“Where was he? In London?”
“Yes.” Sir Lyle measured sugar into his cup with precision. “He had given his testimony the week before. The Admiralty told him that they would investigate his claims. And then—” Sir Lyle snapped his fingers. “Just like that.”
“Good God!” Jocelyn said again.
“If I may say so, Captain Avebury, it is good fortune in the extreme. You will certainly not be held accountable for anything on the basis of the ravings of a man who is now dead.”
Jocelyn shook his head. “I-I don’t know. It seems—”
Sir Lyle returned to his seat. “It’s a gift, Captain Avebury. Take the gift.”
There was a pause in which the only sounds were the clink of Sir Lyle’s spoon and the muffled report of doors opening and closing somewhere in the house. Jocelyn finally spoke.
“I don’t want it, Sir Lyle. I don’t know what—”
“Say no more.” Sir Lyle nodded toward the door. Jocelyn bowed his head in assent.
Another silence followed.
“You can wait for your instructions. You are free now. They will surely come.”
“I have been waiting. I do not know what those instructions will be.”
“Oh, come now, Captain Avebury!” Sir Lyle laughed. “You have made the correct choices, and all bring you closer to one end. We both know what will happen. You will get a ship. Probably quite a nice ship. And a mission. And you will leave.”
“What is your interest in me, Sir Lyle?”
“You know what it is. You saved my dim-witted half-brother.”
“There is more.”
“There is nothing more,” Sir Lyle said firmly, rising. “Nothing more than appreciation for the behaviour of a gentleman.”
“I am no gentleman, Sir Lyle.”
“That, Captain Avebury, is your own demon.” Sir Lyle reached for his hat. “I wish you happy. You will tell the countess, I hope, that I also offer the most heartfelt wishes for her good health and happiness. And you may rely on me to look out for her when you have gone to sea.”
What? What did that mean?
Their eyes met and locked.
Sir Lyle looked away first. He turned and went to the door. “Good afternoon, Captain Avebury.”
Suddenly, the scene before Jocelyn blurred, as if a foggy mist had crept into the room and descended upon him. He blinked, shook his head slightly.
It isn’t my child.
He could not believe that he had never thought this before.
It isn’t my child.
Appreciation for the behaviour of a gentleman? No, that was not it. Sir Lyle’s favours had nothing to do with being a gentleman. If anything, it was entirely the opposite.
Jocelyn sank down into a chair, not bothering to watch Sir Lyle leave. He covered his eyes with one shaky hand. He felt as if Catherine had cut out his heart and left him to bleed.
It isn’t my child. The child is Sir Lyle’s.
That would explain everything. He had been ensnared in a trap. She needed a father for the child. Sir Lyle, for whatever reason, was unwilling to name himself. The hasty marriage, the inexplicable willingness of Beaseley to procure a marriage licence without really knowing with certainty that Avebury was who he said he was. Everyone was in on it. Except him.
He felt numb.
Being taken as a fool was the least of his problems. It wasn’t the first time and wouldn’t be the last. But his heart! He had given his heart to her. He had thought that she loved him. She seemed open, guileless, vulnerable, even as she pretended to be tough. And he loved her. He loved that spurned, neglected girl in her jewels and pretty dresses. He could make her laugh. He used to sing to her while out on their walks, make up nonsense verses to her favourite songs until she begged him to stop, covering his mouth with her hands and giggling until she was near to collapse.
He loved her vanity and quick temper – and even that she was a better rider than he. She was a natural horsewoman, so grand and fierce when she rode, that he didn’t mind at all that she made him look absurd on a horse in comparison. She had told him that her father would not invest in a decent mount for her, that he had kept only carriage horses in the stables once he was too fat and feeble to ride himself. One of the grooms had taught her to ride, and she would sometimes sneak down to his family home in the village, riding in a farmer’s cart, so that she could borrow a horse. She had begged for audiences with her father, hoping to persuade him not to get rid of all the horses – she wanted just one, a mare that was the right height for her to mount without difficulty or help. He ignored her requests, of course. So she had kept a horse stabled in the village – until someone reported her to the earl.
Jocelyn admired her verve and her refusal to knuckle under. He wished he had half her spirit. But spirit would not have saved her from the opprobrium of bearing Sir Lyle’s child outside marriage. So, if Sir Lyle had refused marry her, she had merely done what she needed to do. He just wished she had loved him instead.
That poor unborn child, he thought. And poor Kate. She’s been a fool. She should never have trusted Lyle, that cursed, lying—
The mist cleared as he tried to get a grip on his faculties. He could kill that bastard! God help him if he stepped back into this room. He would break his neck, feel a satisfying crunch between his fingers—
Control, he thought. Control. It will do the babe no good to kill his father. Besides, none of this matters – I’m off to sea. I’ve saved Kate and her child from certain disaster. How ironic that I, of all people, should be the one to rescue a countess from disgrace, when I am the one who should be in disgrace.
Chapter 25
Summer was passing them by; it had seemed too long in coming and had arrived in such a burst of joy that its fading seemed inevitable. Catherine’s rides with Jocelyn were soon no more than a memory and her sturdy constitution was overcome by nausea and the headache. The long days were shrinking; cooler nights prompted Catherine to pull the windows shut, despite Jocelyn’s protests that he had no wish to shut out the symphony of autumn sounds.
“You are such a sailor,” Catherine scolded. “Have you missed the sounds of the country so much? Are there no insects at sea?”
“We will have to shut ourselves in soon enough,” he said. “Why start so soon?”
The argument was mild, never resolved. Catherine supposed that it showed the difference between land-dwellers and sailors, although Jocelyn would never claim as much. But Catherine was content with what he was willing to share. It was more than she had ever thought to hope for. Their lovemaking continued to be passionate and complete. He never denied her, was ever kind and considerate.
There was, however, a single fear that still lurked unbidden in the corridors of her mind. And that was that he would leave her. The arrangement, after all, had been for him to give her an heir and for her to work to give him his freedom – a ship, with Captain Avebury at the helm, destined for points unknown. At times she was sorely tempted to send a note to Beaseley in his London office begging him to sabotage Jocelyn’s standing in the Navy. But that, she felt, would be like stealing away his soul.
Even now, as she watched him idly roaming the halls of Wansdyke, she knew that his heart was dying. He needed to be at sea. Far away from her, from the ties that would smother him to death.
She was a mature woman, she told herself. She knew her purpose in life. She would bear her child. She would assume her role as countess.
She would destroy the portrait.
Ah, the portrait.
LaFrance was desperate. He hung on the coattails of a few patrons in the highest circles of the ton. It was exceedingly expensive but good self-promotion. There was talk of a commission here, a sketch there. He was very good at quickly rendering images of the precious golden-haired daughters of the wealthy. These works seemed to keep him supplied with beef and brandy: some of the notes that he sent Catherine actually stank of drink.
She hid them obsessively from Joce
lyn who had taken to inspecting the post with keen interest. She assumed that he was searching for word from the Admiralty, hoping to escape Wansdyke at the first opportunity. Her heart sank every time she witnessed his eager interest in the post followed by obvious disappointment on his boyish face.
And yet, when he caught her staring at him, he never failed to offer her a kind word and a gentle embrace. Dressed, she still appeared as slim as she had ever been and, but for a vague queasiness and lack of appetite, did not feel as if she were to deliver a St Clair earl in the spring at all. She wished she could heal whatever malady was eating away at his soul.
But first, she would ensure the continuity of her line. Her line, she thought smugly. Not her father’s or her grandfather’s line. Her own. She had already sent word to Wales that she intended to inspect the ancestral home. It was a castle. A small castle sure enough but a castle nonetheless.
But first of all, she had to destroy that portrait. That was the first order of business.
She spoke to Lydia. After all, it was she who had introduced her to LaFrance and his useless preening and primping friends.
“You will never succeed in wresting that portrait from him,” Lydia said immediately. “He thinks it is the only thing that can make his future certain. He wants a real patron, someone who will give him a peaceful establishment where he can paint what he wishes. And to get that he will need to show a collection of his best work.”
“Ridiculous!” scoffed Catherine. “He would die of boredom away from society.”
“But he cannot maintain his life in town forever, and he knows that.”
“I need that portrait, Lydia. I need it destroyed. Could I pay him for it?”
Lydia shook her head. “Impossible. He is convinced that it is the portrait that will give him the life he feels he deserves.”
Catherine felt the noose tightening about her neck. She had to get her hands on the portrait, to destroy it, to rid herself of the threat it posed to her happiness so that she could move on with her life.
Sometimes, it seemed impossible that she had ever done such an amazingly foolish thing. That she had been so young, so vulnerable to stupid fear, stupid pride.
The St Clair earldom had saved her. She marvelled when she thought of how different her life might have been had she remained nothing but the crippled daughter of an ailing earl, a single female with no relations who might take her in. She and Lydia Barrow would have been doomed to live their lives as elderly spinsters. The thought made her shudder. At best, there might perhaps have been a respectable youngest son who would pity her and offer his hand.
“I have got to get to London,” she said aloud. “I must talk some sense into LaFrance.”
“My lady,” Lydia said quickly, “it is impossible. Absolutely not.”
“Oh, really, now,” Catherine said dryly. “Surely you are not about to lecture me on propriety?”
“It was very wrong of me to accompany you in the past,” Lydia said. “Very wrong indeed. I wish I had not done so.”
“Well, it is too late now. And I have got to stop LaFrance. Money – I am sure he will take money.”
“My lady, we must think of something else. I assure you, money will not be enough for him. And you absolutely cannot go to London. In your condition—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Catherine said irritably. “I shall look enormous. Like an elephant. Well, I will have a new wardrobe. Perhaps something can be contrived that allows me to look presentable. In any case, I will not be making any social calls. I will go in disguise, if you like. For goodness’ sake, Lydia, what will it take to convince you? You will have to come with me.”
Lydia frowned but bent her head slightly in acquiescence. “And what about the captain?” she asked softly.
Catherine stiffened. “He mustn’t know,” she said. “It would be dreadful, should he find out.”
“Perhaps you underestimate him, my lady. You might consider telling him the truth.”
Catherine laughed, the harsh noise echoing, bouncing off the walls like brittle chips of cold sunlight. “The truth? Oh, Lydia. You are a fool!” She rose slowly, holding out her hand for Lydia’s support. Very deliberately, she made her way across her bedchamber, her limp more pronounced than she was usually willing to allow.
“You are in pain, my lady?”
“A little more than usual, I’m afraid. My joints feel … somewhat uneven.” Catherine sank into a large chair next to the bed. “This chair is a little better.”
“My lady, I will, of course, accompany you to London. But meanwhile, LaFrance continues to send his notes.”
“Write him a reply,” Catherine said. “Tell him that I appreciate his predicament most sincerely, and beg his pardon for not replying sooner. I am sure he has seen the announcement of the marriage in the paper, so we need not offer explanation. Tell him that I will pay him a call very soon, and beg him to await word.”
“I understand.” Lydia turned to leave.
“And, Lydia—”
Lydia looked back at Catherine.
“Avebury is never to find out. Never. Is that clear?”
Lydia nodded. She left, drawing the door closed behind her.
For a long while, Catherine sat rubbing her aching limbs. Jocelyn was away on some errand. Wansdyke was very quiet.
Tell him the truth. Why, the notion of it was … what on earth could she say? “Jocelyn, my love, there is a portrait of me in the hands of a scoundrel, and he means to exhibit it. Please, would you steal it from him and burn it?”
Catherine put her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook, and she wept. She was so sorry, so very sorry that she had allowed LaFrance to paint that portrait. If Jocelyn ever saw it – worse, if all of London saw it, as LaFrance was threatening – her life would be over.
And her child – doomed.
Similarly, her marriage – doomed.
She loved Jocelyn. He loved her as she was, the crippled child living in the shell of a young woman. She did not doubt it. It would be nice if he would speak the words – but she would not press him. The words meant nothing when compared to having him.
Chapter 26
When the footsteps came, she was standing beside the French doors leading down to the formal garden, idly contemplating a walk. She was terribly tired, but it had always been her habit to engage in a late afternoon walk when the weather permitted, and she was loath to change her habits. She was also indulging in secret joy. The baby was yawning, stretching, and occasionally jabbing her from within his comfortable warm cave, and she wanted to be somewhere private and out-of-doors where she could enjoy the performance. She wished she knew where Jocelyn was, so that she could share her news.
She raised her head and turned slightly. The sound of two pairs of feet echoed sharply off the floor. They stopped at the door, but no one entered.
She waited, frowning. At long last, a knock sounded.
“Yes?”
The door opened. It was Beaseley. Catherine relaxed. “Mr Beaseley, how lovely to see you. I trust you are well?” She began to walk toward him, then stopped. Beaseley was not alone.
“Lady St Clair.” Beaseley stepped into the room, then paused uncomfortably. He glanced at his companion. An officer. In naval dress.
“You have a friend with you?” Catherine looked from one man to the other. The Navy man was middle-aged, slightly paunchy. She could divine nothing about his rank or importance from the decorations on his uniform, but imagined from his refined appearance and the polite manner in which he bowed to her that he was no common sailor. Perhaps this was Beaseley’s naval contact; perhaps there was good news. Her heart began to beat a little faster. Perhaps Jocelyn was being sent to sea. Or perhaps he was being made an admiral and would be in London indefinitely – oh, please! She hoped desperately that this was the case.
“Lady St Clair, may I introduce Admiral Wolcott?”
“How do you do, Admiral Wolcott? Please come in,” Catherine said brightly. “Mr
Beaseley, I have been wondering about you. It has been a while.” She reached out to support herself against a cabinet. Her legs felt wobbly, and she thought vaguely of how humiliating it would be to faint in front of her guests. She looked around and spotted a chair with sturdy armrests. Slowly, she began to make her way toward it.
The door shut behind the Navy man. Everyone turned. It was Jocelyn. He looked around the small gathering, and Catherine suddenly sensed his fear. It was fear – quite unmistakable. She paused, wondering if she should say something, but all his attention was on the Navy man.
What was he hiding from her? The thought pierced the thin cloud of achy wooziness in her mind. She felt her back throb uncomfortably, and leant on a marble-topped table for support before resuming her awkward walk over to the chair. Upon reaching it, she sank down in relief and turned her attention to Jocelyn. Yes, he was hiding something. Something of consequence.
“Good afternoon, Captain Avebury.” Beaseley spoke first. “This is Admiral Wolcott.”
“Sir.”
“Do not trouble yourself with formalities, Captain,” the admiral said easily. He had a pleasant smile, Catherine observed. Jocelyn maintained a rigid stance.
“I met Admiral Wolcott in London.” Beaseley looked ill at ease. “I had some business to transact at the Admiralty. It was a … lucky coincidence that meant I was able to travel here with him.”
“Yes.” Jocelyn nodded curtly. He gestured toward the room. “Please make yourselves comfortable.”
“Yes, of course,” Beaseley said hastily. There was a brief scuffle as Beaseley rushed to arrange chairs and Catherine offered tea. She sat back again, her nervous gaze on Jocelyn. He did not look at her.
“I have some uncomfortable news for you,” the admiral began.
“For me?” Catherine said. The admiral’s smile softened.
“Unfortunately, my lady, this will concern you. I am here to invite your husband to accompany me back to London.”
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