Borrowed Vows (14 page)

It was about ten to ten as she began to pace up and down the sidewalk at the rear of the Promenade, but the sheer normality of everything was oddly disturbing. Something wasn’t right here. She knew Jack—and the map—insisted this was where she should be, but intuition told her it wasn’t. The minutes were ticking away. What should she do? If ten o’clock arrived and this was the wrong location, would she fail to go back to 1815?

She glanced swiftly around, and then her glance fell hopefully on one of the men outside the corner pub. He was about forty, tall and thin, with a ginger beard, a long nose, spectacles, and an overanxious expression, but, most important of all, he wore a dog collar. Priests always knew about their local area, so she’d ask him if this was indeed the Royal Well. Crossing her fingers that he was from Cheltenham, she hurried along the sidewalk.

A juke box was playing in the pub, and the chatter of voices was really quite loud as she reached him, so she had to raise her voice slightly to attract his attention. “Er, excuse me, Father, may I have a word with you?”

“I... I beg your pardon?” His owlish, rather watery blue eyes swung inquiringly toward her.

“A word?”

“Er, yes, of course. Shall we move away a little? One can’t hear oneself think here.” He put his beer down and ushered her back along the sidewalk until they were able to speak without being deafened. “How may I help you?”

“I was wondering, are you from around here?”

“Cheltenham? Yes.”

“Can you tell me if this is the Royal Well?”

He seemed surprised. “Why, yes. At least...”

“At least what?”

“It’s what’s known as the Royal Well now, but isn’t the original well, of course. That doesn’t exist anymore. I take it you’re interested in the mineral spring where King George III took the waters and made Cheltenham fashionable at the end of the eighteenth century?”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Kathryn replied, remembering what Alice said.

“You’re a little late, I fear. They’ve built the Ladies College over it.” He pointed across a busy nearby road toward some discreet Victorian gray stone buildings that reminded her of the library in Gloucester. The college was one of the most exclusive girls’ schools in England, and its premises stretched for quite a way up an incline toward the area named on the map as Montpellier. Skirted on both sides visible to her by roads, the college certainly didn’t seem to offer much hope of pinpointing the exact location of the old well.

The priest grinned. “It’s the best I can do for you, I’m afraid. Where we’re standing is what is known as the Royal Well today, the Ladies college is where it was originally.”

She glanced at her watch. Five minutes to go. There had to be more she could find out. She looked swiftly at him. “There was a ballroom at one time, wasn’t there?”

“Yes, it was called the Long Room. It was at the actual well, which I suppose must have been about two hundred yards from here. The Chelt flows under our feet, you know.”

“The Chelt?”

“The river, or, I suppose by your standards, it’s little more than a stream. Hardly the Mississippi, eh?” He laughed.

She made herself laugh too, but was finding it hard to hide her impatience. “So the ballroom would have been about two hundred yards up there? Which side of the road?”

He glanced curiously at her. “The right. Look, I don’t know what your interest is, but if you hope to find traces of it, you’re going to be disappointed. They didn’t even bother to preserve the Well Walk, which was considered the finest double avenue of elms and limes in England. It led from a rustic footbridge over the Chelt, right up to the well itself, and was quite a fashion parade at the height of its fame.”

The footbridge over the Chelt was where Rosalind was to meet Thomas at midnight! Kathryn almost wanted to shiver. She looked up the hillside toward the far end of the college. “So if I wanted to be more or less where the Long Room was, I’d have to be somewhere up that road over there?”

“Yes, although I couldn’t be exact.”

“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.”

“I have?”

He would have said more, but already she was hurrying away. She dodged between the traffic and then almost ran up the sidewalk alongside the college. It was quieter here, and thankfully there was hardly anyone around. She looked back down the road and saw the priest had rejoined his companions by the pub. He glanced up toward her, and she quickly looked to the front again. He probably thought she was some sort of history freak. The irony of such a notion made her smile then, for she was indeed a history freak! And how!

A church clock began to strike ten, and her pulse quickened expectantly. How would it happen this time? Would she just turn and see Dane again? Maybe it wouldn’t happen at all! She walked restlessly up and down, counting the chimes and praying she’d suddenly find herself back in 1815.

The last note died away and she closed her eyes tightly, but nothing seemed to change. Beyond the pounding of her heart she could still hear all the same sounds, the traffic at the foot of the hill, a few voices, and the general hum of a large town late on a summer evening. And she could hear music. A polonaise.

A polonaise? She wouldn’t know a polonaise if it jumped up and bit her! But that was exactly what she could hear now, the part of her that was Rosalind told her so. All modern sounds had faded away as she glanced toward the brilliantly lit doorway of the building next to her. There were chandeliers inside, and elegant ladies and gentlemen in silk, satin, and velvet. Ladies and gentlemen in
Regency
fashions! Relief coursed gladly through her. She was where she wanted to be!

The original Royal Well was housed in a low brick structure flanked on either side by two much larger buildings, one containing superior shops, the other the ballroom—the Long Room—outside which she stood. The entrance overflowed with flowers and was lavishly illuminated with variegated lamps that cast dainty pools of colored light over the arriving guests.

She examined her gown of creamy magnolia silk stitched with tiny pearl beads. It was the loveliest thing she’d ever worn, better even than the wildly expensive Paris original she’d worn the day she married Richard. Her golden hair was sprinkled with jewels and piled up on her head, a fan and little drawstring bag were looped over her wrist, and her arms were encased in long white gloves. From top to toe she was Rosalind again, and it felt good.

The jewels in her hair sparkled in the light from the entrance. She’d just alighted from the Marchwood carriage, and was waiting while Dane spoke to the coachman. She gazed at him, but then felt a finger of anxiety. What had happened during the intervening hours? Was he going to be cold again? But then the anxiety evaporated, for as he turned toward her, he smiled, and her whole being turned to jelly. God, what an effect this man had on her!

He was dressed in formal evening black, just as he had been the first time she saw him. His immaculately tailored velvet coat was deliberately cut too tight, so the buttons had to be left undone in order to reveal his white satin waistcoat and the intricate lace trimming on the front of his shirt. More lace protruded from his cuffs and adorned his neckcloth, which also sported a solitaire diamond of enviable proportions. He wore white silk breeches that outlined his long, firm thighs, and there was a tricorn hat tucked beneath his arm. As he came to take her hand and draw it over his sleeve, she inhaled the clean fragrance of southernwood clinging to his clothes.

For a moment his hand rested over hers. “Are you ready?”

“Of course.”

He smiled again, and they went up the steps into the glittering vestibule, where the chatter of refined conversation filled the warm air. She immediately recognized some of the aristocrats she’d seen mentioned in the
Gloucester Journal
at the library, or rather the part of her that was Rosalind recognized them.

The Duke and Duchess of Beaufort, and their son, the Marquess of Worcester, were talking to the Countess of Berkeley, and all three turned to acknowledge Sir Dane and Lady Marchwood. Kathryn felt almost like laughing out loud. Oh, if only they knew the truth! What would these fine Regency folk have said then? The forty-nine-year-old duke was a kindly man who was widely respected for his public benefactions, but he didn’t like formal occasions such as this, as he made quite clear to his poor duchess, who tonight was rather fussily dressed in frilled and sequined sapphire satin. But their son and heir, a twenty-three-year-old dandy, was both a wit and a ladies’ man. Splendid in the dashing uniform of the Tenth Hussars, he clearly thought himself God’s gift to the fair sex, bestowing inviting glances upon every female who caught his attention. Married for less than a year to a niece of the Duke of Wellington, he was known to be still associating with one of the most famous and notorious courtesans in London, as well as keeping several mistresses in Gloucestershire, and as he gave her a lazily appreciative look, Kathryn knew it was only Dane’s alarming reputation that prevented him from trying his chances with Lady Marchwood as well! Vanity he had, but not to the point of recklessness. Unlike the outwardly more staid Thomas, who seemed far less disposed toward recklessness, but nevertheless took alarming chances time after time.

She wondered where Thomas was now, and glanced uneasily around. He was bound to be here somewhere, and she wasn’t prepared for the moment of seeing him! How should she react? The real Rosalind would clearly give him secretly flirtatious glances, and would will the time away until midnight, when they’d both slip out separately to keep their tryst on the footbridge at the other end of the Well Walk.

But that wasn’t what Kathryn Vansomeren intended to do. Midnight could come and go, but she wasn’t going to leave the ballroom. Thomas Denham could go whistle for tonight’s planned assignation.

However, Kathryn reckoned without the relentless willpower of her counterpart. No matter how much she, Kathryn, might determine to the contrary, Rosalind was going to keep the meeting on the bridge.

Chapter Fifteen

The glittering green and gold ballroom was already a crush, even though many guests had yet to arrive. An ocean of people danced to the polonaise, the ladies’ plumes waving and jewels flashing as they moved. The murmur of refined conversation vied with the music, and from time to time she heard toasts being drunk to Britain’s hero of the hour, the Duke of Wellington.

When the polonaise drew to a close and the master-of-ceremonies announced a ländler, Dane turned to Kathryn. “My dance, I believe, my lady,” he murmured, leading her out onto the floor.

The ländler was a slow and delicate measure from southern Germany, and involved couples dancing with their arms entwined. Until the advent of the waltz it had been considered the most intimate, and therefore slightly shocking, dance acceptable in fashionable ballrooms, and it had always been one of Dane’s favorites. The music began and he smiled into her eyes as they danced.

Oh, it felt so good to be with him like this. It really was a dream come true. She was reminded of the balls her favorite fictional heroines had attended: Scarlett O’Hara dancing so shockingly in her widow’s weeds, Elizabeth Bennett overhearing Mr. Darcy’s disparaging remarks, and shy governess Jane Eyre being persuaded to dance with Mr. Rochester. What woman who’d read the book or seen the movie hadn’t secretly pictured herself in the leading role? Well, now it was Kathryn Vansomeren treading a measure with notorious, devilishly handsome Sir Dane Marchwood. If her friends could see her now, as the song went!

She danced on air, conscious of the beauty and elegance of her gown, and of her faultless grace. She knew every twist and turn, and took infinite pleasure in the complicated sequences. She glowed from head to toe, and knew it. For these few wonderful minutes she was the personification of happiness, and all because she was with Dane. But it was going to end. The hours were slipping relentlessly away toward Lammas Day.

After the ländler, they observed the unwritten rules by changing partners for the next dance, a cotillion. For this she was led out by no less a person than the Duke of Beaufort himself, while Dane escorted the young Marchioness of Worcester, who was very pretty in midnight silk and lace. After that, an hour seemed to pass in no time at all, taken up by a succession of dances with different partners. Kathryn’s ‘borrowed’ knowledge of Regency measures was seemingly endless, from minuets, cotillions, and polonaises, to allemandes, ländlers, country dances, and the wonderful waltz, which had only been permitted in polite circles since Lord Palmerston and Countess Lieven, wife of the Russian ambassador, had daringly introduced it at Almack’s the year before.

Of Thomas Denham there still seemed no sign, but Kathryn could sense that he was nearby. He was being very careful indeed to keep away from her while Dane was there, and for that she was relieved. Seeing Rosalind’s lover would spoil tonight, which had so far been heavenly for the counterfeit Lady Marchwood.

The magnificent supper Kathryn had read of in the
Gloucester Journal
proved to be every bit as
recherché
as the admiring reporter had claimed. Gunter’s of London’s Berkeley Square might with justification claim to be the finest caterers in the capital, but the food provided at Cheltenham’s Waterloo Ball was more than a match. There was lobster and salmon, York ham and pâté de foie gras, chicken and cold roast beef, with a sumptuous array of salads and savories, to say nothing of the jellies, Italian creams, and trifles. Fruit, both in and out of season, abounded, from peaches and nectarines, to strawberries and pineapples, and to go with all this was a seemingly endless supply of iced champagne.

It wasn’t long after the supper that Dane was claimed for a minuet, and for the first time Kathryn elected not to dance as well. She found a seat on one of the sofas arranged in tiers around the edge of the crowded floor, and watched as the dance began. Her thoughts were of the duel, and whether or not she might be able to do something to prevent it. She hadn’t been there long when a man spoke at her elbow. It was George Eden.