BRIGHTON BEAUTY (5 page)

When the first Sunday rolled around, Chelsea was obliged to attend early services in the parish church, in order that Alayna's banns could be read. The past week, she had become so caught up in brightening up the castle and yes,
enjoying
her new-found footing with Lady Rathbone, that she had nearly forgot the real reason she had come to the castle. Yet, it all came tumbling down around her the minute she and Dulcie set foot inside the church.

Amid shy stares and a few tentative greetings, being addressed as Miss Marchmont, of course, Chelsea felt renewed mortification over the lie she was living. The second the last Amen was sung, she gathered up her reticule and prayer book and hastily exited the church, poor Dulcie scurrying along behind her in an effort to keep up. So overset was Chelsea when she returned to the castle that she spent the remainder of the day sequestered in her bedchamber with a megrim.

She felt a bit better the next morning, having come to the realization that with the most difficult week of the month behind her, all that remained now was for Alayna to return and the actual wedding ceremony to be got through. As far as explaining the taradiddle to Lady Rathbone, Chelsea felt that was Alayna's concern, therefore she would not waste time worrying needlessly on that head.

Dressing for breakfast that morning, she further decided that she'd venture into Chester that day and purchase the new sketchbook and pens she needed so she might make good on her word to Mr. Merribone. In a few days' time, she should have quite a number of fresh designs to post to London, with explicit instructions for Annie and the others to make up.

However, upon reaching the ground floor of the castle on her way to breakfast, Chelsea again found the castle in an uproar. Why, the commotion this morning was enough to make the pig incident of last week pale by comparison!

H
er brown eyes a question, Chelsea proceeded toward the little nook off the old hall where she and Lady Rathbone had been in the habit of taking their morning chocolate and buttered scones. That today the nook was empty surprised her greatly. Entering the corridor again, Chelsea came upon a literal parade of maids and footmen scurrying thither and yon.

"Mary, what is it?" Chelsea asked one of them. "Has something happened to Lady Rathbone?"

"No, miss." Mary bobbed a quick curtsy. "It's him, miss. 'E's arrived."

"He?"

"Must go, miss. 'E wants 'is coffee now." Mary bustled away.

Two steps more, and Chelsea came face to face with Dulcie. Her blue eyes were round as she drew Chelsea aside.

"What is it, Dulcie? What's happened?"

"It's 'im, Miss Grant. Lord Rathbone. Miss Alayna's intended."

"Oh!"
Chelsea clamped a hand over her mouth.

"There's more, miss." Dulcie glanced about, apparently not wanting to be overheard. " 'E's been asking for you, Miss Grant, or rather for Miss Marchmont. 'E's quite the ill-tempered bloke, I'll say."

Chelsea was so overset she thought she might expire on the spot. "Where is Lady Rathbone? Is she . . .?"

"Her ladyship's with him. Both of them's in the dining hall. It's a proper breakfast they're havin'."

Just then, she and Dulcie's tête-à-tête was interrupted by a masculine shout that rivaled Lady Rathbone's in volume and tone.
"Jared!"

Dulcie jumped. "You'd best go now, miss."

"But, Dulcie, I . . . "

"Good luck to you, miss."

"Jared!"
came the angry shout again. "My eggs are cold and the pork is underdone."

Apparently Lord Rathbone and his mother were having the last of the pig for breakfast, Chelsea thought, as she hurried toward the dining hall, on the way making a valiant attempt to quiet her pounding heart before she entered the cavernous chamber.

Advancing bravely into it, the greeting Lady Rathbone directed her way seemed altogether usual. "Ah, there you are, Alayna dear," the woman said, a smile creasing her weathered cheeks, her Bath chair pushed up to one end of the long oaken table. At the other end . . .

Chelsea's frightened gaze flitted toward the dark-haired gentleman seated there. Though he made a cursory effort to rise, his dark brows were pulled together in a decided frown. "So . . . " He studied Chelsea through the narrowed slits of his eyes. "This is my betrothed, cousin Alayna."

Chelsea winced as she slid into the chair a footman was politely holding out for her. "My lord," she murmured, then hastily lowered her gaze to her lap.

"Look at me!" the man shouted.

Chelsea instantly obeyed.

Silence hung between the two for a spell, then an angry brow shot up. "Eat your breakfast, Miss Marchmont."

Chelsea felt a footman hovering near her elbow, but knew she was far too overwrought at the moment to consume even a bite of the hard-cooked eggs and thick cutlet the man was lifting onto her plate.

"Rutherford's arrival in the wee hours of the morning has taken us all by surprise," Lady Rathbone said evenly, apparently addressing Chelsea.

"Hmm." A nervous smile wavered across Chelsea's face.

"Mustn't look so alarmed, Miss Marchmont," the man snapped. "I shan't be staying. As soon as you and I are wed, and . . ." his black eyes cut to Lady Rathbone, "certain documents have been handed over to me, I shall be on my way again."

Chelsea searched for something appropriate to say. "You . . . have come to collect your inheritance, then," she ventured.

"Correct, my dear."

At his term of endearment, Chelsea blanched. For some reason, she did not wish to be regarded as this man's dear. He was rude and crass, and Alayna had not been wrong in her assessment of him.

Suddenly, the man startled her by slamming his fist onto the table once more. Twisting in his chair to address the footman who had just filled his cup with coffee, he snarled, "I said
hot,
you fool, this is tepid!" Turning back around, he directed a sharp look at Chelsea. "What are you staring at, missy?"

She flinched.

"Eat!" he ground out.

Nervously, she picked up her cup and forced a sip of warm tea down as he gobbled the mountain of fresh food on his plate, his eyes fastened on her the entire while.

"No appetite, eh, Miss Marchmont?" he chided, talking coarsely around a mouthful of bread and jam.

Chelsea thrust her chin up. "I am rarely hungry in the morning, sir."

"Do cut line, Rutherford," Lady Rathbone put in. "She is obviously taken aback by your presence this morning. Neither of us expected to see you here today. You have given us all quite a jolt."

"A jolt was hardly my intent, Mother," the brash man replied, then snapped his fingers, indicating to the footman who hastened to his side that he desired still more ham and eggs on his plate. "I have merely journeyed to England to collect what is rightfully mine, and . . ." A sidelong gaze cut to Chelsea. "The means by which to collect it." With that, he dove into his food, noisily wolfing down the meal as if he had eaten nothing in a fortnight.

From the corner of her eye, Chelsea watched him. This man was anything but a gentleman. His dark hair was over-long and greasy, his shirt-front soiled, and his frockcoat and vest not the finest cut. Suddenly, the man's sharp eyes darted her way again.

"You'd best leave off staring at me, missy, and eat your meal. We leave for London within the hour."

Chelsea blinked. "Excuse me?"

He swiped a sleeve across his mouth, then seemed to remember himself and snatched up the cloth napkin lying beside his plate to finish the job. "London. We are to be married as soon as possible."

"But, the banns were read only yesterday," Chelsea protested weakly.

"Which signifies nothing!" the man bellowed, slamming his fist onto the table to emphasize his point . . . a large, rough fist, Chelsea noted. "We shall obtain a special license in London and be married at once. I understand that is common practice among the gentry."

Chelsea’s finely arched brows pulled together. For a gentleman, that seemed a singularly odd thing to say. There was much about this man that did not ring true. She glanced toward Lady Rathbone. Apparently, she saw nothing amiss.

"You have only just arrived, Rutherford," the frail old lady said. "Now that you are here, I had hoped you and Alayna might have a proper wedding in the castle chapel. Your father and I exchanged our vows there and . . . "

"I have no desire to follow in my father's footsteps!" the man spat out. He glared at Chelsea. "We leave within the hour!"

Hurrying toward her bedchamber a few moments later, Chelsea was certain something was vastly awry. The man calling himself Rutherford Campbell was no gentleman. He was crude and uncivil and he had abominable manners. Perhaps Lady Rathbone had lived too long in the country to see it, but Chelsea had not. She was certain this man was no more Lady Rathbone's son than she was her niece. Yet, as things now stood, she had no choice but to obey the man's every command.

In her suite, she and Dulcie made hasty preparations to leave immediately for London. Perhaps at an inn along the way, Chelsea could alert someone to the danger they were in, or better yet, conceive a plan to escape. For now, the most she could do was remove this vile creature from Lady Rathbone's presence. She would not,
could
not, let any harm come to that dear old lady!

In less than half an hour, she and Dulcie breathlessly descended the stone stairwell and took up a position in the foyer as they waited for the ill-bred man to join them.

His belligerent voice preceded him before long strides brought him into view. Alongside him, Jared was pushing Lady Rathbone's Bath chair. "It was my understanding the documents were here at the castle!" the man stated angrily.

The squeak of Lady Rathbone's chair drowned out her reply, but Chelsea and Dulcie exchanged alarmed glances anyway. Approaching them, the man registered surprise at finding Dulcie standing beside Chelsea, both of them obviously prepared to leave.

"You are not to bring a maid!" he announced.

Chelsea had opened her mouth to protest when he interrupted.

"No maid! You'll not need one where you are going." His tone was harsh.

Chelsea's lips thinned. She had had about enough of this contemptible beast. "Either Dulcie comes or I do not!" she replied hotly.

The man scowled. "You will do as I say . . . and I say, no maid!"

Chelsea's bosom rose and fell, but she managed to hold her tongue. Perhaps it was for the best. She did not wish harm to come to Dulcie either. And if she were to attempt an escape later, it might be more easily accomplished if she were alone.

Just then, the wide castle doors creaked open and a pock-faced man stuck in his head. "Horses are saddled, yer lordship."

Chelsea thought she detected a gleam of treachery in the man's eyes when he said 'yer lordship.' She thrust her chin up. "I don't ride."

"Ye'll do as I say, wench!" the dark-haired man sputtered.

"Rutherford," Lady Rathbone put in coolly, "you know very well that your cousin Alayna does not ride."

Chelsea turned frightened eyes on Lady Rathbone, but the warmth and acceptance she usually found there was missing. The look of cold, hard hatred she saw now made her shiver.

* * * *

B
ouncing along in the Marchmont coach, Chelsea was thankful for small favors. She had no idea why Lady Rathbone had said what she had, or who she suspected Chelsea was now, but at least she had protected the old woman from harm.

After several hours on the road, the men riding alongside the carriage on horseback directed the lumbering coach into the busy yard of a roadside inn. Chelsea was about to step to the ground when a rough hand shoved her back inside.

"Yer not going anywhere, missy."

Her brown eyes widened with fresh alarm as she edged back onto the bench. The man calling himself Rutherford Campbell crawled into the carriage and pulled the door shut behind him. "Who are you, wench?" He glowered at her.

Chelsea stiffened.

"I know you ain't Miss Marchmont. So, who are you?"

"Who are
you?"
Chelsea returned hotly. "It is perfectly clear that you are not my cousin Rutherford."

"Oh, that's clear, is it?"

"Indeed, it is. And
I
demand to know what you have done with him."

"You
demand?" He snorted. "You ain't in no position to do no demanding, missy. Now, tell me who you are a'fore I . . . "

"I am Alayna Marchmont." Chelsea returned his icy gaze. "And I have no intention of marrying you."

"Yer mighty uppity for an impostor, missy." Eyeing her, the man grinned wickedly, his uneven, yellowed teeth making Chelsea cringe. "Tell me the truth and I might be persuaded to share the spoils with you."

So, that was his scheme, Chelsea thought. He meant to marry Alayna so that he might abscond with Lord Rathbone's inheritance himself. "I
am
telling the truth," she maintained coolly. "I am Alayna Marchmont, and I shall marry no one save my cousin, Rutherford Campbell."

Grunting, the man reached into his frockcoat pocket and removed a small, flat object wrapped in brown paper. Chelsea watched as he unfurled the wrapping to reveal a gold-encrusted miniature, which he waved beneath Chelsea's nose. "This, my pretty trickster, is the
real
Miss Marchmont. And," he added triumphantly, "the likeness don't resemble you one whit!"

Chelsea gasped. It was the miniature Alayna had sent to Rutherford following their betrothal. Indeed it was a perfect likeness of her. Suddenly, she felt faint with fear. Had the man . . .
killed
Lord Rathbone in order to obtain it? Oh, she dared not think it! "H-how did you come by the portrait?" Chelsea barely breathed.

"How I got it don't signify. That I have it is the important thing. Now, I put it to you again, missy, who are you and what have
you
done with the real Miss Marchmont? I don't want no fashionable ladies turning up in London laying claim to what's mine!"

Chelsea stared at the charlatan defiantly. "I refuse to tell you a thing."