Cat knew Marcus had seen Thomas. There was no other explanation for her brother’s knowledge of the details of her escape. Marcus advised her to claim that she had been accompanied by a loyal French maid—whom she had left happily enriched at Dieppe—when she recounted her adventure. The suggestion sounded like something Thomas would have concocted but she obeyed.
And then, a day later, Marcus returned with a thick packet of bank notes, his young countenance troubled. Thomas had insisted on making them the loan, he explained. Cat’s first impulse was to send the money back, along with a bouquet of his bloody roses. But practicality forbade such a dramatic, albeit noble, gesture; she couldn’t go about Brighton dressed in Hecuba’s sorry outfit.
Her sojourn in France having sharpened her eye, Cat assembled a wardrobe of extravagant chic. Madame Feille, only too happy to get firsthand accounts of the most à la mode fashions, promised to dispatch a few of the simpler gowns within a day.
By the end of the week, Cat and Marcus had rejoined society. Cat’s thrilling if mysterious flight from Paris secured them invitations everywhere. Forthwith, she became a minor celebrity. With each laurel, Cat inwardly cringed. Each commendation brought a denial to her lips. The ton considered her modest reticence further grounds for tribute. Accordingly, she was courted, her adventure the main course at many a fashionable meal. Each time she was asked to relate the tale, she was afraid she would look up in mid narration and find Thomas watching her in mock admiration.
He never was.
If not for the flowers, the notes, and Marcus’s occasional, unexplained absence, Cat would have thought Thomas had quit Brighton altogether. She decided to ignore him as thoroughly as he ignored her. But, God help her, she missed him.
And then, suddenly—inexplicably—it was over. The invitations stopped with humiliating abruptness. Women who had clutched their hands together in open admiration not twenty-four hours before averted their eyes in confusion when Cat entered a room. And men, with sad smiles, turned from her without uttering a word.
Cat knew what social ruin looked like. She had seen it from the fringes several times. It was not always ugly, vicious. It could be sad, inexorable, and apologetic. Like this.
She half suspected—and God forgive her, she more than half hoped—Thomas would come to her now. But wishing did not make it so. Even poor Marcus was undone by Thomas’s apparent defection. She knew her brother had finally sent a note to Thomas’s address. She knew, from the pale, strained expression on his far too youthful face, that it had gone unanswered.
There were many things to be taken care of, details to be ironed out, documents to be secured, debts to be called in. Thomas handled them all with grim resolve.
The reports sent by Marcus had not exaggerated; Cat’s reputation was destroyed. And Thomas was going to find the root of the evil rumors.
He made the rounds of places he had not been in years, gaming hells and houses of pleasure. His ears open, his eyes watchful, he spoke with men he had not passed words with in half a dozen seasons. Nothing much had changed. Some familiar faces were older, but younger ones had surfaced. The expressions were the same: sly, knowing, rapacious. Winks greeted Thomas’s arrival at Raggert’s clubhouse on the Steyne. Allusions to “exotic pleasurable devices” were pitched loudly enough to ensure he overheard them. The disreputable companions of his past clapped him on the back as he passed, welcoming him back into the fold.
He endured it all, seeking the source of the gossip. And after he found it, Thomas went to London.
To find Hellsgate Barrymore.
Thomas ran Barrymore to ground at a cockfight ten miles outside of London. In a dim, smoke-filled arena, Barrymore sat surrounded by his cronies, a coterie of drunken highborn devils made surly by the repeated failure of their birds to win. He was lounging in an incongruously ornate sedan chair, his long, black-clad body emphasizing the death-white pallor of his face, his thin lips smiling with satisfaction as he watched the violent dispatch of yet another gaming cock.
“Blood sports, Barrymore? I would have thought you’d be interested in more participatory pleasures,” Thomas murmured.
Barrymore’s deep-set eyes flickered sideways, his surprise at Thomas’s appearance immediately masked. His companions paused in their raucous encouragement of the birds, their attention diverted by the more interesting play now unfolding.
“Hmm. Yes, Montrose. Usually,” Barrymore said.
“Something which forces you to extend yourself, perhaps? Really test your manhood?” Thomas’s voice remained soft.
“I’m accounted fair in a number of ‘manly’ pursuits, as, I believe, are you.” Hellsgate smiled lazily, acknowledging the appreciative snickers of his followers. “How about you?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t feign to place myself in your company. I never pulled the wings from flies to establish my masculinity.”
The smile died on Barrymore’s face.
“I hear there are any number of wingless flies in your filthy lair.”
The snickers grew more pronounced as the surrounding men, like a pack of jackals eager to exploit any weakness, turned their attention toward Hellsgate.
“They say that causing pain is the only thing that can excite you enough to make you of any use to a woman. There are even rumors you carry a bottle of flies about in your pocket in case you find some poor female desperate enough to accept coin to endure your attention. Rumors, I am sure,” Thomas said. “But you know what filthy things rumors are, don’t you, Barrymore? You’ll be pleased to know I severely remonstrated the talebearers.”
Barrymore’s thin brows rose in surprise.
“I promised them bugs alone would never coax you to readiness.”
The thin nostrils at the end of Barrymore’s long nose became pinched and white. “Satisfaction.” He hissed the single word.
“Not from what the doxies in Five Dials say.”
Barrymore uncoiled from his seat, his wiry frame tense with anger. “I demand satisfaction, you trumped-up cur!”
A beatific smile curved Thomas’s lips. “Thank you.”
“I will have my second—”
“Now.”
Barrymore frowned. Though he was known for his hot-blooded rages, some fundamental instinct urged him caution in dealing with this tall, preternaturally quiet man.
“Impossible,” Barrymore blustered in contempt. “It ain’t done and there’s no place where we can meet safely for swordplay.”
“Safe?” Thomas queried softly. “Oh, but this won’t be safe. Not at all. And swordplay? I believe as you issued the challenge, your code as gentleman binds you to comply with my choice of weapon. I have been too long from my country home and have a whim to bury my hands in manure. Fisticuffs.”
Barrymore’s head spun around, looking to his companions for the support he needed to deny this nobody his ridiculous demand. But the bloodthirsty crowd, eager for sport, nodded in vigorous agreement with Thomas’s assertion.
“Where?”
“Here. Now. Outside.”
“You’ll be sorry for this, Montrose. I’ll break your bloody neck,” Barrymore promised, leading the way past Thomas’s mocking bow to the field outside.
Ripping his coat off, Hellsgate flung it at one of a growing number of men who had given up the spectacle inside for the one without. A drunken gent raised his hand, waving a fat coin purse above his head. “A hundred quid on Barrymore!”
“Fifty on Montrose!”
The voices rose to a din, the shouted bets met and raised as the crowd jostled one another, ringing the two men, pressing closer.
Thomas shrugged out of his coat. A hand snatched it from his grip. He turned to look at his opponent.
Barrymore shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet, his body oscillating restlessly, his hands clasping and unclasping at his sides, his head moving in a snakelike motion as he evaluated Thomas. Hellsgate was an acknowledged whip and a fearless swordsman. His sinewy physique suggesting dangerous speed t
hat had made him a favorite sparring partner at gentleman Jack’s.
In contrast, Thomas was motionless. His pose was relaxed, his hands hanging open as Barrymore took his measure. He looked too lean for his great height and breadth, a starved bull being sized up for dinner by a bush wolf. With lightning rapidity, Hellsgate feinted forward to deliver a wicked blow to Thomas’s jaw.
The blow never landed. Barrymore pivoted on the balls of his feet, his head swinging as he looked around in confusion as he followed Thomas’s sudden movement. He threw another punch, and then a series of vicious, sharp blows which glanced off arms raised in near-negligent self-defense.
The crowd shouted at the combatants, eager for blood, impatient with the awkward, one-sided fight. Hellsgate flung himself at Thomas, seeking to batter him low in the gut. It was like pounding his fists against corded leather. There was no give to the man. Thomas deflected Barrymore’s most powerful blows, knocking his fists down just as they were about to make contact.
“Dog!” Barrymore panted, winded by his fruitless efforts. The howls of derision rising from the mob incited him, fury eclipsing his capacity to think. Spying a thick prod on the ground, Hellsgate snatched it up and wheeled around to bring the stout pole crashing into Thomas’s ribs. But Thomas grabbed the pole in its arc and wrenched it from Barrymore’s grasp, hurling it over the heads of the hooting mob. For the first time, fear tickled Barrymore’s self-confidence. Thomas’s eyes gleamed mockingly in his bronzed face.
Barrymore roared and flew at Thomas, intent on knocking him to the ground. And then, as if in thick, slowed motion, Barrymore saw Thomas raise one large brown hand. Hellsgate tried to twist clear, but he felt the impact of the open-handed blow catch the side of his face. His legs buckled as his head snapped backward with an audible crack.
Thomas caught him as he fell and pulled him upright, steadying him, one hand twisting into the white linen shirt. With the other hand, he slapped Barrymore brutally across the face, first with his palm, then with the back of his hand, then with his palm again. And then again, and again, and still again. The violence took on the savage cadence of a drumbeat as the rhythmic smack of hand against flesh echoed through the suddenly quiet crowd.
Clawing at the man holding him, Hellsgate sought to gouge the merciless black eyes impaling him. His nails scored the dark face above his. He saw the blood running in ruby rivulets, and yet Montrose did not seem to notice. Barrymore’s mind clouded as the relentless blows rained down on him, struggling in the implacable grip. Even more than the pain, he was aware of the humiliating spectacle he made, held upright and slapped nearly insensate by the silent man. As one might beat a dog or a servant.
“I’ll ruin you for this, Montrose! You won’t be accepted into the lowest fringes of society when I’m done with you!” he choked out desperately.
The upraised hand halted in mid-motion. Triumph welled up inside Barrymore. He had won! His position as Prinny’s confidant enabled him to make good the threatened social blackmail. Barrymore wielded the power to bring the swarthy giant to heel, like the cringing cur he was.
His lips twisted into a smile. Blood dribbled down his chin from his torn lip. He blinked, wanting to clear his sight to better enjoy Montrose’s helpless capitulation.
A chilling smile split Montrose’s face. Disbelieving, Barrymore heard the man laugh, a sound bereft of amusement.
Thomas leaned toward Barrymore, still dangling from a single fist, until their faces were inches apart.
“You pitiful fool,” Montrose whispered in his ear. “You bloody ass. I am a war hero, for God’s sake.” He made the tribute sound like a curse. “Do you think society will rally round you, you swine? You, who skulked drunkenly in carnal houses while I played the bloody hero for them. I severed heads for them! I butchered Frenchmen for them. For the Regent. For the bloody empire! Do you think now, with Napoleon gathering forces, the ton is going to give a rat’s ass about your whims, your offended consequence? They’ll look at the beating I give you and be delighted I am still in fighting trim!”
Like a cornered vermin, Barrymore fought for survival, kicking his legs out, spitting and twisting in the merciless hold. It was useless. Another blow, and the blackness swallowed him.
The crowd was silent, stunned by the coldblooded vehemence they had just witnessed. With machinelike motions Montrose had battered Barrymore insensible, seemingly impervious to Barrymore’s own numerous blows. Such passionless violence seemed unnatural, even by their standards.
Thomas slowly scanned their number. His intensity made them uncomfortable, unnerved.
“You may take your ‘friend’ away now. And bear in mind that I am not one of you. I am unconcerned with your censure or approbation. But I will answer any future intimations concerning my wife with a savagery you can’t begin to imagine.”
Chapter 28
There was nothing Marcus could do. He was simply too young and too inexperienced to deal with the ton’s disapproval. A single week ago, it had looked as though Cat were destined to be one of the favored stars in their shifting firmament. Today she was excluded with chilling finality. A few brave, foolish souls risked their own censure to whisper surreptitious words of greeting to her. But they dared venture no closer toward the thin line of expulsion.
Cat seemed oblivious to the slights. She was as serene as if she were a novitiate in some cloistered order. Only Marcus understood the cost of the pretense and saw her distress in the telltale quiver of her hand as she took his arm for their daily stroll in the park. It fed his burgeoning sense of insult. Thomas Montrose had apparently gone to ground after hearing from Marcus’s own pen about the disgusting insults being heaped upon Cat’s head. And all Marcus could do was silently escort Cat.
Cat would not say a word about Montrose. Then one morning, two weeks after her arrival in Brighton, Marcus came to her room to inform her that she had a visitor.
“Giles Dalton, Marquis of Strand, is down in the lobby, Cat.” He watched her carefully, uncertain how the arrival of her erstwhile suitor would affect her. Though she did not lift her eyes from the book open in her lap, she stopped reading.
“He begs a word. I have told him you are not receiving visitors, but he insists.”
“Show him up, Marcus.”
“Cat, I don’t think this is wise—”
She lifted her eyes and for the first time in days her smile held a hint of honest amusement. “I believe there is some adage about a barn door and an already absent horse. I confess, I am eager to hear why Giles ventures where others are loath to tread. No doubt it adds to his reputation as a dangerous man. On such banalities is notoriety founded.”
“I won’t leave you here alone with him.”
“Pish. You may lurk outside the door if you wish, but you haven’t my leave to embarrass me with your protective posture.”
Cat did not look overset by the prospect of an interview with Strand but still, Marcus wavered at the door, unwilling to allow her to open herself unsuspectingly to yet another wound. But after reading the determination in her posture, he went to fetch Strand.
Cat looked down at the book in her lap, absently noting she was still on the first chapter of the dratted thing, even though she had opened it over an hour ago. She closed it, frowning slightly.
She was glad Giles had safely made the trip from Paris. But she had never doubted he would. His financial resources and social connections had all but assured his safe passage.
It was this unfathomable visit that interested her. She could see no reason for it. She hadn’t believed her own flippant comments to Marcus. Strand was too much of a gentleman to use her fall from grace to further his own reputation and too much of a stranger to upbraid her for her indiscretion. Indeed, Cat had been candid in telling Marcus she was curious. Nothing more.
Now, if it were Thomas begging an audience… But it wasn’t. His desertion had robbed her of more sleep than any of the snubs she daily encountered. And, too, she was worried about Marcus. He wa
s changing, his sweet nature eroded by this, his first real introduction into society. Poor Marcus. He so keenly felt her own presumed distress. He would never understand that her pain had been orchestrated by an altogether different source.
But then, Cat hardly admitted it to herself. She was nearly as confused by Thomas’s disappearance as she was wounded by it. It was the last thing she would have expected of him, so unlike everything she knew of him.
Giles Dalton, Lord Strand, entered, interrupting Cat’s thoughts. His usual elegant saunter was replaced by a hurried gait. His linen, always so flawless, was crumpled. The cravat at his neck was pulled together haphazardly. His gray eyes lit on her immediately. He turned, speaking a few curt words to Marcus, who closed the door with a scowl.
Strand came to her side, stopping to plant his lean legs apart and clasp his hands behind his back in a military attitude of respect.
“Lady Catherine,” he said.
“Lord Strand. I am pleased to see your return to London was a safe one.”
“Yes. I arrived yesterday.”
“How kind of you to visit me so soon after your arrival,” Cat teased gently. “Such haste must be exhausting. Won’t you please be seated?” She motioned him to a chair.
He seemed taken aback by her cajoling tone, his eyes widening. “No, thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I trust you are well?”
“I enjoy unremarkable health, yes.” Cat was increasingly amazed by the change in the man. His usually impeccably groomed hair was tousled. Tension tightened a physique she had become used to thinking of as indolent. His lazy, bored expression had become sharp and focused.
“Good,” he said. “Your well-being is important to me.”
“You are kind.”
“No.” For the first time a familiar look of amusement appeared on his lean face, his sardonic humor colored by self-deprecation in his tone. “No, ‘kind’ is a word few would apply to me. Including myself. ’Tisn’t kindness which prompts my visit.”
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