An Unsuitable Bride

by Jane Feather

  C.

  Alexandra threw her cloak around her shoulders and went out into what was now a persistent drizzle in search of a chair. She alighted at Upper Brook Street, and as soon as the butler admitted her, Clarissa came running down the stairs.

  “Oh, there you are. How nice. I was anticipating a very dull morning,” she said, kissing Alexandra on the cheek. “ ’Tis such a miserable day, and you’re all wet. Come into the library. Could you dry Mistress Douglas’s cloak and bring coffee?” she asked the butler with a smile.

  “At once, my lady.” The butler bowed before disappearing in stately fashion into the back regions with the visitor’s dripping cloak. Clarissa ushered Alexandra into the library.

  “There,” she said with an arm flung wide towards the shelves. “See what you can unearth, my dear. I doubt some of them on the top shelves have been dusted in a decade.”

  Alexandra laughed. “I’m accustomed to a little dust, and sometimes ’tis best if they’re valuable that they not be disturbed by rough hands.”

  Clarissa smiled and sat down by the fire, taking up her sewing. “I shall sit and sew while you explore, and we can chat if you feel like it.”

  “What are you sewing?” Alexandra moved a set of library steps up to the first bookcase.

  Clarissa flushed a little and held up the tiny garment she was embroidering.

  “Oh, a baby!” Alexandra cried. “You are with child, Clarissa?”

  The other woman nodded. “But ’tis still a secret. I am fairly certain, but I wish to wait a little longer before I tell Jasper.”

  “Oh, I can keep a secret,” Alexandra declared. “None better, believe me.”

  “Oh, I do,” Clarissa assured her with another smile. “But I’m guessing you will be glad when there is no longer a need for those secrets?”

  “With all my heart.” Alexandra stepped onto the ladder and reached up to the top shelf of books.

  “If ’tis any comfort, my dear, both Serena and I had our secrets that we had to keep for others’ sakes,” Clarissa said, keeping her eyes on her sewing. “We both know how hard it is.”

  “I am comforted,” Alex said sincerely. “And I thank you, Clarissa. The baby is wonderful news for you. I’m sure Lord Blackwater will be beside himself with joy.”

  “To be honest, I suspect he will become a mother hen and drive me to distraction,” Clarissa said with a rueful chuckle. “He’ll be asking me how I am, watching what I eat, constantly telling me to rest. I just know it.”

  “He doesn’t strike me as the fussy kind . . . ah, what have we here?” Alex slid a slender volume off the shelf, opening it delicately with the tip of a finger.

  Clarissa watched her, making no response to Alex’s comment. Alex was suddenly gone from the room in all but her physical form as she stood on the ladder, lips pursed, gently turning the fragile pages, and Clarissa waited patiently for her to return in full to her surroundings.

  The butler came in with a tray of coffee and little cakes, setting it down on a side table. “Will that be all, my lady?” He glanced curiously at the lady on the ladder as he spoke.

  “Yes, thank you.” Clarissa poured coffee into two shallow cups. She helped herself to one of the little cakes and sat back in her chair, nibbling it, watching Alexandra. After a moment, she ventured to say, “Have you found something of interest?”

  Alex seemed to have to shake herself to awareness. She looked up, blinking as if startled to discover that she was not alone. “Yes . . . yes, I believe so. If this is what I believe it to be, then ’tis certainly a treasure. I would be loath to part with it if I were Lord Blackwater.” She stepped off the ladder, carrying the book.

  “What is it?” Clarissa was intrigued. It was impossible not to be touched by Alexandra’s awe.

  Alex sat down on the sofa beside her and laid the book carefully on her lap. “I think it may be Francesco Petrarch’s Canzoniere, first published in Venice in the fourteenth century. There are very few copies left.” She turned the fine vellum with a fingertip. “I should really be wearing gloves.”

  Clarissa looked at the vellum page lying open on Alexandra’s lap. “I wish I read Italian.”

  “I would need to consult another bibliophile to be certain,” Alex said.

  “Whom would you ask?”

  The two women jumped, turning as one to the door, where Lord Blackwater stood in riding breeches and damp boots. “It seems you have found something of value, Alexandra?” He came into the library, closing the door behind him.

  “I think so,” she said. “But I will consult with either Lord Dewforth or Mr. Murdock, depending on which of them wins the battle for my father’s library.” Her mouth took a wry twist. “I daresay, if I am correct and they corroborate my opinion, then you would have your buyer on the spot.”

  Jasper nodded and went to the decanters on the sideboard. Clarissa hastily put her sewing away, exchanging a conspiratorial smile with Alex. “You’re back early from your riding, Jasper.”

  “Carlton’s horse threw a shoe, and with this rain, we called it a day before noon.” He poured a glass of claret and came back to the fire, standing in front of it, warming his backside. “Should I be encouraged by this find that there will be others, Alexandra, enough to return this family to full solvency?”

  She shook her head. “It would be extraordinary to find more than one such treasure, sir. As far as I can see, there is nothing like this on the lower shelves, but I will look at the other top shelves. ’Tis always possible. Was one of your ancestors a bibliophile, do you know?”

  Jasper gave a short laugh. “No, reprobates, the lot of ’em, as far as I know. Of course, they were all prudish and prim as nuns on the surface, married stiff-necked women who spent more time on their knees in church than they did in their husbands’ beds, and turned a blind eye to whatever their lords and masters were up to outside the family. But woe betide anyone who broke the rules publicly and threatened to bring the family name into disrepute.”

  Alexandra would have laughed, except that she realized his lordship was in deadly earnest, his voice full of angry disgust. “That’s why your uncle wishes you to make these unusual marriages?”

  “In a nutshell. His own early love was forbidden him, and unlike his brothers, ever afterwards he made no attempt to pretend that he was anything but a rakehell and a debaucher, as they all were underneath. ’Tis my opinion that this ridiculous will is designed to avenge himself. That and his filthy memoir,” Jasper added with a grimace.

  Alex nodded. “Perry said something of the kind but not quite so succinctly. I think I understand it better now.”

  “ ’Tis good that you do,” Jasper stated. “This is not a family to enter into with your eyes half shut.”

  “Jasper, there’s no need to sound so bitter,” Clarissa protested gently. “We and your brothers are our own family. Oh, ’tis necessary to pay court to the aunts and uncles on occasion, but ’tis not a very great trial, Alex. You mustn’t be put off by Jasper’s jaundiced view.”

  “No, indeed, you must not,” Jasper agreed, shrugging off his momentary bitterness. “Clarissa is quite right. My brothers and I are creating our own branch of the family, with our own values.” An almost gleeful smile lightened his expression. “In fact, much as I hate to admit it, we have much more kinship with Uncle Bradley than we do with any of the rest of ’em.”

  It was early afternoon when Alex left Upper Brook Street with Jasper in his curricle. She carried with her the Canzoniere carefully wrapped in silk. It was the only treasure she had found on her search through the shelves, but its worth should fill a considerable hole in the Blackwater coffers. Jasper drew rein outside the house in Berkeley Square and turned to his passenger. “So, if we do not see you before, Alexandra, we will see you on your wedding morning. We look forward to it most eagerly.”

  Once again, she felt caught up in this tide of inevitability. They were all so anxious for her to play her part, so ready and willing to accept her into thei
r close-knit circle, but she wasn’t ready yet.

  “As do I, my lord,” she said, stepping down to the street. He handed his tiger the reins and jumped down beside her.

  “I’m certain you understand the importance of this, my dear,” he said as he banged the knocker. “There is a degree of urgency.”

  “I understand that, my lord.” She curtsied briefly as Billings opened the door, and she stepped quickly into the hall, only breathing a sigh of relief when she heard it close behind her. “Any letters for me, Billings?” She drew off her gloves, aware that her hands were quivering a little.

  “Aye, there’s two of ’em.” He gestured to the dingy salver on the table, where two wafer-sealed letters lay.

  “Thank you.” She scooped up the letters. “I trust the fire’s well lit in the parlor?”

  “I’ll send Archie in with a fresh scuttle of coals.” He shuffled off to his own lair, and Alexandra went into the parlor.

  The fire was low, but it wouldn’t take long to bring it back to life. She kept her cloak on, however, as she examined her correspondence. Lord Dewforth’s seal adorned one, Mr. Murdock’s the other. She slit the wafer of the first. It was short and to the point and gave the price his lordship was prepared to pay for Sir Arthur Douglas’s library.

  Alex whistled soundlessly. It was even better than she had hoped. She slit the wafer of the second, and her eyes widened. Mr. Murdock’s offer pipped Lord Dewforth’s at the post. She sat down to write a letter of acceptance to Mr. Murdock and a polite rejection to his lordship, which she softened with the offer of the Canzoniere.

  She sent the letters off with Archie and returned to the library, fighting back unexpected tears. The reality was now inescapable. The library had been a joyful part of her life ever since she could remember, and in the last months at Combe Abbey, she had realized what it must have meant to her father as she examined every detail of the collection. But it was over now.

  In less than an hour, she received answers to both of her letters. Lord Dewforth’s was curt but accepting that he had been outbid. However, he expressed a desire to see the Canzoniere if it could be delivered to his house. Mr. Murdock’s was brisk and to the point. He would himself collect the library from Combe Abbey, but he required that Mistress Hathaway assure him that she would see to the crating personally. If, in addition, she had any knowledge of the missing Chaucer, he would be delighted to offer a separate price for it.

  Alexandra wrote her replies. Halfway through her letter to Murdock, she paused, holding her dripping quill over the inkwell. What should she say about the Chaucer? Could she just ignore his comment? But why not tell the truth? She resumed her letter, saying that as far as she was aware, Sir Arthur Douglas had left the Chaucer to his daughter. She knew nothing more. She told Lord Dewforth to send his secretary to collect the Canzoniere from Berkeley Square at his leisure and sent the always willing Archie off with the letters.

  Only then did she sit back, close her eyes, and let the sense of accomplishment warm her. The collection would be in the hands of one who treasured it, valued it for what it was, not just its monetary worth. The volumes would no longer lie neglected and unvalued on the shelves in Stephen’s library. All she had to do was return to Combe Abbey, see the collection crated and on its way, and then devote all of her time to making money. As much as she safely could in the shortest time available.

  With a sudden burst of determination, she got up and went in search of Billings. She found him dozing in front of the kitchen range. He jerked awake when she laid a hand on his shoulder. “Eh . . . eh, wass’ this, then?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Billings, but I need you to arrange a post chaise for me for dawn tomorrow. I am returning to Combe Abbey.” It was better this way, she told herself, even though the voice of conscience told her that she was being cowardly. She owed Peregrine an explanation, and the thought of leaving him without a proper farewell tore at her, but she couldn’t be certain that she would hold to her determination if he really put his mind to stopping her. And with the support of his brothers . . . no, she knew she could not prevail against the Blackwater brothers in force. A letter would have to do, however cowardly.

  Billings muttered something under his breath, but he dragged himself out of the chair. “The Bell at Cheapside will ’ave one. Dawn tomorrow, you say?”

  She nodded, and he stomped out of the back door into the drizzly late afternoon.

  They’d be glad to see the back of her, Alex reflected, going up to her chamber to put together her meager possessions. She returned her mother’s wardrobe to the trunks in the attic, smoothing each one into neat folds with a reminiscent smile. They had brought her so much pleasure. Then she went to her own chamber to pack up her own belongings. She couldn’t bring herself to leave behind her own dress, the one Sylvia had packed for her. She would conceal it with her boy’s disguise in the bottom of the portmanteau. As soon as she finally left Combe Abbey, her task completed, she would resume her own identity, in her own gown.

  In Stratton Street that afternoon, Peregrine could settle to nothing. Every ounce of his being yearned to go to Alexandra; it was almost like being pulled apart in a tug of war. And he didn’t know why he was depriving himself of the pleasure of her company. It was cutting off his nose to spite his face, he thought irritably as he got up from his chair for the second time in five minutes. Why couldn’t he simply resign himself to the inevitable, let her get on with her mission, and look forward to starting their life together when she had satisfied herself that she had taken care of Sylvia’s future? It wasn’t as if he were in a position himself right now to guarantee that future. But he knew that he couldn’t do that. Every moment she spent in Combe Abbey endangered her, and she didn’t seem to understand the reality of that danger. Fraud was a capital offense; stealing as much as a penny loaf was a capital offense. He couldn’t possibly stand aside while the woman he loved stubbornly persisted in putting herself in such an impossibly dangerous position.

  “Why so glum, Perry?” Sebastian came into the sitting room, rain dripping from his hat. “ ’Tis foul out there. You’re much better off in here by the fire.”

  “It doesn’t feel like it,” his twin said, flinging himself back into his chair. “I am so angry with her, Seb, and yet I can’t bear to be away from her.”

  “There’s no point in being angry, believe me.” Sebastian stood in front of the fire, drying his damp boots. “For some reason, we Blackwaters are drawn to exasperatingly independent, stubborn women who won’t see reason, let alone do as they’re told.” He shrugged with a light laugh. “Accept it, Perry. ’Tis our fate.”

  “I don’t believe in fate,” Peregrine muttered, but already his mood was lightening. “Oh, to hell with it, Seb. You’re right. I love her. Sometimes it feels as if there was never a moment when I haven’t loved her . . . even in that ghastly gown, with the humpback and the birthmark and the gray hair. How could that be?” He shook his head in amazement.

  “No idea, since I’ve only ever seen her looking utterly delectable,” Sebastian responded cheerfully. “Put it down to fate, if I were you. So, did you get the license?”

  “Yes, I have it.” He patted the inside pocket of his waistcoat. “I just have to get through the rest of today without rushing around to Berkeley Square. I just hope she’s as miserable as I am,” he added, and then joined his twin in laughter at the absurdity of such a declaration.

  “Where’s Serena?” Peregrine asked suddenly, once his amusement had died down.

  “Oh, she’s visiting an old friend, Mistress Margaret Standish, I believe she said. She lives on St. James’s Place.” Sebastian had visited the house once, when he and Serena had met again after three years of estrangement. He remembered the occasion all too well. It was at that meeting that he had realized that however angry and hurt he had been with Serena since her betrayal, he had never stopped loving her. And he had the first inkling then that it had been the same for her.

  “I’m
going to change into dry clothes,” he added, going to the door. “Then I suggest you and I go to White’s for a mutton chop and a bumper of porter.” With a grin over his shoulder, he went out.

  Chapter Twenty

  The next morning, before sunrise, Mistress Alexandra Hathaway entered a post chaise outside the house in Berkeley Square and began the long journey back to Combe Abbey. The dreadful sense of being completely alone flooded her once more. It seemed like an eternity since she had felt like this, before Peregrine had come into her life—had taken over her life, it seemed sometimes. And the feeling was worse than ever now that she knew what it was like not to be alone. If only they could have parted company properly, with words and kisses and the promise of renewal.

  She told herself that it was better this way; indeed, it was the only possible way for this to happen. She had to tear off the bandage in one sweep, otherwise everything would become muddled and tangled again. She would need the whole journey alone to assume once more the internal character of Mistress Hathaway. The physical characteristics were one thing, but once more, she had to subsume her self into the character of the self-effacing, timid little mouse of a librarian. Already, she was beginning to feel as if the manifest glories of the last few days had been no more than a chimera.

  Peregrine ran lightly up the steps to the house on Berkeley Square, a smile of anticipation on his lips. He could feel the crisp presence of the marriage license in the inside pocket of his coat. The leaves in the square garden were turning, their rich autumn red, yellow, and copper aglow in the sunlight. The previous day’s rain seemed to have washed away the summer’s accumulation of dust and grime, and the city air smelled fresh for once.

  He banged on the door with a vigor to match his mood and waited impatiently, tapping the railings with his silver-knobbed swordstick. The door opened, and Billings surveyed him with a jaundiced air.