The Sometime Bride

by Blair Bancroft

  She stepped away from the bristling gentlemen and was returning her coins to her reticule when she felt a sudden tug as it was snatched from her fingers. A street urchin of some ten or twelve years streaked off down Freezeland Street, attempting to lose himself in the crowd. Without conscious thought Cat started to give chase. Her leather boots slipped on the ice and she sat down hard, her cry of alarm filled with more anger than fear. With all she had been through in the war, no one had ever before tried to rob her. Long years of reacting to emergencies had Anthony off and running twenty feet ahead of the Earl of Wrexham. Gordon, coming late to the scene, realized he could be most useful as escort to the ladies. After helping Cat to her feet, he turned to soothe the nerves of the other ladies who seemed more upset than the victim. “That’s the girl, Cat,” Gordon said softly. “Always was a Trojan.” Al–Anthony will get him. Boy doesn’t stand a chance.”

  Lord Anthony was not as fortunate on the ice of London as he had been in the mountains of Spain. The urchin darted around the back of a particularly large tent. As Anthony dashed after him, the heel of his right boot caught on the edge of the wooden platform. With his left foot still on the slippery ice there was only one chance of breaking his fall. He grabbed for the canvas of the tent and missed. He came down hard, slid nearly fifteen feet, demolishing a game of skittles on his way. His slide halted abruptly when he hit the hard edge of another wooden platform. He was still lying on his side trying to catch his breath when Wrexham caught up with him.

  “Damned imp of Satan,” muttered Anthony, much chagrined, as Wrexham helped him sit up. “Got clean away.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Only my pride, I think.” But when Wrexham attempted to help him stand, Anthony collapsed back onto the ice with a groan just as Cat hurtled through the crowd to his side. “Ankle,” Anthony admitted through clenched teeth. “Don’t think it’s broken but it hurts like hell. So here’s a pretty pass, my Cat,” he said with rueful grin. “Survived five years of war to be struck down by a child in the center of the Thames.”

  “You must have the boot off,” said Wrexham, momentarily ignoring the revealing byplay, “or lose it to the knife as your ankle swells.” He started to kneel by Anthony’s injured foot only to find that Catherine was already there. Fascinated, the earl watched as she deftly removed the boot, leaving little doubt she had had a good deal of experience with men’s boots. Trowbridge’s? Wrexham wondered.

  Anthony had gone pale during this painful process, but by the time Cat finished removing his stocking in order to take a look at his ankle, he managed a lopsided grin. “Well, Doctor Cat, is it becoming an ankle of many colors? Cat? What’s wrong? You’re the least squeamish girl I know.”

  Wrexham gave Catherine a sharp glance but could see no sign of faintness. She had, however, gone quite still as she gazed down at Lord Anthony’s injury. The earl knelt beside her. “Catherine, Mrs. Perez, are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she asserted, returning with a start to the world of the Frost Fair. “Forgive me, I was merely remembering an incident long ago.”

  Lord Wrexham, deciding it was time to assume the responsibility expected from a man of his years and rank, took charge of the rescue operations. He sent for his coach and arranged for Lord Anthony to be transported to it. As they returned to their respective homes. the Earl of Wrexham was not the only person who found the day full of food for thought. Amabel Lovell was uncharacteristically quiet. Catarina Perez de Leon was the most quiet of all.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Catherine Audley Perez de Leon sailed through the front door of Everingham House. Ignoring Rankin’s white-gloved hands stretched out to take her cloak, as well as his announcement that Clara and Blanca were entertaining callers, she ascended the stairs. Her damp cloak swirled about her ankles as her steps grew faster. Bypassing the murmur of voices, the chink of teacups in the drawing room, she entered her bedchamber, turned the key in the lock, dropped her fur-lined cloak onto the floor, tossed her bonnet onto the dresser. She sank down, knees shaking, on the edge of the bed.

  Numb to her very soul, Cat sat without moving. Without seeing. Without hearing. The world, as she knew it, was gone. Had never existed. She had no idea how much time passed before her mind began to function, gradually coming to grips with the enormity of her problem.

  She made an effort, fleeting and ineffectual, to apply logic. The pain should not be so bad, she told herself. Nor the surprise so great. Her head had long known what her heart would not accept. But now, for the first time, there was proof her worst nightmare imaginings were true.

  Alejo had come home from the war. Blas had not.

  Alejo had been at war for five years, he said so himself. For Blas, who left home in the spring of 1807, the war had lasted closer to seven. And Blas did not have five perfectly formed, undamaged pink toes. Not since he had come limping home from the hell of La Coruña. Had she herself not bathed his frostbitten feet that awful night so long ago?

  When had she begun to suspect there were two of them? When Blas did not recognize the gown Alejo designed? Or before that, when Alejo pounded the top of his dresser, swearing at some unspecified villain, Damn him, damn him, damn him! Or, more certainly, when Blas came to her the night of her seventeenth birthday and did not seem to remember they had quarreled. Not seemed to recall that, only weeks earlier, he had rejected her.

  Whatever . . . whenever . . . the truth was incontrovertible. For five years she had lived with two husbands. No matter that she had not slept with Alejo; it had not been for lack of trying.

  A choked sob escaped her lips as she lowered her head into her hands. Oh, dear God, please grant me a miracle. Make it not so. Blas is my life. He would never do this to me.

  In the late afternoon gloom Alejo’s—Anthony’s—words rang as loudly as if he were at her side. Cat, there is going to come a time when you will be very, very angry with me.

  How very true.

  But her anger toward Anthony was nothing to what she felt toward Blas.

  Blas and Alejo/Anthony. Identical. Absolutely identical. Except for their feet. And their slippery souls.

  Cat winced as she acknowledged the pun conjured by her errant mind. Thomas would have enjoyed it. As would Blas. Alejo’s reaction, she suspected, would be profane.

  As for herself, she could find no amusement at all in this diabolical coil. Somehow, her own stupidity seemed worst of all. She should have known . . . she should have known.

  Had she not wanted to know? Was it so much easier to see just one, a master chameleon with a Joseph’s coat of personalities? Or perhaps Judas was the better word?

  Forgiveness was out of the question.

  Forgiveness. Cat cringed as she recalled her behavior at the Frost Fair. She and Anthony had flaunted their friendship in front of two people who might be hurt by their thoughtlessness. Particularly Amabel who was a sheltered young miss with no way to fight her friend’s careless appropriation of her adored Anthony. Wrexham, made of sterner stuff, was not quite so serious a problem.

  Amabel . . . Amabel Lovell adored Anthony Trowbridge, and must be hurting almost as much as herself. There was little to be done for her own acute loss, Cat decided, but perhaps it was not too late for Amabel and Anthony. Cat penned a short note to Amabel, telling her friend she would call at eleven the next morning. Amabel, who was no one’s fool, would understand the reason behind the brief message. Hopefully, her night would not be as sleepless as Cat’s was going to be.

  To Lord Wrexham Cat wrote a vague, general apology, promising to explain more fully when next she saw him. Her note to Anthony was more direct: You were right. I am very, very angry. When you are able, come to me. The front door will do. I shall not require you to climb the fence. It seems so odd—I always wished to meet Tonio.

  All three notes were immediately dispatched to their respective destinations via a discreet footman. The reply from Lord Anthony was prompt. Can’t even hobble, sister dear. Wednesda
y. Midnight. Scrawled at the bottom was a very familiar “T.”

  For a moment Cat was struck by the teeniest twinge of sympathy. No! She hoped his ankle was causing him excessive pain. Two days. It was just as well. If she saw him now, she’d be tempted to shoot him.

  Lady Lovell, well aware of her daughter’s misery since the Frost Fair, took Blanca Dominguez aside the next morning on the pretext of asking her opinion on the chair seat she was embroidering. The two younger women were left alone at one end of the Lovell’s drawing room. Amabel’s customary cheerfulness was subdued, her smile brittle as she regarded Cat with something close to hostility.

  “Your father has been in government service a long time, has he not?” Cat began slowly. “As my father was. We both understand there are certain things we can never talk about.” The hurt in Amabel’s eyes sharpened into intense interest. “Anthony Trowbridge was one of those things,” Cat continued with determination. She had not expected breaking her many years of silence would be so difficult. “Anthony was one of the men who worked for my father. As liaison with guerrilleros in Spain. That is how I happen to know him so well.”

  Amabel’s eyes reflected a rush of consternation, pride, and a myriad questions as clearly as if she had been able to put her jumbled thoughts into words.

  “I never knew his real name,” Cat admitted. “When you first told me about Anthony Trowbridge, I had no idea he was anyone I knew. I was shocked when you pointed him out at the Hawley’s ball. Quite frankly, we are both so accustomed to dissembling we reacted as if we were in the midst of a war instead of an English ballroom.”

  Cat leaned forward, earnestly willing her friend to understand. “There was no deliberate intention to deceive you, Amabel. We simply did what we have been doing for years—we pretended everything was as people expected it to be. Later, we realized playacting was no longer necessary. Unfortunately, we never thought how our sudden familiarity might look to others. I am deeply sorry if we have hurt you. However unintentionally.”

  Even the “we” hurt, placing Anthony and Catherine Perez on one side, Amabel Lovell on the other. Amabel’s clasped hands tightened until the knuckles turned white. She bit her lip. “Do you love him?” she asked.

  “As a friend, nothing more.” Oh yes, of that she was certain.

  A very special, very close friend. Even if she wished to wring his neck.

  At almost the same moment Lord Anthony Trowbridge was enduring a similarly uncomfortable interview with Lord Wrexham. Anthony, ensconced in a wingchair with his injured leg propped up on a padded stool, waved the earl into the room with a wry smile. “Laid low by a street urchin,” he mocked, motioning Wrexham to a similar chair before the fire. “All those years on the Peninsula with nary a scratch, and I come home to this.”

  Wrexham appreciated the deliberate candor. “I judged you had not spent the last few years in Derbyshire.”

  “I must offer you my apologies, Wrexham, but being secretive about what we did on the Peninsula is a difficult habit to break. Ca—Mrs. Perez—and I never intended to deceive anyone. It was mere thoughtlessness on our part. I was one of many who worked for her father, spending far more time in the mountains of Spain than in the comfort of Lisbon, I might add. I have known Catarina Perez for many years and count her as a friend.”

  Wrexham accepted a glass of madeira from the butler and sipped it slowly. When they were once again alone, he inquired, “I do not wish to offend, but I find myself highly curious as to your intentions in that direction.”

  “Really?” Lord Anthony was instantly his father’s son. “I have no difficulty at all ascertaining your intentions.”

  The Earl of Wrexham froze, his glass of wine suspended half way to his mouth. Though illegal, duels were still fought over far less insulting words than those just uttered. “It is fortunate you cannot stand up, boy,” he growled, “or we would find ourselves with pistols at dawn.”

  “Knee deep in snow,” drawled Anthony, once again the languid invalid. “Very well, I don’t mind divulging my intentions. I am going to enjoy the season while making sure that Dona Catarina Perez de Leon is treated with the respect and honor she deserves for her birth and for her service to her country. I will not stand idly by while she is besieged by men who want only her beauty in their bed or by those who see only a comfortable fortune wrapped in a particularly enticing package.” Lord Anthony, his ducal forbears clearly imprinted on his proud face, added, “Is that perfectly clear, my lord?”

  “Perfectly. But you have avoided the crux of the matter. Your own intentions, if you please.”

  Anthony studied his bandaged ankle with extreme interest. “You might say I look upon her as a sister,” he said with deliberation. “A well loved and highly respected sister. I trust I make myself perfectly clear?” The scowl he directed at Lord Wrexham was sadly incongruous from his nearly supine position.

  Wrexham’s lips quirked upward in a rueful smile. “I admit my intentions were less than honorable when I first saw the beautiful widow but believe me, Trowbridge, she has enough integrity for both of us! Now, like you, I am her friend and hope to be more if she is ever free of her rocklike devotion to this mythical husband of hers.”

  “I would not count my chickens just yet, my lord,” Anthony advised with his most gracious smile.

  Recognizing the fragility of Amabel’s emotions, Cat had been careful not to pursue the topic of Anthony Trowbridge beyond her basic apology. But on the following evening she made certain she was at a musicale Amabel and her mother planned to attend. At the interval, on the pretext of providing Lady Lovell with a glass of ratafia, Cat quietly engaged Amabel’s mother in private conversation. “You have known the Trowbridge family for years, have you not, my lady?”

  “Oh, indeed, yes,” Lady Lovell replied. “Their primary seat is in Sussex, not far from Ridgewood, our own estate, you know.”

  “I believe Amabel mentioned that Anthony is a younger son?” Cat remarked blandly.

  “A dear boy.” Lady Lovell gave Catherine a small conspiratorial smile. “I must admit we have hopes in that direction. Alexander of course was expected to marry very grandly, but both fathers agreed Anthony would be an excellent match for Amabel.”

  “Alexander?” Cat asked, her voice far steadier than she felt.

  Lady Lovell’s kindly eyes reflected pain. “Such a tragedy, my dear. We never speak of Alexander, you know. There were such stories at the time, but poor Melisande, the boys’ mother, never wished to speak of it, and Marchmont of course is quite unapproachable. There was some incident over the long vacation while they were still up at Oxford. I’ve heard several stories. Some say young Alex was injured in a riding accident, others that it was in a brawl. Whatever the manner of it, ’tis said he is incapacitated—either dreadfully mangled or mad from an injury to his head. He is believed to be shut up in his estate at Harborough—somewhere on the coast in Somerset, I believe.”

  Lady Lovell paused to wipe away a tear. “They were such a sight when they were on the town. The Trowbridge twins. They were as alike as two peas in a pod. On dit they could even fool their parents. And frequently did. And, my dear”—Lady Lovell leaned closer—”I have heard that on one occasion they actually traded mistresses. On a bet that neither chère amie could tell the difference.” She sighed, drying her eyes as the audience began to return to their seats. “They were so close, those two. But now . . . now it is felt to be a kindness never to mention dear Alexander.” She patted Catherine’s frozen fingers. “I am sure you understand.”

  Yes, of course. She understood all too well.

  Alexander. The Bastard Brother.

  Cat left the Huntingdon’s musical evening as early as manners permitted. At midnight she was seated on a Sheraton chair in the Everingham’s entry hall, still wearing the modest gown she had worn to the musicale, a richly embroidered silk shawl with long black fringe pulled tightly about her shoulders against the cold. When she heard slowing carriage wheels, the cessation of hoofbeat
s on the cobblestones, Cat jumped to her feet and had the front door open before Anthony hobbled up the walk, leaning heavily on a silver-headed walking cane.

  He was Blas to the life. Waving black hair, longer than the current fashion, amber eyes dark in the faint light from the gas lamps in the square. A face which had seen death, created death. Full lips that promised passion and fulfillment. He was Don Alejo. Anthony.

  One of her husbands.

  One half of her betrayers.

  Balanced on his cane, the effort of movement clearly written on his face, Anthony came to a halt at the bottom of the short flight of steps. His eyes locked with hers. Guilt. Remorse.

  From Cat, accusation. Yet once again, she felt an insidious stab of sympathy. This was indeed Alejo. Her friend. The designer of her wedding gown.

  Heedless of the cold, Cat rushed down to help him, thrusting aside the heavy cane and taking his weight on her own slim shoulder. She was panting by the time they made it into the hall. “I should have let you suffer,” she muttered as they moved slowly down the corridor to the cozy morning room at the rear. “I should stand and watch and gloat over your pain.” She shifted her weight, maneuvering until her hand could reach the handle of the door, which was closed to trap the warmth of the fire within. The door swung open. Warm air enveloped them as Cat guided his steps to the sofa. “I should take your cane and make you crawl,” she muttered as she closed her hand over the silver wolf’s head which formed the handle of the cane. “Or perhaps I shall simply beat you.”

  Cat slipped out from under his weight, pushing him, none too gently, onto the sofa. He sat, looking utterly dejected, like a prize hunting dog discovered with a mouthful of feathers. She sank onto the opposite end of the sofa and simply stared at him. “How could you?” she asked softly. “How could you be party to such a thing?”