“I will send Sam to keep an eye on matters for you,” Ben said. “I cannot come myself because I am too easily recognized. It would give the game away if I were to be seen.”
Paris gave a little shriek of horror. “Sam Hawksmoor? That oaf? I would rather fend for myself!”
“Very well,” Ben said, shrugging. “You can chop your own wood and build your own fires and fetch your own food.”
Paris looked sulky. “I suppose you may send Sam to run errands for us, but he is not to speak to me.” Her gaze narrowed thoughtfully on him. “But what will you be doing whilst I am withering away in the country, Ben darling? Not pursuing debutantes, I hope.”
Once again, danger threatened. Ben gave her a smile that had broken a thousand hearts. “You do not trust me.”
“Of course not.”
“That is too bad. You will have to pray for a swift recovery and the means to secure Beaufoy—or another duke. I am sure you will succeed since you are far too clever and pretty to remain a courtesan all your life.”
Paris chewed her lip. “Well…”
Ben laughed. “Our relationship has always worked so well, Paris, because neither of us trusts the other one further than we could throw them.”
Paris smiled reluctantly. “You are no more than an adventurer, Ben Hawksmoor. I know, because I am one, too.”
For a moment they looked at one another, then Paris said, “It is a shame that we can never wed, Ben darling, for I do love you.”
Ben suspected that in Paris’s own way, this was probably true. It was not a type of love that most people would recognize, for Paris’s emotions had been tainted with self-interest all her life. She loved herself far more than any other living thing. He understood her because he was exactly like her.
“Touching as such sentiments are,” he said, “I must be gone. If you will prepare to remove to Saltcoats, Paris, I shall make sure that a carriage is ready for you tonight.”
Paris nodded.
“And no more threats of blackmail,” Ben continued, “or I shall have it reported across town that you have left London because you have the pox.” He smiled pleasantly. “I do not think that Beaufoy will be so anxious to wed you after that.”
Paris glared at him. She snapped her fingers. “Show Lord Hawksmoor out, Edna. He gives me the headache. His manners are worse than those of a barrow boy.”
Ben laughed and blew her a kiss and followed the maid down the stairs. When they reached the hall, Edna grabbed his arm and drew close to him. She smelled of sweat and patchouli, and Ben tried not to grimace.
“The letter,” Edna whispered. “It was from Sarah Desmond.”
Ben looked at her. He did not feel remotely surprised. “I see. I am uncertain why you are telling me something that I do not care about, Edna.”
The maid scowled. “You have been good to us in the past and I am trying to help you, my lord. You are aware that Miss Fenton is an heiress? To eighty thousand pounds?” She paused, scanned his face and smiled with satisfaction. “That is the bit of the letter my lady did not want you to see, my lord.”
Ben nodded. He understood perfectly Paris’s refusal to hand over the letter now. He reached into his pocket, extracted a coin and pressed it into her hand. “Thank you, Edna.”
“Edna!” The screech from above would have done credit to a fishwife. Edna shot him an apologetic look.
Ben went out into the wintry sunshine. The hacks on the doorstep looked hopeful, so he smiled broadly and told them that Lady Paris was in good looks and high spirits. The clock on Saint Day’s church chimed the hour, reminding him that he was late for his sitting with the artist Hilliard. Now Price would be disapproving of him again.
He walked back to St. James’s but he barely noticed the passing streets. He and Paris understood one another. He knew she would not go through with the blackmail about Catherine for fear of reprisal. He thought about Sarah Desmond. Paris had spies in brothels all over London ready to tell her who was plump of pocket and might be worth her time and her charms. He could not really blame Sarah. Except that Catherine, in her innocence, had probably thought her to be a friend.
He also thought about what Edna had told him about Catherine’s fortune. Eighty thousand pounds was a hell of a lot of money, enough to tempt a saint never mind an unregenerate sinner such as himself. He had told Sam that he had never sought to wed for money because he was too selfish—he could not tolerate what a wife would demand of him in return. Now he was inclined to reconsider. He needed money and he wanted Catherine Fenton. And with the advantage he held, he could force her to break her despised engagement to Withers and marry him instead. Her father would not kick up a fuss. If he did, she would be ruined.
Fate had delivered Miss Catherine Fenton, heiress to eighty thousand pounds, into his life and his bed, and he was not a man to turn down so generous a gift. His need for Catherine was like a fever in his blood. She and the money together were an irresistible combination. With Catherine in his bed and her money in his bank, the terrifying specter of poverty would recede a little. It was the ghost that had haunted him all of his life, but Catherine’s fortune would give him the protection he needed.
He would make Catherine Fenton an offer she could not refuse.
He would propose to her and tell her that unless she accepted he would tell every scandalmonger in London how he had compromised her.
She would have to marry him. It was marriage—or ruin.
CHAPTER SEVEN
If a young lady should have the melancholy duty of refusing a proposal of marriage, she should do so gently, courteously and with no injury to the gentleman’s feelings.
—Mrs. Eliza Squire, Good Conduct for Ladies
WHEN TENCH, THE BUTLER, received the summons to Sir Alfred’s study the following morning, he was a little concerned. After all the disturbances there had been in the Fenton household of late, it was only natural to wonder whether he would shortly be looking for a new position. Tench had no concerns over his qualities as a butler and his ability to find a new post, but he did dislike the idea of approaching the domestic employment agency. It was very demeaning for an upper servant of his stature to be obliged to seek work in that fashion and he hoped to be spared the ordeal.
When he saw Miss Catherine Fenton seated at the desk beneath the picture of her grandfather, Jack McNaish, he smiled spontaneously, for she looked extremely businesslike and disconcertingly like her grandsire. She greeted him warmly and gestured him to a seat, a kindness that Tench had not been expecting. Sir Alfred tended to make him stand.
“How is my father this morning, Tench?” Catherine asked, fixing him with a direct brown gaze that brooked no avoidance. “I know that he was drunk for the entire day yesterday. Is he merely foxed today, disguised or totally cast away?”
Tench permitted himself a small grimace. “I fear that he is totally cast away, miss, and likely to remain so for the rest of the day. Jeremy footman and I took the liberty of removing him from the library yesterday and putting him to bed.”
“And of airing the room as well, I hope,” Catherine said, wrinkling her nose. “It stank like a tavern in there.”
“Indeed, miss,” Tench said. “It is being cleaned now.”
“Good,” Catherine said. “I will speak to my father later in the day if he sobers up. Please see that he does not go out without consulting me, Tench, and please lock the cellar and make sure that my father does not have access to the drink.”
“Yes, miss,” Tench said with respect.
“In the meantime,” Catherine continued, “I have written to Lord and Lady Arden at Winterstoke, to suggest that Lady Fenton might go to visit them for a space. Although they live much retired, they still have their health and I am sure they would be willing to give a home to their daughter for a while.” Catherine tapped the parchment in front of her with the tip of her pen. “It seems to be for the best. Lady Fenton is not well, Tench, and must leave town as soon as it can be arranged. I thought tomorr
ow.”
“Indeed, miss,” Tench said fervently, remembering the scene in the hall the night before last. The scrunch of glass and the smell of the laudanum had set his teeth on edge. “I will tell Manners to prepare her ladyship’s portmanteaus. Are the children to travel with her?”
Catherine nodded decisively. “Yes, they are. I am sure that Lord and Lady Arden will be delighted to see their grandchildren.”
“Then I will acquaint the nursemaids with the plan as well,” Tench said, “and see that they have the young master’s bags made ready, and Miss Mirabelle’s, too.”
“Thank you,” Catherine said. “Now, I should also be obliged if you would send a man to Lord Withers with this letter, Tench.” She held it out. “I am breaking my betrothal to him.” She frowned. “There is another letter on the tray for the offices of the Morning Post. I require that notice of the termination of the engagement be published in its pages.”
Tench sat up a little straighter. He had always detested Algernon Withers and thought that Catherine’s actions were long overdue.
“Very good, miss!” he said and was rewarded when Catherine smiled.
“You never did care for him, did you, Tench?” she observed.
“No, miss,” the butler said. “Not fit to touch the hem of your gown, begging your pardon, miss.” He nodded toward the portrait. “He would not have approved.”
“No,” Catherine said, glancing up at her grandfather, “I do not think he would.”
There was a final letter on the desk in front of her. She picked it up thoughtfully and weighed it in the palm of her hand. Tench saw her bite her lip.
“This letter—” She colored slightly, looked away but then recovered herself. “This letter is to go to Lord Hawksmoor, Tench. It does not require a reply.”
“Very good, miss,” Tench said again. He exercised all his butlerly restraint to keep his eyebrows from shooting into his hair. He knew about Hawksmoor. Half the housemaids and all of the scullery maids fancied themselves in love with the man, handsome scoundrel that he was. What he did not know about was Miss Catherine’s involvement with the man. He was not sure that he approved.
Once again Tench caught Jack McNaish’s eye and stared hard. He had been another scoundrel, cut from the same cloth. Would he have approved of Ben Hawksmoor?
“That will be all for now, Tench,” Catherine said. She stood up, indicating that the interview was at an end. “Thank you very much for your help. It is time that certain matters were resolved once and for all.”
“Quite so, miss,” Tench agreed. He took all the letters and went out into the quiet hall. The house was gloomy with the press of fog still wrapped about the city, and yet under the silence it felt as though something was stirring. Tench speeded up as he strode toward the servants’ quarters. He found that he was whistling under his breath, a sprightly air in time to the tap of his footsteps. He found Jeremy footman and confided the letters to him. When he burst into the housekeeper’s room, Mrs. Bunting looked up from her account books in lively surprise.
“Good gracious, Mr. Tench, you look as though you have lost a groat and found a guinea!”
Tench beamed at her. “Celebrate, Mrs. Bunting! The house has a new mistress!”
Mrs. Bunting sniffed. “I hope Sir Alfred has not brought that doxy of his over from Chelsea or I’ll be leaving.”
Tench was genuinely shocked. “Good gracious, no, Mrs. Bunting! I only meant that Miss Catherine has taken charge. Just like old Mad Jack, so she is. There’ll be no nonsense now.”
There was a suspicious hint of moisture in Mrs. Bunting’s eyes. Despite a starchy exterior that frightened the maids, she was as soft as soap inside.
“Has she so?” she said. “Well, bless her! It was time someone sorted out Sir Alfred’s drinking and her ladyship’s—” Mrs. Bunting paused delicately “—her ladyship’s habit of young men and laudanum.”
“Miss Catherine has sent to Lord Withers to give him his marching orders,” Tench said, giving a happy sigh as he eased himself into the chair by the fire. “A joyful day, Mrs. Bunting, a joyful day!”
Mrs. Bunting smiled. “A cup of tea, Mr. Tench, to celebrate the good news? Or perhaps—” she glanced meaningfully toward the corner cupboard “—a glass of the Madeira?”
“Don’t mind if I do, Mrs. Bunting,” the butler agreed. “Don’t mind at all.”
CATHERINE PACED ACROSS to the window, turned on her heel and paced back again. How long had Jeremy been gone? An hour? Two? Lord Withers would certainly have received her letter by now and she was on tenterhooks, uncertain whether he would simply accept the ending of their betrothal or whether he would force an interview with her. She straightened her back. If he demanded to see her then she was prepared. He could bluster and threaten all he wished but she would not relent. She had been looking for an opportunity to break the betrothal for months and now at last she had her chance.
When Maggie had stumbled in two nights before and it had become apparent that she had prostituted herself to Withers for the sake of a bottle of laudanum, Catherine’s strongest emotion had been an overwhelming pity. Maggie was so sick and so broken now that Catherine did not know how she would ever recover, nor how Sir Alfred would deal with this latest blow. His retreat to the brandy bottle had not been unexpected, but neither was it promising. Catherine could see that the household had fallen apart now. And so for the sake of them all, she had put aside her own distress and had focused very practically on what she had to do to save them all. She had laid her plans carefully.
Withers was banished finally and forever. She fully intended to confront her father when he was sober and ask him about their joint business dealings, especially now that Ben Hawksmoor had intimated that Withers was involved in criminal activity. But in a way, it was irrelevant anyway. No matter what the hold was that Withers had over Sir Alfred, she was determined to break it. She would not carry on with this sham of a betrothal or allow fear to dictate to them any longer.
She glanced up at her grandfather’s portrait as though drawing strength from him. She wished fiercely that he were here now to help her. But she recognized that he had given her his spirit even if it had taken the events of the last few days to awaken that in her.
Her second letter had been to Ben Hawksmoor and in it she had laid bare the whole history of Maggie’s relationship with Ned Clarencieux and her own involvement in returning the miniature. She had done it because she felt very strongly that the whole matter needed to be made plain between them so that there could be no further misunderstandings. It had been a painful decision and she had blocked out her feelings for Ben the whole time that she was writing, but as with Withers, she knew it had to be done for everything to be finished between them.
The door knocker sounded once. Catherine drew herself up. She heard Tench’s voice and low, masculine tones too deep for her to discern the words. Then the study door opened.
She was not sure whom she had been expecting, but it was Ben Hawksmoor, not Algernon Withers, who stood in the entrance. He held her letter in his hand.
Catherine stared. She had thought—hoped—they might never have to see one another again. The letter had been intended to ensure that very aim, to tie up all loose ends, to finish matters. And yet…
“You were not supposed to come here,” she said. She looked at the letter again, as though to confirm he had actually read it. “I asked you not to.”
Ben inclined his head. He was unsmiling.
“I know,” he said.
Catherine looked at him. She put her hands on her hips. “Then why are you here?”
It was incredibly difficult to face him with any degree of equanimity after what had happened between them the night before last. She had tried to pack her feelings away, discard them even, by writing the letter and telling herself that the whole episode was closed. Yet now she found herself noticing the little things about him, such as the fact that he was bareheaded and there were tiny drops of water in his hair
from the fog outside. He smelled of the fresh air and some pine cologne that was refreshing and heady. She noticed that he appeared to have dressed with even greater care than he normally did. His boots had a high polish and he looked very formal in a coat of dark green superfine and fawn pantaloons.
“First of all I came to thank you,” he said, “for explaining the connection between your stepmother and Ned Clarencieux. I promise to keep it a secret.”
Catherine closed the door gently in Tench’s fascinated face. She felt very tired. “It matters little now. My father is aware of her indiscretions and I believe…” She stopped. “It does not matter,” she repeated. “If that is all that you have come for then I thank you and wish you good day, my lord.”
“It is not all,” Ben said. “I wanted to explain that I thought that you were she. I thought it was you who had the affaire with Ned.”
Catherine’s head jerked up and the color spilled into her face. “Is that supposed to be an apology for what happened between us?”
“It is an explanation.” Ben ran his hand through his hair. “I had been told that you were a fashionable impure and that you were involved with Withers’s plans—”
“So you thought to take me and use me as you believed I had used Clarencieux,” Catherine said, “and by the time you had realized the truth, it was too late. I understood as much, though I did not know why.” The anger flickered within her. “I do not see that it profits us any to speak on this further. I have terminated my betrothal to Lord Withers and I wish you joy in discovering the true nature of his criminality. But I have no desire to speak further with you.”
Ben shook his head. “I beg your pardon for persisting, Miss Fenton, but there is another matter I wished to discuss with you.”
Catherine raised a haughty eyebrow. “And what could that possibly be?”
She saw Ben take a deep breath. “I wish to pay my addresses to you, Miss Fenton. Specifically, I am asking you to marry me.”
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