An Unlikely Countess (16 page)

He set out on the twenty-mile journey, deciding it would be best not to give his family any warning at all. With her new gowns and excellent manners, Prudence would make a good first impression. Let her settle at Keynings on her own merits before the inevitable revelations arrived about scandalous events and her unfortunate background.

He realized he was thinking of the marriage as a fait accompli, and that the thought didn’t distress him. Despite the many problems, he’d rather marry his Hera than Bland, Bumble, or Fizz.

 

Prudence let Mistress Pollock and the maid strip her out of her grand wedding gown and her silk-covered, embroidered stays, but then she remembered.

She pushed away hands and insisted on going behind the screen to take off her petticoat. Then she raised her shift and undid her right garter, the one with the knife attached in a sheath she’d made specially. She’d worn the knife with a morbid purpose, but also for courage, just as she’d worn Cate Burgoyne’s silver pin fixed in her flower-trimmed stomacher, where it could hardly be seen.

Courage for what?

She admitted the truth. Even when she’d gone to church full of dread, a part of her had wanted the courage to hold to her purpose—to marry well, and accept Henry Draydale as the price.

Was courage always stupid?

Blessed be the meek
, the Bible said.
Turn the other cheek.

“Here’s your nightgown, miss.”

A fine lawn-and-lace garment was gently draped over the screen—the nightgown Susan had insisted on for her wedding night.

“Give me one of my ordinary ones,” Prudence said.

For lack of a better hiding place, she tucked the sheathed knife behind the washstand and then took off the rest of her clothes. She put on her plain nightgown, came out of hiding, and allowed the fussing women to put her to bed. She drank something bitter that Mistress Pollock pressed on her.

When she muttered, “I’d rather have brandy,” the woman tut-tutted and whispered to the maid that she hoped poor Miss Youlgrave’s mind hadn’t been turned by the terrible events.

Terrible.

Yes, indeed.

The curtains were lowered and she was alone at last, except for memories.

She remembered the morning, preparing for her wedding in this room, sick with nerves and doubts, but carried along to some extent by Susan’s and Mistress Pollock’s chatter. They’d gone on so cheerfully about marital joys, the delights of being mistress of one’s own home, and of children.

Susan had lent her a brooch, reciting, “‘Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. And a silver sixpence for her shoe.’”

The elaborate flower brooch had looked well on the richly ornamented stomacher.

Prudence had claimed that the silver pin had been her father’s, and thus the old. The new had been nearly everything she wore, and for the blue she’d tucked a length of blue ribbon in one pocket. It was the ribbon she’d wanted on that first day in Darlington. Her hat had been too old to refurbish, but she’d still bought the ribbon.

The silver sixpence had been left from Cate Burgoyne’s two shillings.

The knife, the pin, the sixpence. Had she perhaps summoned him, by some ancient spell?

The sleeping draft of poppy juice was playing games with her mind, making the Cate in her mind glow with saintly fervor, while her memory of Henry Draydale burned with a dark, demonic light.

But when Cate had taken her hands in church, there’d been blood on his knuckles, and behind him, Henry Draydale had been a beaten mess. Who was the demon, then?

She huddled down under the covers, praying that somehow everything would turn out to be a bad dream.

That she had it all to do again, differently.

D
arkness was settling when Cate rode back into Darlington, and he returned without a solution to the problem. The riding time, plus hours spent hanging around in the bishop’s palace, had given him time for thought, but he saw no choice but to marry Prudence Youlgrave.

He’d considered and put aside the reactions of family and others to the marriage. There was nothing to be done about it. It would all go better, however, if everyone believed the fiction of long-separated lovers. Then it would seem a love match rooted in years of waiting, not a chaotic mess.

He’d pieced together a story that would work. He’d come north three years earlier on furlough, so they’d met then. In reality there’d been little time for courtship in Northallerton, but probably no one would remember that.

There should have been letters, but they could fabricate some if necessary. Clearly some had gone astray, leaving Prudence to believe him dead. Letters did go astray, especially in wartime, as with Roe’s letter informing him of the death of his son. A letter to a soldier could wander around after him for months and come to grief in all sorts of ways.

He hadn’t come up with a story to explain lack of contact during his weeks at Keynings in March. Perhaps Prudence had moved. He didn’t think she could have lived in White Rose Yard for years.

So he had a story.

Did he have a marriage?

Prudence could balk for any number of reasons, and she had the temperament to do so, even though it would put her on a rough path. A proud, determined, courageous woman, his Hera. Often to her own harm, but he’d harmed himself a time or two with the same qualities. He still wanted to marry her.

Her looks wouldn’t please all, but they pleased him, and had from the first. She was tall and robust, which was definitely a consideration. He always felt the need to be careful in lovemaking with dainty women. He thought she’d be lusty once she became accustomed. He very much liked a lusty lover, and to have one as a wife would be an unexpected prize.

She might take time to become accustomed, however, when hastily married to a stranger. Unless Draydale had accustomed her.

He’d butted up against that time and again during the day. He’d tried to eradicate Draydale’s accusation but not quite succeeded. Was the man foul enough to fling such a lie at a woman at the altar? Possibly yes, but he couldn’t quite be sure. Betrothed couples did sometimes anticipate the wedding.

Prudence could have been overpersuaded, or even forced by Draydale. It would hardly be surprising if she denied such a thing, especially in church, in front of respectable members of the community who would be her neighbors.

If that was the way it had been, he didn’t blame her, but he couldn’t risk the possibility that she carried Draydale’s child into their marriage. If a son, it would be his heir.

There was another side to it too. Even if he were completely sure, Damnable Draydale’s words would spread, especially when the world heard that the accused woman was the Countess of Malzard. Everyone would watch a pregnancy, counting the days. His first child had better be born a generous nine months after the wedding or a shadow could hang over him or her forever.

By the time he dismounted at the Talbot, he’d found a solution. He wouldn’t consummate the marriage immediately. Once Prudence had had her courses, he’d be sure and enough time would have passed.

If she was with child . . . He’d deal with that if it happened.

By the time he’d seen to Oakapple and sat to a late meal, only one problem remained: telling his bride she’d be marrying the Earl of Malzard. Would she even believe him? He could show her the signet ring, but one crest looked much like another, and he could even have stolen it.

Lack of plausibility and proof allowed him to put off any action.

However, he couldn’t let her marry in ignorance.

He drank claret and realized his soup was getting cold.

He drank some, thinking of her modest dreams—a decent husband, a cozy home, enough income to keep her and her family in comfort and security, a respectable place in society.

Instead he offered her a scapegrace husband, houses too grand to be the sort of home she imagined, riches beyond most people’s belief, and a place in the upper reaches of society to which she hadn’t been trained. As Countess of Malzard she’d be one of grand ladies of the north. Even in London, amid the gathering of the great, she would be important. His mother had spent time as a lady-in-waiting to the queen.

Fried ham came with his soup but was hardly touched, though he’d half emptied the claret.

There was nothing for it. He must tell her and let her decide.

He abandoned his meal, requested a torch to light his way, and set out to walk to Tallbridge’s house. It was only partway there that he remembered that Draydale might want to harm him.

Plague take the lot of ’em. Let fate take its course.

He arrived at the house without incident, but found it dark. That gave an excuse to abandon his mission, but he couldn’t take it. He didn’t believe that Prudence would be in a peaceful sleep after such a day, but if she was, he’d have to wake her. She must know the truth.

Tallbridge’s house, however, was as secure as she’d said. The four front windows had those solid ornamental grilles, and apparently the door had some alarm. Probably a small explosive device that made a loud bang when triggered.

In any case, he had no skill with lock picking.

He progressed around to the back of the terrace, attempting the manner of a man returning to his home with no illicit purpose, but contemplating the prospect of being dragged off to court for housebreaking. Peers were protected from some prosecutions, but he wasn’t sure the privilege covered simple felonies.

He turned into a lane and extinguished the torch in some dirt, then made his way in darkness toward the back of the houses. Pity there wasn’t much moon, but darkness was concealing his criminal activities.

His eyes adjusted, but when he reached the lane behind the houses, he still had to trace the rear walls and step carefully. The lane was rutted, probably by carts making deliveries. At one point a smell told him there were stables to his right. Tallbridge could have stabling back here. That meant grooms, some of whom might still be awake. He heard no voices, but went forward even more carefully.

He could tell Tallbridge’s house because the wall was higher and the pale light picked out shards of glass set into the top. A thorough man, Mr. Tallbridge.

Did he also have a guard dog patrolling his rear garden? Cate wished he’d brought pistol or sword.

He made his way carefully to the gate, but of course it was locked.

He had a challenge, then, and he’d always enjoyed a challenge. How did he conquer the glass-topped wall? He was wearing leather gloves, but their protection would be minimal.

He was coming up with schemes when he thought of something simpler. Perhaps Tallbridge didn’t guard the sidewalls as thoroughly as this outer one. His neighbors might not like glass shards between them.

He found the next gate and tried it. Locked. The one after was locked, too, but the wood felt rotten. A boot burst the latch from the wood, and with only a dull thud. He waited in case of alarm, but then went into the backyard.

Flagstones beneath his feet, and some garden around. Perhaps vegetables. He found a place where he could get to the wall, which stood only eight feet or so. And no glass. He was over it easily, letting himself down carefully in case of obstacles below.

He smiled. Ahead, Tallbridge’s wall was higher, but free of glass.

What was more, his careful hands found odd objects. A pile of bricks, some planks of wood, some tall canes. Nothing very useful, but indications that this householder was either a hoarder or in the middle of a construction project.

There might even be a ladder.

Alas, no, but a board on a pair of trestles was almost as good. He carefully removed the board and carried a trestle to the wall. With that extra height, it was easy to get up on the wall.

He paused a moment, listening for a dog.

He also surveyed the garden, which was interlaced with paths of white stone. The effect was doubtless pleasing by day. It was very convenient now, for the little bit of moonlight shone off the stone.

Cate let himself down and followed the path to the back of the house.

As expected, the ground-floor windows were also secured by iron bars, though this time simple rectangles. He hadn’t truly expected some conveniently sturdy trellis or vine, and would hesitate to trust one anyway. Prudence was going to have to come down to him.

Alas, she wasn’t conveniently looking out declaiming, “Catesby, Catesby, wherefore art thou, Catesby?”

He recalled his route when he’d carried Prudence to her room.

That window.

On the left.

He gathered some of the pale gravel, took careful aim, and tossed.

Direct hit.

But no response.

He was preparing a second throw when the curtains moved and she peered out. Cate gestured for her to come down.

The window went up and Prudence Youlgrave looked out at him, making a frantic shooing motion.

He could only smile. In a prim, pale nightgown, with a nightcap tied beneath her chin, she looked delicious.

He beckoned again.

She shook her head, frowning fiercely.

Enjoying the absurdity of their mute play, he went to one knee, clasped his hands, and implored.

 

Prudence stared down.

What was the madman doing now?

Why was he here at such an hour? It was gone ten o’clock!

Was he drunk?

Then she remembered. He’d said they should try to find a way to escape the marriage. A sick feeling rose to choke her.

Perhaps it had been the sleeping draft, but she’d woken in the afternoon in a lethargic state, plagued by a dull headache and unhappiness. She’d taken her dinner in her room, and her supper too, the weight of her situation becoming more and more oppressive. She was embroiled in a dreadful scandal. If she didn’t marry tomorrow, she’d be a shamed woman for the rest of her life.