A Perfect Likeness (20 page)

“It is a little late for any grand gesture on my part,” interrupted Bryony gently. “He’s coming here today to see the duchess.”

Delphine stared at her. “He’s back at Tremont?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw him yesterday.” Bryony did not elaborate upon the circumstances.

“You spoke to him?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“There didn’t seem any need.”

“Did he mention Mother’s letter?”

“Not exactly, but he’s coming here today to end the match.”

Delphine leaned forward urgently. “He told you that?”

“Not in so many words, but I did not need to have it spelled out for me.”

Delphine said nothing, looking quickly away.

“Delphine? Are you sure you’re feeling quite well?”

“Yes,” she replied almost too brightly, “I told you, I didn’t sleep last night.” She gave a short laugh. “Oh, Bryony, you are about to be sent away in disgrace, everything has gone wrong for you, but you can still find it in your heart to worry about whether I am a little unwell. I mean it when I say I shall miss you, for life here will be dreadful without you. Oh, I simply cannot bear it!” She got up agitatedly, and before Bryony knew it, she had hurried out, her blue skirts fluttering.

Sally came through from the dressing room then. “Miss Bryony? I think it is time to dress for breakfast.”

Breakfast was, for Bryony, a solitary affair. No one else came down, for which she was glad, especially where Felix was concerned, for she had no wish whatsoever to see him this morning. She felt a little lost at the immense table, and it seemed a terrible waste that with all the fine dishes set out on the sideboard, she was the only person to eat and her appetite this morning was virtually nonexistent.

She gazed at the domed silver platters; there was kedgeree, which she had yet to see anyone sample, the duchess’s favorite deviled kidneys, grilled bacon, both green and smoked, eggs of seemingly endless description, from coddled to scrambled, cold roast beef, and a vast selection of fancy breads and toast of various hues, to satisfy any taste.

It was a magnificent table, but all that she could eat was a slice of toast; her spirits were far too low to contemplate anything more, even though she knew a good breakfast would have set her up more to face the coming ordeal. But breakfast itself was an ordeal, for although she ate alone, she was far from being alone.

A butler danced attendance all the time and there were no fewer than four footmen stationed about the room, two by the sideboard and two on either side of Felix’s vacant chair at the head of the table. She was relieved when at last she put down her napkin and got up, the butler hastening to lift her chair back so that it would not scrape upon the highly polished floor.

She did not return directly to her rooms but went instead to stand on the minstrel gallery above the great hall. She had thought about doing this on several occasions, but somehow she had never carried out her intention. Now, on her last morning, she stood by the heavily carved wooden rail gazing down at the magnificence of the baronial chamber below.

The morning sun slanted through the stained-glass windows, casting colored light on the glazed tiles of the floor. She was closer to the hammerbeam roof now and could see the Calborough phoenix more clearly, its savage beak and finely carved feathers looking so near that she felt she could reach out and touch them.

There was a sound from the floor below and she looked down to see some maids carrying fresh bowls of flowers to the long table, arranging them carefully, and then hurrying away again. The hall became silent again, the tapestries on the walls seeming to muffle even the slightest sound. It was so quiet that she could hear the gulls calling outside. She was about to turn away when she heard the sound of hoofbeats in the quadrangle, and her heart sank as she heard the steward’s voice beyond the porch.

“Good morning, Sir Sebastian.”

“Good morning, I trust my aunt is at home?”

“She is, sir, and I am sure she will receive you.”

“I’ll wait in the great hall.”

“Very well, Sir Sebastian.”

Bryony was rooted to the spot, staring down at the doors which gave onto the porch. He entered the hall, crossing to the table to put down his top hat, gloves, and riding crop. His coat was dove gray and his breeches the color of charcoal. There was a silver pin in the folds of his light blue silk neckcloth, and a bunch of seals was suspended from the fob of his striped waistcoat. Spangled lights from the windows fell across his golden hair and she could see his face quite clearly as he glanced around the hall.

Suddenly he looked directly up at her. “Good morning; Miss St. Charles.” His voice echoed a little.

She didn’t know what to say or do; she had thought herself unseen. Her cheeks felt hot with embarrassment, but at last she found her tongue. “Good morning, Sir Sebastian.”

“How very neat and tidy you are today.”

She said nothing.

He seemed vaguely amused. “Conducting a conversation with you is sometimes extremely difficult.”

“Perhaps it is the times you choose for such small talk, Sir Sebastian.”

“Indeed? And what is wrong with this morning?”

“I think you know the answer to that already, sir.”

“Do I? Pray enlighten me.”

“Do not patronize me, sir, for it is obvious why you are here and it ill becomes you to pretend anything else.”

“On the contrary, Miss St. Charles, there is nothing at all obvious about my visit here today, other than that I told you yesterday I would be calling, and I doubt very much if you have even the slightest notion of my purpose.”

“I am not dull-witted, sir,” she said stiffly, “and I know perfectly well why you have come. And now, if you will excuse me ...” She turned on her heel and left the gallery.

She was trembling as she hurried back toward her rooms, but then something made her stop. It was wrong that she should hide away in her apartment, waiting to be summoned. She was innocent and she would conduct herself in a dignified manner; she would wait openly in the solar, and she would be proud in the face of defeat!

But being proud was, under the circumstances, rather more difficult than she would have wished. The solar seemed oppressive, the faces on the tapestries staring down at her as she sat waiting on one of the elegant sofas. The minutes dragged by on leaden feet. Half an hour passed and still she sat there.

Memories of her first evening came back to haunt her. She could again hear Kathleen humming and she could see herself dancing, her skirts held so unwisely high, her ankles there for all to see; and she could again see those disapproving figures by the door, the duchess so outraged, Petra so sweetly bemused, and Sebastian so coldly expressionless.

As she gazed at the doors, remembering the scene so well, they suddenly opened again and she gave a start as Sebastian came in, accompanied not by the duchess, as Bryony had expected, but by a rather subdued Delphine. It was Delphine’s pale face and rather tense manner which conveyed to Bryony that it had been done, Sebastian had withdrawn from the match. She rose to her feet to face them, trying to look composed, but inwardly trembling.

Sebastian saw her and bowed. “Good morning, Miss St. Charles,” he said lightly. “I trust that you are well. It is a fine morning, is it not? Such a welcome change after yesterday.”

Nonplussed, she stared at him. He spoke as if they had not already met that morning, and furthermore, his greeting was more than a little odd under the circumstances. “G-good morning, Sir Sebastian,” she replied after a moment. “Yes, it is indeed a fine day,”

He smiled, conducting Delphine to a chair and then waiting until Bryony was seated once more before himself taking a place opposite. “I am relieved to find at least one of you in good spirits, Miss St. Charles,” he said, his eyes mocking her confusion, “or otherwise my visit here would have been in vain.”

“I don’t understand,” she said lamely, quite bewildered by the way things were going.

“I came to invite you and Delphine to luncheon at Tremont, but Delphine informs me that unfortunately she is feeling far from well today and could not possibly accept. I was to have ridden over yesterday to deliver the invitation, but I was ... er, caught in the rain.” He smiled a little.

For a moment she simply could not think of anything to say. She felt quite mystified, and she knew that he was silently laughing at her. She suddenly remembered what he had said of Delphine, and she looked anxiously at her. “You are unwell ... ?”

Delphine smiled a little nervously. “I know I would not admit it earlier, but I feel quite wretched. I think I may be going down with an ague of some sort, for I ache abominably and feel dreadfully hot. I shall go to my bed, I think, but I have assured Sebastian that my indisposition will not in any way preclude you from returning to Tremont with him.” She looked a little apologetic.

Bryony was inwardly aghast at the prospect suddenly opening before her. Luncheon alone at Tremont with Sebastian and his mistress? It was not to be contemplated. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly accept,” she said quickly, “not and leave you unwell like this.”

Sebastian’s gaze rested pensively on her, the ghost of a smile still on his lips. “But you cannot disappoint Petra,” he said softly, “for she has gone to considerable trouble to have a particularly fine luncheon prepared.”

“Oh, please, Bryony,” said Delphine quickly, “I would feel even more dreadful if I knew you were remaining behind because of me. You must go. Perhaps you would find it easier to accept if you knew you were doing me a favor.”

“A favor?”

“You could ride my gelding for me. I’ve been neglecting him of late and he’s sorely in need of exercise. He’ll be very fresh, but he’s a very fine ride.”

Sebastian got to his feet. “It is settled, then. I will await you in the quadrangle, Miss St. Charles.” Bowing to them both, he left the room.

Bryony stared after him and then looked at Delphine. “I don’t understand,” she said. “I don’t understand at all. Didn’t he say anything?”

“No.”

“Didn’t the duchess tell him?”

“Oh, yes, she told him everything, but he said that he did not intend to do anything about it.” Delphine’s voice shook a little and
she passed her hand weakly over her forehead. “Oh, I feel so dreadful, I’ll simply have to go and lie down.”

She got up. “Bryony, you forgive me for almost forcing you to accept the luncheon invitation, don’t you? Only, I couldn’t help remembering that you once said you intended to marry Sebastian because of saving Liskillen. I know you hate Petra and that she is responsible for everything that has happened to you, but I didn’t think you had any option but to accept, since the match is evidently still on.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Delphine,” said Bryony gently, going to her and hugging her, “and now I wish you would go and lie down, for you look quite awful and I am very worried about you.”

“I’ll be all right,” whispered Delphine, but then she managed a smile. “One good thing has happened, hasn’t it?”

“Good thing?”

“You’ll be staying on at Polwithiel after all.”

Bryony returned to her rooms to tell an astonished Sally that far from being ordered to pack her things and leave, she was instead to take luncheon at Tremont with Sebastian and his mistress. Bryony still did not know what to make of it all as the maid brought the riding habit, which had been attended to since its soaking the day before. Why, in spite of all that was being done to convince him that he was making a serious mistake, was Sebastian Sheringham still insisting on marrying her?

When she left her apartment, she paused at one of the gallery windows to look down at him as he waited in the quadrangle below with the Polwithiel groom who would accompany them. In that moment she suddenly knew she could not proceed without attempting to find the answers to the questions which seemed more and more to present themselves, and if that meant asking him outright, then so be it.

She went straight to him and she did not beat about the bush. “I must speak with you, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow at the challenge in her manner. “Indeed?”

“Yes, Sir Sebastian. Now, before we leave.”

He glanced at the groom, who had heard every word, and then he took her by the arm, steering her a little distance away and then turning her to face him. His eyes were angry. “I am not accustomed to being spoken to like that, Miss St. Charles.”

“And I am not used to being treated in cavalier fashion, sir,” she replied, her determination to learn the truth making her a little reckless. “You’ve been making a fool of me today. Indeed, you did so yesterday too!”

“Did I indeed? I was rather under the impression that yesterday you did the work yourself.”

She flushed. “Why do you still persist with this match?”

“Can you give me any reason why I should not?’’

This reply took her a little aback. “No,” she said a little lamely.

“Then why do you ask?”

He was toying with her again! “Because I want to understand, sir!” she said coldly.

“Miss St. Charles, you’ve assured me that you are innocent of any involvement with Mr. Carmichael. Would you now have me doubt your word?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing, madam. You say you are guiltless, and I believe you. Can we not leave it at that?”

She felt suddenly helpless, for if she was determined to reach the truth, he was equally determined to conceal it from her.
“Why
won’t you tell me what I want to know? Why do you answer question with question? Why won’t you be honest with me?”

“Do you
want
me to withdraw from the match?” he asked suddenly.

“No.”

“Then I rather think this pointless discussion is at an end, don’t you?” He began to turn away.

“No, sir!” she cried furiously. “The discussion is
not
at an end!”

He turned very slowly back to face her, his eyes cold. “Have a care, Miss St. Charles, for at the moment I think you are on dangerously thin ice. You need this marriage, and I don’t think you should forget it.”