by M. C. Beaton
Lord Harry tugged James’s arm and drew him back. “I have a plan,” he whispered, his eyes dancing. “I’ll give the minx what she wants. We’ll say we do not want to be announced yet. I’ll tell you what I have in mind when we’re inside.”
“So what’s the plan?” said James, looking around the well-appointed bedroom with pleasure. There was a new bed with brocade curtains hanging from a central coronet. Curtains of finest Brussels lace fluttered lazily at the long windows. An exquisite little nosegay of flowers had been placed on a table beside the bed.
“I am going to be a veritable Pink of the Ton,” said Lord Harry gleefully. “I am going to mince and scrape and bow and treat Miss Isabella as if I find her the veriest provincial. To that end, I need to borrow your clothes, my peacock.”
“But your shoulders are broader than mine, and you’ll ruin my coats!”
“With your fortune, James, you can replace them. You have often offered me money, and I have always refused. It will be like charades. You act like me for a change. Do you good.”
James hesitated. Had he not been envying his friends carelessness earlier on? James had always worked to keep up appearances. Even after a bloody battle when all his comrades were lying about exhausted, Captain James Godolphin sat in the middle of them, carefully brushing his uniform. He had even invented a concoction for removing bloodstains. But just for a little, just to relax …
“Very well,” he said.
“Right. But I need paint and powder.”
“I have some hair powder. Paint? I do not paint, Harry.”
“My mother does. I wonder if she’s brought her toilet case along. I’ll go on a raid. Back in a minute.”
After a while Lord Harry returned, triumphant. “Good old, Mama. Look at this. Blanc and rouge and some vile perfume, too. Here’s my traps, James, and I’ll take yours. Wait until you see the finished man.”
James unpacked Lord Harry’s evening wear and, after a wash, put it on. It hung slightly loosely on him, particularly about the shoulders, but it felt amazingly comfortable. He brushed out his hairstyle, the Windswept, and then combed it back into a simple fashion.
An hour later, Lord Harry appeared in all his glory, and James laughed out loud. Lord Harry now had his hair teased and curled into the Windswept. His face was covered in white blanc with two circles of rouge on his cheeks. James’s dark blue evening coat was strained across his shoulders, and James’s breeches on Lord Harry’s thighs were tight to the point of indecency. His watch chain was decorated with seals and fobs. He carried a large lace-edged handkerchief in one hand and a vinaigrette in the other.
“What do you think?” he asked, twirling about.
“Horrible. Don’t you want to marry her?”
“Not much. I’ll probably have to, all the same. Let’s go down.”
The Chadburys and Tremaynes waited impatiently in the drawing room. Dinner had been put back an hour. “What can be keeping them?” asked Lady Tremayne anxiously. “It’s not as if Harry ever bothers about dress.”
Lucy, for her part, envied Isabella’s calm. The servants had said her brother had brought a friend with him. Would this prove to be the man of her dreams? Possibly not. Harry was thirty, and so it followed that his friend was probably old as well. She noticed a wine stain on the bodice of her dress and dabbed at it with a grubby handkerchief. “Try spitting on your handkerchief,” said her mother.
“Seltzer is the best thing,” said Isabella. She carried over a small bottle of seltzer, soaked her own clean handkerchief with it, and then efficiently began to remove the stain from Lucy’s dress.
“Viscount Tregar and Captain James Godolphin,” announced the butler.
Isabella stood frozen, the seltzer soaked handkerchief in one hand. Lucy whispered, “Oh, dear.” The earl and countess stared, their mouths open, while Mr. and Mrs. Chadbury looked at each other in despair. Then the tableau broke up. The countess rose to her feet and darted to her son and flung her arms around him. “Harry, oh, dear Harry.”
He put her gently aside and said in a rather high, precise voice, “Do be careful of Weston’s tailoring, Mama.”
“Why, Harry! How you have changed. So this is your friend? Charmed.” The countess looked flustered. “You know the Chadburys, of course, and this, my dear, is Isabella.”
Lord Harry bowed so low his nose nearly touched the ground. He waved his handkerchief in a series of elaborate swoops.
Then he straightened up and raised a quizzing glass and studied his bride to be from the top of her burnished curls to her small and dainty feet.
“You might do,” he said. “A little town bronze needed, I think.”
“Isabella has had two Seasons in London,” commented her father stiffly.
“Indeed!” Lord Harry walked slowly around Isabella as if examining a statue. “And she did not take?”
“On the contrary,” exclaimed his mother. “Isabella received many proposals of marriage.”
“Stap me! Never would have believed it!”
“Harry,” snapped his father. “Stop prancing around like a coxcomb and mind your manners.”
Lord Harry sat down after carefully raising the skirts of his coat. James, attempting his new role, lounged back in a chair next to him.
“So tell me how the war goes,” said the earl. “Will we defeat Boney, think you?”
“Tut, tut,” reproved his son. “Ladies present.” He turned to Isabella. “I must have new gloves made. I believe lavender is the latest color.”
“Yes, for ladies,” said Lucy.
“Nonetheless, I think lavender would suit me very well.” He began to discourse on glove makers in that new high mincing voice of his until Mrs. Chadbury said in desperation that they should all go in for dinner.
James found he was sorry for Isabella. She was trying to mask her horror, but her beautiful eyes kept straying in Lord Harry’s direction as if looking at some species of loathsome insect. He found himself seated next to Lady Lucy. She was a pleasing, if messy, child, he considered as he amiably stooped several times to retrieve her napkin. “We don’t have these new things at the castle,” said Lucy. “We just wipe our mouths on the tablecloth in the good old English way.”
James repressed a shudder. His man carried clean table linen as well as clean everything else for his master, even to the battlefront.
Lord Harry was describing a play the officers had put on in Lisbon. “I was most effective,” he said. “I played the wronged virgin. You should have heard Wellington laugh. He said I had the neatest ankles he had ever seen.”
The countess took a deep breath. She wanted to scream at her son and then tell him the marriage was off. But they needed the money so desperately. And who was ever going to please Isabella?
“Poor Isabella,” said Lucy to James. “Who would ever have thought my brother would turn out to be a fop. How does he fight anyone?”
“Oh, he’s very brave,” said James.
“Such a pity we can’t find Grandpapa’s treasure,” mourned Lucy. “For then we should be rich, and Harry would not need to marry Isabella.”
“Tell me about this treasure.”
“Well, Grandpapa was very much in love with Grandmama, and she was fond of diamonds, and so he bought her the best. When she died, I think his brain became somewhat addled. He took a dislike to Mama, who should have got the jewels, and said she would never have them. Then when Grandpapa died, we found he had hidden them somewhere. We never could find them.”
He smiled at her, thinking her a nice little thing. He liked her freckles and her fuzzy, frizzy auburn hair.
“Perhaps you did not look hard enough,” he volunteered. “Some of these old buildings have hidden rooms and priest holes and things like that. Have you any plans of the castle?”
“I have never seen any,” said Lucy. “The castle is really not so very old. But mayhap they did not need plans but just sort of threw buildings up.”
“Even then, they had plans or blu
eprints or something. Would you like me to help you look?”
“Oh, yes,” said Lucy. She thought he was nice, so much nicer than Harry. She liked his fair hair and his gray eyes. He could not be a stickler for dress for his coat was quite loose, and so he surely would not despise her shabby gown. “When can we start?”
“We’ll see. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“May I … may I ask you something?”
“It depends on what it is.”
“Well, I shall ask you just the same. I have not seen Harry in five years, but I remember clearly he was easy going then and not at all high in the instep. He is making a cake of himself and giving Isabella a disgust of him. He has changed terribly.”
“Perhaps he is nervous,” said James. “It is a marriage of convenience, after all.”
Mrs. Chadbury finally rose to lead the ladies to the drawing room. To the earl’s irritation, his son suggested the gentlemen join them. The earl had been hoping to have some more of Mr. Chadbury’s excellent port.
When they reached the drawing room, Lord Harry said to Mrs. Chadbury, “Perhaps my betrothed would like to show me the rose garden.”
“It’s as black as pitch out there,” protested the earl.
“There is still some light,” drawled Lord Harry.
“Go ahead,” said Mrs. Chadbury with a sigh.
As Lord Harry escorted Isabella out into the garden, he could feel her whole body shrinking away from him. He reflected he had never seen so beautiful a woman before, or such a cold one. There was still a pale light in the sky. The evening was fine, and the rose garden was dark and shadowy and mysterious, made for love and assignations, he thought.
Isabella described the roses and when they had been planted. He stopped at a sundial in the middle of the garden and turned to face her.
“I would like to remind you,” he said haughtily, “that ours is to be a marriage of convenience, if you take my meaning.”
“I am being forced to marry you, if that is what you mean,” said Isabella, averting her face.
“Dear me, how coarse and insensitive the modern woman is. I shall be more plain. I do not want children.”
“Sir, I fail to—”
“To put it even more bluntly, as you seem to be monstrous short of understanding, I do not wish you to inflict the pleasures of the marriage bed on me.”
Isabella bit back a hysterical laugh.
“I? Surely, my lord, it is the lady who usually shrinks from intimacy.”
His eyes gleamed in the dark. “If you are going to force yourself on me, madam,” he said in his mincing voice, “then I must decline your offer.”
“Force … Really, my lord, the facts are these. My parents want me to marry anyone, and you happen to be available. Your parents want money. That is all there is to it.”
“You say that now,” he said sadly. “But, pon rep, the ladies sigh after me.”
“Rest assured, my lord, I cannot imagine sighing after you. In fact, if ours is to be a marriage in name only, then I must admit I can face it with a certain amount of hope. Do your parents really need money so badly?”
“Yes.”
Isabella noticed a huge yellow moon was rising. The air was heavily sweet with the scent of roses. It was a night made for romance, she suddenly thought, and then wondered why she should be entertaining such mawkish ideas.
Some imp prompted her to say, “Are you not supposed to get down on one knee and propose to me?”
“And dirty my breeches? No, indeed. Our lawyers, I assume, have already done that for me. We will be married after the Little Season, for I have a mind to enjoy the pleasures of London. Do you always wear white?”
“Usually. It is correct for young, unmarried ladies to wear white.”
“Tedious. You should wear colors. I shall introduce you to some good mercers in London.”
“How do you know good mercers in London if you have spent all your time at the wars?”
“You do not think I would have my waistcoats purchased in some heathen land?”
“Neither the Spanish nor the Portuguese are heathens.”
“In manners of cloth and dress, they are.”
“So you worship at the altar of fashion.”
“No,” said Lord Harry calmly. “Fashion worships me. I shall dazzle the ton in London.”
“You know, it is said in the best circles of London that I am an extremely beautiful woman,” said Isabella, hoping to goad him.
“You amaze me. You are passable, I admit. But you lack animation or warmth.”
“Something that a man milliner like yourself knows all about?”
“You are rude, and yet I speak the truth. Beauty without spirit is an empty shell.”
“I think we should go indoors, my lord. I am bored. I beg you to reconsider. You will not be happy with me.”
“I do not plan to spend much time in your company, and I shall enjoy your fortune immensely,” said Lord Harry. He suddenly screamed and grabbed her arms.
“What is it?” cried Isabella.
“Those black things overhead!”
Isabella firmly disengaged herself. “Bats, my lord. Only bats.”
She walked away from him, and he followed more slowly, a smile on his face. Isabella evidently did not know that London gossip reached the battle-fields of Spain, and he had suddenly recollected tales of an Isabella, “the fairest in London town,” who had a bad reputation for breaking hearts. There was no danger of his falling in love with her any more than there was any danger of his falling in love with a statue.
As he entered the drawing room behind Isabella, he saw his little sister, Lucy, regarding him with mournful disappointment and felt a stab of conscience. Isabella sat down on the sofa next to Lucy, and soon both were engaged in a whispered conversation.
“I know he is your brother,” said Isabella, “but he is a coxcomb, a fop.”
“I do not know what has happened to him,” muttered Lucy. “We must find that treasure. When does he want to marry you?”
“After the Little Season.”
“That’s what you wanted,” Lucy pointed out.
“I thought he might need some town bronze, and now it appears he thinks I am in need of it. Fool!”
“Don’t you want to marry him?”
“You know I don’t, although things are not so bad as I feared. It is to be a marriage in name only.”
Lucy wrinkled her brow. “I must think of a plan. I know, he is become so very precious-perfect that if perhaps you were to adopt the manners of a hoyden, then he might not want you at any price.”
Isabella’s eyes gleamed. “He accused me of being devoid of animation. That would really teach him a lesson. But it is not in me to behave badly.”
“Try. We are going treasure hunting tomorrow, and that nice Captain James has promised to help. Wear your old clothes—”
“I do not have any old clothes.”
“Well, wear something you won’t mind getting dirty and … laugh a lot in a boisterous way and slouch and spill things.”
Isabella thought this was quite a good description of Lucy herself. In that case she could use Lucy as a model.
“I’ll try,” she said. “What time?”
“Come early. About eleven in the morning will do. But come alone. Ride over and leave that retinue of servants of yours behind for once!”
Chapter 3
LORD HARRY AWOKE early. Another fine day. His sister had told him on the road home the evening before about the treasure hunt. So Isabella would be arriving at eleven. What a cold fish she was, he thought with amusement. Did he mean to marry her? He could not really see anything against it. He would go back to his regiment after a comfortably long leave. Such as Isabella would never dream of following the drum. In fact, he would not need to see much of her at all.
Had she been a warm-blooded girl who was being forced into an unwelcome marriage, then he would have told his parents to drop the whole idea. But he knew Isabella’s r
eputation. It had all come back to him when he had seen her. She was a cold-hearted flirt, and Lord Harry detested flirts.
He got up and washed and dressed in Captain James’s clothes, groaning to himself as he applied paint to his face. But the masquerade must go on. He did not feel bad about tricking his parents. They had always been wrapped up in each other and in their own lives, lives in which he had played very little part. But he was sorry for Lucy and wondered whether he might trust her with his secret.
He knew it was no use trying to rouse the servants. They were all elderly men. The earl and countess did not like women servants. All the servants had been drunk since they got the money from Captain James and were sleeping off the effects.
He went down to the cavernous black castle kitchens and made himself a breakfast of bread, cold ham, and beer, and then he decided to go out for a walk.
The air was like champagne, and the turf beyond the castle walls, springy under his feet. He walked for a long time along the edge of the cliffs, then turned inland. Larks sang in the pure air, high above his head, their trilling songs cascading down to the ground. At last he took out his watch and noted that it was already half past ten. Time to return.
Isabella’s parents were not awake when she set off. But the head groom was shocked when she announced her plan to ride to Tregar Castle unescorted. What could happen on such a fine day? protested Isabella. She knew everyone for miles around. She was in no danger. The head groom reminded her of what was due to her consequence, but the new Isabella, dressed in a rather worn, short, tight riding dress that she had found in a trunk and had not worn for three years, said she did not give a fig for consequence. Stubbornly, the man said he could not allow it, it would be more than his job was worth.
Isabella turned on her heel and strode off, but instead of returning to the house, she looped the train of her riding dress over her arm and set out to walk on foot to Tregar Castle.
Lord Rupert Fitzjohn, seated on his horse on a small rise that commanded the surrounding countryside, could not believe his luck when he saw Isabella Chadbury walking unescorted along a dusty road that led away from her home. Every day, he had ridden from the inn where he was staying under an assumed name to just this point, watching and waiting for an opportunity. He had been there the day before with his small telescope, through which he had witnessed the arrival of the earl and countess and their daughter. He had seen two men riding up later. Still, he had remained at his post until darkness fell.
