The Sometime Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  “I suppose you’ve already heard what Brummel said to Alvanley at the Argyle rooms?” the captain inquired.

  “I’ve been out of touch for some time, I fear. English gossip is not the stuff of Spanish campfires.”

  Jeremy Frayne dragged his own chair to the hearth and stretched out his long legs, his boots only inches from those of his guest. “As you may know, Brummel and Prinny have been on the outs for some time, but the Beau’s finally overreached himself. There’s no hope for a reconciliation. It seems they were both at a ball at the Argyle rooms. Prinny, who was miffed about some fool thing, ignored Brummel. Cut him dead. And what does the bloody fool do? He turns to Alvanley and says—loud enough for Prinny to hear of course—’Alvanley, who’s your fat friend?’“

  Blas choked on his brandy, coughed ‘til the tears ran down his cheeks. “I always admired George for dragging himself up from nothing,” he said at last, “but that remark was false pride and will do him no good. Prinny’s life is not to be envied. A mad father, a huge assortment of brothers panting at his heels. The old king has much to answer for in the raising of his children. Prinny was kept idle for so many years, it’s a wonder he’s able to function as Regent at all.”

  Captain Frayne eyed Blas with intense curiosity. “You speak with good authority, I think.”

  “I know what it is to be idle when one wishes to be active,” Blas agreed blandly. “So what else has been happening at home?”

  “Madame de Stael has come to London with her children and a handsome young husband. The so-called wits—Sheridan, Brummel, Alvanley and Byron—have seen fit to mock the poor woman at every opportunity. The why of it escapes me.”

  “For shame, captain. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. A clever woman is too much of a challenge for them. She must be revealed to be no match for them, else they might lose their omnipotence.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” the captain admitted. “Rather ironic that the sharpest minds in London concern themselves with a French bluestocking when all Europe is at war.” The captain suddenly grinned. “There’s another point for Prinny. He doesn’t forget. London celebrated Vitoria all summer long. Fêtes, parades, fireworks and all. Vauxhall staged a reenactment every night. Grand stuff, I can tell you. Rumor has it that Prinny has convinced himself he was actually at the battle.”

  Blas nodded, too weary to be surprised. “Playing soldier. Just like the rest of us.”

  “You can’t call what you do playing,” the captain chided.

  “You don’t include yourself?”

  “I push papers around,” Frayne returned with modesty. “I accumulate information and try to make sense out of it.”

  “I knew a man who did that,” said Blas somberly. “Since well before the war came to Lisbon. He was Britain’s master spy on the Peninsula. And that’s all he ever did: accumulate information and make sense out of it. He lived just long enough to see his job well done . . . then he simply gave up and died.”

  Blas reached for the French brandy, splashed another dollop into his mug. “I know how he felt, I think. For more than six years I’ve lived a giant masquerade. I’ve been back to England just once. In truth, I have not the slightest idea what to do with myself when all this over. If I go home, I will once again be forbidden to do nearly everything I want to do. If I stay on the continent, I will have to continue the masquerade. With no war to justify the deception of so many friends.”

  Not to mention his wife.

  The captain was startled. “You are considering not going home?”

  Blas glowered at the toe of his well-worn boot. His toes, frostbitten so long ago, were shooting sparks of pain as they began to warm from the heat of the fire. “I do not care to be idle,” he said. “And of course there is a woman. I fear she will find England a cold and heartless place.”

  Blas straightened his shoulders, visibly shook off his melancholy. “Tell me your plans, Frayne. Will you settle down to the so-called normal life?”

  “I won’t have to worry about being idle, I wasn’t born it,” replied the captain without a hint of bitterness. “I’ll still be dealing with details. I’m to read law. And I have a fiancée waiting. That makes it easier to settle down.

  The sound of the storm rose to fill the room, overcoming the crackling of the fire which Blas had built up until the flames rose almost to the level of the heavy spit. “Sometimes, Frayne,” he replied wearily. “Sometimes.”

  After a searching look at his visitor, the captain abandoned the subject of women. “I should think,” he ventured, “that you would do well in Foreign Service. Anyone who could deal with guerrilleros should find no problem with diplomats, and you’ve a gambler’s face. None knows better than I you never show anything you don’t wish to be seen.”

  Blas raised his head and stared at the captain, his eyes suddenly sharply focused and alert. “Odd,” he murmured. “I’ve been so busy with the bloody war, I never thought how lost I’ll be without it until the past few weeks. And when I did, I was too damn tired to figure what to do about it, except possibly become an expatriate gambler like my friend the spymaster. And in five minutes, Frayne, you’ve opened a window to a new life. How fortunate you came back from leave.”

  “And that you bloody well decided to speak English,” the captain grumbled, embarrassed by the unexpected praise. He left his visitor staring blindly into the fire, and went to fetch some blankets. Both men settled down before the fire for the brief remainder of the night before they were routed out by Wellington’s cook.

  When Captain Frayne awoke to the pre-dawn light, the storm was gone, and so was his visitor.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I shall throw my arms around him, love him, and never let him go! The words were no sooner out of Cat’s mouth than she knew how foolish they were. The return of Bla—whoever he might be—could bring pain instead of joy. Rejection. Scandal. Heartbreak. Any, or all, were far more likely than an ending of Happily Ever After.

  Blas was a man of too many secrets. In Lisbon, their life had not seemed so strange. The war made a convenient villain for Blas’s idiosyncracies. Yet the truth was stark. In essence, she had been married for nearly seven years to a man whose name she did not know. Was she the victim of a capricious God of War who turned friends into enemies, enemies into friends? Who glorified death, nullified honor. Made beasts of men who wished only the complacent lives of their fathers. Whores of women who wished only to live in love and peace.

  And just where did these inconsistent truths leave Dona Catarina Audley Perez de Leon? Widow. Of Lisbon and Branwyck Park, Surrey?

  Lady Everingham was intrigued. Catherine Perez, beauty extraordinaire, teetering on the brink of scandal, was the most excitement she had had since her sons went away to school. She was about to launch one of the most spectacular beauties ever to grace the London season, and hanging over them like the sword of Damocles was a dashing and temperamental young spy who could bring disaster down about their ears. Not to mention that Catherine was acquainted with London’s current literary sensation George Gordon, Lord Byron. Clara could hear the voices, male and female echoing over the teacups.

  Since she was fourteen . . . All a sham, don’t you know . . . Never used his real name . . . ‘Struth, I swear it. Heard it from Byron himself. Rum go, George, but he ain’t a liar . . . Girl’s not the thing, old man. Not the thing.

  Beneath the Pale, my dear. Lived with some Spaniard. At fourteen! And her companion . . . the father’s mistress. Quite true, I assure you. Freddy, my youngest, was twice stationed in Lisbon.

  Fortunately, Clara Everingham was made of sterner stuff than most. She would present Catherine to the ton, then sit back and enjoy the roar of the social lions vying for the favor of the latest Beauty. She would worry about the beasts turning ravenous only if the need arose.

  And if it were Blas who chose to play the Beast?

  That was another bridge they would cross, Clara decided firmly, only when they must. Steel glinte
d in her blue eyes as she swept her guests off to Madame Helène, the French modiste.

  Accustomed to the leisured dignity of life in Lisbon, Catherine and Blanca were astounded when their shopping did not end after two hours with Madame Helène. Dutifully, they followed their hostess through a variety of Bond Street shops, perusing the latest in bonnets, gloves, and footwear. But when the indefatigable Lady Everingham announced they would round out their afternoon by changing into more elaborate gowns for an excursion to Hyde Park, Cat and Blanca exchanged wide-eyed glances of shock.

  Blanca barely repressed a moan. “We are most grateful for your thoughtfulness, my lady,” she pronounced a bit breathlessly, “but we do not wish you to so fatigue yourself on our behalf. Surely we may go to the park on another afternoon.”

  “No, no, Mrs. Dominguez,” Lady Everingham protested, “I simply cannot wait to see the heads turn. Did you not notice the young man who nearly drove his curricle onto the sidewalk when he saw Catherine walking down Bond Street. Do not concern yourself, there is a decided nip to the air so we shall not stay out long. Catherine, you must wear your new pelisse and bonnet. How fortunate you look so well in black. The ladies on promenade will turn positively green with envy.”

  With a collective sigh Cat and her weary companion ascended the stairs behind Lady Everingham. “I have worked all day with father, then played hostess in the gaming rooms ‘til three in the morning and not felt as tired as I do now!” Cat whispered to Blanca. “I thought London ladies did nothing but drink tea all day.”

  “I have decided,” said Blanca with feeling as they reached the upper landing, “you will be more comfortable in the carriage without me. I shall ask young Bess to prepare coffee . . . and my bed. Some bonbons, perhaps a book . . . You may tell me about this park when you return. Tomás will forgive me. One dragon—yes, I heard a nasty young man use that word of me this morning—will be sufficient to protect you.” So saying, Blanca raised a hand to her forehead in a patently theatrical gesture and staggered off to her bedchamber.

  Cat, chuckling, was far from bereft. Clara Everingham was a much less formidable dragon.

  Even in the last week of October, Hyde Park was not without its ritual late afternoon parade of society’s minions. Cat found it difficult to maintain the aloof decorum Lady Everingham insisted was de rigueur for a young lady of quality. She had seen a plethora of London ladies that morning in Bond Street. But here—mounted on horseback or driving smartly customized curricles and high-perch phaetons—was an assortment of the ton’s finest young gentlemen. How very different they were from their uniformed brothers on the Peninsula, Cat thought. Instead of sparkling gold or white on jackets of infantry red, rifleman green or cavalry blue, the gentlemen of London blended with the landscape in the subtle plumage decreed by that arbitrary arbiter of fashion Beau Brummel. Coats of deep blue, forest green or brown wool of the finest quality, white starched cravats tied in elaborate designs nestled between shirt points so high that many a young dandy was forced to turn his whole body in order to look around. Their tall finely sheared beaver hats in shades of gray and brown and black featured upturned brims, most of which were set at jaunty angles above faces fixed in the supercilious yet somehow debonair attitude which distinguished the English gentleman.

  Cat tried to picture Blas among them . . . and found the comparison ludicrous. All she could see was Blas bellowing his bawdy ballad at the top of his lungs as he guided the ox cart full of wine casks through the park, scattering genteel members of the ton as if they were jackstraws. Hopefully, Lady Everingham would not ask why she was smiling.

  Foremost among the Corinthians of society was Clifford Longford Bourne, Earl of Wrexham. He had come to Hyde Park on this chilly October afternoon because his interest in his latest chère amie was rapidly waning and he thought to look over the women who brazenly displayed their charms on the very same paths with society’s ingenues. He had progressed no further than tipping his beaver to a beauty whose ample endowments were so lightly clad the earl thought she was likely to succumb to an inflammation of the lungs before she could find herself a protector. This flippant speculation was interrupted by a high-pitched shriek.

  The Earl of Wrexham surveyed the area, his body tensed in expectation of a gallop after a runaway horse. What he found was the startling sight of a somberly clad young lady waving wildly from the seat of her barouche, shouting to two young bucks trotting away on a path which angled across to the far side of the park. Not the behavior expected from a woman in deepest mourning. Nor of a companion of Clara Everingham. Nor of any member of the ton. Wrexham, manners forgotten, simply stared as the young woman’s high-poke bonnet came off. Her chignon disintegrated, allowing long waves of red-gold to cascade over her lavishly fur-trimmed black velvet pelisse.

  She rose to her feet. Bracing herself with one hand on the side of the barouche, she continued to wave with the other. “Gordy, Gordy!” the girl cried. “Over here. It’s Cat.” She was on tiptoes, waving and bouncing up and down like an India rubber ball. “Gordon Somersby . . . Gordy!” Lady Everingham, one hand clutched to her heart, vainly tugged at the young woman’s skirts.

  A minx, a veritable minx. But surely, Wrexham thought, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  Former Captain Gordon Somersby let out a whoop that was heard even by those who had not been stopped in their tracks by Cat’s cries. He spurred his horse toward the Everingham barouche, his companion valiantly following behind, as they wound their way around carriages and past outraged riders. As Gordon reined in beside the barouche, smartly kicking up the sacred turf of Rotten Row, Clara Everingham was reduced to rummaging through her reticule in a frantic search for her vinaigrette.

  “Cat Audley!” cried Mr. Somersby. “As I live and breathe! Where did you spring from?” He leaned down, seized both of Cat’s hands, and pulled her into as close an embrace as could be managed between a barouche and a mounted rider. Recollecting his manners at last, he made his bow to Lady Everingham and turned to introduce his companion. “You won’t credit it, Cat. You must have tempted the fates today. This young jackanapes with me is none other than some kind of a cousin of yours. First met him on the Peninsula. May I present Lieutenant William Audley, General Sir Quinton’s Audley’s son.”

  Heedless of the cascades of shining hair streaming down her back and the elegant black bonnet hanging askew over one shoulder, Cat grasped her unknown cousin’s hand with joy. William Audley was a young man of nearly her own age. Of medium build with curling brown locks and a pleasant open smile, he was very finely arrayed in a uniform of rifleman green. General Audley was, she knew, her father’s first cousin.

  “I am so pleased to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant,” Cat said. “I had the sad duty of writing to Sir Quinton about the death of my father. But knowing you to be a rifleman, I never dreamed I would have the pleasure of meeting you here in London.”

  “Made a botch of it, don’t you know?” said Lieutenant Audley quite cheerfully. “Caught the fever during the siege of San Sebastian. Beastly thing to do. Missed the final assault entirely. Pamplona too. I say, has Sir Giles heard any news? It’s said Pamplona will fall any day, and then it’s straight on to France!”

  Cat’s face sobered on the instant. “No, cousin, I am sorry, there’s been no news. No news at all.” Not from the army. Not from Blas. She turned back to her old friend. “And you, Gordy? Are you also on leave?”

  “Inherited,” that gentleman replied gloomily. “M’mother felt she couldn’t do without me. Sold out after Vitoria, been in the country ‘til this week.” Sympathy suffused his thin face as he noted Catherine’s mourning. “Your father too?” he asked.

  Clara Everingham was not so shocked by Catherine’s behavior that she failed to note she was confronted by two stellar examples of England’s finest. Swiftly steering the conversation into a more cheerful vein, she invited both young men to attend the dinner party she was arranging for Catherine in a week’s time.

>   As the young men rode off, Cat—in response to a hissed instruction from Lady Everingham—reaffixed her black velvet bonnet and began to tuck her unruly hair under the high poke of its up-to-the-minute style. She had just firmly retied the black silk ribbons at a jaunty angle under her ear when she noticed their barouche had not moved on. A stranger had appeared beside them. Lady Everingham was eyeing the elegant gentleman on horseback with some disapproval.

  “Go away, Wrexham,” Clara snapped. “You are not at all the sort of person Mrs. Perez should meet.”

  It was Cat’s turn to be shocked until the gentlemen’s slow quizzical smile revealed he was not insulted. He recognized Lady Everingham’s words were mere social jousting. A warning to Cat. As well as to himself.

  Wrexham shook his head. “And here I have been thanking Fortune you and I are acquainted, my lady, so I might have the pleasure of an introduction to your companion.”

  The earl turned the full force of his deep-set gray eyes toward Catherine. His appraisal, open and patently admiring sparked an unexpected frisson of interest. The earl was taller than Blas, she judged. Older. Over thirty, she judged. Faint lines of dissipation were beginning to appear in a long face marked by a hawk nose and topped by dark brown hair waving gently over his high starched collar.

  “My lord.” Cat acknowledged Lady Everingham’s reluctant introduction. She extended her hand, knowing full well he would take advantage of the opportunity to kiss it, although the gesture was almost entirely out of fashion in London. She was correct. Nor did the earl’s lips stay respectfully short of her hand but slipped close enough to brush lightly against her glove. A practiced courtier, this one. But fascinating. No wonder Lady Everingham had warned him off. She seemed to have forgotten Cat had spent a lifetime dealing with men like the Earl of Wrexham.

  In spite of her misgivings, Clara Everingham was well aware Wrexham’s admiration, if carefully controlled, could only enhance her protégé’s debut. A rake he might be, but he was also a leading member of the ton. The earl soon found himself added to the Everingham’s guest list for the dinner party. He rode away quite satisfied with his afternoon’s prospecting. He did not so much as glance at the well-displayed charms of the other ladies in the park.