An Unsuitable Bride

by Jane Feather

  He hadn’t considered Alexandra’s situation in that light before. “With one difference,” he pointed out drily. “My brothers and I are not engaged in any criminal activity.”

  Alex flushed angrily. “That is not just. I am merely claiming what’s mine and my sister’s. Some quirk of the law took it away from us, and I am getting it back.”

  “And by doing so, you are breaking that very law,” he said, wishing he had not started on this track again but unable to stop once he’d started. “It may be an unjust law, but it is the law of the land. Attempting to break it makes you a criminal, Alexandra. And I ask you again, give it up now, before anything bad happens. You need never return to Combe Abbey. Leave the books in Berkeley Square, take up your real identity, and show yourself to the world as my wife. I swear to you on my family’s honor, Sylvia will be provided for until her dying day.”

  Her mouth was set in the stubborn line he recognized and dreaded. “Until your uncle dies, and until you can be sure that his will is a true one, you cannot make such a promise. Oh, I might be willing to cast my own fortunes in with yours but not my sister’s. I will see her independently established, and there’s no point at all in your continuing to flog a very dead horse.”

  Perry sighed and closed his eyes in frustration. He knew he should have kept his thoughts to himself, at least until they had no other distractions. He had no intention of giving up, but now was not the moment for forceful persuasion. “Very well. The horse is dead.” He leaned to look out through the window aperture and said in a very different tone, “We are nearly there. How do you feel?”

  “Curious, actually.” Alex accepted the change of tone and subject with some relief. “But I do have it right, I am not really pretending to be a boy, am I?”

  “No. Just follow my lead. And if he wants me to leave you alone with him, just trust your instincts. I begin to think they are probably infallible when it comes to acting a part.” The carriage came to a stop as he spoke.

  Alex stepped out onto the wide thoroughfare of the Strand. They were in front of a large double-fronted mansion, its windows for the most part shuttered. “It looks uninhabited.”

  “It is, almost. My uncle, his valet Louis, Father Cosgrove, and a handful of servants are the only occupants. Bradley does not entertain; indeed, he keeps to his own chamber almost exclusively.” He raised the brass knocker and let it crash back against the brass plate with a resounding clang.

  The door was opened eventually by a liveried gentleman in a powdered wig. He bowed. “Good afternoon, Master Peregrine, sir.” His gaze flicked over Perry’s companion but did not linger and showed no surprise.

  “Is my uncle receiving, Louis?”

  “He is alone at present. I will ascertain, sir. If you and the . . . um . . . young gentleman would care to step up to the antechamber . . .”

  “Thank you.” Peregrine stepped into the hall, Alexandra on his heels.

  It was a huge, gloomy, pillared expanse of marble and gilt, and Alex looked around with unabashed curiosity. She followed the servant’s measured progress up a wide, curving staircase to a square landing. Louis opened a set of double doors and progressed across another gloomy expanse, crowded with furniture and objets d’art, to open another set of doors at the far side. He stepped beyond them and turned to close them gently behind him.

  “What an extraordinary place.” Alexandra looked around the chamber. Every surface was covered in objects, strange foreign pieces for the most part. She began to examine them more closely and then looked in astonishment at Peregrine, who was watching her with a mischievous grin.

  “Amazing, aren’t they?”

  “ ’Tis hard to believe this is even possible.” She bent for a closer examination of a copper urn. The pedestal was carved with an intricate series of perfectly rendered figures all engaged in some form of sexual congress. “How could they contort their bodies like that?”

  “According to the viscount, the Indians and the Japanese are renowned for their imagination when it comes to varying the customary positions,” he informed her with an assumption of gravity. He went over to a glass-enclosed bookcase and turned the tiny gold key in the lock. “Come and see this. My uncle is convinced that there isn’t another copy in the known world.”

  Alexandra came over to look as he reverently removed a folio of pages bound in calf’s skin. He laid it on the table and opened it up. “What language is it in?” She peered at it.

  “Sanskrit, according to my uncle. He maintains ’tis a manual on the art of sexual activity. I gather he stole it from some temple. I don’t understand the language, but some of the illustrations speak for themselves.”

  Alexandra gazed in awed fascination, turning the pages delicately. “ ’Tis beautiful but a little shocking.”

  “Not really, compared with the obscenities on offer in the kiosks in the Piazza,” Perry replied. “They have no redeeming features at all. This is, as you say, utterly exquisite.”

  “Does it have a name?”

  He frowned, trying to remember. “Something like the Kama . . . Kama Sutra, that’s it. But ’tis one of a kind, if my uncle is to be believed.” He turned as the doors opened and Louis slipped soundlessly into the antechamber. “Will my uncle receive us, Louis?”

  “For a few minutes, sir. He wished to know the name of your companion.”

  “Mistress Player.”

  Louis bowed and went back into the room. A minute later, he came out and held open the doors. “His lordship will receive you now, Master Peregrine.”

  Peregrine went a little ahead of Alexandra, wanting to shield her from the initial blast of his uncle’s attention. Viscount Bradley sat beside a blazing fire, wrapped in fur rugs despite the stuffiness of the overheated chamber. The velvet curtains were drawn tight at the windows, blocking any possibility of a draft, and the room was lit by numerous candles, whose wavering flames sent strange shapes across the paneled walls.

  Alexandra’s first thought was that she had walked into some elaborate stage set prepared for a sacrilegious ritual of some kind. The images in the antechamber were probably responsible for the fancy, she thought as she gazed around with unabashed curiosity. Only as she looked more closely did she see the black-robed figure hunched over a writing table in the far corner of the room, as far from the fire as it was possible to get.

  “So, come to see how the dying’s going, have you, boy?” the old man rasped from the depths of his rugs. His hands, long and surprisingly elegant, rested on the fur across his knees. A massive ruby carbuncle shot bloodred light from the fire’s fierce blaze.

  “Merely a courtesy call, sir,” Perry said easily. “May I introduce my companion, Mistress Player?” He turned and gestured towards Alexandra, who instantly focused her attention on the old man and stepped up beside Peregrine.

  She bowed with admirable aplomb. “Your lordship, thank you for receiving me.”

  His eyes were sharp, belying the general appearance of extreme old age, and their gaze grew even brighter as he took in her appearance. “Well, well, well. You Blackwaters never cease to amaze me. You have a fancy for laddish play, then, nephew?” He gave a crack of laughter and was instantly convulsed with a fit of coughing. Peregrine moved to his side at the same moment the black-robed priest appeared with a goblet of brandy.

  “Give it here.” The old man seized the goblet from the priest and drank it down. The coughing subsided, and he leaned his head against the brocaded back of his deep chair and took a labored and stertorous breath. After a moment, Peregrine left his side and came back to Alexandra.

  “So, is it true, boy? Ye’ve a fancy for arse play?” the old man asked with a lascivious chuckle. “Come here, girl, let me look at you.”

  Alexandra came forward and stood in front of his chair, unmoving, meeting the challenge in the sharp eyes. “Turn around, let’s see what you’ve got.” He made an imperative twirling movement with his finger, and she turned slowly, her eyes meeting Peregrine’s. He nodded imperc
eptibly and winked.

  “Well, nice enough, I suppose. A bit skinny, though,” was the viscount’s eventual judgment. “What nunnery are you from, girl? The only one I remember who specialized in such arts was old Abbess Liza on Suffolk Street.”

  “No nunnery, my lord,” she responded with perfect composure. “I am my own mistress.”

  “Are you, now?” He swung his lorgnette on its velvet ribbon, regarding her with renewed interest. “Free enterprise, eh?”

  “If you would call it so, my lord.”

  “And where do you conduct your operations? Not, I’ll hazard, from behind a pillar in the colonnade.” He raised his lorgnette to examine her more closely.

  “Indeed not, sir. I choose my clientele with some care. I have rather high standards.” She heard Peregrine beside her draw a swift breath and controlled an inconvenient bubble of laughter. For some reason, she was enjoying herself.

  The viscount chuckled, a deep, volcanic rumble from within the swathing rugs. “Of what family are you, girl? You’re too well spoken to be ill-bred.”

  “I have no family, my lord. I fend for myself.”

  “Nonsense. Everyone has a family. Who was your father?”

  Alex smiled. “I have none, my lord. I have no family name. I am a bastard.”

  “Mmm . . . is that so?” He clicked his fingers over his shoulder. “More brandy, you black crow.”

  The priest came forward with the decanter and silently filled the viscount’s goblet, before retreating to his corner. Bradley took a deep draught and leaned back, regarding his nephew’s companion with a skeptical frown. “So, Mistress Player is a bastard who plies an independent trade. How have you kept yourself free of the abbesses’ clutches? Those ladies do not tolerate independent trade on their doorsteps.”

  “My trade does not interfere with theirs, my lord. I make certain of it.”

  Peregrine decided that it was time to step in. “I think that is sufficient catechism, Uncle Bradley, do you not?”

  “Well, that rather depends on Mistress Player,” the viscount said. “That is the name you have chosen, girl, or one that was given to you?”

  “ ’Tis my stage name, my lord,” Alex responded with a cool smile. “Since I have no right to a family name, I choose my own according to the circumstances in which I find myself.”

  She was surpassing herself, Peregrine thought. He hadn’t expected ever to be surprised by Alexandra again, but he had been wrong.

  Bradley gave a sharp crack of amusement. “Tell me about these other circumstances.”

  Alexandra shrugged. “Why, my lord, in order to maintain my independence, I find myself in many situations where I must assume a part. I have many to choose from, and I choose whichever is most appropriate to the circumstances at hand.”

  “A mountebank, no less,” he stated with satisfaction. “A roving player, a counterfeit.” He chuckled richly. “And light-fingered to boot, I’ll lay odds.” He took another swallow of brandy. “Best watch your purse, nephew, when you’ve enjoyed yourself.”

  “ ’Tis possible, my lord, that you mistake me,” Alexandra said with a small bow. “But then again, ’tis possible that you are perfectly correct in your assumption.”

  His eyes were suddenly hooded. He looked at Peregrine and then back to Alexandra. “Go away,” he said peevishly, waving a hand at them. “I’m tired of this banter. Take your whore, boy, and leave me.”

  Peregrine bowed. “As you wish, sir. Forgive the intrusion, but I wished to present my affianced bride for your approval.”

  “Did you, now?” the old man muttered. “Did you, indeed?”

  Peregrine gestured to Alexandra. She bowed to the viscount. “Thank you for receiving me, my lord.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he rasped. “Just take that pretty little arse out of here. ’Tis a temptation in which I can no longer indulge, and I don’t care to be reminded of it.”

  Alex heard herself say, “Should you ever change your mind, my lord, I’d be very happy to oblige you.”

  In the next breath, Peregrine had whisked her from the chamber. “What the devil, Alexandra?” He passed a distracted hand over his brow. “That was a step too far.”

  “I don’t see why,” she protested. “I was playing a part, and it seemed the right line.” The door from the landing opened as Peregrine was still deciding whether to laugh or not.

  “Perry, have you been paying a visit to the Gorgon’s den?” Jasper came into the antechamber. He was in riding dress and tossed his high-crowned beaver hat onto a side table together with his whip. He took in Alexandra’s presence with a raised eyebrow and a smile, before he bowed.

  “Your most obedient, ma’am.”

  Despite the different coloring, Alex knew instantly that she was in the presence of Peregrine’s oldest brother. She bowed. “Your powers of observation are acute, my lord. I would curtsy, but in my present guise . . .” She passed an expressive hand down her body.

  “Quite so,” Jasper agreed. “An introduction, Peregrine?”

  “I beg your pardon.” Perry took Alexandra’s hand. “Mistress Alexandra Douglas . . . the Earl of Blackwater.”

  It was a curious shock to be introduced once again by her real name, particularly dressed as she was. Alexandra proffered a faint smile. Another bow seemed superfluous.

  “So, how was the old man?” Jasper indicated the doors to the viscount’s chamber with a jerk of his head.

  “Not much different,” Peregrine said. “But Alexandra met him thrust for thrust.”

  “I congratulate you, ma’am.” Jasper smiled at Alexandra. “Meeting Viscount Bradley is not for the fainthearted.”

  “I suspect, my lord, that you and your brothers can only succeed in your enterprise with women who show no frailty in your uncle’s company,” she said.

  “You are correct, Mistress Douglas. And Perry is indeed fortunate to have found his own Boadicea,” Jasper said. “You must meet my wife. Clarissa will be delighted if you would come to dinner this evening. Can that be done?” He addressed the question to Alexandra rather than Peregrine, a fact she noted with a degree of pleasure.

  “I have some business to transact this afternoon, my lord, but if Peregrine is free this evening, then I would be honored to accept your invitation.”

  “I am free,” Perry said with a dry smile. “I am entirely at your disposal, Alexandra, once you have completed your business.”

  “Good. Then we shall see you in Upper Brook Street. Clarissa will be delighted. She detests Gluck . . .” He turned as the valet emerged from the bedchamber. “Is my uncle ready to receive me, Louis?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Jasper bowed again to Alexandra, patted his brother’s shoulder, and went into the bedchamber.

  “What has Gluck got to do with it?” Alexandra asked. The last few minutes had vanished in a whirlwind, and she was still trying to grasp the details.

  “Not sure,” Perry said. “I gather the opera house is putting on a performance of his Don Juan. Maybe Clarissa was expected to attend.”

  Alexandra decided that was answer enough. She looked anxiously at the tall clock as they went out onto the square landing. It was already past one-thirty. “I must get back to Berkeley Square, Perry. It takes at least half an hour to put on my other disguise.”

  She didn’t miss the flash of distaste that crossed his face as he hardened his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, putting a hand on his arm. “But I must do this. I am playing your game; allow me to play my own, too.”

  For a moment, Peregrine stood at the head of the stairs, his nostrils flaring, his eyes closing with his frustration. Why couldn’t she see that her own charade was now unnecessary? And yet he had to admit that it was Alexandra’s skill at performing that was going to ensure the successful completion of his own obligation to his brothers.

  “We’ll be in Stratton Street in a quarter of an hour,” he said. “You can change out of those breeches and be in Berkeley
Square by two-thirty.”

  “Thank you,” she responded. What else was there to say?

  In the quiet of her bedchamber in Berkeley Square, Alexandra assembled her disguise. She fastened the pad between her shoulder blades and was surprised to find how quickly her body resumed its hunch. After so many months of wearing the pad, it seemed that her body adapted instantly. She donned the dull gray gown and sat at the wavery mirror to paint her face. She decided against graying her hair. The lace cap would cover the rich chestnut, and there was no Peregrine to snatch it from her head.

  The memory brought a tiny smile of reminiscence. At least, he wouldn’t see her like this again. When she returned to Combe Abbey, he would not be there. She would complete her task, concentrating only on Sylvia’s portion, and within a few months, she would be free and able to assume her own identity as the wife of the Honorable Peregrine Sullivan.

  It was a prospect she hugged tightly to her as she made her way down to the breakfast parlor, trying to ignore the fact that her entire being now quailed at the prospect of returning to that existence. So much so that she was beginning to doubt her ability to assume that identity with the same utter conviction as before. And that struck terror into her heart.

  She laid out the precious volumes on the table in the breakfast parlor, and the feel of the books, the simple business of ordering them, restored her to Mistress Hathaway’s self. When the door knocker sounded precisely at three o’clock, she was ready to receive her first potential buyer.

  Andrew Langham was a young man of serious mien. He was dressed in somber hues and wore his mouse-brown hair in a severe queue pinned at the nape of his neck. He bowed to the librarian, who rose to greet him when Billings showed him somewhat unceremoniously into the breakfast parlor.

  “Mistress Hathaway. This is a pleasure.”

  “I trust you will find it so, Master Langham.” She gave him her hand as she dropped a responding curtsy. “Let me show you what I have.” She indicated the volumes laid out upon the table and took her place alongside them.