The Sometime Bride (31 page)

“
Yet nothing overwhelms,” Blanca approved. “It is a most comfortable house. I am now not so fearful of living in this cold damp country.”

“
Shall I send for another shawl?” Sir Giles enquired solicitously. “After Portugal, our climate must seem quite inclement.”

“
Another shawl would be most excellent, Sir Giles. You are kindness itself. We are grateful for your care of us on our long journey.”

There was a mystery here, Cat thought. Something which teased at the edge of her consciousness. Something familiar. An old problem . . . which had nothing to do with Thomas Audley.

“
Sir Giles, when you met with my father’s man of affairs Ralph Carswell,” Cat inquired, “did he tell you when, or how, my father acquired Branwyck Park?”

Sir Giles Everingham twisted his brandy glass around in his hands, then placed it on the small table with a determined thump. “I know Thomas devoted himself to his work with single-minded determination,” he muttered, almost to himself, “but I cannot understand why he never told you about Branwyck Park.” Sir Giles steepled his hands for a moment, staring into the flames reflecting off the carved white marble of the fireplace. “Branwyck is not part of your inheritance, Catherine.” At her startled expression Sir Giles quickly added, “Branwyck Park was deeded to you outright. Your father was only acting in the capacity of guardian until you reached your majority.”

“
That is quite impossible,” Cat declared.

“
Not at all, my dear,” Sir Giles assured her. “Since the transaction was so unusual, your man of affairs went over the details with me at some length. Mr. Ralph Carswell received the deed in your name from the firm of Bentham, Bentham and Wembley, nearly three years ago, sometime early in 1811. In addition, there was a transfer of a substantial amount in the Funds which was to provide money for refurbishing and maintaining the property and for hiring a staff when the time came for you to occupy your new home.”

Certain that his words could bring only pleasure to his hearers, Sir Giles was startled to see that both women were regarding him as if he were a candidate for Bedlam. Absently, Blanca accepted the extra shawl from a footman without taking her eyes off the baron.

Bentham, Bentham . . . The words should have meaning, but Cat could not quite place it. “You are saying my father knew about this for several years and did not tell me,” she said with ominous calm.

“
As I indicated, there must have been a good reason. The donor wished to remain anonymous, so perhaps . . .”

“
Anonymous!” The word burst from Blanca Dominguez. “How, I ask of you, can a gift of this magnificence be anonymous? It is an insult to a young woman of good family to receive such a gift unless from a relative.” The shawls heaved in agitation as she swept her hand around the room. “Anonymous is not possible! You must tell us at once who has done this thing.”

“
That is precisely the problem, Dona Blanca,” Sir Giles replied gently. “I do not know the answer. Nor does Carswell.”

“
My father would have rejected the gift if it were not proper,” Cat said, absently toying with one of the black velvet ribbons which decorated her gown. “I do not believe,” she pondered softly, “that we have any relatives who would be so generous. As far as I know, we have no relatives
capable
of such a gift, except possibly Papa’s cousin Ailesbury, and I believe he considered Papa quite the black sheep. Which leaves only one possibility. And that, I assure you, I find even more strange.”

“
Blas?
” The single word from Dona Blanca was little more than a long sibilant hiss.

“
Blas might have won such a house in a game of cards,” Cat speculated. “That I can picture, for many English fortunes have changed hands in Portugal. But to have the money for all this . . . the furnishings, the servants . . . surely I would have known if he had such wealth.”

“
There is no one else?” Sir Giles inquired.

Catherine considered a moment, then shook her head. “No. No one.”

Blas’s words came back in rush of memory. From that day in the music room when they had quarreled over his going to the mountains of Spain with such right good cheer.
If you are in need, you have only to contact the firm of Bentham, Bentham and Wembley in London, and you will never want for anything
.

She had always assumed he dipped into the Casa’s profits to buy the chinchilla-trimmed blue velvet cloak.
Fool, fool, fool!
Papa had been right. Blas was a nobleman who would no more think of keeping his wartime wife than he would consider flying to the moon.

Catherine’s cheeks blanched so white, her hair seemed to flame around her face in a mockery of the maquillage of another age. “Forgive me,” she murmured. “I must be private . . .” She picked up her skirts and rushed from the room, leaving her companions staring after her in consternation.

Blanca broke the silence. “She knows it must be Blas who has done this thing. She has loved him for so very long—since she was fourteen years of age. But Blas . . . he is the very devil of a man. It was never expected he would be faithful, of course. And always there has been a question whether his passion would outlast the war. But now . . ?” Blanca shrugged. “Now it becomes obvious he had more secrets than we imagined. To know a man so very well, and yet not know he could command such wealth and power as this, is not a good thing. It makes a woman wonder how much else she does not know.”

“
If his intentions were honorable,” said Sir Giles carefully, “surely Thomas would not have urged Catherine to have a Season. And yet, if he knew the boy was ready to give her a slip on the shoulder, he would have rejected the house outright . . . “ Baffled, Sir Giles rose to pour himself another brandy. If only he knew something about Blas besides the young man’s undoubted talent for spying . . .

“
Ah, poor child, it is too much to comprehend,” Blanca murmured, shaking her head. “Excuse me, baron, I must go to her.”

Blanca found Cat in her room, seated on the rug before the fireplace, her black gown spread in a dark pool around her. Her head was bent, hands folded in her lap. “I understand your fears,
querida
,” said Blanca gently, “but you are a woman of the world. You know a man of wealth may give his inamorata sapphires or diamonds, even an annuity . . .”

At this Catherine lifted her head, distracted from her own anguish by a wave of sympathy for the older woman. “Yes, like mine,” Blanca agreed calmly. “Your father was indeed generous. When you are safely married, I shall have enough to repair the winery and live in comfort. But enough of me. We now speak of you.”

Cat returned her gaze to the glowing coals. Blanca was forced to speak to a pair of hunched shoulders. “Catarina, a man does not give such a thing as Branwyck Park as a parting gift. This . . . this magnificence is the gift of a wealthy young man to his wife. Blas is not an easy man, Catarina, and he has surely become too accustomed to playing games. But no one can deny he has more
duende
, more soul, than any man I have ever known. Now go to bed, and thank the good lord that you have a man who has taken such care of you. He is more a
fidalgo,
a
cavalheiro,
than I had thought.” With this magnanimous pronouncement Blanca swept from the room, leaving Cat to the private pain of her thoughts.

Some time later, she slowly uncurled from the rug. Lighting a candle from the wall sconce, Cat glided across the floor toward a door on the far side of the room. A moment’s hesitation as she gathered her courage, a twist of the knob, and she was into the dressing room connecting her suite to the bedchamber of the master of the house.

The empty bedchamber of the master of the house.

The candle cast a small glow into a room which was as dark as Catherine’s was light. Wooden paneling, furnishings of black and scarlet with touches of gold. If nothing else, she thought, this room should have told her who had ordered the decorating of the house. She sank to her knees beside the imposing bed with its black velvet coverlet and bedcurtains elaborately embroidered in gold. Her hand caressed the thick nap of the cloth. Cat laid her cheek onto the sleek smoothness. If Blas had gone to the trouble of specifying the colors of their rooms, did that not mean he planned to live here? Or was this merely the most sumptuous gift a man could give to a woman he had once loved?

A woman he intended to love again . . .?

But not, perhaps, to marry.

And where was he, the dolt? Crossing the Pyrenees into Spain? Swallowed by an anonymous grave? Eaten by carrion? A flyspeck among the thousands upon thousands already lost to Napoleon Bonaparte’s overweening ambition?

Only the guttering of the candle finally broke the spell. As Cat raised her head, she became aware the metallic threads of gold had scratched her face. How very like the man was this soft black velvet coverlet with pain hidden in its smooth façade. Her enigmatic Englishman, who had carelessly waved a golden arm and created this small miracle, was too tough to kill. Blas the Bastard was not among the anonymous dead. And in typical style, when not chasing the French, he was undoubtedly chasing other women.

It was surely not right for a man to have so many secrets, Cat decided, her exquisite face grim in the flickering candlelight. If the time should come when Blas wished to court his wife, it was altogether possible she would no longer be available.

Catherine Audley Perez de Leon woke slowly, vaguely aware of yet another strange bed . . . of ghosts banished with the night. A whole new world beckoned beyond the bedcurtains. This was Branwyck Park.
Her
house.
Her
bed. She gave the bell pull behind her head a determined tug, threw back the aquamarine velvet bedcurtains to let in the bright . . .

It was England, she discovered. Not Portugal. The day was gray, with a steady drip against the mullioned window panes. With a sigh Cat swung her feet back into bed, fluffed up the pillows behind her back and waited for the maid assigned to her by Mrs. Plumb. A cheery, homespun country girl whose name completely eluded her.

The ornately flowered china clock on the mantelpiece chimed the hour of ten as a brief scratching at the door heralded the arrival of Bess Fielding, who had been waiting several hours for this summons. When it came, she had rushed about so quickly she was nearly breathless from the long journey up from the kitchen.

“
I’m Bess, Ma’am,” she panted, as she unfolded the legs on the tray she carried and set it over Cat’s lap. “Bess Fielding. Mrs. Plumb says I’m to do fer you ‘til you go to London, and if you’re that pleased with me, you might let me stay on to serve ye when you’re at Branwyck. This here’s your chocolate, Ma’am, and Cook ’oped as how you’d like some toast and Old Miz Avery’s jam. She makes jam a treat, she does.” Bess gasped for breath, plunged on: “And Mrs. Plumb says to tell ye that there’s still plenty in the breakfast room, though the Spanish lady and the London gentlem’n ’av surely eaten more than Cook was expectin’ and the little master and his nurse too. Made Cook
that
happy to have such fine appetites in the house!”

During this monologue Cat nibbled her toast and took a tentative sip of the chocolate while surreptitiously studying the voluble young maid. Bess Fielding was close to her own age, with a riot of brown curls severely bound back by a dark blue ribbon at the nape of her neck. Her face was round, her blue eyes open and honest. Cat was suddenly very grateful for the young maid’s cheerful presence.

“
And what would you be wearing today, Ma’am?” Bess inquired, throwing open the wardrobe in which she had carefully hung Cat’s gowns. A pity they were all black, Bess thought. She longed for the dressing of a lady whose wardrobe contained all the colors of the rainbow in silks and satins and fine muslin.

Cat chose an unadorned gabardine which would not suffer too much from the exploration of the house which was her the primary task for the day. Task! She could scarcely wait to begin.

“
Ah, Ma’am, you’d look good in anything!” cried Bess as she finished the last of the long row of buttons up the back of Cat’s gown. Stricken, Bess clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, Ma’am, I’m that sorry. Me mum says I’m as thoughtless as sparrow. I shouldn’t be talkin’ so bright and cheery when you’re newly widowed and all.” The maid heaved a deep sigh. “You would ‘a been the han’somest couple in London, you so bright and ’im so dark. A fair treat it would ’a been to see the two of you together.”

Shocked, Cat turned to stare at Bess Fielding. “Can it be you have met my husband?” she inquired faintly.

“
Only seen ’im, m’am. When he was looking at the ’ouse. Nearly three years back, it was. Me pa’s one of your tenants—market gardeners we are—so we all saw him when he come by t’cottage. A devil of a man, he was, beggin’ your pardon, Ma’am. Fair took our breath away. Me mum and m’sister and me. We peeked out the window quite shameless like. Arrogant as a prince, he was, me mum said. And givin’ orders ’bout everythin’. New paint and thatch for all the cottages, new ditches and dams, new tools. Me mum cried, I can tell you! Things have been ever so much better since. It’s a right shame about ‘is passing.”

“
I–I thought perhaps my husband sent an agent to choose the house,” said Cat, not hesitating to pry for information. “Was the man fairly tall with black hair, medium brown eyes, long eyelashes and a good deal of strength in his face?”