A Perfect Likeness (12 page)

High overhead the moon hung among the stars. How often had she looked at that same moon from her window at Liskillen? She closed her eyes for a moment. She didn’t belong here in England, her home was in Ireland, and she wished more than anything else that she was there now instead of in this beautiful but unfriendly place. Tonight she had somehow survived and was still to make her brilliant match, but when she had looked into Sebastian Sheringham’s blue eyes, she had seen only unhappiness.

For a long while she stared at the distant lights, thinking about all that had happened, and all that inevitably lay ahead. By now Petra would be considering what she must do next to destroy her lover’s match. She would never cease in her efforts to end it, and what hope had Bryony St. Charles against such an adversary? Petra was a woman of elegance and poise. Beside her the future Lady Sheringham was a green girl without style or art.

Bryony shivered a little as the breeze swept coolly over her. What point was there in dwelling on such things? Liskillen had to be saved, and that meant doing all she could to save the match. Nothing that had happened since her arrival in England made any difference to the original reason for accepting the marriage, and nothing must alter her purpose now. Sebastian was marrying her for his own reasons; she must find the strength to do exactly the same.

Slowly she walked back toward the house. As she crossed the cobbled quadrangle, she noticed lamplight in the conservatory. Felix was still there. She hesitated, but then something drew her toward the light.

Inside, the conservatory was warm and humid, the smell of citrus very strong. A solitary lamp burned against the far wall, its light reaching through the leaves to cast shadows on her face as she walked silently along the brick path toward the floor where Felix practiced alone, his figure repeated again and again in the watching mirrors. On the wall the blades of the collection of weapons glinted a little in the dim light. Felix’s expensive evening coat lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, as if it had been flung angrily down, which possibly it had, given his mood when he had left the dinner table.

She stood watching him for a moment. His movements were still angry, and he lunged forward as if he would thrust the naked blade into the heart of an invisible opponent. He had seen her, but he did not stop or say anything. At last he lowered the sword, tossing it with a clatter onto the table and then pouring himself a glass of port. He smiled at her then, a roguish smile for all the world as if he was pleased to see her, but she had a little of the measure of him now, enough to know that Felix, Duke of Calborough, never did anything without a purpose, even so innocent a thing as smiling.

“It is said, Miss St. Charles, that a good swordsman benefits from a glass or two of port. What do you say?’’

“I cannot answer, sir, for I know nothing about it.”

He put the glass down and came over to her. “How pale you are. I presume it is due to the crying-off of the prospective bridegroom?’’

“On the contrary, sir, he hasn’t cried off at all.”

“Hasn’t he now?” he said softly, his eyes narrowing. “Now, why is that?”

“I don’t know. At least…”

“Yes?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Come now, you can’t tantalize me like that and then fall into enigmatic silence.”

“I should not say anything.”

“But you have discovered something odious about my odious cousin?”

She looked away, flushing.

“Tell me,” he said softly, suddenly putting his hand to her chin and turning her face toward him again.

It was a gesture which reminded her painfully of Sebastian, and she drew sharply away. “Please, don’t.”

An interested light shone in his dark eyes. “Whatever it is, it has evidently distressed you a great deal. If you would confide in me, maybe I could help in some way.”

Help? She wanted to laugh, for there was nothing
he
could do! But nevertheless she
did
want to talk to someone, and he was offering to listen. She knew that she shouldn’t trust him, but somehow the strain of the evening was telling and she had to say something, even if it wasn’t everything.

“I have found something out about him. I know that he’s only marrying me in order to inherit a fortune. He has a kinsman who has placed the condition in his will that Sebastian must be married if he wishes to benefit.”

Felix stared. “You cannot be serious!”

“I am. Perfectly so.”

“And how do you know?”

“It doesn’t matter how, but you may rely upon my information being very reliable indeed. Your cousin needs a wife, and I am the very one for his purposes.”

“Forgive me, Miss St. Charles, but it seems to me that a man like my cousin could have his pick of wives more suitable than you, wives of lineage and rank, with tempting fortunes to add to their attraction. You have nothing to offer.”

“Except that he believes I will prove easy to set aside and ignore, once I have served my purpose.”

“So all this high talk of honoring pledges is meaningless?”

“Yes. On both sides,” she added a little guiltily, wishing that she had not said anything to him.

“You
are culpable too? Now, that I do find hard to believe, for I had put you down as the original dutiful daughter.”

“I am, sir, and that is why I have agreed to the match, but not because of the pledge. Liskillen is heavily in debt and will be lost unless money is found soon.”

“Sebastian’s money? You’re very honest with me, Miss St. Charles, almost painfully so.”

“I wish you would forget I’ve said anything, for I know that I shouldn’t have breathed a word.”

“No, you shouldn’t, especially to someone like myself. I was a very unwise choice to unburden your sorrows to, for I am not exactly renowned for my trustworthiness.” He smiled a little, his eyes mocking her.

“Please promise you will say nothing,” she said anxiously.

He did not reply for a moment, and then scooped up her hand to draw it gallantly to his lips. “For you I will be the perfect Sir Galahad, although maybe the part of Sir Lancelot would be more in keeping with my base nature. So you’re entering into a wicked marriage of convenience, and how will that suit your conscience?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I think you are a very idealistic young lady, and I would stake a fortune that you’ve always promised yourself never to marry for anything other than love. Am I right?”

She could not hide the truth. “Yes.”

“I knew it. And yet here you are, about to do that very thing.”

“We cannot have everything that suits us, sir.”

“Upon my soul, the lady is both idealistic
and
practical. What a very unique mixture.”

“And what mixture are you, sir?” she countered.

“I am not a mixture, Miss St. Charles, I am one sublime thing—the personification of selfishness.”

“If you are, sir, you seem inordinately proud of that abhorrent fact.”

He laughed.
“Touché!
Perhaps I deserved that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“But one thing about sinners like me, Miss St. Charles: we always rise above life’s little adversities. You should learn to do the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are a very beautiful woman, although I do not think you know it. Nor do I think you’ve woken up to the dazzling prospect stretching before you because of your forthcoming marriage. You seem to think—correct me if I’m wrong—that once you’ve pledged yourself to my cousin, he will have sole right to you.”

A quick flush stained her cheeks. “Please—”

“Why, do I shock you?”

“Yes.”

“But, Miss St. Charles, society is filled with gentlemen who will take delight in shocking one as beautiful and inexperienced as you. If you think to join that society, then you will have to become as knowing and artful as your fellows. Become knowing, Bryony, and you will realize that life holds much more than an empty, loveless marriage bed. A woman such as you will not lack for lovers—they will lay siege to you, flatter you, beg you to be kind, and somewhere among them there will be one who pleases you, whose touch sets your pulse racing and into whose arms you will long to surrender yourself.”

“Please, don’t say anything more!”

“You will be prey to those like me once you are in London, Bryony, for we will pursue you until we have the surrender we desire. If what I say shocks and alarms you, then beware of proceeding with a marriage which will bring you into our lair. Our reflection will be in every golden mirror in every fashionable drawing room, and each reflection will be trying to catch your eye, will be calculating your charms, flirting, whispering sweet words, and preparing to assault your poor defenses. Nothing less than complete capitulation will satisfy us.” He bent his head to kiss her on the lips, but she drew back with a gasp.

“No, sir! I will not permit such a liberty!”

“No? What a pity,” he replied with a smile, “for to be sure such an intimacy could be very sweet indeed.”

Angrily she turned to go, but his voice halted her. “Please allow me to make amends, Miss St. Charles.”

“Amends?”

‘“Before I leave for London the day after tomorrow, I must know that I have been forgiven my base trespasses. Do you ride, Miss St. Charles?”

“Ride?”

“Unless the word has a different meaning in the outer reaches of County Down, I am referring to the practice of climbing upon the back of a horse, and by the employment of certain mysterious commands, persuading the wretched creature to cover a yard or two in a chosen direction.”

In spite of her anger, she couldn’t help smiling a little. “Yes, sir, I do ride.”

“Then will you do me the honor of accompanying me on my customary perambulation of the estate tomorrow? I like to show myself to my tenants—it is effective in keeping them on their toes.”

“I don’t know—”

“I promise to be good, Miss St. Charles. I will not step even an inch out of line, I swear it.” With an angelic smile he placed his hand upon his heart.

“After all your dire warnings of images in mirrors, sir, would I not be a fool to trust your word?”

“Possibly, but then, you
could
bring a big stick with which to beat me off if I become amorous.”

She had to laugh at the odd picture his words conjured up. “Very well, your grace, I would like to accompany you.”

“Good. And I
do
promise that the stick will not be necessary. Tonight’s transgression was due to a little too much port.” He turned away and went back to the table, picking up the glass and raising it to her. “Good night, Miss St. Charles.”

“Good night, your grace.”

The following morning found Polwithiel unexpectedly shrouded in sea mist. It was a morning to suit Bryony’s low spirits, for the duchess abided by her order and Kathleen was to leave directly after an early breakfast. The maid was in tears as she went out to the chaise which waited to take her back to Falmouth.

Bryony endeavored not to give in to her own tears, knowing that the duchess was watching from the gallery windows, but it was very difficult indeed to refrain from hugging the maid. “Kathleen, you must give my love to my father and tell him that all is well.”

The maid sniffed. “Is it, Miss Bryony?”

“Yes.”

Kathleen blinked back more tears and without another word climbed into the chaise, which drew away immediately into the mist. Bryony heard it echoing beneath the archway, but then the sound of its departure grew fainter and fainter and soon all was silent again, the mist swirling grayly all around.

The new maid the duchess had chosen was waiting when Bryony returned to her apartment. She was small and dark, with a pale face and large, anxious eyes, and she announced that her name was Anderson. She appeared to be everything the duchess thought desirable in a lady’s maid: she hardly uttered a word, she knew everything by instinct, and there was nothing she could not do for her mistress.

Bryony found it like being with an intuitive ghost, but there was one advantage to all this excellence, and that was that, unlike Kathleen, Anderson could put hair up into a perfect Grecian knot within minutes, and without the risk of pins and curls tumbling down in disarray at any moment.

The duchess sent word that Bryony was expected to present herself immediately in the music room for the commencement of her tuition, but a glance in the mirror informed Bryony straightaway that the duchess would perceive she had been crying earlier on account of losing Kathleen. Even as she thought this, Anderson suddenly brought the Chinese box of colors, which cosmetics were useful either to enhance the complexion or conceal blemishes. Selecting the square of white paper which when moistened would lighten the marks left by the tears, Anderson prepared to attend to the matter.

Bryony felt irritated, even though she knew she should be grateful for the maid’s assistance, and then she felt a little ashamed, for it was hardly Anderson’s fault that Kathleen had been sent away. Bryony forced herself to smile, and to her immense surprise received a hesitant smile in return. Could it be that the duchess’s choice was less icily correct than had been thought?

The Chinese paper carefully applied and the tearmarks disguised, Bryony went down to the music room, which lay on the ground floor at the rear of the house. It overlooked the woods and the distant village of Polwithiel, nestling on the shore of the Helford River, but today the mist obscured everything, and the windows were almost opaque, apart from the spectral outline of a gazebo in the center of the lawn.

As the morning was unusually cool for the time of year, a fire had been lit in the vast fireplace, the flickering light dancing pleasantly over the tapestries and paneling. The room contained both a piano and a harpsichord, and against one wall there was a very large cupboard, the doors of which stood open to reveal shelves laden with music sheets. Above the fireplace there was a portrait of the duchess as a young woman. She looked very handsome, her powdered hair dressed high on her head, her dainty figure laced tightly into a pearl brocade gown, its full skirts adorned with tiny pink bows. In the painting she was seated at a golden harp; that same harp stood by one of the windows, looking very bright against the mistiness outside.