William had written her letter after letter, but she could not bear to open them. They had gone straight into the fire.
Now, attired only in her light wool gown and Shetland shawl, she hugged herself there in the cold, bare garden. Vaguely, Catherine heard hoofbeats. Her mind absently acknowledged that someone was riding down the path from the village. She did not look up, sinking instead onto the seat in the middle of the denuded rose garden. Putting her head in her hands, she tried to stem the tears, but they were all that seemed to loosen the grief in her breast.
Catherine did not know how long it was before she realized the hoofbeats had gone past. Whoever it was had undoubtedly seen her crying, but she did not care. She reentered the house and went in search of a fireplace to burn her friend’s letter.
* * *
Catherine spent the afternoon wandering the coast below Portland Bill once again. She had no idea why it drew her so. Briefly, she remembered the gentleman she had met the day before. He was extraordinarily handsome and seemed to see straight through to her grief. She had to admit, there had been an odd attraction there, though the memory was probably embellished with fairy-tale qualities. Undoubtedly their attraction had been the product of her overly fruitful imagination. Shaking her head, she decided she was in the mood to be reckless and explore the cave.
She had brought a flint with her. Someone had stacked driftwood by the cave entrance since she was there yesterday. Picking up a piece, she struck her flint against the limestone wall of the cave and lit a long piece of wood.
When it was flaming satisfactorily, she held it before her and walked into the darkness. If she were the heroine of one of her Gothic novels, this would be the start of an adventure.
The passage was not straight but twisted like a lazy river through the limestone. She came to a fork and went left. Before she had gone very far, however, the sand at her feet became swampy, and she turned around. The right fork was not so muddy, and she was able to press forward. When she had walked a fair distance, there was another fork.
The sound of low voices sent her heart into her throat. The sound was oddly hollow, but almost familiar. Smugglers?
Can it really be?
At the moment, it didn’t seem thrilling in a good way. It was terrifying. The voices came from the right fork. Catherine darted into the left fork, put out her torch, and pressed her body against the slimy wall of the cave. The darkness was alive with menace.
She could no longer hear the voices. They had to leave eventually, did they not?
Catherine began to shiver from the cold. What an idiot she was! She had almost decided to find her way out of the cave by touch when the voices sounded again close by. They were leaving.
The cave so distorted the sound that she could not quite make out their faint words, but again familiarity nagged at her.
Best not to take any chances.
Waiting until she could no longer hear them, Catherine took off her gloves and felt the cave walls with her hands. It was repulsively slimy, but she had no alternative but to find her way out by touch. She dared not light her torch and call attention to her presence.
It seemed like hours before she emerged into the sunlight. She took the first deep breath she had dared since she had first heard the voices. Walking out onto the beach, she stopped suddenly when she heard someone on the path up the cliff. Knowing she had exposed herself, she turned around and ducked back into the cave entrance. Had she been seen?
Counting to one hundred, she finally emerged again, keeping close to the cliff wall. She heard nothing. Her heart was going like a woodpecker.
When the cliff trail came into view, she pulled her hood across her face under her eyes so she would not be recognized, but there was no one there. Just to be certain no one awaited her up on the cliff, she remained on the beach, counting to two hundred this time.
Her horse, Ginger, was tethered at the top. How had the other men arrived? She had seen no other horses.
Finally judging it to be safe, Catherine made her way up the trail, grateful to see Ginger awaiting her, nibbling on the sparse grass. She untied her horse from the post, mounted, and rode speedily away.
Soon she had lost herself on the downs among the sheep, driving at an ever faster pace so that she might distract herself. The pain she had been trying to escape had been dislodged by her fear.
The sheep-dotted meadows were interrupted here and there by prehistoric monuments. Finally, as she neared Fortuneswell, the path she was on turned toward the coastal cliffs once more. As she halted Ginger on the top of one of these precipices, the sound of the surf below calmed her thoughts. The sea was so vast and eternal. Her fear had receded in the sunlight.
Without warning, a shot exploded at Ginger’s hooves. The mare reared and pawed the air, threatening to plunge them over the edge of the cliff. Terrified, Catherine pulled at her horse’s reins, attempting to turn her mount away from the edge. Every thought fled as she concentrated on preserving herself and Ginger from taking a deadly plunge.
Only because Catherine was an excellent horsewoman was she able to prevail and get her mare away from the cliff. Who had fired a weapon at her?
Out of a stand of trees to the north burst a gentleman atop a chestnut horse. Kneeing Ginger, she took off in the opposite direction. She had recognized the rider. It was the man from yesterday—the man on the beach.
She continued to spur Ginger to a faster gallop along the cliffs and finally into another stand of trees. Catherine was forced to slow the horse, but once they were sufficiently lost, she dared to look behind her. No one was chasing her.
What a narrow escape! She had very nearly been killed.
Dismounting, she stroked the trembling Ginger’s neck. “Well done, my girl. Steady on. That’s it. Everything is going to be all right.”
She walked her horse the rest of the way home. Should she tell Robert about the incident? Probably not. Her half-brother was thoroughly bored, looking for any excuse to go back to London and rejoin his set. She could not possibly do that right now, villains or no. To her, heartache was worse than physical danger.
What had been the man on the horse’s name? All she could recollect was that he was Sir Something. A baronet. From a house party. Portesham, was it not?
He had the most compelling eyes she had ever seen—silver gray surrounded by thick black lashes. They had quite transfixed her for a moment, drawing her in. Aside from his eyes, he had looked devilish enough, but she had not sensed any threat from him. Could it really have been he who had shot at her? She was going to find out.
* * *
“Robert, have you heard of any house parties going on at the moment near here?” she asked at dinner.
Her half-brother still turned himself out in town style, even for a day in the country. He had the features of their father—the perfection of those carved on a Roman coin in the British Museum. On him, the features were haughty; on her father, they were handsome.
He looked up from the lamb he was carving. “No.” He placed a slice of lamb on a plate and handed it to the footman, who handed it to her. “However, there was a rum sort of fellow asking the way to Fortuneswell House at the pub this morning. I suppose he might have been part of a house party. Or something more nefarious.”
“What was he like?” she asked.
“Tall, dark. Queer eyes—a sort of light gray.”
Her heart sped up. “Why did you say he was rum?”
“Looked a thorough rogue. What is all this? Has someone been annoying you?”
She contemplated what her answer should be. At length, she decided to ignore the question. “Who owns the big house at Portesham?” she asked.
Robert appeared to think. He was not the sharpest tool in the shed. “Old fellow named Ogletree, last I knew. The fellow at the pub wasn’t him. He was young—possibly early thirties. You never answered my question. Why this sudden interest in house parties?”
“I fancy an invitation,” she said boldly.
“Surely not!” he said with horror.
“Might you call on them? Offer your respects?”
“Catherine, you know what I’m like. I never do that sort of thing.”
“Well, you are sitting there spoiling for some entertainment. Wondering how on earth the Prince of Wales is carrying on without you, most likely. I know how dull you find things here. I am only trying to alleviate your boredom.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “So you say! I know when I’m being led about by the nose. All right. I’ll ride over tomorrow morning. Think I am going to find this rum fellow for you?”
She ignored this. “And you will report back to me?”
“Aye aye, Captain!”
Chapter Three
What on earth?
Who was shooting at the lady he had seen on the beach? She had taken off as though she were afraid it was he. What was happening here?
Bertie decided against chasing her and dismounted, looking for the shooter. After a time, he found a custom-made rifle loader at the base of a boulder where the culprit must have hidden, just inside the trees. The ground was covered with leaves, but it was still possible to tell where a horse had been secured.
Taking the loader, he remounted Hermes and tried to follow the path of disturbed leaves through the forest. It proved a fruitless exercise. Several horses had been through here.
Who the devil was shooting at her? Why?
* * *
That evening, he discussed the incident with his friends over their port.
“Dashed odd,” said Tony. “I wonder if we should call the chief constable.”
Beau said, “It is not really our affair. Let the young woman decide that. Perhaps it is a spurned lover or something of that nature. We really have no facts—not even the lady’s name.”
“Devilishly frustrating,” said Bertie, looking into the depths of his glass.
“You are unusually distraught,” remarked Tony. “Do you know the lady?”
Bertie flicked the ash off the end of his cigar, trying for nonchalance. “She’s the one I saw on the beach yesterday.”
“And you still remember her?” Beau knew him too well. “How extraordinary.”
“Is it time to summon the vicar?” asked Tony with a laugh.
“Bertie must rescue her first. Who knows what strange affair he has stumbled upon?” Beau said.
“It was an attempt on her life,” Bertie insisted. “I don’t find that humorous.”
* * *
The following morning, to his surprise and everyone else’s, Lord Ogletree received Lord Robert Redmayne, heir to the Marquess of Westbury, who was evidently staying at Fortuneswell. Virginia’s uncle spoke with him in his library, where they visited for a half an hour. As the man left the house, Bertie recognized him as the man from the pub.
Lord Ogletree rejoined them in the drawing room, where the party was playing cards. Snow threatened, which was unusual this close to the sea, and the outside temperatures had plunged.
“Not a bad sort, Lord Redmayne,” said Lord Ogletree. “I asked him to dinner tonight. I thought we might have charades afterward. He’s bringing his sister, Lady Catherine.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” said Virginia, her face bright, her brow earnest. “It will be lovely to have some company.”
“And what do you call us?” Penelope asked, a twinkle in her blue eyes.
“You are more like family,” Virginia told her. “Everyone knows our husbands and Sir Bertie stick together whatever the season might be. Charades will be delightful, but I suspect you men to be possessed of a communal spirit; you know one another’s thoughts, and that gives you an advantage. We shall have to put you all on one team, I expect.”
* * *
When the guests arrived in the drawing room that evening, Bertie was very gratified that Lady Catherine proved to be the mysterious woman from the beach and the cliff top. However, from her bold glance and the upward tilt of her chin when they were introduced, she had a look of challenge about her.
Those sea-green eyes were every bit as stunning in the drawing room as they had been on the atmospheric shore beneath the cliffs. And now he could see that her hair was a deep shade of auburn. Her brown velvet evening gown revealed an exquisite form, and he wondered why he had never noticed her in London. Perhaps the circumstances of their meeting had endowed her with added allure, but it still clung to her. Sorrow marked her eyes, but her figure moved with unusual grace. Her wistful smile, appearing only briefly as she was introduced to the two women, tugged at his heart. He wondered again about her personal tragedy. A death?
When he had seen her distraught in the garden yesterday, it had been all he could do not to stop and offer her his aid. Clearly, he had the blood of some chivalrous knight in his veins. It was dashed inconvenient.
As for Lord Redmayne, Bertie instantly recognized him as the man from the pub, but he gave no indication he had met Bertie at all. He acknowledged all introductions in the manner of a great noble giving notice to lesser beings. Lady Catherine also made no mention of having met him, and Bertie did not prompt her memory, but he was convinced his party owed this visit to the previous afternoon’s happenings on the cliff top.
As the highest-ranking members of the nobility, Lord Redmayne, his sister on his arm, followed Lord Ogletree and Lady Strangeways as the host and hostess into the dining room. They were succeeded by the Wellinghams, while Tony and Bertie brought up the rear.
The dining room at the Oaks was deep green, hung with paintings of Georgian landscapes. Liking what he knew of the house, Bertie wondered how it compared to Fortuneswell House, which was not a principal seat but nevertheless one of the homes of a marquess. Bertie guessed the man must be quite elderly if he had a son Redmayne’s age.
As they sipped their soup, Lord Redmayne said to Virginia, “Surely, my lady, you are an American?”
“Yes,” she replied cheerfully. “It is a long story, but before my marriage, Lord Ogletree was my guardian. He is my great-uncle.”
“Do you miss your home?” Lady Catherine asked. “England must seem very different to you.”
“I am growing accustomed,” Virginia said. “But yes. England is very different from the part of America where I grew up.”
Lady Catherine looked like she wanted to ask another question, but she kept silent. Her brother asked, “Have you been much in London? I do not recall meeting you there.”
“My sojourn in London was short-lived. After Lord Strangeways and I became engaged, I moved here to Dorset to live with my uncle. I prefer the country. Especially Dorset with all its moods and dramatic scenery.”
Tony looked at her fondly from the other end of the table, smiling the crooked smile that had won him so many hearts in London. The man had never been aware of it, however; Tony was oblivious to anyone but Virginia. Bertie smiled into his soup.
Now that he studied Redmayne, he remembered him as part of the Prince Regent’s set—fast living and hard riding. They traveled in a very different circle from him. What in the world had brought such a fashionable man to the quaintness of Dorset in the dead of winter?
As though reading his thoughts, Lady Catherine said, “I am afraid my brother would not agree with you. He prefers London at any season of the year, but I prefer Dorset, and he is obliging me.”
Bertie thought that he would have noticed Lady Catherine in London. He attended a fair number of balls during the Season. But then, he didn’t take much notice of females. He usually spent his time in the cardroom or smoking cigars on the terrace.
Lord Redmayne turned his attention to Penelope, who looked stunning this evening in black velvet, which threw her fair looks into contrasting loveliness. “I have not seen you in London, either, Lady Wellingham. Though, of course, everyone knows your husband.”
“I am a country mouse,” she said with her brilliant smile. “We stay in London when Lord Wellingham has business with the Foreign Office, but I do not go out in society much.”
“That is society’s loss, if I may say so.”
“You are very kind,” replied Penelope.
He turned to Tony. “I believe your father had a capital stud operation.”
“Yes. My brother is continuing to run it.” For the remainder of the meal, the two men talked horses. Penelope and Virginia tried to draw Lady Catherine out, but she said little. Bertie spoke with Beau and Lord Ogletree of the smuggling trade thereabouts and how little effect the Excise men had on it.
Lady Catherine waited until the cheese course before she dropped the words that shocked the room into silence.
“Sir Herbert, do you make a habit of shooting wildly at strange women on horseback?”
Until her words stunned him, he had been admiring her well-shaped hands as they gracefully manipulated her knife and fork. She wore a bangle that slid up and down her fair white arm. After a moment, he was able to say, “Beg your pardon?”
She looked him full in the face for the first time that evening. “You know of what I am speaking.”
“This man shot at you?” asked her brother, throwing his napkin on the table. “Why have I not heard of this?”
She remained focused on Bertie, raising a brow. “You were there. How can you claim it was not you?”
It bothered him exceedingly that she really believed he would shoot at her with the intent of driving her over the cliff. The meeting between them on the shore had changed his world. Clearly, she did not realize that.
His words came out more harshly than he intended. “I arrived on the scene as fast as possible after I heard the shot. I saw you doing a spectacular job of reining in your horse.”
She frowned. “I find that hard to believe. You were right there!”
“Possibly in your preoccupation you did not notice I had no weapon. After you left, I looked about and found a custom-made loader. The sort that belongs to a hunting rifle.” Bertie paused, determined to make the case for his innocence. “Mine is in Oxfordshire.”
“The shooter aimed at my horse’s hooves. As you saw, I had quite a time subduing her. He intended me to go over the cliff. Obviously, he meant it to look like an accident.” Her eyes were bright. “Why would anyone do that?”
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