The Perfect Bride (4 page)

Women
inhabited a frivolous world. Unfortunately, he was going to have to spend the
next months immersed in that world, with its fancy gowns and glittering balls.
But then, every mission had its drawbacks. Every victory came with a price. As
a prospective bride, Miss Biddle met all of his requirements; moreover, she was
not a snob like Miss Fielding, nor a determined bluestocking like Miss Dunham,
who would doubtless withhold her favors on a whim.

The
amiable Miss Biddle would willingly provide him with the brood he must have to
secure the line. It was his duty to see that the title and its wealth did not
disappear, as it very nearly did until the late Lord Sommersby's solicitors
discovered that the ninth earl's second cousin had survived the maelstrom at
Waterloo and was available to assume the title.

He
had not wanted an earldom. It was very different from soldiering, and its chief
tasks — preserving one's assets and keeping one's wife breeding — seemed
trivial by comparison. A soldier's world was defined by the turf he commanded,
the weapons at his disposal, and the mission of the day. When resources were
short, he made do with those at his disposal. Honor and self-reliance, those
were the keys to success. In the end, they were all a man had. He would not
claim a hero's crown merely for doing what had to be done.

The
military was simplicity itself. Courtship, on the other hand, was a complicated
business to be tolerated only until a decent interval had passed and a wedding
could be held. Jeffers, who seemed to know about such things, had informed him
that a man of his rank would be expected to afford his betrothed a Season to
bask in the attention due a young lady of breeding and beauty. Enduring a few
months of social frivolity was one thing, but tolerating Miss Biddle's blind
adoration was another. That nonsense must stop.

"Lord
Sommersby is a very ordinary man, Miss Biddle," he said. "You will be
very disappointed if you allow your imagination to run amok."

These
words had absolutely no effect on Miss Biddle, who continued to wear a
rapturous air. Miss Fitzhugh, however, tilted her head consideringly. "To
those of us who remained at home with the comfort of a roof over our heads and
food on our table, the men who endured war are not ordinary at all."

"Perhaps
by that measure," Simon conceded. "But Sommersby's feats have been
exaggerated in the telling. The valiant souls he commanded are the ones who
deserve the country's deepest respect."

She
nodded, and he wondered whether she was thinking of the once-proud soldiers
whose injuries and lack of employment turned them into beggars after the war.
It was a sad postscript to their brave service.

There
was a steadiness about Miss Fitzhugh. Perhaps it stemmed from the loss of her
parent. He gathered that her mother was dead also. Idly, he wondered why she
had never married. Although she did not possess her cousin's beauty, she was by
no means unattractive, though her rather severe attire — her mud-colored
traveling dress had a profusion of tiny buttons that reached nearly to her chin
— did not work to her advantage. Her commanding height, though, imparted a
certain regal air augmented by  her long, tapered fingers that must be perfect
for — for what? he wondered. Needlework? He realized he had no idea what women
did all day. Her chin had a proud, uncompromising line that did not seem quite
suited to the narrow confines of a ladies’ sewing room, or drawing room, or wherever
such female activities took place. Her eyes were the deep brown of rich earth.

With
her profile and bearing, he could almost imagine her as Queen Boadicea leading
the troops into battle. Strangely, the comparison seemed not at all absurd.

Other
matters commanded Simon's attention, however, as the party arrived at the Bard
and Bed Inn, the midpoint on their journey. Sir Thomas quickly disappeared to
the taproom, where he appeared inclined to remain for quite some time. It was
just as well. Sharing a room with a sober man might prove difficult. Simon had
little confidence that, in the throes of deep sleep, his wig would stay in
place and his mustache remain attached to his lip.

The
burdens of disguise were many. Still, it served him to continue his masquerade,
at least until he was more certain of Miss Biddle. People were more likely to
let down their guard around a threadbare secretary than they were an earl.

There
was no substitute for thorough scouting before any contest, martial or marital.
It was essential to know one's opponent beforehand.

CHAPTER THREE

"Amanda!
Wake up! Someone is at the door!"

Opening
her eyes, Amanda discovered Felicity shaking her so vigorously that the room
spun.

“Stop
it, Felicity! I declare my teeth are rattling. Whatever is wrong?"

Clutching
the blanket, Felicity pointed mutely to their door. The stout oak shuddered in
protest as someone out in the hall pummeled it relentlessly.

From
the cot under the window, the maid accompanying them sat up with a start.
"Oh, miss!" she cried. "`Tis a ghost, I know it!"

"A
ghost
!" Felicity's violet eyes grew wide as she fumbled for her
spectacles. "Oh,
do
something, Amanda!"

Amanda
frowned. "There is no more a ghost on the other side of that door than I
am Princess Charlotte. Some harmless castaway has mistaken our room. I daresay
he will move on when he realizes his mistake."

But
the presence out in the hall did not seem altogether harmless. Indeed, a sudden
enraged shout indicated his growing impatience.

"Open
the door, Meggie!" came the slurred command. "I saw ye sneak off with
that Captain Sharp. Promised the night to me, ye did, and I mean to hold ye to
it!"

"Dear
Lord," Amanda muttered as she flung the covers aside. "The man is
raving drunk."

Plucking
some dipped rushes from a bucket at the hearth, she lit them from the dying
embers. An unpleasant odor of grease wafted through the room as she placed the
rushes in a tin lantern, which cast a garish light on the walls. Felicity and
the maid huddled close to each other as Amanda strode to the door.

"See
here," she declared sternly through the keyhole. "You have the wrong
room, and we would very much appreciate it if you would go on about your way."

The
ensuing silence lasted but a moment. "Do not think to fool me by
disguising yer voice, Meggie!" the man roared. "Best come out before
I break down the door!"

"Oh,
no!" Felicity cried. The maid scrambled under the bed and immediately set
up a loud keening. In spite of herself, Amanda felt a surge of fear.

"There
is no need to break anything, nor make such a fuss," she insisted.
"Your, er, ladyfriend is not here."

A
thunderous crash was the only response as the man heaved himself against the
door.

"Help!"
Felicity shrieked. "He is breaking it down!"

"If
he does, he will certainly see that his Meggie is not here," Amanda
replied calmly. "I daresay we shall be perfectly safe."

Her
words conveyed a certainty she was far from feeling, however. Amanda had little
experience with senseless drunkards, but she suspected they did not listen to
reason, even when the evidence was right before their eyes.

The
door gave a mighty shudder as the man rammed it like an enraged bull. An
ominous crack split one of the panels. It was clear that the door would not
take much more punishment. Amanda wondered that the commotion had not brought
the proprietor, but perhaps he was as castaway as his guest. Her gaze flew to
the window, but it was too small and too high above the ground to offer escape.
They would just have to hope that the man exhausted his strength before he
exhausted the oak that barred him from them.

With
rising panic, Amanda braced herself for the next charge.

It
never came.

Instead,
there was a loud thud out in the corridor. After a moment, three short,
peremptory raps broke the ominous silence. "Miss Fitzhugh? Miss
Biddle?" demanded a deep voice. "Are you all right?"

"Mr.
Thornton?" Amanda asked, incredulous. "Is that you?"

From
outside the door came the sound of a throat clearing. "Yes,” he said in a
more modulated tone. “Yes, it is I — Thornton, that is."

"But
what has happened to the other man?"

"He
will not bother you further."

"Is
he gone?" Amanda persisted.

"Not
precisely," came the slightly impatient response. "But he is
harmless. You may go back to sleep."

Felicity
sighed in relief. The little maid crawled out from under the bed. Overcome with
curiosity, Amanda opened the door a crack.

Mr.
Thornton stood in the darkened hall, wearing a claret velvet dressing gown.
Sleep had apparently proven a rather turbulent exercise for him, as his grey
mop of hair stuck out from his head on all sides, and his mustache curled
erratically. He might have cut a comical figure, had he not worn such a somber
expression.

There
was no sign of their drunken intruder.

"How
did you persuade him to leave?" Amanda tried to imagine how a man of his
age had dealt with an enraged young lout. "Did you give him money?"

"Money?"
His brows rose. "Certainly not."

A
low groan sounded somewhere behind him. Amanda stepped further out into the
hall. A large figure of a man lay on the floor in a crumpled heap. Even prone
and nearly senseless, he looked strong enough to have broken down ten doors.
Amanda swallowed hard as she realized how close to disaster they had come.

Her
eyes flew to Mr. Thornton, though in the shadows she could not make out his
expression. It did not seem possible that a man of his years had bested such a
sturdy young man, but she could not think of any other conclusion.

"Did
you...
hit
him, sir?" she asked.

He
frowned. "Surely you do not object, Miss Fitzhugh. The man was within an
inch of breaking down the door."

"N-no,"
she stammered. "I do not object. I...we are in your debt, Mr.
Thornton."

"You
are in my protection," he corrected stiffly, "Sir Thomas being
indisposed at the moment. Since you are my responsibility, there can be no debt
incurred."

The
notion of Mr. Thornton protecting three defenseless women from a robust country
lad half his age should have been ludicrous. Oddly, Amanda found the idea
comforting.

"Thank
you, sir," she said gravely.

Without
another word Mr. Thornton turned and, in one fluid motion, bent down and heaved
the senseless man over his shoulder. As he disappeared with his burden down the
narrow stairway, Amanda blinked at this display of extraordinary vigor. The
earl's secretary was a most unusual man.

And
he wore an uncommonly fine dressing gown.

***

Sommersby
Castle reigned over land and sea like the king's stronghold it once had been.
Perched on the edge of a steep cliff, the stone pile towered several hundred
feet above the rocky Dorset beach. With sheer drops on three sides, the castle
looked to be impregnable from the sea. By land, a twin-towered gatehouse, its
dark windows regarding them like unfriendly eyes, greeted the visitors as they
passed under the portcullis. Amanda had no doubt that this fortress had seen
triumph more often than defeat over the years.

The
ancient stronghold might have been grand in its day, but that day had been
several hundred years ago. Daylight might afford a more charitable view, Amanda
reasoned, but the dusk that accompanied their arrival brought out Sommersby
Castle's uncivilized side.

Stark
stone statues of satyr-like beasts guarded the gateway, fierce sentries whose
menacing smiles extended no true welcome. The massive wooden door that opened
into the bowels of the castle looked strong enough to have withstood any number
of assaults. Inside, kerosene lanterns sent smoky trails wafting upward; the
odor of tallow candles also permeated the air.

The
draft that ushered them into the Great Hall brought with it a growing sense of
doom that was not diminished by the pallid fire flickering in the hearth. Wind
rattled the bare windows, whistling like a restless soul searching for
surcease.

But
the most disturbing aspect of Lord Sommersby's castle was yet to be fully
revealed. As Amanda's eyes adjusted to the dim light, ominous shapes began to
coalesce on the stone. When at last they spurred a spark of recognition, she
gasped.

Fearsome
weapons of all stripes hung from the walls, their burnished metal gleaming in
the eerie light like predatory creatures. Suspended as if in time, ancient
swords, rapiers, muskets, and bayonets waited for long-dead warriors to take up
their arms. A great cannon, its once-deadly mouth yawning and empty, stood
threateningly in one corner.

"Dear
Lord," Amanda said. "The place is an arsenal."

Felicity's
eyes grew wide. "Well," she ventured uncertainly, "the earl
is
a war hero."