The Sometime Bride (43 page)

“
As a friend, nothing more.” Oh yes, of that she was certain.

A very special, very close friend. Even if she wished to wring his neck.

At almost the same moment Lord Anthony Trowbridge was enduring a similarly uncomfortable interview with Lord Wrexham. Anthony, ensconced in a wingchair with his injured leg propped up on a padded stool, waved the earl into the room with a wry smile. “Laid low by a street urchin,” he mocked, motioning Wrexham to a similar chair before the fire. “All those years on the Peninsula with nary a scratch, and I come home to this.”

Wrexham appreciated the deliberate candor. “I judged you had not spent the last few years in Derbyshire.”

“
I must offer you my apologies, Wrexham, but being secretive about what we did on the Peninsula is a difficult habit to break. Ca—Mrs. Perez—and I never intended to deceive anyone. It was mere thoughtlessness on our part. I was one of many who worked for her father, spending far more time in the mountains of Spain than in the comfort of Lisbon, I might add. I have known Catarina Perez for many years and count her as a friend.”

Wrexham accepted a glass of madeira from the butler and sipped it slowly. When they were once again alone, he inquired, “I do not wish to offend, but I find myself highly curious as to your intentions in that direction.”

“
Really?” Lord Anthony was instantly his father’s son. “I have no difficulty at all ascertaining your intentions.”

The Earl of Wrexham froze, his glass of wine suspended half way to his mouth. Though illegal, duels were still fought over far less insulting words than those just uttered. “It is fortunate you cannot stand up, boy,” he growled, “or we would find ourselves with pistols at dawn.”

“
Knee deep in snow,” drawled Anthony, once again the languid invalid. “Very well, I don’t mind divulging my intentions. I am going to enjoy the season while making sure that Dona Catarina Perez de Leon is treated with the respect and honor she deserves for her birth and for her service to her country. I will not stand idly by while she is besieged by men who want only her beauty in their bed or by those who see only a comfortable fortune wrapped in a particularly enticing package.” Lord Anthony, his ducal forbears clearly imprinted on his proud face, added, “Is that perfectly clear, my lord?”

“
Perfectly. But you have avoided the crux of the matter. Your own intentions, if you please.”

Anthony studied his bandaged ankle with extreme interest. “You might say I look upon her as a sister,” he said with deliberation. “A well loved and highly respected sister. I trust I make myself perfectly clear?” The scowl he directed at Lord Wrexham was sadly incongruous from his nearly supine position.

Wrexham’s lips quirked upward in a rueful smile. “I admit my intentions were less than honorable when I first saw the beautiful widow but believe me, Trowbridge, she has enough integrity for both of us! Now, like you, I am her friend and hope to be more if she is ever free of her rocklike devotion to this mythical husband of hers.”

“
I would not count my chickens just yet, my lord,” Anthony advised with his most gracious smile.

Recognizing the fragility of Amabel’s emotions, Cat had been careful not to pursue the topic of Anthony Trowbridge beyond her basic apology. But on the following evening she made certain she was at a musicale Amabel and her mother planned to attend. At the interval, on the pretext of providing Lady Lovell with a glass of ratafia, Cat quietly engaged Amabel’s mother in private conversation. “You have known the Trowbridge family for years, have you not, my lady?”

“
Oh, indeed, yes,” Lady Lovell replied. “Their primary seat is in Sussex, not far from Ridgewood, our own estate, you know.”

“
I believe Amabel mentioned that Anthony is a younger son?” Cat remarked blandly.

“
A dear boy.” Lady Lovell gave Catherine a small conspiratorial smile. “I must admit we have hopes in that direction. Alexander of course was expected to marry very grandly, but both fathers agreed Anthony would be an excellent match for Amabel.”

“
Alexander?” Cat asked, her voice far steadier than she felt.

Lady Lovell’s kindly eyes reflected pain. “Such a tragedy, my dear. We never speak of Alexander, you know. There were such stories at the time, but poor Melisande, the boys’ mother, never wished to speak of it, and Marchmont of course is quite unapproachable. There was some incident over the long vacation while they were still up at Oxford. I’ve heard several stories. Some say young Alex was injured in a riding accident, others that it was in a brawl. Whatever the manner of it, ’tis said he is incapacitated—either dreadfully mangled or mad from an injury to his head. He is believed to be shut up in his estate at Harborough—somewhere on the coast in Somerset, I believe.”

Lady Lovell paused to wipe away a tear. “They were such a sight when they were on the town. The Trowbridge twins. They were as alike as two peas in a pod.
On dit
they could even fool their parents. And frequently did. And, my dear”—Lady Lovell leaned closer—”I have heard that on one occasion they actually traded mistresses. On a bet that neither
chère amie
could tell the difference.” She sighed, drying her eyes as the audience began to return to their seats. “They were so close, those two. But now . . . now it is felt to be a kindness never to mention dear Alexander.” She patted Catherine’s frozen fingers. “I am sure you understand.”

Yes, of course. She understood all too well.

Alexander. The Bastard Brother.

Cat left the Huntingdon’s musical evening as early as manners permitted. At midnight she was seated on a Sheraton chair in the Everingham’s entry hall, still wearing the modest gown she had worn to the musicale, a richly embroidered silk shawl with long black fringe pulled tightly about her shoulders against the cold. When she heard slowing carriage wheels, the cessation of hoofbeats on the cobblestones, Cat jumped to her feet and had the front door open before Anthony hobbled up the walk, leaning heavily on a silver-headed walking cane.

He was Blas to the life. Waving black hair, longer than the current fashion, amber eyes dark in the faint light from the gas lamps in the square. A face which had seen death, created death. Full lips that promised passion and fulfillment. He was Don Alejo. Anthony.

One of her husbands.

One half of her betrayers.

Balanced on his cane, the effort of movement clearly written on his face, Anthony came to a halt at the bottom of the short flight of steps. His eyes locked with hers. Guilt. Remorse.

From Cat, accusation. Yet once again, she felt an insidious stab of sympathy. This was indeed Alejo. Her friend. The designer of her wedding gown.

Heedless of the cold, Cat rushed down to help him, thrusting aside the heavy cane and taking his weight on her own slim shoulder. She was panting by the time they made it into the hall. “I should have let you suffer,” she muttered as they moved slowly down the corridor to the cozy morning room at the rear. “I should stand and watch and gloat over your pain.” She shifted her weight, maneuvering until her hand could reach the handle of the door, which was closed to trap the warmth of the fire within. The door swung open. Warm air enveloped them as Cat guided his steps to the sofa. “I should take your cane and make you crawl,” she muttered as she closed her hand over the silver wolf’s head which formed the handle of the cane. “Or perhaps I shall simply beat you.”

Cat slipped out from under his weight, pushing him, none too gently, onto the sofa. He sat, looking utterly dejected, like a prize hunting dog discovered with a mouthful of feathers. She sank onto the opposite end of the sofa and simply stared at him. “How could you?” she asked softly. “How could you be party to such a thing?”

Anthony drew a deep breath, looked her straight in the eye. “He’s the other half of myself, Cat. Older by only twenty minutes.”

And that gave you the right to live as my husband?”

“
No! I never . . . we never . . .
Bloody hell!
” Anthony grabbed a handful of jet black hair, tugging hard. “Do you have any idea how it was?” he grated through clenched teeth. “I was as ignorant as you. It was a lark, just another schoolboy prank. I scarcely took it seriously, never imagined it would last so long.”

There was no doubt his anguish was genuine. Cat recalled the mysterious times she had seen him suffer and failed to understand the cause. “He has used you almost as badly as he has used me,” she acknowledged.

“
The difference,” said Anthony, facing her squarely, “is that I knew I was being used.”

Cat took a deep breath, dropping her eyes to the long black fringe she was winding round her fingers. “Did Thomas know?” she asked at last.

“
No. He sensed something, though. I think that’s why he was so determined to send you to England. He could feel there was some secret hanging over us all.”

A log burned through and fell onto the hearth, scattering a shower of sparks. Streaks of dancing light lit Anthony’s face to which the deep tan of the Spanish sun still clung. “Could you not have told me?” Cat whispered, close to tears. “Was I—who knew the strengths and weaknesses of armies and cities and generals and
guerrilleros
—was I not to be trusted with this? Can you imagine the humiliation of knowing I have lived with two men? At the same time?”

“
Cat, you’ve got to understand! You were a child. Thomas had been badly injured. Alex couldn’t manage alone. No matter what happened, he and I always backed each other. He needed help. He sent for me and I went. Without hesitation. I was twenty-two, you were fifteen. A child involved in a false marriage to my brother who was always getting himself into one scrape or another. That you and Alex would actually marry never occurred to me.”

“
It was a game,” said Cat flatly. “And I the most negligible piece. You were the sons of an English duke playing make-believe with a
portuguesa
of dubious background.”

“
It wasn’t like that!”

“
Yes. It was.”

Anthony tightened his grip on the wolf’s head, wishing there were something he could lash out at, someone to blame besides himself. Wishing he were not once again carrying his brother’s burdens. Trying to make amends for his brother’s wrongs.

Unfair. They were his wrongs as well.

“
My British gentleman’s illusions didn’t last long,” Anthony said quietly, “but the damage was done. Alex—we both—decided not to burden you with the deception.”

“
I cannot decide,” said Cat thoughtfully, “if Papa would have killed you both or laughed until his sides ached.”

“
Thomas was a bit of a rogue. The complete pragmatist. I think he would have forgiven us.”

“
But I shall not,” said Cat softly. “You . . . perhaps. Blas . . . no.” She held up a hand. “No, do not argue about this. It is not something I can discuss. It hurts too much.”

Changing the subject was a small grace in face of the massive apologies she was owed. “Tell me,” Anthony asked, “what was it about my feet that gave me away?”

After explaining about Blas’s damaged feet, Cat added a question of her own. “How did you manage to keep things straight between you? In all those years there were so very few mistakes.”

“
We had a
pied-à-terre
in the Alfama. A place where we kept duplicate clothing. For example, we had the jacket you gave to Alex copied. Left it out in the sun and rain for a month before I ever wore it. Things like that. We’d leave each other notes there, reports of what had been happening, incidents in the gaming rooms. Those last few years we were home so seldom it scarcely mattered. Alex stayed out of the gaming rooms entirely as he knew he had no way of keeping up with old faces. I was the only one left playing Alejo. On his personal visits to you he was always Blas.”

Cat nodded. They were very clever, the two of them. Arrogantly, ruthlessly clever.

“
There is another thing I don’t understand,” Cat added. “Amabel must have been thirteen when you left for Lisbon. And yet she speaks of seeing you more than once in the past five years.”

“
I was home twice,” Anthony admitted. “Working with the
guerrilleros
in the south was never as demanding an assignment as Alex’s in the north. It was easier for me to get back and keep the parents happy. And the Lovells. Though I didn’t encourage the chit,” he added hastily. Then, daringly, “After all, I had a wife in Lisbon.”

He fought off the deliberately slow slap aimed at his bad leg. Cat glared. “To be precise, Amabel told me she had seen you three times in the last five years.”

“
Uh, well, yes,” Anthony hedged.

“
You will explain.”

“
Well . . . you probably know Alex came back the winter of 1811. That’s when he made peace with the parents. And bought Branwyck Park.” Anthony fidgeted with the wolf’s head, shifted his bad ankle which was suddenly sending stabbing pains up his leg. Undoubtedly, an attack of bad conscience. “I’m not sure why he did it” Anthony murmured obscurely. “It’s possible he was making sure my future was thoroughly attached to Lovell acres. But, to be truthful . . . I think he was doing his best to ensure my destiny was turned away from–um–from Lisbon. Whatever the reason, he visited the Lovells three years ago. As me.”