The Sometime Bride (39 page)

“
He has said nothing!” Cat cried. “Nothing. Since August, not a word, and now he sends me this!” She shook the scrap of paper in fury. A small blob of red wax fell off onto her skirt, glowing against the cream silk as if it were blood.

With the discretion of his profession, Ralph Carswell took his leave, considerably relieved to return to the conventional trappings of his own family’s holiday celebrations.

“
I think we must accept that Blas has a great deal of money,” declared Blanca, holding the stunning necklace of diamonds and emeralds up to the glow of the chandelier. A delicate tiara, a matching bracelet, pendant earrings and a ring remained in the case in her hand.

“
He treats his mistresses well, does he not?”

“
Catarina!”

“
He talks of a better future, but where, I ask you, do you see the word
marriage
?”

“
You are too young to be so cynical,” said Blanca severely. “Although Tomás is much to blame.”

“
A few jewels and Blas becomes a hero?” Cat mocked. “Ah,
deus
, forgive me,” she cried, throwing her arms around Blanca’s comfortable plumpness. “A thousand pardons. I am a beast. A veritable beast.”

Accustomed to Cat’s volatility, Blanca merely shrugged. “You may call them a few jewels, Catarina, but they are worth a king’s ransom. Like Branwyck Park, they are not the gift of a man to his mistress, but of a man to his beloved wife. You are woman enough to know he is saying quite clearly he will come home to you. He is, in fact, cheating a bit on his promise to your father to cut the cord which binds you together. But that is only to be expected. Tomás and Blas are who they are because they never accept the rules of others.”

With a rueful smile, Cat nodded. Blanca’s logic could not be faulted. “It will be months yet,” she said with a sigh. “It’s a very long way from the Pyrenees to Paris. And you know Blas will not leave until Wellington rides down the Champs Elysée. But, as Papa always said, I am stubborn as a Spanish mule. So I shall wait. When Blas comes, he will know where to find me. After that . . . after that we shall see. I have had enough of secrets. I shall not make it easy for him, I think.”

“
Oh, Ma’am, you
do
look something like!” said Bess Fielding with fervor. Catherine, regarding herself in her bedroom mirror, saw a young woman she had sometimes thought lost forever. Miraculously, the gown of silver-shot silk, the magnificent reproduction of her wedding gown, still fit. It was Christmas Day and, as promised, Cat had put off her mourning. In honor of the occasion, she had donned the design she had worn for Christmas and her birthday each of the six years since Alejo handed her the original sketch and she had torn it into pieces and thrown it at his feet. The gown Blas had chosen for her wedding, but had not seemed to recognize. The gown she loved so much she had even had it copied in black.

Reverently, Bess Fielding clasped the diamond and emerald necklace around her mistress’s slender neck. The largest emerald, perfect in clarity and cut and surrounded by diamonds, hung invitingly just above the cleavage of her breasts. Bess added the bracelet and earrings, then slipped the ring onto Catherine’s right hand. An hour earlier Monsieur Claude had made the tiara a focal point of Catherine’s elaborate coiffure. The overall effect was stunning. Catarina, the child bride, was gone forever. But Catherine Audley Perez de Leon was a woman of grace, beauty and intelligence. A woman to be reckoned with.

Cat accepted her gloves and reticule from a wide-eyed Bess and started down the staircase toward the Everingham’s Christmas Day gathering of friends and colleagues. Beside her walked Thomas Audley and Blas the Bastard. And ever so faintly, in a mysterious realm of which she was barely conscious, walked the shadow of the man who had designed her gown. Don Alexis Perez de Leon.

In mid-November Wellington and his troops, minus their Spanish and Portuguese allies, had successfully crossed the Pyrenees into France. Although bogged down by torrential rains, the army’s rest would be short. While English noblemen such as the Earl of Wrexham enjoyed Christmas at their country estates, those responsible for sending fresh troops, arms, food, and the latest intelligence coming in from all over Europe, were still hard at work in London. And on Christmas Day 1813 a goodly portion of them were at Everingham House.

In time-honored custom the men were clustered around the punch bowl at one end of the large drawing room, the older ladies formed a comfortable circle around the fireplace, while the younger women grouped themselves near the piano where, after the buffet, one of the Hawley sisters was expected to sing. Throughout the room, no matter how varied the point of view, there was only one topic of conversation. After twenty years, the war with France was coming to an end. What would life be like when Boney’s teeth were drawn at last?

“
By summer they’ll be home,” breathed Adelaide Hawley, eyes shining with romance. “Perhaps even by late spring, Papa says. I truly can’t believe it. After all this time, our soldiers will be coming home.”

“
And we all know which soldier you mean,” her sister Flora teased. “I declare she is quite besotted,” she confided to Catherine and Amabel Lovell as Adelaide blushed quite prettily.

“
Do you think they will send the men home as soon as Napoleon surrenders?” Adelaide asked anxiously.

Catherine smiled indulgently. “I am sure they will send them home as soon as possible—if only because it takes such an effort to feed them all!” When the giggles had died down, Cat added, “I fear the men I know will be among the last to leave. They are the kind who will wish to personally turn the key on the emperor’s cell.”

“
Oh, my dear Catherine,” cried Adelaide, suddenly aware of the enormity of her
faux pas
. “Forgive me for talking of what can only cause you pain.”

“
I have put off my blacks, Adelaide,” Catherine assured her. “After twenty years of war, nearly every family has suffered a loss. Be comfortable with your joy, you give no offense.”

In a deliberate effort to restore the lightheartedness of the holiday, Cat turned to Amabel. “Not all the eagerly awaited are soldiers, I believe,” she said, a mischievous glint in her green eyes. “Tell us about your Anthony, Amabel. I don’t believe you have ever mentioned what he looks like.”

“
He is
not
my Anthony,” she said in the tone of one who has repeated the statement many times. “Though I hope he may be,” she admitted quietly. Amabel cocked her head to one side, considering Catherine’s question. “I think him quite gorgeous of course, but Anthony’s features are what are generally described as strong. A Lord Byron he most certainly is not. I fear Anthony Trowbridge is a farmer at heart, for he is seldom coaxed away from his acres. Indeed, I have seen him only three times in the last five years.”

“
He will come for the Season, will he not?” Flora inquired, her kind heart roused to sympathy.

“
Oh, yes. Now that I am making my come-out, he is expected to reach a decision about our betrothal. So undoubtedly he will be here to look me over,” Amabel said with understandable asperity.

“
That does not sound very comfortable,” Cat said with a frown.

“
Comfortable?” cried Amabel. “You are spoiled, Catherine, marrying so young. “Society’s mating season is never comfortable.”

“
But why then do you wish to marry him if you feel like a–a
porco
being taken to market?”

Amabel took the question seriously. “Because there are very few gentlemen whom I would describe as
capable
. And because he does not mind that I am clever.”

“
You must snap him up immediately,” Catherine approved with a wry smile. “You have my complete blessing. He is a veritable treasure indeed.”

Christmas Day 1813. The four young women talked, laughed, drank champagne, and hugged to themselves their thoughts of the promised joys of 1814. Not once was there a hint of the devastating drama to come.

The weather continued cold and miserable. By mid-January there was no doubt London was in the grip of one of the worst winters in memory. On the Peninsula the Duke of Wellington’s troops were encountering similar harsh conditions. Little progress had been made after crossing the Pyrenees into France. In London Catherine was en route to a ball at the home of Baron and Lady Hawley, parents of Adelaide and Flora.

“
When does Wrexham return?” Clara Everingham asked as their carriage slowly moved up in the long line outside the Hawley’s townhouse.

“
Another fortnight, I believe,” said Cat.

“
You may have made a conquest there, my dear,” said Clara. “I admit I am quite surprised. With a bit of encouragement you might actually bring him up to scratch.”

“
I thought you did not approve of him,” said Cat, surprised.

“
I do not approve of his rakishness,” Clara declared, “but as a husband he is a superb
parti
.”

“
I assure you, my lady, your original opinion was correct. Wrexham wants me, but not as a bride. Please do not concern yourself. I am long accustomed to the Wrexhams of this world. I find him charming. And useful. Nothing more. I do not wish him to find himself twenty paces from Blas with a pistol in his hand.

“
Merciful heavens, child, you believe it could come to that?”

“
I think—no matter what his promise to Thomas and no matter whether he considers me wife or mistress—Blas will not tolerate poachers,” Cat declared without hesitation.”

There was a clang as the groom put down the carriage steps. The conversation came to an abrupt halt with Clara still shaking her head over this unexpected complication.

As they stood in the line of guests waiting on the gracefully curving marble staircase, Cat was very aware of the raised quizzing glasses, avid eyes peering over unfurled fans, the whispers and conjectures. Clara and Blanca were hard put not to beam in triumph. They had not yet been announced, and already their protégé was causing a sensation.

The nap of Cat’s gown of jade green silk velvet rippled in the reflection of hundreds of candles in their crystal chandeliers. The utter simplicity of the gown was designed solely as a backdrop for her jewels—tiny puffed sleeves, décolletage revealing the swell of her fine figure, the straight Grecian fall of her skirt from bust to hem. The delicate diamond and emerald tiara nestled in swaths of red-gold hair, the elaborate tiers of the necklace, the swing of pendant earrings, the matching bracelet, the ring—all caught the candlelight, dazzling those who were not already dazzled by the beauty of the newcomer.

Long before Catherine Perez de Leon reached the ballroom, she was the cynosure of all who had glimpsed her. They saw a woman of wealth, beauty, and good taste. The
ton,
forever on the
qui vive
for something new, was intrigued.

Thomas Audley would have loved it.

For a ball held when most of the
ton
were visiting their country estates, the rooms at Hawley House were a surprising squeeze. Catherine did not have an opportunity to seek out Amabel, for her cousin William seized her before she was three steps into the ballroom, stating that a soldier about to depart for the wars was entitled to the first dance with the most beautiful woman in the room. Not averse to such flattery from a cousin whose handsome boyish face grinned at her above the silver and white trim on his green dress uniform, Catherine followed him into the line for a country dance.

“
I leave within the week,” William declared with ill-concealed glee as the dance brought them together for a few moments. “The weather’s brought the Peer to a standstill, so I daresay I shall not miss any battles after all.” Cat forced herself to respond with a smile to her cousin’s eagerness. Without the Audley men—William, his father the general, and Thomas—the world would be a less safe place. The possible sacrifice of this delightful newfound cousin cast a pall over the gaiety around them. She could not be happy to see him go.

Cat was twirling around the ballroom in the arms of Gordon Somersby when she finally located Amabel Lovell sitting out the daring dance under the watchful eye of her mother. “When our dance is finished, Gordy, please take me to Amabel. This is her very first ball, and I must tell her how charming she looks.”

“
She does indeed,” agreed Mr. Somersby, following Cat’s eyes. “And how old were you, my ancient one, when you attended your first ball?”

“
Fourteen. You may recall my telling you about it when you returned to the Embassy after the Occupation. When I think on it, it doesn’t seem possible I was ever that young.”

“
Sometimes I wonder if you were ever young at all,” Gordon replied. “You must have been carrying messages by the time you were ten or eleven. There we were—two innocent English children exchanging a few words, a basket of bread, fresh-gathered eggs, a flagon from the Casa Audley for the evening table.” He broke off. “Do you miss it, Cat? Do you wish you were back in Lisbon?”

For several measures Cat did not reply. The colorful gowns of the women swirled around her, punctuated by the precise black and white Beau Brummel dictated for the men. Suddenly, there was a glitter of mirrors. The dress of the men changed to a sea of blue. She was fourteen. Dancing with Blas. Flirting—badly—with a Marshal of France. Terrified. Rescued by a French major who, more rightly, should have been arresting her.