An Unsuitable Bride (16 page)

“The quill broke. And no, you can’t . . . thank you,” she added belatedly. “The Chaucer is where it was before, on the last-to-top shelf in the corner. I’m sure you can reach it.”

“I’m sure I can,” he agreed amiably, making no attempt to do so, instead perching on the arm of a chair and regarding her with a quizzical smile. “How long
does it take you every morning to achieve this hideous miracle?”

“ ’Tis none of your business,” she retorted.

“As you’ve already told me more times than I care to hear. But I’m curious about the mechanics of the disguise.” He glanced around the room with exaggerated caution. “I don’t believe there are any eyes or ears in the walls.”

“Maybe not.” Alexandra looked at him in frustration. “Don’t you understand, the only way I can remain convincing is by not letting it slip for a minute when I’m out of my bedchamber? If you keep pressing me and reminding me that you know the truth, then I will make a mistake, and it will be a disaster. A catastrophe . . . you couldn’t begin to understand the magnitude of it.”

“No, I believe that,” Perry declared. “Only something of magnitude could lie behind this charade.” He smiled that devastating smile that seemed to draw her soul into her eyes. “You’re frightened, my dear. Won’t you let me in . . . let me help in some way?”

Warmth, compassion, sympathy . . . there were no more insidious weapons in any arsenal. And he knew it, too. He knew exactly how his words could wriggle beneath her defenses.

“I don’t need your help,” she said with the soft ferocity of determination. “Would you please go away? Or look at the Chaucer, if you must. I have work to
do, and you promised you wouldn’t torment me with questions.”

“The last thing I want to do is torment you, Alexandra.” A note of impatience had crept into his voice now. “Can’t you see that?” He glanced over his shoulder as the door opened.

Alex began to feel trapped as Stephen came into the room. She didn’t want Peregrine to know what she was planning, but she couldn’t see how to get rid of him if he wouldn’t remove himself. He showed no sign of doing so, merely nodded at his host and strolled to the bookshelves.

“I’m just admiring this wonderful volume of Chaucer, Sir Stephen. What treasures you have here.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” the other man agreed with a vaguely dismissive hand. “Don’t see much to ’em myself, but I’m told they’ll fetch a pretty penny. So Mistress Hathaway, you wanted to speak to me, and here I am.”

Alexandra could see no alternative. She didn’t wish to postpone the conversation, so it would have to take place in Peregrine’s hearing. “Well, after our earlier discussion, sir, about the need to hurry with the cataloguing, I was wondering if perhaps it would be wise to make some preliminary inquiries in London, among those who would make up this pool of potential buyers. I could stir up some interest by informing certain people that the collection will be for sale.”

Stephen regarded her doubtfully. “Are you positive you know the right people, Mistress Hathaway? Are you able to make those contacts?”

“Yes, indeed, sir.” She glanced at Peregrine, but his averted back told her nothing. She plowed on, knowing that he was listening and that his agile brain would be assessing every word. “My father had a wonderful library, and many fellow collectors would visit it. There was nothing he liked better than to share his treasure, and since I had grown up to be utterly familiar with his collection, I was always welcome to take part in the conversations. I know many dedicated bibliophiles, and my father’s name will give me an entrée into an even wider circle. A few letters to a select company, explaining that the Combe Abbey collection will shortly be for sale, will generate immediate interest.”

She could almost see Peregrine’s ears pricking, almost hear his brain turning over her words, looking for facts that would lead him somewhere.

“Yes, yes . . . yes, of course. Competition, as you said earlier. That’s what we need.” Stephen nodded.

Perry kept his eyes on the Chaucer, listening with incredulity as this extraordinary latest scene in the play unfolded. Alexandra was proposing to go to London. Alone, it seemed. Had she spoken the truth about her father, or was it a farrago of invention like so much else about her? He had the feeling that this trip to London would encompass more than her obligations to Stephen and the library. Why else had she come up with it
out of the blue? The proposal certainly seemed to have surprised Stephen.

Stephen was frowning, tapping his mouth with his fingertips. “So, you would propose to go yourself to London?”

“Certainly,” she said with a brisk, confident nod. “I am no debutante, Sir Stephen. A woman of my age has no need of a chaperone. I will find a respectable hotel from which I will send out the necessary communications and interview prospective buyers.”

A woman of
your
age.
Peregrine bit back the urge to laugh and waited with interest to hear what new and outrageous twist she was about to come up with.

“Well, I suppose that’s true. You know your own situation best,” Stephen said thoughtfully. “But how do you propose traveling to London? On the public stage?”

Alexandra knew her penny-pinching employer well. She chose her words carefully. “Of course, I would be perfectly happy to do that, Sir Stephen. If the gig could take me to Dorchester, I could catch the London stage at the Red Fox, but . . .” She frowned down at the desk, chewing her lip as if in puzzlement. “There is one thing . . .”

“One thing?” he prompted when she didn’t immediately continue.

“Well, there is a difficulty, sir.” She looked up with a diffident smile. “I would need to take a few of these volumes with me, to show prospective buyers . . . to whet their appetites, so to speak. And they are so valuable,
I would hesitate to trust them to the public stage.”

Stephen’s frown deepened. “Oh . . . yes, I suppose so.” He glanced around at the bookshelves. “You really think there might be thieves interested in something as unlikely as a book?”

“They are immensely valuable, sir,” she responded simply. “The possibility of damage on the stage cannot be discounted.”

“Mmm.” He looked around again. “So, you’re suggesting a hired post chaise, then?”

“I see no other way, sir. Should you wish me to make the journey.” The same diffident smile accompanied her words.

Peregrine held back his laughter once more. She was a consummate little actress and an utterly manipulative minx. It had occurred to him fleetingly, and reluctantly, at the beginning of this extraordinary conversation that she intended to steal the books herself, but for that, the public stage would be the obvious option. She could disappear into the maw of London without a trace or even take the stage in the opposite direction away from London. No one would ever find her. A private vehicle was always traceable.

“Mmm.” Still, Stephen hesitated, calculating the cost of such a conveyance. “With a post chaise, there’d have to be postilions, outriders . . .”

Peregrine coughed. He had offered to help, and here was his opportunity. “I would be delighted to escort Mistress Hathaway to London, Sir Stephen. I’ll be
happy to ride beside her chaise, which will do away with the need for outriders.”

“Indeed, sir, I have no need of your escort,” Alexandra spoke sharply. “And I see no need for outriders, Sir Stephen. Just the coachman and a postilion.”

“I think that with such a valuable cargo, ma’am, you should take all precautions,” Peregrine said with a smooth smile. “I am considered quite handy with both pistols and a small sword. I believe I can be of service in the event of any unpleasantness. Besides,” he added with a glint in his eye, “it will be no trouble to me. I am returning to London in the next day or so and will be entirely at your disposal.”

“Well, I think that’s a splendid solution, sir,” Stephen declared, looking relieved. “Very good of you, sir, very good, indeed. Mistress Hathaway will be delighted to accept your escort.”

We’ll see,
Peregrine thought. Those clear gray eyes were regarding him now rather speculatively, and he couldn’t read the speculation.

Alexandra was thinking quickly. Accepting Peregrine’s escort ensured her escape from Combe Abbey. But it would play the very devil with her plan to see Sylvia. But she was adept at adaptation. A solution would present itself, for now her escape was assured. She offered a grateful smile. “That is so very kind of you, sir. I own I will find the protection of a male escort most reassuring.”

Peregrine bowed. “It will be my pleasure to serve you, ma’am.”

Chapter Seven

“Here’s a letter for you, m’dear. Looks like Mistress Alex’s writing.” A round-faced woman bustled out of the back door of the thatched cottage and hurried towards the garden chair beneath a spreading copper beech, where a young woman sat wrapped in a blanket.

“Oh, give it to me, Matty. She hasn’t written in over a week.” The young woman turned eagerly, hand outstretched. Sylvia was a pale version of her sister, frail where Alexandra was lithe and strong, her brown hair a shade lighter than her sister’s rich chestnut, but the gray eyes were the same, clear and sharp with intelligence. The hand that took the letter was rather thin but elegant nevertheless.

“Now, now, m’dear, you mustn’t catch cold.” Matty tucked the blanket in more closely. “ ’Tis growing chillier these afternoons.”

“ ’Tis still a beautiful autumn, Matty.” Sylvia slit the wafer with her fingernail. “I would stay out for as long as possible. The sun makes me feel stronger.”

“Well, maybe just for another half hour.” Matty
glanced up at the sun, which was getting low in the sky. “Now, read the letter. How is the child?” She tutted. “I do worry about her. Whatever she’s up to . . . but then, Mistress Alex was always up to something.”

Sylvia was too immersed in the letter to do more than murmur in vague response as her eyes devoured Alex’s crisp, bold script. Her handwriting was like everything else about her—clear, straightforward, without flourishes.

Darling,

I think I have managed to find a way to visit you. Only for a night, probably, but I ache to see you. Are you well? Do you have everything you need? Oh, I can’t begin to describe how much I miss you. I need to talk to someone properly again. I never realized how difficult it would be to keep up the pretense. Or at least for such a long time. Everything is going as we planned it. Except . . . well, something unplanned has happened. A certain guest of our stepbrother’s has found me out. Now, don’t panic, darling. I think ’tis going to be all right. He doesn’t know who I am and has promised to keep silent about what he does know, and anyway, he will be leaving Dorset in a day or two. I am going on a pretext to London, to test the market for Papa’s library. Oh, it breaks my heart to think of these wonderful volumes being scattered into libraries across the country or even abroad. But they don’t belong to us, so my duty to Papa is to find good homes for them. I have told Cousin Stephen that I need to go to London to encourage the competition. He’s only interested in getting the best price, so it was quite easy to persuade him that this was the way to do it. Unfortunately, I must accept the escort of the certain guest in order to save our dear cousin a few guineas in payment to outriders, but I shall give him his congé when we are well away from Combe Abbey, when I will instruct the coachman to take the detour to Barton. Look for me within the week. Give Matty a kiss for me.

Your loving sister,

A.

Sylvia gazed down at the letter in her lap. Alex sounded too insouciant, and Sylvia could read between the lines. Her sister was scared. And with good reason. If someone had discovered her true identity, then she needed to leave Combe Abbey immediately. Except that it didn’t appear from this letter that Alex had any intention of bringing the game to a permanent close.

“What is it, dearie? Is everything all right? Mistress Alex . . . she’s not sick?” Matty’s worried voice broke into Sylvia’s anxious musing.

“No . . . no, quite the opposite.” Sylvia looked up with a bright, reassuring smile that did not reflect her true feelings. “She’s coming for a visit. Within the week, she writes. Won’t that be splendid?”

“Oh, my goodness, yes. To see the dear child again. I must get baking. One of those elderflower cheese tarts that she loves so much . . . oh, and a batch of gingerbread and some almond cakes . . .” Matty hurried off, still going through her repertoire of delicacies.

Sylvia smiled, but her smile faded quickly as she reread her sister’s letter. Who was this mysterious guest of their stepbrother’s? And why hadn’t Alex written his name in the letter? Was he old, young, married? Of course, if he was a friend of Marcus Crofton, it was to be assumed that he was relatively young, but he didn’t have to be single.

Alex had first met their stepbrother very briefly soon after arriving at Combe Abbey to take up her employment with the new incumbent. She had told her sister only that Marcus was probably in his mid-twenties and seemed personable and pleasant enough at dinner, but he hadn’t paid her much attention, which was exactly as it should be. So, how had it happened that a friend of his managed to penetrate Alexandra’s disguise?