The Stolen Bride

by Jo Beverley

  Beth became aware of her hand in his large warm one and withdrew it. “I would be delighted never to meet him again,” she said firmly.

  “Well,” he said with a lazy smile, “I hardly thought you were setting your cap at him. He’s too young for you for one thing.”

  “Setting my cap!” said Beth leaping to her feet and moving away. “Really, Sir Marius.”

  “Are you going?” he queried, rising lazily to his feet. “I thought you wanted a guide.”

  “Since you are not in the mood to be serious,” she retorted, “I will fadge for myself. I can hardly get lost beyond recall.”

  After a few steps, his voice stopped her. “No, but if you go that way you’ll end up out in the garden by the sundial and it’s a devil of a walk from there back to the front entrance.”

  She turned to look at him with narrowed eyes. “Which way should I go, then?” she asked.

  “We come back to the question, Mrs. Hawley. Where do you want to be?”

  “The front hall will do nicely, thank you, Sir Marius.”

  He lazily pointed to a door. “Through the Tapestry Chamber, turn right. Take the second stairs and I don’t think you can miss it. If you don’t appear for luncheon, I’ll organize a search party.”

  Beth flounced off and was hard put not to slam the door. Really, what was it about that man? She couldn’t be five minutes in his company without degenerating to behavior more fitted for a schoolroom, and a poorly governed one at that, than a lady’s chamber.

  She must have still been scowling when she descended the wide staircase to the main entrance hall, and met Jane crossing it.

  “Why, whatever has happened, Beth? Is it Sophie?”

  “Sophie?” echoed Beth. “No, of course not. I’ve sent her off to attend to the invalid. It’s Sir Marius.”

  “What has he done?” asked Jane.

  “Oh, nothing,” said Beth, wishing she’d not mentioned it. “He seems disposed to tease me.”

  “He’s very kind really,” said Jane, surprised. “I can’t think he means to overset you.”

  “Oh, really,” snapped Beth but then hurried on. “What I need, Jane, if I am to be of any use, is some member of the staff to guide me and run errands.”

  Jane soon arranged for a maid and footman to accompany Beth and saw them off on their labors. Then she stood in thought for a moment with a little smile on her lips. Beth and Marius? Well, why not?

  Sophie knocked softly on the door of the modest bedchamber given to the injured lady, then entered. A maid had been set to sit with the woman and do mending. She rose and dropped a curtsy.

  “Has she recovered consciousness?” Sophie asked.

  “Yes, milady. She understands what we say to her, but she’s not said anything to the purpose. The doctor dropped by this morning and says she’s well enough. Just needs a good rest.”

  “You may go and do something else for half an hour,” Sophie said and went to look at the patient.

  Not so very old, she thought. Not like Randal’s grandmother at nearly eighty. More like her own mother, aged and worn down by grief. Had no one taken care of her? At least the Dowager Lady Wraybourne ate reasonably, took exercise, and pursued mild interests. This woman looked half starved and had the pallor of living indoors. Heavens, what if she’d been in a prison or an insane asylum?

  The parchmentlike eyelids fluttered and the woman looked around with hazy confusion.

  “Don’t worry,” Sophie said quickly. “You are safe at Stenby Castle. Would you like a drink? There is some barley water here for you.”

  The woman nodded and so Sophie raised her, noticing how frail she was, and set the glass to her lips. The invalid drank and then settled back.

  “If you could tell me who you are,” said Sophie gently, “we could summon your family. They must be concerned.”

  The eyelids drooped and Sophie thought she had lapsed into unconsciousness but she spoke in a dry, raspy voice. “Who I am?”

  “Yes. There is nothing in your possessions to say who you are, you see.”

  The eyes remained shut but Sophie knew the woman was conscious. “I don’t know,” the woman said at last.

  “You don’t know what?”

  “Who I am. Where did you say I am?”

  Sophie looked down with a frown. This must be the result of the blow on the head. She supposed they would have to advertise. “Found, on the road in Shropshire, one middle-aged lady in frail condition ...”

  “You are at Stenby Castle, seat of the Earl of Wraybourne. You were on your way here when you had a carriage accident and suffered a blow to your head. If you rest, I am sure you will soon recall why you were coming here.”

  The eyes opened again. They were a pale blue-gray, a faded, weary color. “And who are you, young lady?”

  “I am Sophie Kyle.”

  Something flashed in those eyes.

  “Does that name mean something?” Sophie asked quickly. “You were carrying an announcement of my forthcoming marriage in your reticule.”

  The woman’s face was blank again. “For a moment ...” she said faintly. “But I don’t think we have ever met.”

  “Nor do I, ma’am. Perhaps you had better sleep and it will all come back to you.”

  “I am not sleepy,” said the woman. “Weary, yes. But I have been weary a long time I think. If you were to talk to me, Lady Sophie, I think it might help.”

  Sophie sat in the chair. “If you wish. Of what shall we speak?”

  “Why not of your marriage? It is to be soon?”

  “Two weeks,” said Sophie, all her doubts about Randal returning in an instant. Two weeks was both too far away and far too soon.

  “You do not seem happy,” said the woman.

  “I am extremely happy,” said Sophie, knowing her voice was unconvincing.

  “And who are you to marry?”

  “Lord Randal Ashby. He is the second son of the Duke of Tyne.”

  “A good and suitable match, then.”

  Sophie thought of her brother’s doubts as to the wisdom of matching two such volatile people and smiled slightly. “Not necessarily. He’s a bit of a rake, you see.”

  The woman’s eyes were no longer vague. She fixed Sophie with a stare. “You deserve better than that, my dear.”

  Sophie was a little embarrassed by what she had said. It was like talking to oneself, this conversation. She glanced at the woman and caught a look of such intensity that she drew back. “Oh, Randal is a reformed rake,” she said lightly and rose to her feet. “I don’t fear he’ll be off wenching and gambling.”

  “What then do you fear?” asked the woman softly in a tone that sent shivers down Sophie’s back. Or perhaps it was just the question.

  “Nothing,” said Sophie firmly, looking away at an anonymous portrait which graced the wall above the small fireplace. “Nothing at all. We will be happy as no others have been since time began.” Once those words could have been spoken honestly but Sophie could hear the brittle uncertainty behind them now. She glanced back at the invalid. How was this woman drawing truth from the recesses of her mind? “I am afraid I have duties elsewhere, ma’am. Please excuse me. I will send the maid back to attend on you.”

  “There is no need. I am not so sick as that and I have a bellpull here by the bed. But come to visit me again, my dear, if you would be so kind. You seem almost like my daughter ...”

  “You remember your family?” asked Sophie quickly.

  “No,” said the woman faintly. “You just make me think I might have had a daughter like you. And do not worry, my dear. Soon all your worries about your wedding will be a thing of the past.”

  Sophie hurried from the room. Why had the poor sick lady made her feel so uncomfortable, so suspicious? She stopped abruptly as she clearly remembered the woman saying, “If you were to talk to me, Lady Sophie.” She had not introduced herself thus, so how had the woman known her title?

  After a moment she gave a little laugh. The maid und
oubtedly told the old lady when she first awoke the names of those in the Castle. Sophie feared her mind was becoming unhinged if she was to see such a thing as suspicious. Everything the woman had said had been proper; it was just that Sophie did not like the thoughts she had stirred.

  She stopped not far down the corridor to look at her flashing diamond ring. Everyone said that soon all her troubles would be over. She would be married to Randal, they would be deliriously happy....

  She could just believe in that and leave it to fate. But what if he had regrets? She could not bear it if that were ever so.

  5

  AT LUNCHEON Jane asked, “How did you find our patient, Sophie?”

  “She has recovered consciousness, but not her memory. I would swear though that something about my name caught her. I suppose she must be a distant relative. Do we have any black sheep?” she asked of her brother as she flipped through the letters lying by her plate. The post bag had just been opened and there were four letters for her.

  “Apart from you?” he teased.

  Sophie scowled. “Under Randal’s influence I am positively bleached, brother. I should have married Trenholme.”

  “Well, that’s what I said all along,” her brother reminded her, and she laughed. One of the letters had no frank, and so no indication of the sender. Curious, she picked that one up first.

  “I think I’ll ride over to the Towers this afternoon,” said Sophie as she broke the seal. She watched her brother to see if he would object.

  “If you wish,” he said calmly. “But go in the carriage and take Mrs. Hawley. I’m sure she’d like to see it.”

  Sophie smiled at Mrs. Hawley. She had no trouble with that plan, for she liked Jane’s old governess. She spread open the letter and gave a little cry. “How positively horrid!”

  Her brother took up the paper and read it. “‘Be brave, Sophie, and shed no tears. Your marriage will never come to pass.’ Where the devil did this come from?” He looked again at the sheet but there was no indication.

  “What does it mean?” Sophie asked, pale faced. She turned to Jane. “It reminds me of that nasty note you got from Crossley Carruthers, but this is worse.”

  The earl put the letter in his pocket. “It’s just as meaningless,” he said firmly. “Some malicious prankster. But from now on, Sophie, I will open your correspondence. There’s no need for you to be bothered by stuff like this.”

  Sophie told herself it was true, that the letter was a very unpleasant joke, but she couldn’t quite put it out of her mind. What did it mean, “Your marriage will never come to pass”? Did someone suspect her doubts and fears? She was extremely glad to soon be setting off to the Towers and Randal, where the unpleasantness of that letter would be washed away.

  As they settled in the open landaulet, parasols tilted against the warm sun, Beth said, “You must not allow that silly note to distress you, Lady Sophie.” She wanted to wipe the shadow from Lady Sophie’s lovely blue eyes.

  “But what if it means something?” Sophie asked.

  “What could it possibly mean?” Beth went on quickly to ask, “Is Lord Randal expecting you today?”

  It worked. Thought of Randal wiped away other matters. “He’ll expect me to come,” Sophie said with a secret smile. “Tomorrow there’s a picnic planned near the old abbey. On Thursday a visit to the fair at Wem.” She looked at Beth with humor, but it had a bitter edge.

  “He is perhaps trying to make these last days pass, Lady Sophie,” said Beth gently. “Anyone can wait two weeks for anything.”

  She saw a flicker of exasperation pass over the girl’s lovely face and revised her opinions. At Carne Abbey, Jane’s old home, Beth had realized Lady Sophie was not the silly ingénue she occasionally appeared. She was, in fact, deceptively deep and it would be as well to remember it.

  Beth looked down and traced the design on her lustring gown as she said, “We are not well acquainted, my lady, but sometimes a stranger is a better listener than family. If you have concerns I would be honored to try and help you.”

  She looked up and Sophie’s eyes met hers directly and honestly. “Thank you. I may ... But you must stop ‘my ladying’ me, then, you know. I refuse to discuss my love life otherwise.”

  “Well then, Sophie,” said Beth quietly, so as not to be overheard by the coachman, “what has you so out of tune? I could not help but see that you were out of sorts before that letter.”

  “Megrims, follies,” mused the younger woman. “Everyone could be right and it is just the waiting....”

  Beth decided she would have to probe. “Is it perhaps that you find you do not love Lord Randal as much as you thought?”

  Sophie smiled. “Good heavens, no. How could anyone not love him?”

  The blindness of love, thought Beth. No one would deny Lord Randal’s spectacular beauty, but many had managed to resist infatuation.

  Sophie spoke again, “But do you think he truly loves me?”

  Was this the problem? wondered Beth. “I really don’t know, Sophie, but there is every indication that he adores you. Why would you doubt it?”

  “I think it’s so unfair,” said Sophie sharply, “that a gentleman cannot withdraw from an engagement to marry. What choice has he? How am I to know?”

  Beth felt greatly relieved. This was a silly megrim and very similar to one Jane had suffered from. “He is old enough to know his mind,” she said firmly. “If he asked for your hand, you may be sure he wanted it.”

  It hadn’t quite worked with Jane either, Beth remembered now. Sophie’s smile was only courteous as she said, “Of course you are quite correct.” For the rest of the journey she kept up relentlessly superficial social chat and Beth knew she had failed badly. It really shouldn’t matter. It was just a case of getting through the days. Yet she wished she had done better.

  Tyne Towers sat square and glistening in the sun, its many windows and ornate little towers and chimneys typical of the reign of Queen Anne. The carriage wound through carefully laid-out gardens set with pools which could sprout fountains from the statues in the middle when someone took the trouble to arrange it.

  By the time they entered the cool marble hall, Lord Randal was there to greet them. Beth wished Mr. Verderan was not by his side, though. Reflection had made her more ashamed than ever of her outburst at dinner.

  Randal had known Sophie would come, Beth decided. Had known and depended on it. He did and said nothing in particular and yet it was as if happiness danced with the dust motes in the sunbeams. How could Sophie doubt she was loved?

  “Mrs. Young’s turning out the old china because of all the guests we’re expecting,” he said lightly, taking his betrothed’s hand. Beth suspected he could no more help touching her than he could stop breathing. “You’ll never believe how ugly some of it is, Sophie. We should practice pottery-breaking again. Come and see.”

  Beth thought of hanging back, of going in another direction even if it meant enduring the company of the Dark Angel. As if he divined her thought, however, Randal glanced back and she knew that without her the expedition would be canceled. There was more than one stupid boy around, she thought testily.

  “I know, I know,” murmured Mr. Verderan by her side as they followed the betrothed couple. “I, too, would like to knock his head against the wall if it would do the slightest good.”

  She looked up at him and decided he seemed to be in a straight-thinking mood. “Have you spoken to him?”

  “And what am I supposed to say to him, Mrs. Hawley?” he asked drily. “Your bride needs to be at least half seduced or ... or what? Is Lady Sophie Kyle going to jilt him? No. Is she going to run off with a groom from the stables? No. Is she going to drown herself in the river? Hardly. She will just be unhappy for a week or so, and I don’t care to risk one of my few friendships over that.”

  At the tone of his voice Beth looked at him curiously. “Do you not like her?”

  He raised a brow. “You cannot expect me to answer such a question.”


  “You don’t,” said Beth, surprised beyond manners. “She is high-spirited but has a warm heart, a keen mind, and courage. What terrible fault do you find?”

  Verderan just looked at her and refused to answer.

  Beth gave up her pointless attempt to change his opinion. It hardly mattered anyway. “You are quite right, though,” she said with a sigh. “Nothing terrible is going to happen. I don’t know why I feel so uneasy about it....” She swallowed and decided to get a distasteful duty over with. “I must apologize as well for my behavior last night, Mr. Verderan. More nervous fidgets, I’m afraid. My excuse must be that this is not the life or company I’m accustomed to.”

  He looked at her with faint surprise. “I will claim then that my rudeness was just to make you feel more comfortable, Mrs. Hawley, knowing you had got as good as you had given.”

  It was doubtless as close to an apology as she could hope to get from this man. Beth looked up to meet a spectacularly charming smile and instinctively responded. Goodness, one could come to like him, and that would probably be most unwise.

  Then she took herself to task. This habit she was developing of imagining that gentlemen were out to seduce her was doubtless proof of approaching senility. She was long in the tooth and nothing out of the ordinary, and they probably all thought of her as a comfortable maiden aunt.

  Whatever his motives, Verderan set himself out to please, proving true Jane’s words that he did have beautiful manners when he cared to use them. He drew Beth out to talk of her life at Carne as Jane’s governess and her time since in London at her brother’s house. He spiced the dialogue with interesting anecdotes from his less disreputable adventures. She knew herself to be blossoming, conversing with animation and frequently genuinely amused.

  She could not be unaware, however, that ahead of them Sophie and Randal were quietly arguing.

  Sophie was growing too desperate, too pushed for time for subtle approaches, and that note had somehow increased her sense of urgency. “Randal, I need to spend time alone with you,” she said. She saw the refusal on his face and continued, “If you fear you will be overcome with lust, I promise to scream when you start ripping my clothes off.”