The Counterfeit Gentleman (23 page)

“Then discover a way I can prevent my eager compan
ions from destroying Miss Pepperell’s reputation by un
masking the villain, or what is worse, killing two innocent
men just to eliminate one murderer.”

“Certainly,” she said. “I shall be happy to oblige, just as
soon as you convince me that the villainous cousin is no longer dangerous. If I remember correctly, that was one of
the first rules you taught me in Marseilles, namely never to
turn my back on a known enemy. And that is precisely
what you are now intending to do, figuratively speaking.”

Her voice was light, and a smile lurked around her eyes,
but Digory was not deceived into thinking she was joking.
And if she was likewise determined to unmask the mur
derer, then he might as well stop struggling against the in
evitable. Instead he should do his best to minimize the
damage to Miss Pepperell’s reputation.

Unfortunately, his own past was more dangerous than
anything the other agents might contrive. All it would take
to undo everything they had accomplished so far was for
one person to point a finger at him and say, “That man is no gentleman; that man is the bastard son of the Earl of Black
stone and a notorious smuggler to boot.”

Staring into the fire, Digory could see no possible way to prevent such an eventuality, and he wondered how he could
ever have been so naive as to think their only problem was
simply the matter of gaining Lady Clovyle’s permission to
marry.

“Come, come, my dear boy,” Lady Letitia interrupted his
thoughts. “You must not look so glum the night before you are to be married, else someone might think you were not happy to be acquiring a beautiful, intelligent—to say nothing of rich—wife.”

It was not the port he had drunk that made him answer
her more frankly than was his wont. In the past, no matter
how unsure of himself he had been, he had carefully hidden his doubts and anxieties from everyone else. And by careful
observation coupled with a logical mind, he had always
managed to figure out the best thing to do.

But now, for the first time in his life, he feared he might
find himself unequal to the task he had undertaken, and he
wanted the advice of someone older and more experienced than he was.

“Ours will not be a real marriage,” he said. “Once Bethia is of age, I will arrange for an annulment.”

“What is this—am I becoming senile in my old age? I
cannot believe that I was so totally mistaken about the
child. However could I have missed seeing that she is self-centered, greedy, grasping, thoughtless, and unkind?” Lady
Letitia said, her indignation fierce and immediate. “My dear boy, if I had but known that she was planning to use
you and then discard you, I would never have assisted her
in deceiving her aunt.”

She paused, as if she had just realized something, then
said in a much calmer voice, “And I cannot believe that she
duped you also, so you will please explain why you have
agreed to play a leading role in such a foolish venture.”

“You mistake the matter entirely,” Digory said softly.
“Miss Pepperell knows nothing of any annulment. She is
exactly as sweet and kind and good-hearted as you thought
her to be when you met her, although I cannot claim that
she is always even-tempered and obedient. In truth, I foresee a rather vigorous campaign on her part to dissuade me
from this course.”

There was no immediate answer from his companion.
Turning his head, he looked in her eyes and saw pain there equal to his own.

Lady Letitia was wise enough not to badger him with
questions, nor did she instantly inundate him with well-
meant but ill-thought-out advice. “Surely you cannot doubt
but that Bethia loves you—it positively radiates from her
eyes,” was all she said in the end.

“My mother loved my father desperately, and yet by his
selfish actions, he destroyed her life,” Digory replied. “If I
consider nothing but my own desires, then I am as loathsome
as he was. While it was doubtless amusing to invent a pre
posterous pedigree for me, I have learned by experience just
how small-minded people can be. How can I pretend that Bethia will not suffer because I was born out of wedlock?
And suppose we were to have a child? There is no way I
could prevent the other children from teasing my son or
daughter unmercifully for having a father who is a bastard.”

“Your sister is married to Richard Hawke, a most es
timable man, but one who does not even know who his par
ents were, much less whether or not they were married.
And yet she is the happiest of women.”

At the mention of Cassie, Digory attempted to smile, but his voice was bitter when he spoke. “Richard Hawke has no
cause to fear his past. He was but a young lad when he left England, and he was gone so many years that no one, no
matter how diligently he might search, would ever be able
to connect the child he was with the man he has become. And in a way Richard is doubly lucky, for he did not have
to watch his mother suffer—to see her die a little more every day, all the while knowing there was nothing he
could do to alleviate her pain.”

“You were but a child. No one can blame you for what
you were too young to prevent.”

“You miss the point. I do not blame myself; I blame my
father. And that is precisely why I cannot allow myself to follow in his footsteps. No matter how many excuses and rationalizations I come up with, I cannot ignore the truth: If I consummate this marriage with Bethia, then I am no better than my father, for in the end I will surely destroy the happiness of the woman I love.”

There, he had finally admitted the truth he had been try
ing not to face. However impossible, however hopeless, however futile it might be, he loved Bethia more than he
had thought it possible for a man to love a woman. But
confession, while it might be good for the soul, did not
bring him any measure of relief; it merely served to focus
his grief.

Up until the moment that Digory said he loved his be
trothed, Lady Letitia had been considering whether or not
she should explain to him that contrary to popular opinion,
not consummating a marriage was insufficient grounds for
an annulment—it was only physical inability to consummate that could lead to an annulment.

Lady Letitia was too much a match
maker to interfere once Digory admitted his feelings for the
woman he had rescued from the sea, for if he knew the
truth, he would no doubt attempt to cry off.

Moreover, the chance of his discovering that she had
withheld the pertinent information about annulments was
slim.

He was in all ways too much a man to remain celibate
for months with such a lovely—and even more important, such a loving—wife as Miss Pepperell. Days, perhaps, and
possibly even a week or two. But over four months? It
would never happen.

* * * *

The night had been unbearably long, but Bethia could
not blame her sleeplessness on any nightmares. Rather it
was anticipation of her coming wedding that had kept her from finding release in the arms of Morpheus.

At the first hint of morning—the first subtle lightening of
the sky—she climbed out of bed and pulled on her robe,
then went to the window and sank down on the window
seat.

Only a single star was still visible, and even while she
watched, it slowly faded away. By the time its light could
again be seen, she would be a married woman, and she
would never again have to face the darkness without Dig
ory there beside her—truly beside her in the bed, not sleep
ing uncomfortably on a chair positioned close by.

Watching the sky change from deepest blue to palest
rose, she could not keep from smiling and hugging herself.
She had always thought marriage was a serious, even
solemn occasion—a step into the unknown, from which
there was no retreat. Each time she had watched other girls
go to the altar, she had wondered how they could be certain
they were doing the right thing.

To give a man total control over your life, your fortune, your heart—how was it possible to be sure?

But today was her wedding day, and she was not marry
ing some virtual stranger—someone she had danced with a
few times at Almack’s, someone who had paid a dozen
proper morning calls, someone who had taken her up on
occasion for a turn around the park.

She was marrying Digory Rendel, an uncommon man
with an uncommon background. He was nothing like the
many men who had courted her—men whose faces she
could no longer remember in any detail—men whose effu
sive compliments and practiced smiles and fatuous remarks all blurred together in her mind.

“Digory Rendel.” Just whispering his name to herself
made her heart sing, and she could not keep her thoughts
from flitting off in first one direction and then another.

How strong he was to have pulled her from the sea. Yet
how gentle he had been, brushing the tangles from her hair.

How near he was tonight, just a few streets away. Yet
how agonizingly distant he seemed—beyond the reach of
her hand, beyond the sound of her voice.

How short a time yet to be gotten through—how unbearably long the hours until she would see him again—be with
him again, forever.

* * * *

It was unfortunate that her aunt was the one to find her
sound asleep on the window seat with the curtains drawn.
Shaking Bethia awake she fussed, “Anyone passing by—
the butcher’s brat or a chimney sweep—might have looked
up and seen you sleeping here like a
...
a
...”
Words
failed her at that point, or at least words that were proper
for a lady to say.

Much invigorated by her short nap, Bethia smiled,
yawned, stood up, stretched, and then began to dance
around the room, humming softly to herself.

Her aunt made a noise remarkably like a snort—only
ladies, of course, never snort. “I cannot think what is keep
ing that wretched Mrs. Drake,” she muttered, or it would
have been a mutter, if ‘twere not for the fact that ladies always enunciate clearly whatever it is they wish to say.

Crossing to the bellpull, she jerked on it several times, so vigorously that Bethia would not have been surprised if the
whole thing had come off in her aunt’s hand.

“Stop that infernal spinning around! You are giving me
the headache,” Aunt Euphemia said crossly—except that a
true lady never, ever is moody or crotchety or displays anything but an unflagging, unfailing, unwavering evenness of
disposition. “There is so much to be done, and we will
never be ready in time for the wedding if we do not make a
start at once. You must have your bath, then Mrs. Drake
must do your hair and help you dress.”

It was a measure of how deeply distressed Aunt Eu
phemia was that she actually said the word bath since she
did not normally deem it a proper word for a lady to say. Morning ablutions was her preferred expression.

“That is really very little to accomplish, considering that
we have a full four hours,” Bethia said, dancing over to
give her aunt a kiss on the cheek, which only halfway mol
lified her. “I am sure we will have ample time. Although
actually it will not even matter if my hair is not properly
curled or my dress ironed to perfection. After all, Mr. Rendel has seen me looking quite like a drowned duck.”

Her aunt puckered up immediately, of course, but before
she could begin a lecture on the proper behavior for a
young lady of quality who has just been dragged from the
sea, there was a light tapping on the door, and Mrs. Drake
entered, carrying the pale gold walking dress, which
Madame Arnault had altered beautifully.

“The maid will be along directly with some hot choco
late, and I have instructed the footmen to bring the hot
water up in half an hour. The day looks to be quite pleasant,
and Mr. Rendel has sent round a posy for you to carry.”

Which left Bethia’s aunt with really nothing more to
worry about.

So why was she still looking so agitated? Why had she
now begun to pace back and forth, even going so far as to wring her hands, which was not at all her usual manner.