An Unsuitable Bride (7 page)
At first, Sylvia and Alex had thought their mother’s escapades excitingly adventurous. But that delusion had not lasted long, their father had made sure of that. And Luisa’s final flight, with the Conte della Minardi, had been the last straw for Sir Arthur.
Alexandra tied the tapes of the pad between her shoulder blades and stepped into a gown of faded gray muslin, almost colorless now. She took a last careful look in the pier glass, making sure everything was in place, and stepped out into the corridor. Once the door closed behind her, she became Mistress Hathaway, a person of no importance, no status in the household. Automatically, her head drooped a little, her eyes were downcast, her shoulders hunched up against the ugly humpback.
The most irksome duty of the day lay ahead, breakfast
in the morning room. If she was lucky, Maude would be occupied with some minor disaster in the nursery, but if she was unlucky, then she would be ensconced at the table, with weak tea and toast, ready to launch into a catalogue of complaints that a patient-seeming Alexandra would have to comment on with appropriate understanding and sympathetic murmurs, always careful not to overstep the boundaries defining the relationship between an employer and her servant. Maude had a certain malicious cunning, and she was all too quick to sense a slight where there was none and all too willing to invent insolences and incompetence when it suited her.
If she suspected for a moment that there was more to the dowdy librarian than met the eye, she would nose it out, poking, probing, questioning, until she came up with something that suited her. Sir Stephen lived in trembling fear of his wife’s ill temper, and if Maude came up with a reason to get rid of her husband’s librarian, he would find it hard to resist her. And that would be the best-case scenario. Alex didn’t want to consider the worst—an accusation of fraud, of fictitious references, anything that could put her on the wrong side of the law. Just a few questions could untangle the entire web of deception that maintained the charade. And the consequences for both herself and Sylvia were unthinkable.
Peregrine watched the silver flash arc gracefully through the air as he reeled in his fourth catch of the morning. The trout were plentiful in this river-fed stream. All three Blackwater brothers were practiced fishermen and had spent many a silent but companionable dawn or dusk fly-fishing on the family estate in Northumberland. Perry was relieved to find that his present companions were not talkative, either, and in the gentle rhythm of casting and reeling, he slipped into a meditative trance.
His mind went, as it so often did these days, to his uncle, Viscount Bradley, and the vexed issue of his will, or, rather, of the one stipulation in the will that would make his three nephews equal heirs to his massive fortune. Peregrine felt the familiar surge of anger whenever he thought of the old man, who, while insisting that he was dying, still contrived to make the lives of everyone around him miserable with his malicious manipulations.
Three brothers, three wives. It sounded reasonable on the surface. One could believe that Viscount Bradley
was looking out for the future of the Blackwater family, except, of course, that he was doing the opposite. Perry’s line twitched, and he began to reel it in slowly. Bradley had decreed that the three wives had to be fallen women in some respect—An incautious movement made his rod jerk abruptly, and he cursed as he watched the fish on the end of his line wriggle, twist, and vanish back into the green-brown water below.
Damn Bradley.
He pulled in his line and rebaited the hook. Just the thought of the viscount’s twisted malice broke his concentration. Somehow, his brothers seemed to find it easier to accept than he did. Jasper was probably right that Bradley had his own good reasons for wanting to rub the noses of the Blackwater family prudes and sticklers for convention in the ordure of a city kennel. But it was still a pact with the devil. Maybe he did want revenge on the family, maybe he was even entitled to it, but Bradley didn’t give a damn what his nephews thought about being compelled to marry women of less than stainless reputation, women they wouldn’t ordinarily find themselves in the same room with, unless, of course, it was a brothel. And his nephews had never done him any harm.
Perry walked a little way along the riverbank and cast his line again, watching the hook sink below the surface, smooth as silk. Jasper, of course, had no reason to complain, he thought with a wry smile, trying not to indulge in the familiar little niggle of resentment at the ease with which the fifth Earl of Blackwater, Peregrine’s
eldest brother, had managed to beat the old gentleman at his own game. The wife he had chosen, Clarissa Astley, had been practicing her own deception in London when Jasper had met her. On the surface, she was a whore, a denizen of one of the most renowned Covent Garden nunneries, and thus perfectly suited to satisfy Viscount Bradley’s condition. However, Clarissa was not at all what she seemed.
The titian-haired beauty had fooled Bradley, or at least forced him to accept her for what she appeared to be, and she was now ensconced as Countess Blackwater, and the love of her husband’s life.
Which left Jasper’s younger twin brothers to fulfill their own obligations if the heavily mortgaged family estates were to be towed out of the River Tick. And Jasper had made it very clear that he expected his brothers to do what was required, one way or another. Once in a while, Perry thought, with a flash of exasperation that made him jerk his rod again, his eldest brother could acknowledge the difficulties in the task. Just because it had been so easy for him . . .
But then Sebastian had managed it, too. Perry raised his rod and recast. His twin hadn’t had to look very far, either, to find a woman whose peculiar circumstances made her fit the viscount’s criteria of a fallen woman. Like Jasper’s bride, she, too, was not all that she seemed, but the circumstances of her life made her a perfect bride for Sebastian to fulfill the conditions of the will. And since he’d been in love with Lady Serena
Carmichael from the moment he’d first stepped into London Society as a callow youth, it was a perfect match in every respect.
Which left Peregrine.
He’d tried, God knows he’d tried. He’d experimented with an orange seller at Drury Lane and for a while had thought he might be able to make it work, at least for long enough to satisfy his uncle, but he’d been fooling himself. He’d explored the better class of brothel in the hopes that he might come across another Clarissa but to no avail. And every time his eldest brother asked him how his search was going, he’d prevaricated, implied that he might be making progress, anything to stave off Jasper’s steely anger that Peregrine would put his own wishes above the honor of the Blackwater family, standing by while the family estates were sold off piecemeal.
It might be easier if he’d ever been in love, Peregrine thought gloomily. And then at least he’d know what he was looking for. He’d had his dalliances, certainly, but he knew in his soul that he needed a woman who could be his intellectual match. It might be arrogant of him, but it was the truth. He could not possibly contemplate sharing his life with a wife who could not give him intellectual companionship. He had little interest in the conventional pursuits of Society, found small talk a complete bore, unlike Sebastian, who could charm the birds out of the trees when he chose. His friends all shared one or more of his passions, be it science, literature,
philosophy. And he knew that his distant manner put off the young debutantes who might otherwise have set their caps at him. And how in the world was he to find an intellectual match in the stews of London?
The pleasant morning was suddenly spoiled, and he yanked his rod roughly from the water, bringing it up in a shower of glittering drops, the empty hook swinging.
“That’s not like you, Perry,” Marcus observed cheerfully as he reeled in his own rod. “You’re usually the soul of patience.”
Perry shook his head with a rueful smile. “Something disturbed my concentration.” He glanced around and saw that their companions were taking in their own rods, handing them over to the accompanying gamekeepers. The accumulated catch thrashed around in several large baskets.
“Breakfast, gentlemen,” Stephen announced. “Fresh trout and good ale.”
A chorus of agreement greeted this, and the men moved away towards the house, leaving the gamekeepers to bring up the rear with the morning’s spoils. Perry strolled at the back of the group, his mood still somewhat clouded by his earlier reflections.
“You’ll be able to take a look at the
Decameron
this morning,” Marcus observed, falling in beside him. “Mistress Hathaway should be in the library by the time we get to the house.”
“Ah.” Perry’s mood lightened instantly. “For a moment,
I’d forgotten about that. I wonder if she’ll have time to show me some of the other rarities.”
“I’m sure she’ll be happy to. She’s a woman of little conversation in general, but I’ve seen her eyes light up when the topic turns to any of her treasures, and she does seem to consider them to be hers.” Marcus chuckled. “Fortunately, Stephen’s not particularly possessive about the contents of his library. His main focus is what he can get for ’em. So the lady can live her fantasy possession to her heart’s content.”
Perry nodded absently. Mistress Hathaway must have had a most unusual education in order to acquire such rarefied knowledge. What must it feel like to lavish love and care upon objects that you found precious knowing that their owner did not appreciate them? Frustrating, certainly, maybe even a little hurtful, he thought. And then he remembered that hastily suppressed gurgle of amusement the previous evening when he had snubbed Stephen, and he thought that perhaps Mistress Hathaway found her employer’s Philistine indifference to the beauty of the library something to despise rather than personally painful.
The party tramped into the house through the gun room. A fire had been lit in the massive inglenook in the great hall, where a table groaned beneath sides of beef and ham, jugs of ale, and bread hot from the oven. The morning’s catch disappeared to the kitchen to make an appearance on the table very soon.
Peregrine approached his host. “Would it be possible
for me to see some of the rare volumes in your library, Sir Stephen? I own to a fascination with unusual acquisitions, and I’m told you have a magnificent collection.”
“Oh, yes . . . yes, so I believe. Doesn’t mean much to me, don’t have time for much reading,” Stephen responded, taking a tankard of ale from a passing footman. “But they’re valuable, I’m told. I’m thinking of selling ’em. Not doing much good moldering away on those shelves.” He drank deeply. “But by all means, dear fellow, take a look. Crofton told me of your interest, and Mistress Hathaway’ll be glad to show you around. She knows what’s there.” He gestured with his free hand to the library towards the back of the house. “You’ll find her in there, I’ll be bound.”
“Thank you.” Perry smiled his appreciation and made his way to the rear of the house. He opened the door very quietly and stepped into a large, dimly lit room.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, and a small fire burned in the grate. The windows looked out onto the rear gardens, which were in shadow at this time of day. A single lamp burned on a massive oak desk, where a woman sat intent on the sheet of parchment in front of her. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t at first notice her visitor, who stood by the door watching her. The light from the lamp caught shades of tawny gold and darker chestnut in the smoothly braided hair. As she worked, she moved an
impatient hand up to brush aside a wisp of hair that was tickling her cheek.
Something about the gesture struck Peregrine as strangely out of place, oddly youthful somehow. She was frowning slightly as she bent to her task, and then a slow smile spread across her face, a smile of naked triumph and satisfaction. She gave a low chuckle, light and melodious, and wrote briskly for a few seconds. When she reached across the desk for another sheet of parchment, the lamp illuminated her face, and Peregrine stared, startled. Her expression seemed to change the contours of her face, softened it, rounded it out in some way. It was an almost imperceptible change, and yet it made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up and a little thrill of excitement course down his spine.
Abruptly, she looked up towards the door, only just aware of her audience. Her mouth formed a little
oh
of surprise, and uncertainty flashed across her face. Uncertainty and a degree of apprehension, Perry thought.
What is she afraid of?
But then it vanished, and he was bowing to the dowdy Mistress Hathaway, aware of a prickle of disappointment that the momentary appearance of someone else beneath the dowdy surface had merely been an illusion.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am, but Sir Stephen said I might disturb you at your work if you could spare a little time to assist me. I’m most anxious to see the
Decameron
. . . and any other treasures you could show me.”