An Unsuitable Bride (17 page)

Sylvia sighed and refolded the letter. She would know soon enough, if Alex managed to make the visit. And knowing Alex, she would manage it. She was not one to be diverted from a set path, as Sylvia knew well. The present charade had been entirely Alexandra’s idea. Sylvia had been against it, seeing all the risks, terrified of letting her sister go alone into such a lion’s den, but Alex had been adamant. It was the only way to gain justice and secure their future.

In the end, Sylvia had accepted that all she could do was help her sister perfect her part and let her go. They had rehearsed for hours until Alex was letter-perfect in her story, and her disguise was impenetrable.

Or at least, that was what they had thought.

Sylvia scooped the blanket from her knees and stood up.
What could have gone wrong?
Hitherto her main comfort had lain in her knowledge of Alex’s talent for charades. They had played so many games in their childhood, and Alex in particular had always delighted in the art of disguise, dressing herself in a different persona, both physically and mentally. How had she slipped up this time?

Sylvia shivered suddenly. The air was growing chill as the sun dipped behind the trees. With a shake of her head, she made her way back up the path to the cottage. Alex would be here soon enough, and she would know everything then.

“Well, I don’t know why you have to go to the expense of a post chaise for a mere servant,” Maude muttered to her husband in the hall. It was just after dawn, and the carriage was already at the door, coachman and postilion holding the horses.

Stephen sighed. “I’ve explained, ma’am. The books are too precious to entrust to the public stage.”

Maude sniffed. “That’s as may be. I still consider it an unnecessary expense. Why didn’t you send the
woman and the books up to London in the old carriage? We could have used our own grooms and the second coachman.”

“I did consider that, ma’am. But the second coachman is not skilled with such a cumbersome vehicle, and I felt sure you would not wish to do without Benjamin’s services for your barouche. Besides, the front axle of the carriage is in need of repair, and if it broke down on the road, the expense would be even greater than that of a post chaise with one postilion.” Stephen’s voice was impatient. He was no happier than his wife about this expense, but he’d looked at every alternative, and none seemed to fit the bill.

“Besides,” he added, “the profit Mistress Hathaway will ensure from the sale of the books will more than compensate for an entire fleet of hired chaises . . . And there is Mr. Sullivan, on time to offer his escort.” He moved to the open front door to greet Peregrine, who rode up on his big gray and doffed his hat.

“Sir Stephen. Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“Perfect for a journey,” Stephen declared with a genial smile. “It really is very good of you to keep an eye on the books, dear fellow. I won’t know a moment’s peace until they are safe under lock and key in Douglas House.”

“Douglas House?” Peregrine raised his eyebrows in question. “I understood Mistress Hathaway was to stay in a hotel.”

“No, no . . . no need for that expense,” Stephen said.
“As m’lady wife pointed out, the house is sitting there under dust covers, and the staff are eating their heads off with no employment. They can open up one or two rooms, a bedchamber and a small parlor for Mistress Hathaway. Much the better solution.”

Peregrine could only imagine the dusty, chilly reception Mistress Alexandra would receive from the skeleton staff of a shut-up mausoleum on Berkeley Square. He inclined his head faintly. “Is the lady ready?”

“Oh, she’s just supervising the final packing of the books. ’Tis very important they’re protected from light and dust on the journey.” Stephen turned back to the door, calling to a manservant. “John, have you secured Mistress Hathaway’s portmanteau?”

“On the roof, sir.”

“Good. Then go and inquire if Mistress Hathaway is ready to leave.”

“Sir.” The man bowed and disappeared into the shadows of the hall.

Alexandra watched critically as the last nail was hammered into the tea chest containing the selection of books she had picked. Much as she hated to do it, she would honor this commitment to Stephen, but her real commitment was to her father’s books. They would go to the buyer she considered most worthy, regardless of whether his bid was the highest, but she would keep that little proviso to herself. And she intended to vet every potential customer for the library through her father’s eyes.

“That will do,” she said. “Have the chest put inside the chaise. It mustn’t be exposed to the weather.”

Drawing on her gloves, she followed the man who had shouldered the heavy chest. Her spirits were absurdly buoyant, and she caught herself fancying that the square of early sunlight framed in the open front door was a shining path to freedom. Ridiculous, of course, but she had to work to keep her footsteps to the sedate pace appropriate for the librarian as she crossed the hall to the door.

Maude was standing in a dressing robe at the foot of the stairs. Alexandra curtsied. “Good morning, ma’am.”

“Sir Stephen and I have decided there’s no need to waste money on a hotel for you,” Maude stated. “A message was sent yesterday to the caretaking staff at Douglas House to expect you. I daresay you’ll do well enough there. The house has been standing empty for a year, but we intend to open it properly this November for the Season.”

This was the first Alexandra had heard of the change of plan, and her heart lurched. What if the caretaking staff at the London house were part of her father’s establishment? All of the senior retainers from her childhood at Combe Abbey had left their employment on her father’s death, provided with small pensions in Sir Arthur’s will, so she had been in no danger of recognition here, but she didn’t know about the London house. All of the old servants in Berkeley Square
knew her . . .
had
known her, she reminded herself sharply. She had been fifteen when she had last seen any of them, and in her present guise, she bore no resemblance to that exuberant young girl. No, of course they wouldn’t recognize her.

She curtsied again, murmured something, and made her escape into the pale, cool sunlight, where her high spirits received another dousing of cold water. She had tried to forget her escort, but there was Peregrine Sullivan, atop a big gray gelding, doffing his hat and smiling at her with that warmth that made her stomach plunge.

Peregrine swung down, bowing as she came down the short flight of steps to the gravel sweep. “Mistress Hathaway, your escort reporting for duty, ma’am.”

She gave him a brief nod and a murmured “Good morning, sir,” before busying herself with seeing to the disposal of the tea chest against the farthest door of the chaise. Then she turned to Sir Stephen. “All is in order, Sir Stephen. I will send word from London as soon as I discover how much interest there is in the collection.”

“Yes, do that . . . do that. But don’t be gone more than a week, mind. I have need of you here, too, you know. Business matters won’t just take care of themselves.”

She inclined her head. “No, indeed, sir. I will make all haste to conclude the business.” Peregrine was holding the door of the chaise for her, and she stepped up inside, settling on the worn leather squabs. It was not the most commodious of vehicles and by no means in
the first flush of youth, but she guessed it had been the cheapest the Red Fox in Dorchester had available.

“Are you comfortable, ma’am?” Peregrine’s head was in the doorway.

“Quite, thank you,” she returned stiffly, and turned her head to look out of the other window. If she tried hard enough, at least she could avoid eye contact for the part of this journey that they must perforce spend together.

So, that is how it is to be
. Peregrine pursed his lips and closed the door, the coachman’s whip cracked, and the carriage moved away from Combe Abbey.

Only then did Alexandra lean back against the squabs and breathe deeply. She was free . . . not for long but long enough to refocus, recover her strength of mind, and return to the fray with all the purpose and determination of before.

Except that before she could truly relax into this freedom, she had to dispense with the Honorable Peregrine Sullivan. She could do nothing about what he knew of herself at this point, but as long as he didn’t take up permanent residence in the Dower House, she thought she could continue with her plan without fear of discovery. But under no circumstances could he know of Sylvia’s existence. Sylvia must not be associated with her sister’s deception, must not in any way be touched by the fraud that could bring her sister to the gallows. So, sooner rather than later on this journey, she would have to dispense with her escort. She could hear him whistling as if he had not a care in the world
as he rode beside the carriage, and she found the sound supremely irritating. She couldn’t remember when she’d last felt like whistling herself.

It was about twenty miles to Christchurch, Alexandra calculated, where they would have to change horses. They should reach there in about three hours. They would presumably break to refresh themselves while the horses were being changed, and she would tell Peregrine then that she was not continuing to London. He could have no justification for continuing with his escort unless he wanted to make mischief. He had offered to help her; if she explained that this was the only way he could do that, then he would surely continue on the road to London, and she would be free to enjoy Sylvia’s company for tonight and tomorrow.

She would instruct the coachman to take the coastal detour that would bring them to the little hamlet of Barton just a few miles along the coast from Lymington. She had sufficient funds of her own to pay the coachman for such a short delay, and he and his horses could put up at the Angel Inn in Lymington. A different chaise and coachman would return her to Combe Abbey from London, so there was no possible reason for Cousin Stephen to hear of the detour, and if he heard of her delayed arrival in Berkeley Square, there were any number of travelers’ tales she could use to explain it.

It should all work beautifully. So, why did she have this nagging doubt?

Peregrine continued whistling cheerfully as he rode beside the carriage. This offer to escort Alexandra had been pure impulse, a way to spend time alone with her in a noncompromising situation. He was hoping she would take him into her confidence in private, away from prying eyes. Of course, her present rather frigid attitude made that hope seem optimistic, but he had not expected it to be easy.

She would resist, and he would push back. He would not betray her, and she had to know that now. Eventually, she would come to trust him fully if he persisted. She was by no means indifferent to him; even though she had run from him in the end, her response to him on the cliff top had made that clear enough. He had not mistaken the deep sensual glow in her eyes, the soft yearning of her body as she’d leaned into him.

A smile quirked his mouth as he thought how much he wanted to see the moonlight in her gray eyes once more, the straight and slender body, the true and vulnerable self revealed beneath the disfiguring marks on her smooth complexion. And most of all, he wanted to hear her talk, see her smile, her true smile, enjoy fencing with that rapier wit.

He moved Sam closer to the chaise. Leaning down, he used his crop to push aside the leather curtain that closed the window aperture. “Is all well in there?”

Alexandra jumped, startled from her musing. She looked at Peregrine, who was smiling that inviting smile. Resistance was easier with rudeness. “It was,”
she said pointedly. “Now ’tis drafty with the window open.”

An eyebrow lifted. “My apologies, ma’am. I wished only to ensure you were comfortable and needed nothing. We could stop for a short while any time you wish.”

“I have no need and no wish to stop before we reach Christchurch.” She leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes, hoping it was enough.

Peregrine let the curtain fall. He would have settled for a polite response to his solicitous inquiry, but he’d never been averse to a challenge.

Alexandra kept her eyes studiously closed in case her escort took it into his head to peek in at her again. The less they spoke, the safer she would feel. Soon they would reach Christchurch, and she would send him on his way.

The Norman tower of Christchurch Priory dominated the skyline as they approached the town. Alexandra sat up, moving aside the leather curtain on the far side of the chaise, away from Peregrine, and looked out at Christchurch Harbor protected by the cliff at Hengistbury Head. The chaise turned up the High Street from the harbor and drew up in the yard of the George Inn. The George was the only coaching inn in town, and ostlers ran from the stables to remove the horses from their traces.

Peregrine dismounted and opened the door, asking politely, “Will you step into the inn, ma’am? You’ll welcome some refreshment, I daresay.”

“Thank you.” She ignored his proffered hand and stepped down onto the cobbles. She approached the coachman, who was talking with one of the ostlers. “How long to make the change?”