An Unsuitable Bride

by Jane Feather

  “Yes?”

  “Good morning,” Peregrine said cheerfully, stepping adroitly past the retainer. “Will you tell Mistress Hathaway that I am come to call?”

  The old man blinked at him. “She’s not ’ere.”

  “Oh?” Perry looked surprised. It was still quite early in the morning. “I’ll wait, then. Did she say when she would be back?”

  Billings shook his head. “No, left in a chaise afore dawn this morning.” He turned and shuffled to a dusty table in the corner of the hall. “Said I was to give you this.”

  Peregrine stared at him, feeling a cold certainty lodge in his belly. She has gone . . . left me. Wordlessly, he held out his hand for the package the old man proffered. For a moment, he stood, holding it, looking around him. He could feel Alexandra’s absence in the chill, neglected air of the house. He turned, still silent, and left the house, walking quickly back to Stratton Street.

  Sebastian called out to him from the parlor as Perry entered the house. “You’re out early, Perry. Have you breakfasted?”

  Peregrine ignored his brother and ran upstairs to his own chamber. He closed the door and stood leaning his back against it as he slit the wafer on the package. There was a book and a letter. He turned the book over in his hands. It was the Chaucer, the one volume that Alexandra said meant more to her than any of the others in her father’s library. Slowly, he opened the folded letter.

  My dearest Perry,

  Forgive me. I have to complete my mission before we can be together. I cannot risk any harm coming to you through my actions. I must do what has to be done, and when it is over, we can come together without hindrance. But I will understand if my actions now kill whatever love you have for me. I know it’s cowardly to run away, but I don’t trust myself when I am with you. You can be so very persuasive, my love. Please keep the Chaucer for me in the certainty that I will come back as soon as my work is done. If you will still have me.

  A.

  He read the missive twice, noticing the smudges on some of the letters. He wondered distantly if they were tears, and he hoped they were. He hoped she was in pain, suffering from her own selfish stupidity. A red burst of rage banished the cold shock of his initial realization that she had left him, and he crumpled the letter, hurling it into the fire.

  “Perry?” At his brother’s voice from the corridor, he moved away from the door as Sebastian lifted the latch. He turned as his twin pushed open the door.

  Sebastian took in Peregrine’s ashen countenance, the hollowness of his eyes, the air of one stunned by some disaster. He came quickly towards him. “Oh, God, Perry, what has happened? Has there been an accident? What is it?”

  “She’s left me,” Perry said. “Alexandra . . . she’s gone back to Combe Abbey to put her head in a noose for this foolish compulsion of hers, and she didn’t even have the courage or the basic courtesy to face me with it. Does she think everything that has happened between us can be dismissed like that? What of love, Seb? We spoke of love, declared love. And she can throw it away on a whim and without a word of warning.” He turned from his brother with a gesture of disgust.

  Sebastian said nothing for a moment. He knew how his brother was feeling; he had gone through that agony himself a long time ago, when Serena had betrayed him in much the same way. And his brothers had been there with words of comfort when he needed them and silent supportive sympathy when that was what he needed. Now he wondered what to offer Perry.

  “Did she leave a letter?” he asked.

  “Yes . . . she left a damned letter with the caretaker in Berkeley Square.”

  “Did she say anything about coming back?”

  Peregrine shook his head in the same disgust. “Once she’s finished her work, she’ll come back if I’ll have her. I’m supposed to accept that, sit here twiddling my thumbs, out of my mind with worry that she’ll be exposed . . . every minute she’s down there, she’s risking her neck.”

  “She’s managed to avoid exposure so far,” Sebastian pointed out.

  “By some kind of miracle,” his twin snapped. “I found her out quickly enough. Why won’t someone else?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing,” Perry said harshly. “She’s made her bed; she must lie in it.”

  Sebastian hesitated. He had never heard Perry use such a tone, but he could feel his twin’s hurt, the rage it fueled, and he understood it. “The journey will take her several days,” he observed, thinking that would give Perry time to think clearly again.

  “At least,” Peregrine agreed shortly. Will she make a detour to Barton again?

  To hell with it. She can do whatever she wants. She made it clear that she wants nothing from me, and I am happy to oblige.

  Throughout the tedious journey, as the wearisome miles rolled under the iron wheels of the chaise, Alex wrestled with her unhappiness and a growing sense of uncertainty. Have I done the right thing? How did Peregrine respond to my letter? It would have angered him, she knew, but maybe he also understood. She had tried so hard and so many times to explain the need, the compulsion she had to complete this mission. Apart from her burning need for justice, Sylvia’s future had to be secured. But what if he doesn’t understand? That fear seemed to exaggerate the widening distance between herself and Peregrine as they crossed the county line into Dorsetshire.

  She arrived at Combe Abbey in the late afternoon of the third day. There had been no time to write to Stephen telling him of the success of her mission and when he should expect her return, so she was not expecting a welcome when she stepped stiffly from the post chaise and stood on the gravel sweep looking up at her childhood home.

  No one came to the door, and the coachman unloaded her portmanteau and the tea chest of books directly onto the gravel and drove off, leaving her standing at the front door, her hand raised to the knocker.

  Her knock was eventually answered by the butler, who greeted her with an unsmiling bow. “We weren’t expecting you, Mistress Hathaway.”

  She ducked her head in a self-deprecating gesture. “So sorry to have disturbed you . . . such a nuisance in the afternoon, of course. I’ll just go straight to my chamber to take off my cloak and hat. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble to ask one of the footmen to bring in my portmanteau . . .” She gave him a shy, slightly scared smile as she indicated her bag sitting in lonely state on the driveway.

  Her request was met with another frosty bow, which she took to mean assent, and she scurried up to her bedchamber. Its Spartan quiet was a relief, and she went to the window to look out at the familiar, well-loved view that always calmed and reassured her. A tap at the door announced a boy with her portmanteau, which he set down just inside, vanishing before she could even thank him.

  Alex took off her cloak and hat and hefted the portmanteau onto the bed to unpack it. Concealed in the bottom with her silk gown and her boy’s costume was a velvet pouch that contained her father’s heavy gold signet ring and his diamond fob. She hadn’t wanted to leave them behind at Combe Abbey and had had a passing thought that maybe she would try to sell them in London. But somehow, when it came to it, she couldn’t bear the idea of parting with them. They were all she had left of her father. But with all of the momentous and glorious things that had happened in London, she had never given them a second thought, and they had traveled undisturbed to and from.

  She left the pouch where it was at the bottom of the portmanteau, together with the garments that might well come useful for her midnight flight from Combe Abbey. Her hand stilled for a moment as she contemplated that prospect. When she finally left here, she would be free . . . and Sylvia would be free. And Peregrine would be waiting for her. He had to be waiting for her.

  She unpacked the remainder of her clothes and shoved the portmanteau under the bed and was just straightening up when a maidservant tapped and came into the chamber. “Sir Stephen would like to see you in the library, ma’am, as soon as you’re able.”

  “I will go to him at once
, Mabel.” Alex checked her reflection to make sure that everything was exactly as it should be. The birthmark was in the right place, the crow’s-feet and little lines around her mouth were in place, her hair was newly streaked with gray, and the pad was set firmly between her shoulders. Then, with a resolute tilt of her head, Alexandra went downstairs to see her employer.

  She found both Maude and Stephen in the library as she entered after a discreet tap at the door. “Ah, Mistress Hathaway, welcome back,” Stephen greeted her with a gust of bonhomie. “Your errand was successful, I trust.”

  “Yes, indeed, Sir Stephen . . . Lady Douglas.” She curtsied to her employers. “Mr. Murdock has offered a very good price for the library.” She told him the sum, lowering her head to hide her disdain at the predatory greed sparking instantly in his eyes.

  “Excellent . . . most excellent.” Stephen rubbed his hands together. “Very good, indeed.” He nodded vigorously before appealing to his wife, “Mistress Hathaway has done very well, has she not, m’dear?”

  Maude regarded Alexandra with a slightly wrinkled nose, as if something offended her. “I’d like to know why it took so many days to complete your task, Mistress Hathaway.”

  “Oh, let’s not quibble about such matters,” Stephen put in hastily. “Mistress Hathaway knows her own business, and now it is completed, and that’s all that matters.”

  Alexandra bobbed a diffident curtsy. “I do apologize, ma’am. These things do take a while to set in motion. There were several interested parties who took time to consider their offers.”

  Maude sniffed but made no further comment, taking up her tambour frame once more. Stephen coughed in a moment of awkward silence before saying, “So, how do we proceed now with the sale, Mistress Hathaway?”

  “Mr. Murdock will arrange transport for the library, sir, but he has requested that I take personal charge of crating the books. It is a matter of considerable delicacy, as I’m sure you understand. Some of the volumes are almost priceless, and ’tis understandable that their purchaser wishes to be certain that they arrive in mint condition.”

  “You’re to be spending your time packing boxes, then?” Maude looked up from her embroidery. “Such employment is hardly worth the sum my husband is paying you.”

  “I think you will find, ma’am, that it requires both skill and an intimate knowledge of the books to accomplish the transfer successfully.” Alex offered her diffident smile, but she could hear the involuntary note of steel in her own voice, and the alarming thought occurred that maybe because the end of this ordeal was in sight, she was allowing her guard to slip a little. It wouldn’t do. Not so close to fruition. “Mr. Murdock was most insistent, ma’am, that I take charge of the crating myself, but if Sir Stephen objects, then of course . . .” She looked inquiringly at her employer, careful to keep her tone soft and conciliatory.

  “Not a bit of it,” he declared. “Nothing must go wrong at this stage. Indeed, Lady Douglas, I do think ’tis best you leave me to conduct my own affairs as I see fit.”

  Maude flushed with annoyance at being taken to task in front of the despised librarian. She declared with a dismissive gesture, “Well, on your own head be it, sir. If you wish to be taken advantage of, then that is, of course, your prerogative.” With that, she gathered up her sewing and swept from the room, the door closing with a decisive bang behind her.

  Stephen sighed. “How long do you anticipate this crating to take, Mistress Hathaway? Her ladyship is right to say that it will take you away from your proper employment. I desire you to find time to attend to my financial affairs even while you are occupying yourself with the library.”

  “I shall, of course, do as you wish, sir.” Alex curtsied again. “But I was employed first and foremost to take care of the library, and this will be the final stage in that employment. I do not myself consider it to be outside the remit of my employment here.” She saw the flash of surprise cross Stephen’s eyes and cursed herself anew. He was not used to hearing her stand up for herself. She was going to have to be doubly careful in the next few days.

  “Well, that’s as may be,” he said stiffly. “Nevertheless, it will please me if you spend some time each day on my financial affairs.”

  “Of course, sir.” Alex lowered her eyes demurely. “If you wish it, I will take a look at the books now. I can begin with the crating first thing in the morning.”

  He looked somewhat mollified. “Yes, well, why don’t you do that? ’Tis more than a week since you last looked them over, and there may be some adjustments we should consider.”

  “Indeed, Sir Stephen.” She moved to the desk, setting her plain glass pince-nez on the end of her nose. “I will start right away.”

  “Good . . . good.” He hesitated for a second before heading for the door. “I’ll leave you to it, then. You will join us for dinner, as usual.”

  “It will be an honor, as always, sir.”

  The door closed behind him, and Alex sat down behind the desk and rested her forehead in her palms. She could feel the house closing around her minute by minute, trapping her once more in this ghastly charade. For some reason, the knowledge that she could bring it to an end at any moment by simply walking away seemed to make it even harder to endure.

  Sebastian entered the parlor in Stratton Street. “D’you care to accompany me to White’s, Perry? Serena’s out house hunting, and I could sorely use some entertainment. What d’you say?”

  Peregrine looked up from his book, closing it over a finger to keep his place. “I don’t think so, Seb, if you don’t mind. I’m in an ill mood for company.”

  His twin still looked as if he’d been hit by a runaway coach, Sebastian thought. But he wouldn’t talk about Alexandra, merely sat with his books by the fire, rarely leaving the house. “I’m happy to bear you company if you’d rather stay in,” he offered.

  Perry shook his head with an attempt at a smile. “I’m poor company, Seb.”

  Sebastian took a breath and said, “I know you don’t wish to talk of it, Perry, but what are you going to do about Alexandra? You love her, my dear boy. You can’t just lose that in the blink of an eye . . . I know that from my own experience.”

  Perry leaned his head against the chair back, closing his eyes briefly. “I know that, Seb. But I don’t know what to do . . . I don’t know what I want to do. At the moment, I’m so angry I almost think she deserves whatever might happen to her. Even if it means a trial at the assizes.”

  “No, you don’t,” his twin said flatly.

  “No,” Perry agreed with a heavy sigh. “I don’t suppose I do. But Alexandra’s made it very clear that she wants nothing from me, so nothing is what she will get. I don’t know how I’ll feel when it’s all over, one way or another.” He shrugged. “Go and enjoy yourself with some congenial company, brother. I’m not fit company for man or beast.”

  Sebastian hesitated for a moment. “Have you talked to Jasper?”

  Perry grimaced. “He called yesterday afternoon, when you and Serena were out. He didn’t say much. But he didn’t really need to. You know how he is when one of us is in trouble.”

  Sebastian nodded. “Like a rock.” He turned back to the door. “I’ll leave you, then, if you’re sure you won’t come out.”

  “Positive. Have a good evening.” Peregrine returned to his book as the door closed behind his brother.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Alexandra got up from her knees in front of a packing crate and wearily arched her back, pressing her hands into her spine. It was back-breaking labor, moving between shelves and crates with piles of books, carefully wrapping each one individually before laying it in the crate. And with each book she stowed away, she felt a little piece of herself going with it. There were so many memories attached to almost every volume, memories of a first reading, of a discussion with her father, of long afternoons of solitude curled up on the sofa, the very same sofa that still stood alongside the fireplace.

  She was about to resume her labors when
the library door opened and Sir Stephen entered, a letter in his hand. He looked somewhat puzzled. “Mistress Hathaway, I have had a communication from Mr. Murdock about the library.”

  “Indeed, sir?” She looked at him inquiringly. “Does he have some special instructions about the transport?”

  “No.” Stephen shook his head. “But he has an inquiry about a particular volume . . . Chaucer, he says here.” He regarded her with a frown. “He writes that the gem of Sir Arthur’s collection was a volume of the Canterbury Tales, whatever they may be, but when he asked you about it, you informed him that Sir Arthur had left that volume to his daughter.”

  Alexandra felt the pit opening beneath her. She sought for a response and managed to say, “I had not found the volume, sir, so I just assumed that Sir Arthur had given it away. His daughter seemed a logical choice.”

  “And how did you know he had a daughter? Were you acquainted with Sir Arthur Douglas?” he asked, still looking more bemused than suspicious.

  “I had heard some talk in the village,” she improvised rapidly. “Some mention of two daughters, I believe. In the absence of the Chaucer, I made an assumption.”

  “Did you, indeed?” The new voice was Maude’s; she had been standing in the shadows behind her husband, unnoticed by either Alexandra or Stephen. “And why would you make such an assumption, Mistress Hathaway? I feel sure, Sir Stephen, that if your predecessor had given away such a valuable piece of his estate, it would have shown up in his will. That lawyer said nothing about any extra bequests made to his bastard daughters.”

  For a moment, rage swamped Alexandra’s terror as she saw everything falling apart around her. How dare this usurper at Combe Abbey refer to herself and Sylvia with such contempt? And yet prudence prevailed, and she lowered her eyes. “I would not know about that, sir. There is no volume of the Canterbury Tales in the library, and I merely took a stab at an explanation. I was unaware that Mr. Murdock wished to pursue the matter.”