Lord Portman's Troublesome Wife Page 9

  Not a word of adverse gossip reached her ears and she put it down to the story he insisted on telling that their fathers knew about the match and heartily approved. She realised as the days passed that it would be all too easy to fall in love with the real man, the one beneath the pose, and that was something she must guard against at all costs.

  Every time she began to think what her future life would be like as Lady Portman, she felt a deep knot of guilt inside her, which would not go away, knowing she was using his lordship to escape from Lady Bonhaven or having to live with her brother and his wife. Her search through her father’s papers had revealed nothing and she was no nearer discovering why he had been hoarding a bag of counterfeit gold coins, nor anything about the Barnstaple Mining Company. She was rapidly coming to the conclusion it did not exist, had never existed and was therefore untraceable. Max had told her to mind her own business and to leave it all to him, but he did not seem to be doing anything about it. The last person she could speak to about it was her husband-to-be.

  Chapter Five

  Rosamund woke early on the morning of her wedding day and lay in bed listening to the birds twittering outside her window and the barking of a stray dog in the street and asked herself what had possessed her to agree to this travesty of a marriage. She had sold her independence, her identity, even the kind of person she was, for what? To be done with debt. To escape from penury. To find and bring to justice the men who had cheated her father—already that quest had proved abortive and she did not know where to look next. Was it worth it? According to Lord Portman, they would lead their own lives after the ceremony, but he would expect her to adhere to certain rules, rules she might find irksome. She had a feeling that she was going to be lonely. Thank heaven for Janet!

  As if thinking about her maid had conjured her up, the door opened and Janet came in, bearing a cup of hot chocolate. ‘Good morning, Miss Rosamund,’ she said cheerfully, setting the chocolate down on the little table by the bed. ‘It is a lovely day for it. Not a cloud in the sky.’ As if to prove her point she drew the curtains, flooding the room with sunshine.

  Rosamund sat up and sipped her chocolate, watching Janet flit about fetching out her underclothes, her petticoats, hose and shoes, laying them out ready for her to don, then going to the door to admit a maid with jugs of hot water to fill the hip bath, which already stood in the middle of the floor. It was all going on around her, this hustling and bustling, but she was strangely lethargic. It was a dream, a fantasy. She was not going to marry the most eligible man in town; she was not going to wear that lovely dress which was hanging on the door of her wardrobe, she was not going to live in a stately home and have any number of servants at her beck and call.

  ‘Come, Miss Rosie,’ Janet said, calling her by the name she had used as a child. ‘It is time for you to bestir yourself. It will take at least three hours to have you ready.’

  Three hours to dress! Whatever were they going to do to her in that time? Still in a dreamlike state, she left her bed and allowed Janet and the other maid to bath her, using scented oils. Then they arrayed her in her underclothes, padded petticoats and stockings before putting her into an undress robe to have her hair arranged. This was to be done by a French gentleman her aunt had engaged on the advice of one of her bosom bows.

  While they waited for the coiffeur to arrive, breakfast was brought up on a tray, but Rosamund could not eat. Her throat was dry and swallowing difficult. Janet coaxed in vain. ‘But I will have a cup of coffee,’ she told the maid. Perhaps that would revive her and make her aware of what was happening around her.

  Her aunt brought the hairdresser up and there followed a heated argument about what should be done to Rosamund’s locks. The young man, thin almost to the point of being skeletal, wanted to pile it up over a padded cage, powder it heavily and fill it with flowers and ornaments. Rosamund would have none of it. ‘No padding,’ she said.

  ‘But, mademoiselle, I cannot make de creation widout de padding,’ he said in a heavy accent. ‘De flowers and leaves and beads and de leetle fan and yellow flutterby will not stay in.’

  ‘I do not wish to make a garden of my head,’ Rosamund said, smiling at his mangling of the English language. ‘Give me curls and a little ribbon to match my gown. I shall wear a big hat.’

  He gave in with a sigh, but the finished arrangement was, she had to admit, very becoming, especially when she took off the dressing gown and the wedding gown was put on, the stomacher laced and the hat set at an angle on her head and tied with silver ribbon. She put a heart-shaped patch beside her left eye, slipped into her shoes and looped her fan on her wrist.

  ‘Oh, miss, you look beautiful,’ Janet said, her eyes wide in wonder.

  She went downstairs where a gargantuan feast was being laid out for their guests. There was roast beef and baked ham and a whole suckling pig, not to mention pies and pastries and exotic fruits. Her aunt had spared no expense. Rosamund was sure there was nothing left from the money his lordship had so kindly donated. Even Max, caught up in the excitement, had offered to buy the wine and cognac and hired four beautiful white horses to draw her carriage to the church, saying he did not want it said that he could not give his sister a good send off.

  ‘Why, you look comely,’ Max said, looking her up and down in undisguised surprise, before escorting her out the carriage. ‘Lord Portman can have no complaints that you are not a fitting match for him.’ Which was praise indeed from a brother who was always stinting in his approbation.

  Harry, resplendent in oyster satin coat and waistcoat delicately embroidered in the same colour and cream small clothes and stockings, watched her come up the aisle towards him and was almost open-mouthed. She was heart-stoppingly lovely! Why had he not seen that before, why had he accepted her brother’s description of her without question and not seen what was under his nose? He should have looked beneath the unmade-up face, the plain clothes, the unpowdered hair and seen what was beneath. It put a whole new complexion on their bargain. He had thought he was doing an antidote a favour by marrying her and saving her from a lonely spinsterhood; instead he was depriving a lovely young lady of the opportunity of finding a loving husband. He was half-inclined to stop the ceremony before it began. But how could he do that? What reason could he give that would not humiliate her and make him look an utter fool?

  ‘My God!’Ash whispered beside him. ‘She is transformed. You’ve made a good bargain there, my friend, if her children turn out to be as fetching as she is.’

  Harry did not like to be reminded of what he expected of her; it made the whole thing seem sordid. He saw, as she approached him, that she was pale and nervous, and smiled to put her at her ease as he offered her his arm, though he felt far from at ease himself. She laid a hand on his sleeve and together they faced the parson. ‘Dearly beloved,’ he began.

  If anyone witnessing the marriage of Harry, Lord Portman, to Miss Rosamund Chalmers had wondered at what seemed a strange alliance, they revised their opinion and sighed indulgently at what appeared to be a genuine love match. Apart from Sir Ashley, who would never have breathed a word, the only people to doubt the truth of that was Francis Portman and his mother, to whom that young man confided everything.

  Rosamund did not meet him until the day of the wedding and she had no opportunity to speak to him until it was all over and they found themselves face to face at Chandos Street afterwards where everyone gathered for the wedding breakfast. The young man, who could only recently have reached his majority, astonished her with his outlandish attire and extravagant manners. She had thought Harry dressed flamboyantly, but his cousin outdid him by a mile. He wore a coat of sky-blue velvet with huge silver buttons, embroidered with silver-and-gold leaves and flowers. His breeches were striped blue and white and fastened at the knee with bright blue-and-yellow ribands. His white stockings had gold clocks and his shoes enormously high heels. As for his wig, she wondered it did not topple off his head, it was so high at the front with three enormous c
urls over each ear. It was all she could do not to laugh at him, as he executed a flourishing leg in front of her.

  ‘My felicitations, my lady,’ he said, the first person so to address her, which made her realise that the deed was done and that, for good or ill, she was now married to Lord Portman. She had gone through the whole ceremony in a dream, as if she were acting out the role in a play whose words she implicitly knew, and she supposed that was the truth of it. But this play was to last the whole of her life, unless, of course, she turned out to be barren and his lordship divorced her. He was wealthy enough to afford to do that.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘I was never more surprised than when Harry told me he was to wed,’ he went on, shaking down the lace that flowed out from under the wide cuffs of his coat sleeves. ‘Always swore he never would. Couldn’t get over Beth’s death, you see.’

  ‘Yes, he told me.’

  ‘Did he?’ he said in surprise. ‘He don’t usually spout about it to strangers.’

  ‘Mr Portman, I am not a stranger.’

  ‘No, didn’t mean that, but you see, you ain’t ever going to convince me you and Harry have known each other above a month. Can’t think what got into him, getting himself leg-shackled in such a hurry. Took me by surprise, it did.’

  ‘Are you close to your cousin then?’ she asked sweetly.

  ‘Course I am. I am his heir, though I doubt he told you that.’

  ‘I recollect that he did,’ she said, unwilling to admit that her husband-to-be had neglected to tell her that fact.

  ‘His daughter can’t inherit, all entailed,’ he said, moving closer to her and making her take a step back. ‘You did know he had a daughter?’

  ‘Of course I did. I am looking forward to meeting her.’

  ‘Not likely to meet her at Bishop’s Court. He won’t have her there. Can’t stand the sight of her.’

  The temptation to ask why ever not was cut off before she could utter it. ‘I do not suppose it is easy for a man without a wife to bring up a small child,’ she said, as haughtily as she could manage. ‘That does not mean he dislikes her and I think it disloyal in you to suggest it.’

  ‘Best you know the truth, my lady. Daughters he won’t have at any price. Let us hope you do not give him a girl child, or you might find yourself cast out along with her.’

  ‘Mr Portman, I think you have said enough.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. Thought you ought to know.’ He swept her a bow and wandered off. She stood looking after him, knowing she had unconsciously made an enemy and wondering how much truth there was in what he had told her.

  ‘What has he been saying to you?’

  She turned to find Harry at her side. ‘He was only felicitating me,’ she said, her heart quickening at his nearness.

  ‘Is that all? I would expect him to catalogue the wrongs I have done him.’

  ‘Why? Have you wronged him?’

  ‘Not in the least, unless it be to marry you. He always fancied himself as the owner of Bishop’s Court. It will be a great disappointment to him an’ he is not. Now, let us forget that coxcomb and show ourselves to our guests before we set off for home.’

  He put his hand under her elbow and they perambulated round the room, receiving congratulations and well wishes and then they bade everyone goodbye and went out to Harry’s landau, which someone had bedecked with ribbons. He handed her in and then climbed in beside her, and with everyone standing at the door waving handkerchiefs, the newly wed pair set off for their new life together. His valet and Janet had gone on ahead in a separate carriage with all the luggage in order to have everything prepared for their arrival.

  The carriage was luxurious and the equipage boasted a coachman, a postillion and two grooms riding alongside. Rosamund leaned back on the blue-velvet upholstery and shut her eyes. She was exhausted.

  ‘It has been a trial for you,’ he said quietly. ‘But it is over now.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was the deceit of it that was tiring, having to pretend it was a love match when it was nothing of the sort. She would as soon have stuck to their original plan of having a quiet wedding followed by her retirement to Bishop’s Court out of the public eye.

  ‘Then I will not disturb you with conversation,’ he said.

  The journey to Isleworth took an hour and a half and was accomplished smoothly and, for the most part, in silence. Both were brooding on the future. Rosamund was only too aware of the handsome man at her side, her husband now, though she found that difficult to believe. Ahead of her was Bishop’s Court, where she was to make her home for as long as she remained Harry’s wife, but more worrying even than that was the prospect of the fast-approaching wedding night.

  Giving his lordship an heir was the major part of the bargain on her side and no doubt he would wish that to be accomplished as soon as possible. The anticipation of that was sending her into a dreadful quake. She wanted a child, more than one if possible. Children would be company for her, would perhaps give her the love her husband could not. But the begetting of them! Oh, she knew what happened between a man and a woman from reading and listening to the servants, but she had no idea what it felt like. And for her, without love, cold-bloodedly, as a matter of duty, how could she bear that? Her thoughts were making her uncomfortably hot and she felt her cheeks burning. What, in heaven’s name, had she let herself in for?

  Harry, too, was wondering what he had done. Why had he listened to Ash? And Max Chalmers. He did not like the man. Rosamund’s brother had turned up at the wedding in a pure white suit of clothes embroidered in silver, and a white wig, all of which must have cost at least fifty guineas. For someone pleading poverty he did not stint on his wardrobe. Chalmers had sold his sister and, like a fool, he had bought her! He was never so remorseful in his life.

  But the deed was done and could not be undone and it behooved him to make her life as comfortable for her as he could while he went about his business. Thinking about the coiners helped to stop him dwelling on the bargain he had made. Counterfeit guineas were turning up all over the place. If they were coming from the same source, the operation must be a large one. The vintner had given him several more only the day before, though he did not know the man who had bought the wine.

  ‘I never saw him before,’ he had told Harry. ‘He was a big man in a fustian coat and leather breeches, not the sort I would expect to be buying fine wine. I fancy he had been sent by someone else because he did not seem interested when I asked him if he wished to sample a glass. He appeared anxious and kept looking about him. I did not realise he had paid with false coin until after he had gone. Now I have lost both wine and money.’

  ‘Did he give you an address to deliver the wine to?’

  ‘No, he took it in a carriage. Old-fashioned town chariot, it was. I fancy there was someone sitting in it, but I could not be sure.’

  Harry had recompensed him and taken the coins home to be compared with those he already had. They had been tampered with in exactly the same way. As soon as his bride was settled in her new home, he would have to return to London to unearth the villains. He turned to look at her. She was looking straight ahead, her back upright, her chin up and the rather fetching hat awry. But she looked sad. Sad on her wedding day! It should have been the happiest day of her life. He resisted the temptation to take her hand to console her; better to keep his distance.

  ‘Bishop’s Green,’ he told her, as the carriage turned off the road into a narrow lane. ‘We are nearly there. Bishop’s Court is only a quarter of a mile distant now.’

  ‘Which bishop is it named for?’

  ‘Not a bishop, Rosamund, a man whose name was Bishop. Robert Bishop. He built the house a century ago, when Charles II was restored to the throne after the Commonwealth failed. He was awarded the land and money to build the house for services rendered to the Royalist cause. The village of Bishop’s Green grew up around it.’

  The hamlet was a collection of small cottages, a church, a rectory and a fe
w small businesses that depended on the estate to thrive, including a tavern. All seemed well built and well tended. The carriage turned in at some wide-open gates and continued up a gravel drive lined with trees until the house came into view. It was four storeys high, standing on a stone terrace with a row of shallow steps up to the front door, before which was a wide circular carriage sweep in the middle of which was a statue of a man on a huge muscular horse with two great deerhounds beside him.

  ‘My great-grandfather,’ Harry said, noticing her looking at it. ‘He was a great huntsman.’

  The carriage came to a stop and the grooms dismounted. One came and opened the door and let down the step for Rosamund to alight. She stood on the gravel looking up at the great mansion with its rows of deep windows either side of a two-storey portico, and felt overwhelmed by its size and the terrifying thought that she was to be mistress of it. It was a ridiculous notion. The house and its owner were way above her touch. She must have been mad to agree to that preposterous proposal. It was a dream, a nightmare, a cruel jest and soon she would wake up and find herself back in Holles Street waiting for her father to return from whichever gambling house he had decided to favour with his custom that night. But her father was dead, had died in violent circumstances and he had left behind nothing but some worthless shares and a bag of false coins. What had Max done with those?

  She felt a light touch under her elbow which, for all its gentleness, startled her. She jumped and stiffened. ‘Come, my lady,’ Harry said, letting go of her as if he had been stung. ‘The servants are waiting to receive you.’