St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder Page 5

  "I did not want you trapped, my dear. Let me go speak to the lad. I will get this matter sorted out, and in the meantime do not give up hope. All the things that I promised you in London will come true if you have patience. You and Anatole will know a love such as—"

  "Oh, please, Fitzleger." Madeline flung up one weary hand. "Spin me no more pretty tales. I may have not acted much like it lately, but I am fundamentally a sensible woman. I am accustomed to making the best of bad situations. I have had so much practice, you see."

  She drew herself up proudly. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must go see to my kinswoman. She, too, has been a little overwhelmed by your master's attentions."

  Fitzleger looked as though he desired to say so much more, but sketching her a courteous bow, he stepped aside to let Madeline pass.

  She got about halfway down the steps when something caught her eye. A thin spiral of blue silk. The miniature. It lay faceup close to the stone balustrade, where Anatole had flung it in his fury.

  A thin crack now marred the surface of the delicate ivory, cutting directly across her bridegroom's wistful features.

  The portrait of his soul, Madeline thought scornfully. That had to be the greatest piece of nonsense Fitzleger had tried to foist upon her yet. If Anatole even possessed a soul, it was no doubt as black as his temper.

  Madeline lifted her skirts, intending to sweep on, leave the miniature lying there. But something held her back. Perhaps she was far too practical to discard what was after all an exquisite piece of artistry.

  Or perhaps… perhaps she simply couldn't bring herself to abandon what she had held so dear. Rustling over to where the miniature had fallen, she cursed herself for a fool. But she bent down all the same, to pluck what remained of her dreams up off the ground.

  Chapter 3

  Anatole pulled the brandy decanter closer, dragging it across the dusty surface of the walnut side table. He wanted nothing more than to get roaring drunk. But as he uncorked the decanter, he hesitated, knowing that even that pleasure must be denied. For someone of his peculiar talents, losing control over his mind was not a wise thing. Intoxication could make him a very dangerous man.

  And he was already feeling dangerous enough. With a muttered oath he recapped the bottle and shoved it away from him.

  At that moment the study door creaked open behind him. He felt Reverend Fitzleger slip quietly into the room. Anatole's pack of hunting dogs, dozing before the hearth, bestirred themselves to give joyous greeting to one they recognized as a friend.

  "Down!" Anatole commanded without bothering to look around.

  As the hounds subsided, Anatole wrestled with his temper, struggling to remember that he was about to address the rector of his church, his former tutor, and not just the old fool whose mistake threatened to blight the rest of Anatole's life.

  Turning to face Fitzleger, Anatole ground out, "Come in and sit down."

  "Thank you, my lord." His tricorne held before him like a shield, Fitzleger stepped farther into the room. The study was a thoroughly masculine chamber, the walls paneled of sturdy English oak after the fashion of the last century, the furnishings a hodgepodge, some of which dated back to the Tudors.

  * * * * *

  It was one of the few chambers that had survived both the depredations of Cromwell's New Model Army and Anatole's late mother.

  Cecily St. Leger had gilded, draped, and wallpapered the rest of the house in her efforts to civilize Castle Leger, and turn it into a proper country residence. One might as well have tried to hand around angel's wings in hell, Anatole thought acidly.

  He gave Fitzleger enough time to sink into a tapestry-covered armchair before launching into him.

  "What have you done to me, old man?" he asked with a deadly calm.

  "Done to you, my lord?" Fitzleger did not meet Anatole's eyes, but he replied with dignity, "Why, nothing that I know of. Except find you the perfect bride."

  "The perfect bride?" An image of Madeline rose in Anatole's mind, his temper escalating along with it. "That fragile china doll? One good puff of wind would blow her away if she wasn't weighted down by that ridiculous wig."

  "Madeline meets all the requirements you set down for your wife."

  "The devil she does!" Anatole roared. Several of the dogs raised their heads to stare at him, but the old hound, Ranger, slept on. Either he had become too accustomed to the sound of his master's rages or he was going deaf.

  "I told you no fashionable beauty, no flat chests, and most of all no accursed red hair." Anatole ticked off the points on his fingers, only to fling up his arms in disgust. "I might as well not have troubled to even make a list, but you are reputed to be a scholar. I assumed that meant you could read, or do your eyes begin to fail you?"

  "There is nothing wrong with my eyesight," Fitzleger said indignantly. Groping in the pocket of his redingote, he produced the tattered remains of Anatole's note. Perching a small pair of wire-rimmed spectacles on his nose, he began to read, "A woman of kind and nurturing disposition. Possessing the gentle breeding of a lady. Clever and fond of learning—"

  "What! Let me see that." Anatole wrenched the scrap from Fitzleger's hand. He scanned the inked words in disbelief. "A complexion like ivory and roses," he muttered. "A light and pleasing figure with trim waist and dainty ankles. Her manner of dress to be wholly feminine. Eyes like emeralds, hair like golden flame…" Anatole's head snapped up to stare accusingly at Fitzleger.

  "What the devil is this? It's my handwriting, but you've changed every word of it."

  "I did no such thing, my lord. How could I possibly forge your hand? And why would I wish to?"

  "I don't know, but it had to be you. Who else—" Anatole began then broke off, a discomfiting memory surfacing. That night in the old hall, presenting the list to Fitzleger, the chill wind blowing through, snatching the paper from Anatole's hand. The ghostly laughter mocking him.

  "Prospero." Anatole stalked the room again, grinding his teeth. His ancestor had once been famous for his tricks of sleight of hand. "May the bastard rot in hell. This is his sorcery at work. As if the infernal man did not make enough mischief in his own lifetime, he needs must linger to plague mine."

  He wadded up the note and flung it into the empty hearth, disturbing the dogs again. Even Ranger opened his one good eye.

  "So you believe that old devil Prospero switched the list? Those were all his suggestions? Well, well, well!" Fitzleger covered his mouth, but was unable to stifle his amusement. "For a ghost over three hundred years old, he remains remarkably perceptive. The gentleman always was reputed to have an eye for the ladies."

  One glowering look from Anatole, and Fitzleger's chuckles ceased.

  "Damn Prospero's eyes and his reputation. This disaster is still your doing, old man," Anatole said. "I made my desires plain enough to you with or without that blasted note."

  "Alas, I warned you from the beginning, my lord, that it did not work that way. A higher instinct than yours guided me toward Madeline."

  "Your instinct was wide of the mark this time, Bride Finder. Well, there is only one remedy for it. She will have to be sent back."

  "What!" Fitzleger's eyes flew wide. "My lord, this is your bride you are talking about. You cannot just return her like—like an ill-made pair of boots."

  "Why not? I haven't bedded the wench yet. The only vows exchanged were by proxy."

  "But were just as sacred for all that."

  "I still see no reason why an annulment could not be obtained."

  "No reason!" Fitzleger leapt agitatedly to his feet. "What of honor? Of simple kindness and decency? That young woman came so far, full of such hopes and dreams."

  "I saw her dream, dangling by a ribbon about her fool neck. I thought I had destroyed that cursed portrait long ago." There was as much of anguish as wrath in Anatole's voice. The sight of that miniature after all these years had torn open inside him an old vulnerability, the more painful because he had fancied it healed.

  "I
know not how you came by the ivory, Fitzleger," he said. "But how dare you give it to her, pretending it was a likeness of me!"

  "I am sorry, my lord, but you left me little choice." Fitzleger spread his hands helplessly. "You would allow me to tell her so little. You would not come to woo her yourself. What else was I to do? I had to persuade the girl somehow."

  "So you let her fancy I was some handsome young dolt? And you allowed me to believe my wishes were being obeyed. Tell me, sir. What did you imagine would happen when we came together? Were you hoping we'd both suddenly be struck blind?"

  "I had hoped I would be present to ease the way."

  "I wish to God you had been here. To prevent me making a bloody damn fool of myself. Kissing the wrong woman." Anatole's face burned at the memory.

  "That is something I do not understand, my lord. How you of all men could make such an error, with your extraordinary perceptions—"

  "It was a natural mistake, curse you! The tall, strapping female appeared to be all that I had asked for in a bride. I barely even noticed your precious Madeline."

  "I find that hard to believe. You felt nothing at all when you gazed into Madeline's eyes?"

  "Not a bloody damn thing," Anatole said. But he was lying, and they both knew it. From the moment he had first glimpsed the fairylike creature, a towering uneasiness had seized him. In some strange way she was unlike any other person he had ever met. She was outside the range of his senses… all of them. He had avoided looking her way, pouncing upon the dark-haired wench instead, with what had amounted to desperation.

  Fitzleger regarded him with a troubled frown. "Tell me, my son," he said softly. "What is it about Madeline that frightens you so?"

  "Frightens me? Anatole gave a bark of incredulous laughter. "I think you have, in truth, run mad, old man."

  "Then, why else did you react to her so strangely? Barring her from the house. Wishing to send her away."

  "Because she is not the bride I wanted. A fragile little chit of a thing! Hell and damnation, if I accidentally roll over her in bed, I could crush her to powder."

  Anatole turned away from Fitzleger to avoid the old man's eyes. The clergyman had struck, as usual, uncomfortably close to the bone.

  He did fear Madeline, with her air of fragility, with her fairy-princess-like beauty. She reminded him of all those delicate figurines that had once graced his mother's china cabinet. An exquisite collection of nymphs, shepherdesses, goddesses, and sprites.

  The morning after his mother's death, Anatole had stood staring at those fragile china figures poised behind the cabinet's glass doors. At the age of ten, he had not yet learned to entirely master either his emotions or his powers. Overwhelmed by grief, anger, and guilt, his eyes had blazed through his tears. The figurines had begun to tremble, then shattered one by one. Much later, when his sobs had ceased, he'd been horrified by what he had done. He had sat upon the carpet for hours, the fragments of china spread out before him, concentrating until his head throbbed, trying to will the figurines back together again. A hopeless task.

  That had been his first taste of the bitter truth. His was only the power to destroy, never to mend…

  "My lord?"

  Fitzleger's voice called Anatole back to the present. The memory had taken some of the fire out of him. When he wheeled back to face Fitzleger, his manner was subdued.

  "Perhaps you are right, old man. This Madeline of yours does—" Anatole hesitated. He still could not admit to the fear.

  "She disquiets me. It was not just for a whim that I asked you to find me a strong, tough woman. I want no more tragedies in this house."

  "The only tragedy will be in sending Madeline away."

  "Don't be so sure of that." Anatole stalked away to stare out the long windows that graced the back of the study. Resting one hand against the casement, he could see the distant shimmering shape of the inlet spread out below him, the waves lapping at the rock-strewn cliff base. Usually the sight soothed him, but whitecaps churned the waters today, the sea as turbulent as his own dark mood.

  After a lengthy pause he confessed, "I have been consulting Prospero's crystal again about my future."

  "Oh, my lord!" Anatole did not have to see the old man's rush of alarm. He could feel it.

  "You swore never to touch that devilish thing again. You vowed that—"

  "So I did," Anatole cut him off." 'Tis a vow I broke all the same."

  He gave an impatient shrug. "I looked in the crystal that night last December when I dispatched you to find my bride. I've consulted it again several times since. The vision is always the same. That of a woman. Her face unclear, but her hair burning bright around her, a tangle of red flame."

  "I wish my lord had told me of these visions sooner."

  "Why? Would it have made a difference in your choice of bride for me?"

  "No." Fitzleger sighed. "What does this woman in your visions do to you?"

  "Do to me? Why, nothing exactly. It is more of a feeling she gives me of unease. I have a strong notion should this creature come too close, she will prove my undoing."

  "Is that all?"

  To Anatole's amazement, a shade of relief crossed Fitzleger's aged features. "It is not always a bad thing for a man to be undone by a woman, my son."

  "Seek out my father's grave and tell him that!"

  "My poor Anatole. You need to put the tragedy of your parents behind you. And as for these visions of yours, is it not possible that for once they herald the arrival of something good in your life?"

  Anatole fixed Fitzleger with a skeptical eye, but the little clergyman rushed on, "You must give Madeline a chance. Beneath that fragility, there is a kind of quiet strength and a courage that even you must admire.

  "She is a sweet-tempered lady with a delightful sense of humor. And such learning, such perception in one so young. She possesses a beauty that goes far deeper than her remarkable eyes—"

  "You sound as though you fell in love with her yourself," Anatole interrupted. "Could that possibly have clouded your instincts, Bride Finder?"

  "No! Of course not."

  But Anatole was faintly amused to see a trace of pink steal into Fitzleger's cheeks. He continued to taunt, "You've been a widower too long. You should have married the chit yourself instead of bringing her here to plague me."

  "If I were forty years younger, I would have done so." A wistful light shone in the old man's eyes, only to be quickly extinguished. "Alas, it would have been impossible even then. She belongs to you, Anatole."

  "What am I supposed to do with her? With her frills and powdered hair. She appears something too grand for the wilds of Cornwall."

  "You could start by apologizing to her for such a boorish welcome. You did not even alert your servants to prepare for the coming of your bride."

  "My marriage is no one's business but my own. Besides she arrived earlier than I had expected."

  "Does this mean you have not told any of your relatives about Madeline, either? Your cousin Roman?"

  "No, why the deuce should I?"

  "You carry your passion for privacy too far, my lord. Roman should have been told of your plans to wed. He considers himself your heir."

  "Then, he is a damned idiot." Anatole felt the familiar prickle of irritation that Roman St. Leger's name always aroused. "There is no way I would ever permit Castle Leger to fall into the hands of that—"

  He broke off, sensing footsteps in the hallway beyond moving purposefully toward the drawing room door. He called out, "Come in."

  There was a pause, and then Lucius Trigghorne stepped inside, grumbling, "It would be nice, just once, if a body had the chance to knock first."

  "I told you I did not want to be disturbed," Anatole said.

  The grizzled old man did not even flinch. Wiping his hands on his apron, he sauntered farther into the room." 'Tisn't me doing the disturbing, yer worship," he said. "That powdered-up woman is hammering at the door again, demanding to be let in."

  Fitzle
ger gasped. "Madeline is still waiting on the doorstep? You fool. I told you to escort the lady into the front parlor while I spoke with St. Leger."

  "No disrespect to you, Reverend," Trigg said. "But I take orders from none but the master."

  "And what does the master say?" Fitzleger asked, his steadfast blue eyes offering Anatole no quarter. "Is the lady to be admitted or no?"

  Anatole squirmed, knowing Fitzleger referred to far more than Madeline's entrance into the house. Was she to be admitted to his bed, his board… his life? His spirit rebelled, then gave way at the sheer futility of it. If he had intended to defy the authority of the Bride Finder, he should have done so months ago.

  Anatole made a gesture of defeat to his servant. "She is my bride, Trigghorne," he said wearily. "Go let the infernal woman in."

  Chapter 4

  Madeline followed Trigghorne across the entrance hall, lifting up her skirts to avoid brushing them against the black marble floor badly in need of sweeping and polishing. The walls of Castle Leger towered over her, magnificent but barren of any warmth such as might have been provided by a few family portraits or some idyllic landscape scene. A perpendicular stair swept up to the next floor, cobwebs clinging between the supporting posts of finely carved mahogany banisters.

  As Trigg led her deeper into the silent house, Madeline felt as though she had breached the defenses of some long barricaded castle, but there was no feeling of enchantment here, only sorrow.

  Or perhaps the sorrow was all hers.

  Stiffening her shoulders, Madeline refused to allow any more pity for the foolish young woman who had seen her romantic dreams so cruelly dashed on the steps outside.

  For the past half hour she had tended to her distraught cousin, soothed her agitated maid, calmed her nervous servants, and done her best to transform herself back into plain, practical Madeline again.

  She believed she had regained some measure of composure until Trigg halted before a formidable oak door.