“You are a very strange man, Captain. I thought it was understood. My brother – and hence his family – is in your debt. My wish is to be of assistance. You saved his life, and my mother’s sanity.”
“I did nothing to incur your gratitude. I wish to be left alone.”
Sir Lyle shook his head wonderingly. “I do not understand. What is the source of your bitterness, Captain Avebury? Why do you loathe me?”
The fire popped then gave a long hiss. Sir Lyle walked over to pick up the poker, and attended to the flames, laying a new log onto the red-orange mass. Jocelyn walked away from the table, his appetite gone.
“Is it Lady Catherine?”
The question hung in the air. It was muffled; Sir Lyle was still crouched before the fire. Gazing absently at the poker, rubbing smudges of ash from the shiny metal, he spoke again. “Tell me, Captain Avebury. Are you angry because I continue to maintain the semblance of a friendship with your wife?”
Jocelyn clenched his fists, then released them. He felt as if his heart had risen into his throat and it threatened to burst there: his pulse thudded heavily in his mouth. He ought to say something, to tell Sir Lyle that he knew about the child. That he knew just how dishonourable he was. But was it possible that Sir Lyle knew nothing? Was it possible that Catherine, his strong, sturdy princess, had tricked Sir Lyle too?
He found himself with nothing to say.
Sir Lyle looked at him over his shoulder. “I see now that my friendship with Lady Catherine causes you displeasure. I assure you again that I mean only to help.”
The throbbing ebbed slightly. Jocelyn fastened his gaze on Sir Lyle, trying to appear indifferent. “It is none of my concern.”
“Lady Catherine sent me here, you know.” Sir Lyle rose. He went over to where his now-cold coffee sat, and frowned at the cup in distaste before turning back to Jocelyn. “She is beside herself with worry.”
“Worry?” Jocelyn shook his head slightly, as if to clear cobwebs.
“Aye, worry. She wants you out of this mess, and will do anything to ensure it.” Sir Lyle gave him a hard look. “She took a great deal of trouble to locate me. I was in Dover, overseeing a particularly touchy crew. Cargo of considerable value. I am sure you understand. But nothing short of my immediate attendance would please her – followed by assurances that I would come to London to ensure your safe return to her.”
Jocelyn felt his mouth go dry. Sir Lyle was in London because of him? Because Catherine had … asked him to help? He saw the truth in Sir Lyle’s frank stare and his legs weakened. He sat down.
Sir Lyle was in love. He was in love with Catherine. There was no mistaking it.
But then, why? Why the hiding, the subterfuge? Was there something so thoroughly unacceptable about Sir Lyle that meant Catherine would not consider marrying him? Was Sir Lyle unwilling to bestow his name on an innocent child? And could Catherine be in London to meet Sir Lyle?
Jocelyn could not bear it. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips, shading his eyes from the too-bright morning light. Faint memories tugged at the edges of his mind.
On the day he first visited Wansdyke, he had come across Sir Lyle leaving. And Sir Lyle had laughed, told him to marry Lady Catherine.
He remembered his own confusion when Catherine had brought up the subject of marriage. He had at first imagined that she had meant to marry Sir Lyle. Because Sir Lyle had appeared for all the world to be a lover scorned.
There was something else there, something too big and complex for him to fathom. Catherine was almost certainly in London to see Sir Lyle. And, whatever he claimed, it was probably not to beg Sir Lyle to help exonerate him.
“I have a few friends amongst the officers of the navy. Lady Catherine was most anxious that I use my influence to the fullest extent. And so, here I am.” Sir Lyle leant forward. “But I was not going to take any chances. I did not want to become involved in a story I only half knew.”
“So you had your people investigate me.”
Sir Lyle laughed. “People? I don’t have my own ‘people’, Captain! My business is a very solitary one. But yes, I have access to those who will perform tasks for the right price.”
“And you have found me out.” Jocelyn spoke with his head still in his hands. He could not bear the glare of the low sun streaming through the windows – or the sight of Sir Lyle’s face.
“Does Catherine know, Captain?” Sir Lyle asked the question quietly.
“No, she does not.”
“Were you planning to tell her?”
“Is it any of your concern?” Jocelyn lashed out. He raised his head, squinting. “You have done enough to repay your gratitude, do you not think? Perhaps you could finish your work by telling Catherine about my past. Were you not planning to meet her after seeing me here?”
“Here? In London?”
“Oh, surely, Sir Lyle,” Jocelyn said acidly. “You cannot pretend that you do not know she is here!”
“I know no such thing, Captain. I swear it. My honour may mean nothing to you, but I swear that I know nothing of her being here.” Sir Lyle swung around on his heel and paced to the far end of the room. Jocelyn could see the muscles in his cheek working. “Damn it, I told her not to travel. She is in far too delicate a condition to—” He cut himself off suddenly, swinging back around to look at Jocelyn. Jocelyn felt his stomach lurch.
“Sir Lyle. Is she … is she all right? Is … is the child well?”
“She is very tired, Captain. Worn out. I hope that she lasts until her confinement. I speak frankly, and hope you will forgive me. But she does not seem to be at all well.” Sir Lyle paused. “She worries about you. And, what’s more, her leg … you know. It pains her. And the child grows.”
“Thank God for that,” Jocelyn breathed.
“Aye, thank God. But the additional weight on her leg – it makes things difficult. Damn it all to hell! I told her not to travel. What can she possibly be thinking? I told her I would come and do my best, and I have.” Sir Lyle was muttering to himself, not paying any attention to Jocelyn. “There is nothing she can do. Surely, if there is anyone she could speak to at the Admiralty, she has already done so. If not, she would have told me—” He stopped suddenly and looked sharply at Jocelyn.
“Captain, your secret is safe with me. I have no desire to expose you. Is there some other reason Lady Catherine could be here? Some business I do not know about?”
Confused, Jocelyn spread his hands apart. “Nothing, to my knowledge,” he said.
“No relations, no hidden bank accounts? No solicitor to speak to?”
“Her man of business comes to Wansdyke if he needs her, and spends much of his time at Albrook, working on the transfer of the estate. There is no reason for Catherine to be here at all.” Unless it is to be with you, he added silently, and watched Sir Lyle frown in contemplation. Perhaps he was wrong. Or perhaps Sir Lyle was an excellent actor.
“Captain, I assure you again, I know nothing either. She did threaten to come to London and beg the Admiralty’s indulgence herself, but I was sure I had dissuaded her. Such efforts would have resulted only in embarrassment. I had no idea she was here until you spoke.”
“I saw her,” Jocelyn said reluctantly. “I saw her not far from here, with her companion Lydia Barrow.”
“The infamous Miss Barrow,” Sir Lyle said dryly. Sir Lyle laughed at Jocelyn’s questioning look. “One day you will hear Miss Barrow’s story – if you have not already. But right now, I need to attend to some business which cannot be delayed any longer. Have a pleasant morning, Captain.”
“Sir Lyle – I apologise. I beg your pardon for my rude behaviour.”
“Do not fret over it, Captain. I am used to much worse.” With a brisk nod, he took his leave.
Jocelyn put his head in his hands again. His secret was out. It was only a matter of time before it came to Catherine’s ears. He would have to tell her himself, as soon as he heard the Admiralty’s verdict.
Sir Lyle lov
ed her. He would take care of her. It gave Jocelyn a perverse sort of comfort to understand just how deep Sir Lyle’s affections ran. If he could not be around himself, Sir Lyle would be. He still could not understand why Sir Lyle would not admit to fathering the child, but perhaps he was protecting Catherine’s name.
Ah, Kate. His golden-haired countess. He wanted to believe that, when all this was done, they could be together once more. He knew better, of course. He would go on his way. She would go on hers. She was too independent to tolerate a man controlling her. And, despite Sir Lyle saying she worried about him, he knew that nothing was more important to her than the baby earl who would allow her to feel she had triumphed over the Claverton indifference. And he did not know, he truly did not know, if he could raise another man’s child.
Jocelyn looked up at the mantelpiece clock. It was still early. He had the entire day with nothing to do but await word from the Admiralty. And tomorrow, the waiting would begin again.
He could barely stand it.
He rose, paced around the room. He stopped to pour himself a lukewarm coffee, swigged it back in one gulp. Sir Lyle was right – it really was not very good. He slammed the empty cup into the saucer.
Should he search for Catherine? She was here somewhere, somewhere in this city. As good as alone, and not in good health. Never mind the fact that the child was not his. He still wanted her happy and well.
He couldn’t think where to start. It was obvious that she had not wanted anyone to recognise her. She would not, therefore be staying at Claverton House, and probably would not want to rely on any of her friends in London – heavy with child, she would surely want to avoid the gossip and stares of society.
Sir Lyle had seemed truly surprised at the news that Catherine was in London. Perhaps—
He was ashamed of the thought, but he hoped that Sir Lyle would find her. And he hoped that, if she needed help, Sir Lyle would tell him.
* * *
Sir Lyle walked briskly, tightening his coat against the bitter wind. He had left Avebury’s rented accommodation far behind, and was nearing the Admiralty. He had a few favours to call in. He had been hesitant about pursuing this route but, if it was the only way to keep Catherine from further folly, it was necessary.
Catherine was in London. He wondered how Avebury had discovered her, how he had managed to get a glimpse of her in such a large and busy city. He grinned wryly. Well, he was her husband, after all. It would not be strange for him to keep a watch on her movements.
And yet it was clear he had assumed Sir Lyle knew more than he did.
Sir Lyle shook his head. There were secrets that would tear their marriage asunder. He would not be the one to reveal them. They would each have to own up to their own guilty pasts.
What could Catherine possibly have come to London to do?
He would find out. He would not have to look for long; a countess heavy with child could not go far without being noticed.
Chapter 33
Sir Lyle completed his subtle inquiries at the Admiralty and, as soon as he returned from his expedition, sent over a generous donation of smuggled brandy. He cautioned the delivery boy to handle the barrel with particular care, and to deliver it directly into the hands of an upper servant. It would be understood. It was not the first time.
Blast those stiff-necked sailors! he thought. Avebury is worth ten of them, and they know it.
He had made no threats, and did not mention the captain’s name once. But he had made his interests known, and was sure the gentle exchange of pleasantries with various officers of His Majesty’s fleet would have some result. At the very least, he had shown them he knew what they were, and now they feared him. He was usually reluctant to let anyone hang for their weakness but, in this case, he would act. It would be the last time he did something for love rather than money, however.
But tonight he was going to forget his troubles. He was going to forget Avebury, his damned cargo in Dover, the fickle Lady Catherine – everything. He was going to enjoy himself a little. After an early dinner at his club, he indulged in a quick and mindless game of cards. Finding the competition lacking, he strolled over to the residence of a certain widow who promised good company, good food, and the utmost discretion.
Celia Farnsworth had expensive tastes and, when her dull husband of twenty years had done her the favour of dying, she had invested her energy into generating money to spend shopping abroad. Her home was too elegant, too tasteful, to be considered a brothel. The ladies who worked for her were genteel. Most were impoverished and all were beautiful and smart. None remained against their will. They could not frequent the card parties and assemblies of the ton without creating considerable discomfort amongst the male population – they were known to too many of them – but lived discreetly in a dignified fashion. The source of their income apart, they would not be an embarrassment to any gentleman and, in fact, it was not unknown for a naïf young man to fall in love with one of the ladies and decide to spirit her away to Gretna Green.
Sir Lyle had not paid a call to Mrs Farnsworth’s establishment in quite a long time but she greeted him fondly and invited him to join her for a glass of wine. He obliged for a while, chatting amiably about unremarkable topics, but he eventually excused himself to take a turn around the small but lovely garden while he smoked a cheroot. When he came indoors, he went upstairs. He surveyed the works of art that lined the corridor and noted with amusement that Mrs Farnsworth had expanded her collection of Chinese pottery. He had been instrumental in securing some of her most prized pieces, and her gratitude was, she said, boundless. He wondered, as he strode toward the end of the hall, what she considered to be an appropriate quantification of boundless.
He entered the room at the end of the corridor without knocking, and shut the door behind him. He paused. His eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light within, and fell on the glow of a candle at the edge of a night table.
A young woman turned. It was hard to see her face in the candlelight, it, but Sir Lyle could make out a tumble of long fair hair, caught up and loosely twisted into a careless knot. Curls that sprang free dangled beside her cheeks and down her back. She was dressed in a plain white dress with a blue sash, as if she were a virtuous girl making her London debut. She was not Catherine, but she could have been – were it not for the curls. She picked up the candle and held it near her face. Sir Lyle gave a startled gasp. Her eyes were the right shade of blue.
“Do I remind you of someone?”
It was a moment before Sir Lyle understood that she had spoken. Her voice was not Catherine’s although, for some reason, he had expected it to be. It was much higher and had a clipped London tone.
“I can see it on your face,” she continued. “Someone else once told me that I was the image of perfection, but merely the image. He said he had seen perfection itself, and told me that I was not nearly as beautiful. I wish I could see this perfect beauty for myself.”
She walked over to Sir Lyle and put the candle down at the door. Gently, she offered her hands, and he managed to move forward to take them.
“I can be whoever you wish,” she said softly.
“You cannot,” he whispered.
“I will try.” She led him to the bed, but he stopped her. He pulled his hands free.
“I dislike fantasy,” he said bluntly. “What is your name?”
The girl cocked her head. “What would you like it to be?”
“Listen to me,” he said. “You cannot be the girl in my heart. So you may as well tell me your name.”
She inclined her head. “Mary.” Curls bounced forward to cover her cheeks.
“Mary, then. I am afraid I am not here to play games, even if the other gentleman chose to do so.” He sat on the edge of the bed and began to remove his boots.
“He called her Angelique,” she said wistfully. “She sounded so very beautiful and so very perfect. He said that he knew every inch of her and that she was without blemish, like a fine piece of porc
elain.”
Sir Lyle stood to remove his shirt. “That does not sound very likely to be a real person.”
“Indeed she was,” Mary returned. “The man wept bitter tears. I was never so moved in my life. He was an artist, and he had painted her portrait. He said he would never sell it, but it was his masterpiece.” She giggled. “I wish I had such fortune. Imagine being perfect, the subject for an artist’s masterpiece!”
Sir Lyle did not reply. He turned to Mary and deftly untied her sash. She willingly removed her dress, and he reached out for her.
It took more work than he had expected. He was distracted: thinking about the day, thinking about the captain, thinking about Catherine. He needed the comfort of a soft feminine body, generously offered, but Catherine’s image danced before his mind whenever he tried to turn his thoughts to the woman in his arms. Eventually, the image aroused him. He thought of the inches of her that he had come to know in the garden in Wansdyke – her lovely pink mouth, her smooth white neck, her generous bosom.
He looked down at the woman beneath him, her glossy blonde hair spread over the pillow, her smooth skin glowing in the dim candlelight. Her stomach was so flat, so girlish. Catherine’s would never be like that again. He suddenly had an urge to please this woman, this Mary – was that her real name?
He did not normally bother about anything other than his own satisfaction when he came to visit these ladies. He gave generous presents, and occasionally maintained a relationship with a fortunate young woman for several months in a row, but he made no pretence of being there for any reason but to assuage his own needs.
Today, he felt curiously empty, yearning for more than a physical solution to the ache in his soul. Catherine loved her captain. Avebury loved Catherine. They had created a child. If only they could get past whatever blocks their hearts put in the way of each other, they might be truly happy in the eternal way of lovers the world over.
The Portrait Page 20