.

  Amelia gave a half-hearted laugh. “I’m driving Derrick mad. He might decide not to marry me.”

  “That giant, growling bear of a man only smiles and laughs when you’re near. He isn’t going to change his mind. He loves you.”

  Amelia felt her pale skin flush. The hardest part of being a redhead was when every tiny emotional response registered on your face for public consumption—no hiding any feelings. And didn’t her brothers love to use her fair skin as a weapon against her?

  “I keep asking him his opinion, but he doesn’t have one. I believe he is actually color blind. I hope our children take after me when it comes to design.”

  Hen had been rubbing her hands in circles over her abdomen. “Oh, she’s kicking again. I swear she is listening to our conversation.” Hen reached for Amelia’s hand. “Come feel her kick.”

  Hen and Amelia had decided when they were ten years old that their firstborn child would be female, against all societal expectations that they produce a firstborn male heir. They wanted their daughters to grow up to be best friends, as they had.

  Hen placed Amelia’s hand over her swollen belly, and the tiny foot kicked against Amelia’s hand. Joy and wonder filled Amelia’s entire being. “Oh, my goodness, she is strong. She is going to make an exceptional cricket player.”

  Hen moaned suddenly, gripped her middle and threw her head back against the settee. “Her kicking started a painful birthing spasm.”

  Breathing through her mouth, with her eyes closed, Hen gripped Amelia’s hand and whispered in something that sounded like Greek, “μὰ τὸν Δία.”

  Of course, only Hen would be swearing in Greek during her painful spasms.

  Amelia stood helpless, watching Hen, pain etched across her forehead, her hold on Amelia’s hand tightening into a death clasp. Anxiety pounded through Amelia. “My God, Hen, is the baby coming? What should I do?”

  After a few interminable seconds, Hen’s breathing slowed, and she opened her eyes and looked around.

  Amelia released the tight breath she had been holding and squeezed Hen’s hand. “I’m going to ring for Dr. Oglethorpe.”

  Lying back against the pillow, Hen gave a wan smile. “Please don’t ring for him. Dr. Oglethorpe has reassured me that these spasms are a sign that my womb is preparing to have the baby.” She swiped against her hair, further loosening the disarray of long auburn hair gathered at the back of her neck. “But the pain has definitely intensified.”

  “But if the pain is getting worse, shouldn’t I summon him? This is why your husband has moved the doctor into your home.”

  Amelia’s heart still pounded, and her knees were shaky from the fear coursing through her. Her mother had died in childbirth with her youngest brother.

  “Amelia, you are not to tell anyone. Dr. Oglethorpe has already told me these pains can go on for days. And please spare me—I don’t want Cord or Michael hovering over me. They will drive me batty. It should be hours before we must notify my husband and my brother.”

  Hen ben
t over her abdomen and talked in a light, sing-song voice. “We’re not going to permit the gentlemen to agitate us with their loud voices and commands, are we my darling?”

  She wanted to argue with Hen, but lifelong loyalty held her back. “I’m going to ring for tea. You must have something to keep your strength up.”

  The door cracked open as Amelia moved toward the bell. Lisette, a new member to the Rathbourne household, peeked around the corner and asked, in her heavy French accent, “Madame?”

  As if the last moment of pain and panic hadn’t occurred, Hen smiled warmly at the petite French maid who had been hired to help with the baby. “Yes, Lisette, what is it?”

  The young maid’s eyes remained focused on the floor. “Mademoiselle Gabrielle.” The maid’s eyes jerked up in agitation. “Excusez-moi, my lady. Lady Kendal has arrived, and has asked if you are receiving visitors.”

  Hen made a brave attempt to sit in a more ladylike position. “Of course, show her in. But she’s not a visitor, she’s family.”

  When Lisette closed the door to summon Gabby, Hen flopped back on the pillows. “Oh, I hope Gabby has come alone. I would rather not see my brother, with his probing stares, until after the baby is born. Michael will realize immediately that I’m becoming uncomfortable. I can’t keep anything from him.”

  “Your husband must have summoned him.” Hen and her brother were both brilliant linguists who worked for the Intelligence Office deciphering sensitive messages from France. “Michael will most likely be busy for a while.”

  “You must keep my brother and my husband out.” Hen grabbed Amelia’s hand. “Remember our promise.”