The Counterfeit Gentleman (25 page)

Her grandfather had always considered Mr. Kidby a
most astute man, and Bethia was inclined to think her
grandfather had not erred in his judgment. “Yes,” she said,
feeling more than a little sad. “Please inform my cousins
exactly where my money will go if anything untoward hap
pens to me or to my husband.”

* * * *

When they finally arrived home, Bethia discovered that
the normally well-run household was at sixes and sevens.

Not only was Aunt Euphemia supervising the packing of
her own trunk, bandboxes, and portmanteaus, but she had
also directed the servants to move Bethia’s belongings into
the master suite, which consisted of two connecting bed
rooms, each with its own sitting room and dressing room.

Maids were bustling back and forth along the corridor,
their arms filled with dresses and scarves and shoes, and a
valet named Youngblood was busily unpacking her hus
band’s clothes into what had once been her grandfather’s
wardrobe.

Watching the confusion, Bethia decided it would defi
nitely be a wedding day to remember. To preserve her sanity, she kept reminding herself that night would come in its proper time. Candles would be lit, and the doors securely
locked. Aunt Euphemia would retire to her room, then the
servants would remove themselves one by one to their own
rooms.

Even allowing for unforeseen delays, by eleven o’clock
she would surely be alone with her husband. And they
would, after all, have the rest of their lives to be together.

* * * *

“You look a most becoming bride,” Mrs. Drake said
after she had assisted Bethia into a long-sleeved nightgown
made of softest flannel and embroidered all over with pale yellow flowers.

“You needn’t brush my hair,” Bethia said. “I shall do it
myself.”

“Just as you wish,” Mrs. Drake said, her manner once
again that of a proper servant. Gathering up the clothes
Bethia had worn that day, she left the room without a backward glance.

For a moment Bethia felt the urge to run after her, to tell
her she was afraid—no, never afraid when it was Digory. She was just a bit nervous—she just needed a bit of reas
surance that she would not displease him, that he would be happy with the marriage she had forced him into.

Picking up her brush, she began pulling it through her
long hair, automatically counting the strokes. Before she
reached forty, the connecting door opened, and her husband
entered the room.

She watched him in the mirror, expecting him to take the
brush from her hands, but instead he stopped a few feet
away. Clasping his hands behind his back, he said, “I be
lieve it is time for us to discuss the bet we made.”

“Bet?” she asked, turning to face him.

“The wager we made—that in less than a week I could
persuade your aunt to give her permission for you to marry me.”

“Ah, that bet.” Bethia smiled up at him. “I admit you
have won the wager fair and square. Ask anything of me
that you wish, for I can deny you nothing.”

He did not return her smile, and she felt a frisson of fear.

“I do not want to consummate this marriage.”

The brush dropped from her suddenly nerveless hand.
“You cannot mean that,” she whispered. “You cannot ask that of me.”

“After your birthday, we shall have the marriage an
nulled,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

Her mind screamed denials, but all that came out was a
breathless, “Please
...”

He said nothing.

Standing up, she tried frantically to think of some way to
persuade him not to do this—this terrible, awful, unbelievably cruel thing.

“That is two requests, and I need grant you only one,”
she said, feeling some of her energy return. She would
never agree—never! The wager was ridiculous, unimportant, immaterial. They were joined together in the eyes of
God and according to the laws of men.

“I am asking only for an annulment,” he said, and she
was close enough to see that the pain in his eyes matched
her own. “But since we have taken such care to make the marriage valid, the only way we can legally dissolve it is if we do not consummate the marriage.”

“We did not shake on the wager,” she said, her entire
body beginning to tremble.

“The wager is unimportant,” he replied. “I have decided
that we will have the marriage annulled as soon as you are
one-and-twenty, at which time you will be free to marry the
man of your choosing.”

“And if I choose you?”

“I am not the proper husband for you.”

Great wracking sobs burst unannounced from her throat,
and immediately Digory took her in his arms and pressed
her head against his chest.

“I cannot endure another night alone—I cannot,” she
heard herself begging. “Please, you must stay with me.”

“Of course I shall stay with you,” he replied, his voice
once again warm and comforting. Then he picked her up in
his arms and carried her to the bed. Laying her down, he
tucked her in, then stood beside her looking helpless.
“Don’t cry, please stop crying.”

Wordlessly, she held out her arms to him, and to her
great relief, he hesitated only momentarily before climbing under the covers and taking her back into his arms.

* * * *

Holding his sleeping wife, Digory reviewed the events of
the last week and decided that he had done absolutely nothing right except to rescue Bethia from drowning.

Every action he had taken since that time, from allowing
her to drink her fill of punch to agreeing to marry her, from
neglecting to consider the possibility of a third man in Carwithian Cove to asking Lord Edington for help. Every decision, both major and minor, had been exactly wrong.

And now, the woman whose happiness he had wanted to
ensure had cried herself to sleep in his arms.

He was at
point non plus
—damned if he did and damned
if he didn’t.

If he continued to refuse to consummate the marriage,
then that meant months of misery for both of them. Yet if
he yielded to her entreaties, their happiness would last only until he was discovered to be a counterfeit gentleman, after
which the rest of their lives would be filled with misery.

And the sins of his father would be carried on to the next generation.

He spent the night praying as he had never prayed be
fore, not even when he had lost a rudder during a storm at
sea and it had seemed as if his yacht would surely founder.

Yet even that moment had not been as dark as this night.

* * * *

“The servants will know that this marriage has not been
consummated,” Bethia said matter-of-factly. She was
standing in front of the window, and the early morning
light surrounded her with the aura of an angel. Turning her
head, she gazed at him with eyes that had aged a dozen
years in one night. “Do you imagine there will be no gossip?”

“No one will suspect,” Digory said, taking a hat pin from one of her bonnets and pricking his finger. Squeezing out a few drops of blood, he smeared the sheets where his wife-
in-name-only had been lying.

She moved so softly he did not hear her approach, and
only knew she was beside him when she spoke.

“Does it not bother you that we shall be living a lie? That
we are deceiving our friends?”

Even knowing that in the long run the truth would be best, he found it hard to utter the brutally honest words.
“My whole life, starting from my conception, has been a
matter of lies and deceit. As I have told you, I do not be
long in your world, and you do not belong in mine.”

“I would give up everything—” she started to say, but he
quickly laid his hand on her mouth.

He could not allow her to demean herself by begging,
and yet he could not give her what she wanted. “When we
made the wager, you also promised that you would not
argue about it.”

The anger that flashed in her eyes was a vast improve
ment over the grief. “And what difference does it make
what I promised? After all, you have just said you are quite
accustomed to lying and deception.”

“But in all the years of my life, I have never gone back
on my word,” Digory said.

Struggling to hold back tears, she said, “Some day you
will suffer as I am suffering today, and then you will regret
what you have done.”

“I am already suffering, and I am already sorry, but there is nothing you or I can do to change the world.”

* * * *

“Now, then, be sure you do not live in your husband’s
pocket, for that is not at all
comme il faut
” Aunt Euphemia
said. Her luggage and her maid were already loaded into
her ancient traveling coach, but she herself kept remember
ing last minute instructions for Bethia. “And we do not
want people to decide that marriage has made you fall into
bourgeois habits.”

“No, indeed,” Bethia replied. “But perhaps it might be
best if you did not delay any longer, else you will not reach
Maidenhead before dusk.”

“No, indeed, that would not do,” her aunt replied, turning her cheek up for a kiss. “For no matter what people say, not
even the turnpikes are really safe after dark.” She allowed one of her grooms to assist her up the steps into the coach,
and the door was shut behind her.

The groom climbed up beside the coachman, but instead
of giving them the signal to start, Lady Clovyle poked her head out the window and continued with her instructions to Bethia. “Now you must be sure to write to me once a week
and tell me how you are getting on. And if you can spare
the time, you may visit me in September, or perhaps October would be better. Well, there is plenty of time to decide that.”

Without waiting for Bethia to reply, she sat back in her
seat, then rapped sharply on the roof of the coach with the handle of her parasol, and they set off on what would be, at
the pace Lady Clovyle thought suitable for traveling, a
four-day journey to Bath.

Bethia’s emotions were too raw to allow her to face any
one, even Digory, who had disappeared into the study as
soon as they were done breakfasting together.

So she returned to her room and wandered listlessly
around, unable to come up with any solution to her prob
lems.

Finally, resolving to think of something else, she un
packed the small trunk that had belonged to Digory’s aunt, and examined its contents.

The clothing was still serviceable, and although too outmoded to be of any particular use in London, some of the items might be comfortable to wear when gardening in the
country.

Then at the very bottom of the trunk, Bethia found a
packet of papers tied up with a faded velvet ribbon. Laying
the folded dresses back into the trunk, she rang for a footman and instructed him to carry it up to the attic.

Once she was alone again, she untied the knot and unfolded the topmost piece of paper, which turned out to be a
love letter from the Earl of Blackstone to Mary Ann, whom
Bethia assumed was Digory’s mother.

The late earl had been quite eloquent, and it would have
been most romantic reading, had not Bethia known that he was deliberately deceiving a chaste and honest woman.

She could not bring herself to do more than glance at the
other love letters, but she did read the letter from a Mr.
Jackson Thwaite, who informed Mrs. Rendel that she was
not, in fact, the Countess of Blackstone since she had been underage and had failed to obtain the necessary permission
from her father for the marriage. Therefore the marriage
was null and void, even if her father were now willing to consent.

At first Bethia thought that the solicitor had erred in re
ferring to Digory’s mother as Mrs., but the last document
explained everything. It was the marriage certificate for
Mrs. Mary Ann Rendel, widow, and Mr. William Black
leigh, Earl of Blackstone.

It was signed by the vicar, two witnesses, and both par
ties to the marriage. And it was a completely worthless
piece of paper.