BRIGHTON BEAUTY

by Clay, Marilyn

  Chelsea turned her face away. She would adore it. "I-it all sounds very gay, Ford, but . . . you are forgetting," she said quietly, "I shan't be there."

  Upon uttering those words, a sense of doom seemed to press down upon her. She hated to squelch his pleasure, but it would not do to let him think she had changed her mind. She knew it would take more than the promise of music and a bit of dancing to lure Alayna Marchmont away from England.

  Once the small coach had rattled across the sturdy new bridge and wheeled past the bailey, Chelsea caught sight of a dusty horse tethered near the mammoth wooden doors that marked the entrance to the castle. At once the feeling of foreboding within her intensified.

  "Appears we have a visitor," Lord Rathbone said, his well-modulated tone having grown distant and cool again. "I expect it is the magistrate, Mr. Wainwright. I called at his office just now, only to find that he had journeyed to the castle to see me. Or rather, us."

  Chelsea's heart leapt fearfully to her throat as Lord Rathbone halted the team. He tossed the reins aside and hopped to the ground.

  "Alayna," he said crisply, reaching to assist Chelsea down, "you will join us in the withdrawing room. Wainwright will want to have a word with you."

  Her mouth having gone completely dry, Chelsea had difficulty responding. "D-do you suppose . . . I mean," she knew she was stammering, "will he have m-my miniature with him?"

  Rathbone's lips pressed together in a show of disgust. "How vain you are, Alayna. Perhaps he will have the picture with him, and perhaps he will not. Your portrait is not that important a piece of evidence, you know. There are any number of more critical things to consider in this case." Long strides carried him into the castle's darkened hall. "I have already said that in due time we shall have another portrait painted of you. Now, send your packages to your chamber and come with me."

  Making an effort to swallow the terror that gripped her middle, Chelsea knew that once again, she had no choice but to do as she was told.

  Chapter Nine

  “He Maintains You are Not Alayna Marchmont”

  "We were beginning to despair of you," Lady Rathbone exclaimed as Lord Rathbone, with Chelsea close on his heels, came striding into the room.

  "My apologies, Mother," Lord Rathbone said, his hand outstretched as he approached the short, balding man standing near the mantelpiece. "Good day, Wainwright."

  "Good day, my lord," the magistrate replied, pumping the hand Lord Rathbone offered.

  "I trust I have not detained you overlong."

  "Not at all, sir. Lady Rathbone has kept me occupied. She has given me quite a detailed account of her dealings with the prisoner."

  "Yes, well, Mother did spend a good bit of time with Sully; but so did Miss Marchmont. Alayna," Rathbone turned toward Chelsea, who was standing quietly to one side, hoping the loud pounding of her heart could not be heard by anyone but herself. "This is my cousin, Miss Alayna Marchmont, the brave young lady whom Sully abducted."

  Chelsea took a step forward, fixing what she hoped was a confident smile to her lips. "How do you do, Mr. Wainwright." She fervently hoped that the quavering of her voice was not as noticeable to the others as it was to her.

  "Well enough, thank ye, Miss Marchmont. Now that the rain has let up and I can get about easier, that is. And dryer," he added, with a laugh. "Understand your lordship had troubles here, with the bridge collapsing and all."

  "Indeed, we have," Lord Rathbone agreed heartily, then his pleasant tone changed abruptly. "Shall we get on with it, Wainwright? I should like to have this nasty business put behind us as soon as possible." With a hand, he indicated a group of straight-backed chairs in one corner of the cavernous room. Leading the way toward them, both Chelsea and Mr. Wainwright followed, leaving Lady Rathbone seated in her chair near the fire.

  After everyone was settled, Chelsea, managing for the moment to hold her fierce anguish at bay, forced herself to speak up. "May I say how grateful I was that you and your men were within close range that night, Mr. Wainwright."

  "Indeed, Miss Marchmont. You must have been frightened beyond measure that night, what with the shooting and all."

  Chelsea nodded tightly, all the while watching the magistrate's face, hoping to read something, anything in his expression. But, so far, his ruddy features and burly manner had revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

  He proceeded to ask her several questions, general in nature, regarding her dealings with Sully, then he and Lord Rathbone launched into a brisk discussion concerning the man's treacherous plot to make off with Lord Rathbone's legacy. Since they seemed to have forgotten that she was there, Chelsea wondered if perhaps her interview was done. Seizing upon a break in the gentlemen’s conversation to excuse herself, she rose boldly to her feet and murmuring something vaguely intelligible, she hastened to Lady Rathbone's side.

  "Well, my dear," the woman greeted her with a warm smile, "I hope you and Ford had a nice drive into Chester."

  Chelsea drew up a chair and with a relieved sigh, sank into it.

  "You look as if you quite enjoyed yourself," Lady Rathbone went on, her gray eyes twinkling merrily. "The high color in your cheeks is most becoming."

  At the mention of that, Chelsea felt the warm flush on her face deepen. Still working to suppress the unease that fluttered within her, she said, "We had quite a lovely time, Aunt Millicent." Pausing, her nervous gaze flitted across the room to where the gentlemen were still speaking in hushed tones. "I . . ." She glanced again at Lady Rathbone. "I took our notice to the engraver. He said the placards will be ready day after tomorrow," she concluded, trying for a gay tone.

  "Splendid! We shall send Ford after them when they are done."

  "Yes, he said he would fetch them, and . . ." seemingly of its own accord, Chelsea's gaze darted toward the gentlemen," . . . post them for us," she added absently. Suddenly, she wondered why Mr. Wainwright had said nothing about the portrait? What could it mean? Was something amiss? Unaware of her actions, Chelsea began to nervously twist her hands together in her lap.

  "Alayna dear?"

  Feeling a cool hand lightly touch her arm, Chelsea's head whirled back around. "Excuse me, Aunt Millicent, did you say something?"

  "I was merely inquiring if you and Ford had given any thought to your wedding trip. And who you might be planning to take along?"

  "Oh, our wedding trip. Uh . . . no,” Chelsea shook her head. "We've not yet discussed it."

  "Alayna!" Lord Rathbone's booming voice commandeered her attention. Her eyes large and round, Chelsea sprang to her feet at once. "Would you step over here again, please, darling?"

  Feeling her nails digging into the palms of her hands, Chelsea was across the room in a flash. Yet, upon reaching Ford's side, the reassuring smile he bent on her alleviated some of the tension building within her.

  "Mr. Wainwright needs to ask you one last question, my dear. It seems a loose end is still dangling." Lord Rathbone glanced down at Chelsea, and apparently noting the anguished look in her eyes, said, "You have nothing to fear, Alayna, I promise you Sully is tucked safely away behind bars."

  Chelsea tried valiantly to calm herself, and forcing a deep breath of air into her lungs, turned toward the magistrate. But, noting tiny beads of perspiration popping out across his brow, she thought that gentleman seemed a bit overwrought.

  "I, uh, do not know where to begin with this, Miss Marchmont," the red-faced gentleman said hesitantly, "but . . . you understand I would not be doing my job properly if I did not uncover all the pertinent facts in the matter."

  Fear pushed at the back of Chelsea’s throat. After waiting for what seemed an eternity for the man to proceed, she finally Said, "If it is about the . . . about my portrait, Mr. Wainwright, I already know that . . . "

  "Why, that is it exactly, Miss Marchmont!" The magistrate exhaled a relieved breath. "It seems, well, uh . . . " Once again the magistrate appeared at a loss.

  Lord Rathbone came to the rescue this time. "Alayna darling, it se
ems Sully has made certain accusations . . . ridiculous accusations, I might add . . . regarding your identity."

  Chelsea's heart plunged to her feet.

  "The prisoner, Miss Marchmont . . . well, he . . . he maintains that you are not Alayna Marchmont, which of course, is not to say that I believe a word of it . . ."

  "Good God, man!" Lord Rathbone exploded. "Anyone can see that the idea is pure rubbish! Sully is obviously trying to divert the blame for his perfidious activity onto someone else's shoulders. It is nothing more than a ruse. And, a transparent one at that."

  "Well, of course, I agree with you wholeheartedly, your lordship," Mr. Wainwright said. "Still, at the outset Sully did present a fairly convincing case."

  Chelsea felt all color drain from her face.

  "Nonsense!" Lord Rathbone sputtered. "What could the reprobate possibly base such an accusation upon?"

  "Well, uh . . . like Miss Marchmont said, it was her portrait, which Sully said . . ."

  "We all know about the missing portrait, Wainwright. I fail to see where Alayna's likeness has anything to say to Sully's accusation."

  "Well, according to Sully, and of course, you understand, it is his word against that of Miss Marchmont—"

  "So, there you have it," Lord Rathbone cut in again. "If it is Sully's word against Alayna's, no man in his right mind would side with Sully."

  "Well, uh . . ." The magistrate seemed unconvinced.

  "Where is the portrait now?" Chelsea managed to ask in a fairly even voice.

  "Well, you see, that's where the problem lies, Miss Marchmont. It seems . . . "

  "Did you not bring it with you?" Lord Rathbone asked impatiently. "All one need do is take a look at it. Alayna said it was the best likeness of her yet."

  The magistrate's head jerked up. "That so, Miss Marchmont?"

  Attempting to swallow the sharp terror that threatened to choke off every ounce of air in her lungs, Chelsea nodded thinly.

  Rathbone turned another smile upon her. "My cousin would never tell a falsehood, Wainwright. Though I daresay there is not an artist alive who could do her beauty proper justice."

  "Why, that is precisely what my clerk's wife said," Mr. Wainwright chimed in, his voice suddenly sounding quite relieved. "Seems his wife saw Miss Marchmont at services a fortnight ago, at the first reading of the banns, and according to her, the portrait did not favor the young lady in the least. She said you were much prettier than your portrait, Miss Marchmont."

  "There you have it," Lord Rathbone concluded. "Apparently this artist fell as far short of the mark as every one before him has."

  Fighting to keep her quavering voice from breaking altogether, Chelsea asked, "Does your clerk have the portrait now?"

  "Well, uh" . . . Mr. Wainwright scratched his head again . . . "that is, he did have it, but the thing is, Miss Marchmont, the portrait seems to have vanished into thin air. Dreadfully sorry. I had intended to deliver it to Lord Rathbone when I came to call today, would have made matters much easier, you understand. But . . . "

  "No harm done," Rathbone put in, pleasantly. "I shouldn't think I'd even want the miniature now that Sully's had his . . . well . . . " he paused. "We have plans to commission a new one, a much better one, don't we, Alayna darling?"

  Her brown eyes still round with fear, Chelsea nodded weakly.

  "Well, thank you for your help, Miss Marchmont," Mr. Wainwright said roundly. "So sorry to have put you through this. I can see now that the notion was indeed quite ridiculous, but a man in my position cannot take chances, you understand."

  "No, o-of course not," Chelsea murmured, directing a shaky smile up at Rutherford. "W-will that be all? Aunt Millicent and I were discussing our . . . our wedding trip . . . darling."

  "Then go along with you, sweetheart. Wainwright and I still have the matter of my charges to consider."

  Feeling a flood of blessed relief wash over her, Chelsea hurried away. How on earth the gentlemen had arrived at the conclusion that she was indeed Alayna Marchmont, in the face of such blatant evidence to the contrary, was beyond her comprehension. Only one thing stood out clearly in her mind. This had been the absolute worst experience of her entire life.

  * * * *

  Lying abed that night, Chelsea could not thrust aside the horrendous feeling of guilt that had settled about her shoulders like a cocoon this morning. This havey-cavey nonsense had gone too far. Attending church while pretending to be Alayna Marchmont had been bad enough, though the second time, she realized, had been a bit easier, perhaps due to the pleasant sense of 'togetherness' she had felt with Lord Rathbone. But today. Today was the worst discomfort she had ever experienced. She had broken the law! And, unbeknownst to him, she had dragged Lord Rathbone along with her, actually pulled him into her perfidy! Lord Rathbone was the most honorable man she had ever met. He would never break the law. He was all that was good and right and honest.

  And she . . . she was no better than Sully. And though she feared for her very life when her awful treachery came to light, she could not live a day longer with herself if she did not confess the whole truth to Lord Rathbone at once. Her trickery had already caused him a great deal of grief, but today's episode with Mr. Wainwright had been too much. Chelsea had to come forward with the truth. When Alayna returned next week, her explanation of the unfortunate affair would surely save Chelsea from the gallows.

  Of course, she reasoned further, thereafter her good name would be ruined beyond repair . . . for who would hire a young lady who had spent time in jail . . . but that did not matter now. What mattered was, she was deceiving Lord and Lady Rathbone shamelessly and it had to stop. The agony of it had become unbearable. Not even the thought of living without the constant threat of Alayna's interference in her life was enough to balance this torment. It had to end. She had to tell the truth.

  Having at last reached a decision in the matter, Chelsea turned over and, at length, fell into a fitful slumber.

  The following morning she entered the dining room determined to draw Lord Rathbone aside and confess the awful truth to him. But she was startled to discover that that gentleman was not at the castle!

  "Ford decided to make an early start for London," Lady Rathbone said. Then, at the crestfallen look on Chelsea's face, she added, "He will return in plenty of time for the ball, dear girl. In fact, I expect him back within the week."

  When Chelsea could not manage any sort of reply, Lady Rathbone continued, "I know you will miss him frightfully, my dear, but I assure you the time will pass quickly. We've plenty to keep us busy."

  Despite the truth of that, Chelsea was so overwrought she could not eat a bite of breakfast that morning. She had awakened poised and ready to make her confession speech today, and to bravely suffer the consequences, whatever they might be. And now . . . this. Dear God, how was she to go on until Lord Rathbone returned?

  By the third day, she had grown so pale and wan that even Lady Rathbone commented on her inability to eat and lack of focus on the plans they were making for the fair and the ball.

  "Alayna my girl, you mustn't take on so. Rutherford will most certainly have returned to the castle by tomorrow. What do you say we take our tea out-of-doors this afternoon?" she suggested brightly. "Perhaps the fresh air will serve to stimulate your appetite. You must eat, my dear, how else will you be fit to dance the night away at our lovely ball?"

  Chelsea smiled feebly as she rose from the sofa in the drawing room to wheel Lady Rathbone's chair into the corridor. In the hallway they met Jared. Lady Rathbone gave him instructions regarding their afternoon repast, then she and Chelsea continued toward the garden.

  Once outdoors, they skirted 'round the side yard and headed toward a neat grassy lawn. There, a small army of servants were busy trimming the overgrown hedges and pruning back several rows of wild roses. Chelsea pushed Lady Rathbone's chair up to a stone table standing beneath an ancient old oak, then settled herself on a small bench nearby. At their feet, a sea of blood-red poppies nodded
their approval of the company. Though the air smelled crisp and fresh outdoors, the peaceful setting did nothing to lessen the sharp turmoil roiling inside Chelsea.

  In moments Jared appeared with the tea things and after laying out the meal, Chelsea made a valiant attempt to nibble on a cucumber sandwich, more to appease Lady Rathbone than to fill her own empty stomach. But it was no use. After only a cursory bite, she laid the sandwich aside.

  "Alayna dear," Lady Rathbone began, her alert gray eyes still fixed on Chelsea, "it saddens me to see you wasting away so. You simply must eat, my girl." She paused, then said, "Though it quite pleases me to know that you have come to care so deeply for my son."

  Chelsea lifted an alarmed gaze. "E-excuse, me?"

  "Oh, do not play the innocent with me," the older woman chided affectionately. "Your actions these past few days have been quite tell-tale. You are as in love with Rutherford as any young lady could be."

  Chelsea blanched, but that did not deter Lady Rathbone from her course. "It is nothing to be ashamed of, Alayna. On the contrary, it is to be commended. Despite the fact that you and Rutherford's match was not engineered for love, I am quite pleased to see that it is happening anyway. A harmonious union is quite difficult to maintain without affection. And, now," she reached to pat Chelsea’s hand warmly, "the two of you have such a great deal of joy ahead of you. I am quite pleased, my dear."

  Chelsea managed a somewhat uneven smile, then dropped her gaze to her lap. Perhaps Lady Rathbone was the tiniest bit correct in her assessment. Chelsea had indeed come to care for Lord Rathbone. In fact, she had quite possibly fallen in love with him the moment she laid eyes on him. He had, after all, just saved her life. But, of course, her feelings for the gentleman did not signify, and even so, they were certainly a long way from . . . real love. Weren't they?