“Did you tell Lord Hedington as well?”

Philip shook his head. “Lady Sarah requested that I not, at least not until she’d thought upon the matter.”

“Well, with each passing minute without her here, it becomes clearer what her thoughts on the matter were.”

Philip could only hope his father was correct.

Meredith stood in the shadows cast by the columns in the marble-tiled vestibule of St. Paul’s, trying her very best to look dignified and contain her excitement, praying she did not resemble a child with her face pressed against the window at the confectioner’s shop. A procession of elegant carriages wended their way toward the magnificent west entrance of the cathedral, dispensing Society’s finest for the wedding of Lady Sarah Markham and Viscount Greybourne. A hum of excited whispers echoed from the throng of guests entering the church, their voices swallowed by the swell of organ music as they passed Meredith. She caught snatches of their words as they glided by.

“… heard Greybourne was nearly killed during an altercation with some tribe of…”

“… supposedly wants to start his own museum with some American colleague…”

“His importing business venture is rumored to be wildly successful…”

“Amazing that he managed to snare Lady Sarah, what with his odd interests and that scandalous debacle three years ago…”

On and on they came, all of Society’s finest, walking through the magnificent columned entrance to proceed down the nave, passing under the architectural splendor of the dome, until over five hundred guests filled St. Paul’s pews. All except the one guest Meredith most particularly wanted to see.

Where was the bride?

Dear God, she hoped Lady Sarah was not still suffering from that tumble at the dressmaker’s. No, surely not. If so, her father would have sent word. Meredith had been most anxious to speak to Lady Sarah yesterday, to find out how her meeting with Lord Greybourne had gone the evening before.