by Galen, Shana
She opened the door and gave a small curtsy, immediately spotting her husband standing with one arm on the mantel. Across the room was Mr. FitzRoy. She gave FitzRoy a genuine smile. She had not seen him since the night he’d escorted her and Ines from Mivart’s.
“Mr. Draven,” she said coolly. “And Mr. FitzRoy. I did not know you would be calling.”
He bowed. “I have news to share.”
Catarina looked from Draven to FitzRoy. Draven nodded at his friend. “Go ahead.”
“As you know, I have been watching Mivart’s and keeping tabs on Miguel and Juan Carlos de la Fuente. I’ve been able to persuade them to trust me and have made them several business propositions.” He looked at Draven. “All of them completely fabricated, of course. But de la Fuente was gratified to be asked and fawned over.” He looked at Catarina again. “He has been delaying accepting any of my offers, but this afternoon he finally refused me.”
She nodded, not surprised. Juan Carlos’s business had not been as profitable the last year or so because of her own thriving success with lace. She did not think he had unlimited funds for investment. Curious as to the reason Juan Carlos would give, she asked.
“He told me he is returning to Barcelona in the morning.”
“And Mr. FitzRoy has evidence of the truth of that statement,” Benedict added.
“I do. He has paid his bill at Mivart’s and bought tickets on a ship bound for Spain. The staff at Mivart’s told me he has packed his luggage.”
Catarina clasped her hands. “So he is truly leaving.”
“It would appear so. I’ll watch to make sure of it in the morning, but I think we can all rest easier tomorrow night.”
“Thank you, FitzRoy,” Benedict said, gesturing toward the door. FitzRoy gave her a nod and followed Draven out of the parlor. Catarina might have used the time to sneak back to her bed chamber. Instead, she stayed in the parlor, interested to see if Benedict would return and what he would say. Surely he would not apologize and declare his love, but she at least wanted to give him the opportunity.
“There, you see,” Benedict said, coming in a few moments later.
Catarina cut her eyes to him. “What am I supposed to see?”
“That I was right to insist you stay here. De la Fuente cannot get to you and is leaving. You suffered no inconvenience.”
“On the contrary, it is quite inconvenient to be treated like a prisoner.”
He sighed. “If you felt like a prisoner, it is your own doing. You have kept to your room and avoided me.”
“I suppose you think I should go to your bed each night and thank you for my captivity.”
His face darkened into a scowl. “Catarina, tomorrow you will be free to go and do as you wish. I recommend you take Ward or Maggie with you, of course, but there should be no danger in you going to the shops or even to your own shop to begin to ready it to open.”
“And how long will this freedom last?” She put her hands on her hips. “How long until you find some other way to cage me?”
“Why can’t you see that I don’t want to cage you?” His voice rose, and she could see he was struggling to control his temper.
“What happens when I work too late at the shop or go out without Maggie or Ward? Then will I be confined to my room again?”
“I don’t expect you’ll be so stupid as to make a mistake like that,” he said. “I thought you could use common sense.”
“I am but a mere woman. I am not certain I can be trusted to make my own decisions.”
He stepped closer to me. “You are putting words in my mouth and picking a fight with me. I am trying to put things right.”
“If I put words in your mouth, it is because I have not heard the ones I deserve.”
He took her shoulders gently, and she struggled not to lean into him. “What words do you want from me?” His voice was quiet and tender, and she was reminded of the way he kissed her and held her.
“I want an apology,” she murmured. “I want you to make me believe I can trust you. I want you to promise never to tell me where I can go or when or with whom.”
His hands tightened on her shoulders, not enough to hurt but enough for her to know he was upset. “And if the choice you are making is poor?”
“Then it is my mistake.”
He shook his head. “I’d be a fool to agree to that.”
She stepped back. “I will begin to pack then. Ines and I will leave once we have finished the pieces we promised.”
“If that’s what you want”—he called after her as she walked away—“then give me the annulment papers. I’ll sign them. We might as well make it a clean break.”
She swiped the tears from her eyes and continued walking.
Sixteen
“The course of true love never did run smooth.”
A Midsummer Night’s Dream, William Shakespeare
“GO AWAY, PORTER,” BENEDICT said. “I do not want soup or a mincemeat pie or any other goddamn thing you want to offer me.”
Benedict stared at the closed door of his personal parlor at the Draven Club. This was the third time in as many hours that Porter had knocked.
“But Colonel, surely you might like a brandy. It’s French.”
The last thing Benedict wanted was to drink himself into a stupor. He was old and wise enough to know drinking only numbed the pain temporarily and led to a new pain the next morning. He wanted no brandy. “Porter, do not make me come out there and pour that brandy over your head.”
A long silence ensued, followed by the step-thump of Porter walking away.
Benedict put his head down on his desk. He couldn’t go home. There was too much of her there. She hadn’t made good on her threat to leave yet, but she would. She would go, and this time he really never would see her again.
And he had no one to blame but himself.
He’d forgotten the one most important rule every soldier must learn. Never act out of fear. Fear wasn’t rational, and it wasn’t logical. Decisions should be made with a cool head and not deviated from just because conditions on the battlefield induced terror. But he’d acted out of fear with Catarina. He’d walked onto the battlefield and slashed uselessly, hurting no one but himself.
That wasn’t quite true. He’d hurt her too. He could see the pain behind her frosty demeanor. She’d told him she needed to trust him. She’d told him she didn’t want to be treated like a convict. How could he blame her when she’d escaped a father who’d tried to marry her to a violent man? And after that narrow escape she’d made a life for herself as a renowned lacemaker. Who was he to tell her that she must hide away in his little flat? She’d taken care of herself for years. And when she’d needed help, she’d been smart enough to ask for it.
Why hadn’t he told her he was sorry? Why hadn’t he begged her forgiveness? Why had he given her more orders and all but promised to curb her freedom in the future?
Because he was afraid.
That was the naked truth of it. He was afraid of losing her. He’d never been so terrified of anything in his life. But in trying to keep her safe, he’d lost her.
The answer seemed simple enough. Swallow his pride and hide his fear and give her his word she’d have her freedom. It would be worth it to have her back in his arms, back in his bed. The problem was he couldn’t trust himself to keep his word. He wanted to hold her loosely, but everything in him urged him to clamp on to her, grip her tightly, hide her away.
Porter knocked at the door again. Benedict lifted the blotter from his desk and threw it at the door. “Go away!” he roared.
“Colonel!” Porter’s voice was different, high and agitated. “I think you had better come out here.”
Benedict looked up. “What’s wrong?”
“Ward is here, Colonel. He’s bleeding.”
CATARINA HAD INSTRUCTED Ward to tell anyone with a new order for lace that she was not at home. She wanted to finish her current orders and prepare to leave. She’d already spent some of
the afternoon catering to the customers she had, showing them the lace items she’d finished or the progress she had made.
She hadn’t seen Benedict since the evening before. She didn’t even know where he was. He was obviously through with her, and she supposed if she didn’t see him again it would make leaving all the easier.
So she was somewhat distracted when Ward showed a woman she had not met before inside. Tigrino growled from under her chair, but he growled at everyone.
“Mrs. Reynolds,” Ward said, sweeping a hand toward the empty chair across from Catarina. Catarina gave him a look, then rose.
“Madam.” She extended her hand. “How good to meet you. Please sit down. Will you excuse me for a moment?”
She followed Ward out of the parlor. “Why have you shown her in?” she whispered. “I told you I want no new customers.”
Ward sighed and dabbed a handkerchief at his bald head, though it was quite a chilly day. “I told her, Mrs. Draven. She—er—she—”
Catarina leaned closer. Ward was only an inch or two taller than she, and his eyes kept darting away from hers.
“She began to cry,” Ward finally managed. “She begged me to let her in.”
Catarina stepped back, staring at him in disbelief. “You are only pretending to be rough and unfeeling.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Is that not right, Ward? On the inside, you have a tender heart.”
Ward straightened. “I don’t know what you mean, madam. I am simply not feeling well today. I think it has something to do with that cat. He makes my nose itch and my eyes water.”
“Does he? Is that why you put down little dishes of savory morsels for him?”
Ward stiffened and put his nose in the air. “I have no idea what you are referring to.”
Catarina almost laughed. She’d seen the little dishes and saucers licked clean, but she’d assumed Benedict or Ines had left them for Tigrino. But Ward obviously cared for the cat. It made Catarina sad to think that just as she was beginning to build a home here, she would be leaving.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Ward turned on his heel and marched away. She wouldn’t exactly miss him, but she might think of him now and again.
Catarina could hear Ines speaking with Madam Reynolds, and she turned to go back into the parlor, putting a patient smile on her face. Tears might succeed with Ward, but Catarina was not taking any new orders.
“Ah, here she is now,” Ines said as Catarina entered. “Catarina, I was just about to offer to show Mrs. Reynolds the ready-made pieces we have for sale.”
Catarina sat in the chair opposite the woman. “I do hope you find something you like. I am afraid I cannot agree to make any new pieces at the moment.”
“I’d like to see them.” Her gaze flicked to the bracket clock on the mantel. “I’m sure there will be something I fancy.”
Ines rose to fetch the pieces and Catarina studied the woman in front of her. She spoke three languages and read four, but she had very little sense of the nuance of any language except her native Portuguese and to some extent Spanish, as she’d lived in Spain for several years. But to her ear, this woman’s way of speaking sounded very different from Benedict’s or that of his friends. She might be dressed well, but Catarina did not think she was of the upper classes. It made no difference to her. A merchant’s wife had as much right to wear beautiful lace as a duke’s daughter.
Ines laid the pieces on the table, spreading them out. Mrs. Reynolds studied them, but as Ines detailed the merits of each piece, the woman’s gaze seemed to wander—to the clock, to the door, and back to the clock.
“Are you feeling well?” Ines finally asked.
“Actually, no.”
Catarina felt shame that she hadn’t thought to ask how the woman felt or even to offer her refreshment. “Can I send for some tea?” she asked.
“That would be lovely, but I think a step in the garden might ‘elp me more.”
“Of course. I will be happy to show you.” Catarina escorted the woman to the garden, opening the door so she might go out and take a few deep breaths of air. Tigrino followed, but merely stared at the garden, not taking the opportunity to go out as he usually did. Catarina looked about for a bird or hedgehog, but she saw nothing that could account for his rapt attention out the door.
“I’ll take that tea now, if you don’t mind,” Mrs. Reynolds said, still taking deep breaths.
“Of course.” Catarina walked toward the kitchen to ask Maggie to prepare a tea tray. She found Maggie at a table slicing apples.
“What can I help you with, Mrs. Draven?”
“Would you bring some tea—”
The sound of Tigrino howling cut her off.
Maggie jumped up. “What the devil is that?”
“It sounds as though Tigrino is hurt.” Catarina raced back toward the garden door, but it was closed now and Mrs. Reynolds was nowhere to be seen. “What—?” She heard a sound and turned, spotting Tigrino crouched under a chair, licking his fur.
Ward marched in from his room. “What is the meaning of all of this noise?” he demanded.
“I do not know. Mrs. Reynolds stepped out and then Tigrino howled, and I cannot find Mrs. Reynolds anywhere. Ines!” Catarina called. “Ines?”
The parlor door opened, and Ines stood in the doorway, pale and visibly trembling.
“What happened?” Catarina rushed toward her.
“No!” Ines cried, holding a hand up.
Catarina froze, and watched as the form of Juan Carlos de la Fuente came into view behind her sister. “Buenas tardes, Señora Draven.”
Catarina felt her own skin turn cold and clammy. Her belly tightened until she could barely keep from doubling over. “What do you want?” she whispered.
“I think you know the answer to that.”
“Now see here!” Ward said, moving forward and acting as something of a shield for Catarina. “I don’t know who you are, but you will have to leave.”
Juan Carlos held up a sharp blade, pressing the flat of it against Ines’s cheek. “Not just yet. If you do not want Señorita Neves cut into small pieces, I suggest both of you step into the parlor.”
Catarina exchanged a look with Ward, whose face was flushed and whose eyes were bright. He looked angry rather than frightened, and that gave her courage. She moved forward, following Ward. Ines took slow steps backward until they were all inside the blue parlor.
“Close the door, will you?” Juan Carlos said sweetly.
Catarina closed the door but not before Tigrino streaked inside, darting under one of the chairs.
Juan Carlos gestured to the chairs with his knife. “Sit, please.”
Catarina and Ines sat. Ward stood, defiant. “Who are you? You have no right to be here.”
“I may have no right, but I am holding the knife. Sit.”
Ward sat in the chair beside her, perched on the edge of his seat.
“Who else is here?” Juan Carlos asked. “What other servants?”
“No one,” Ward said. “I’m the only servant.”
Catarina thought of Maggie in the kitchen and hoped she did not come to investigate.
“Good.”
“Juan Carlos, it is me who has angered you. Let the servant and Ines go.”
“I could do that,” he said with a smile. “But then they might fetch someone to help you before my plan is complete.” He’d moved closer, standing over her with the knife angled toward her.
Catarina swallowed. “And what is your plan?” she asked, though she thought she knew.
“I am leaving England,” he said. “But first I will kill you.” He raised the knife, and Catarina let out a gasp. But before he could strike her with it, Ward leapt from his chair and plowed hard into Juan Carlos’s exposed belly. Juan Carlos stumbled back, Ines screamed, and Catarina saw blood. Ward pushed forward, and Juan Carlos fell, but he must have sunk his knife into Ward before he fell, because the servant’s arm was bleeding as he staggered away from Juan Carlos.
“It’s only my arm, madam.” He weaved toward the door.
“Run, Ward!”
“Yes, run,” Juan Carlos said, standing again. “Go fetch your master so he can see the blood I spill while it’s still fresh.”
“No!” Ward made to attack Juan Carlos again, but Juan Carlos charged him, this time grasping him by the back of the neck and propelling him toward the door. He opened it and tossed the bleeding servant into the receiving room.
“Go fetch your master.” Juan Carlos slammed the door closed and moved a table in front of it. He tossed the knife from one hand to the other. “Now that it’s just the three of us, I can get to work.”
BENEDICT RAN DOWN THE winding staircase, almost tripping on the royal blue carpet. He took the last few steps two at a time until he was in the wood-paneled vestibule where Ward sat in a chair, Neil Wraxall on one side, tying a piece of cloth around his arm, and Duncan—he hadn’t even known Duncan was in Town—telling Ward, “Dinnae fash. It’s the man hisself.”
“What the hell happened?” Benedict roared.
“Don’t worry about me. It’s your wife.”
The room seemed to spin. The lights from the chandelier winked out for a moment before Benedict grasped the banister and took a deep breath. “What about her?”
“He’s come for her. The Spaniard.”
“Where are they?”
“Jermyn Street.”
“I’ll kill him,” Benedict said, starting for the door.
“I’ll go with you,” Duncan announced. “It’s been an age since I killed a man.”
Benedict didn’t protest. Duncan had been known as The Lunatic among the men of his troop, and if there was ever a time Benedict needed a madman at his side, it was now.