"But, my lord—" Fitzleger shot Anatole a pained glance, though he seemed to realize the futility of further argument. Heaving a long sigh, he said, "Very well, my lord. I shall do the best I can to find you such a woman."
"Good. When will you commence your search? I want this matter settled before next summer is out."
"My lord is that eager?"
"No, my lord merely doesn't want to be plagued with a wedding when the shooting is good."
Fitzleger's mouth quirked in a wry smile. "Of course not. One would not wish your lordship to be inconvenienced. I can see I'd best commence my search immediately. I shall set out for London tomorrow."
"London!" Anatole fairly spat the word. "You'll find no bride for me there! Amongst a parcel of town-bred chits who want to do nothing but shop and gossip the livelong day."
"I am sure there are women of good sense to be found in London as well as anywhere else, and that is where my instinct tells me to go." Setting aside his wineglass, Fitzleger struggled to his feet. "Fortunately my eldest daughter is married to a city merchant. I will stay with her while I seek out your bride. Then when I have found her, I will send for you."
"That you bloody well won't. I've never set foot in London, and I don't intend to. That city has always proved a curse to St. Legers."
"It is true that unfortunate things have happened to some of your ancestors—"
"Our ancestors," Anatole reminded him with a certain grim relish.
Fitzleger's gaze shifted involuntarily to the portrait of Lord Prospero, as did Anatole's. The old rogue seemed to smirk at them, and both men were quick to look away.
"But I don't believe in any sort of a London curse," Fitzleger continued. "If you don't come to the city, how will you court your bride?"
"You woo her for me. We can have the wedding by proxy."
"What!" Fitzleger's jaw dropped open in dismay.
"If I don't get to select the blasted chit, I don't see any reason why I should court her."
"My lord, you cannot possibly mean to marry without meeting the lady first."
"Why not? You said I could place all my trust in you, Bride Finder"
"Yes, but—but—"
"Besides, I'm not a man formed by nature or temperament for wooing."
"But, my lord, these are not medieval times. No gently bred lady of good family will consent to marry you, sight unseen."
"Why not, if she is already destined to be my bride?"
"Even destiny must be helped along a little, my son."
"That is your task, is it not? I don't doubt you'll wax eloquent enough on my behalf, and I am prepared to offer a very generous settlement."
Fitzleger looked shocked. "You cannot buy a wife, my lord."
"Of course you can. It is done all the time. Just find some female of little fortune, and you can dazzle her with the size of my estates and income. You may even appall her with a description of my appearance and delightful disposition. But there is one thing you will not tell her."
"And what is that, my lord?"
"Anything about my rather unique heritage."
"Do you think such concealment wise, my lord? I mean—" Fitzleger hesitated, then said diffidently, "I fear that is the same mistake your father made."
"No, my father was very frank with my mother before they wed. Since my father possessed so little of the family gifts, I believe my mother found the whole St. Leger history rather romantic… at least until I was born.
"But we aren't discussing my mother. We are talking about my own wife. Do you think any woman in her right mind would marry me, knowing who and what I am? No! My bride shall remain in ignorance until I determine the best time to enlighten her."
"But how will you keep such a secret? She will be bound to hear some rumors from people in the village or your own servants."
"None will dare if I command otherwise," Anatole said fiercely.
"But there is one here that you don't command." Fitzleger gestured uneasily toward the portrait that dominated the hall.
Anatole grimaced. "Yes, well, fortunately that one will confine his whispering to this part of the castle. I will simply forbid my bride ever to come here."
"My lord, this is not good. To begin a marriage cloaked in such secrecy."
"Nonetheless it shall be as I say." Anatole folded his arms across his chest. "We do it my way, or we don't do it at all."
Anatole had rarely seen signs of distress in the placid Fitzleger. But now the little clergyman raked his hands back through his snowy tufts of hair. When he tried to don his cloak, he appeared so agitated, Anatole had to move to help him.
"Not good. Not good," Fitzleger murmured over and over again. "These are hard conditions you set, my lord. Very hard. I don't even know how I shall remember all your instructions."
"Ah, that is why I had the forethought to set them down on paper." Bending down, Anatole reached inside his boot and produced the small roll of parchment he had tucked there hours before.
Unfurling it, he checked it himself one last time before handing it over to Fitzleger. Of course, since he had inked out his commands earlier that afternoon, it said nothing about his ban against the chit having red hair. But Fitzleger could surely remember that much.
The rest was all there… the sturdy limbs, the ample bosom, the good horsemanship, the plain face, the practical mind, the courage. Yes, most of all the courage.
Lest she be frightened to death.
The thought no sooner entered Anatole's mind than, as if on cue, a chill passed through him, an icy blast of air that caused the candles to flicker.
The parchment flew out of his hand, snatched away by invisible fingers. Anatole heard a soft mocking laugh. He tensed for a moment, then cursed.
Pursuing the fluttering paper, he tromped down upon it with his boot just in time to save it from being whisked into the blazing hearth.
As suddenly as it had come, the wind stopped. The candles resumed their normal, steady glow. Compressing his lips together, Anatole bent down to retrieve the parchment.
He straightened to find Fitzleger staring about him with wide eyes. The old man did not look frightened, only a little unnerved.
"Was that him?” he asked in hushed tones.
"That devil Prospero. Who else?" Anatole glared at the rogue's portrait. Prospero's black eyes mocked him back. Anatole let out a mouth-filling oath. "It would be a wonderful thing, Fitzleger. To have ancestors that when one bid them 'rest in peace,' they had the courtesy to do so."
That silky taunting laughter echoed through the hall again.
Fitzleger sighed and laid his hand upon Anatole's sleeve. "My poor boy. You are the one I wish I could offer some peace from all of this."
"Peace?" Anatole gave a bitter laugh. "I don't expect that until I die. And given that I'm a St. Leger, probably not even then."
Taking Fitzleger's hand, he upended the clergyman's palm and slapped the parchment into it. "No, old man. There's only one thing you can do for me."
With a single flash of his eyes, Anatole opened the cloister door.
"Go," he commanded. "Find me a bride."
Chapter 1
The cavalcade looked out of place as it rumbled along the narrow country road. Outriders in scarlet livery preceded two carriages pulled by teams of showy bays, the first of these vehicles an awe-inspiring sight. With its sky blue exterior and gilt trim, it was like something spun from legends of the Cornish fisherfolk, tales of the faery coach that overtook unwary travelers across the moors, spiriting them off to the phantom world.
The young woman who peered out the window of the first coach could well have been mistaken for the faery queen. Her face was fine-boned, her complexion so pale as to be almost ethereal. Her slender neck appeared scarce strong enough to support the weight of her headpiece, a powdered wig of thick curls set beneath a large-brimmed black velvet hat adorned with four white plumes.
Yet there was nothing in the least fey about Madeline Elizabeth Bretons gre
en eyes. Set beneath dark, delicate brows, they gleamed with a lively curiosity and intelligence. Bracing herself against the jolts of the carriage, Madeline studied the scenery rolling past.
It was a bleak, rugged land that spring appeared to have forgotten. Not a hint of green to be seen anywhere, only the endless moors with their black heather and shrubs of broom. Here and there a gnarled tree stretched barren branches skyward like the skeletal fingers of some poor damned soul straining toward heaven.
She was traveling on the border of his lands now, the very edge of his world. Anatole St. Leger. Her husband. The man she'd promised to cherish and obey forever in a proxy ceremony a mere fortnight ago.
Madeline's hand crept involuntarily toward the miniature she wore beneath her gown of embroidered apricot silk. Suspended by a thin blue ribbon, the ivory oval nestled just above her breasts. The small portrait of her bridegroom had been given to her by the Reverend Fitzleger, along with the plain gold ring that now bound her finger as tightly as the promises she'd given to a man she'd never seen, at least not in the flesh.
Madeline felt the shape of the miniature through the layers of her gown and shift, conjuring up the reassuring image of the gentle dark-haired man depicted there. It was a reassurance Madeline found she needed more and more, the closer she approached her destination. For the past few miles, even the carriage wheels had seemed to creak at her.
What have you done? What have you done?
"Good lord, Madeline, this is the end of the world." The grim voice of Madeline's traveling companion drew her attention back to the interior of the coach.
"No, it is only the end of Cornwall, Hetty," Madeline said with determined cheerfulness. Settling back against the velvet squabs, she faced the dour visage of her cousin.
At the age of thirty, Harriet Breton was a tall, commanding female with a formidable pair of shoulders most of the London fops couldn't achieve without padding. Her dark brown hair strained back beneath a plain wide-brimmed hat that only accented the severity of her expression.
"This is the most godforsaken land I've ever seen," Harriet said. "There's nothing out here. Not even a farmhouse. Just where is this Castle Leger?"
"I don't know. It cannot be much farther."
"That's what you said when we stopped at that last wretched little village. But we've seen nothing but this lonely moor. Just the sort of place to be set upon by brigands and left for dead."
"You're always so full of joy, Hetty," Madeline complained.
"I told your papa from the beginning we needed more outriders for our protection. Well! I am sure no one can blame me if we both end up being ravished and all your bride clothes stolen by a band of murderous robbers."
"These desperate cutthroats of yours would look remarkably foolish parading around in my night shifts. You spend so much time imagining being ravished, sometimes I think you secretly wish for us to encounter a handsome brigand or two."
Harriet's only response was a shocked and indignant glare, and Madeline abandoned her teasing smile. She kept hoping that by some miracle her cousin would develop a sense of humor. Five days of being shut up in a coach with the woman and her gloom-ridden predictions had almost been enough to make Madeline defy convention and the elements to ride alongside. She was only restrained by her terror of mounting any beast that moved faster than a jog trot.
Harriet stole one more disapproving glance at the bleak landscape and started in again, "I hope you are quite satisfied, my girl. This is what your rash decision has brought you to, this savage, uncivilized—"
"Oh, Hetty, please!"
"If I have said it once, I've said it a dozen times—"
"A hundred," Madeline put in wearily.
"This is purest folly! Marrying some mysterious gentleman whose family no one in London has ever heard of. What do you even know about this bridegroom of yours?"
"I know… enough," Madeline said with more conviction than she felt.
"Humph!" Harriet snorted. “I still cannot imagine how you ever persuaded your parents to consent to this very odd match."
"As soon as I made known the extremely generous settlement St. Leger offered, the hearts of both Mama and Papa were quite won over."
Madeline didn't mean to sound cynical or bitter, but she knew her charming, and rather feckless parents all too well. There was Mama insisting that the town house needed to be redecorated from top to bottom again. There was Papa with his fatal addiction to faro and bestowing expensive trinkets upon opera dancers.
And then there was the rest of the family, her two lovely younger sisters, Juliette and Louisa, with their penchant for fine clothes and jewels, for marrying men of large titles and small purses. And finally her brother Jeremy to whom life was just one long grand tour.
None of them ever appreciated the fact that all these activities cost a great deal of money until the entire Breton family teetered on the brink of ruin. It had always been up to Madeline, the practical, to find a way to save them.
Harriet shook her head darkly. "All I know is, you have not behaved like your usual prudent self, Madeline."
"Yes, I have. What could be more prudent than a marriage of convenience? They are arranged all the time."
"Not like this one, with a bridegroom who doesn't dare show his face, as though he had some dreadful secret to hide. Instead of sending me, your parents should have made this journey with you. One would think that at least they would want to be certain they hadn't married you off to some ogre."
The same thought had crossed Madeline's mind, but being sensible, she had quickly dismissed it. It was, after all, the height of the Season in London. Mama had a dozen balls to attend, Papa at least as many new gaming hells to explore. Now that the family was in funds again.
"I only hope the family is grateful to you, Madeline," Harriet droned on. "For this terrible sacrifice you've made."
"Oh, Hetty! You think it a sacrifice to marry any man. St. Leger wanted a wife. I needed a husband of substance. It was that simple. I am no martyr. Wedding him was merely the logical thing to do."
"Poor lamb. Poor, poor lamb."
Madeline winced and pressed her fingertips to her temple. Even when Harriet sympathized, she was capable of preying upon one's nerves.
It was a great relief when the older woman lapsed into silence. She knew Harriet meant to be kind, but her cousin only stirred up doubts and fears that Madeline fought to keep at bay. More than once on this journey, she'd been tempted to order the coach around to carry her back to the life she'd known in London, the empty round of parties, balls, and salons, a world where she'd never felt she belonged, but one that was safe, all too familiar.
Only one thing stayed her. Madeline tugged at the ribbon around her neck. Slowly she drew out the ivory miniature, cupping it in her hand like a secret treasure.
She gazed down at the handsome face, the masculine features softened by the fine strokes of watercolor. It was the face of a poet, a lover, a dreamer. Hair of midnight tamed back into a queue, a sensitive generous mouth, a strong, determined jaw. But it was Anatole's eyes that had captivated Madeline from the first. They seemed to stare out of the portrait, lit by a dark inner fire, speaking to her of powerful longings, haunting her with untold sorrows.
When she was certain Harriet wasn't looking, Madeline raised up the miniature. She brushed it lightly against her lips and spared a smile for her own folly.
Settlements, property, convenience. Madeline had made fine speeches on those issues to Hetty, to the rest of her family, even to herself. The truth was that there had been nothing logical at all about her decision to marry Anatole St. Leger. She was far worse than any silly girl who'd ever lost her heart to a suitor she'd just met.
She had lost her heart to a portrait, had allowed herself to be wooed by an odd little man with white wings of hair and an angel's eyes.
Fitzleger had not been the kind of man to attract much notice in London or to receive invitations to the best houses. Just a modest gentleman, a
provincial clergyman. Madeline would not even have been inclined to waste much time upon him herself. She generally found country parsons to be crude, rough-mannered, ignorant.
But Fitzleger had proved to be soft-spoken and surprisingly well educated. Still, that alone did not seem to be enough to account for why she had felt so drawn to him. Their first meeting had occurred by accident when she had been browsing through one of the bookshops in Oxford Street
. He'd dropped his tricorne, and she had picked it up for him.
Madeline was not certain exactly how that had led to an acquaintanceship. Day after day, she had begun to look for the quaint little man to call, almost like waiting for an old friend. He was a learned man, but she had not sought him out to discuss books or philosophy.
No, what had intrigued her most was the strange errand that had brought Fitzleger to London. She had longed to learn more about this St. Leger who would trust a humble clergyman with the task of finding him a bride.
"And you say St. Leger lives alone in this great old castle?" she had asked.
"With a handful of servants. Castle Leger is very isolated. St. Leger has never stirred more than a few miles from the place in all his life."
"What! Not even to go to university or take the grand tour?"
"No. St. Leger sets a high value on his privacy and solitude."
That had touched a definite chord with Madeline, but she had continued to press, "And is he so shy, then, that he would not even stir forth to seek his own wife?"
" St. Leger has good reason to place confidence in my abilities. I was once his tutor."
"Is he a clever man? Accomplished?"
"He possesses many… unique talents." Fitzleger had broken off, seized by a sudden coughing spell. Madeline had waited eagerly for him to continue.
" St. Leger is a good master. A very conscientious man. He takes prodigious care of his tenants, all his people. Castle Leger is a wealthy estate, the house full of—of history."
"What sort of history?"
St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder Page 2
