Not an Ordinary Baronet

by G. G. Vandagriff

  Beau sent one man for the constable and another for the magistrate.

  “Lady Wellingham,” Bertie said. “I think we had better get you and Lady Catherine home. Beau will see to things here, and the magistrate can come to Wellingham House when he is through here.”

  Getting the two women through the crowd was a difficult feat, but Bertie finally made it outside the opera hall, where he hailed a cab.

  * * *

  After Bertie had seen Lady Wellingham to her door and into the care of her maid, Bertie took Lady Catherine to Westbury House. Stebbins met them at the door, where alarm crossed the normally impassive butler’s face.

  “My lady! Shall I fetch Parker?”

  Lady Catherine clung to Bertie’s arm. “No. Just my father, Stebbins. We will be in the red sitting room.”

  Bertie guided her with his arm, as she was still shaky.

  “I admire you exceedingly, Lady Catherine. Once again you have shown your fortitude by not going into shock.”

  “I did feel a bit queer in that crowd. If you had not held me up, I think I would have fainted.”

  Once they reached the red room, she turned in his arms and put her hands against his chest. Looking into his eyes, she said, “Thank you, once again, Sir Bertie. Your quick action saved my life.”

  “I would do it anytime, though hopefully now it will not be necessary.”

  “You shall have to become a permanent attachment to me otherwise.”

  “That idea has its attractions,” he said softly.

  At that moment, her father entered the room, and running to him, she threw her arms around him. “Oh, Papa! Sir Bertie has had to save me once again! But this time . . . is well and truly captured!”

  “Who? Sir Bertie or your assailant?”

  Bertie watched as she blushed. “The assailant, of course. It was a near thing. He shot at me, but Sir Bertie dashed me to the floor. There was a vast commotion. Even the opera stopped. The whole thing was dreadful.”

  “So he is in custody at last?” her father asked.

  “Yes. It was one of the stable hands we use when we are in Dorset.”

  “I imagine the magistrate will be coming here to tell us the man has been charged and interrogated,” said Bertie.

  “I owe you a great deal,” said the marquess. “I cannot think what I would have done if she had been killed. I should have been there. Confound my plants!”

  “I would have been there in any case,” said Bertie. “You might have been a target as well.”

  The marquess went to the drinks tray sitting on a corner table. “I think we all need a brandy,” he said.

  “None for me,” said Lady Catherine. “I can’t abide spirits, Papa. You know that.” Crossing to the bell rope, she rang for Stebbins. When he entered, she asked for tea.

  Bertie accepted a glass of brandy. “I am afraid I must impose my presence on you for a while longer,” he said. “I told Lord Wellingham to report to the constable and the magistrate that I would meet them here. I imagine they will want to question all of us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Catherine woke from the catnap she had fallen into against her father’s shoulder on the couch facing Sir Bertie. There was a new presence in the room—the magistrate. She stood up, swaying a bit on her feet.

  Her father introduced her to his lordship. “Harold, may I present my daughter, Lady Catherine, and her rescuer, Sir Herbert Backman? Catherine, Sir Herbert, this is Lord Stanfield. It so happens we were at Oxford together.”

  The old man smiled, a network of lines emerging from the corners of his eyes.

  “It is a pleasure to meet both of you. I know you will be glad to hear that the culprit is locked up. But there is a claim he is making that I can hardly credit.”

  Catherine guessed. “He was hired by someone. A gentleman who is the head of a smuggling ring in Dorset.”

  “Yes. That is his story. But I am afraid that the name of the gentleman may come as quite a shock to you. I think you had better sit down.”

  She obeyed, her eyes never leaving his.

  “Come, Harold,” said the marquess. “We can do without the theatrics.”

  “You had better be seated yourself, George.”

  “Well?” demanded Catherine. “Who is it?”

  The magistrate seated himself across from her, next to Sir Bertie. “The blackguard claims he has been working for Lord Robert.”

  “Our Lord Robert?” Catherine asked.

  “I am afraid so.”

  Gripping her hands in her lap, Catherine felt the blood leave her head. “No! I cannot believe it! He must be lying.”

  Her eyes flew to her father’s, then to Sir Bertie’s. “I cannot credit that my own brother would try to have me murdered.”

  Her father took her icy hands in his, looking his full age as he said, “He has been racketing around with the Prince’s set and has huge gambling debts. I have refused to pay them.”

  “But why would he try to kill me?” she demanded. “I do not understand.”

  Sir Bertie spoke up, “No doubt at first he wished only to scare you. He was not certain you knew his identity. But he got careless. He grew certain that you had seen him at the Fotheringills’ ball and that you would put it all together.”

  Her father gave a huge sigh. “Vanity. His whole world revolves around the Regent and his set. Perhaps they would have overlooked his smuggling, but they wouldn’t overlook his subsequent attacks on his own sister. And so he had to finish the job, get rid of the evidence.”

  “Does this mean . . .“ Catherine struggled with her words. “Does this mean he will be hanged?”

  “If he is convicted,” said the magistrate. “The man who shot at you tonight will certainly be convicted.”

  “Excuse me,” she said, standing. She was unsteady on her feet, but she had to get out of the room. “I am afraid I cannot bear to hear any more.”

  * * *

  The knowledge of Robert’s guilt and the fact that he had tried to kill her devastated Catherine to such an extent that she was unable to leave her room for several days. She wept, she paced, she stood sightlessly looking out her window. The days ran into one another. She slept during the days and was wakeful at night. Her father spent hours with her, his own heart broken over the behavior of his heir.

  “Who will inherit Westbury Castle now, Papa?” she finally asked him.

  “It will go to your cousin, your late Uncle Phillip’s son.”

  “Desmond?”

  “Yes. But you will always have a home in Dorset. Fortuneswell House is not part of the entail.”

  His face looked gray, and his eyes were deeply shadowed. She went to him and laid her head upon his chest. “Papa, I am so sorry.”

  He embraced her. “Let us not talk of vipers and bosoms. Let us go to Somerset and remove ourselves from all of this. Sir Bertie will testify at the trial in the House of Lords. We need not be here. I long to get out of London.”

  “Yes. Let us go to the castle. I can be ready to leave as soon as may be. Shall we leave tonight? That way no one can see the crest on our carriage.”

  “I think that would be best.”

  After her father left the room, Catherine called Parker, and they began to pack her portmanteaux. It relieved her to be able to do something constructive.

  That afternoon, she received a missive from Sir Bertie. She opened it with dread. He would never want to ally himself with such a house as hers. The scandal would attach to him, as well. This had been a great, unacknowledged part of her misery.

  Wellingham House

  London

  My dear Lady Catherine,

  Your father has written me to say that you are leaving for Somerset. I think this is a wise move and am very glad you will not be in town for the trial. I am certain that my testimony will be more than adequate.

  You have been in my thoughts constantly. I cannot even imagine how betrayed you must feel. I hope it will help you to know that you are,
as ever, first in my thoughts. You are not tainted at all in my estimation by your brother’s actions. I am only immensely relieved that he was not successful in his plans.

  To lose you in such a way would have been more than I could have borne. You are very dear to me, as I am certain you realize. I hope this knowledge will ever stay with you.

  Yours always,

  Sir B.

  Catherine was stunned by Sir Bertie’s letter. She was first in his thoughts? She was dear to him? She had not lost his association by her misbegotten brother’s behavior?

  A healing balm poured into her heart. Surely all could once again be well if she had maintained his regard. She had not even dared to wish that such could be the case during her days of misery. And it was during those days that she had realized how very much she had stood to lose in the favor of such a man.

  Her personal clouds parted.

  “Parker, that will be enough for now,” she said. “We both need a respite. Will you be so good as to come back in an hour? Thank you.”

  Going into her private sitting room, she curled up on the daybed and cast her mind back to all the time she had spent with Sir Bertie.

  First, there was their unusual meeting, then her confrontation of him at the Oaks, where he had been staying in Portesham. What had she thought of him then? Had she really believed he had been her shooter?

  Not really. Rather, she had wanted to see him again, though she would never have admitted it to herself. He had intrigued her from the start with his curiously soft gray eyes that did not seem to fit with the severity of his countenance.

  Then, their time together in London when they had had the day at the museum. Now it shone in her memory as a perfect day. He had wit and character, showing himself to be interested in other pursuits than cards and horses. He had made it a special day for her from beginning to end. She had been intrigued by him—more so than any other man with whom she was acquainted.

  She had been daring enough to hold his hand. How delicious that had been to have that private moment in the midst of the crowd!

  And then there had been those delightful letters when she was in Somerset. They were a window into the heart of a warm and caring man.

  That is when I truly fell for him.

  Their dance at her ball had been heavenly. It had fulfilled a secret dream of hers to be held in his arms, knowing that he had come all the way from Oxfordshire to dance with her.

  But following that he had left abruptly for his home, and she had not known why. He had postponed coming to London for the Season, and she had been miserable. Once he had come, however, it was just in time to rescue her from the rabble in the East End. Looking back, she thought he must have constructed some scenario in his mind concerning William. He must have compared himself to her former fiancé and judged himself to be wanting in her eyes.

  There was the sweet interval where he cared for her until her odious brother had turned up. Robert had been excessively rude, probably because his plans had failed. From that time forward, things had been strained, but he had saved her life again at the opera. And now this wonderful letter.

  Going to her desk, she sharpened her quill and began to write.

  Westbury House

  London

  Dearest Sir Bertie,

  Your letter arrived just before we are to leave for Somerset. It was very welcome. You cannot possibly imagine how welcome. I had not dared to think that your regard for me could possibly withstand the scandal surrounding my brother’s horrible deeds.

  Thank you for agreeing to testify at his trial. I do not think I could have ever held up my head again were I compelled to testify. How foolish I have been. Of course, it was Robert’s voice I heard that day in the cave. I did not recognize the voice at the time, but something about his turn of phrase was familiar; of course I could not put him in that context. Never did I imagine that someone as careful of his reputation and his good name as my brother would engage in smuggling! Never mind murder!

  I hope you will consider coming to Westbury Castle following the trial. Not only are my father and I greatly indebted to you, we are anxious for your company.

  With warmest regards,

  Lady C.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bertie had not availed himself of Lady Catherine’s invitation but had gone straight back to Oxfordshire after the trial. He did not want her gratitude to compel her in any way to return his feelings, which he had surely made clear. Miss Sybil Anderson had broken her engagement to Lord William Cumberwell, and for weeks he had daily been in expectation of an announcement that he and Lady Catherine were again engaged.

  But it had not happened. That day he had received a note from Penelope telling him that she had been to visit Lady Catherine and that she had found her cast down. Penelope was of the opinion that the lady was pining for him. Lady Catherine had apparently inquired after him in great detail.

  He was now contemplating the very real possibility that she did indeed care for him. In consequence, he took a walk alone over his property, trying to see it through Lady Catherine’s eyes. The estate was situated among gently rolling emerald hills dotted with sheep and bisected by a creek where he had learned to fish during his boyhood days. A flatter portion was cultivated with oats, rye, and corn. Blooming in variegated colors, the hedgerows were lovely at this time of year. Romantic ruins of a medieval abbey rose behind him. Standing on a rise, Bertie’s house was sheltered by venerable oaks and covered in climbing roses. To him, it was idyllic.

  He had always been perfectly content with his lot in life, never wanting more than what lay before him. Now, he just wished it were enough to tempt a lady who had been raised in a castle with extensive holdings in Dorset and London. He didn’t like the fact that he was discontented.

  Lady Catherine probably took all she had for granted. If she truly pictured him as a suitor, most likely she hadn’t even considered what it would be like to live with less.

  It occurred to him that he was imagining her to be far shallower than he knew her to be. She took her work to better the lives of the poor very seriously. Nevertheless, she had been ready to marry Cumberwell, and his inheritance was vast.

  But should he really make her decision for her? He respected her intelligence. And her father clearly had no problems with Bertie’s rank or they never would have invited him down to Somerset.

  Bertie knew himself to be far more accomplished with the pen than he was with speech. Shouldn’t he put the matter into a letter and let her have plenty of time to consider the matter rationally? Shouldn’t he invite her to Heyford Abbey to let her see his estate for herself?

  The more Bertie thought about it, the more convinced he became that this was the course he should follow. Why should he think he could make such a decision for her?

  He grew calmer. By the time he walked back to the house, he was already composing a letter in his head. He sat down in his study to write.

  Heyford Abbey

  Lower Heyford, Oxfordshire

  Dear Lady Catherine,

  I want to apologize most abjectly for refusing your kind offer to visit you at Westbury Castle. The truth of the matter is that I have taken it into my head to make the decision for you about whether or not to further our connection. Now I am wondering if that was wise or even fair to you.

  I need to tell you that I have loved you from the very beginning. The feelings struck me there on the beach that first day and have only grown stronger over time. You are the only lady for whom I have ever had these feelings. But, also from the first, I have felt the difference in our stations most keenly. I convinced myself that you would regret any alliance between us. Now I realize that you are not without sense and would surely not take such a step without your eyes wide open.

  Can you forgive my officiousness? If you truly do wish to further our acquaintance with a view to a future together, would you and your father care to be guests here at Heyford Abbey? While it most assuredly is not a castle, it is com
fortable.

  I await your pleasure.

  Yours very truly,

  Sir B.

  The letter really was not adequate. It sounded like a business letter. On such an intimate matter, however, he found that he could not write with any less gravity. Perhaps if he included one of Marianne’s pressed flowers, it would seem more personal.

  Accordingly, he enclosed a red rose, still fragrant.

  * * *

  Her answer came quite promptly.

  Westbury Castle

  Somerset

  Dear Sir Bertie,

  Your letter was such a surprise. I had it in my head that I was never going to hear such words from you. I cannot express myself as you do on paper, so you will have to be satisfied when I tell you your sentiments were very welcome to me.

  You are correct. It was officious to take such a decision out of my hands! I have missed you exceedingly, and my father and I shall both be more than happy to pay you a visit. Would July 12 be too soon?

  If anyone could have told me six months ago that I should ever find happiness, I don’t think I would have believed them. I am so very glad to be out of London.

  I look forward to seeing you with unladylike impatience.

  With fondest thoughts,

  Lady C.

  Bertie’s heart swelled. He had been right! He had made the right decision. He did not fully understand how she had come to think of him so fondly, but he had sensed that her regard was real. What a good thing he had finally trusted to that sense.

  Her brother’s trial and subsequent hanging must have been a horrible ordeal for her. Three instances of attempted murder were too much for the House of Lords to swallow. The execution had swiftly followed the trial. He knew Lady Catherine to be strong, but such an event would assault even the most well-ordered senses. Bertie now saw his failure to appear in Somerset as cruel and unfeeling. He wondered that she still cared for him at all.

  His eagerness to see Lady Catherine was upset, however, when Gweet came to him in his library as he was studying his rubbing of the Rosetta Stone under a magnifying glass.