BRIGHTON BEAUTY by Marilyn Clay Read Free Book Online

she were to attempt an escape later, it might be more easily accomplished if she were alone.
    Just then, the wide castle doors creaked open and a pock-faced man stuck in his head. "Horses are saddled, yer lordship."
    Chelsea thought she detected a gleam of treachery in the man's eyes when he said 'yer lordship.' She thrust her chin up. "I don't ride."
    "Ye'll do as I say, wench!" the dark-haired man sputtered.
    "Rutherford," Lady Rathbone put in coolly, "you know very well that your cousin Alayna does not ride."
    Chelsea turned frightened eyes on Lady Rathbone, but the warmth and acceptance she usually found there was missing. The look of cold, hard hatred she saw now made her shiver.
    * * * *
    B ouncing along in the Marchmont coach, Chelsea was thankful for small favors. She had no idea why Lady Rathbone had said what she had, or who she suspected Chelsea was now, but at least she had protected the old woman from harm.
    After several hours on the road, the men riding alongside the carriage on horseback directed the lumbering coach into the busy yard of a roadside inn. Chelsea was about to step to the ground when a rough hand shoved her back inside.
    "Yer not going anywhere, missy."
    Her brown eyes widened with fresh alarm as she edged back onto the bench. The man calling himself Rutherford Campbell crawled into the carriage and pulled the door shut behind him. "Who are you, wench?" He glowered at her.
    Chelsea stiffened.
    "I know you ain't Miss Marchmont. So, who are you?"
    "Who are you?" Chelsea returned hotly. "It is perfectly clear that you are not my cousin Rutherford."
    "Oh, that's clear, is it?"
    "Indeed, it is. And I demand to know what you have done with him."
    "You demand?" He snorted. "You ain't in no position to do no demanding, missy. Now, tell me who you are a'fore I . . . "
    "I am Alayna Marchmont." Chelsea returned his icy gaze. "And I have no intention of marrying you."
    "Yer mighty uppity for an impostor, missy." Eyeing her, the man grinned wickedly, his uneven, yellowed teeth making Chelsea cringe. "Tell me the truth and I might be persuaded to share the spoils with you."
    So, that was his scheme, Chelsea thought. He meant to marry Alayna so that he might abscond with Lord Rathbone's inheritance himself. "I am telling the truth," she maintained coolly. "I am Alayna Marchmont, and I shall marry no one save my cousin, Rutherford Campbell."
    Grunting, the man reached into his frockcoat pocket and removed a small, flat object wrapped in brown paper. Chelsea watched as he unfurled the wrapping to reveal a gold-encrusted miniature, which he waved beneath Chelsea's nose. "This, my pretty trickster, is the real Miss Marchmont. And," he added triumphantly, "the likeness don't resemble you one whit!"
    Chelsea gasped. It was the miniature Alayna had sent to Rutherford following their betrothal. Indeed it was a perfect likeness of her. Suddenly, she felt faint with fear. Had the man . . . killed Lord Rathbone in order to obtain it? Oh, she dared not think it! "H-how did you come by the portrait?" Chelsea barely breathed.
    "How I got it don't signify. That I have it is the important thing. Now, I put it to you again, missy, who are you and what have you done with the real Miss Marchmont? I don't want no fashionable ladies turning up in London laying claim to what's mine!"
    Chelsea stared at the charlatan defiantly. "I refuse to tell you a thing."
    "So," his eyes narrowed with fury, "don't tell me nothing, then." He jammed the portrait back into his pocket. "But, be forewarned, missy, I have no intention of abandoning my plan. And, don't think to cheat me out of the bounty neither. I come a long way for this and I don't mean to leave empty-handed."
    Flinging a last contemptible look at her, he crawled out of the coach and slammed the door shut behind him.
    Chelsea's heart sank. If she were not to be let out of the carriage for even a second, how could she possibly engineer an escape?
    As the long hours of afternoon