BRIGHTON BEAUTY (22 page)

Chelsea exhaled a long sigh, then with fresh insight, decided that perhaps it would behoove her to pack up her few belongings now in readiness to depart the minute Alayna arrived. Energized by the idea, she raced to the wardrobe and dragged her small, well-worn valise from behind the many garments hanging there. Reaching back in, past all of Alayna's lovely gowns, she withdrew her own few frocks. Next to the more elegant creations, her dresses looked quite shabby, but that did not signify now. She flung her clothes into the valise and was rifling through the cupboard near the clothespress for her boots and bonnet, when a rap at the door startled her.

"Alayna!"

Recognizing Lady Rathbone's angry bellow, Chelsea froze in place. She hadn't heard that tone of voice from the old woman since her early days at the castle. When Chelsea did not answer the summons at once, Lady Rathbone began to loudly thump her cane against the door. "Alayna, open this door at once!"

The noisy ruckus brought Dulcie scurrying from her chamber. "Shall I answer the door for you, miss?"

"In a moment, Dulcie." Chelsea quickly slid her hastily packed valise beneath the bed. "Now," she mouthed.

In seconds, a silent footman pushed Lady Rathbone's chair into the room. Waving the man away with her cane, she pinned Chelsea with a hard look.

"You don't appear the least bit sick to me, gel! Are you planning to marry my son today or not?"

Chelsea struggled for the courage to speak. "I . . . "

"Speak up, gel! If you are not sick, then pray what is the trouble?" Narrowed eyes behind thick spectacles scrutinized her. "By now you should be dressed in flowers and lace and fluttering about like a nervous Nellie!"

Chelsea swallowed a gulp of much-needed air. "I-I . . . was just about to get dressed, ma'am."

"Very well, then; see that you do." Lady Rathbone bellowed for the footman, then turned again to Chelsea. "I expect you to be ready for the parson's mousetrap within the hour, young lady. In the meantime, I shall summon Mr. Stephens. I expect he is enjoying himself at the fair. Jolly monstrous crowd . . . " she grinned crookedly. "Once you and Rutherford are wed, you will be obliged to put in an appearance yourselves."

With that, she allowed herself to be wheeled from the room.

Chelsea turned a tremulous gaze on Dulcie. "The white frock will do nicely, Dulcie."

* * * *

N
early an hour later, Dulcie handed Chelsea a beribboned bouquet of pink-tipped daisies surrounding a perfect amethyst rose in the center. The flowers had been sent up by a footman from Rutherford.

Chelsea brought the fragrant blossoms to her nose as Dulcie secured the bridal veil to the tiny lace cap that fit snugly against Chelsea's honey-colored curls. When the veil had floated into place before her face, Chelsea gazed at her image reflected in the looking glass. Oddly enough, hidden behind the veil, she could, indeed, pass for Alayna Marchmont.

Just outside the castle chapel, which was located at the far end of the top floor of the ancient stone relic, Chelsea met up once again with Lady Rathbone.

"You are a picture of loveliness, my dear." The woman's grey eyes behind her thick lenses were a bit sad. "I trust you will make my son very happy."

Suddenly realizing the enormity of what she was about to do, Chelsea choked back the high emotion that swelled within her breast. "Oh, Aunt Millicent," she murmured, "if only I could; if only I could."

"Well, a'course ye can! Now, let's get on with it!" She waved to Jared, who had been standing a bit apart from them, to wheel her Bath chair down the aisle. As the butler drew near Chelsea, she was certain she saw in his stoic gaze a slight softening around the stern lines of his mouth.

Blinking through the moisture in her own eyes, she gave the man dressed in black a small answering smile.

Having never attended a wedding ceremony before, Chelsea wasn't at all sure what was expected of her. Poised just beneath the arched doorway of the chapel, her eyes behind the gauzy veil scanned the dimly-lit interior of the small room. Only a few people were assembled there. The rest of the guests who had been invited for the ball, and who had stayed overnight, were very likely enjoying themselves now at the fair. Chelsea caught a glimpse of Lord and Lady Pemberton and a few other people whom she knew now to be close friends of Lady Rathbone. But the face she did not see was that of Rutherford Campbell.

Her gaze traveled the length of the aisle to the altar. It was draped with a white cloth over a wine velvet runner. A profusion of lit candles stood at attention in an ornate silver candelabra, their tiny blue flames flickering in the stillness.

Then, from behind the altar, she saw an invisible door open and Mr. Stephens stepped forward. Close behind him came Lord Rathbone. At the sight of the tall, handsome gentleman, Chelsea's breath lodged fitfully in her throat. Lord Rathbone looked more dashing today than ever. Spilling down the front of his dark blue coat was a froth of twisted white linen. He had on an elegant pair of white satin pantaloons that ended just below the knees, his lower limbs encased in white silk hose with silver buckles gleaming atop a pair of dark blue pumps.

When he caught sight of her standing at the top of the aisle, he leaned over to whisper something to Mr. Stephens, then headed up the aisle toward her.
She was about to marry Lord Rathbone!

"You look beautiful beyond words, my dear," he whispered, his dark eyes smiling as he reached to drape one of her hands, encased in soft white kid, over his arm.

As she moved beside him down the aisle, a hush fell over the assembled guests. No music accompanied them. The only audible sounds were their muffled footfalls on the worn carpet runner trailing down the center of the narrow aisle.

The couple took up a position before the parson and a moment later, Chelsea became aware of Lord Pemberton stepping forward to give her away.

"Dearly beloved," began the vicar.

Her brown eyes round, Chelsea listened to the vicar speak the solemn words. In due course, Lord Pemberton moved away and Lord Rathbone stepped again to her side.

After what seemed an eternity the clergyman's liturgy was still droning on. When he, at last, seemed near to winding down, Chelsea breathed a low sigh of relief. In a few moments, Alayna Marchmont, wherever she was, would become a married woman.

" . . . and do you take Rutherford Charles to be your wedded husband?"

"Um . . . " she cast a wide-eyed glance at Ford.

"Well," he whispered, his tone urging her onward. "You do mean to marry me, don't you, darling?"

Chelsea's tongue suddenly became too thick to speak. All she could manage was a tight nod.

"Then . . . say so."

Chelsea turned toward the vicar.

"It is quite all right, my dear," Mr. Steven's voice was low, low enough that only she and Ford could hear him.

"Hesitancy in a young lady only proves to me that she takes her marriage vows seriously. I think that quite a good sign." He nodded solemnly as he awaited Chelsea's reply.

She swallowed hard. "I do."

The vicar smiled as Ford breathed a sigh of relief and she heard, as well, a collective breath escape the congregation.

"And do you, Rutherford Charles, take Alayna Alice to be your wedded wife?"

"I do," Ford proclaimed at once, his voice sure and bold, its deep timbre resonating through the chapel, and through Chelsea.

"Very good, son." The vicar beamed. "Now, then, may I please have the ring, your lordship?"

Chelsea turned an anxious gaze on Ford as he fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for the ring.

Then, suddenly, from the rear of the chapel, a shrill feminine voice rang out.
"Stop! Stop this at once, I say!"

Every head in the room spun about.

"I insist you halt these proceedings at once!" cried the young lady, her blond hair flying loose behind her as she ran pell-mell toward the pair standing before the altar.

Everyone, save Mr. Stephens, seemed unable to utter a single word. "I fear you are a trifle late, miss," he said. "We have already got past the part where I ask if anyone has any objection to this . . . "

"That does not signify! I demand you cease these proceedings at once!" Alayna Marchmont glared first at the vicar, then whirled toward Chelsea. "How dare you attempt to steal my husband!"

"Steal?" Chelsea murmured, her tone incredulous.

"Excuse me," Lord Rathbone put in, "but just exactly who are you, miss?"

Alayna’s blue eyes rolled skyward as she turned toward him. "You always were a dolt, Rutherford!"

"He is
not
a dolt!" Chelsea snapped, flinging the veil aside so she could better see what was taking place.

"Thank you, my dear," Lord Rathbone said calmly. "Now, if you will please tell me who this young lady is."

"I am your cous . . . " Alayna began, but was interrupted by a bellow from the congregation.

"Enough!"
Every head whirled toward Lady Rathbone, who had risen unsteadily to her feet from her chair parked near the front pew. She turned to address the now very rapt assembly. "Those of you who are not involved in this contretemps will kindly leave the chapel while the rest of us attempt to sort it out."

With no further urging whatsoever, the wedding guests . . . flinging furtive glances over their shoulders as they did so . . . filed down the aisle and disappeared into the corridor.

"Now then," Lady Rathbone began afresh, turning her attention to the stunned group assembled before the altar.

"Why, Aunt Millicent!" Alayna cried, "You are wearing spectacles!"

"Aunt Millicent?" Ford repeated numbly. "Who is this young lady?"

"She is your cousin, Alayna," his mother said evenly.

"Alayna?" Ford muttered, flinging a befuddled gaze from one pretty blond woman to the other. "But, who is . . . ? Who are . . . ?"

"She is Miss Chelsea Grant!" Alayna exclaimed with high triumph. "She is here under false preten . . . "

"
Chelsea Grant?
" Ford repeated incredulously. "The Brighton Beauty?"

Chelsea gave a helpless little shrug. "You said you wanted to meet me."

"I did not say I wanted to marry you!" he spat out, his eyes blazing with fury. "I demand to know the meaning of this!"

"Miss Grant had me kidnapped!" Alayna declared hotly.

"Kidnapped?" Ford directed a scowl at Chelsea. "So, Sully elicited your help in this, did he?"

"Sully? Who is Sully?" Alayna demanded. "I tell you it was Miss Grant who had me kidnapped. She wanted a hundred pounds for me!"

"Only a hundred pounds?" Ford muttered. "But I was given to understand that Sully wanted . . . "

"Who is Sully?" Alayna stamped her foot impatiently. "I tell you, it was Miss Grant who had me . . . "

"Alayna!" Chelsea cut her off snappishly. "Why are you saying that I had you kidnapped? I have been here at the castle the entire time, just as you asked me to be. I would never have you . . . "

"How very like you to deny it, Chelsea." Alayna folded her arms across her bosom and glared at her friend.

At this juncture, Lord Rathbone cut in again. "I demand to know whether or not you and Sully were working together on this, Alay . . . I mean, Miss Grant."

"We most certainly were not!" Chelsea cried. "I had never met Sully until the day he appeared at the cast . . . "

"Who is Sully!"

Lord Rathbone continued to ignore Alayna's pleas. "Well, if you were not working with that reprobate, then pray tell what were you doing in the carriage that night, impersonating my . . . my cousin? If indeed, that is who this young lady is."

"How dare you question my veracity!" Alayna sputtered afresh. "I tell you she had me kidnapped! I insist you send for the constable at once!"

"Alayna." Chelsea spun around, a hurt look in her eyes. "Why are you fabricating this nonsense? Why can you not simply tell Rutherford the truth?"

Alayna thrust her chin up. "I
am
telling the truth. And I shall prove it." She dove into her reticule and began to rifle through it looking for something.

"I do not want the money you promised me," Chelsea said quickly. "The fact is, I refuse to take a farthing for my part in the deed."

"You refuse to take the money?" Lord Rathbone said, staring wide-eyed at Chelsea. "That does seem a bit irregular, for a kidnapper." He directed another look at Alayna. "Are you certain you are who you say you are, miss?"

"Of course I am!" Alayna's blond head jerked up. Apparently unsuccessful in locating what she had been looking for, she cried, "I insist you have Miss Grant arrested at once!"

Chelsea gasped with fresh alarm.

"I prefer instead to see some proof of
your
identity, young lady," Ford countered.

"Don't you recognize me?" Alayna asked digging again in her reticule. "I tell you,
she
is the impostor!" She whirled again toward the bride. "You have always been jealous of me, Chelsea Grant! You have always wanted what I have! But you shan't have my husband, you shan't!"

"May I remind both of you young ladies," Ford sputtered anew, "that thus far in these proceedings, I have been declared no one's husband!"

At that moment an insistent thumping sound interrupted them. They all turned toward Lady Rathbone, who was angrily rapping her cane against the stone floor. "I have the young lady's proof right here," she said, pressing her lips together as she handed Ford an item wrapped in brown paper.

Lord Rathbone's brow furrowed as he unwrapped the package. Cupping the small object in his palm, he glanced from one pretty blond to the other.

Alayna, having at once recognized the object as being the miniature of herself, cried, "So! There, you have it! That is the very portrait of myself that I had painted for you when our betrothal was announced. It is the best likeness of me yet!"

"I seem to recall several persons mentioning that fact to me," Rathbone muttered, still staring hard at the object.

"But why did you not already have it, Ford? And what are you doing in England? You are supposed to be in . . . "