A Perfect Likeness (23 page)

Bryony tried to show enthusiasm for the assembly, and for the water party and the summer ball, but her interest was hollow, for all three occasions would mean facing Petra again, which she had no wish to do. She turned the pages of her book without really reading, and after a while she found herself gazing through the dancing water of the fountains toward the estuary.

The folly stood proudly on the headland, a flock of white-winged gulls soaring around its battlements. The sun shone brightly down from a clear sky, the scent of roses was all around, and it was a perfect July day, but Bryony’s spirits were so low that it might as well have been dull and rainy.

“Have you been listening to anything I’ve said to you, Bryony St. Charles?” asked Delphine suddenly, putting down her hook.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve been daydreaming ever since you sat down.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

Delphine smiled. “I think you should know that Sebastian is riding up to the house and they will send him here in a moment.” She pointed toward the drive.

Bryony’s heart sank as she saw the tall figure on the gray horse. “Well, at least he hasn’t brought that woman with him this time,” she said.

“Which is hardly surprising after what happened last time.”

“It was very small revenge.”

“I suppose so.” Delphine watched as the steward came out to greet Sebastian, pointing in the direction of the summerhouse. Sebastian leaned down to take something from him and then rode toward the gardens. “Bryony,” Delphine said sadly, “I still think you are wrong to go on with this match.”

“I must.”

Delphine nodded, but then gave a sudden gasp, as if something had occurred to her. “No, you don’t have to!” she cried, her eyes shining. “I’ve just thought of something which could solve everything for you!” She glanced toward Sebastian. “I’ll tell you afterward.”

Bryony stared at her. Whatever could she mean? But then Sebastian was there, his shadow darkening the little summer-house for a moment as he came in. He removed his top hat and bowed to them, the sunlight shining on his bright hair. “Good morning, Delphine. Miss St. Charles.”

Delphine smiled at him. “Good morning, Sebastian, how good it is to see you again. Have you come about the arrangements for the assembly?”

“Partly. Oh, before I forget, Miss St. Charles, the steward charged me to give this to you.” He held out a letter.

She stared at it, her breath catching for a moment, but then she recognized her father’s writing and smiled with relief as she took it. “Thank you, Sir Sebastian.”

Delphine picked up her tambour hook again. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

“Oh, it can wait.”

“Please feel free to read it if you wish, for I know your father is a very poor correspondent and you have to wait forever for a letter from him.”

Bryony smiled and broke the seal. Delphine was right about her father, he loathed writing, and although he had only one daughter and this was the first time she had been parted from him, he had still managed to write only a few brief lines. He informed her that his health was improving and that Kathleen had returned in safety.

The maid’s precipitate return had initially caused him great concern, but now his fears for his daughter’s welfare had been allayed by the arrival of a letter from Sebastian, who had assured him that he was more than happy to proceed with the match now that he had met his prospective bride in person. He had also given assurances that the moment the marriage was celebrated, Liskillen’s debts would be settled in full.

Leon chided her a little for informing Sebastian about the debts, but on reflection he was relieved that she had, for Sebastian’s kind letter had lifted a great weight from his shoulders. The letter finished by telling her that he was delighted that she was to marry such a gentleman, a man worthy in every way of that title, for now her future could only be filled with happiness and security.

Slowly she folded the letter. “I did not know that you had written to my father, Sir Sebastian.”

He smiled a little. “It seemed the honorable thing to do, Miss St. Charles.”

She said nothing.

“You’re looking much improved since last I saw you,” he said after a moment.

“I am feeling much better, sir.”

“Then you will definitely be attending the assembly?”

“Yes.” But I wish I could avoid it!

“Then perhaps we should discuss arrangements for conveying you to and from Tremont.”

“But I thought I would be traveling in the Polwithiel carriage.’’

“I think it would be more appropriate if on this occasion you and I traveled together. As it will be your first appearance in local society, it will be expected that I escort you.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t look so despondent, Miss St. Charles, for I promise you that it will not be such an ordeal.”

“No, Sir Sebastian, I am sure it will not.”

“I thought I would come to Polwithiel for you at approximately eight o’clock on the evening of the assembly, and I will return you whenever you wish. I trust that that will be acceptable?”

“Perfectly.”

“Excellent.”

His smoothness suddenly irritated her. He was so confident that he could manipulate everything, he was sure that the reprimand he had delivered when last they had met would have had the desired effect upon her, making her the meek and dutiful bride he had always hoped she would be! Damn him for his arrogance!

She wanted to make him less certain, and she would do so by saying something he did not expect. “Did the countess discover who owned the gray lurcher, Sir Sebastian?’’

He seemed startled. “Lurcher? Well, she cannot discover that which does not exist on her property, Miss St. Charles. I had thought she made it perfectly clear that she knew nothing of such a creature.”

“Clear? Did she?”

“Yes, madam, she did,” he replied a little testily, seeing the angry light in her green eyes, “and you may rest assured that if there
was
such a wild and uncontrolled hound upon Tremont land, she would have had it removed immediately.”

“Uncontrolled? Sir Sebastian, this hound was hardly that.”

“I cannot think what else it was when it darted out in that manner to worry your horse.”

“It acted upon command,” she said coolly. “It was very much controlled as distinct from uncontrolled.” She could feel Delphine’s warning glances, but she ignored them.

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “I assure you that I did not detect any command.”

“Did you not hear the whistles?”

“No, I did not. I heard shouting and horses whinnying, and I heard you scream out to me, but I certainly did
not
hear any whistles.”

“There was one to command the hound to attack, and another calling it off. I also saw it moving away through the woods with a man in a hooded cloak.”

He laughed incredulously. “My dear Miss St. Charles, I promise you that I neither heard nor saw anything such as you describe.”

“I do not think it very funny, sir.”

“No, I can see that you do not,” he replied. “Forgive me, Miss St. Charles, for I do not mean to question your word, as I am sure that you believe what you say.”

“But you do not?”

“No.”

“May I ask why?”

“From the warlike glint in your eye and the challenging tone of your voice, I believe that now is the time for me to play the coward.”

“But I want to know why you do not believe me.”

“It isn’t that I do not believe you, Miss St. Charles, for I am sure that to you it was all very real. I am simply saying that what you saw did not happen.”

“And I am asking you to explain why.”

His blue eyes searched her face. “So you are, Miss St. Charles, and I will tell you, but I remind you that it is at your request.” He bent down suddenly to pick up the book which had lain all the time on her lap. “Do you read a great many novels like this?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Yes, but I fail to see what that has to do with the matter in hand.”

“Please bear with me, Miss St. Charles, for there is a purpose. Have you read Lady Anthea Fairfax’s
Mystery of the Lost Island?”

“Yes, I believe everyone has.”

“Petra has also read it—I fear that she does not miss a single such lurid publication—and when she learned of your accident, she said immediately that it reminded her of an incident in that particular book. Do you recall the chapter to which she was referring?”

She stared at him. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I do.”

“As Petra described it, the heroine was riding alone in a forest when the villain sets a vicious wolf upon her, but she is rescued by the hero, who for some reason best known to himself is wandering around in the garb of a black monk. I suggest, Miss St. Charles, that your liking for Gothic novels has more than a little bearing upon what you believe you saw and heard, for the groom and I were aware only of the hound attacking, nothing more.”

Bryony was silent, her mind racing. Oh yes, she remembered the book, and believed she knew why Petra had so cleverly brought attention to the similarity between the accident and the story, for the man in the cloak had probably realized that his victim had caught a glimpse of him.

Yes, the more she thought about it, the more she knew that that was what had happened, and in order to counter anything which might be said about the “accident,” Petra had drawn this clever parallel with a book she could be reasonably certain her lover’s bride would have read.

Delphine looked uneasily at her, fearing that she was about to say much more, maybe even accuse Petra, and so she hastily changed the subject. “Sebastian, how clever you are, but how disagreeable, for to be sure, Bryony’s story is much more exciting than your paltry explanation. And I was beginning to think that you were romantically inclined, which goes to prove how wrong I was.”

He had still been looking at Bryony, but now was forced to pay attention to Delphine. “Romantically inclined?”

“When you sent Bryony those beautiful red carnations, with their secret message, I thought you were so romantic, but today you have set out to ruin that fond impression.”

“Delphine, you know that I am the most romantic soul alive, but in this I confess to bewilderment—to what ‘secret message’ are you referring?”

“Why, the language of flowers, of course!”

“Indeed? And what do red carnations signify?”

Delphine sighed. “They mean ‘Alas, my poor heart.’ “

“How very touching, but I’m afraid that if I had intended any message, it would have been much more prosaic, something along the lines of ‘Please recover quickly.’ “

“You’re right,” said Delphine dryly, “that would have been extremely prosaic.”

He looked at Bryony, whose silence was very noticeable. “Well, I promise that when next I give you red carnations, Miss St. Charles, they will be given in full knowledge of their hidden meaning.”

She met his gaze but still said nothing. Delphine, however, clapped her hands and smiled. “Well said, sir, that is a vast improvement! You begin to make a good impression again.”

“One tries one’s best,” he murmured.

A footman approached the summerhouse. “A message from his grace for Miss St. Charles, sir.”

Bryony looked up. “For me?”

“Madame Colbert’s assistant has arrived with the evening gown promised for the assembly, and his grace sends his compliments and asks will you return to the house to attend to it?”

Bryony had forgotten all about the gown, indeed had hardly thought of the
couturière
at all. “Oh, yes, I’ll come straightaway,” she said, glad of the excuse to leave the summerhouse.

As she rose, however, Sebastian suddenly took her hand, raising it to his lips as if merely observing the usual courtesies, but his eyes were cool and his voice almost silky. “How very zealous my cousin is on your behalf, for it cannot be often that a duke concerns himself with the arrival of a dressmaker’s assistant. How honored you are, to be sure.”

“His grace is merely being kind to me,” she said, but she knew her cheeks had colored a little. She couldn’t help remembering how foolishly she had allowed Felix to embrace her.

“Really? I had not realized that kindness formed part of my cousin’s character.
Adieu,
Miss St. Charles, until the evening of the assembly.”

As she entered her apartment several minutes later, the first person she saw was Felix. He lounged on her favorite window seat, one gleaming spurred boot resting on the cushion, the other stretched out lazily before him, and he wore a sage-green coat and brown-and-white-striped waistcoat.

He smiled. “I thought you might need rescuing, or at least I hoped you would.” He nodded down in the direction of the summerhouse, which was clearly in view from the window.

She was suddenly defensive, suspecting him of some trickery. “Am I to understand that Madame Colbert’s assistant has
not
arrived?”

“Would I say that she had if she had not?”

“Yes.”

“Now I’m hurt,” he murmured, leaning his head back against the window embrasure, his dark eyes half-closed as he studied her, “especially as the wretched creature awaits you in your dressing room at this very moment.”

“Oh.”

“I may forgive you, if you are kind to me.”

“Kind?”

“I wish to see you in your new togs.”

“I do not think, under the circumstances, that that would be appropriate, sir.”

“Why? You sound like a bride fearing to see her groom on her wedding day. No, worse, you begin to sound like a stranger, Bryony St. Charles, and that is the last thing you are—now.”

She flushed a little. “We
are
strangers, sir, and that is how I wish the situation to remain.”

“Something cannot remain if it no longer exists,” he said softly, “and when I look at how prettily you color and how you try to avoid my eyes, I know that you realize it full well yourself. Now, then, run along in and try on your new gown, and I will then give you the benefit of my considered opinion, an opinion which has been greatly sought in the past, I promise you, for I’m not without judgment in these things.”