Not an Ordinary Baronet

by G. G. Vandagriff

  Sir Bertie was another story. That was where confusion entered her mind. Why had he cut her off so completely? She did not want to appear to be running after him. It was his turn to write to her, but he did not. In fact, he did not even show up in London for the Season! Had she imagined his interest in her?

  No. She had his letters, and they could not be explained away. Men did not write to women, especially in that manner, if there was not a great deal of interest. And he had come all the way to Somerset to surprise her at the ball.

  He must believe that her heart was still engaged with William, and that idea made her angry. Did he really believe her such a puny character? Did he think she would continue to try to win the man back?

  Well, to do him justice, that had been in her mind in the beginning—before she realized what a cad he was.

  Oh! It was all so difficult!

  At the ball that evening, she saw Bertie enter the room and felt a happiness that left her in no doubt of her feelings. His timing could not have been more unfortunate, as she was speaking with William. Her eyes tracked him across the room and watched him disappear into the cardroom. Nodding at William as he bowed before her, she gave a sigh of frustration.

  Suddenly she did not want to dance with anyone else. Squaring her shoulders, Catherine followed a couple of ladies into the cardroom. Sir Bertie was sitting at a table for two players, shuffling cards. She maintained her closeness to the ladies she was following as they passed his table. Catherine pretended surprise.

  “Oh! Sir Bertie! What a surprise to see you. I had given up on you. I did not think you meant to come to London at all this Season.”

  As he looked up at her, his face was severe, his brow furled, his eyes stark. “Lady Catherine,” he said. He went back to his cards.

  She soldiered on. “Why, I believe you are vexed with me. Whatever have I done to deserve such a frown?”

  What a silly miss I must seem!

  But she had achieved her desired effect. Sir Bertie rose and excused himself to his partner, a man she did not know, his annoyance clear. Grasping her by the arm, he said, “Come, Lady Catherine.”

  She did not even want to think what she would read in the Morning Post about this encounter. The two of them exited the cardroom, and, jaw set, he guided her to the refreshment table. Obtaining two glasses of punch, he said, “Let us go into that corner over there. We might as well continue to tease the gossips.”

  He began to march toward their destination.

  “Slow down, please,” she said. “Would you have everyone know you are angry with me?”

  Sir Bertie slowed his pace. Gradually, his face relaxed into its customary diffident expression. When they achieved their destination, she said, “When last I saw you, I thought you liked me well enough. What have I done to get into your black books?”

  His eyes fixed on the dancing couples, he sipped his punch and said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Come, Sir Bertie. Do not be coy. You left my ball in a hurry and did not even bother to call upon me before you left for Oxfordshire early the next morning. I did not hear from you during all the months we have been parted, though I thought we had become regular correspondents. You must have seen me tonight. You walked straight past me into the cardroom, and when I say hello, I receive nothing but a scowl. I think I am being remarkably tolerant of you. Will you not tell me what I have done to incur your displeasure?”

  When did I become so bold?

  He shifted uneasily and finally looked into her eyes. “I have been busy cataloging the antiquities my late brother-in-law collected in Egypt.”

  Had she gotten it wrong, then? Did he not care for her at all? Her face burned with humiliation. “I can certainly see how that would involve all your time and attention. Forgive me for misunderstanding you.” She set her punch cup down on a nearby table, untasted. “I see Lady Clarice. I must go bid her good evening.”

  As she moved across the ballroom, she was aware of Sir Bertie’s eyes following her. Her heart was sinking and her hands shaking. Rather than facing conversation with her friend, she decided she must get some air. She forced her limbs to move, carrying her out of the ball room and into the hallway. She could not go back to the ball right now. Instead, she walked down the back stairs until she found herself in the kitchen.

  The servants stared at her round-eyed, pausing in what she could see was a hectic routine. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I just need to go out to get some air.” She moved toward the back door and stumbled out into the kitchen garden. Though it was May, it was a cool evening. Catherine breathed deeply the smell of cabbages and Brussels sprouts.

  The night was pitch black, without a moon. It felt good to be anonymous. By instinct, she walked on until she came to the back gate, forcing her mind to remain blank. Through the gate was the mews, and she could smell the scent of horses where the stables stood.

  What was she doing here? Had she taken leave of her senses?

  Sir Bertie. Did he really have no feelings for her? Had she been completely mistaken?

  Lord and Lady Wellingham certainly felt that Sir Bertie had some special feeling for her. Was there any inconspicuous way she could find out the truth from her friend?

  Does Sir Bertie really mean so much to me? Perhaps he is just as inconstant as other men.

  Someone was coming. Catherine heard the gate farther down the lane. It must be where the gardens outside the ballroom met the mews. Two men were speaking and advancing her way. It would not do to be seen skulking out here by herself. She hoped the darkness would cloak her adequately.

  “It really is the very devil that your men are in jail and we can’t get our hands on any Saint Barnabas when this season,” said a man with a gentleman’s tone.

  Catherine’s thoughts raced.

  Men in jail? Saint Barnabas? He must be addressing the gentleman smuggler!

  Fisting her hands, she realized she was in danger.

  “Hold on!” the voice said. “Someone’s there!”

  Turning, Catherine moved quickly through the blackness in the direction of the house. Stumbling through the vegetables in the garden, she found the steps just as she heard the latch of the gate. She pulled the door open, and for a single second, she stood against the light from the scullery. Bolting the door, she leaned her back against it and took a deep breath.

  They had come from the ball. They must be gentlemen. Was it too much of a coincidence to suppose it was the same men who had been involved in the Portland Bill smuggling?

  Saint Barnabas brandy.

  Bringing her trembling hands to her face, she hoped they had not seen her well. What had given her away? Looking at her clothing, she realized it must have been her white gloves and pale-pink gown. They could have reflected what little light was coming from the kitchen windows. Had they seen her face as well?

  She must get back to the ball and find William. But what could she tell him?

  She had not seen them. The Gentleman Smuggler, if it was indeed him, had not even spoken, so she could not identify the voice. She did not have enough information that would be of use. Not enough to persuade her to talk to William.

  When Catherine reached the ballroom, she had only one intention—to find Robert and go home. However, look though she might, she could not see him anywhere. He was not in the cardroom, on the terrace, nor on the floor of the ballroom.

  Disgusted, she wondered if he had forgotten her completely and had gone on to his club. She stood, hands on her hips, gazing into the crowd of dancers, undecided about what she should do. Lady Wellingham approached her.

  “Lady Catherine, may I do something to help you in some way? I could not help but notice you scurrying about. Are you looking for someone?”

  “My brother. I wish to leave, but I cannot find him anywhere. I fear he has taken the carriage and gone to his club. I should not say it, I suppose, but sometimes he is utterly thoughtless.”

  “If you would like, my aunt and I can ta
ke you home. Beau is caught up in a card game with Lord Strangeways, and I have reached my limit of indulgence tonight. Aunt Clarice and I were just leaving.”

  “That would be splendid. Thank you so much. Sometimes I find it a great nuisance to be a female!”

  As they crossed the ballroom on their way out, she could not miss Bertie’s tall figure. He was dancing with a long-necked lady. It looked as though she were chatting nineteen to the dozen.

  * * *

  She missed Robert at breakfast in the morning and assumed he had slept at the club as he sometimes did. Anxious to let him know about the incident in the garden and to take him to task about leaving her in the lurch the night before, she was annoyed. Hopefully he would remember he was to take her to the East End today.

  She was altogether out of sorts, and this condition was not helped much by a perusal of the Morning Post.

  At the Fotheringill ball, Lord C— still looked to be enthralled by former fiancée, Lady C—. What about poor Miss A—?

  Catherine felt ill. Poor Sybil. How humiliating. In addition to that, the words made it sound like she was some kind of siren, enticing William away. Beastly writer, whoever he or she was. At least they had not caught her scene with Sir Bertie.

  Her toes curled as she remembered how she had accosted him. What a fool he must think her. Her mind went back to the days they had spent together in London when she had thought she was heartbroken over William. Now things were the exact opposite.

  * * *

  When the time came to depart for the East End, she awaited Robert, but he did not appear.

  Blast the man! Had he forgotten? Even if there was time to send him a note, she did not know where he was. Looking at the clock, she saw that it was twenty minutes past the time they were to have left.

  After summoning her own carriage, Catherine called Parker to her. It would be dangerous going into the East End without a male escort, but she was so caught up with fury that she did not care. Rooting through the umbrella stand, she found her brother’s stoutest walking stick. It would serve as a weapon should she need one.

  Her maid came down the stairs. “Yes, my lady? You wanted me?”

  “You will have to accompany me this afternoon. I have no escort. We will take the carriage.”

  Parker looked stunned. “Into the East End, my lady? Likely we’ll be robbed!”

  “Then watch that you do not take anything of value,” Catherine said curtly. At the moment, the only thing she was worried about was not letting her audience down. They had come to view Tuesday and Thursday afternoons with much eagerness. They were into the third volume of the story now, and tension was palpable.

  With her brother’s walking stick in hand, she boarded her carriage and gave the coachman directions to Saint Francis’s. As they pulled into the neighborhood, which was becoming familiar to her, she saw people stare. She had forgotten her coach was emblazoned with the Westbury coat of arms. Not exactly the advertisement one wanted for an unobtrusive excursion into the East End.

  They reached the church in safety, however, and Catherine was able to deliver her reading. With that responsibility off her mind, she was more aware of her vulnerability. She had left the walking stick in the coach! When she walked outside, she found her equipage encircled by a band of surly-looking men. Trying to appear confident and unafraid, she strode toward her carriage. One of the group reached out and tore her cameo necklace and chain from her neck. Another grabbed her reticule.

  They both ran off. The others still remained.

  “Come naow, yer leddyship. Give us a kiss!” taunted a short man with a dirty face and filthy clothes.

  Her coachman used his whip on them, but, undaunted, they continued their approach, reaching for her with their grimy hands.

  “Get away,” she cried. “I have nothing more of value!”

  “Oi fink yer fahver moight disagree. Naow, jest you come wif us easy loike, and we won’t ’urt you. If yer don’t, yer maid ’ere moight come t’ ’arm.”

  Another of the men was holding Parker by the shoulders. Her eyes were round with terror.

  What could she do? She had no doubt they meant exactly what they said. Did they mean to hold her somewhere for ransom? Did they mean to assault her as well?

  Fury engulfed her, and she struggled and called loudly for help. Two of her assailants restrained her as the coachman leaped down and tried to help. He was too old to be at all effective and only obtained a blow on the head for his trouble. Parker appeared to have fainted.

  The tussle was drawing a crowd. Some were jeering and egging the men on. Others were cheering for Catherine. As she kept up her screaming, one of the men put a filthy hand over her mouth. She bit it.

  “Help me!” she cried. “I’m being kidnapped.”

  The cudgel that had subdued the coachman was now coming down on her. She let go a shrill scream before it knocked her unconscious.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The day after the Fotheringills’ ball, Bertie called on Lady Clarice, hoping she might have a commission for him. His spirits had seldom been lower. What had possessed him to be so rude to Lady Catherine? After a fruitless stint in the cardroom following their conversation, he had finally emerged into the ballroom to find that Lady Catherine was nowhere to be seen. He had been forced for civility’s sake to dance with Mary Gilbert. She had stuck to him like a burr after that. What a tiresome woman!

  He woke up this morning to the gossip in the Post. Everyone seemed to be of the opinion that it was just a matter of time before the Cumberwell engagement was broken and Lady Catherine and the prospective earl were married.

  Bertie was used to thinking of himself as a fortunate man. It was the first time he had ever felt that his station as a baronet was not all that it might be. As soon as he recognized the direction of his thoughts, he was appalled at them and decided he needed to see Lady Clarice to straighten him out with some errand for the less fortunate.

  “Sir Bertie, dear,” she said, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek. “You are just the person for the project I have in mind. Come into the Chinese saloon, and I will show you something.”

  On a large round table in that room, he found an architect’s drawing.

  “Is this the schoolhouse you want to build in the East End?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Lady Clarice. “We have the money to purchase our property now, and we are looking for a good location. Something will have to be torn down. As you know, there are no empty tracts of land in that neighborhood. There are a few sites available. Would you look them over? I have seen them but have been unable to come to a decision.”

  Bertie said that he would be happy to do so. And so it was that he found himself in the East End, around the corner from Saint Francis’s church, when he heard a woman screaming. Without thought, he raced down the street and proceeded around the corner to see a crowd of people congregated near the Westbury carriage.

  Lady Catherine!

  Shouldering his way through the crowd, he was just in time to see a cudgel brought down upon his beloved’s head. He leaped upon the villain where he stood over Lady Catherine’s unconscious form. Bertie gave him a solid punch to the jaw and knocked him off his feet. The fellow jumped up and tried to counter Bertie’s punch, but Bertie was well trained in the art of fisticuffs. Soon, the man lay flat out on the dirty street. The others had fled. He heard a mewing sound and looked over to find a girl who was probably Lady Catherine’s maid recovering consciousness.

  An even larger crowd had gathered now. A kindly-looking woman moved out of the crowd and knelt by the maid. “Naow, then, miss. Yo’ll be alroight. Let’s get you into that carriage.”

  This sensible action allowed Bertie to examine Lady Catherine, who had a large lump forming on the crown of her head, and the coachman, who was out cold. Bertie realized he would have to leave the reviving maid in charge of the victims in the carriage while he drove it back to Mayfair. This was less satisfactory than it would have been if h
e could have sat with Lady Catherine. But he was left little choice.

  “I told her ladyship it was not a good idea to come here in the carriage without an escort,” said the maid. “But all she could think of were the people waiting to hear her read.”

  “What happened to her escort?”

  “He never came, she said.”

  Why would she do such a foolish thing as to go to the East End alone except for her maid? What if the head injury was so serious she slipped into a coma? The thought nearly felled him.

  Taking Lady Catherine into his arms and lifting her carefully off the street, he deposited her in the carriage. The maid took her mistress’s head into her lap, searching for the wound. “Oh my. She was hit hard.”

  “Yes,” said Bertie. He solicited the help of two strong blokes in loading the fallen coachman into the carriage, opposite to where Lady Catherine sat with her maid. Tossing his helpers each sixpence, he assumed the coachman’s place on the box and headed out of the cramped street, his heart still in turmoil.

  What if he himself hadn’t been to hand? What were the villain’s plans for Lady Catherine and her maid?

  When he reached Westbury House, he enlisted the help of Stebbins and a footman to carry the coachman into the house. Lady Catherine he carried himself.

  He took her into the red sitting room and laid her upon the sofa. Her maid followed.

  “Can you fetch a vinaigrette?” he asked. “Possibly that will bring her around.”

  As soon as the little woman hastened away, he gathered Lady Catherine to him and kissed her forehead. “Come along, dearest. You must come back to me.”

  She began blinking her eyes, and he rejoiced, still holding her close.

  “There, now. You have received a tremendous blow, but you are going to be all right.”

  Closing her eyes, she murmured, “Sir Bertie . . .”

  “Your maid is bringing a vinaigrette. If you don’t want that, you must keep your eyes open.”

  Again, he laid her back carefully on the sofa. The maid entered with the vinaigrette. Since Lady Catherine’s eyes had remained closed, he administered it.