More Than Charming

by JoMarie DeGioia

  “Rebecca was finally able to get the truth out of her, bless her kind heart,” Geoffrey went on. “Diane named her attacker just this morning.”

  “Who was it?” James asked haltingly.

  Geoffrey took a deep breath and expelled it. “Waltham.”

  “No,” James murmured. “No. God, no!” He sank into a chair, burying his face in his hands.

  “What is it?” Geoffrey asked.

  Paul quickly told him about Catherine’s disappearance, of Waltham’s abduction.

  “And there’s no sign of them?” Geoffrey asked.

  Chester shook his head.

  James recovered himself and stood, his hands in fists. “If that bastard harms so much as one hair on Catherine’s head, I’ll kill him with my bare hands,” he ground out.

  “Roberts,” Chester said suddenly. “You started to say something earlier. Something about Lady Brookdale?”

  “What?” James asked, blinking rapidly. “Yes. Priscilla informed me that she saw Catherine at Waltham’s house. Perhaps she herself is involved with that reprobate.”

  Paul straightened. “Well, gentlemen,” he said. “Perhaps we should pay a call on the bitch.”

  The gentlemen filed out of the room.

  The Earl of Talbot halted James’s progress with a hand on his shoulder, an anguished look in his eyes. “You’ll find her, son. I know you will.”

  James nodded, his throat tight. Saying nothing in return, he joined his friends, bound for Lady Brookdale’s home.

  * * *

  Waltham paced the small waterfront room, the nearly empty whiskey bottle clutched in his hand. Catherine followed him with her eyes. Long minutes had passed since his attack there in the room, and she was ever wary of another one. He’d had a tray brought up from downstairs for her dinner, but the only food palatable upon it was a few crusts of bread. Catherine chewed the stale bread slowly as she kept her eyes on her captor.

  “She was mine,” Waltham grumbled. “It was all set.”

  Catherine knew he spoke of Beatrice, once more. She shrank back against the bed rail and tried to keep still. It didn’t matter really, for Waltham’s mind wasn’t in the little room. She guessed he was firmly in the past. In the time when Beatrice had been his.

  “We were cousins, she and I,” he went on. “Second cousins. Our families approved of the match, a feat in and of itself, considering her fortune far exceeded my own. She was so beautiful, was my Beatrice.” He turned to Catherine then. “And she loved me, Catherine. Me!”

  He took another pull on the bottle, then slammed it back on the scarred table. Raking his long fingers through his hair, he tried to collect his thoughts.

  “We went to London, a mistake to be sure,” he went on. “But she wanted a Season, and I could refuse her nothing. More fool me, for she took to society and it to her. Men began to call upon her. Men with more than matrimony on their minds, I was certain. I will say my little dove wasn’t enamored of any of her gentlemen callers. Oh, no. She’d set her cap on a different gentleman altogether.” He cast a baleful glance in Catherine’s direction. “Can you wager a guess as to who it was that stole my Beatrice’s heart?”

  Catherine shook her head, mute.

  “No?” He sneered. “Why, Beatrice found herself enamored of the ever-charming, ever-dashing Viscount Roberts! He was so handsome, she’d tell me. And he danced divinely, she’d gush. How I wanted to strangle him for dallying with her feelings.”

  “No, Thomas,” Catherine cut in. “You’re wrong. James would never—”

  “Keep silent!” Waltham shouted. “I’m telling this story. You will sit there and hold your tongue!”

  Catherine froze and did as he ordered.

  He gave a satisfied nod and resumed his tale. “This was four years ago, you see, and I wasn’t the established gentleman you see before you. I didn’t have Joan’s money as yet and, while the ladies found me pleasing, I didn’t have much to recommend myself. Nevertheless,” he sighed, warming once more to his tale, “our betrothal was to be announced before the Season was concluded. Beatrice, however, had other intentions, which would be made known to me very soon after. She intended to wed Roberts, she told me. He was the only man she wanted. The only man she’d have as a husband or a lover.”

  Waltham’s coolly handsome face wore an ugly sneer as the memory rankled. “Thinking to change her mind, I took her for a ride in my father’s carriage. Much like our pleasant ride of this afternoon, Catherine,” he interjected.

  Catherine’s stomach clenched as she imagined the horrid story to follow. “Thomas, you don’t have to tell me anymore,” she said shakily, knowing she’d barely be able to withstand the tale.

  “Oh, you will hear all of it, my love,” he jeered. “You will see what your husband’s charm had wrought.”

  Waltham returned to the window, staring out into the darkness as the ugly truth spilled from his lips. “I asked her to marry me,” he said in a low voice. “I begged her to put aside any ideas she had of marrying that rogue. She laughed at me, Catherine. She told me that she’d never be mine.” He turned back to Catherine, a glint in his eye. “So I took her. I took her there in the carriage. Oh, she fought me at first, for she was a young lady of virtue. But once my fists convinced her of what my words couldn’t, she was mine.” He closed his eyes, lost in the memory. “God, she was so sweet.”

  Catherine ran to the chamber pot, barely making it before bringing up the bit of bread she’d only just consumed.

  Waltham laughed softly at her distress. “Did I offend your delicate nature, my love?” he taunted. “No matter. You’ll hear the rest of it.”

  She wiped her mouth and stood on shaking legs. Sinking back down onto the lumpy mattress, she closed her eyes and sighed. “Thomas, I don’t know what any of this has to do with James.”

  “It has everything to do with that bastard!” Waltham raged. “If he hadn’t stolen her heart, I wouldn’t have had to force myself on my delicate angel.”

  She couldn’t argue with such perverse logic. She held her tongue once more as he finished his dark tale.

  “It was too much for her,” he said at last, his voice a low croak. “She fell into a stupor, showing no reaction to anything or anyone except for myself. Whenever I entered her chamber, she screamed and screamed. She got hold of a knife somehow . . . The servants were all questioned afterward as to how one made its way into her chamber.” He looked at Catherine, once more. “She took her own life, Catherine. She’s gone from me and it’s all the fault of that charming rogue you married!”

  Catherine sobbed quietly, her heart clenching for what the poor girl must have endured.

  “He’ll learn. Damn him to hell,” he muttered, once more brandishing his own knife. “Roberts will learn what it feels like to lose someone he loves!”

  She shook her head then, the shadow of a smile curving her lips as she stared up at him. “You’re wrong, Thomas,” she said softly. “James doesn’t love me—you said so yourself, remember?” She wanted to keep him talking.

  Waltham snorted. “Foolish girl. I lied! He loves you, Catherine,” he spat. “I’ve seen him with you. You can’t tell me he doesn’t love you. He worships the ground you walk on, for God’s sake!”

  Saying no more, he set his knife beside his bottle and drank what little was left inside.

  Catherine sat there, stunned as the truth settled on her. How could she not have seen it before? She had been a foolish girl allowing herself to be easily swayed by the spiteful words of others. She should have had more faith. In herself and in her husband. Her dear, wonderful James. Suddenly a vision came to her, an image from a long-ago dream. It was him. James was her dream lover, the wonderful man promising to protect her and cherish her forever. Oh, please find me, James!

  Chapter 29

  They arrived at Lady Brookdale’s townhouse and James raced up the steps to the front door. The woman’s butler showed them into the parlor, where they were left waiting. After ten minutes ha
d passed, minutes that felt like hours to James, Priscilla breezed into the room. She blinked to see the four gentlemen standing there in her parlor.

  Turning to her favorite, she smiled coyly. “Lord Roberts. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

  “Where is he, Priscilla?” James asked without preamble.

  Priscilla lost her smile as his eyes bore into hers. She looked from one gentleman to another. She swallowed with an audible gulp. “I don’t know who you’re—”

  “Waltham, Lady Brookdale,” Paul cut in. “Where is Waltham?”

  She looked down and brushed her hands over her skirts. “Why, I haven’t spoken to Thomas since last evening,” she insisted, still not meeting his gaze.

  James grabbed her by her arms. “Don’t lie to me, Priscilla!” he ground out. “You will tell me where that son-of-a-bitch took her!”

  “He’s with her, isn’t he?” Her lovely mouth twisted into a very ugly smirk. “He’s with that Talbot trollop!”

  James gave her a hard shake. “You won’t speak of Catherine that way!”

  With more than a little bit of force, Chester pulled him away from Priscilla. “Easy, man.”

  James raked his fingers through his hair in acute frustration.

  Chester turned back to the widow, his brown eyes intent. “Lady Brookdale, we know you’re involved with Lord Waltham. We need you to tell us if he keeps another property here in town.”

  Priscilla glared at James and turned back to the Earl of Chester. “He has no other property, save in Westmorland.”

  James took a deep breath to calm his ire. “Priscilla, we know he has Catherine. We need to know if there’s any place he would take her.”

  “I told him not to dally with her,” she said. “But he was adamant, the fool!”

  The gentlemen exchanged puzzled glances.

  Geoffrey cleared his throat. They all knew he could barely stand to be in her company after her involvement with his late brother. “Lady Brookdale,” he said sharply, drawing her attention. “You’re not aware of the foul deeds of which the man is capable.”

  Priscilla scoffed at that. “You’re wrong in your assumptions, Lord Kanewood,” she said smugly. “Lord Waltham and I . . .” She suddenly smiled slyly. “Well, a lady doesn’t speak of such matters. But capable of foul deeds? No. You’re quite mistaken.”

  James rolled his eyes, his patience stretched to the breaking point. “He’s a despicable bastard, Priscilla,” he growled. “A blackguard, a despoiler of young women, a—”

  “No!” Priscilla cut in. “Thomas would never—”

  “He raped Diane Plymouth,” Geoffrey said. “My God, he beat her and left her for dead!”

  Priscilla gasped, her eyes wide. She shook her head in shock.

  Paul stepped in front of her and regarded her closely. “You seem quite astounded.”

  “Of . . . of course.” She gasped.

  “We need to find him, Lady Brookdale,” Paul said firmly. “He has my sister. She’s with child, and we’re frantic with worry about her.”

  Priscilla raised a shaking hand to her face and told them of the place Waltham liked to keep available to him, a disreputable room down by the waterfront.

  “The waterfront?” James questioned her.

  “H-he . . .” she explained unsteadily, “he told me he enjoys mixing with that rabble.”

  James nodded. “Thank you, Priscilla.”

  The four of them left her home, bound for the inn at the waterfront.

  * * *

  Catherine watched Waltham closely, her fear having increased tenfold over what it was when he’d first brought her to this place. He muttered to himself as he stalked about the small room, the now empty whiskey bottle clutched in his hand.

  “He’ll learn,” he said, more to himself than to her. “The bastard will learn. And then he’ll be all alone, with nothing but his charm to warm his bed.”

  Catherine took a deep breath, thinking to try a new tactic. “Thomas,” she began in a soothing voice. “Please let me go. I know you’re not a bad man. You’ve been hurt.”

  “Don’t give me your pity, Catherine,” he said sharply. “You were to be mine! Instead, you gave yourself to that scoundrel. I’ll never understand you women and your constant fawning over that man. Even Diane Plymouth sang his praises to me, the foolish chit.”

  “Diane?” Catherine murmured.

  His lip curled, showing his teeth in a snarl. “She couldn’t stop talking about him, Catherine. Even when we were together after Joan’s funeral, she went on and on about your dashing husband and how you were the luckiest woman to find someone like him to love. It sickened me. But I silenced her for a while. Now the poor girl is soiled. No longer desirable. And I lay the blame precisely at Roberts’s feet!”

  Catherine could make no sense of his ranting. What had he done to Diane? And how could he blame James for it all? Biting back the denial she longed to scream at him, she watched him closely.

  “Your sister came to me, you know,” he went on. “On the pretense of looking for Diane.” That slick smile was on his face once more. “She’s more than passable, your sister. Quite a fine piece.”

  Catherine’s heart stilled. “You didn’t, Thomas. Please tell me you didn’t.”

  He blinked. “What? No. She’s not quite . . . ripe enough for me.”

  She nearly swooned with relief. “It . . . it must have been Elizabeth Lady Brookdale saw, then.”

  “Indeed? I’d thought dear Priscilla’s jealousy quite misplaced.” He waved a hand. “I never should have married Joan.” His lips curled. “Joan, that stupid cow. Her inheritance was little reward for my suffering her company for over a year.” He looked at Catherine, his brows arched. “It was quite simple to rid myself of her, I must say. Just a bit of something in the tea she drank each and every afternoon and she soon fell ill.”

  “No.” Catherine breathed. “You didn’t. You couldn’t!”

  Waltham laughed, the sound echoing in the small space. “Oh, yes,” he returned. “Pity she didn’t succumb earlier, my love. For you would be married to me instead of Roberts.”

  Catherine squared her shoulders, her hands in fists in her lap. “You’re wrong, Thomas. I love James, not you. I never would have married you.”

  Waltham lost his smile, his expression chilling her to her toes. “You won’t speak to me in such a manner,” he said through clenched teeth. “You will hold your tongue or I’ll make our mating most difficult.”

  Her bravado soon fled and she sought to calm him. “I’m truly sorry, Thomas.” She shrank back against the bed rail.

  He tipped the bottle to his lips once more, finding naught but a drop of the liquor inside. “Damn it to hell!” He threw the bottle against the wall. The bottle shattered with a resounding crash. Catherine shivered, pulling her cloak around her once more. She watched as he stalked her, lust burning brightly in his pale eyes.

  “I’ll take you now, Catherine,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll take you despite that brat in your belly.” He came down on her, tossing her cloak aside and grabbing her roughly.

  She began to sob, pushing against him with all her strength. “No!”

  “Yes,” he said, grabbing her hands and pulling them over her head. His fingers dug into her flesh. He ran his lips over her cheek, her neck. “You’ll scream with the pleasure I give you, Catherine,” he rasped. “I admit that my taking of your fair person will be unlike any you’ve known before.” He pulled back and smiled at her. “I daresay by this time tomorrow, that brat in your belly will be but a memory.”

  Catherine reached her breaking point in that moment. She fought him, thrashing about to throw him off of her. She kicked furiously with her legs, letting loose with a bloodcurdling scream.

  He smacked her across the face. “Shut your mouth!”

  Her cut lip split once more, her blood flowing anew. “No, no, no, no!” She screamed again.

  Waltham balled his hand into a fist and struck her ag
ain, his blow landing squarely below her left eye. Sparks lit behind her eyelids as her head fell back on the mattress. She couldn’t make her limbs move, could only cringe as she felt his hands roam freely over her.

  “That’s it, love,” he said, ripping her drawers off her now-still legs. He began to unbutton his breeches. “Yes . . .”

  “Get off her, you bastard!” James roared as he rushed into the room.

  He pulled Waltham from her, sending his fist into the man’s face, his gut.

  He plowed his fists into Waltham again and again. “You miserable blackguard!”

  Blood pounded in his head as he soundly beat Waltham. The bastard soon ceased his struggles, all but limp in his hands.

  “Roberts!” Chester yelled, holding James’s arm.

  Geoffrey grabbed James around the waist. “You’ll kill him!”

  James threw another blow before letting go of Waltham. The man crumpled into a heap at his feet. James turned quickly to the bed, shocked at the sight he found there. Paul cradled Catherine in his arms, brushing the hair away from her bloodied face.

  “Catherine!” James cried, coming to her side. His eyes flew to Paul’s.

  “She’s coming around,” Paul said, his voice thick.

  Catherine moaned as she opened her eyes. She started as her eyes fell on James, obviously still in the throes of her distress. “No, no, no,” she sobbed, twisting away from him.

  “Shh, love,” James soothed, placing his hand on her cheek. “It’s me, Catherine. James. Shh, sweetheart. Everything’s all right now.”

  Catherine ceased her struggles as his voice reached through to her. She held herself still, staring at him for the longest moment. Finally, recognition broke through her haze of horror. “Oh, James!” she sobbed, closing her eyes once more. “Thank God you’ve come. Oh, thank God.”

  James held her close as Paul spread her cloak to cover her body. He ran his eyes carefully over her. Her clothes were in rags, her face covered with blood.

  Tamping his anger down, James kissed her brow. “Ah, Catherine. I love you.”