by Jane Feather
Sylvia came outside with her as she saddled the pony. She gave Alex a parcel, wrapped in silk and tied with blue ribbon. “Don’t open this until you get to London, darling,” she said, smiling as Alex looked at her askance. “Promise?”
Alex nodded. “Promise, but what is it?”
“Wait and see,” Sylvia responded, her smile a little misty.
Alex tucked the parcel under her saddle bow and rode away, Matty waving from the kitchen door, Sylvia standing at the back gate, hugging her shawl around her, looking suddenly very frail and forlorn. Alex swallowed her tears and cantered up the hill onto the heath. She rode fast back to the town, left the pony in the livery stable, and walked back up the High Street to the Angel.
Peregrine was standing in the doorway, watching for her as he had been for most of the past hour. As she reached the inn, he stepped forward. “Wait here, while I make sure no one’s around.” He moved back into the hall. The taproom door was ajar, and the sound of voices came from within, but he could see no one in the hall or on the stairs. He beckoned to Alex, standing just outside the inn’s front door, then stood himself in the doorway to the taproom, blocking the hall from view.
Alex darted forward and ran up the stairs, her heart beating fast as she fitted her key into the lock of her chamber door. It opened soundlessly, and she whisked herself inside, closing and locking it behind her. A quick glance around showed her that nothing had been disturbed, thanks to Peregrine. Once again, she cursed her own carelessness in not thinking to explain her seclusion to the landlord before she’d escaped. For all she knew, the landlord had a second key to the door and could well have used it if he thought something was amiss.
Well, it hadn’t happened, she told herself, and there was no point chastising herself further. She undressed swiftly, folded her costume and packed it at the bottom of her portmanteau together with Sylvia’s silken parcel, then reluctantly began to dress herself again in Mistress Hathaway’s dowdy gown. She had done away with the back pad last evening, so she could leave it off again, but her face was a different matter. She peered at her reflection in the mirror. What could she get away with?
Perhaps if she just shaded in the birthmark below her right cheekbone, she could forget for this evening the faint aging lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The gray streaks in her hair had vanished in the last couple of days. The paste she made of dampened chalk never lasted very long, but if she wore a cap this evening, she could also forget that. She had several matronly caps, although she rarely wore them, but one would hide her hair completely for tonight.
The mob cap had a full puffed crown and side lappets. She tied it under her chin in a neat bow and almost laughed aloud at her image. The clear glass pince-nez that she usually wore on a ribbon around her neck she now perched on her nose. The effect was perfect. She looked every inch the fussy spinster lady she purported to be.
She put on her black silk mittens and left her chamber, locking the door again behind her, and made her way to the private parlor. It was deserted when she entered, but the table was laid for dinner, and the fire was freshly made up. She poured herself sherry from the decanter on the side table and sat down beside the fire to await her dinner companion.
Peregrine came in after a very few minutes. He had changed into a red velvet coat with shining silver buttons, black velvet breeches, white stockings, and black shoes with silver buckles. Lace edged his shirt collar and cuffs, and his golden hair was fastened at his nape with a matching silver buckle.
“I give you good evening, Alexandra.” He bowed, and then his eyes widened as he took in her appearance. “Dear God in heaven, what have you got on your head? Take it off, woman. It’s revolting.”
“But appropriate, don’t you agree?” she returned with a demure smile. “I think it rather fetching.”
“I thought we’d agreed you would appear as yourself this evening.” He crossed the room to her chair, standing over her in a manner that she found rather intimidating.
“No, I agreed to no such thing, sir. I am known in these parts, and I might well be recognized.”
“Be that as it may, this will not do. It’ll put me off my dinner, and I happen to be rather hungry.” He leaned over her and swiftly untied the ribbons beneath her chin, lifting the cap clear. “Give me those ludicrous pince-nez.” He took them off the end of her nose and held them up, peering through them. “They’re just plain glass.”
“Well, of course they are,” she retorted. “I don’t need them to see with.”
He tossed them together with the mob cap onto a settle at the far side of the parlor, then stood looking down at her, his hands on his hips. “The maid who serves us is far too young to have known you before. You’ll be quite safe in here.”
“I don’t care to take risks.”
“Don’t tell me you believe this charade is not a risk in itself,” he declared sharply, turning aside to pour himself a glass of sherry. “Every moment you play this part, you are at risk. Are you going to maintain it in London?”
His tone shocked her with its vehemence. He was right, of course he was, but did he imagine that she wasn’t aware of the risks every moment of every day? “I don’t know what I’ll do,” she responded, trying to keep her tone moderate. She hadn’t decided as yet, since it depended on whether the retainers in Berkeley Square were part of the establishment who had known her in her youth on her very rare visits to London. If Stephen and Maude had hired new servants, she could occasionally appear as herself.
“Well, I’m assuming that the people you intend to contact about the sale of the library are people from your previous existence. Friends of your father’s, I believe you said. Won’t they be expecting to see your father’s daughter?”
“Not necessarily,” she said, turning away from his questioning gaze.
“And how is that?”
“That is no concern of yours. Once we reach Berkeley Square, your self-imposed task for Sir Stephen will be completed, and you may go your way and leave me to go mine.”
He looked at her in frustration. “For such an intelligent woman, you are being remarkably obtuse,” he declared, sounding as exasperated as he felt. “You know that’s not going to happen, so why don’t you just accept it, and we can plot our next moves accordingly?”
“I am not in the least obtuse,” she snapped. “You are, though. I don’t want your help, and I don’t want your company. Can’t you get that through your head?” Even as she spoke, she knew she was lying to both of them. Angry tears pricked behind her eyes, and she blinked them away furiously. Why do I want to cry all of a sudden?
Peregrine set down his glass and came back to her chair. He bent and took her own glass, setting it aside, then lifted her to her feet, pushing up her chin with his thumbs. The sheen of tears in the gray eyes increased his exasperation. She didn’t mean what she was saying; she wanted to be with him as much as he wanted to be with her. “Listen to me, Alexandra. I find you irresistible, God help me. I don’t know what sin I’ve committed to deserve it, but ’tis a fact, and I am learning to live with it. And you must, too.”
The outrageous statement, the roughness of his tone, winded her, and before she could draw breath again, he had brought his mouth down to hers, and she felt as if she were losing all contact with her self.
The boundaries of her body were melting, merging into his, and her legs no longer seemed capable of supporting her. The only kisses she had ever experienced had been chaste and familial, and she seemed now to be entering some world of sensation for which she had no name. And then he raised his head and stepped away, just as the door opened behind them to admit the maid with a tray of covered dishes.
Alexandra spun away towards the fire, pressing her fingers to her lips, which seemed twice their usual size. Her cheeks were burning, and her legs were still quivering in the most ridiculous fashion. Behind her, Peregrine was talking to the maid in his own perfectly normal, perfectly composed voice, and when the door finally closed
on the girl, he said calmly, “Won’t you come to the table, ma’am?”
She turned slowly. He was smiling, and it was not his usual smile; it held some knowledge that he was inviting her to share. That intensity was in his eyes again, seeming to penetrate her very soul. She moistened her lips and moved to the table as if in a trance.
He held out her chair for her, pushed it in, and passed her a napkin. Then he filled their wine glasses and took his own seat opposite her. “May I serve you some soup?”
“Thank you.” She stared down at the white tablecloth for a moment. Could he possibly have meant it? No, it was absurd; either he was playing with her, or he was quite mad. She took refuge in renewed anger, demanding fiercely, “Why would you take advantage of me in that fashion? I thought you a gentleman, at the very least, but you’re a cad. I’m a lone woman, unprotected, and you think I’m fair game. Well, you are mistaken, sir.”
Peregrine gave her an incredulous look. “Take advantage of you? Sweet heaven, that’s rich, coming from one who’s taking advantage of everyone she comes across by perpetrating this massive hoax for some nefarious purpose that I can’t begin to imagine.”
He shook his head vigorously. “No, I most definitely don’t think you’re fair game, and I most certainly didn’t take advantage of you.” He passed her a bowl of soup. “You enjoyed that kiss every bit as much as I did, so don’t pretend, Alexandra. I don’t know why I find you so bewitching. God knows you do everything in your power to make yourself as unalluring as possible, and you’re thoroughly obstreperous, and your tongue’s so sharp I’m amazed you haven’t cut yourself, but somehow none of that matters. I’m in love with you.” He shrugged, shaking his head with a degree of bewilderment. “ ’Tis thoroughly inconvenient.”
Alexandra listened in astonishment to this most un-lover-like declaration, and all she could manage was a murmured “Oh.”
Peregrine picked up his spoon and began to eat his soup, his expression still one of mingled annoyance and bewilderment. After a moment, aware that she was sitting stock-still, staring down at her bowl, he said, “Is there something the matter with the soup? I find it quite tasty. D’you not care for mushrooms?”
“Oddly, I find you’ve killed my appetite,” she stated, finding her voice at last. “I can’t imagine why that should be. I am, of course, quite accustomed to receiving declarations of love from someone who also finds me unlovable.”
Peregrine laughed. “Absurd creature, I don’t find you in the least unlovable, even though I’m certain I should. Eat your soup, now.”
Alexandra took up her spoon. Her thoughts were so confused that she took refuge in the plain pedestrian activity of eating her dinner. The automatic motions of hand to bowl to mouth were somehow soothing. He had to be playing with her. Teasing her. Nothing he said made any sense, and she wouldn’t dignify it with an attempt to understand it.
After a few minutes, Perry remarked conversationally, “I seem to have effected a miracle. I appear to have rendered Mistress Alexandra speechless.”
“Far from it, sir,” she stated without expression. “I merely see little point in conducting a conversation with someone who insults my intelligence.”
He shook his head, buttering a piece of bread. “No, no, Alexandra. I would never do that. I have far too much respect for your intelligence. However, I do find myself somewhat apprehensive about the purpose to which you are at present devoting that intelligence.”
This topic was a lot safer than declarations of love. “Why would you assume ’tis a nefarious purpose?” She finished her soup and took a sip of wine, her composure somewhat restored.
“Well, tell me ’tis not, and I’ll accept your word,” he challenged, watching her expression.
And how could she do that with any honesty? Alex fiddled with the salt cellar as she contemplated her answer. In truth, she could understand his assumption. What possible legitimate reason could she have for this elaborate masquerade? But in her heart, she didn’t consider her reason to be anything but just.
Finally, she said firmly, “I do not consider my reasons to be reprehensible. Quite the opposite.”
The maid’s return with the second course prevented Perry’s responding, and when she had left them with roast chicken and buttered parsnips, he turned the conversation. “We should leave soon after dawn in the morning, if you wish to reach Basingstoke by nightfall.”
“Of course.” She toyed with her chicken and then put down her fork, pushing back her chair. She felt mangled, twisted and knotted inside. “I’m going to bed.”
He made no attempt to stop her, merely rose with her and went to open the door. Before lifting the latch, he laid a hand on her arm. “I meant what I said, Alexandra. I love you. For better or worse.” His smile was a little rueful. “I won’t press you for a response, but I’d appreciate it if you gave it some thought.” He lightly kissed her brow and opened the door. “Good night.”
“Good night.” The automatic response was little more than a whisper, and she hurried for the stairs and the sanctuary of her own chamber.
Chapter Eleven
Peregrine made no further mention of his inconvenient feelings the next day or during their overnight stay at the Hare and Hounds in Basingstoke. He was a charming and attentive companion, and Alexandra at first found this more bewildering than his extraordinary declaration . . . a declaration that had terrified her and thrilled her in equal parts. She had lain awake wondering how she should respond. She was still confused by her own feelings towards him. She couldn’t think clearly about anything but the next step in her plan, and the emotional upheaval Peregrine had brought into her life didn’t help at all. Every time she thought she had managed to push it to the background, the question would creep back into the forefront of her mind, obscuring the clarity of her mission: Do I feel the same way about him? Even if she did, what could she do about it? It wasn’t practical to be in love with anyone, let alone with the Honorable Peregrine Sullivan.
His demeanor didn’t change at all throughout the remainder of the journey, and when they arrived in Berkeley Square in the late afternoon of the second day, Alex was no closer to unraveling the impossible tangle of needs, desires, and hard reality.
The double-fronted mansion was just as she remembered it, although she had not visited it in six years. Peregrine lifted the brass lion’s-head door knocker and let it fall with a resounding clang, while the postilion carried the tea chest of books up the steps. A few minutes later, the door was opened, and an elderly man in a baize apron peered myopically at Peregrine.
Alexandra, who was still sitting in the chaise waiting to see who would welcome her, felt a rush of relief. This man was unknown to her. Her father’s London steward had been a vigorous gentleman in his middle years, ably assisted by his equally brisk and energetic wife.
Peregrine nodded to the man and came back to the chaise. He opened the door. “They are expecting you, it seems. But I wouldn’t give much for the quality of the hospitality. The old man tells me the house is still in dust covers, and there’s only himself and a Mistress Dougherty to keep things ticking over.”
“I will need little enough hospitality,” Alex said, stepping down to the street. “I’m quite capable of looking after myself.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Perry agreed with a half smile. Mistress Alexandra was one of the most competent young women he’d ever had dealings with. He escorted her into the hall where the caretaker waited.
“Name’s Billings, mistress.” The old man introduced himself with a somewhat creaky bow. “Mistress Dougherty is still airing out the yellow bedchamber, but we’ve a fire goin’ in the breakfast parlor. Reckon that’ll do ye for sittin’ and the like.” He gestured to a door at the rear of the hall.
Alex looked around the large hall. It smelled musty, and the surfaces were thick with dust. Her father would have been outraged. The yellow bedchamber was at the back of the house, away from the street, she remembered. It was one of the smallest ch
ambers but easier to air and to warm. It would certainly do, and the prospect of having the house almost to herself filled her with a sublime sense of liberation. There was no one she had to pretend to. If Mistress Dougherty was as ancient and creaky as Billings, then they’d barely notice her comings and goings. She could manage a whole week of peace and quiet apart from conducting her necessary business, and that she could do mostly by correspondence.
Peregrine was watching her, and he could almost see her slough the tension like a snake shedding its skin. She stood straighter, lifted her chin, and smiled the genuine smile that had captivated him on the rare occasions he’d seen it.
“So, I will leave you to settle in, and I will come for you at six o’clock this evening,” he informed her.
She looked at him, startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me. I will come at six, and we shall dine in the Piazza. No one will know you there, so I trust you won’t condemn me to an evening in the company of the librarian?” He raised an eyebrow in question.
“I don’t wish to dine abroad.”
“Nonsense, of course you do. I can feel what you’re feeling, Alexandra. You’re free for the moment from whatever is chaining you, and you may as well enjoy it to the full. I’ll be here at six.” On which statement, he bowed and took his leave.
Alex stood still in the dusty hall, staring after him. The door closed, and she shook her head, trying to dispel the increasingly frequent sensation of being adrift on a sea of confusion.
“What d’ye want doin’ wi’ that chest, then, ma’am?”
The retainer’s question brought her back to her surroundings. “Would you take it into the breakfast parlor, please, Billings?”
He looked at it doubtfully, and she said swiftly, “I daresay ’tis too heavy for you. Is there anyone to help?”
“Aye, there’s the lad.” He turned and shuffled towards the door to the back regions, leaving Alex where she was. She made her way to the breakfast parlor. It was a small room that she remembered as being warm and cheerful. The fire in the grate was sullen, and a gust of smoke blew into the room from a chimney that clearly needed sweeping. She picked up a cushion from the sofa and pummeled it, averting her head from the cloud of dust.