An Unsuitable Bride (3 page)

The gray stone building stood on a slight hill, easily visible from the road that wound across the cliff above the Solent. It was an impressive turreted building, with arched mullioned windows glowing in the setting sun. Well-tended green lawns swept down to the cliff top, and a stand of tall pines served as a windbreak along the boundary of the grounds and the cliff.

Perry felt a little surge of anticipation. In that impressive building was a library, and in that library were treasures, some known, such as the
Decameron,
which set his literary juices running, and many, he was sure, unknown and equally priceless. His good friend Marcus Crofton had assured him that he could spend as long as he liked in the library. Its owner, Sir Stephen Douglas, had given him carte blanche to browse as much as he chose.

Peregrine turned his horse through the gates, which were opened at his appearance by a robust gatekeeper. “Dower House is just around the first bend in the drive, sir,” he informed Peregrine in answer to the latter’s
question. “They’s expectin’ you. Master Crofton told me to look out for ye.”

“Thank you.” Perry nodded his thanks with a smile and rode on up the drive. He was looking forward to this visit with his old friend, and not just because of the opportunity to see the library. Since his twin brother, Sebastian, had taken his new wife, the Lady Serena, on an extended honeymoon to the Continent, Perry had to admit that the house they had shared on Stratton Street seemed far too big, and very lonely. It had surprised him how lonely he had been. He’d always considered himself perfectly self-sufficient, perfectly content with his own company and that of his books. But he’d been mistaken, it seemed.

Now he nudged Sam into a trot as the Dower House came into view. It was a pleasant thatched building in the Queen Anne style, nowhere near as impressive as the Abbey itself but rather inviting. Smoke curled from the kitchen chimney, and the windows on both levels were opened to catch the freshness of early evening. Perry dismounted at the front door and pulled the bell rope beside it. He heard the chime within the house, and the door was opened almost instantly by a white-haired steward, who bowed and murmured, “The Honorable Peregrine, I assume, sir?”

“You assume right,” Perry agreed with an amiable smile, drawing off his gloves.

“Perry, is that you?” A cheerful voice hailed him from the cool depths of an oak-floored hall, and a
young man of around Perry’s age appeared behind the steward. “Welcome, m’dear fellow.” He extended a hand in greeting.

Perry shook his hand warmly. He had known Marcus Crofton since their school days. But whereas Perry had had the protection of his oldest brother, Jasper, and the constant companionship of his twin, Sebastian, Marcus had been thrown into the brutal waters of Westminster alone and left to sink or swim. The Blackwater brothers had extended their protection and friendship, and Marcus and Peregrine had quickly become fast friends once they had discovered a shared passion for science. A passion that the less rigorously academically minded Sebastian had found hard to understand and after a few attempts had given up trying to share with his twin.

“I’ve been expecting you for the last two days. You rode?” Marcus peered over Perry’s shoulder to where his horse stood patiently behind him.

“In slow stages,” Perry returned. “Where should I stable Sam?”

“Oh, up at the Abbey,” Marcus replied. “My mother didn’t wish to go to the expense of opening the Dower House stables, and Sir Stephen offered to extend the hospitality of the Abbey’s whenever we need it. For a not so small stipend, of course,” he added with a cynical note that Peregrine didn’t miss.

“Mother keeps her barouche up there,” Marcus continued. “But, except when I’m down here for some
hunting, we don’t trespass further on his generosity.” The cynical note was again difficult to miss. “Except for our visitors, who also use the stables. Roddy will take him up and see him settled. See to it, will you, Baker?”

“Of course, sir.” The butler disappeared into the back regions of the house.

“Come into the parlor,” Marcus urged. “You must be dying of thirst after all that riding.” He led the way into a square parlor. It had an intimate, family feel to it, the air scented with great bowls of roses planted on every available surface. “You’ll have to excuse my mother, Perry. The Dowager Lady Douglas suffers from ill health and spends much of the day on the chaise in her boudoir. She’s resting now before dinner.” He poured two glasses of ruby claret, passing one to his guest. “You’ll meet her at dinner, of course.”

Peregrine raised his glass in a toast of thanks before saying, “I hope the dowager doesn’t consider my visit an imposition.”

“Oh, good heavens, not a bit of it, dear boy. There’s nothing my mother likes better than visitors. She just don’t like to exert herself. But Baker and his wife, the inestimable Mistress Baker, run the house between ’em, and m’mother has to do little more than wave her sal volatile in their direction and miracles occur.” Marcus chuckled, clearly not considering this less than respectful description of his parent to be in the least offensive.

Peregrine smiled knowingly. His own mother had been of the valetudinarian stamp, and he understood the situation well. “I’m most grateful to the dowager for her hospitality. I confess I can barely hold my patience until I can see the library. Your stepfather was known as the most skilled antiquarian book collector in the country. And his father before him,” he added, his blue eyes sparking with enthusiasm. His fatigue seemed to have left him now that he was at journey’s end and so close to the object of his passionate interest.

Marcus chuckled. He knew well the depths of his friend’s literary enthusiasms, even though he could not himself summon up such intense interest for anything outside the realm of science. “I doubt the library will expand under Stephen’s caretaking. Sir Stephen Douglas doesn’t appear to share the literary interests of his two predecessors. But you should be able to see the collection soon. We shall dine quietly at home, and I should warn you we keep country hours, but afterwards we are bidden to the Abbey for an evening of cards. Every evening, Sir Stephen has card tables set up, either with his own houseguests or members of the local gentry.” Marcus shook his head with a slightly rueful smile. “I give you fair warning, my friend. If ’tis not whist, then ’tis fierce gaming. Sir Stephen plays for high stakes.”

Peregrine had neither the desire nor the funds to play for high stakes, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. He shrugged the issue aside. “As
long as there’s an opportunity to look at the volume of the
Decameron,
I’ll do the best I can.”

“Oh, no one will trouble you on that score, although you’ll have to beard the librarian.”

“Librarian? There’s a librarian?” Perry was surprised that a man with no interest in books should employ someone simply to take care of them.

“Yes, she’s been there for a while. Stephen has little interest in the collection, except in terms of its monetary value, so he employed this Mistress Hathaway to catalogue it with the aim of selling it to the highest bidder. ’Tis a damn shame, and I’m sure my stepfather is turning in his grave.” Marcus shook his head. “Such a waste of a lifetime’s assiduous collecting, and, as you said, not just Sir Arthur but his father before him. Some of the works are priceless. Anyway, Mistress Hathaway is just a dab of a thing, although I think she knows what she’s doing. She’s so shy and retiring, she’ll probably run a mile if you speak to her.”

“It’s hard to believe Sir Stephen doesn’t appreciate such a treasury,” Peregrine observed, sipping his claret.

“Truth to tell, m’boy, Sir Stephen Douglas has more than a little of the Philistine about him,” Marcus declared. “Money is his major passion, as far as I can tell. And social climbing is that of his lady wife, the inestimable Lady Maude,” he added with a sardonic grin. “Stephen does his best to further her aspirations, riding to hounds with the County set, offering generous hospitality to everyone who is anyone in Dorset,
but the lady doesn’t appear overly appreciative of his efforts.” He drained his glass. “Let me show you to your chamber. You’ll want to wash off the dirt of the road before dinner.”

Marcus led the way upstairs to a commodious chamber at the back of the house. “John will valet you. I’ll send him up straightway.” He gestured to a pier table by the window. “Claret and Madeira should you feel the need. I’ll see you in the drawing room in half an hour.” The door closed behind him.

Peregrine surveyed his surroundings. His portmanteau had been unstrapped from his horse and unpacked, and his clothes were hanging in the armoire. A knock at the door brought a manservant with a jug of steaming water and an array of fresh towels over his arm. “Good evening, sir.”

“Good evening, John . . . I believe it is.” Perry stripped off his coat. “I’m covered in dust from the road, and I need a shave. Would you sharpen my blade?”

“Aye, sir.” The valet set to work with blade and strop while Perry stripped to his undergarments.

Half an hour later, he presented himself in the drawing room, dressed appropriately in a suit of wine-colored velvet, plain white stockings, buckled shoes. His only jewelry was a turquoise stud in the froth of lace at his throat and a clasp of the same stone confining the fair queue at the nape of his neck.

“Ah, there you are, Perry. Everything to your satisfaction,
I trust.” Marcus poured claret and handed a glass to his guest.

“Perfectly, I thank you.” Perry took the glass, raised it in a toast, and wandered to the bow window that looked across the sweep of lawn to the glittering blue sliver of sea glimpsed through the windbreak. “Exquisite setting, Marcus.”

“Don’t I know it,” the other responded, coming to stand beside him. “My stepfather was a careful landowner. His death was very sudden, a fever out of nowhere, and he was dead within two days.” He shook his head. “The physicians couldn’t fathom it. He seemed as strong as a horse when he was struck down. They muttered about a weak heart after the fact, but ’tis still a puzzle. Anyway, he left the estate and the accounts in immaculate order.

“Unfortunately—” He stopped abruptly, cleared his throat, and changed the subject. “If you care for a day’s fishing, Perry, the trout stream is well stocked.”

“One of my favorite country pastimes,” Perry said easily, even as he wondered what his friend had been about to say.

“Lady Douglas is descending, gentlemen.” The steward spoke from the door behind them.

Marcus nodded. “Thank you, Baker.” He went to the sideboard, where glasses and decanters stood, and poured a small measure of ratafia into a delicate crystal glass.

“Ah, dear boys, you’re down before me.” The light voice emanated from what to Perry’s bemused gaze appeared to be a billowing ball of silks, chiffons, and paisley shawls. From within the depths of these fabrics, a pair of light brown eyes glimmered, and a small, very white, heavily beringed hand appeared. He bowed over it. “Lady Douglas, I am most grateful for your hospitality.”

“Nonsense.” She waved the hand airily. “My dear Marcus’s friends are always most welcome.” The ball of material flowed to a chaise longue and reposed itself in elegant folds, which, when they had finally settled, revealed the plump figure and doll-like countenance of a lady of early middle years. She smiled amiably at Peregrine and dabbed a lavender-soaked scrap of lace at her temples. “I am something of an invalid, unfortunately, so you must forgive me if I keep to my own chamber most of the time.” She sighed. “ ’Tis such a trial, but we must be grateful for what we have, isn’t that so, Marcus?”

“Indeed, ma’am,” her son agreed gravely, handing her the glass of ratafia. “I trust this will give you a little more strength before we dine.”

“Oh, yes, such a tonic I find it.” She sipped with a complacent smile. “So, tell me, Mr. Sullivan, what is the gossip from London?” Another little sigh, before she said, “I do so miss the bustle of town, but I no longer have the strength for it.”

Perry caught Marcus’s smothered grin and concealed
his own amusement while he racked his brains for a suitable tidbit. His sister-in-law, Lady Serena, was always a fount of useful
on dits,
and he remembered a particular one concerning the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire.

Lady Douglas listened with bright-eyed fascination. She was really a very pretty woman, Perry reflected, with her pink and white complexion and rounded chin. Certainly younger than her invalid manner would imply. She was well pleased with Peregrine’s attempts to amuse her, and when dinner was announced, she rose with unexpected energy from the chaise, taking his arm for him to lead her into dinner.

Marcus followed, smiling to himself. He was very fond of his parent—only sixteen years separated them—but always delighted when the burden of her entertainment was assumed as competently as Perry was assuming it.

Mistress Hathaway paused at her dressing mirror to take stock of her appearance before descending to the salon of Combe Abbey to obey her employer’s summons to make up a four at one of the whist tables. She had dined as usual with the family and their houseguests but, as usual, had escaped rapidly to her bedchamber the moment the ladies had left the table for the drawing room. The unwelcome summons had followed when the gentlemen had repaired to the
drawing room, replete with port, for an evening at the whist tables.