“She used those words? She said we were on the verge of an understanding?” His words came out short and clipped, and he began to walk faster.
“She did.”
“I cannot imagine where she got that idea.”
Catharine almost had to trot to keep up with him. “I can tell you. You bought her an ice.”
“Yes, I bought her an ice. I also bought her mother an ice. The pair of them had been chattering ceaselessly about Gunter’s since they arrived in town. There was no way not to buy them ices.”
“There’s more,” she said, suddenly enjoying this conversation very much indeed, though she did feel a pang of sorrow on Miss Andrews’s behalf.
“For God’s sake, Catharine! Tell me.”
“When the pair of you met Mrs. Watson in the park that day, Mrs. Watson said that she thought you should involve women more in the affairs of the Society. You said, I believe, ‘I couldn’t agree more.’” James nodded his agreement. “Well, you looked at Miss Andrews while you said it.”
“And?”
“That’s all.”
“I looked at her?”
“It must have been a significant look.”
“If the look was imbued with any sentiment at all, I can assure you it was willing her to go home.”
A tiny spark of hope ignited in Catharine’s chest. But that was absurd, because she wasn’t looking to marry. So why did she care if she’d misunderstood James’s status? “So you’re not engaged?”
“No.” He stopped their progress and pulled her around so they were facing each other, one of his hands on her lower back, the other removing her hand from his arm and clasping it in his own. His green eyes bored into hers, as they had that night in his rooms. As they had that night in her room. As they had every time they were alone together. “No. I promise you, I am not engaged.”
Catharine had to hold her breath to keep a sob of relief from escaping. Though he was only disavowing a promise to another, it felt very much as if he were making a pledge to her.
But that was ridiculous. Men like James didn’t make pledges to women like her. She cleared her throat. And even if they did, the last thing she wanted was to be beholden to a man again. “Well, perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Miss Andrews could be a great help to you in your work, and she seems genuinely fond of you.”
Her words broke the spell between them, and James rolled his eyes. “Miss Andrews, bless her heart, is a child without an original thought in her head. I can’t imagine getting through breakfast with her, let alone a lifetime.”
Catharine couldn’t help but feel buoyed by his emphatic tone. As they approached the lake, James bent down and gathered a small handful of stones and skipped them one by one across the smooth surface of the water.
After a minute or so of silence, Catharine said, “Well, I must admit to feeling somewhat relieved. When she led me to believe that she was your intended, I was quite overcome by guilt that I had—” She stopped abruptly, mortified by what she had almost said.
“Ruined me? Taken my innocence?”
How awkward. Catharine couldn’t decipher his tone. She hesitated, unsure how to respond. James handed her a stone and cracked a grin. She smiled in return, her chest fluttering with relief—and something else. “I don’t think you were too terribly innocent to begin with.” She squinted at the lake. “I’ve never been any good at ducks and drakes,” she said, trying to mimic the quick flick of his wrist as she threw the stone. “In fact, I think perhaps you were rather wicked when I found you, underneath all that bluster about reform.”
“You’re doing it wrong.” He glanced around, then grabbed her hand and towed her toward a nearby willow tree on the shore. The tree’s cascading branches provided a tidy shelter. He stepped behind her and pulled her against him. Her breath caught as he brushed his hand along her arm, extending both their arms out to one side. “Here.” He pressed another stone into her hand, positioned her fingers on it, and covered them with his own. “It helps if the stone is flat, like this one.” He spoke slowly and low, directly in her ear, sending shivers down her spine. With a quick twist of his wrist, the stone went skipping across the water.
Catharine laughed in triumph and moved to pull away, expecting him to release her, but he did not. She could feel his chest, an unforgiving wall against her back, and his legs against hers, just a few layers of muslin and wool a barrier between them. His breath was warm as he spoke against the nape of her neck, voice thick and rough. “I don’t have any regrets. I was simply waiting for the right lady to present herself. I have very exacting taste.”
Speech failed her as he pressed his lips against her neck, scraping slowly up until he reached her earlobe. What was she doing? She couldn’t just let him do this, could she? With a nip, he released her and stepped away, leaving her breathless. Did he think they had come to an understanding? Because they hadn’t. She hadn’t. She couldn’t.
“I must return to Birmingham.” He was suddenly all business, and she had to struggle to make the transition with him. “I will come to you again in a fortnight. I trust I will find you at home?”
She knew what he meant. But she couldn’t lie to him any more than she already had. “For the most part. On Saturday night you will find me at Madame Cherie’s.” She tried to imbue her words with a casual confidence she did not feel.
“No.” His eyes narrowed. There was the hunter, the emerald-eyed predator.
“James, I can’t explain, but I have an obligation, and I can’t just—”
“No. You will not go back there.” Each word was enunciated with great care, and though on the surface he spoke calmly, she knew a cauldron bubbled just beneath the surface.
She opened her mouth to protest, to tell him he had no claim to her—that no man had a claim to Lady Cranbrook—but before she could speak, his mouth was on hers, his hands clamped on either side of her face. Sensation, heat, wanting—all these things and more she could not name shot through her, and she moaned in spite of herself. He took the opportunity to invade her mouth with his tongue, so soft but so insistent. He stroked her mouth, and she felt each lick simultaneously in her core. Twining her fingers in his raven hair, she opened her mouth wider, wanting to pull him inside her, to swallow him entirely, not caring that they were risking everything with such a display in public. If they were discovered, she would have to let him claim her.
He pulled back and sucked in a breath, then one hand moved slowly, so slowly, to bridge the divide between them. Long, slender, elegant fingers hovered. It seemed that she would die waiting for him to touch her again. Her skin ached all over. When the hand descended it wasn’t her skin he touched, it was the ruby. He lifted it slightly, but instead of moving it aside to make way for his ministrations, as he had that night at Madame Cherie’s, he picked it up, holding it a few inches from her skin, and paused.
How could she expect him to be unaffected, after the tale she’d just told him about Charles? The necklace that always felt like it connected her to Charles suddenly seemed a burden, something she needed to apologize for. “I always preferred emeralds, anyway. I don’t know why I’ve clung so to this stone. It doesn’t match anything. It certainly doesn’t go with emeralds.”
“No!” He spoke so insistently that she jumped. “No,” he amended, in a softer tone. Lowering his head, he pressed his lips against the ruby, then laid it carefully back on her chest. “It’s a symbol of your loyalty, and it does you great credit.” His lips found hers again, soft this time, as he pressed featherlight kisses against her mouth. “Love is a funny thing,” he said, “in that there’s never a limited supply of it.”
No. She sagged against him, her legs giving way. She couldn’t let him love her. Could she?
He snaked his arms around her, crushing her to him. “There’s always enough love to go around,” he whispered. Then he kissed her cheeks, wet with tears. Reaching into his pocket he produced a handkerchief and followed his kisses with gentle blots.
&
nbsp; She couldn’t speak. Certainly the moment called for some words, for something, but her mouth refused to cooperate, to explain to him that she would never marry again. That she was and always would be her own mistress. It was too much. If she couldn’t speak, she needed to flee. To get away from him. From them.
He stood back, regarding her as if she were a painting he was contemplating. “You will not go back there,” he whispered.
It wasn’t a question.
She shook her head. “No. I won’t.”
She lied. And it broke her heart.
Chapter Eleven
Catharine awakened the next morning after a fitful night spent torturing herself reliving her encounter with James. How could ten minutes skipping rocks with a gentleman upend everything in her heart so utterly? Make her question everything she’d thought she held dear?
She feared the answer: love. He’d said the word. There’s always enough love to go around.
Of course he hadn’t made a direct pronouncement, but she very much feared there had been an unspoken promise there. She didn’t know what to do about it.
She had made one decision while tossing and turning last night, though. As soon as she could, she would quit spying. All she had to do was get this blasted business at Madame Cherie’s done, and then she’d tell Blackstone she was out. She felt a stab of guilt that she had spent yesterday evening at Madame’s. Allowing James to think there was an unspoken agreement between them was one thing. Having gone to Madame’s the very same day she’d promised him she wouldn’t? It was outright deception, and it made her feel wretched.
But, she consoled herself, it truly seemed that the end was in sight. As planned, Blackstone had been visiting the whorehouse, feigning an interest in Amelia. And he was doing an excellent job, judging by his performance last night. Truly, the man was a master. Catharine had watched him arrive at the ten o’clock gathering and attend Amelia with the perfect mixture of confidence and vulnerability. He brought her a single red rose, whispering something in her ear that made her blush as he presented it. The other girls were abuzz with the news of the mysterious earl, usually so serious and taciturn, making such an overt display of his preferences. It was like a fairy tale. A fairy tale in which the hero was a master manipulator. If she hadn’t known better, even she would have believed his tendre genuine.
Blackstone reappeared with Amelia in advance of the midnight gathering, professing a desire to dine with her. As usual, all eyes were on them.
Catharine watched Biedermeier arrive just before midnight with Mr. Bailey, who reported later that the gunmaker had been irritated to find his preferred lady already engaged. But when told the identity of her aristocratic client, he’d shrugged and surveyed the room. He made his way to Jessica and sat next to her on a sofa.
He couldn’t have chosen better. Jessica was infinitely malleable, and she had a good heart. Catharine caught Mr. Bailey’s eye. Victory! And she hadn’t even had to do anything—Biedermeier hadn’t given her so much as a second glance. It allowed her to tell herself she was almost keeping her promise to James.
Later that evening, after the men had gone, Catharine had explained the situation to Jessica—and offered a generous payment. The girl was eager to cooperate. Everything was falling perfectly into place. If Jessica could truly get Biedermeier talking, they might even complete the mission the next time he visited—and then she could put an end to her short-lived career in espionage.
Catharine rested her forehead against the cool windowpane in her bedchamber and willed herself to put last evening out of her mind. Soon she would be done. It wouldn’t solve everything, but at least then perhaps she could think clearly about what she wanted.
She jumped a little when the door opened. Lucinda gave a little shriek. No doubt the maid was shocked to find her mistress, who could generally not be coaxed out of bed before having several cups of tea, standing at the window. The maid stood holding her tray, uncertain. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen these curtains open to the morning sun, my lady.”
“And a good morning to you, too, Lucinda. I think I’ll take my tea over here, on this table near the window.” Catharine moved a vase of pink roses to make way for her breakfast.
Lucinda moved around the room, tidying here and there before making her way into Catharine’s dressing room. “I assume you’ll be at home for callers this morning, my lady? Shall I bring out the blue silk?”
“No, I think I’ll go out. Perhaps I’ll call on Mrs. Watson.” If Daisy wasn’t in, she would visit some shops. “And not in the blue silk.” She glanced out the window. The garden was dappled with late autumn sun. “Do I still have that green spotted muslin? I think that will do nicely.”
Lucinda popped her head around the corner, brow creased in confusion.
Catharine almost laughed. “I’m sorry, dear Lucinda. I know, it isn’t like me! I’m in the mood for…something different.”
An hour later, dressed in a newly pressed white muslin dress with small sea green dots woven into it, Catharine set out for Daisy’s house. Of course, she looked ridiculous, a twenty-six year-old woman trying to pass herself off as a debutante. She’d tempered the effect with a forest green spencer. Perhaps she could convince Daisy to visit the shops with her. Catharine fingered the muslin of her gown, liking the white. She wanted more light in her life.
She was seized with the desire to renew her wardrobe, dispense with all the rich tones and sumptuous fabrics that no longer appealed. Perhaps it would be possible to shed her skin and emerge as someone else. Someone better.
She fingered the ruby at her throat.
Perhaps she’d grown out of it, too.
If James found it difficult to concentrate on the first day of school, he was not alone. The children buzzed with excitement. It made for a strange juxtaposition, because they were physically so waif-like and wan. It was like watching a group of ghosts chattering with one another. He began by dividing them into rows and passed out packages. Twenty-one parcels had arrived last night, twenty of them wrapped in plain brown paper, the twenty-first identical except for a tag that read, “Alfie.”
He knew what they would find inside, and struggled to conceal a delighted smile as small hands unwrapped slates, chalk, pencils, sheets of foolscap, primers, and all manner of other supplies. His pauper children had been outfitted as if they occupied the schoolroom of a doting aristocrat.
“Look!” a child of about seven whispered as he pulled a bag of boiled sweets out of his parcel. His awed expression tugged at James’s heartstrings. The others soon followed suit, exclaiming with surprise and pleasure as they discovered sweets and small toys inside their packages. These children had never before been the recipients of presents. They certainly owned no toys and had spent their lives too worried about getting enough to eat at all to concern themselves with sweets. The gifts were clearly the handiwork of his lady.
His lady. He glanced around, guiltily, as if his face somehow gave away his rogue thoughts. When had he begun to think of her in those terms? It wasn’t as if they had spoken openly about expectations. He was being overeager.
It was just that when she agreed not to go back to Madame Cherie’s, he felt as if he’d won her as surely as if he’d fought a duel for her honor. It wasn’t that he thought things would be easy for them, just that they had become inevitable. She was his, and he was hers. She might not fully realize it yet, but that was all right. He would be patient.
She was made of many layers, his Catharine. The wallflower betrayed and rejected by her parents had been papered over by the military wife. Left alone once more, wife became widow and the chilly, untouchable Viscountess of Vice was born. The final layer was Lady V, who literally wore a mask to disguise her true self. He used to think her disguises and defenses were dishonest, as he struggled over the riddle of who she really was. Now, he understood. She was all of those women and none of them. There was a true, inner Catharine, who was a combination of everything that had happened to her, the pr
oduct of everyone and everything she had loved. It was this Catharine he had seen glimpses of from the start, this Catharine he adored. This Catharine who belonged to him. And he sensed that his Catharine was trying very hard to emerge from underneath the layers of pain and protection that had accreted around her.
He would wait as long as it took. She was worth waiting for. She had been worth waiting for.
A tug on his sleeve drew him from his thoughts. Six-year-old Grace, with her big brown eyes and a face full of freckles, was shy and hesitant, but at their initial interview had proved herself to be quite intelligent.
“May I have my sweets now, sir?”
He squatted so he was eye-to-eye with her and smiled. “It’s up to you, Grace. You may do as you like.” Her eyes widened in surprise. “But,” he amended, “you should consider that if you eat all of them now, you won’t have any left. You should think about how you’ll feel later when they’re all gone.”
She looked thoughtful. “Perhaps I’ll have one piece now and save the rest for later, to eat a little at a time.”
“I think that’s a fine idea. That’s the way an intelligent girl would think.”
She grinned with obvious pleasure at the praise.
He turned his attention to his unruly charges. “Children! It’s time to begin our first lesson. Please take your seats.” They were to sit on the floor of the storeroom for the finished guns. Alfie and some of the men had helped him move as many of the weapons as possible into a seldom-used tearoom where Biedermeier sometimes conducted business meetings, and the rest had been moved to the far end of the room.
James had marked off places with small, numbered pieces of foolscap, hoping to approximate rows that one would find in a conventional schoolroom. He’d assigned each pupil a number and had already begun working on remembering the names, habits, and preferences of his charges.
Viscountess of Vice Page 16