by Mary Balogh
Weston was not at all what he had expected—a bluff and boorish bully. But invalids could be petulant and quite unpleasant, and Weston was clearly an invalid. However it was, Alleyne was feeling exhilarated by the challenge now that they were finally putting it into effect. The last couple of weeks had seemed interminable as his leg had healed sufficiently for him to travel.
But he could see that Rachel was looking disconcerted. It was understandable. This was her uncle, her only relative. He took her hand in his and set it on his sleeve before holding it there. Flossie was commenting on the beauty of the house and informing the assembled company that it reminded her of her brother-in-law’s house in Derbyshire—Phyllis’s brother’s house, she must have realized suddenly.
“Would you not agree, Phyllis?” she asked, smiling graciously.
“I was having the exact same thought, Flora,” Phyllis agreed.
“How are you, Uncle Richard?” Rachel asked, leaning forward slightly in her seat.
“I am well enough,” Weston said as he lowered himself into a chair by the fireplace, though he looked to Alleyne more like a man with one foot in the grave. “This is all rather sudden, is it not, Rachel? You went to Brussels as Lady Flatley’s companion. Did you already know Smith at that time?”
“I did,” she said. This was all a part of the story they had invented, of course. “We met in London last year, not long after Papa’s death. And then we met again in Brussels and Jonathan began to court me in earnest. When Lady Flatley decided to return to England before the Battle of Waterloo, Bridget offered me a home with herself and these ladies, her friends.”
“Bridget is our dearest friend,” Flossie said just in case Weston had not clearly understood that it was a particularly dear relationship.
“And she was my nurse for six years after Mama died,” Rachel explained. “I was more than delighted to discover her again in Brussels and gladly accepted her invitation, especially when it was kindly repeated by Flora and Phyllis. And then Jonathan persuaded me to marry him before we came home.”
Weston was looking consideringly at Alleyne, but before he could make any further comment the tea tray arrived. Phyllis settled herself behind it without a by-your-leave and proceeded to pour and hand around the cups and saucers.
“We all agreed, my lord,” Bridget told Weston, “that I should accompany Lady Smith here since she is only very recently married. And then Flora and Phyllis could not resist coming too.”
It still amused Alleyne to look at Bridget and see a pleasant-looking, respectable-seeming, youngish woman who just happened to speak in the same voice as the Bridget Clover he had known in Brussels.
Weston meanwhile had fixed his gaze upon Alleyne again.
“And you, Smith?” he said. “Who might you be exactly? Smith is a common enough name. There are some of good lineage in Gloucestershire. Are you one of them?”
“I doubt it, sir,” Alleyne said. “I am from Northumberland, and most of my family has remained there for generations.”
Northumberland was the farthest north they had been able to place him without putting him in Scotland.
He went on to explain that he had inherited a sizable and prosperous estate from his father two years before—but neither too sizable nor too prosperous, though Geraldine and Phyllis would have made him into a veritable nabob and Croesus all rolled into one if they had had their way. Alleyne, seconded by Rachel, had pointed out that he must be the sort of gentleman of whom Baron Weston would approve but not someone of whose existence even in remote Northumberland he would feel he ought to know.
He had gone to Brussels, he explained, because his cousin was stationed there with his regiment.
“And there I met Rachel again,” he said, turning his head to smile fondly at her and curling his fingers beneath her hand as it rested on his sleeve. “I had not forgotten her. How could I? I fell head over ears in love as soon as I set eyes on her again.”
It was interesting to see her blush and bite her bottom lip.
“I was never more affected in my life than by the sweetness of the romance developing before the watchful chaperonage of our dear Bridget,” Phyllis said with a sigh, “and before the benevolent eye of Flora and myself, my lord.”
“Sir Jonathan reminds me so very much of my beloved late husband, Colonel Streat,” Flossie said, a handkerchief materializing in one hand. “He died a hero’s death in the Peninsula two years ago.”
Streat had been promoted to dizzying heights, Alleyne thought. He had started out two weeks or so ago as a captain, had he not? He hoped the ladies did not plan to be too expansive with their lies—not unless they had very good memories.
The baron set aside his empty cup and saucer.
“I am disappointed, I must confess,” he said, “that Rachel saw fit to marry without first coming to me. I am well aware that she is of age and could marry whomsoever she chose for the past year and more. She certainly did not need my permission. But I would have liked to be asked for my blessing. And if I felt that I could give it, I would have liked to host the wedding here at Chesbury. But I was not consulted.”
And so, Alleyne thought, he was starting at a disadvantage. He was being seen as a man whose passions had led him into an indiscretion. He had not brought Rachel home to England to marry, he had not taken her to introduce to his family in Northumberland, and he had not brought her here to Chesbury Park to seek a blessing from her uncle. Any sane person would wonder why he had done none of those things.
But then, Weston had never shown any real interest in his niece. His concern now was hypocritical, to say the least.
“Sir Jonathan is wondrously romantic and impulsive,” Phyllis said, her hands clasped to her bosom. “Nothing would do for it, my lord, but there had to be a nuptial service in Brussels so that he could bring Rachel home with him as his bride. My dear Colonel Leavey is much the same.”
“So was Colonel Streat,” Flossie added. “He insisted that I follow the drum all about the Peninsula with him, summer and winter.”
Ah, another colonel. And had not Flossie just claimed to be a poor traveler?
“And so you have come here now,” Weston said, his attention still on Alleyne and Rachel. “I suppose it is not difficult to guess why.”
Rachel was looking steadily back at her uncle, Alleyne saw, her chin up.
“I have married a gentleman of whom you cannot possibly disapprove,” she said, “even if you do believe we married with unnecessary haste. But why would I have come here to marry? You have never shown any interest in me. You have never wanted to know me. Even after Papa died and you invited me to come and live here, it was only so that you could marry me off as soon as possible and be done with me. Well, I have done the deed for you. I have come for my jewels, for my inheritance from Mama. You can have no ground for refusing me this time.”
Her belligerent words and hostile manner were very definitely unwise and not a part of any plan they had discussed together. But Alleyne could only admire her for not fawning upon her uncle. At least she had decided to be honest about her feelings even if everything else was a lie. He squeezed her hand more tightly.
“I am not aware,” Weston said, “that I have to have a ground, Rachel.”
She drew breath sharply. But Alleyne patted her hand and spoke first.
“Your caution on behalf of your niece and your reservations about me are understandable, even commendable, sir,” he said. “I would not expect you to be delighted at being presented with this fait accompli quite without warning, and at finding that it is followed immediately by a request that you release jewels entrusted to your care and judgment by the late Mrs. York. All I ask, sir, is that you give me a little time to prove to you that I am indeed worthy of your niece’s hand, that she has chosen with her head as well as her heart, that I am not a fortune hunter, and that neither of us will squander her inheritance. I ask that you allow us to remain here for as long as you deem to be a suitable probationary period, in fact.
I am, of course, eager to take my bride home, but I will do what makes her happy. And winning your trust and confidence will make her happy.”
The trouble with playing a part, he was discovering, was that one could easily become immersed in it. He spoke with firm conviction. And yet almost every word was a lie. Of course, he really did want to see her happy.
“Very well,” Weston said, nodding curtly after looking broodingly at Alleyne for several unnerving moments. “We will see how I feel after a month, Smith. In the meantime I have been neglecting my other guests. For how long were you in the Peninsula with your husband, ma’am?” he asked Flossie.
A month?
Flossie launched into a bold and colorful description of her years there while Alleyne observed the baron more closely. That the man was ill had been clear from the start. But his complexion had surely turned grayer in the past few minutes. Was it the effect of being faced with five unexpected guests? Or emotion over seeing Rachel again and feeling her hostility?
Or was it something else?
Alleyne turned his gaze on Rachel, and because she too was looking rather pale, he first grinned at her and then winked. For better or for worse, he was her devoted husband for the next month. Deuce take it, he had expected that a few days would do it, or a week at the longest. But they could only press onward now.
He raised their clasped hands and held the back of hers to his lips for a few moments while he smiled warmly into her eyes, well aware that his gesture must be visible to the other occupants of the room. In fact, he hoped it was. He had scarcely touched her in two and a half weeks and already realized that it had been very wise to keep away from her.
She was altogether too beautiful and too attractive for his peace of mind. He had better be careful to keep these displays of affection to the minimum.
Good Lord, a month.
A whole month.
But he had no one but himself to blame, had he?
CHAPTER XI
ALL THE FOOTMEN LOOK LIKE FROGS AND ALL the grooms look like weasels,” Geraldine said. “I have not met any of the gardeners yet, so there is still hope, though there don’t appear to be very many of them. The cook is sulking because there are so many extra mouths to feed.”
“Oh, Geraldine,” Rachel said, laughing, “how can you judge so quickly? There is no need to do my hair. I can do it myself.”
But Geraldine took the brush firmly in her own hand and flourished it in the air.
“If I am going to be earning my fortune as a lady’s maid,” she said, “I’ll be doing your hair for you, Rache, and lacing your laces and buttoning and pinning your dresses and tucking you into your bed at night. There will be precious little else to do. Mr. Edwards, the butler who opened the door to you, has been telling everyone belowstairs what grand ladies Floss and Phyll are, which shows you what a great judge of character he is. I couldn’t even look at Will. I would have burst out laughing.”
“Really, though,” Rachel said, “this is not a joke. My uncle is ill, and the welcome he gave us was cool at best, though he was perfectly civil, especially to Flossie and Phyllis. He disapproves of my marriage, or at least the manner of my marriage. It is going to take us forever now to convince him that we belong together, that ours will be a perfectly steady and prosperous marriage, and that my jewels belong in my own hands rather than his. It is beginning to look as if we will never be able to go after Mr. Crawley.”
“Never you mind about that,” Geraldine said, pulling the brush through the length of her hair. “A man like Crawley will be up to his tricks forever and a day until someone stops him. We will find him, and we will deal with him even if we have to wait a year. Floss has written to London to have any letters from the sisters redirected here. It’s not up to you to finance us anyway, Rache, and even if you do we will pay you back every penny. To tell the truth, we are here only because we couldn’t resist either the holiday or the adventure. So never you mind about us.”
One thing Rachel was very aware of as she sat still for Geraldine to style her hair was that her dressing room and Jonathan’s were separated only by an arch but no door, and that each dressing room was open to the bedchamber beyond it. It was a good thing that neither of them wanted to get any closer to the other than their charade dictated. It was horribly embarrassing, though, to discover that they had a connecting suite of rooms without even a door separating them, just as if they really were husband and wife. And Jonathan was in his rooms now with Sergeant Strickland, dressing for dinner. Rachel could hear the murmur of their voices.
“Ooh, don’t you look gorgeous!” Geraldine exclaimed as she finished styling Rachel’s hair a few minutes later. “Pardon me while I swoon.”
Rachel looked up, startled. But Geraldine was not addressing her. Jonathan was standing in the archway. And Geraldine had not exaggerated. He was dressed with elegant formality in ivory-colored knee breeches with white stockings and black shoes. He wore a dull gold waistcoat, a black tailed evening coat, and white linen. He must have tied his neckcloth himself—Sergeant Strickland could not possibly be capable of such artistry. His dark hair, which had grown longer in the past month, had been brushed to a shine, though the one lock had fallen, as it often did, over his right brow.
Rachel might have submitted to being broken on the rack rather than admit it, but she was glad she was sitting down. Her knees had turned weak. Even his cane looked elegant.
“What a perfectly genteel comment from my lady’s maid,” he said with a grin. Then he turned his eyes upon Rachel and looked her over from head to toe. She was wearing a pale green evening gown that was three years old and yet was almost new because she rarely had a chance to wear it. “We will keep you on, though, Geraldine. You have done exquisite things with Lady Smith’s hair. Or perhaps it is the woman beneath the hair who is making my heart thump against my ribs.”
There was really no call for such talk when her uncle was not even present to hear him. But he was winking at Geraldine and having a fine time at her expense, Rachel could see. She got to her feet, twisting the wedding ring that he had remembered to buy for her after they landed in England.
“It is both,” Geraldine said. “That golden hair is part of the woman and sometimes makes me sorry that my mother was Italian. I had better go and talk to Will and see what he thinks of this place.”
She disappeared through the archway.
“Well, Rachel,” Jonathan said, clasping his hands behind his back, “what do you think?”
“I think,” she said, lifting her chin, “that we ought to pretend that archway is a solid wall.”
Even knowing that Geraldine and Sergeant Strickland were probably just a few feet away, this situation felt altogether too intimate to her.
He raised one eyebrow and looked both arrogant and impossibly handsome.
“Shall we go down, my lady?” He made her an elegant bow and offered his arm.
“I keep thinking,” she said as she took it and they proceeded from the room, “that this was my mother’s home until she was seventeen and ran away with my father. This is where she grew up. Under different circumstances I would be very familiar with it. I would have come here often with her. I would have spent Christmases and other holidays here both before her death and after. I would have known my uncle well. I would have had another relative in addition to Papa.”
“But Weston never forgave your mother,” he said.
“How I longed for brothers and sisters and cousins and uncles and aunts as I was growing up—or even just for one uncle,” she said with a sigh and then felt foolish for having opened her heart to him like this.
“I hope,” he said, “you are not going to have regrets about doing this, Rachel. It is too late for those now, is it not? And so on with the masquerade.”
“I have no regrets,” she said. “My uncle pretended that he wished we had come here before marrying so that he could host our wedding. And then he told us that he would see after one whole month. He has no love for me.
My only regret is that he is ill. Do you think he is dying?”
The very real possibility still upset her though she did not know why. He could mean nothing to her—by his own choice.
Jonathan patted her hand on his arm.
Flossie and Phyllis were already in the drawing room, conversing with Rachel’s uncle. Bridget was there too. They all looked neat and genteel. How easy it was to deceive, Rachel thought—except that they were going to have to keep it up for a whole month. Would they all stay so long?
Her uncle was dressed immaculately, though he still looked gaunt and stooped. Rachel felt a twinge of guilt and resented the feeling. If he were in the best of health she would surely not care at all that she was deceiving him. What difference did illness make? He still did not love her—his niece, his closest relative.
Dinner was a far less strained occasion than Rachel had feared it might be. Everyone made an effort to converse, and no one commented on the fact that the food was ill prepared and almost cold. Jonathan expressed an interest in the estate toward the end of the meal.
“I will have my steward take you about,” Uncle Richard said. “I have been somewhat indisposed lately and have not been outdoors a great deal. Drummond will show you whatever you wish to see—Rachel too if she is interested, though I daresay she is not. Most ladies have other interests.”
“I am interested, Uncle Richard,” Rachel said, annoyed. “My ignorance is vast since I have lived all my life except the past few months in London. But I am eager to learn more now that I am married to Jonathan and will be living in the country.”
She would have been familiar with the country if he had only invited her here a few times when she was growing up.
“I for one am not particularly interested in cows and pigs and hay crops,” Flossie said. “But I do look forward to exploring the park during the coming days. With your permission, of course, my lord.”
