A Perfect Likeness (4 page)

The smaller of the two bedrooms looked out over the harbor, while the larger, which Bryony was to occupy, overlooked the noisy courtyard, although thankfully not the galleried part, so she would be spared the prospect of people walking by throughout the night.

Bryony dined alone in the crowded dining room, while Kathleen ate a solitary supper in their rooms. As Bryony sat among all those strangers, however, she wished that she was with the maid, for she felt very lonely listening to all the conversation going on around her. Talk turned mostly upon the amazing feats of Bonaparte’s French armies, which had crossed the Alps in an astonishingly short time and then won a famous victory over the Austrians at a place called Marengo in northern Italy. The brilliance of the Corsican was disturbing to some, exciting to others, and there were several heated discussions as to the effect he would eventually have upon Britain.

At last it was time to retire, and Bryony sat at her dressing table as Kathleen carefully brushed her light brown hair one hundred times and then tied on her lace-trimmed night bonnet. It was good to climb into the cool, lavender-scented bed with its faded blue hangings. Outside it was quite dark now, but the noise from the courtyard was as brisk as ever as another stagecoach made its cautious way out into the alley. Ostlers hurried to and fro and coachmen shouted, and all the time someone was playing the same repetitive tune on an old fiddle.

She was tired, but she was not relaxed enough to go to sleep, especially with all the noise. Her reticule lay with her book upon the table by the bed, and she opened it to take out the miniature of Sebastian. She gazed thoughtfully at the painted face. If the artist had truly captured his subject, then the man she was to marry was very handsome and dashing. He was evidently a man of great style, both in appearance and, she suspected, in manner, and there was something about his blue eyes which told of a lively sense of humor and an agile mind.

At least, that was how he appeared to her in the portrait, and she hoped the appraisal was accurate, for if it was, then she knew that she could like him, and that would be something upon which to build. But if she was wrong ... She didn’t want to think about that possibility, and to take her mind off those dark thoughts, she picked up her book and began to read.

It was Mrs. Radcliffe’s Gothic story
The Romance of the Forest,
and absorbed her sufficiently to while away another hour. The courtyard was quieter now, the fiddler had thankfully gone away, and as she replaced the book upon the table and extinguished the candle, she knew that she would soon be asleep. Her eyes closed almost immediately as she curled up in the darkness.

She had been asleep for some time, but then something awoke her with a start. The room was still completely dark, with only a thin line of pale moonlight finding its way between the curtains. Why had she awoken? She lay there for a moment, the vestiges of deep sleep still clinging to her, drawing her back toward oblivion, but then she heard a soft, stealthy sound coming from the drawing room. Her heart began to beat more swiftly. Someone was out there. Could it be Kathleen? No, it couldn’t be, for the maid would use a candle and there was no light shining beneath the door.

A cold fear began to settle over Bryony as she slowly sat up, turning the bedclothes back and slipping her bare feet out onto the cold floor. Her pulse was racing as she crept to the door, pressing her ear against it and listening again. She heard another small sound, as if someone had touched the window catch. Screwing up her courage and taking a sudden deep breath, she flung the door open.

A figure in a hooded cloak was poised halfway over the windowsill above the alley. For a frozen second it remained shocked and motionless, its face in shadow, but then it had gone, dropping lightly down to the narrow way below. With a cry of alarm Bryony ran to the window, where a ladder had been propped against the wall of the inn to allow the intruder to enter. She saw the cloaked figure running away up the alley toward the quays, and then it had gone from sight, vanishing into the maze of little lanes she had noticed the evening before.

Behind her, Kathleen’s door opened and the maid looked anxiously out. Seeing Bryony by the window, she hurried across to her, her curling papers bobbing and her voluminous nightgown flapping around her ankles. Even as she asked what had happened, Bryony heard voices in the passage, for her cry had aroused some of the other guests.

There was a loud hammering at the door and then the landlord came to see what was going on. Kathleen hurried to admit him, and he entered cautiously, carrying a lighted candle in one large fist and brandishing a club in the other. He was relieved to find both women safe and well, but dismayed to learn that his inn had been broken into by a hooded thief. The other guests were alarmed at this information, and he hastened to soothe them, at the same time lighting as many candles as he could find, having long since learned that people’s unease could be swiftly reduced by making things as bright and comforting as possible.

He told Kathleen to see if anything had been stolen, and the maid hurried to obey. They all watched anxiously as she went methodically through everything and had to report that everything seemed to be there. The landlord was gratified to learn this, for at least his hostelry would not be spoken of as a place where guests’ valuables could go missing, and he promised Bryony that the correct authorities would be informed as quickly as possible.

He reassured her that all would be well for the rest of the night and that he would ensure no further intrusion by having a man put on guard in the alley. He was very mindful of her lofty connections at Polwithiel Abbey, and was very civil indeed, refraining from mentioning the fact that in order to be allowed entry the thief had been helped by a window being left off the latch.

When he had gone and the other guests had been persuaded to return to their rooms, Bryony and Kathleen prepared to go to bed again, although both were very disquieted. Not wanting to lie in the dark, they each took lighted candles and placed them beside their beds, but as Bryony lay back in the semidarkness, something was puzzling her. Nothing had been taken, and yet when she saw the hooded figure it had been on the point of leaving. Why leave empty-handed? The thought disturbed her and she sat up again, glancing around the candlelit room as if she would see something Kathleen had not noticed.

Her glance fell upon the reticule, lying where she had left it on the table. There was something different about it, although she could not have said what it was. She picked it up, opened it, and shook out the contents on the bed. Out fell Sebastian’s miniature, her mother-of-pearl box containing needle and thread, her silver scent bottle, her ivory comb, and her lace-edged handkerchief; and out fell something else, a letter which did not belong to her and which had no place in her bag. It lay there on the bed, the name and address quite plain to see.
Sir Sebastian Sheringham, Berkeley Square, London.

She felt cold suddenly. So the intruder had not come to steal, but to leave something. Hesitantly she picked it up, swiftly realizing that it was a copy of a letter Sebastian had been sent; the paper was too smooth and new to have passed through the post office’s hands, and besides, no postage marks were in evidence. She opened it and read the address at the top.
The Countess of Lowndes, Tremont Park, near Polwithiel, Cornwall.
She began to read.

My dearest Sebastian,

It seems from your letter that word of your impending betrothal has indeed leaked out quickly over Town, but then, it is hardly surprising when the bride is so unlikely a creature. I can well imagine that they are all wondering why you’ve chosen a nonentity from an Irish bog when you could have had a society wife with wealth, breeding, and beauty. I wondered the very same, if you remember, and I cried a great deal when you refused to tell me your true reason.

You had been so very reticent about so many things, your mood was withdrawn to say the least, and I began to fear that I was losing you. You could have spared me so much pain, my darling, if you had but told me that you were faced with the problem of having to hurriedly acquire a wife if you wished to meet the terms of your distant kinsman’s will. A fortune such as his cannot be lightly ignored, I understand that, and I also understand that although you do not wish to take a wife, you feel you must do so now.

I know that you love me, for we were meant for each other, and you have told me many times that as I cannot be your wife, you will remain unmarried. Circumstances change, and I accept that now you must marry. I also accept that a lady of rank would not serve your purpose, for you do not want a wife who will expect to share your life, you need someone dull and spiritless who will give you no trouble and who will not have the backbone to object when you shortly dispatch her to some outlying property to molder away and be conveniently forgotten.

For us nothing will be changed by your marriage. I will still be your mistress and I will still have your heart; I will continue to be your wife in everything but name.

You may rest assured that society will not learn the truth from me; as far as everyone else is concerned, you are marrying in order to honor your father’s pledge. But what a piquant situation it will be when you join me at Tremont and your horrid little intended is at Polwithiel. You will lie in my arms, and then ride over there to murmur the usual words to her!

I promise you, though, that my mirth will be at all times discreet, and when I call upon her I will be the epitome of neighborly warmth, kindness, and friendship; indeed the prospective Lady Sheringham will swiftly believe me to be a veritable angel! But I promise you this, my darling: if I think her to be too much beyond the pale, I will feel very much obliged to urge you against her, kinsman’s fortune or no kinsman’s fortune. It is one thing to cause a stir by doing something as outrageous as this; it is quite another to make oneself a laughingstock on account of it. I will never let you do that to yourself, my dearest, for I love you too much. So be warned, I will work tirelessly against the match if I think it necessary.

Do not delay in Town long, my darling, for I have been too long without you.

My love forever, Petra

Bryony felt suddenly cold. The letter slipped from her numb fingers and tears pricked her eyes. Oh, how wrong she had been about him, for the truth was evident in every unkind line of his mistress’s letter. He was damned by his precious Petra. It had not been humor she had seen shining in his portrait’s blue eyes, it had been arrogance, hard cynicism, and supreme selfishness. He was not the man of honor her father believed him to be, nor was he the sort of man she could even begin to like.

Her cheeks were wet, for in spite of this odious letter and the awfulness of the marriage she now knew lay ahead, she knew that she still placed Liskillen and her father above her own happiness. She wiped the tears away, trying to compose herself. Of what use were tears? She had to go on with this match; morally she had no choice. And maybe she was too quick to condemn Sebastian, for if his reasons were purely mercenary, then were not her own equally so? It was to save Liskillen that she was marrying him, not because she was abiding by the pledge.

Slowly she pushed the letter and her other things back into the reticule and placed it on the table. The letter had been a cruel shock, just as it was intended to be, but she was not fool enough to think that a man like Sebastian had hitherto lived the life of a monk. He was bound to have made love to many women and he was bound to have a mistress—it was his bride’s misfortune that that mistress was the spiteful, jealous Petra, Countess of Lowndes, whose estate lay so close to Polwithiel, who intended to stop the match if she could, and who had already set out upon that course by seeing that a copy of her letter to Sebastian was hidden where his future wife would be bound to find it.

She lay back, watching the slow candle shadows on the ceiling. At least the letter had served one useful purpose, for now she was under no illusions about what the future had in store: it was to be a marriage of convenience of the worst kind, with Sebastian intending no kindness whatsoever toward his unfortunate bride. But he was mistaken if he believed that she would meekly “molder away” on some distant estate. Bryony St. Charles might be provincial and inexperienced compared with the society ladies he was used to, but she certainly wasn’t lacking in spirit, as both he and his clever, vindictive mistress would find out.

She drew an almost defiant strength from this last thought, but as she lay there watching the first fingers of dawn lighten the sky outside, the unhappiness deep inside was so great that it was like a dull ache.

She was very quiet the following morning, glad to let Kathleen chatter on in her usual easy way. As she dressed, the descriptions in Petra’s letter echoed in her head; ...
so unlikely a creature
...
a nonentity from an Irish bog ... someone dull and spiritless who will give you no trouble ...
She stared at her reflection in the cheval glass.

She did not know what Petra, Countess of Lowndes, looked like, but she must be very poised and beautiful; when set beside such a woman, Bryony St. Charles would indeed look plain and provincial, with her hair in ringlets when it was the thing to wear it either short or pinned up into a Grecian knot. Her gown, considered so elegant in Liskillen, would have been in London two summers ago; Petra would not have dresses two summers old....

Kathleen had gone to look out of the drawing-room window, and now she suddenly called, “Miss Bryony! I believe the carriage has come from Polwithiel!”

Bryony joined her at the window, and for a moment it was as if it was dark again and she could see the fleeing cloaked figure, but then the daylight was there once more and she saw the magnificent dark green coach drawn up beneath the window, unable to proceed into the courtyard because of the crush of stages already there. Its lacquerwork gleamed in the morning sunlight, the coachman and footmen wore handsome livery, and the crest upon the door panel was the Calborough phoenix.