“He wanted her at one time, Chester. And from the little I heard on the terrace, he wants her still.”
“He wouldn’t dare to approach her now. Not with you aware of his intentions.”
James shrugged. “This wasn’t the first time.”
“Perhaps if I speak to him, he—”
The butler at the door interrupted Chester. The servant handed a letter to him and bowed, taking his leave. James watched as Chester puzzled over the missive.
“Who sent it?” James asked.
Chester shook his head and broke the seal. As he read the letter, his face went white.
“My God, Chester.” James came to his side. “What is it?”
“It appears our friend Waltham is no longer tied to a wife.” Chester closed his eyes and sighed. “Lady Joan has passed away.”
James froze. “No. That can’t be so.”
Chester handed the missive to him. James quickly read the contents and swore softly.
“Catherine told me she was quite ill,” he said. “And troubled.”
“Troubled?” Chester asked. “In what way?”
“I don’t truly know,” James answered. “I dismissed the lady’s odd behavior as guilt over her marriage to Catherine’s intended.”
A knock came at the door.
“Husband,” Constance called. “I fear Catherine and I are growing quite lonely in the parlor.”
Chester looked worriedly at James.
“You have to tell her, old man,” James said. “I don’t envy you.”
Chester gave a solemn nod. James crossed to the door and pulled it open.
Catherine and Constance smiled up at him.
“I was beginning to believe you gentlemen had forgotten us,” Constance chided.
Chester’s face was marred with a worried frown. “Constance, I have to speak with you.”
Constance lost her smile. She crossed over to him as James gently urged Catherine out the door. As he pulled the door shut behind them, Constance’s sudden, heart-rending sob could be heard through the wood panel.
Catherine grabbed tightly onto James’s arm. “James, what happened?”
James saw no easy way to word the terrible news. He took her hands in his. “Catherine, Lady Joan died.”
She gasped. “But,” she stammered, “how can that be? She was so young, I . . . Oh, why didn’t I pay more attention to what she was trying to tell me?”
“What was she trying to tell you?”
She shook her head, wiping tears from her eyes. “She mentioned something about Waltham, and—”
“Don’t say the man’s name, Catherine.”
She flinched at the vehemence in his tone.
James caught the motion and hugged her to him. “I’m sorry, love. What were you saying?”
Catherine shrugged as James led her back into the parlor. “Joan mentioned his violent temper. As I told you, he never exhibited such with me.”
“But, Catherine, she was quite ill.”
She sat. “I know that. I suppose her nerves might have been affected by her illness.”
James believed that was precisely what had been troubling Joan. That, and the fact that her husband’s former fiancée was in attendance there at Chesterfield.
Catherine sighed as she refreshed her cup of tea. “I suppose we have to attend the funeral.”
James nodded. He had little taste for spending time in Waltham’s company, but attending the funeral would be the proper course, especially for Constance’s sake. Perhaps at his wife’s funeral, the bastard would have the sense to keep his hands off Catherine.
It was decided that Chester and Constance would travel to Bradford Hall with James and Catherine, and that they would leave for the funeral at Waltham’s estate in Westmorland from there. There was a pall over their gathering that evening, Catherine sitting very close to Constance on the settee in the parlor.
“I can’t believe she’s gone.” Constance sniffed. “She was ill, but I never thought this would happen . . .”
“Shh, love,” Chester soothed, coming to stand in front of the ladies.
Catherine stood to permit him to sit beside his wife. She crossed to where James stood by the mantle and he favored her with a small smile. She met it with one of her own and held her hands out to the fire crackling merrily in the fireplace.
“I can’t seem to get warm,” she said softly.
James took her chilled hands in his and pulled her closer. She leaned against him as he wrapped his arms around her.
“It’s all right, love. I didn’t know her very well, but she seemed like a sweet person.”
“She was, Lord Roberts,” Constance added, wiping her tears.
Catherine nodded. “She was too good for Waltham, I can tell you that.”
“Why do you say that?” Chester asked, bewildered.
Catherine was startled to find the three of them looking at her closely. “I . . . Waltham made some very unkind statements about Joan to me when . . .”
“You may say it.” James smiled ruefully. “When I found him in our room?”
Catherine reddened a bit. “Yes. He was most unkind.”
“I daresay the scoundrel would have said anything to sway you toward him, Catherine,” Chester offered.
“What’s this?” Constance asked. “He was in your room, Catherine?”
Catherine simply nodded. James tamped down the anger the memory gave him.
“It appears Waltham thought to renew his attentions toward my wife,” James said.
“No!” Constance gasped. “And with Joan so ill?”
Chester looked sharply at James, his eyes clearly showing his alarm.
“Chester?”
Chester gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, at which James held his tongue.
He arched a brow at Chester, turning back once more to Catherine. “It’s been a long day, sweetheart. Why don’t you ready yourself for bed?”
Catherine nodded and left the circle of his arms. He watched as she exited the room. Chester suggested the same to Constance, who was only too happy to retire for the evening.
“Now, what are you thinking, Chester?”
Chester poured them each a brandy and offered a glass to James. “Roberts, could Waltham have had something to do with his wife’s death?”
James shook his head. “It can’t be possible,” he said. “As much as I despise the bastard, I can’t believe he’d do such a thing.”
Chester breathed a sigh. “I suppose so. But he bears watching, Roberts,” he warned. “If only where Catherine is concerned.”
James hesitated for the briefest moment, finally downing a large swallow of the brandy.
“Let him attempt to come near my wife again,” he said, his eyes narrowed. “It’ll be the last thing he ever does.”
Chapter 15
The four of them departed for the funeral a few days later. The ride from Bradford Hall to Westmorland was but an hour or so, though it proved most uncomfortable for the traveling party. It was the middle of November, and quite chilly. Catherine and Constance wore gowns of severe black, as was the custom. The gentlemen wore the austere color, as well, with no white to relieve their dress. Not a one of them was looking forward to the visit, least of all James. The funeral notwithstanding, he had no desire to be in Waltham’s company for any length of time. He hadn’t been jesting when he’d threatened to throw Waltham out the window at Chesterfield.
“The sky looks forbidding,” Chester said. “I hope the weather holds.”
“Yes,” Constance agreed. “We hadn’t planned on staying on after the service.”
“We won’t be staying,” James said curtly.
Catherine blinked in surprise at his tone. James saw her reaction and tempered his next words.
“I have no desire to reside under that man’s roof for one moment longer than necessary. Grieving widower or no, we won’t be staying.”
They arrived at Waltham Manor just past noon.
The main house was quite large and grand, if in need of a few repairs. Leaving the carriage with the many others lining the stone drive, they alighted and climbed the wide steps to the entrance. A large wreath of black adorned the front door. Chester rapped loudly with the knocker and a liveried servant pulled the door open wide.
The servant bowed low and gave the mourners the requisite black gloves to wear. As Catherine slowly pulled on hers, James didn’t miss her shiver. They went into the parlor.
James knew a funeral was an important social event, with every propriety observed. Apparently, Lady Waltham’s would prove no exception. After assembling with the other mourners, Catherine and James filed out to follow the hearse to the family graveyard. The service was over quickly, the tolling of the bells for the death knell reverberating through the chilly air.
“I can’t get Lady Joan’s odd demeanor out of my mind, James,” she whispered as they returned to the house.
He nodded and patted her hand at the crook of his elbow.
“She’d seemed ill, but not gravely so. And . . .”
“And what?” James asked softly.
“She looked frightened.”
Her words brought Chester’s comments to his mind. Did Waltham have a hand in his wife’s death?
When they returned to the house, it was required that they pay their respects to Joan’s surviving relations. James had heard that Joan lost her parents a year ago, thus coming into the generous fortune that had undoubtedly added to her attractiveness. All that remained of her family was an elderly aunt and three cousins much older than Joan had been. James led Catherine over to them, his ease with such formal matters taking over.
He took the aunt’s hand in his and pressed it firmly. “We’re terribly sorry for your loss, madam,” he said with a bow.
The elderly matron smiled wanly, inclining her head to accept Catherine’s condolences, as well. After greeting the cousins likewise, he and Catherine continued down the line. James came to a stop in front of Waltham. The widower caught the motion and gazed at Catherine. Lust was clear in Waltham’s eyes. He stared at her as a starving man would contemplate a succulent roast.
“Catherine,” Waltham said, pulling her into a tight embrace. “I’m ever so grateful that you came.”
James took a deep breath to calm his ire. He stood ramrod stiff, his hands in fists at his side as he waited for what seemed like forever for Waltham to release her.
“I’m so sorry, Thomas,” Catherine said softly.
James arched a brow at her use of the man’s first name.
“My heart is heavy, Catherine.” Waltham held her away from him, keeping his hands on her arms. “But the burden is lighter with you here.”
It was all James could do not to grab the man by the neck and throttle him right there. He cleared his throat, demanding Waltham acknowledge his presence.
The grieving widower did at last, nodding his fair head. “Thank you for coming, Roberts.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Waltham,” James said, his propriety reasserting itself. “Lady Joan will be sorely missed.”
Waltham managed a weak smile and nodded in agreement. With obvious regret, he finally released Catherine and watched as James led her over to the refreshments. James didn’t miss the gleam in his eye mere moments before that morose expression once more covered his face.
James fumed as he thought of Waltham placing his hands on Catherine yet again.
Catherine accepted a cup of tea from him, regarding him closely. “Funerals are so difficult, aren’t they, James? Is that what is troubling you?”
“What?” he said absently. “No, it isn’t that precisely.”
“Then what has you in such a state?”
James shrugged and shook his head. He was quite furious with Waltham’s familiarity with her but could acknowledge, at least to himself, that something else was troubling him, as well. What the devil was ailing him?
The undertaker had provided “mutes” for the occasion, the silent professional mourners lending dignity to the affair. James balked at their presence. Apparently, Waltham wished to give the appearance of great sorrow. Perhaps the man wasn’t as upset at his young wife’s passing as he professed.
Before he could make mention of it to Catherine, Constance drew her attention away from him. The woman gestured, bidding her to join her on the settee. Catherine looked at James in question, at which he nodded. He watched as she made her way over to join Constance. He thought once more of her easy use of the widower’s first name.
“Just what’s troubling you, Roberts?” Chester asked, drawing him from his reverie.
“Hmm?” James answered, turning quickly to his friend. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
Chester eyed him closely. “You looked quite furious just then, friend.”
James shook his head. “I’ll be pleased when we’re well away from here, Chester.”
Chester opened his mouth to make a comment about that, but was stilled as James frowned in Catherine’s direction. He followed James’s line of vision, his brown eyes widening as they watched Waltham settle himself between Constance and Catherine. Two other ladies joined them, sitting themselves across from the threesome.
“Just what is that scoundrel about?” Chester asked.
James snorted in disgust. “He’s playing the role of grieving widower to the hilt, damn him to hell,” he muttered.
Waltham, a bereaved look fixed on his face, welcomed the attention from the young women surrounding him.
“I can’t believe she’s gone, Waltham,” Constance said, placing her hand on his.
“Nor can I,” he said, giving a very convincing sniffle.
“She was so kind,” one of the other women, Diane Plymouth, offered.
Catherine nodded her agreement at that. “Joan didn’t have an unkind bone in her body.”
Waltham turned to face her fully. “Catherine, I’m doubly glad you came today. I desperately wished to speak to you.”
“To me?” Catherine asked. “But, Thomas, why would you need to speak to me?”
Waltham bent his head to Catherine’s, but James couldn’t make out his words. As he watched Catherine inclined her head in agreement, Diane gently patted Waltham’s hand before rising to her feet. She and her companion stood and left them, walking in the direction of Joan’s elderly aunt. Constance, imparting a look of confusion on Catherine, took her leave, as well.
She joined her husband and James at the refreshment table.
“What the devil was that, Constance?” James asked her pointedly.
Constance gave a small shrug. “I don’t know. Waltham said he needed to speak with Catherine.”
“What?”
He made a motion to go to them, but Chester’s hand on his arm stilled him. “Roberts, you don’t believe he’d try anything here with all of these mourners present, do you?”
James’s stomach churned, but he had to acknowledge the wisdom of Chester’s words. He contented himself to watch the scoundrel, seeking to decipher the blackguard’s words from where he stood.
* * *
“Oh, Catherine,” Waltham said, taking her hands in his. “I’m so sorry for all that happened at Chesterfield.”
Catherine blinked in surprise. “Thomas, what are you—?”
His sudden grin stopped her in mid-sentence. He recovered himself, the dour, grieving look settling upon his features once more. “It pleases me to hear you say my name, Catherine.”
She gave a small nod, accepting his words in the manner in which they were spoken. She glanced down at her hands.
“You please me, Catherine,” he whispered.
Her head shot up. “What?” she asked, perplexed.
Waltham cocked his head to the side. “Even dressed in mourning, you look delectable.”
Catherine’s mouth dropped open.
“Forgive me,” he said, his tone contrite. “I should never have made such comments to you. Now, or before, at Chesterfield. I suppose I w
as distraught.”
She looked at him closely. He certainly hadn’t seemed distraught. No, his pale eyes had glinted with lust then. “But when you—”
“Shh,” he said, reaching out to stroke her cheek. “I was upset over Joan’s illness and spoke out of turn.”
Catherine pulled back at the contact, so Waltham contented himself with placing his hand on her arm.
“I never meant to upset you, Catherine,” he said fervently. “I pray Roberts hasn’t made it difficult for you.”
“He hasn’t,” she allowed.
“Oh, Catherine,” Waltham said, letting out a heavy sigh. “How I wish we could go back in time, love. To last year.”
She shook her head. “No, Thomas. I am a happily married woman now. That’s in the past, and we can’t change that.”
James stepped closer, apparently just in time to hear the last bit of their conversation.
“And just what is it you would like to change, Catherine?” he asked.
“James!” she said, startled.
He gently grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet. “We must leave, wife, if we’re to beat the foul weather that threatens.”
Waltham stood up beside her. “You’re not staying?”
James favored him with a dark look that chilled Catherine. It cleared as a grim smile curved his lips. “No,” he said. “But we thank you for your generous offer of hospitality.”
Before Catherine knew what he was about, Waltham embraced her once more. “Thank you so much for coming, Catherine love.”
Catherine was stiff in his embrace. She patted his shoulder and pulled back. “Do take care of yourself, Thomas.”
With a curt nod to Waltham, James led her from the room and strode quickly to the foyer.
Catherine took the cloak he unceremoniously thrust into her arms. “James, what—?”
“We’re leaving, Catherine,” he said, his words clipped. “Now.”
He went outside to call for the carriage as Catherine waited for Constance and Chester to join her. Their expressions of bemusement mirrored her own feelings. What ailed James?
The return trip to Bradford Hall was a near-silent one, with James speaking nary a word. Catherine finally ceased trying to draw him into a conversation and stared out the window at the darkening sky.
More Than Charming Page 14