“How was my dear cousin?”
“In devastating form, and looking as glorious as a god.”
“A pox on him.”
“You really loathe him, don’t you?”
“It’s delightfully mutual, I promise you.”
“So I’ve noticed. He doesn’t exactly sing your praises. His sister does, though.” She glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes, watching his reaction.
“I’ve no quarrel with Delphine, or with my Aunt Calborough. The trouble is solely with Felix.”
“Oh, come now, Sebastian Sheringham, don’t think to brush aside mention of poor Delphine so casually. You know she adores you.”
“I know no such thing, Petra. Delphine had no more wish to marry me than I had her, as my aunt was fully informed when she attempted to bring off the match last summer. Delphine and I are too much like brother and sister.”
“Sebastian, you might view
her
as a sister, but I doubt very much indeed if
she
thinks of you as a brother.”
“She’s more interested in Toby Lampeter than anything else.”
“That prinked dandy? Be sensible! This business with Toby is simply a ruse to try to make you jealous. Delphine wants you, I’d take my oath upon it.”
“You’ve been wrong before, and you’re wrong now.”
She suddenly noticed the miniature, and before he knew it she had whisked it from his hand. She sat up, looking closely at it. “Who is the rustic beauty? A shepherdess from Arcadia? A milkmaid discovered in some sylvan bower? Whoever she is, she is pretty enough in a provincial way, I suppose, but those ringlets are dreadfully
passé.”
“Her name is Bryony St. Charles, and she is neither a shepherdess nor a milkmaid.”
“The name means nothing to me.” She studied the picture again. “She doesn’t look of any consequence, so why do you possess her likeness?”
“Her father sent it to me.”
She laughed at that. “Not
another
hopeful papa!”
“Yes.”
She caught an odd note in his voice and looked quickly at him. “Why haven’t you mentioned her before?”
“Because until tonight I’d never even heard of her.”
“Has she a fortune?”
He smiled a little wryly. “Far from it. Her father informs me that all she will ever inherit is a fairly small estate in County Down.”
“And yet he has presumed to propose her as
your
wife?” Petra began to laugh.
“He thinks he has good reason so to do, just as he thinks I have a duty to accept.”
Her laughter died away and she looked at him in astonishment. “From the tone of your voice I begin to suspect you might be in agreement with him.”
He said nothing.
She became suddenly serious. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you? You’ve purchased this miniature in order to set new whispers in motion.”
He got up from the sofa. “Petra,
new
whispers are the last thing I want. I’ve enough to contend with with the old ones. Here, read this, perhaps it will explain.” He took the crumpled letter out of the wastepaper basket and gave it to her.
She read it and her eyes widened, her breath catching in amazement. “You cannot possibly believe this nonsense! It’s the most preposterous invention I’ve ever come across!”
“Is it? I don’t know if there was a pledge or not.”
“Even if there was, you are hardly bound to stand by it! Sebastian, I cannot believe it’s true, and I certainly cannot believe that you’re actually considering it!”
He went to the fireplace, leaning a hand on the cold marble and gazing into the heart of the flames. “Petra, I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking lately—”
“I know,” she said with false brightness. “Everyone thinks it is because at the grand old age of thirty you are become senile and maudlin.”
He smiled a little. “Perhaps they’re right. All I know is that I must make a decision, it’s essential that I do, and tonight I believe that I have.”
She stared at him. “You mean to marry this creature, don’t you?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Not because of the pledge. I will not believe you if you say that it is.”
He smiled again. “You’re too sharp, Petra, too sharp by far. You’re right, it isn’t because of the pledge, although that is what society will be told.”
“What is your real reason?”
“I’m not ready to tell even you that yet.”
Petra was shaken, although she strove not to show it. She looked at the miniature again. “She’ll embarrass you in society, Sebastian, she will not know how to go on in our circles, her father’s letter says quite plainly that she’s used only to the provincial life of Liskillen. You are used to
London!
By all means, marry a rural fortune, there is some excuse in that, but a creature such as this ... ?”
“She can soon become
au fait
with society’s ways, Petra.”
“How? Will you coach her in what to say as you escort her to Carlton House? Or perhaps you will scribble down suitable repartee upon a piece of paper and trust that she will choose the correct
mots
at the correct time? Sebastian, the whole thing is quite impossible, and I begin to think you are in drink!”
He held up his glass. “I promise you that this is all I have touched tonight.”
“Then it must be the full moon.”
“And I am perfectly sane. I meant what I said about her becoming
au fait
with what is required, for she can be put under my Aunt Calborough’s wing at Polwithiel.”
Petra was taken aback. “You’d do that, knowing how Delphine feels about you?”
“I’ve already told you that Delphine feels nothing extraordinary where I am concerned, it’s Toby Lampeter who’s the light of her fool life. Petra, my aunt is the perfect person for the task. There isn’t anyone in the realm, not even the queen, who puts more emphasis on matters of etiquette, protocol, manners, and so on, and since my uncle’s death two years ago she’s been even more strict.”
Petra rose slowly to her feet. “I wish I hadn’t come here tonight now,” she said in a trembling voice, “or I wish that I could suddenly wake up and find that it has all been a horrid nightmare.”
“You will know it is no mere dream when I tell you what I wish you to do for me.”
“This has absolutely nothing to do with me, Sebastian Sheringham,” she said quickly, “I wash my hands of it, and that is the end of it!”
“Please, Petra, for I need your help.”
“I would as soon help the devil himself! Sebastian, since you are determined to get yourself into this pickle, you can flounder in it for all I care!”
“I know you do not mean that.”
“Oh, yes I do.”
“Please, Petra,” he said again, “for I am in deadly earnest about this.”
She hesitated. “What do you wish me to do?” she asked at last.
“I believe that for Miss St. Charles’s own sake it will be best if she stays awhile at Polwithiel before the betrothal, and while she is there it will be expected that I see her.”
“That is obvious enough, even to me.”
“Then it will also be obvious that I cannot stay at Polwithiel, for Felix and I are oil and water. It is one thing to dine with him occasionally, or have to meet him socially; it is quite another to lodge beneath his damned roof and accept his hospitality. Petra, I want you to invite me to be your guest at Tremont while Miss St. Charles is at Polwithiel.”
“Is that wise? Or kind? Sebastian, the whole of society is whispering about you and me. It would whisper all the more if you came to Tremont. And how can you lodge with me and then ride over to whisper sweet nothings to her? Think of how she would feel if she found out.”
“What is there to find out? Simply that you and I are very old friends and that you have kindly helped me to avoid the ordeal of Felix’s constant company, for to be sure he’ll take himself back to Cornwall while all this is going on—he will not be able to resist it! Will you do it for me?”
“I think it most ill-advised.”
“But you will agree?”
Slowly she nodded. “Yes, but on one condition. You must tell me your real reason for wishing to marry this very unsuitable creature.”
“Please don’t ask that of me, Petra, for I am not ready to confide in anyone. I promise you, though, that you will be the very first one to be told. Will that suffice?”
She studied his face for a long moment. “I suppose it will have to, but there is something you must accept as well.”
“What?”
“I will go along with this foolishness, for foolishness is what it is, but if I think she is never going to come up to the mark, I will not hesitate to tell you—and I’ll go on telling you until you give in and accept that I am right.”
He smiled. “My dearest Petra, I did not for a single moment imagine it would be any other way.”
She smiled too, but then she glanced again at the miniature. Bryony St. Charles wasn’t the wife for Sebastian Sheringham, and somehow he must be made to realize that fact, preferably
before
he placed his ring upon her finger.
One month later the Mourne Mountains were cloaked in mist and cloud as the May thunderstorm retreated toward the south. Liskillen House gleamed very white amid the emerald acres of County Down, and the park and woods echoed with birdsong as the sun at last broke through the lingering haze. The air was translucent and the scent of flowers was everywhere as Leon St. Charles stood by the open window of the library gazing over the scene he loved so very much.
He was a thin, stooping man, very aware of his frail health. He always wore a woolen shawl over his narrow shoulders and a warm cap upon his thinning gray hair. The afternoon was warm, but he felt cold, and there was a fire crackling in the hearth behind him.
Sebastian Sheringham’s letter of reply lay on the table beside him, together with the almost obligatory miniature; and the package from London had been received in Liskillen with as much astonishment as Leon guessed his original communication had been received in Berkeley Square.
A ghost of a smile played about the elderly man’s lips, for he had never for a moment really believed Sebastian would respond as he had, but now, against all the odds, Bryony was on the brink of a truly dazzling marriage. She did not know it yet, indeed she knew nothing at all of her father’s recent activities.
With a heavy sigh he turned from the window and went to his favorite chair by the fire. He sat down carefully, rearranging the shawl to protect against an imagined draft from the window. When he was comfortable, he gazed thoughtfully into the flickering flames. When he had first written to Sebastian, it had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, a clutching at any straw to put an end to Bryony’s undesirable liaison with a certain gentleman by the name of Anthony Carmichael.
Hence the resurrection of the pledge, which James Sheringham had evidently forgotten and which Leon himself had never any real intention of calling into effect. Learning about Bryony’s secret affair with Anthony Carmichael had been too great a shock, however, and the letter to Sebastian had been dispatched the very same day.
But things had changed since the writing of the letter. Bryony was still seeing Carmichael, nothing had changed that, but now Liskillen was in danger of bankruptcy. Leon sighed sadly, blaming himself for the fact that the duns were at the door. He had entered into such wildly expensive farming schemes, squandering money and borrowing more in order to make the whole thing a viable proposition. He had been out of his depth from the outset, and now his creditors were demanding their money. These financial straits had put an entirely different complexion upon matters, for now, if Liskillen were to be saved, the Sheringham match was suddenly of the utmost importance.
Leon lowered his gaze remorsefully, for instead of placing the brilliant match tentatively on the table as a desirable alternative to the dubious delights of a plausible but impoverished rogue like Carmichael, he now had to ask her outright to accept Sebastian, a man she had never met. Bryony was a dutiful and loving daughter, so Leon knew that she would accept for the sake of her father and the estate she loved as much as he did, but it was a dreadful thing to expect of one’s adored only child, and the guilt weighed heavily upon him. To cast this opportunity aside, to let her choose her own way in life at this point, would be to cast Liskillen itself aside, leaving them penniless and without a roof over their heads. What alternative did he have? He
had
to ask her.
A woman’s light steps approached the door and Leon sat up quickly, instinctively endeavoring to look brighter so that she would not begin to worry again about his health. He smiled as she entered the room, a basket of freshly gathered spring flowers in her hand.
Bryony St. Charles was just twenty-one years old. Of medium height and slender proportions, she had large dark-lashed green eyes which seemed so very right for the mistress of Liskillen House, set as it was in the emerald beauty of the Irish countryside. Her hair was light brown and worn in heavy ringlets, a prettily old-fashioned style in these modern days of Grecian knots or short curls.
Her high-waisted muslin dress was the color of primroses and it brought out perfectly the clarity of her complexion. He noticed that her hem was damp from having walked in the gardens so soon after the storm, and he also noticed that she was not wearing a bonnet, a failing for which he seemed to be forever chiding her.
“No bonnet again, my dear?” he scolded gently. “That isn’t at all the thing, you know.”
“And who is there to see my sins?” she inquired, bending to kiss him on the cheek. The scent of the flowers in her basket enveloped him in sweetness for a moment.
Who was there to see? Why, there was Anthony Carmichael for one. The thought entered his head, but he did not give it voice.
She noticed his sudden silence and slowly put the basket down. “Is something wrong? You’ve been very quiet for some time now and I was wondering if perhaps I should send for Dr. O’Connor.”
“There’s no need to go sending for that dithering old fool, he’ll only bleed me, prescribe more physic, and confine me to my bed for a month.”