BRIGHTON BEAUTY (24 page)

"But . . . " Chelsea’s gaze lifted. "You said nothing. Why did you not?"

"If you recall, I came close to exposing you that evening in the music room. My son's happiness means a great deal to me, Miss Grant. I was quite angry over the idea that you might be pretending an affection for him in order to further the deception. But, last evening, at the ball, I could see that you do, indeed, care for him. And today I fully intended to allow the pair of you to marry." She paused. "It was I who had my niece waylaid at the inn this morning."

"Oh," Chelsea breathed. Believing that Lady Rathbone was now sympathetic to her plight, she felt her chin begin to tremble. "You must believe me, Lady Rathbone, I wanted to tell him the truth. But, in the beginning, I feared he would think me a criminal, and that I would have to answer to charges along with Sully. I felt
dreadful
about deceiving you, and Mr. Wainwright and of course, Mr. Stephens. I never meant any of this to happen. Not any of it!"

"I believe you, my dear."

"But . . . do you think
he
will? Will Rutherford ever be able to forgive me?"

Lady Rathbone's wrinkled cheeks softened. "I expect he will. In time. Ford's pride is hurt right now, but he will not stay angry forever. To your credit, Miss Grant, you did a splendid job of portraying Alayna. Lord Pemberton was set to have the young lady who interrupted the wedding forcibly removed from the castle." She laughed. "To say truth, Miss Grant, I haven't had such a grand time in years."

Through the moisture that was clouding her vision, Chelsea smiled sadly.

Lady Rathbone reached to pat her hand.

"I know you love my son, Miss Grant. And if it's any consolation to you, I am certain he loves you equally as much. I just wish my little scheme to detain Alayna had been successful. If she did not return to the castle in time for her own wedding, I felt it would serve her right to lose him. They do not love one another as you and Rutherford do."

Chelsea's hopes rose the veriest mite.
Did Lady Rathbone think there was still a chance?

"But," the old woman continued, "now that Alayna is here, Rutherford is honor-bound to marry her. I have attempted to make light of her prank to deceive us, but the truth is, by traveling about the countryside with a troupe of vagrant play-actors, Alayna has disgraced herself. Eudora said word is already out in London that Alayna's stage debut is the
on-dit of
the Season. Apparently she attempted to disguise herself, but the subterfuge failed miserably; she has fooled no one. If Alayna has any hope for respectability now, she has no choice but to marry Rutherford and leave England straightaway."

Her hopes dashed to the ground, Chelsea fought the anguish building inside her. The thought of Rutherford married to another was almost more than she could bear.

"And what of you, Miss Grant? What are you to do now?"

Chelsea struggled to reply. "I . . . shall return to London, ma'am."

"Ah, London. And what will you do there?"

"I design bonnets for my living, ma’am. Although this past month I have been frightfully remiss in my promise to my employer, Mr. Merribone. I had every intention of sending along new designs for the others to make up in my absence."

"And you've not sent along even one, have you?"

Chelsea shook her head. "I have let everyone down."

"You have done nothing of the sort, Miss Grant. You have been a great comfort to me. And you have accomplished far more here at the castle than my niece would have had she been here." She gazed with renewed sadness upon Chelsea. "It is a frightful shame that you and Rutherford . . . well, we mustn't think on that."

Chelsea bit her lower lip to keep from sobbing aloud.

"I should like you to stay on a bit longer at the castle, Miss Grant."

Chelsea looked alarmed. "Oh, no, I couldn't!"

"But with all the servants occupied with the fair and our guests indoors, there is no one to take you to London, or to Chester to catch the mail coach. You must stay, at least for a day or two."

Chelsea did not know what to say. She had not expected anyone at the castle to come to her aid. She had meant to set out on foot. Chester was not so very far away. She would manage. She gazed tearfully at Lady Rathbone.

"I shall have Mrs. Phipps prepare a chamber for you. There must be several available now. I understand news of the aborted wedding caused quite an exodus amongst our guests." Her eyes twinkled with high amusement. "I look forward to seeing you this evening at supper, Miss Grant.
Jared!"

At the sound of Lady Rathbone's familiar bellow, Chelsea smiled ruefully. Despite the bell-pulls being newly repaired, apparently the woman still preferred shouting when she required something.

"Miss Grant will be staying," she told Jared, when he appeared in the doorway. "You will have Mrs. Phipps see to her accommodations."

She smiled up at Chelsea, who had risen to her feet to fetch her valise. "You may wait in our little sitting room. I expect no one will disturb you there."

As instructed, Chelsea settled herself in the sitting room to wait. On the one hand, she had no desire to remain any longer at the castle, on the other, she was finding it more difficult than she'd imagined to drag herself from Lord Rathbone's side.

C
helsea would have sooner died that evening than take her place at table alongside Lord Rathbone and Alayna. Apart from the fact that she was now forced to appear in Polite Company dressed in one of her own gowns, frocks that were far more suited to the workroom of Mr. Merribone's shop than the dinner hour at a castle, she was consumed with fear over how Lord Rathbone would react toward her now that her treachery had come to light.

Slowly descending the stairwell that evening, the muffled sounds of people talking and laughing in the drawing room drifted upward toward her. Judging from Lady Rathbone's comments earlier, she had expected that only the immediate family would be present for the meal. Yet the noisy hubbub below sounded rather like a party in progress. Which, of course, had been the original intent, a gala celebration of the wedding that had taken place that day. But there had been no wedding today.

A knot of anxiety formed in Chelsea's stomach as she drew near the entrance to the cavernous room. Hesitating in the doorway, she noted that apart from Alayna and Lord and Lady Rathbone, there were, indeed, a number of unfamiliar faces present tonight.

One gentlemen, she noticed in particular, not because she recognized him or because he was unusually attractive, but because he was attired in a wildly absurd fashion. Not a tall man, he wore bright red pantaloons, a pea-green waistcoat and a dotted black and yellow shirt. His light-colored hair was slick with pomade and his cravat was wound with a flourish. His collar rose so high about his neck as to make turning his head nigh on impossible. Yet, while conversing with Alayna, he still managed to illustrate every single word with an exaggerated pose or posture. Was this the infamous Mr. Hill, the man who had rescued Alayna from Lady Rathbone's feeble attempt to kidnap her? The oddly dressed man may be a splendid actor, but beyond that, Chelsea could only wonder what Alayna found so captivating about him.

Her reverie on the dandy was cut short by a greeting from Lady Rathbone.

"Do come in, Miss Grant!" the woman called from her place near an intimate grouping of sofas and comfortable looking chairs.

Flinging only a furtive glance toward the imposing figure of Lord Rathbone, who stood at the far end of the room, engaged in conversation with another gentleman whom Chelsea had never seen before, she headed with some relief toward Lady Rathbone.

"You look very pretty tonight, Miss Grant," the older woman said, her voice loud enough to be heard by a tall, angular gentleman who stood but a few feet away, holding a goblet of claret in his hand.

With a rather lopsided grin on his face, the gentleman ambled over.

"Ah, Lord Weymouth," Lady Rathbone said, "may I present Miss Grant? Weymouth and his sister, Lady Anne, only just arrived," she told Chelsea. "Weymouth is one of Rutherford's chums from his days at the university."

"How'd you do, Miss Grant," the likeable gentleman said, his words a trifle slurred. "This is my sister, Lady Anne." He gestured toward a young lady, who greatly resembled him, in that they both had wide brows and rather longish, pinched noses.

But the young woman was beautifully dressed in a lavender silk creation with ropes of sparkling jewels around her neck. She strolled over, and after acknowledging Chelsea with a cool nod, took a seat in a brocade wing chair near Lady Rathbone. Chelsea slipped onto the sofa nearest Lady Rathbone's chair, while Weymouth lowered his lanky frame into what was appropriately called a drunkard's chair.

Fixing a languid gaze on Chelsea, Lady Anne said, "I was unaware there were small children in the household, Lady Rathbone."

The old woman's wrinkled face registered some surprise at that, while Chelsea, pinned beneath Lady Anne's condescending look, squirmed a bit. She supposed that in her dowdy gray frock with the high-neckline and simple white collar, she did look rather like a governess.

Upon catching the haughty young lady's drift, Lady Rathbone bristled. "Miss Grant is not a governess. On the contrary," she said shrilly, "she is a dear friend of mine. Her grandfather, Sir George Andover, was a prominent benefactor to a fashionable academy for young ladies in Brighton that she and my niece attended together. In fact, in that part of England, Miss Grant is known as the Brighton Beauty."

"Hmm." One of Lady Anne's arched brows lifted.

"Say what?" spouted her brother, springing suddenly to life. "Demme! How like Rutherford not to let us know we had a celebrity in our midst!"

Chelsea blushed as Lord Weymouth jumped to his feet and honored her with an elaborate leg. "Privileged to meet you, Miss Grant! Demme! A real celebrity!"

Chelsea laughed sheepishly. "It was quite a long time ago, sir."

"Nonsense!" Weymouth headed for Lord Rathbone. "I say there, old man, why did you not tell us we've a celebrity with us tonight?"

A bored look on her face, Lady Anne rose languidly to her feet and strolled toward Alayna and the flashily dressed man, who was still posturing before the hearth.

Following her departure, Lady Rathbone turned to Chelsea. "Weymouth and his sister know nothing," she said in a whispered tone. "As I said, they only just arrived this evening. On their way to London to finish out the Season, I understand. Mustn't pay Miss Priss any mind." She winked at Chelsea. "And, of course, Weymouth is quite harmless. He obviously spent the day tippling and is now deep in his cups." She grinned, then added in a conspiratorial tone, "I took the liberty of placing you near me at table."

Moments later, Chelsea did indeed find herself seated at the bottom of the long mahogany dining table next to Lady Rathbone. Lord Rathbone sat at the top, with the unknown gentleman, who Lady Rathbone told her was the new steward, Mr. Osgood, seated near him.

For the most part Chelsea ate her dinner in relative silence, managing to keep her eyes fixed on her plate lest they travel, of their own accord, the length of the table in an anxious quest to mate with Lord Rathbone's dark orbs.

When the uncomfortable meal had finally drawn to a close, the entire party, gentlemen included, headed again for the drawing room. Coffee was served to those who desired it, then during a brief lull in the proceedings, Lady Rathbone addressed her niece.

"Perhaps you and Mr. Hill would consent to entertain us with a scene from one of your stage productions, Alayna."

That the woman would suggest such a thing seemed quite extraordinary to Chelsea.

Alayna didn't seem to think so. "We'd be delighted, Aunt Millicent!" she squealed, turning to consult with Mr. Hill, who hadn't left her side for so much as a second since long before dinner.

"To my knowledge," Lady Rathbone continued, twisting about in her chair in an effort to address her son, who stood near the sideboard, "theatrical productions are not at all common in the tropics. Is that not true, Rutherford?"

A dark brow lifted cryptically. "That is correct, Mother."

"My niece fancies herself somewhat an actress," Lady Rathbone told the Weymouths and Mr. Osgood. "Perhaps you will want to get up a company of players once you have removed to Honduras, Alayna."

Alayna looked aghast. "Absolutely not!" Her tone registered supreme distaste at the idea. "You know I have no intention of actually living in the tropics, Aunt Millicent!"

The sudden clatter of Lord Rathbone's coffee cup being slammed to the sideboard claimed everyone's attention. "When you become my wife, Alayna," he sputtered, "you will live where I say you will live!" Turning his back on the company, he angrily reached for a decanter of brandy and splashed a generous portion of it into a snifter.

Momentarily silenced by her cousin's loud outburst, Alayna said nothing further.

But Lady Anne was undeterred. "I quite agree with you on that head, Alayna," she drawled. "The jungle is no place for a lady." She turned a disapproving look on the dark-haired gentleman who was angrily twirling amber-colored liquid around in his glass and scowling at anyone whose eyes chanced to meet his. "You are being quite boorish, Rutherford."

He favored the outspoken young lady with a snort.

"I say, old man, believe I shall have one of those!" Weymouth said brightly. He rose unsteadily to his feet and toddled to the sideboard to help himself.

His jaws grinding together, Lord Rathbone turned to pour a drink for Mr. Osgood, politely handed it to the man, then stalked to the hearth.

Seated near Lady Rathbone, Chelsea kept her lashes lowered, yet she remained as vitally aware of Lord Rathbone as if the gentleman were perched in her pocket.

"Which scene would you prefer we do, Cousin Ford?" Alayna asked, having apparently decided her betrothed's state of mind was of no consequence.
"A Midsummer Night's Dream
, the balcony scene from
Romeo and Juliet
, or
All's Well That Ends Well
?"