Mask of Duplicity (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 1) (43 page)

“You are most kind, Sir Anthony, but I really couldn’t accept a present, especially when I have not consented to your proposal.” She held her hand up in a gesture of refusal as he tried to give the gift to her.

“You have not declined my proposal either,” he pointed out reasonably. “And I was going to give this to you in any case, whatever your answer. Please, it would make me very happy.” His eyes were eager, and she gave in. He had shown her the utmost courtesy. It would be churlish of her to refuse his gift.

“Thank you.” He stood back while she opened it, untying the pretty ribbon with care. Inside was a small case of supple blue leather, tooled with an intricate interweaving Celtic pattern. She opened the tiny button that closed it and looked inside. Nestling in the little case was a rosary, of amber and silver.

The shock was so enormous she forgot to breathe for a moment, and when she tried to inhale in a desperate attempt to recover her equilibrium, her over-tight stays prevented her from taking in the air she so desperately needed. The colour drained from her face and tiny white lights swam at the edge of her vision. She struggled again unsuccessfully to fill her lungs with air, forgetting to take shallow breaths, which were all the corset would allow, and felt her knees buckle under her as panic overtook her.

Sir Anthony caught her as she fell, lifting her easily and dumping her unceremoniously onto a nearby stool before tilting her forward slightly. She was dimly aware of something cold and smooth sliding down her back, then he gripped her shoulders and gently lifted her back into a sitting position. Crouching down on the floor at the side of the stool, he supported her back with one arm.

“Now breathe, slowly and deeply,” he commanded.

To her great relief she found that the restriction around her chest had eased, and she sucked in a great lungful of air, holding it for a moment before exhaling slowly. After a few moments she had recovered enough to realise that the reason she was able to breathe so easily was because he had cut the laces of her stays.

He removed his arm from her back once he judged her capable of supporting herself, and knelt on the floor in front of her.

“I am sorry,” he said. In his hand he held the little case with its treacherous contents. “I only wished to please you. I am afraid that the leather was quite blackened and ruined by the fire, too much so for me to ascertain its original colour. I hope the new one is acceptable to you. But the contents were quite undamaged. I thought you would be happy to have them returned. I know they are of great sentimental value to you.”

He had heard every word of the argument between her and Richard in the library, she now realised, and with his ‘gift’ was warning her of what he would do with his knowledge if she refused him. She reached out slowly and took the case from him, raising her eyes to his, expecting to see triumph there. But the dark blue gaze held only warmth and concern.

Which shows how easily duplicity comes to him,
she thought, knowing now that all his extravagant promises were nothing but lies. Not only was he a weathervane, but an extremely dangerous one, and she was now facing the consequences of having underestimated him completely. Flashing him a look of utter hatred, she rose to her feet and left the room quickly and silently, leaving him kneeling on the floor in front of the empty stool as though in supplication.

Once in her room she bolted the door to ensure that no one would enter unexpectedly. Then she took out the rosary, running the translucent golden beads through her fingers. They were her greatest treasure; never would she have believed that she would be sorry to have them returned to her. After a moment she bent her head and began to tell the beads, holding each tiny golden sphere between her thumb and forefinger as she recited the Hail Mary softly, moving on to the next as she finished, and repeating the prayer. The rhythmic chanting of the familiar words soothed her, as they always had, but as she recited them she was not calling to mind the Blessed Mysteries, as the Church bade her do, but was allowing the import of the last hour to sink into her mind, hoping a solution would present itself.

Having finished, she kissed the tiny tortured figure of Christ on the cross and replaced the beads back in their case. Then she sat on the bed with her hands in her lap, calm now, and contemplated her options.

She could refuse Sir Anthony’s proposal, which she so desperately wanted to do. Would he denounce her if she did? Whatever he may claim to be, Sir Anthony was most definitely a supporter of the Hanoverian succession. Although he seemed to show no particular interest in their politics, he was regularly to be seen in the company of prominent Whigs, and King George certainly thought highly of him. Both the timing of his return of her rosary, together with his words, were a warning, of that she was sure. He knew that the rosary was particularly precious to her, which meant he had probably overheard her reading the Gaelic inscription. He therefore knew that her mother was of Scottish extraction and a Catholic, and probably suspected that Beth herself was one, too. On its own that was not enough to get her into trouble with the authorities, but it would arouse suspicion that she had Jacobite sympathies. As rumours of an imminent Jacobite rising continuously circulated in England, leading to a paranoid suspicion of all Catholics, and Scottish ones in particular, the revelation that Sergeant Richard Cunningham’s sister was possibly both would not do him any favours in his military career, and would certainly result in them both being ostracised from society. The thought of returning ignominiously to Didsbury along with a vengeful brother who enjoyed inflicting pain and with no friends powerful enough to protect her from his wrath, made Beth shudder.

On the other hand, the thought of being blackmailed into marrying a devious, effeminate fop was equally abhorrent to her, although possibly less life-threatening. Once they were married, she would be safe. Sir Anthony could not then denounce her without incriminating himself. She knew what her decision must be. There was no point in wasting time hunting for a way out. There
was
no way out.

The next morning she sent Sarah to Sir Anthony’s house with a note, stating that she had given his proposal some thought and had decided to accept it. She did not sign it, nor did she add any endearments. They both knew why she had accepted him. Let the victor claim his prize, but if he expected any joy from his conquest, he was to be sadly mistaken.

Chapter Sixteen

As soon as Beth’s feminine cousins heard about her betrothal to Sir Anthony Peters, the preparations for the marriage got under way. Charlotte in particular was in her element, chatting away for hours about her own wedding day to dear Frederick, and the subsequent if brief bliss she had enjoyed before his untimely death a year later.

Sir Anthony had expressed a desire to be married as soon as possible, certainly within the next six weeks, as he said he would like to take his wife on a short journey before the winter rendered travel impossible.

“If you will indulge your husband, my dear Elizabeth,” he had simpered. “It would give me the utmost pleasure to show you the sights of Europe. I thought we could spend maybe six weeks abroad, perhaps a little longer if the air agrees with you. What do you say, my dear?”

Beth had said that she couldn’t care less. If she was going to marry him, it may as well be sooner than later. He had not shown any discomfort at her distinct lack of enthusiasm, and had merely pointed out that in that case they would need to depart the country before the end of August. He would arrange their passage, foreign itinerary and accommodation, and would leave all arrangements for the actual wedding ceremony in her capable hands.

 The date was set for the first week of August, which gave a bare three weeks for the preparations to be made. As a result of this the house was filled from morning till night with dressmakers, caterers and florists. Lord Edward’s only contribution to the proceedings was to suggest that they have a private ceremony by licence at the Cunningham house rather than a huge public church affair. Although this was common enough amongst genteel brides, Beth suspected that Edward’s motives for suggesting it were financially motivated. She agreed with alacrity, and without consulting her bridegroom. He had, after all, left everything to her, and she had hardly seen him since the proposal.

To Beth’s relief she was no longer restricted in her movements by Richard and Edward, who now spent as much time as possible at their club to avoid the female hysteria which had overtaken the house. She indulged her cousins. It was nice to see them so animated. She had not made things easy for them, she knew that, and felt a little guilty about it. Now she made reparation by allowing them a free rein with her wedding, in which she had no interest at all, although she did her best to feign enthusiasm, certainly managing enough to satisfy Isabella et al.

When it all got too much, she would repair to Edwin and Caroline’s house, with whom she had an agreement not to mention the word ‘wedding’ or anything associated with it. If Caroline found this a little difficult to do at times, she showed no sign of it, making no mention either of marriage or Sir Anthony, for which Beth was extremely grateful.

Instead they chatted happily away about politics and crime, the latest scientific discoveries, and the uncomfortable early effects of being pregnant. The couple had finally announced the pregnancy just over a week ago, and it was a relief to Caroline to share the details with a genuinely interested audience who did not regale her with lurid tales of agonising childbirth experiences.

Back at the Cunninghams’ Clarissa took charge of the music, Charlotte the flowers, Isabella the catering, and all of them had a hand in the making of Beth’s dress, an elaborate confection of cornflower-blue silk, which shade exactly matched the bride’s eyes. The bodice and skirt were heavily embroidered with silver thread and crystals, and the whole ensemble was so heavy that Beth wondered how she would manage to stagger down the stairs and across the drawing room to take her vows without collapsing along the way. She had no doubt that it would be considered most becoming for the ecstatic bride to faint at the altar, as it were, but she had no intention of doing so. She wanted to look Sir Anthony straight in the eye when she exchanged vows with him and let him know that although he may have coerced her into the wedding, she would not prove to be a submissive partner.

The happy groom turned up unexpectedly one day, and was shown into the drawing room by a footman. He eyed the seating plans spread out on the floor with interest, before accepting Charlotte’s invitation to sit down. If he found it strange that the three sisters were poring avidly over wedding plans whilst his bride-to-be was ensconced in the corner with a book, he did not comment.

“I seem to have called at a most opportune moment,” he addressed the company with a beaming smile. “It is the guest list that I wish to discuss.”

“Oh, Sir Anthony,” Isabella cried. “Have you overlooked some member of your family, or a friend? I am sure we can find space for a few more people, if we are careful.” Her brow knitted as she looked at the plans, crowded with names.

“No, no, my dear Isabella,” Sir Anthony hastened to reassure her. “No, as you are no doubt aware, I am the sole survivor of the Peters family, thanks to the smallpox epidemic in France. If only we had thought to vaccinate, but Mother thought it a risky operation...but there is no point in speculating on what might have been,” he said sadly. “If I have any distant cousins, I am not aware of them. As for friends, well, I have noted that it seems more than half of the guests are my friends.” He paused. The fact that the remaining guests were all friends of Lord Edward and his sisters hovered in the air unsaid. In fact the only people Beth had invited were Edwin and Caroline, and they could more properly be numbered amongst Sir Anthony’s guests, as he had known them for longer. “It seems a little...ah...unfairly distributed. I thought perhaps Elizabeth would like to invite some family members.”

Beth put her book to one side, although she did not move from her corner.

“I appreciate your consideration, Sir Anthony,” she said. “But all the Cunninghams have been invited, as far as I know.”

“Indeed they have,” trilled Clarissa. “We are but few, Sir Anthony, but great-aunt Arabella is expected to attend with her son.”

“Yes, but then of course there is another side to the family. Are there no relations on your mother’s side who you would like to invite, my dear?” He looked at his fiancée expectantly.

Every muscle in Beth’s body tensed.

“My mother’s family were Scots, as you know,” she answered tightly.

“I am aware of that. But I see that as no bar to them being invited. I have attended more than one wedding in Scotland myself, and assure you the natives of the country certainly know how to celebrate.”

Beth was sure they did. As sure as she was that even if she were in contact with any of her mother’s family, they would not be welcome at this particular wedding.

“I do not correspond with any of my mother’s kin. In any case, they live in the Highlands. It is a long way to come for the wedding of a cousin they have never met.” Hopefully he would leave it there.

“What is your mother’s clan?” Sir Anthony continued gaily, ignoring the fact that Isabella and Charlotte were uncharacteristically silent.

“Her surname was MacDonald,” Beth supplied curtly. She took up her book again, a very impolite sign that she considered the conversation to be at an end.

“MacDonald. Ah, but there are several branches of the MacDonalds, are there not? Keppoch, Glencoe, Clanranald, to name but a few.” He looked at her innocently. Why was he doing this?

“You seem to know a great deal about the Scots, Sir Anthony,” Charlotte ventured nervously.

“Indeed, I have numerous connections in Scotland, and find it a most hospitable country,” he replied.

“My mother’s family were not from Edinburgh, sir,” Beth said scathingly. She remembered him once telling her he had been there on business. No doubt he thought the whole of Scotland to be like its capital city. Beth, who had never been north of the border, felt she knew the country better through her mother’s reminiscences than he, the quintessential fop, ever could. The English-speaking people of Edinburgh considered the Gaelic-speaking Highlanders to be no less lawless and barbaric than the English did.