“That is enough from you,” Saint growled.
Frost, naturally, was oblivious to his friend’s dangerous mood. “—brothels in all of London. We have to tell the others.”
Saint seized the earl by his coat and shoved him against the wall hard enough to make the nearby picture frames rattle. “Absolutely not. If you so much as hint of it, I will start with your tongue and work my way down.”
Three inches taller, Frost stared down his nose at Saint, his exotic turquoise-blue eyes shining as if there were a lamp in his hollow head. “My, my … you are not by chance threatening me? You might want to step back, my friend, and think twice before you raise your fist to me,” he said silkily. “The others won’t stop me from knocking you on your bloody arse.”
Saint grimaced and released his friend with a furious shove. He pivoted and scrubbed his face with his hands as he tried to collect his thoughts.
Catherine was Madame Venna. Madame Venna was Catherine.
Saint brought his fist to his mouth as he considered what to do next. He had no real desire to challenge Frost to a fight. Out of them all, the earl’s fists were the best in the sparring ring. Besides, Saint already felt like he had taken a punishing blow to his head. His brain could not seem to reconcile what had been right in front of him all along.
He jabbed a finger at Frost. “Not one word.”
The call for violence in the earl’s expression eased to something akin to pity. “You honestly didn’t know?”
Shaking his head, Saint sagged against the wall opposite Frost. “She has fooled everyone for years. How has she managed it?”
Frost calmly smoothed the wrinkles Saint had crushed into the front of his evening coat as he pondered the question. “It’s a remarkable ruse. Madame Venna uses half-masks and wigs like a player on stage. Even in an”—he discreetly cleared his throat—“intimate setting, the bedchamber is not well-lit and she never removes her mask.”
Saint glared at his friend, still resentful that Frost had bedded Madame Venna.
“Miss Deverall distances herself from the Golden Pearl so there is no reason for her life and Madame Venna’s to intersect. I suspect only a few people, if any, are aware that she lives two separate lives.”
“I’m to blame,” Saint said wearily.
“Really? How so?”
“I’m the one who found the piece of paper with Catherine’s name scrawled on it at the Golden Pearl. I thought she was some poor girl about to be sold to a brothel, and instead—”
“You became part of both of her worlds. Hmm…” Frost appeared thoughtful.
“What?”
“I wonder … beneath the lies and clever masks, which lady is real? Miss Deverall or Madame Venna?”
Both ladies felt damn real to Saint. He had hungered and lusted after Madame Venna to the point of madness, and Catherine ignited all his protective instincts. His feelings for both women were so muddled, he longed to punch something.
Saint eyed Frost, and considered it. He needed someone to knock some sense into him.
“Are you planning to tell Catherine that you know?” Frost quietly asked.
He exhaled noisily. “No,” he said, straightening. He was stalling, but soon he would have to return to the drawing room and face her.
The earl looked surprised. “No?”
“If I confront Catherine, she will merely shut me out of her life. Madame Venna, too.” Six years ago, he was punished for getting too close.
Clearly neither lady was comfortable with intimacy, nor the truth.
“You have the power to ruin her.”
Saint did not reply. He was quite aware that he could topple Madame Venna’s little kingdom and turn Lord Greenshield into a laughingstock for siring London’s most famous whore. Finally, he said, “I would not see her hurt because of me.”
“Then what do you want?”
“Honestly, I’m too angry to know what I want,” Saint admitted. “However, both Catherine and Madame V have amused themselves at my expense, and that doesn’t sit well with me.”
Understanding lit Frost’s gaze. “Do you require my assistance?”
“Your silence will suffice,” Saint replied tersely. “I will deal with Catherine and Madame Venna.”
Chapter Twenty-one
The evening had not been as unpleasant as Catherine had imagined. She had entered Lord and Lady Sinclair’s residence, uncertain what to expect. After all, she was planning to spend the evening with the Lords of Vice and their ladies. Over the years, her experiences with many of the unmarried members of Nox, combined with the tales her girls recounted of what transpired within their private club, led Catherine to believe that these gentleman could not be domesticated.
She had been wrong.
This had not been a gathering that rivaled one of the numerous private celebrations at the Golden Pearl. It had been a quiet affair, filled with laughter, debate, and genuine affection for one another. These people were a family. She had not expected to envy them for it.
“They surprised you, did they not?”
Catherine started at the Saint’s question. There had been little opportunity to speak with him after she had been introduced to Juliana, Regan, Sophia, and Isabel. A private smile curved her lips. The ladies had taken shy Catherine in hand and done their best to make her feel like she belonged. For a brief time, she had not been alone. It had been a novel experience.
“Yes, I did enjoy myself,” she confessed. “I like your friends, my lord.”
The interior of the coach was cloaked in darkness. Only the outside lamps had been lit. Even so, she could sense Saint’s tension and annoyance. It rolled off him like heat.
“The sentiment was returned. As we prepared to depart, the ladies seemed reluctant to leave you in my care. I believe they were concerned that I would ravish you in the carriage.”
A thrill of anticipation rippled up her spine. “Ridiculous,” she scoffed. Saint had been nothing but courteous to Catherine.
Seated opposite her, she heard him shift against the leather cushion. Perhaps he shrugged. “Well, my friends have known me for years.” He paused. “How long have you known me, Catherine?”
Her lips parted to offer a reply as her inner voice warned that he was speaking to Catherine and not Madame Venna. “Weeks” was her faint reply.
“Yes, weeks. So perhaps my friends were right to be concerned. You really do not know me at all,” he drawled.
Catherine shivered. If he had been any other man, she would have believed she was in danger. “Perhaps not. Nevertheless, you are an honorable gentleman. I—I trust you.”
Silence.
It was unlike him to be so quiet. It did not matter which guise she donned, Saint never had a problem with words. Had she offended him?
Finally, he muttered, “You’re cold. Why didn’t you tell me? Here.”
Soft whispers of fabric and the creak of leather could be heard as his coach clattered and rumbled its way to her residence. He leaned forward, and she mirrored his actions to accommodate him.
Catherine winced as her forehead glanced off his cheek. She inhaled sharply. “Forgive me. It is so dark—”
“Hush.” His evening coat settled over her shoulders like a blanket. “Warm enough?”
It would be warmer if you sat beside me. “Yes.” The residual heat from his body and his scent were familiar and comforting as she settled back into her seat. “Thank you.”
More silence.
She counted the beats of her pulse, which seemed to increase with each passing minute. It was maddening. If she were here as Madame Venna, she would not have been sitting so far away from Saint. A tête-à-tête in the middle of the night, polite discourse would have been unnecessary. There were other pleasurable ways to fill the silence. Regrettably, Catherine was a rather dull, well-mannered lady. She lived a quiet life on the outer fringes of the ton, and while her observations were beneficial to Madame Venna, she was a sexless creature.
So why
was Saint with her?
It was a riddle neither Catherine nor Madame Venna could solve.
When the coach halted in front of her terraced house, regret and relief battled within her heart. She reached for his evening coat as she prepared to return it to him.
“Leave it on.”
The coachman opened the door, dividing her attention.
Saint pulled the fallen fabric over her bared shoulder. “I’ll collect my property after I escort you to the door.” To the coachman, he said, “Drive on. When you can turn the equipage about, return and I shall be ready.”
The coachman touched the brim of his hat. “Aye, milord.”
“Saint, I can manage on my own,” Catherine mildly protested. “It is but a short walk.” Regardless, she felt his firm grasp on her arm.
“Indulge me,” Saint said, nodding to the coachman as the servant handed him the small lantern.
“Tomorrow I will send a note to Lady Sinclair and thank her for the fine evening,” Catherine said when they reached the front steps.
“Juliana will appreciate your kindness,” he replied, his voice hinting that his thoughts were directed elsewhere. “If I ask you to join me and my friends again, then you will accept?”
“I would be honored.”
Saint raised the lantern while she reached into her reticule to retrieve her key. The few servants she had would be in their beds. With her late hours at the Golden Pearl, Catherine was too used to looking after herself in the evening.
“And yet you declined the ladies’ invitation to join them and their husbands at Vauxhall. Why is that?”
Catherine hesitated at the question. Recovering quickly, she went about unlocking the door. “On the contrary, I did accept. I just refused to attend the gathering in costume as they were insisting.” She turned the key within the lock enthusiastically, and opened the door.
“It is a masquerade, Catherine,” he said drily. “Everyone dons masks and behaves like an arse.”
Not expecting him to follow, she stepped into the narrow dark vestibule. She did not need his lantern to find her way. “There is a candelabrum … here. If I may use your lantern to light a candle—”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Nothing.” She pivoted, stiffened as she gasped. Saint was standing directly behind her. “It is not fear that compels me, but rather disinterest. I have little patience for silly games.”
Saint smiled, his teeth gleaming in the shadowed interior. “Such modesty.” He opened the tiny glass door of the lantern to give her access to the flame. “I have a feeling you would excel at them given the proper incentive.”
The hairs on the nape of her neck prickled, cautioning her to tread carefully. With an inscrutable expression, she leaned closer to the lamp so she could ignite her candle. “My dress may be elegant enough for a nobleman’s table and my manners pleasing, but I am an outsider to your world, Saint. I do not belong.”
“Wrong. You choose not to belong.”
“On this, we will forever disagree. What I am, Lord Sainthill, is living proof that Lord Greenshield was reckless at least once in his youth.” She straightened, and her level gaze met his. “The man paid strangers to make his mistake disappear. What troubles him is that I have returned to London, and cannot be bought off or intimidated.”
Catherine turned away. Returning to the candelabrum, she began lighting the remaining candles. She heard Saint’s soft sigh.
“You will never know what Greenshield truly wants until you speak to him.”
“I am content with my life, Saint.” The corners of her mouth curled upward into a sad smile. “A noble sire and nightly masquerades will not turn me into a proper lady suitable to be seen with a handsome marquess.”
She twisted the remaining candle back into its socket. “Your coachman will sure—”
Unbeknownst to her, Saint lowered the lantern to the floor. He seized her by the shoulders and roughly spun her around. “You think I do not care? That I am solely motivated by my own interests?”
Catherine was so startled by his angry outburst, she answered him honestly. “I cannot trust myself around you. When I am around you, all sound reasoning escapes me. Why are you here, Saint?” Her fingers dug into his upper arms as fiercely as he gripped hers. “I am an inferior companion for a man in your position, and there are others … other women who are clever enough to profit from such arrangements. If that is what you are seeking, you have been flattering the wrong woman.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing, Catherine?”
She flinched at the harsh manner in which he uttered her name.
“You find my attentions flattering?” He did not wait for an answer. “It is the first time you have admitted it. Do you think I introduce courtesans to my friends and their wives? I may not have tried to live up to my name, but even I am not that contemptible.”
“I never thought—”
He ruthlessly spoke over her explanation. “How could you when you spend all of our time together contemplating the reasons why we should stay away from each other.”
To her utter surprise and shame, tears blurred her vision. “I cannot afford to be reckless with my reputation.” Or heart. “You, however, like my father, can walk away whenever you like.”
He lowered his head until they were nose-to-nose. “I realize that you are a little thickheaded when it comes to your low opinion of noblemen, but I want you to heed my next words. I am not your father,” he said, enunciating the five words. “Cease speculating on my intentions and judge me on my actions.”
The tears were gone. Now she just wanted to scream at him in frustration. The man had a way with words. He could debate and cajole until she was spinning in circles. “What are you trying to say?”
Some of her confusion must have been visible on her face. Saint cupped her face gently in his hands and used his thumbs to smooth away strands of hair. “Sweet Catherine, have you lived such a sheltered life that you’ve never been courted by a man?”
Catherine glanced away, letting him believe she was overwhelmed, which wasn’t far from the truth. However, it was not shyness that ruled her actions. While she had managed to live a quiet life as Catherine, her mind and body had not been honored and protected as Saint believed. His assumptions about her character made her feel ashamed. At least, when she confronted him as Madame Venna, he knew she was a whore and a liar.
“What? Tears?” Saint pressed his lips to the tear sliding down her cheek. “I liked it better when you were flattered.”
Catherine sniffed. She shook her head and softly chuckled at her reaction. Saint was dangerous to her heart when he was tender. His kindness weakened her in ways that frightened her, and she had a bad habit of striking out at any threat. It was one of the many reasons why she had shut him out of her life six years ago.
“You cannot court me, Lord Sainthill.”
“Ah, so you were listening. I was not certain you were paying attention,” he teased, tugging playfully on her right earlobe. “And I can do anything I please, Miss Deverall.”
She shouldn’t have laughed. It would only encourage him. “Your coachman is waiting for you.”
His lips quirked as he fought not to grin. “I knew you were different. When I court a woman, she usually begs me to stay.”
“How awkward for you,” Catherine said with feigned sympathy. She turned him around and bent down to retrieve the lantern on the floor. “Now go before you wake the servants.”
“You’re a hard woman, Miss Deverall.”
For both their sakes, she prayed he was right. “Leave.” She offered him the lantern.
Saint groaned. Catherine smiled, enjoying his exaggerated reluctance. It would be too easy to believe he was the smitten gentleman and she was simply Catherine Deverall. He reached for the lantern, but his fingers wrapped around her forearm and pulled her against him.
Her bodice flat against his chest, she tipped her head back to speak. Saint was anticipating this telli
ng action. His mouth covered hers as if they had practiced their embrace hundreds of times. Catherine savored the feel of his lips as his hot flesh pressed and rubbed possessively against hers. Good grief, the man knew how to kiss! Worried that she was going to douse them in hot lamp oil, she tightened her grip on the lantern.
Regret was in his gaze when he pulled away. “Your reputation.” Saint backed away.
Catherine nodded and offered him a weak smile. A part of her wanted him to stay even if it complicated her life in ways Saint could not fathom.
“Wait!” she called out as he opened the front door. “The lantern.”
He accepted the lantern she pressed into his hand, and caught her fingers before she could escape. “This is a courtship, Catherine Deverall.”
Stubborn man. “Lest you forget, Lord Sainthill. The lady has to be willing.”
“Oh, she’s willing, Miss Deverall,” he said, his gaze as intimate as a caress. “Sleep well and dream of me.”
He closed the door before she could deny it.
* * *
The coachman was waiting for him when he emerged from Catherine Deverall’s terrace house.
“Turned ye away, did she?” The man grinned as he opened the coach door for Saint. “Sharp, she is, this one.”
Saint merely grunted and handed him the lantern. The lady had certainly fooled him. He bowed his head as he entered the coach. “We have one more stop before we head home. The Golden Pearl.”
The coachman glanced back at the shut door. “Tied ye in knots, eh?”
“Nothing I cannot untangle on my own,” Saint replied smoothly, earning a gruff chuckle from the older man. He settled back into the leather seat cushion. The light fragrance Catherine had worn this evening teased his nose. “I only plan to tarry at the Golden Pearl long enough to deliver a message.”
Chapter Twenty-two
The transformation from Catherine Deverall to Madame Venna was relatively simple. No one on the street ever paid attention to the demurely attired woman with a veil obscuring her face who entered the Golden Pearl through the servants’ back entrance. The staff were used to her costumes and demands for secrecy. She certainly paid them well for their silence. Those who knew her only as Madame Venna thought she was eccentric, and the few who knew her as Catherine understood her need to escape the gilt cage she had built for herself.
All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess Page 13