An Unsuitable Bride (24 page)

But it seemed to have worked. Mistress Simmons was smiling now. “I believe her sister is well taken care of, Mr. Sullivan.”

“Very well.” He bowed. “I will take up no more of your time, ma’am.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Pray, give Alexandra my warmest wishes when you see her next.” She turned back to the house and then paused,
saying over her shoulder, “Where did you say your house was, Mr. Sullivan . . . the library where Alexandra is working? Is it in London?”

“In Dorset, ma’am. In the village of Combe.”

The look on her face brought him up short. Mistress Simmons looked horrified. Then, abruptly, her expression was wiped clear, and she merely nodded and took herself inside. Peregrine turned Sam back down the drive. So, there was some connection between Alexandra’s charade and Combe Abbey. He felt a chill run down his spine. If this deception she was perpetrating on Sir Stephen and Lady Maude had some criminal purpose, she was in the gravest danger. How could she expect not to be discovered? He had found her out; someone else surely would. And they would not feel about her the way he did. Should he confront her with this new knowledge? Or would her understandable anger at his prying destroy their present all-too-tentative accord? For the moment, he could find no answer to the question.

The day went by too quickly for the sisters. There weren’t sufficient hours to say all that had to be said between them, and when Alex finally donned her breeches again, tears stood out in both pairs of gray eyes.

“I can’t bear the thought of your going back into that dreadful situation,” Sylvia said, hugging her convulsively. “How much longer must you continue the charade?”

“Until I have finished what I started, dearest.” Alex’s jaw was set as she struggled with her own sense of dismay and dread at the prospect of stepping back into her part.

“We don’t need so much money, Alex. We could live here together with Matty on very little.”

Alex shook her head. “No, I will have justice, Sylvia. We will take what’s owed us. Nothing more but not a penny less. Another couple of months should do it if my own investments prove as profitable as I expect them to. But I have to be careful not to siphon off too much at once into my own account. I don’t think Stephen would notice, as long as he keeps seeing a profit for himself, but I can’t take the risk.”

Sylvia said no more, knowing it would be futile. “Well, at least you’ll have a little freedom in London,” she said. “Even though you must keep to your disguise, you won’t have Stephen or Maude looking over your shoulder the whole time.”

Alex nodded, trying to look more cheerful. “That’s true, and I shall think only of that. If it weren’t for the Honorable Peregrine, there would be no fly in the ointment at all.”

“Why don’t you simply enjoy his company, since you can’t evade it?” Sylvia suggested, as she had been doing obliquely all day.

Alex’s shrug was noncommittal. She put on the leather jerkin and looked at herself in the long glass. “This disguise is so much more comfortable.”

“Yes, but much harder to maintain,” her sister pointed out. “You look the part from a distance, but it won’t stand scrutiny.”

“No, you’re right, as usual.” Alex turned to hug her one last time. “I’ll try to come again, love. Will you send Helene a little note for me? I feel so guilty that I haven’t really written to her since I went to Combe Abbey, but I didn’t want to lie to her, and I couldn’t possibly tell her the truth.”

“Well, what shall I tell her?”

“Just that you’ve heard from me, and everything is well, and I send her my love.”

Sylvia nodded. “I’ll do that.” She glanced out the window. “You must go if you’re to dine at the Angel. You’ll need time to resume your disguise.”

Alex grimaced but didn’t argue. Peregrine, she remembered, had said he expected to dine with
her
. By which she assumed he meant her real self, but he would have to be disappointed. She had been seen too often on the streets of Lymington when she was at the seminary to risk appearing as herself in one of its major hostelries.

Sylvia came outside with her as she saddled the pony. She gave Alex a parcel, wrapped in silk and tied with blue ribbon. “Don’t open this until you get to London, darling,” she said, smiling as Alex looked at her askance. “Promise?”

Alex nodded. “Promise, but what is it?”

“Wait and see,” Sylvia responded, her smile a little misty.

Alex tucked the parcel under her saddle bow and rode away, Matty waving from the kitchen door, Sylvia standing at the back gate, hugging her shawl around her, looking suddenly very frail and forlorn. Alex swallowed her tears and cantered up the hill onto the heath. She rode fast back to the town, left the pony in the livery stable, and walked back up the High Street to the Angel.

Peregrine was standing in the doorway, watching for her as he had been for most of the past hour. As she reached the inn, he stepped forward. “Wait here, while I make sure no one’s around.” He moved back into the hall. The taproom door was ajar, and the sound of voices came from within, but he could see no one in the hall or on the stairs. He beckoned to Alex, standing just outside the inn’s front door, then stood himself in the doorway to the taproom, blocking the hall from view.

Alex darted forward and ran up the stairs, her heart beating fast as she fitted her key into the lock of her chamber door. It opened soundlessly, and she whisked herself inside, closing and locking it behind her. A quick glance around showed her that nothing had been disturbed, thanks to Peregrine. Once again, she cursed her own carelessness in not thinking to explain her seclusion to the landlord before she’d escaped. For all she knew, the landlord had a second key to the door and could well have used it if he thought something was amiss.

Well, it hadn’t happened, she told herself, and
there was no point chastising herself further. She undressed swiftly, folded her costume and packed it at the bottom of her portmanteau together with Sylvia’s silken parcel, then reluctantly began to dress herself again in Mistress Hathaway’s dowdy gown. She had done away with the back pad last evening, so she could leave it off again, but her face was a different matter. She peered at her reflection in the mirror. What could she get away with?

Perhaps if she just shaded in the birthmark below her right cheekbone, she could forget for this evening the faint aging lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The gray streaks in her hair had vanished in the last couple of days. The paste she made of dampened chalk never lasted very long, but if she wore a cap this evening, she could also forget that. She had several matronly caps, although she rarely wore them, but one would hide her hair completely for tonight.

The mob cap had a full puffed crown and side lappets. She tied it under her chin in a neat bow and almost laughed aloud at her image. The clear glass pince-nez that she usually wore on a ribbon around her neck she now perched on her nose. The effect was perfect. She looked every inch the fussy spinster lady she purported to be.

She put on her black silk mittens and left her chamber, locking the door again behind her, and made her way to the private parlor. It was deserted when she entered, but the table was laid for dinner, and the fire was freshly made up. She poured herself sherry from the
decanter on the side table and sat down beside the fire to await her dinner companion.

Peregrine came in after a very few minutes. He had changed into a red velvet coat with shining silver buttons, black velvet breeches, white stockings, and black shoes with silver buckles. Lace edged his shirt collar and cuffs, and his golden hair was fastened at his nape with a matching silver buckle.

“I give you good evening, Alexandra.” He bowed, and then his eyes widened as he took in her appearance. “Dear God in heaven, what have you got on your head? Take it off, woman. It’s revolting.”

“But appropriate, don’t you agree?” she returned with a demure smile. “I think it rather fetching.”

“I thought we’d agreed you would appear as yourself this evening.” He crossed the room to her chair, standing over her in a manner that she found rather intimidating.

“No, I agreed to no such thing, sir. I am known in these parts, and I might well be recognized.”

“Be that as it may, this will not do. It’ll put me off my dinner, and I happen to be rather hungry.” He leaned over her and swiftly untied the ribbons beneath her chin, lifting the cap clear. “Give me those ludicrous pince-nez.” He took them off the end of her nose and held them up, peering through them. “They’re just plain glass.”

“Well, of course they are,” she retorted. “I don’t need them to see with.”

He tossed them together with the mob cap onto a
settle at the far side of the parlor, then stood looking down at her, his hands on his hips. “The maid who serves us is far too young to have known you before. You’ll be quite safe in here.”

“I don’t care to take risks.”

“Don’t tell me you believe this charade is not a risk in itself,” he declared sharply, turning aside to pour himself a glass of sherry. “Every moment you play this part, you are at risk. Are you going to maintain it in London?”

His tone shocked her with its vehemence. He was right, of course he was, but did he imagine that she wasn’t aware of the risks every moment of every day? “I don’t know what I’ll do,” she responded, trying to keep her tone moderate. She hadn’t decided as yet, since it depended on whether the retainers in Berkeley Square were part of the establishment who had known her in her youth on her very rare visits to London. If Stephen and Maude had hired new servants, she could occasionally appear as herself.

“Well, I’m assuming that the people you intend to contact about the sale of the library are people from your previous existence. Friends of your father’s, I believe you said. Won’t they be expecting to see your father’s daughter?”

“Not necessarily,” she said, turning away from his questioning gaze.

“And how is that?”

“That is no concern of yours. Once we reach Berkeley Square, your self-imposed task for Sir Stephen will
be completed, and you may go your way and leave me to go mine.”

He looked at her in frustration. “For such an intelligent woman, you are being remarkably obtuse,” he declared, sounding as exasperated as he felt. “You
know
that’s not going to happen, so why don’t you just accept it, and we can plot our next moves accordingly?”

“I am not in the least obtuse,” she snapped. “
You
are, though. I don’t want your help, and I don’t want your company. Can’t you get that through your head?” Even as she spoke, she knew she was lying to both of them. Angry tears pricked behind her eyes, and she blinked them away furiously.
Why do I want to cry all of a sudden?

Peregrine set down his glass and came back to her chair. He bent and took her own glass, setting it aside, then lifted her to her feet, pushing up her chin with his thumbs. The sheen of tears in the gray eyes increased his exasperation. She didn’t mean what she was saying; she wanted to be with him as much as he wanted to be with her. “Listen to me, Alexandra. I find you irresistible, God help me. I don’t know what sin I’ve committed to deserve it, but ’tis a fact, and I am learning to live with it. And you must, too.”

The outrageous statement, the roughness of his tone, winded her, and before she could draw breath again, he had brought his mouth down to hers, and she felt as if she were losing all contact with her self.

The boundaries of her body were melting, merging into his, and her legs no longer seemed capable of supporting
her. The only kisses she had ever experienced had been chaste and familial, and she seemed now to be entering some world of sensation for which she had no name. And then he raised his head and stepped away, just as the door opened behind them to admit the maid with a tray of covered dishes.

Alexandra spun away towards the fire, pressing her fingers to her lips, which seemed twice their usual size. Her cheeks were burning, and her legs were still quivering in the most ridiculous fashion. Behind her, Peregrine was talking to the maid in his own perfectly normal, perfectly composed voice, and when the door finally closed on the girl, he said calmly, “Won’t you come to the table, ma’am?”

She turned slowly. He was smiling, and it was not his usual smile; it held some knowledge that he was inviting her to share. That intensity was in his eyes again, seeming to penetrate her very soul. She moistened her lips and moved to the table as if in a trance.

He held out her chair for her, pushed it in, and passed her a napkin. Then he filled their wine glasses and took his own seat opposite her. “May I serve you some soup?”

“Thank you.” She stared down at the white tablecloth for a moment.
Could he possibly have meant it?
No, it was absurd; either he was playing with her, or he was quite mad. She took refuge in renewed anger, demanding fiercely, “Why would you take advantage of me in that fashion? I thought you a gentleman, at the very least, but
you’re a cad. I’m a lone woman, unprotected, and you think I’m fair game. Well, you are mistaken, sir.”