A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

  Addie’s scream pierced the air, and he took off at a run for the nursery at the end of the hall. Probably nothing. Tabby could have taken away something the little one shouldn’t have had. Or said no to something she wanted. There were countless reasons a nine-month-old would scream.

  But Rushworth was in his house, and the sound lit panic.

  He charged into the room and nearly collided with a shaking figure trying to back out. A Rushworth—or she used to be—but not the brother. Catherine gripped the doorframe and turned wide, wet eyes upon Cayton.

  Addie was on the other side of the room, safe in her nurse’s arms. Tabby looked more frustrated than alarmed, which surely meant that nothing was wrong, not really.

  The nurse dipped into a curtsy. “My apologies, my lord. The lady just stepped in to say hello, and you know how Addie can be around strangers. Just started screaming, she did.”

  A gasp drew his gaze back down to the woman beside him. No, not a gasp—a sob. Catherine pressed a hand to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut, turning to the hall.

  Not quite knowing why, Cayton stayed her with a hand on her shoulder. “Kitty?”

  She shook her head and shrugged away from his touch, stepped fully from the room. It was then that he noticed how gaunt she had become since he’d last seen her. Her frock hung on her, her cheeks were hollow. When she shook her head, a lock of golden hair slipped free, and she didn’t even tuck it behind her ear. So very unlike the meticulous, preening woman he’d known most of his life.

  “I’m sorry.” Even her voice was strange, filled with a pulsing ache. “I didn’t mean to upset her, Cayton. I only wanted to see how she’s grown.”

  “You’ve no need to apologize. She is wary of strangers—that is all.” Of every one of them but Ella, it seemed. Though at the moment he would focus on the young lady before him rather than the one a mile away. “How have you been, Kitty?”

  Whatever string had been holding her taut seemed to snap. Her shoulders sagged, her spine bent, her chin dipped down. Still, he didn’t miss the tears that dripped onto her cheeks. “He keeps telling me I have to put it behind me. I have to move past it. As if there is anything left in the world that matters.”

  Addie’s crying had ceased, and now she strained against Tabby, reaching for him. “Dadadada!”

  His heart twisted within his chest. How would he feel if his child were ripped from his arms? And her Byron had been just the age Addie was now when he died. So lively, so interactive. So quick to rejoice in the presence of a loved one, so opinionated. At an age so very dear, when a child’s personality really began to emerge.

  He held out his arms so Tabby would bring her to him but didn’t step away from Catherine. If he did, he had a feeling she would flee. His daughter nestled happily into his arms, though she buried her face in his shoulder rather than face the stranger.

  The lady blinked rapidly and wiped the tears from her face. “When last I saw her she was the tiniest thing. Now look at her. So lovely.”

  Cayton rubbed a hand over Addie’s back. “She is. I only wish Adelaide could see her. She would be so proud.”

  “She would be.” Sniffing, Catherine folded her arms across her middle. “You have that, at least. Pratt, on the other hand . . . I loved him my whole life, but I was little more than a convenience to him. He didn’t even care that we were having a child.”

  “Oh, Kitty.” What was he to say? They had both lost a spouse, but that was where the similarities in their stories ended. “You were more than a convenience. And he would have loved his son.”

  Her eyes had gone unfocused, giving her a dazed look that was more than a little startling. How long had she been like this? It was no wonder Rush had gone to such lengths to try to stir her from such a stupor. Though Cayton had never liked the catty, backbiting, often duplicitous Catherine, at this moment he would have preferred that woman to this hollow shell who looked ready to crack and crumble.

  “Do you think so?” She didn’t look at him, didn’t sound as though she had the least drop of hope that his answer would be what she wanted. “Crispin always just snaps that Pratt never spoke of such things. Of his heart.”

  Pratt hadn’t spoken of such things. Not for the most part. But still, Cayton had known Pratt well enough to read between the lines. He’d known, as Pratt surely had, that Catherine was the only woman he’d cared for on a deeper level.

  Even if he would have readily tossed her over to get at the diamonds, had that been an option.

  “I suppose your brother wasn’t his chosen confidant for such thoughts, Kitty. But I assure you, he loved you. I always knew it. He spoke of you differently than anyone else.” With hefty doses of cynicism and the occasional coarse reference to her willingness to go into his arms, but Cayton saw no need to mention that.

  Honestly, he could hardly believe he had to mention any of it. She had seemed more bent on revenge than devastated after Pratt’s death nearly two years ago. But perhaps that was because she had his son to live for. Now she had . . . nothing.

  No wonder she stared into space and questioned what the point of her life had been. She had focused all her efforts for years upon marrying Pratt. And what had it gotten her but misery?

  Catherine edged away. “Thank you, Cayton. Again, I’m sorry to have upset your daughter. I think I . . . I had better rest. The trip was difficult.”

  A man stepped from the adjacent hallway, where the guest bedrooms were located. Cayton recognized him vaguely as Rushworth’s valet. Dorsey, wasn’t it? “This way, my lady. Lareau’s waiting to help you settle.”

  Catherine, eyes downcast, slipped toward the man. He reached out as if to guide her around the corner, but she shied away from the touch.

  “Come to Tabby, Addie.” Speaking at a hush, Tabby eased forward with arms outstretched.

  Cayton transferred the girl back to the nurse’s arms. Much as he could have used a few more minutes of holding her, it was time to confront Rushworth. Especially, he saw as he stepped toward the stairs, since the man was standing at the base of the staircase, his gaze on Cayton.

  His old friend looked up at him as he’d always done. Eyes unreadable. Face a mask of emptiness. Both paired perfectly with his habitual silence when around any more than one other person. For the first months of their acquaintance as adolescents, Cayton hadn’t even heard him speak—at the time he’d thought him little more than Pratt’s shadow.

  In recent years, however, he had begun to wonder who was the shadow and who the clever puppeteer. He couldn’t quite manage a smile as he descended the stairs and stopped before his uninvited guest. He could only force a nod. “Rush. I am surprised you came directly here—I hadn’t time to get a letter to you telling you I wasn’t at Azerly Hall.”

  Not so much as a twitch of the lips, not so much as a blink out of turn. “And I hadn’t the time to coddle your sense of privacy, my friend. It was no great secret where you were spending the spring, nor any great difficulty to discern it. Please.” Rushworth held out a hand toward the drawing room. A rather audacious command, given that Cayton was the host, not the guest. “There is much to discuss.”

  Cayton stayed rooted to the spot. “I’m sure there is, but I must first get a note off to my cousin. He was planning on joining me for supper tonight, but obviously—”

  “Perfect.” As always, Rushworth’s voice remained even. But a glint lit his eyes ever so briefly. “I was hoping for such an opportunity. Paris may have failed to stir my sister, but seeing Brook again just might. Our cousin always did bring out Kitty’s competitive side.”

  And his cousin would let loose his furious-duke side if Cayton let him walk blindly into such a situation. He shook his head. “Brook wasn’t planning on coming, just Stafford.”

  “Well, in that case.” Rushworth waved a hand toward Cayton’s study. “Do send a note inviting the duchess as well. Tell them we’re here and would like to have a conversation—that will surely convince Brook to join her husband. She can ne
ver turn away from a fight.”

  A fight he was none too keen on having in his house, with his daughter just up the stairs. “I really don’t fancy getting involved in this argument between you, Rush—”

  “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Cayton blew out a long exhale. Either way, a note needed to be sent. And best just now not to tip his hand—whatever hand he might have—until he and Stafford had planned their course of action.

  Why had they not done so last week? Why had he been so content to focus solely on studying the Word with his cousin in the morning, pushing away all thought of what he’d known would be coming? Stafford had said something about the wisdom of putting on one’s spiritual armor first, true, but . . .

  He stalked to his study, grateful that at least Rushworth didn’t follow. But what if Cayton wasn’t strong enough for this? What if his faith wasn’t great enough to let the Lord’s strength work through his own weakness? He had, after all, far more experience in making a mull of things than in solving problems.

  Pulling forward a piece of paper, he unscrewed the lid from his fountain pen, not even bothering to take a seat. He merely leaned over his desk and dashed off a quick note. Rush and sister arrived already. They ask that Brook join you here tonight. If you don’t come, we’ll talk in the morning.

  It would do. He folded it, shoved it into an envelope, and went in search of Gregory’s grandson, Ronald, to run it over to Ralin. The boy was half-duck, it seemed, always happy to go out in the rain. Perhaps because he knew the chef at the castle always had a biscuit or two ready to give him for his trouble. He found the twelve-year-old hovering in the kitchen, obviously hoping for just such a task.

  With no other excuse for dallying, Cayton trudged back to the drawing room, where Rushworth stood before a portrait of Adelaide sitting in her favorite spot, under the little miniature pavilion beside the fish pool.

  The man acknowledged his presence by motioning to it. “I am rather surprised you left this up—I assume it is a relic of her days as Miss Rosten.”

  Cayton shoved his hand into his pocket to keep from curling his fingers into a fist. “On the contrary, it was done just a year ago. She was actually expecting when she posed for it, though the artist didn’t paint her so.” He nearly had, but upon realizing he had no other good-sized portrait of his wife, he had thought it better to put her to canvas in her natural state.

  Rushworth grunted. “A rather flattering representation, don’t you think? I don’t believe I ever saw your wife with such color in her cheeks.”

  Cayton dug his fingers into his leg. “She was always at her best here at Anlic.” And who was he to accuse Cayton of a false representation—even if he had no idea Cayton was the artist? He cleared his throat. “But I daresay you didn’t come just to critique the portrait of my wife.”

  “No.” Rushworth turned and helped himself to a seat. In Cayton’s favorite chair. He hooked an ankle over the opposite knee and steepled his hands, staring at Cayton long and hard. “You are seeing more of your cousin than you once did.”

  Another something the man shouldn’t know. Cayton sat, forcing his stiff back to relax into the sort of pose he once would have adopted when speaking of Stafford. A bit belligerent, more than a little irritated. Because until he knew what Rushworth wanted, it was probably best not to shout out that he was on Stafford’s side in this particular war. “He requested that we be friends. And who am I to turn down the duke?”

  Rushworth’s lips curled up a degree. “It is a useful connection, at that. And I am glad you have fostered it. I need your help, Cayton.”

  Shifting, Cayton made no attempt to hide his scowl. “If this has to do with that diamond business that got Pratt killed, I want nothing to do with it.”

  “A position I well understand. But hear me out.” Both feet on the floor again, Rushworth leaned forward. “Pratt was killed because he was, as usual, too impatient. Too headstrong, refusing to listen to reason. Had he done as I suggested—but he never would, and because of that he got his due deserts.”

  “Deserts I do not wish to share.”

  “I assure you, neither do I.” Was that worry that flickered through Rushworth’s blue-green eyes? Cayton had never seen the emotion in the man to know how it looked on him. “But apparently our late friend accepted a good-faith deposit upon the Fire Eyes from his buyer. Which, of course, he spent on that ramshackle home of his. I had no idea at the time, but . . . Cayton, if I cannot deliver the diamonds to the buyer by June, my sister will be expected to pay Pratt’s debt. A debt we haven’t the funds to cover, and I dare not guess at how the man will extract payment.”

  Yes, definitely worry. It increased tenfold, until it couldn’t be denied. Rushworth shook his head. “I’ll not lose my sister to this nonsense, no more than I’m willing to lose her to this blasted despair that has eaten her up.”

  Cayton’s frown pulled deeper. “Forgive me, Rush, but I don’t know how to help you. I could perhaps lend you a bit, but most of what’s left that Adelaide brought to the marriage is tied up in the mills, and—”

  “I did not come to you seeking a loan.” Frustration flashed through the worry. “What I need is your help finding the gems.”

  He and Stafford had been right. Though it brought little comfort just now. “How am I to help with that? I know nothing about them aside from what was in the papers. Stafford has told me only that the diamonds are colored. Blue, is it?”

  Rushworth looked at him as though he were daft. “Red. Far rarer than blue, which is why they’re worth a fortune, even being relatively small. Your cousin has said nothing else?”

  With a shrug, Cayton sifted through the few details Stafford had mentioned, trying to light upon something that Rush would deem useful but which Stafford wouldn’t deem wrong of him to share. He settled on, “He mentioned only that Brook doesn’t have them anymore.”

  “Ha!” Rushworth surged to his feet in a show of temper far greater than any Cayton had seen from him before. He strode to the window. “What they wanted everyone to think. Kitty saw Brook give jewels to the Duke of Nottingham, thought for sure he had them. But she gave him only rubies.”

  Dread sank in Cayton’s stomach. He and Stafford had to have a talk, without question. “How can you be so sure?”

  Rushworth spun to face him again. His face, again, blank and calm. “Last autumn my sister got to know the Duchess of Nottingham. The duchess told her where the diamonds were, and we’ve . . . seen them.”

  Not admitting to threatening the duchess or stealing the jewels, of course. That would be too much to hope. Cayton nodded. “And?”

  “And they were fakes. Rubies. I cannot think the cowardly duchess would have tried to dupe Kitty—which means that my dear cousin, Brook, duped Nottingham.”

  Cayton drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Or . . . she never had diamonds to begin with, but only rubies.”

  Rushworth snorted. “We had better pray that is not the case. And I would indeed find it difficult to believe. My uncle had them authenticated twenty years ago. My uncle had them hidden in a necklace. My uncle gave said necklace to Brook’s mother, who in turn left the necklace to Brook. Therefore, Brook had the real Fire Eyes—and I daresay she does still.”

  What could he do but shrug? Cayton had never made any attempt to learn about this particular business . . . and would rather not do so now. “As I say, Stafford has told me little. I am afraid I am of no help.”

  “But you can be.” Rushworth strode back to the chair and perched on the edge of the cushion. A plea entered his eyes, warming them, making his face vulnerable. Just another of his masks. “My cousin is unlikely to speak with me at all, much less hear my plea. Your cousin, however, is quite likely to trust you. You can learn what I cannot.”

  Cayton lifted his brows. “And risk Stafford’s wrath? After I’ve worked so hard in recent years to avoid it?”

  “As I said.” Rushworth settled deeper onto the cushion and produced a sma
ll smile. “I’ll make it worth your while. A third of the price the Fire Eyes will bring is enough to guarantee that even if your mills suffer or you place your bets on every losing horse at the races, you will still be able to live comfortably.”

  Able only to stare at him, Cayton let his mind flood with all the offhanded remarks Pratt had once made about the fortune that should rightfully be his. About exactly how huge it was. About all he could do with such funds, the improvements he could make on Delmore, the automobiles he could buy, the limitless pleasures that would be at his fingertips. Why in the world would Rushworth offer such wealth to Cayton? “I didn’t realize we were such good friends, Rush.”

  The other man breathed a laugh. “I know when to admit that I need aid—and that time is now. I have found a few of the servants at Ralin Castle willing to feed me information for a price, but they can do little but observe. And there is, at the moment, nothing to observe.”

  Cayton’s stomach twisted. Stafford would not be happy to learn that any of his staff had been bought. “Who is in your employ?”

  Rushworth chuckled. “No, no, my friend—you are new to this, but the first lesson you must learn is that I protect them by never mentioning their names—a courtesy I will also extend to you. Suffice it to say that anything that goes on at Ralin Castle or Whitby Park makes its way to me.”

  Stafford was going to be in a rage. And Whitby none too happy either. Cayton kept his face neutral. “Do you mean to steal them, as Pratt did?”

  “Of course not. I mean to inspire them to give them to me.” He smiled. But the frigidity of his eyes made Cayton wonder by exactly what means he intended to inspire them.

  Nine

  Kira sat with a sigh upon the narrow bed in the room she’d share with one of the maids at Anlic Manor, stretching out her leg. Just now, there was no point in hiding the wince at the pain in her knee. She probed it—it was swollen. No great surprise after so much travel. They had gone from train to boat to train to carriage, and during all of it she’d been expected to remain seated by Lady Pratt’s side.