The Rebel Bride

by Catherine Coulter

  Julien forced himself to look away from her and said easily, “It is a possibility, Harry, an excellent possibility. It is a lovely time of year, is it not?”

  “Oh, damnation, Mannering, I had clean forgot Sir Percy and Lord Launston are to arrive for dinner.” Julien gave his butler a harassed look, all the while peeling off his riding gloves and wishing both of his impending guests to the devil.

  “It is nothing to concern yourself with, my lord,” Mannering said, all dignity and reassurance as he smoothed invisible creases from the tan York gloves Julien handed him. “It is merely, my lord, that Mrs. Cradshaw is hesitant to accord their lordships chambers without your approval.”

  Julien felt a tug of impatience. “Very well, Mannering, have Mrs. Cradshaw allot our guests the Green Room and the Countess’s Chamber. I’ll tell Percy that if he eats too much, our touted ghost of that long ago countess will come and torment him.”

  Mannering nodded, then gave a discreet but quite audible cough, clearly indicating to his master that this was not his only concern. Julien, well aware of the butler’s roundabout ways of securing his attention, fixed his eyes on him. “Out with it, Mannering. I promise you I shall not fly into a great rage. Just a minor one, at the most.”

  Mannering gave another cough and gazed at a point just beyond Julien’s left ear. “It is the Frenchman, my lord,” he said with mournful finality. He brought his focus back to his master, as if to ask instructions, his point clearly made.

  “The Frenchman? You refer, I presume, to François, my chef.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  A sense of foreboding descended upon Julien. He didn’t want to ask, but he knew he had to. “You may tell me the truth, Mannering. Has a scullery maid fled St. Clair in terror of her life? Did he try to kill the kitchen cat?”

  Mannering drew himself up and said with dignity, “It is not our staff, my lord. As I said, it is the Frenchman. He swears that he cannot be expected to be an artist in such a backward, barbaric kitchen. I believe he also called our kitchens squalid, but I may have misunderstood him, what with that ridiculous accent of his. That, I think, my lord, is the gist of it.” He did not add that in his opinion it wouldn’t be at all a bad thing if his pretentious, utterly revolting excuse for a chef were to fling out of the kitchen and remove his voluble presence elsewhere, preferably far from St. Clair.

  Julien knew, of course, even from the restrained account Mannering had given, that François was on a rampage. “Squalid” was the key word. If Percy and Hugh were not to sit down to an empty dinner table, he must soothe his chef’s outraged sensibilities. Damn, he should never have ordered François to accompany him here. He’d done it primarily for Percy, who always proclaimed a violent dislike for sturdy English fare. Julien recalled that he wouldn’t be overly displeased if Percy and Hugh found St. Clair quite a bore and departed posthaste for London. Perhaps, his thinking continued in fine Machiavellian style, it would not be such a catastrophic occurrence were François to leave in a huff.

  Having reached this happy conclusion, Julien favored Mannering with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders and said with the greatest unconcern, “Mannering, please inform François that if he finds his accommodations here not to his liking, he will be paid his quarterly wages and driven to Dapplemoor to catch the mail coach back to London. And, if you please,” Julien continued, “have a footman fetch Stokeworthy and ask Cook to send me a light luncheon. I will be in the library.”

  Mannering’s jaw dropped. In that instant, his respect for his master soared to heights heretofore unknown. “Fancy,” he repeated in awed tones later to Mrs. Cradshaw, “his lordship was as calm as a lord admiral. Quite ready he was to let that repulsive Frenchman go without a blink of an eyelash. He just shrugged, that’s all, just a wonderful shrug.”

  As Julien partook of cold chicken and crusty bread, he was informed by Mannering, who was unable to contain the news, that upon hearing of his master’s undisguised sentiments, François had abruptly ceased his French ravings and in a burst of enthusiasm declared that his lordship and his guests would have the finest, most exquisite repast his culinary skills could achieve, a dinner more formidable than anything these peasants who surrounded him and clearly didn’t appreciate him could ever imagine.

  Julien received this news with mixed feelings. He shrugged, deciding that at the very least, he would suffer no more tantrums from the fellow.

  4

  After he finished his luncheon, Julien made his way to the estate room, for generations the account room of the earls of March. As he awaited his agent’s arrival, he let his mind wander back to his curious encounter that morning with the Brandons. “What an impertinent girl,” he said half-aloud, but without an ounce of displeasure. Though he had openly derided the girl’s clothing, he could not help dwelling briefly upon that quite nicely shaped figure of hers, emphasized by the tight breeches. And the long, thick russet hair. Lovely hair. He had never seen hair like that before. He tried to remember freckles. Perhaps there’d been a light dusting across her nose. His fingers itched now to trace over them. He was mildly surprised he hadn’t until now made her acquaintance, nor that of her brother, Harry. But then, since he was at least six years Harry’s senior, it was no wonder that their paths hadn’t crossed in his youth. They would have been but children when he left for Eton.

  Brandon . . . Brandon. Of a certainty he knew the name, but until now there had been no faces to attach to it. He wondered with a questioning frown why his father had never spoken of the family or, for that matter, seen them socially.

  Well, he planned to see them now. Indeed, he couldn’t wait.

  Julien called out, “Enter” when there came a knock on the door.

  Stokeworthy, the St. Clair agent, appeared in the open doorway, his long, thin face (rather like a horse’s, Julien had always thought) wearing an apologetic look.

  Julien rose. “Ah, do come in, Stokeworthy. It is certainly good of you to come on such short notice. I do hope it did not inconvenience you.”

  He took the older man’s bony hand in his and gave it an enthusiastic shake.

  “I wish to apologize, my lord, for my tardiness, but you see, Mrs. Stokeworthy’s niece has come down with a chill and the house is at sixes and sevens. Very unsettling, everything is.” Stokeworthy fastened his watery eyes on his master’s face, hoping to see no displeasure. There wasn’t any, but Stokeworthy, being conscientious, continued quickly, “Perhaps the house is even at nines and tens. Such noise and commotion. It would drive me to the brandy bottle, if I had one.”

  Unknown to Julien, he would have preferred to spend much more time than he did here in the estate room at St. Clair, and had welcomed his summons, albeit on short notice, with profound anticipation. He found invariably after his visits with the earl that Mrs. Stokeworthy quite fell over his words. The folk of Dapplemoor would pay his household unexpected visits, listening with avid attention to any tidbits of gossip he chose to relate about the earl of March.

  “Given your niece’s illness, perhaps you would rather return home. We could meet again in several days, when you have no other worries on your mind. Nines and tens are difficult, I know.”

  “Oh, goodness gracious, no, my lord,” Stokeworthy exclaimed, sorry that he had ever mentioned his niece. “I assure you, my lord, a man’s presence is never the thing in the sickroom. Or anywhere near a sickroom, perhaps not even in a room that is downstairs from a sickroom.”

  Julien was hard put not to laugh. “If you’re certain, sir.”

  “I am very certain, my lord, beyond certain even.” He quickly pulled a sheaf of papers from his timeworn case and poked them beneath his master’s nose.

  Julien and Stokeworthy spent the next several hours poring over accounts and calculating the sums that the estate’s tenants’ crops would likely fetch at market. It had been a good year at St. Clair, not too much rain and not too much snow. The county had fared well, and the St. Clair coffers would prosper, as would t
he pocketbooks of the tenants.

  Julien trusted Stokeworthy implicitly, as his father had before him. He was pleased, even more so than usual after Stokeworthy’s glowing account of St. Clair’s prosperity, that his father had brought this man into his employ. Many people had been surprised at his father’s choice, Julien had learned not many years past. It seemed that the garrulous Mrs. Stokeworthy bore a striking resemblance to Julien’s grandfather, and if the rumors were true, Mrs. Stokeworthy was but one of his grandfather’s by-blows.

  It occurred to Julien that his father, a man of unwavering moral standards—indeed, nearly depressing moral standards—must have found it unnerving to be in contact almost daily with the several men and women who so closely resembled him. Julien had asked his father once about his grandfather’s vagaries, but he had received such a stern, uncompromising set-down that he quite vowed to take his inquiries elsewhere. Although Julien had never known his grandfather, he had believed all the stories since he first looked closely at the portrait of his grandfather that hung in a darker corner of the gallery. He could almost picture his bewigged grandsire, with his full, sensual lips and the lewd twinkle in his gray eyes, swooping down from astride a great black charger upon unsuspecting village maidens.

  Julien was unaware that his grandfather’s exploits had become romantic legend in Dapplemoor and that the locals continued to embroider upon the facts to pass the time in the long winter months. Nor would it have pleased him to discover that they compared him more often with his righteous, moral father than his dashing, amorous grandfather. It would have been the deepest of blows had he only known about it, and doubtless if he had known about it, he would have hurled himself into an orgy of depravity.

  After sharing a glass of sherry with Stokeworthy, he saw the good man off, consulted his watch, and deemed it time to change into evening apparel.

  A few minutes after Julien descended the staircase, the exquisite folds of his neckcloth perfectly placed, Mannering informed him of the imminent arrival of Sir Percy and Lord Launston.

  “It appears, my lord, that their lordships have journeyed together.” He motioned a footman to open the great oak doors to admit them.

  “Good Lord, Julien, what an outlandish place,” Percy said the minute he entered. “I forget how in the very middle of nowhere at all you live. Ah, but it’s a grand house, just nowhere, if you know what I mean.”

  Mannering relieved him of his cloak and hat and stood in tolerant silence as Percy stepped forward to shake Julien’s hand.

  Hugh appeared but a moment later, a calm smile of pleasure on his intelligent face. He bade a polite good evening to Mannering, who unbent a trifle at this gentleman’s welcome sobriety, and removed his cloak and hat.

  “Feel as if I’ve stepped back into the pages of my history books,” Percy continued, letting his gaze travel about the hall. “Not, of course, that I ever read many of the bloody things, but rest assured that I’ve seen pictures, pages of pictures.”

  “I know just what you mean, Percy,” Julien said, grinning. “I too have seen many of those same pages, I daresay.”

  He turned to greet Hugh Drakemore, who remarked in his well-bred voice, “A beautiful estate, Julien. We should visit more often. As you know, my great-aunt Regina lives not twenty miles to the west, and I count this like a visit home.”

  “It’s always a pleasure to have you here, Hugh. I trust this madcap here did not overturn you on your way north.”

  “Dash it, Julien,” Percy said, “damn Hugh’s eyes, he wouldn’t let me take the reins until we were on the widest roads with the fewest turns. He is cowhearted. I didn’t come even near to overturning him.” Percy looked pointedly at Hugh.

  Never one to let his friends down, Hugh said with unruffled composure, “Quite true, all of it, Julien. When Percy was handling the ribbons, why I believe I took a nap and dreamed of the green hills of Ireland.”

  “Enough of your bloody insults, Hugh, even though they’re smooth as honey. Dash it all, Julien, it’s later than you can begin to imagine, at least to my stomach. I’m near to fainting with starvation.”

  “Quite right, Percy. Why do not you and Hugh repair to your rooms and change? You see, I can’t allow guests to dinner in their traveling clothes. It would be a great disservice to my consequence.”

  “Humph,” Percy said. “You’re a damned dog, Julien. You wish us to change simply because you do not want to feel foolish alone in your evening clothes.”

  Julien laughed his agreement. “True it is, but bear with me.”

  Hugh said, “We shan’t be long, Julien, unless”—he cast a quizzing glance at Percy—“our exquisite here must needs dandify himself.”

  Julien could not resist a rueful grin, thinking of the half a dozen neckcloths he had ruined before achieving his own elegant appearance. He turned to Mannering. “Lord Launston and Sir Percy will go to their rooms. If you will, please have a footman escort them.”

  “Very well, my lord.” Mannering bowed in his most formal manner, as if to impress upon Sir Percy that St. Clair was indeed an earl’s establishment.

  “Mannering tells me that the lake has abundant trout,” Hugh said, as he walked with his friend across the east side of the lawn toward St. Clair lake.

  Julien inhaled the fresh morning air and hiked his fishing gear more securely over his shoulder. “Yes, so full that those trout might just jump into our baskets.”

  “It’s a pity Percy can’t rouse himself, for the country air is quite invigorating.” He turned his dark eyes to Julien, a smile breaking his usually composed features.

  Julien laughed. “What? Watch what you say, Hugh. Percy up and about before noon? Why, it’s unheard of, something to be devoutly avoided. And you know that Percy can’t stand to see the beasts wriggling around on the string when you haul them in.”

  Hugh grinned, then paused a moment to look about him. “I own you must be proud of your lands and home, Julien.”

  “Yes, I suppose I am proud. It’s so very permanent and lasting.” Like Hugh, he turned momentarily to gaze back through the trees to the sun-bathed east tower, which commanded a magnificent view of the lake and the vast meadows and hills beyond. He turned back to Hugh and added, “When I am here, I scarce ever miss the racket of London. Particularly this time.”

  “Why this time in particular?”

  Julien pulled the branches of a bush from their path before he turned to Hugh, a silent smile on his face that did not reach his gray eyes. It was strange, he thought, but he did not at all have the inclination to speak frankly to Hugh. As a matter of fact, he realized with a start, the vague, unsettling feelings had quite vanished. He felt content and would have preferred to be striding to the lake by himself, enjoying the quiet and peaceful surroundings. But Hugh was here, and he must be a gracious host.

  “Do forgive me, Hugh. I’m a sorry host this morning. What did you ask?”

  Hugh cocked an eyebrow and gazed intently at his friend. Never one to pry, he stayed his curiosity, saying only, “It was nothing, Julien. I hope our baskets are large enough to hold all those jumping trout.”

  At that moment they broke through a small circle of trees, and the unruffled blue water of St. Clair lake greeted them.

  “A magnificent prospect, is it not, Hugh?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  As Julien gazed about him, he chanced to see something move to his left, close to the water’s edge. “Who the devil can that be?”

  “Perhaps Mannering has informed others of the abundant trout,” Hugh said, shading his own eyes.

  “The devil,” Julien said. “This is certainly private land, and I intend to find out just who thinks he has the right to fish in my lake.” Julien turned swiftly and strode in the direction of the trespasser. He called over his shoulder, “Stay here, Hugh. I shall be back shortly.”

  Julien walked rapidly and quietly, the dewy, thick grass cushioning any sound his boots might have made. He drew up short in surprise, for the intruder
was but a lad. The boy was sitting cross-legged, a rude, homemade fishing pole held firmly in his somewhat dirty hands. He was gazing intently at the water, completely absorbed.

  Concentrating on my trout, Julien thought, ready to grab the boy by his collar and shake him.

  There was something faintly familiar about the lad, but Julien couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He strode up behind the boy and said in a voice that was exactly like his father’s at his grimmest, “And just who, my lad, gave you permission to fish in my lake?”

  The boy jumped in surprise, and the fishing pole fell from his hands into the water. As he tried frantically to retrieve it, he yelled, “How dare you give me such a fright! Now look what you’ve done. I’ve a good mind to box your ears, you miserable—” The words died abruptly as the boy whirled on his heels to face the earl of March.

  Julien found himself gazing into the face of Katharine Brandon, dressed again today in her boy’s breeches, her hair tucked under an old leather hat.

  “You . . .” she said, quite as surprised as he.

  Julien was the first to recover his wits. “I wish you good morning, Mistress Kate.” He bowed low in front of her. “I trust you find the fishing good here on St. Clair land.”

  She scrambled to her feet. At his thrust, she had the grace to look momentarily flustered, but quickly recovered, curse her eyes. “Your agent, Stokeworthy, gave me permission to fish here. You know,” she confided easily now, “it is quite the best spot in the area. So many trout are running now. It is quite remarkable. Sometimes I feel that I could merely call out to them and they’d leap from the water and land at my feet.”

  “St. Clair is honored by your accolades, Miss Brandon.” Oddly, he found himself somewhat put out by her confidence. Had she no maidenly shyness? He chanced to see her fishing basket and said, “And just how many of my trout are now at this very moment snug in your basket?”

  “It appears to me, sir, that you are quite tight. After all, what can a few fish mean to the great earl of March?”