The Black Cat

by Hayley Ann Solomon

  FOUR

  Mr. Daniel Pelliat murmured quietly under his breath. The earl—alerted to the fact that his lawyer must have something of great moment to discuss with him, since that gentleman did not habitually interrupt his morning’s review of the House speeches—set down the rather tedious paperwork and bade him enter with a smile.

  “Come in, Pelliat! Shall I ring for tea?”

  The lawyer shook his head emphatically. “Indeed not, my lord! It is merely that I wish—”

  “Boring legal documents, Pelliat?”

  Pelliat nodded, though he was not certain that boring was the correct description for the documents he carried.

  “My lord. . .”

  “Guy, Pelliat! Or if you must, Santana will do! I cannot abide niceties in my own home.”

  This was obviously not a new matter to the very correct Pelliat, who merely bowed rather gruffly and endeavoured not to bring his lordship’s name into the conversation again.

  “Uh . . .”

  “Yes, Pelliat?”

  “I feel certain that you shall wish to see this yourself.”

  “What is it?”

  “It is a last will and testament, my lord.”

  “Indeed? How very exciting, Pelliat! Not my own, I hope?”

  Pelliat could never quite detect the twinkle in the third earl’s mischievous eyes, so he almost always failed to note when the earl was funning.

  “No, indeed, my lord! In a manner of speaking, my—that is, Santana, ahem.”

  He concluded on a choke that caused his employer to chuckle in amused sympathy.

  “Manner of speaking? How cryptic, Pelliat! So tell me—if it is not mine, have I been left a worldly fortune?”

  “No. . .”

  “No? You disappoint me. A watch then? A keepsake?”

  Pelliat shook his head.

  “Come, Daniel Pelliat! Do not seek to slumguzzle me, I beg! If that is a testament you are waving in my face, there must be something bequeathed. Not so?”

  The lawyer nodded.

  The earl was patient. “Exactly what, Mr Pelliat, have I inherited?”

  “You appear to have inherited, my lord, a debt of honour.”

  The earl’s face, for the first time, clouded slightly.

  “Beg pardon?”

  Patterson cleared his throat a trifle nervously and wished himself outside on the castle lawns. Even, if necessary, in the well-tended moat—anywhere, in fact, other than where he now found himself.

  “Cut to the quick, Daniel! Or better yet, give me that damn paper!”

  The earl stretched out his hand and unceremoniously removed the document from his lawyer’s hand.

  “Good God! I cannot be reading this correctly!”

  “I am afraid you are, my lord.”

  “The gall of the man! Even in death he is the wiliest, most unscrupulous. . .”

  “Quite, my lord.”

  “What is to be done, Pelliat?”

  “Are the contents veracious, my lord?”

  The earl glared at him. “You are not actually contemplating upholding this drivel?”

  The lawyer shifted uneasily onto the other foot.

  “Well, my lord. . . It is just—well. . . Venus, you know, is famous!”

  “Venus is a cat, Pelliat! I fail to see any material connection.”

  “No, but. . . Well, it seems a remarkable coincidence that you acquired the feline at the very time that the marquis specifies in his testament.”

  “I am not disputing the origins of Venus, Pelliat! I am quite happy to admit that Fotheringham ceded her to me in payment of a gambling debt.”

  “And the girl?”

  The earl frowned. “Gracious, my good man! Do you think me a monster? I won her, it is true, but I immediately waived my right to the prize! I am not so desperate to get myself leg shackled that I must needs throw a dice to acquire a wife! Why, I do not like to boast of it, but I daresay there might be any number of young women willing to oblige me on this score.”

  Pelliat did not dispute this. He would have been a veritable greenhorn if he had tried to do so. The earl’s eligibility was obvious and not a matter of contention, as he rather sternly tried to point out.

  “What troubles me, your lordship, is what is to become of the chit?”

  “Heavens, I have not the foggiest notion! It is not, after all, my concern, and I refuse to marry on grounds as flimsy as these. Old man Fotheringham evidently took a gamble from his grave and it has not paid off. There is an end to it. For I assure you, if I sponsor her in any other way, I shall be guaranteeing her ruination. I am not so abominable as that.”

  “You would not consider acting as her guardian, my lord? The terms of the marquis’s will are sufficiently vague, I feel—”

  “No, I will not!”

  “You will not even meet with her. . . ?”

  “Jumping Juniper, Pelliat! How many times do I have to spell out the same thing? If the wench is out of pocket—and I cannot imagine that she can be—I can possibly help out in some entirely anonymous manner. Beyond that, my goodwill and tolerance has been stretched far enough for one morning, I believe.”

  Pelliat bowed. “Very good, my lord. I only inquired because there is no question of the young lady being an adventuress. She has been left all of Fotheringham’s unentailed fortune, which, as I understand it, is far from inconsiderable.”

  “Excellent, Pelliat, you relieve my mind, for I now no longer have to act as benefactor. And now, if you please, I suggest you return to your rooms in town. I should like very much to return to these speeches.”

  Daniel Pelliat knew when he was beaten. He bowed perfunctorily and stepped with great precision out of the chamber. The earl had just thrown away the catch of a lifetime. Miss Melinda St. Jardine was worth a cool forty thousand pounds a year. He sighed. Such matters, he knew, would not weigh with the likes of Guy Santana.

  In an office not too far from the one where Daniel Pelliat’s plaque gleamed gold in the morning sunlight, another man of law was soothing a ruffled client that morning. Miss Melinda St. Jardine was elegance itself in a dark merino morning dress with long sleeves and only a very narrow flounce visible on the petticoat. The simple, but stylish, attire was finished by a sash of deep black, tan gloves, and a filmy gauze veil that obscured the eyes yet somehow presented, to the town-weary solicitor, a certain mystique that he had hitherto found lacking in his female clients.

  Of course, the garb could not quite be considered full mourning and the spectacled man at the chestnut work desk had to frown, slightly, at this show of whimsicality—he hoped not levity—on the part of Miss St. Jardine.

  True, though, her fortune would no doubt compensate for this slight lapse in traditional etiquette. Besides, she looked charming in her garb. Yes, he would describe it as half mourning, even if a little unconventional in style. He smiled.

  “Miss St. Jardine, his lordship was most specific on this point. He requires you, if possible, to fulfill the terms of his wager. He believed that his honour was quite grounded in this point and I am certain, my dear, you would not wish to disrespect a man who has bequeathed you so much.”

  “No, indeed.” Miss St. Jardine’s tone tinkled with precisely the correct amount of humility. Her eyes, however, were flashing ominously. It was fortunate that the man at the desk was too shortsighted to notice.

  “What kind of a person, I wonder, would accept such stakes? I am a person, not a chattel!”

  The lawyer firmly shut his mouth. He would not retort with the obvious corollary. What kind of a grandfather would offer such stakes? He merely shook his head mournfully and suggested that there was not much to be gained by pursuing this lugubrious line of thought.

  “Ah, but I think, perhaps, that there is.” Melinda looked thoughtfully at the lawyer. “Is he handsome—this paragon I am supposed to be betrothed to?”

  Mr. Pendleton set down his quill pen and eyed her thoughtfully. “You really know very little about society, Miss St
. Jardine!”

  “My upbringing was unusual, as you know, sir. I have spent the last year adjusting to my new life and becoming . . . accustomed.” A tear sprang suddenly into her strange, rather beautiful eyes. She brushed it away fiercely before remembering her black embroidered handkerchief and dabbing in a more civilised manner.

  “My grandfather thought it wise to delay my presentation at Court for at least a year. I was privately presented last fall, but what with the season at an end and the marquis rather housebound . . .” She did not need to finish her sentence. The gentleman understood her perfectly. Whilst Miss St. Jardine was officially out, she was, as yet, an unknown quantity to the ton. He wondered how she would take, then smiled. The combination of her beauty, wealth, and unconscious charm would undoubtedly stand her in good stead, even with the high sticklers.

  His thoughts clouded, suddenly, with the notion that an innocent like her was bound to become the target of every fortune hunter in the book. He relaxed, suddenly, as he finally understood the intention behind the marquis’s bequest. Wily old fox! By marrying her off to Santana, he was at once providing for her safety, her reputation, and the perpetuation of her wealth and lineage. He only hoped the earl would fall gracefully into the trap. By all accounts, he was a wily one himself.

  Miss St. Jardine leaned forward curiously across the desk and repeated the question. “What is he like, then, this wagering wastrel?”

  “Wagering wastrel?” Certainly, he would not himself have referred to the third Earl of Camden in those terms, but under the circumstances, he could understand why the lady did.

  He cleared his throat portentously. It was not for him to enlighten her as to the manner in which the earl was circumstanced. If Fotheringham had desired her to know the extent of the earl’s fortune, he no doubt would have told her so at length himself.

  Melinda politely repeated the question, though Mr. Pendleton, accustomed to human foibles, could see that she was slightly impatient.

  “His lordship is excessively fortunate in his features, ma’am. I would be hard-pressed to describe him to you precisely, but since I am in regular correspondence with my colleague Mr. Daniel Pelliat, his lordship’s own council, I believe I might be able to secure a miniature likeness of him if you so desire.”

  Miss Melinda St. Jardine suppressed a passionate snort. Likeness! The man should be presenting himself to her door at the very least! A little piqued at his obvious negligence in this matter, she tilted her chin ever slightly and declared she could have no possible interest either in a miniature or in the original itself.

  Mr. Pendleton was not deceived. He could see his client burning with a natural feminine curiosity and pressed his lips together in a complacent smile. All, then, was as it should be. When she stood up, he was wise enough not to press the point. It was in this precise manner that the whole singular interview was brought to a close.

  Much, much later, in the stillness of the canary room—a little salon set aside exclusively for the comfort of the Marchionesses of Fotheringham—she allowed her thoughts to wander to that other gentleman that destiny had decreed peculiarly her own. She had felt it in her heart, in her wild, intuitive soul, though there could be no reason or logic attached to the instinctive belief.

  And now, she was ordered to ally her fate to one Guy Santana on not so much as a meeting, let alone a chance encounter in a storm. She smiled, for the inclement weather had only been half as violent as the tumultuous sensations she’d experienced in that other man’s arms.

  It made perfect sense—her cool English blood told her so. Marriages of convenience were commonplace—almost expected in her proper new world. If Fotheringham had ceded her to Santana she had no doubt he had a reason. In the year Melinda had come to know him, she knew that her grandfather by blood did not make mistakes.

  If she were a gambling debt, it was a debt the marquis had undoubtedly intended to incur. She wondered yet again what kind of a man would agree to such stakes. She closed her eyes but her thoughts were not helpful. They led her directly as always, to the mocking, amused, passionate, and blazingly angry gaze of. . . She knew not whom.

  Perhaps, when she took her place in society, she would come across him. That had always been her hope—her one reason for submitting to the transition that had been foisted upon her. Her eyes fluttered gently closed and the book lying open upon her lap slid to the floor unnoticed. When her breathing had deepened considerably, the shadow at the window slipped silently from sight. Laura Rose was certain her daughter would make the right choice. Destiny, after all, was no small thing.

  Miss Melinda St. Jardine looked with bemusement at the many greetings and flowers that cluttered Dewhurst Manor’s two large receiving rooms in a profusion of colour, card, and scent that certainly had not been precedented in the marquis’s lifetime. She had inherited her grandfather’s shrewdness along with her mother’s intuition, so she was neither gratified by this show of favour nor particularly relieved by the understanding that she was now regarded as a diamond of the first water by London’s celebrated ton.

  She was more than passing certain her sudden fortune had a helping hand in this state of affairs. In this, she was correct, of course. She would have been astonished to learn, however, that her beauty was also fast becoming a byword. In truth, her mocking gypsy heart would have chuckled uproariously at the fashionable love sonnets that even now were issuing from the pens of every sprig worth his salt.

  Her half mourning was proclaimed as more than “fitting” under the circumstances, though the “circumstances” were always whispered about under gloved hands. Where any lesser endowed individual would have been shunned for not donning black for the requisite period, Melinda’s muted pinks and dusty lilacs were considered “all the crack” and eminently suitable.

  Melinda herself, however, found them a sad trial, used as she was to gay canary yellows, saffrons, emerald greens aglitter with rich cerises, azure blues, and crystal whites. She bit her nails now, as she paced the room, waiting word from her betrothed. Try as she might, she could conjure up no mental image of him, for every time she drifted off into her trancelike world of spirits, the annoying image of her stranger of the mists arose to replace any alternate thought.

  How provoking! And it was not as if the man were not insufferably overbearing! She wondered what the Earl of Camden would be like. Stuffy, no doubt, with a little mustache trimmed exactly so and elegantly gloved hands placed ever so properly behind his back in the bluff military manner she found hard to take. The English and their muted, understated mannerisms! Almost as though they were embarrassed at having any feeling at all. . . Heavens, she was doing it herself now: submerging her grief in a listless, lack luster stroll toward the herb gardens. She could hardly remember the last time she had cried with true abandon.

  Oh yes. . . She did. Grandfather Fotheringham had rid himself, finally, of her cat. As if Aphrodite had been some morbid link to her spiritual past rather than an extension of her soul itself. And yet. . . yet he had been a wise man.

  She’d sobbed unashamedly at his breakfast table. She remembered vividly how he had cast her an odd, secretive, knowing look and admonished her quietly never to fear. The spirits had a strange way of looking after their own. She wondered, not for the first time, if he was right.

  Outdoors, the chill air was brisk enough to revive her lagging thoughts and cause a renewed briskness to creep into her step. She placed her hands firmly back into their gloves and then into her thin, feather-light muff. If she did not watch out, her fingernails would be chewed down to the bone and that, she knew, would be a social folly. Or would it? Her ridiculous fortune, she supposed, made anything forgivable.

  Suddenly, her delightful, impossibly beautiful mouth curved into something very like her former gypsy smile. By George, she was hellishly bored and she would test the theory out. She’d give the little chittter chats something to exercise their tongues about! She didn’t care a ha’penny for society’s approval. And if L
ord High and Mighty Camden should consider her an unfit bride, so be it.

  With an irrepressible chuckle, the delectable Miss St. Jardine disappointed several waiting beaux by claiming a head cold. They would have been alternately surprised, disapproving, and downright outraged if they had subsequently caught sight of a swathe of petticoats ably shinnying a drainpipe and descending with ease onto one of the roofs of the servants’ quarters. From there it was a mere matter of a jump, but Miss St. Jardine, though she had jumped worse in her time, cannily decided to make use of some of the creeping vines upon the manor walls. It was a small matter of moments before she was down, her brown velvet gloves slightly—ever so slightly—the worse for wear, but otherwise completely and charmingly intact.

  “And where do you think you are off too, ma’am?”

  “Jane!”

  The abigail who had been assigned to properly chaperon her and attend to her needs looked grim. “It be a fit you be givin’ me, ma’am, and I take leave to tell you that you scared me ‘alf out o’ me senses!”

  Miss St. Jardine, alight with mischief for a change, chuckled merrily.

  “Poor Jane! I am a sore trial, am I not?”

  The maid, who was exceedingly fond of her young mistress, gypsy blood or not, grudgingly agreed.

  “Now don’t take a pet, missy! You been brought up unconventional like! Just you be creepin’ back up the backstairs and I’ll see to it none is the wiser.” Melinda nodded briskly.

  “Leastaways,” she added musingly, “I shall see to it that folks around here mind their tongues. Stop yer gawkin’, Hawkins! You go mind yer vegytables for a change!” This last on a slightly fiercer note, for the under gardener’s eyes were nigh on popping from his head. Obviously, he had managed an excellent view of the spectacle.

  “Jane, I shall not retreat! I have a severe fit of the dismals, and if you do not wish me to altogether sink into a decline. . .”