The Sometime Bride
Page 39
As the earl drew breath, Catherine glanced at his wife, who looked as if she were being forced to suck upon a lemon. “Whatever the truth of the matter,” Malvinia Audley intoned, “we cannot accept such a scurrilous tale. Particularly as it reflects so poorly on the Audley family. We do, however, believe you should retire from society, Catherine, until Markham can be dealt with. Ailesbury seems to think Harborough and his brother should take the matter in hand.”
The earl seconded his wife’s words. “Catherine, Malvinia is correct. You must avoid the Cut Direct.” The earl so far forgot himself as to issue a spontaneous remark. “Those demmed boys will be forgiven, Catherine, but you will not. You’re an outsider, m’dear, and far too beautiful for your own good.”
“That’s why she must be married, Papa,” Edmund cried. “It’s the only way.”
“Don’t be a nincompoop, boy,” Ailesbury snapped. “Harborough and his brother would put you to grass before breakfast and make a hearty meal over your lifeless corpse. Honor is all well and good, but it’s cold comfort in your grave. Not that the thought of Markham there is all that repugnant,” he added thoughtfully.
Cat was struggling through a suitable, if inwardly stunned thank you, to her Audley relations when a not-so-discreet cough interrupted her words. Startled, the occupants of the drawing room looked up to discover a Rankin who was obviously laboring under strong emotion, his professional aplomb completely shattered. He swallowed hard, coughed yet again, and announced, “Colonel Auguste Beaufort.”
The butler stepped aside to reveal an elegant gentleman of slightly more than thirty years, dressed in clothing which could only have come from a Parisian tailor. Colonel Beaufort’s brown curly locks topped a thin face from which shone a pair of bright blue eyes which Cat instantly recognized. He was tall, lean, and shockingly handsome. Stunned, the Everingham House ladies rose slowly to their feet as the Frenchman surveyed them with astute regard.
Colonel Auguste Beaufort was a man of the middle classes raised to power by the egalitarian ideals of the Revolution. And by Napoleon Bonaparte. He had the calm, clear-eyed confidence of a man who has commanded a regiment of light cavalry in the most victorious army in the world. In short, he had spent his entire adult life campaigning for the glory of France; a roomful of women, even Englishwomen, would not daunt him.
A tiny smile played across his handsome face as he looked from one to another. “Ladies, Sirs, I hope I have not intruded at an awkward moment. I seek Mrs. Catherine Perez de Leon.” His English was clear, with a faint accent which could only add to his undoubted appeal. As the silence lengthened, his finely arched brows rose in delicate question.
Cat expelled the breath she had been holding. “I–I am she,” she stammered.
Colonel Beaufort found himself face to face with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His blue eyes—his son’s eyes—lit with unabashed admiration. He smiled. A smile of singular charm. “You then are the lady who writes letters to Napoleon Bonaparte.” He brought Catherine’s hand to his lips, kissed it, his eyes never leaving hers.
“I cannot believe you are here,” Cat said in a voice barely above a whisper. You are Pierre’s father, are you not?”
“His name is André,” said Auguste Beaufort, “and from your description, yes, I believe myself to be his papa.”
The Marquess of Harborough returned from a week in Somerset eagerly anticipating the execution of his scheme to kidnap his wife and shut her up in Harborough Castle until she came to her senses. Tony, who had become an accomplice in the plot, conceded it might be the only solution, but was far less confident of the outcome. Cat had backbone which had not yet been tapped. She was no longer a child, but an independent woman with strong will and equally strong pride. It was quite possible imprisonment in Harborough Castle would only fix her stubborn resistance forever in place.
As the traveling coach pulled up in the driveway of Marchmont House, the twins leaped down and ran nimbly up the steps, casually handing their hats, gloves and driving coats into the arms of the butler, who immediately passed his burden to a waiting footman. “Milords,” said the butler with unusually grave face, “there is a note here of some urgency. Lord Wrexham requested that you receive it immediately upon your return.” He picked up a silver salver with a small envelope on it and held it out, uncertain as to which twin was Lord Harborough.
Alex wasted no time as he scanned the name, ripped open the envelope, and read the short note. If the cool, unflappable Earl of Wrexham said the matter was urgent, it undoubtedly was. “The devil’s in it,” said Alex to Tony. “Let’s go. This doesn’t sound like something we’d wish the parents to hear.”
Fortunately, the earl was at home when the Trowbridge twins came pounding on his door. “Well?” Alex demanded the moment the door to the library shut behind the butler. “Out with it, Wrexham. Cryptic notes annoy me. What’s going on? Is it Cat?”
“Madeira, my lords?” Wrexham inquired smoothly. “I believe you’re going to need it.”
Alex took a menacing step toward the earl before his brother grabbed him by the arm. “Madeira would be excellent, my lord,” said Tony. “We’ve just returned from Somerset, and traveling always brings on a thirst.”
“Ah, the civilized one,” breathed Wrexham drily, and poured wine for them all.
When they were seated, with Alex still looking as if he were ready to pounce on anything and everything, Lord Wrexham told them about Percy Markham. In a way, Tony thought, it was a relief. Markham had provided Alex a very real target on which to vent his fury and frustration. It also made kidnapping unnecessary. Cat could not possibly refuse his brother now.
“I suppose Cat knows,” said Alex, taking a moment from the enormity of his rage to consider his wife’s feelings in the matter.
“Um . . . yes,” Wrexham replied, his customary aplomb showing a slight crack of unease.
Alex pounced on the hesitation. “And just what does that mean,” he snapped.
“It means,” said Wrexham carefully, “that Catherine was informed of the rumors several days ago. Lady Everingham tells me that as soon as the scandal broke Catherine received at least two offers of marriage.” There was, after all, no reason he had to tell Harborough one of the offers had been his own. “Both of which she refused, although everyone told her only marriage could stem the viciousness of this particular rumor. When she continued in her stubbornness, Ailesbury, his wife, and Clara Everingham agreed her only recourse was to retire to the country and hope the whole thing would blow over.”
“So she’s at Branwyck Park?”
“Um . . . no,” murmured the earl.
“Damn it, Wrexham, where is she?”
“It would seem she has gone to France,” Wrexham said, keeping wary eyes on the marquess.
“France!” echoed the twins in chorus.
“I believe Catherine has been fostering a French child?” the earl countered softly.
“Pierre?” Tony questioned blankly.
“What are you saying?” Alex demanded.
Two pairs of matching amber eyes, glowing with curiosity, stared at the Earl of Wrexham.
“It seems that in the midst of Markham’s scandal a Colonel Auguste Beaufort arrived at Everingham House looking for his son. Naturally, they drove that very day to Branwyck Park. The reunion was particularly touching, I’m told. According to Clara Everingham, the boy took one look and ran across the room, sobbing, ‘Papa, Papa.’ I’m told the child had not said a word since you took him from the field at Vitoria, Harborough, so as you can well imagine, there was a veritable flood of tears. Not a dry eye in the house. You know,” the earl added with a sympathy at odds with his customary cynicism, “there’s not a man in the world can compete with the tears of a child.”
“Finish it,” said Alex grimly.
“Beaufort’s gratitude was overwhelming. Quite naturally, he assured Catherine anything he might be able to do for her, she need only ask. So she did.”
Slowly
, Alex got to his feet, walked to the table and refilled his wine glass, tossing it off in one swallow. He turned back to face Wrexham and his brother. “And just what did she ask?” he inquired, his voice as dark and still as a primeval swamp.
“She asked his escort to Paris.”
“Escort. A nice euphemism, wouldn’t you say, Tony?” said Alex, his eyes holding a glitter which even Anthony found frightening.
“That’s all it was, Harborough,” Wrexham insisted quickly. “I’m sure of it. Catherine’s world fell in on her. You and your brother weren’t here to defend her. She needed to get farther away than Branwyck Park. So, overnight, she simply packed and left.”
“But how?” Tony asked. “I’d heard so many are rushing to Paris now the war is over that the ships are full to overflowing.”
“I believe Beaufort had his own transportation,” said Wrexham carefully.
“And what the devil does that mean?”
“He was unsure of the reception of a Frenchman in England, so I understand he came by way of the Gentlemen.”
“Smugglers!” Tony exclaimed.
“I got the impression, again from Clara Everingham,” Wrexham continued smoothly, “that money was not a problem with the colonel.” “He could afford to hire any service he needed. According to Clara, his family was Napoleon’s own banker. “Beaufort and the boy, Catherine, Dona Blanca, the child’s nurse, and Catherine’s maid all returned the same way he had come. They’ve been gone two days now.”
Into the ensuing silence a faint sound erupted. The slight hiccup grew into a chuckle and then outright guffaws as Tony was overcome with hilarity. Shoulders shaking, he laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. When he was able to focus on the stunned features of his outraged brother, he wiped his eyes and gasped, “Don’t you see? She’s finally outsmarted you. Not all your plots and schemes or your bloody title and consequence could make her into your docile little puppet.”
‘I’ll kill him,” said Alex, only half hearing his brother’s taunts.
“You won’t kill Pierre’s papa, and you damn well know it,” Tony countered. “Cat’s gotten clean away. Run off with a bloody Frenchman. The perfect revenge, brother. The ultimate betrayal. Now you know how it feels.”
Alex braced both hands against the mantel, resting his forehead on the cool green marble between. “I do believe you’re enjoying this, baby brother,” he groaned.
“If I might point out,” Wrexham interjected, “before the pair of you go haring off to France, I believe we should consider the simpler problem of Percy Markham.”
Alex raised his head, pain tightening into slow, deadly anger. “By all means, Markham first,” he agreed calmly. “Then Beaufort. I’ll kill them both.”
“Can’t do that, brother,” said Tony. “I might become the heir, and it doesn’t suit me. Even a Marquess can’t go round murdering people. Besides, killing’s too good for Markham. If we put our heads together, I’m sure we can come up with something infinitely more satisfying.
As the Earl of Wrexham watched in fascination, he saw the veneer of civilization drop away from the Marquess of Harborough, the lion of society sharpening into a beast of prey. Never again would he wonder how an English nobleman had survived years of violent, underhanded warfare in the mountains of Spain.
“I have an idea,” said Blas the Bastard.
P A R T I I I
Chapter Twenty-eight
Paris was a seething cauldron. The restored monarch Louis XVIII and his supporters scattered sparks of gaiety through a city still simmering with the exiled Napoleon’s egalitarian ideals. The smouldering fires of conflict haloed the beauty of Bonaparte’s architectural triumphs even as violence bubbled beneath the surface, bursting daily into explosions of desperation and death.
Returning French officers, rather than slinking home in defeat, strutted the sidewalks of Paris, quite literally cutting a swath through the colorful ranks of the British, Austrian, Russian, and Prussian officers who had the temerity to think they had won the war. While Byron’s Louis the Fat held court, the streets of Paris echoed with the riotous living of thousands of men who had fought through twenty years of war and now found themselves plunged into the boredom of sudden peace. To many, continuing the war on a personal level seemed completely logical. Challenges from the French were issued with gusto and panache. With frightening regularity, bodies began to pile up in the Bois de Boulogne and the streets near popular restaurants and cafes.
On the fourth day of May the new British ambassador to France rode into Paris astride a white horse. While those wearing the white cockade of Louis XVIII went wild with joy, belligerent French soldiers ground their teeth in anger and the citizens of Paris, ever fickle, turned out to view the spectacle. The triumphal ride down the Champs-Élysées had been a long time coming. Field Marshal, Lord Arthur Wellesley, newly made Duke of Wellington, had arrived at last in the heart of France.
The Hôtel Beaufort was an imposing mansion on the west side of the city, overlooking the near wilderness of the Bois de Boulogne. Cat, who was sorely in need of the peace and solace of natural beauty, pulled a chair to the open window of her spacious bedchamber and gazed out over the vast sea of trees freshly tipped with the soft new green of spring. It looked so peaceful. Yet each of the two days since her arrival there had been sounds of gunfire. Pistols. How many other duels had gone unnoticed? Auguste Beaufort had told her the French preferred swords, scorning the English officers who usually chose pistols for the daily round of impromptu duels.
Cat shivered. Rejecting thoughts of death, she concentrated on the reality of the life which was passing by outside her window. For the moment, it seemed everyone in Paris was out to enjoy the burgeoning beauty of spring. Elegant people in open carriages, mounted on horses, or sauntering along on foot. Some men wore stylish jackets and trousers; far more shone in an almost limitless variety of military colors. Ironically, among the bevies of gracious ladies only the English still wore the columnar fashion set by Josephine Bonaparte. The women of France were easily distinguished by the new fashion of bouffant sleeves, bell skirts and enormous sweeping hats which towered above their heads like a crazily canted windmills. Cat’s mouth quirked up at the corners as one of the great hats was swept away on the wind. A Hussar chased after it, his blue pelisse flying in the wind. A long-drawn sigh shook Cat’s small frame as the officer retrieved the hat and returned it, with a bow and a smile, to a grateful young lady. A few moments of conversation, the Hussar offered his arm, and off they went, the scent of romance drifting clearly on the breeze.
There must have been a time, Cat thought, when she was that young and gay, without a care beyond the loss of a hat or admiration on a handsome face. And now . . . now she had made a complete wreck of her life. Letting stubborn, foolish pride tear out her heart. And, perhaps worst of all, she had thoughtlessly endangered a friend.
They had left England so hastily there had been no time to analyze what she was doing. She knew only she must go. Call it escape. Running away. Cowardice. The opportunity presented itself and, right or wrong, she had taken it. Cat’s recollections of the past few days were a fragmented kaleidoscope of scenes: André crying, “Papa!” Tears misting the handsome colonel’s deep blue eyes. Blanca’s face when Cat told her they were leaving for France. The sheer excitement of the moonless journey back to France on a ship, now empty, which reeked of brandy. Standing at the rail and watching England fade into the blackness of the night. Feeling blackness creep into her soul.
Since her arrival in Paris, Cat had tried to assure herself that what she had done was logical. Sensible. She could no longer fight the forces ranged against her. To have the ton believe she had played the whore to both brothers was . . . was beyond her ability to stand and fight. She had lost the heart for battle.
So she ran away. Abandoning England and its inhabitants in the dark of night to flee to an enemy country with an enemy officer at her side. What would Thomas say if he could see her now?
With magnificent savoir faire Auguste Beaufort had simply accepted that Catherine Perez wished to leave England and he would be responsible for her, not only on the voyage but for her stay in Paris, offering the hospitality of his parents’ home. Anything, anything at all, would be granted to the woman who had reunited André Beaufort with his father and grandparents.
So here she was, a guest of Emile and Marguerite Beaufort, in a household run by a major domo named François Gautier who reminded Cat all too poignantly of Luis Cardoso. She and Blanca had a spacious suite of rooms. Bess Fielding found herself taking precedence over all the household servants save the housekeeper and Madame Beaufort’s own maid. Rosalía Sanchez was overwhelmed by the luxury of her room off the nursery—and gratified to discover her Portuguese was far more readily understood in France than among the English who seemed to have no gift for languages at all. In fact, one of Cat’s few reservations about their situation in the Beaufort household was a strong suspicion André was likely to become the most overindulged child in Paris. And the certainty her relationship with Auguste Beaufort required clarification.
As the wondrous beauty of Paris provided nothing more than a thin veneer over the seething conflicts bloodying the streets, so their physical well-being in the Hôtel Beaufort was mere camouflage. Auguste Beaufort was not yet aware he owed a far greater debt. That the man who had rescued his son from the battlefield was not dead but very much alive. And very likely on his way to Paris to add another Frenchman to the list of those he had already dispatched into the hereafter.