An Unlikely Countess (13 page)

He could stay overnight and seek a meeting tomorrow. That would be a different matter to calling late. He could pay his respects, claiming some slight acquaintance in Northallerton, which would be close to the truth. Probably Prudence Youlgrave, happily restored to her natural state as prim sister of Mr. Aaron Youlgrave, solicitor, would explode any lingering fascination.

The town clock struck six.

He had time to eat, and Oakapple deserved his rest. There’d be recriminations when he returned and they’d be worse the later he was, but nothing would be improved by his being tired and hungry. He ate in the dining room at a common table, enjoying a tasty soup and the company of ordinary people. When the next courses were slow to appear he muttered a complaint.

“They’ll be along soon,” said a cheerfully round gentleman who’d introduced himself as Stimpson, a candle merchant. “Got a big do here tomorrow, and the kitchens are in a fuss.”

“No cause to stint us,” said a younger man with a square, ruddy face, who’d grudgingly admitted to the name Brough and to working in mining. “Our money’s as good as anyone’s.”

The only other person at the table was an elderly woman who was keeping to herself, as if she feared that being at a table with males would be her ruin.

“Not as good as Tallbridge’s,” Stimpson said. “It’s his daughter as is marrying.”

“Tallbridge?” said Brough. “I wish I were marrying his daughter.”

“Not his daughter, sirs,” said their waiter, at last spreading dishes on the table. “His son-in-law’s sister.”

Cate managed to catch him before he rushed away, and ordered two bottles of wine. Pleasant to be able to afford generosity.

The two gentlemen took a glass with pleasure, but the silent lady shook her head. She enjoyed the food, however, as Cate did.

“So they’re having a wedding breakfast here,” he remarked, to get the conversation going again.

“That’s it, sir,” said Stimpson. “Tallbridge has a fine house on Houndgate, but he’s a very private man, Tallbridge is. It’s a rare few who are invited into his house.”

“Born in a farm cottage,” muttered Brough. “For all his airs and graces.”

“To be praised for rising by his own endeavors, then,” said Cate. “And he hosts the reception for the couple. That’s well-done of him.”

“Indeed it is,” said Stimpson.

“Currying favor with Draydale,” said the disagreeable young Brough. “Mr. Draydale, you see, sir, comes from a
good
family. His brother’s a sir.”

“So the lady’s marrying a gentleman. Let’s toast the bride!”

The men raised their glasses, but Brough said, “Draydale’s only a merchant, when all’s said and done. And that Youlgrave, he’d be nothing if he hadn’t charmed Tallbridge’s pudding-faced daughter.”

Cate hid sudden, sharp interest.

“Sir, I find your comments disrespectful to any lady.”

The young man glared at him, red faced, but then pushed back from the table. “I’ll find better company elsewhere.”

Cate shook his head. “Is he an unlucky suitor?”

“I doubt it,” said Stimpson. “More the sort who can’t bear to see anyone rise in the world while he’s stuck in his place.”

“And stuck there by his own disagreeable nature,” Cate said, filling the other man’s wineglass again.

So, Prudence truly had triumphed. Tomorrow she would wed an excellent husband—a man born to a good family and now prosperous by his own endeavors. After the service, she’d be feted in style at the best inn in town.

“To the bride,” he said again, and Stimpson joined him in the toast.

Talk turned to the American colonists, who were making unreasonable objections to paying their share of the recent war, but Cate’s mind was playing with temptation.

He’d like to see Hera triumphant. He’d like to give her the brandy flask, but it certainly wasn’t a suitable wedding present. He could watch her arrive at church, however, a happy bride. It would be truancy indeed, but he couldn’t resist.

He discovered that the wedding would be at the fashionable hour of eleven, and asked the best way to send a message to Richmond, the closest town to Keynings. A coach would go that way in an hour, so he wrote a letter explaining that he was staying in Darlington for the night and would return tomorrow, and made all the arrangements for its dispatch.

“Keynings,” said the innkeeper, when Cate handed over the letter and the money. “Why, you’ll be connected to the family, sir, being a Burgoyne.”

“Yes.”

“Sad business, the earl dying so suddenly, sir, and him a young man still.”

“Yes.”

Cate’s tone shut the man up and he went away.

It shouldn’t surprise him that such news was all around the area, but would anyone yet know the details of the succession? He hoped not. He wanted to remain in pleasant anonymity.

He took a room for the night and settled to a game of whist with Stimpson and a couple of local men. As the stakes were low and the company amiable, he went to bed well pleased.

After breakfast, he paid his bill, but left Oakapple at the inn for a while and wandered the town until it was time for the wedding.

St. Cuthbert’s was an ancient church well surrounded by trees, so he could mingle with others gathered to see the bride arrive and not be too obvious. He stationed himself close to a clutch of women, pretending to have come upon the moment by accident.

“A wedding?” he asked.

“Aye, sir,” one woman said. “The bride’s coming from Mr. Tallbridge’s ’ouse.”

That obviously gave the event cachet.

“The bride is his daughter?”

“Nay, sir. His son-in-law’s sister.”

“And the groom?”

“Mr. Draydale, sir.”

Had he imagined something odd in the woman’s tone?

“A young man?”

“Nay, sir, gone forty and buried two wives.”

“Poor man.”

The women gave him a look, and indeed, perhaps there should be some sympathy for the wives. There was something else in the look, however. Did they have doubts about Mr. Draydale, gentleman, who had become prosperous through his own endeavors? He was certainly older than Cate had expected.

“What sort of man is this Draydale?” he asked.

“A gentleman, sir. His brother’s Sir William Draydale, of Draydale Manor.”

So by fortune of death Prudence could even become Lady Draydale one day. Doubts churned in him, however.

A coach came jingling up from the street to the church door, the two horses bedecked with bells, ribbons, and flowers. When it stopped, a footman got down from the back to open the door, and a distinguished older gentleman with powdered hair stepped down and turned to assist someone.

The bride.

Cate blinked, needing a moment to adjust his image of Hera.

Her gown was a splendidly fashionable sacque in buttercup yellow embroidered with spring flowers. Her pale hair was swept up beneath a frivolously pretty flat straw hat circled with more blossoms. She’d filled out, and only a filmy fichu covered the swell of generous breasts above a low, embroidered stomacher. Her profile was still strikingly classical, but with the extra flesh she could almost be called beautiful.

And she looked like a marble statue.

She or someone else had attempted to rectify pallor with rouge on lips and cheeks, but the contrast merely emphasized it. Bridal nerves? They said all brides had them, but Cate wanted to rush forward, to take her by the shoulders and ask,
Are you sure you want to do this?

What if she said no?

Why should that be? This wasn’t the Middle Ages.

But what was this Draydale really like? The man who’d buried two wives.

That could happen to any man. It meant nothing. . . .

All the same, Cate had to act.

The bridegroom would be waiting by the altar.

He stepped back and went to the side of the church, hoping for an alternate door.

There it was. Unlocked, as well. It took him into the side aisle, which was separated from the main one by large, old pillars. The pews in the center of the church held perhaps thirty people, all finely dressed. All notables of Darlington. Another sign of how well Hera had done for herself.

But she’d looked as if she were going to the gallows.

He kept to the side aisle and made his way forward to where he could see the groom. At first he could see only Draydale’s back—a heavyset man of moderate height, finely dressed in maroon velvet. His suit was cut in the latest style and his bold stance fit it. It declared to all that he was a prosperous man, sure of his place and his power.

When Cate moved farther he saw the glint of gold braid at the front, and also the man’s profile. He had a strong, fleshy face with a big nose and rather heavy lips. Nothing wrong with that. He looked fit, prosperous, and commanding.

Four quiet children sat in a nearby pew, in age from about twelve to a toddler in the arms of a maidservant. So, Draydale had been looking for a mother for his children. Nothing wrong with that, either.

His groomsman somewhat resembled him, in softer and perhaps weaker form. Probably Sir William Draydale, knight or baronet, comfortably ensconced in a country manor.

Sir William suddenly elbowed Draydale and murmured, “You lucky dog, Harry.”

Nothing wrong with that, either, for Prudence Youlgrave had just entered the nave on the arm of a young man who must be her brother. There was a resemblance, though Aaron Youlgrave was brown-haired. On him, the classical features were unquestionably handsome.

Cate looked back at the groom—and caught a disturbing smile. It wasn’t loving, or even admiring, but closer to a leer. It seemed almost salivating—like a dog seeing a joint of beef left unattended.

But the bride had her eyes firmly turned down.

Maidenly modesty.

Or fear.

She’d been completely dependent on her brother’s miserly allowance. Was she now under his thumb because of poverty? Would he benefit from the marriage? He, or his born-in-a-cottage, but high-and-mighty father-in-law, Tallbridge? Such slave trading wasn’t unknown, where a family persuaded or compelled a woman to marry to their advantage and profit.

In coming to Darlington, had Hera walked into a lion’s den? No, “lion” sounded too noble. Had she fallen into a dog pit?

As she reached the altar Draydale bowed to her brother, and seemed to include Tallbridge nearby. To Cate it shouted,
Thank you, sirs. Bargain made.

The service began. Cate assumed it was the age-old one, but he’d attended few weddings. Apart from some rough-and-ready army ones, he could remember only his sister Arabella’s, and Roe’s, and in both cases he’d been a bored lad in his teens.

“. . . if any man knows . . .”

Cate’s heart suddenly pounded, just as it had in battle when he’d seen an opportunity to strike, an opportunity beyond his orders.

But he must do something to stop this travesty.

He was watching Hera, trying to resist rash impulse, when she looked up toward the altar with a desperate plea.

“. . . of any impediment . . .”

It was the right thing to do. He’d never been able to deny that knowledge. He stepped into view of the wedding party.

“. . . or forever hold thy peace.”

“I do,” he said, tempted to burst into laughter at the use of the wedding vows.

The vicar stared at him. “I beg your pardon, sir?” “Who the devil are you?” demanded Draydale, red flushing his cheeks.

“Catesby Burgoyne, sir.” Cate bowed, calm now that the moment was on him. It was always so. Wryly, he added, “Not entirely at your service.”

“Well, take yourself off! You have no business here.”

“Mr. Draydale, Mr. Draydale,” soothed the vicar, “the gentleman has raised an objection and must be heard. What is your cause for concern, sir? I’m sure it can be smoothed away.”

Cate turned to the bride. She’d been sheet white before, but now color had surged into her cheeks, and her blank eyes were alive with some emotion.

He wished he knew whether it was hope or fury.

Watching her, he said, “I apologize for the inconvenience, Reverend, but I must remind the lady that she is already pledged to me.”

G
asps rose in the church like a flock of starlings, and prudence’s cheeks flamed.

“Miss Youlgrave,” the vicar said. “Is this true?”

She opened her mouth and shut it again.

And again.

Dammit, had he gotten it all wrong?

You’ve only to deny it
, he thought at her.
Deny it, please, and I won’t be in a devil of a mess.

But then she found her voice. “Yes,” she said, and then repeated it clearly. “Yes, it’s true.”

Now chatter flew around the church.

“What?” Draydale roared. “You promised yourself to me! You
gave
yourself to me. That trumps any mealymouthed promises made in the past.”

Her jaw dropped, and then she screamed,
“You lie! You lie!”

Draydale backhanded her into a nearby pew.

Cate had flattened the man with a blow before he even knew it, and was trying to bash Draydale’s brains out on the altar steps when others grabbed him and struggled to drag him off. Someone hit him over the head with something. It did nothing but hurt, but was enough to break the red haze of rage. He let go and allowed rough hands to pull him away. But he snarled, “Get up and fight, you scum.”

Alas, the dastard only moaned, half-conscious.