BRIGHTON BEAUTY (18 page)

"Shouldn't be overlong before Miss Marchmont returns to the castle now, miss."

"I hope so," Chelsea murmured.

"Wot do you think . . . he'll do, miss?" Dulcie asked, a bit fearfully.

Chelsea smiled sadly. "I haven't a clue, Dulcie. I try not to think about it."

"Wot did Miss Marchmont say, I mean, in her letter?"

Chelsea glanced up from the crust of bread she was nibbling on. "You know about the letter?"

Dulcie nodded. "Don't nothin' escape the household staff, miss. Her ladyship got a letter and a package today."

"Hmm."

They continued to eat the small meal in silence. At length, Chelsea pushed away from the table.

"You done, miss?"

Chelsea nodded. "You may have my pudding and the biscuit, if you like."

Dulcie's eyes lit up. "Thank you, miss."

After Dulcie had quitted the room, carrying the supper tray with her, Chelsea walked absently to the narrow slit of window in her suite and peered out. It was already dark outdoors. Save for the few stars twinkling in the night sky, nothing was visible. She wondered what Lord and Lady Rathbone were doing?

Over the weeks she had come to greatly enjoy their evenings spent together in the sitting room. Sharing the cozy setting with them at the end of a long day made Chelsea feel like she was part of a real family. She missed having a family of her own. Evenings spent all alone at her room in London were often quite dreary, as were holidays and other special times of the year when families enjoyed being together. An infinite pang of sadness gripped her. How very much she would miss Lord and Lady Rathbone, once Alayna returned and she was back in London.

Unable to shake the acute sense of loss that had settled about her, she moved as if compelled toward the door of her chamber. Perhaps if she hurried, she might find her host and hostess lingering still in the sitting room.

But upon reaching the small, now achingly familiar chamber, she was dismayed to find it empty. Re-entering the corridor, though, an unfamiliar sound caught her attention. Music? Coming from . . . somewhere.

Thus far, having not seen a pianoforte, or a harpsichord, anywhere in the castle, she was at a loss as to where the pretty sound was coming from. Attempting to follow the haunting melody to its origin, she rounded a corner only to come face to face with Dulcie.

"Oh! It's you, miss! The playin' sounds real nice, don't it, miss?"

"Yes," Chelsea murmured, then up ahead, she noticed a group of twittering housemaids clustered together in the corridor.

Dulcie's gaze followed Chelsea's. "Ever'one wished to hear it close up," the little maid murmured. "You won't tell will you, miss?"

Chelsea smiled. "No, of course, not. But why are you standing apart from the others, Dulcie? I expect you could hear a good deal better if you were also stationed near the door."

"Oh . . . " Dulcie shrugged. "The others . . . they don't like me much, miss."

"Why ever not?"

Dulcie lowered her gaze. "They say I'm . . . above myself. On account of not staying in the servants wing, and . . . living up in London, and all."

"I see." Chelsea smiled ruefully. "And I expect taking a meal with me now and again doesn't help matters either, does it?"

Once again, Dulcie's shoulders lifted and fell. "It don't really signify, miss. We'll be gone in a day or two."

Another pang of remorse gripped Chelsea. "I expect you are right. Not a bit of it signifies. Not really."

With a sigh, she proceeded down the corridor toward the shuttered chamber where she found both Lord and Lady Rathbone ensconced. By castle standards, this room was a smallish one, apparently little used for it was only partially furnished. A tattered sofa, a few chairs and a tea table were scattered about. In the center of the room stood an ancient, wing-tipped harpsichord. Chelsea had never seen a musical instrument quite like this one before, but more intriguing than that was the fact that Lord Rathbone himself sat before the keyboard.

Her brown eyes round with wonder, Chelsea quietly entered the room, unable to pull her gaze from the handsome gentleman whose fingers were flying over the yellowed ivory keys. Chelsea had no idea the gentleman was so very talented, so very proficient.

"Ah, there you are, my dear," Rathbone said, glancing up as she drew near. Even with his eyes focused on Chelsea, his long fingers continued to produce the lovely strains of music.

From the corner of her eye, Chelsea noted Lady Rathbone seated in her Bath chair near the fire. But instead of speaking to the woman, she headed straight for the harpsichord and Rutherford's side. Presently, he concluded the tune and turned a smiling countenance upward. "I hope you are feeling better, my dear, and this noise I am making did not disturb your rest."

Chelsea did not respond to the comment. "I had no idea you were so musically talented, my lord!" she exclaimed.

Across the room, one of Lady Rathbone's gray eyebrows lifted.

Rathbone laughed. "I expect you were much too young to remember the many hours I used to spend right here as a boy, Alayna. Though, I seem to recall you later making sport of my absorbing interest in music," he concluded wryly.

"Oh, but I . . . " Having committed yet another blunder, she felt her cheeks redden. She flung a nervous gaze toward Lady Rathbone. "But you play beautifully now!"

Lord Rathbone stood. "Perhaps you would be so good as to entertain me now."

"Oh, no. Please, play something else."

"Perhaps later. It is your turn now." A hand indicated the worn cushion on the wooden bench.

With a shrug, Chelsea smiled agreeably and slid onto the bench, not the least concerned that she could perform something credibly well. Even Alayna played the pianoforte, so she had nothing to fear on that score.

After skimming through a short minuet by Mozart, she directed a look at Lord Rathbone. He stood facing her, an elbow resting on the square edge of the ancient instrument. "I wonder if you are familiar with this tune," Chelsea asked pleasantly, then launched into a popular London song called "Reason Kneels to Love."

When Rathbone began to hum along, Chelsea felt relaxed enough to join him, her sweet treble soon harmonizing perfectly with his deep baritone. Toward the end of the song, they were singing lustily, then when Chelsea began the second verse and Ford skipped to the third, they both dissolved into a gale of merry laughter.

"After a bit more practice," Ford ventured, still smiling, "we might be fit to perform for our friends! What do you think, Mother?" He turned toward the older woman, who had sat quietly through the impromptu recital without uttering a single word.

For the first time since coming into the room, Chelsea also gazed fully at Lady Rathbone. But the cold look she found on the older woman's face startled her. She had seen nothing to compare to that look since the day Sully abducted her from the castle. Involuntarily, she shuddered.

"Well," Ford went on, oblivious to his mother's state of mind as he strode toward the small pie-crust tea table upon which rested a bottle of port and several glasses, "what do you think, Mother, are we accomplished enough to perform at the fair, or not?"

"Oh, dear me, no!" Chelsea exclaimed, managing to regain herself and turn her attention again to Ford.

"Nonsense," he protested. He poured himself a drink and began to fill a second glass. "Your musical talent is quite exceptional, Alayna. Which," he added, teasingly, "I find rather extraordinary considering how very much you hated to practice your scales as a child." Without looking at her, he said, "Would you care for a drink, darling?"

"No, thank you." Chelsea shook her head as she tentatively moved to take a seat on the faded old carmine sofa opposite where Lady Rathbone sat near the low-burning fire.

Lord Rathbone handed his mother the second glass of the wine and sat down on the sofa next to Chelsea. "So," he began afresh, the relaxed smile still on his lips, "what did you think of our little song, Mother? Alayna and I sing quite a fine duet, do we not?"

Lady Rathbone's gaze remained fixed on Chelsea. "Indeed. Though I seem to recall our Alayna insisting that one of her school chums was far more accomplished at the piano than she. A Miss Chelsea Grant."

Chelsea's jaw dropped to the floor as every last drop of blood drained from her face.

Beside her, Rutherford said lightly, "Well, what of it? Alayna is quite talented in her own right. Aren't you, darling?"

Chelsea swallowed hard. "Perhaps I will have that drink, if you don't mind, Ford."

"Certainly." He rose to his feet again.

Chelsea kept her nervous gaze glued to her lap. Why had Lady Rathbone mentioned her name just now?
What could it mean?

"A toast!" Lord Rathbone declared, returning to the sofa and handing Chelsea a goblet brimming full of wine. "To my two favorite women in all the world!"

Reaching for the glass, Chelsea downed a generous gulp of the warm liquid, not noticing that across from her Lady Rathbone did not.

"I understand you received a letter today, Alayna," the older woman said, still eyeing Chelsea closely. "From your friend Miss Grant."

Chelsea nearly choked on the gulp of wine in her mouth. "Indeed," she mumbled, fighting desperately for control.

"Was she not the young lady they named the Brighton Beauty your last term at school?" Rathbone asked casually.

Chelsea coughed.

"Are you all right, darling?" Rutherford's brow furrowed with concern.

Chelsea nodded vigorously, as yet still unable to speak.

"I also seem to recall," Ford went on blithely, completely unaware of the discomfort he was causing her, "that you were frightfully jealous of Miss Grant."

Chelsea stared at him.
Alayna jealous of her?

"Your letters to me, while you were at Miss Farringdon's, and for several months afterward, were full of 'Miss Grant did this and Miss Grant did that.' " He cast a bemused gaze on Chelsea. "You girls must have had quite a rivalry going."

Not that Chelsea was aware of!
"Well . . . uh . . . perhaps we did. Just a bit."

"Far more than a bit, I should think!" Ford exclaimed. "That is, if what you said following Miss Grant being named Brighton Beauty is true."

"W-what . . . did I say?"

"That you wished her banished from school for the rest of the term!"

"Why, I most certainly did not! Beside, Alayn . . . I mean, I got to play Juliet! And, if I do say so myself, my performance was far superior to hers . . . I mean . . . " Suddenly Chelsea felt inordinately warm and quite flustered. Her ridiculous outburst had confused even her! She concluded by downing another generous sip of the wine.

After a pause, Lady Rathbone said, "Alayna always was very good at play-acting. Though I expect Miss Grant is quite an accomplished actress as well, wouldn't you say so . . . Alayna?"

Chelsea felt near to collapsing. Lady Rathbone had most certainly learned the truth and was attempting now to bait her.

"Where is Miss Grant these days?" Ford asked innocently.

Chelsea lifted a nervous gaze upward, but hadn't the least idea what to say.

Across from her, Lady Rathbone commented dryly, "I admit, I have wondered about that myself. Where is Miss Grant, Alayna?"

Chelsea went rigid with fear.

Ford gazed at her expectantly. "Well, where is she living now, darling?"

"Umm . . . perhaps you should ask her yourself," Chelsea fought to toss the reply off tartly. "After all, she is coming to the castle for a visit."

"Ah . . . in time for the ball? Splendid!" Ford returned brightly. "I daresay I should quite like to meet the young lady."

"You would?" Chelsea's eyes were round.

"Indeed. You have told me so very much about her, I feel I am already acquainted with her."

Chelsea downed the last of her wine in a single gulp and instantly feeling its numbing effects, turned a crooked smile on her companions. "Well, I hope neither of you will be disappointed."

* * * *

I
n spite of the unusual quantity of spirits she had consumed earlier, Chelsea had a difficult time falling asleep once she returned to her bedchamber that night. She couldn't thrust the fear from her mind that Lady Rathbone had learned something, nor cease wondering why the woman had not confronted her just now and demanded an explanation? None of it made any sense.

After lying awake for several fitful hours, she sat straight up in bed. Springing to the floor, she snatched up a candle and flew to the door that connected her chamber with the dressing room where Dulcie slept.

"Dulcie!" she mouthed, "let me in! I must speak with you at once!"

An instant later, the door creaked open and Dulcie, clad in a loose-fitting nightrail, stood rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Wot is it, miss?"

Chelsea breezed past the girl to set the flickering candle down on a table. "I am certain Lady Rathbone has somehow learned the truth. I need your help, Dulcie."

"Wot do you want me to do, miss?"

"Before I tell you, I must have your word of honor that you will not speak of this to anyone. No matter what! Will you give me your word, Dulcie?"

Her glazed eyes round, Dulcie nodded quickly. "Yes, miss."

"Good. This is what I'd like you to do . . . " In whispered tones, Chelsea outlined her thoughts to the sleepy abigail. Once she had secured Dulcie's acceptance of the plan, she tiptoed back to her own chamber and climbed into bed. In no time at all, she fell fast asleep.

* * * *

T
he next morning Chelsea became aware of the disturbance in the corridor outside her bedchamber before she was fully awake.

"I tell you the girl was seen skulking from her ladyship's chamber!" exclaimed an irate female voice, who Chelsea recognized as being Mrs. Phipps, the housekeeper.

On her feet in an instant, Chelsea grabbed her wrapper and flung it about her shoulders. Throwing open the door of her chamber, she spotted not only Mrs. Phipps, but a stern-faced Jared, and an assortment of maids, who with their noses stuck in the air were staring with disdain at Dulcie.