by Shana Galen
No wonder her lace fetched such high prices and universal admiration.
“Important business today, Colonel?” Ward asked as he entered and saw Benedict with the shirt in his hands.
Benedict folded the shirt again and replaced it. “I’ll be at my club for a few hours.”
“Very good. I have the water for your shave.”
While Benedict shaved, Ward laid out garments then waited to assist.
“I can do it myself, Ward,” Benedict said. “But I do have something I need you to do for me.” He lifted a towel to wipe away the last of the water from his face.
“You want me to guard the house while you are away.”
Benedict lowered the towel. “How do you know that?”
“I needn’t be a master of deduction to assume the lady—Mrs. Draven—is in some sort of trouble and has come to you for help. She arrived with that...animal and her sister quite in the middle of the night. She seems to have a penchant for arriving uninvited.”
“Ward.” Benedict said it with a tone of warning, but he couldn’t really argue with Ward. He’d first met Catarina when she’d arrived uninvited in his tent.
“I have also heard rumors that she was with a Spanish gentleman when she came to London. I assume there was some trouble with that man or another last night.”
Benedict lifted his shirt and donned it. “I think you underestimate your powers of deduction. They’re quite formidable.”
“Hardly, Colonel. Neither you nor Mrs. Draven seem to have slept well. That fact alone hints of some trouble at the theater. Is it the Spaniard I am to watch for?”
“Juan Carlos de la Fuente. Don’t open the door to him and keep the ladies home. If they want to go out, I will escort them later.”
“I am but a mere servant, Colonel. I cannot keep them here against their will.”
Benedict tied his cravat. “You’re more than a servant, and you know it. And the day you have to resort to ordering anyone to do your will is the day geese talk and sheep sprout wings and fly.”
“I believe you are implying I am manipulative,” Ward said, helping Benedict into his coat.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
AT THE DRAVEN CLUB, he found a few of his men scattered about the various rooms. FitzRoy wasn’t in, but Porter said he’d been in the night before and said he would return in the afternoon.
While Benedict waited, he dined with Neil Wraxall, who had been his first in command of the Survivors, and Ewan Mostyn, who had been, and most probably still was, one of the strongest and most lethal men alive. Ewan was also his business partner, but Benedict had neglected the boxing studio since Catarina’s arrival. Ewan ate heartily but said very little, as was his custom. Neil was in the process of building a new house and bemoaned the cost of supplies as well as the capriciousness of workmen who promised to arrive early to begin work and didn’t make an appearance until midday.
It was all so very ordinary that Draven could hardly believe just a little over a year ago they had all been slithering about the Continent, one wrong move away from death, risking their lives in an attempt to thwart Napoleon.
“Want me to kill one of them?” Ewan asked when Neil had gone on a bit long about the lazy workmen.
Draven thought he was joking. It was difficult to tell with Ewan because the promise of violence usually brought a smile to his face. He wasn’t smiling now—not very much, at any rate—which mean he wasn’t serious.
Or was he?
Neil scowled at him. “If you kill the workers, then the project will never be finished. And don’t tell me to hire more”—he pointed his fork at Ewan, who didn’t look like he intended to say anything of the sort—“no one will work for me if I have a reputation for killing the builders. However...” He set the fork down with a clink. “If you could come by and perhaps scare them a little.”
Ewan was nodding, a bit too enthusiastically in Draven’s opinion.
“A little, Ewan,” Neil repeated. “Just skulk around and look menacing. I’ll spread the word that you’re displeased at the slow pace and that might motivate the workers.” Neil leaned forward. “What time can you come?”
Ewan shrugged, clearly not as interested in the venture now that the fun had been taken out of it.
Porter entered the room and approached with FitzRoy behind him. “Colonel, Mr. FitzRoy has arrived.”
Benedict rose. “Let’s speak in my parlor.” He tossed his napkin on the chair.
Neil rose to greet FitzRoy with a handshake, but Ewan only looked from Benedict and then back to his abandoned plate.
“Are you finished?” he asked.
Benedict had only eaten half of his meal and not tasted any of it. “Yes.”
With a nod, Ewan lifted the plate, dumped the food onto his own plate, and continued eating.
“It’s a comfort to know that though everything else in the world may change, Mostyn’s stomach remains bottomless,” FitzRoy remarked as he and Draven walked out of the room.
“How did he manage not to starve in France?” Draven asked.
“That’s why he always liked Beaumont so much. Rafe brought him food he pilfered from the tables of the ladies he charmed. Once in a while I was able to do the same, but I think he was still hungry. That’s probably why he was in such a bad mood for the duration of the war.”
Benedict hadn’t seen any change in Ewan’s mood, but he hadn’t spent as much time with him as FitzRoy. They entered the parlor and Benedict took a seat behind his desk. He pointed to the chair opposite, but FitzRoy shook his head. “I don’t have good news.”
“I didn’t expect you would. Has de la Fuente spread the story about Mrs. Draven yet?”
“No, but I’ve seen him with his son, their heads together as if they are planning something.”
“Tell me about the son.”
FitzRoy waved a hand dismissively. “He’s nothing to worry about. He drinks so much he’s barely conscious most of the time. When he is conscious, he spends all his time at a brothel that caters to men with eclectic tastes.”
“How so?”
FitzRoy shook his head in disgust. “Women who have been maimed or were born deformed in some way and have no other recourse but to become prostitutes. I doubt the son ever had any interest in marrying Mrs. Draven. I can’t see how she would appeal to him if his tastes are what I think they are.”
“It’s his father who wants her under his thumb.”
“And now you’ve taken that possibility away.”
“Will he knock the entire house of cards down?” Benedict asked.
“I don’t think he’s that much of a fool. He knows he’d bring himself down as well. But her business is still a threat to him. He won’t let her go without a fight. I advise you to keep Mrs. Draven close and to watch your own back as well.”
“That’s good advice. Has he grown suspicious of you yet?”
“Not yet, but I may change disguises and observe a bit longer.”
“I know you don’t want me to say that I owe you—”
“Then don’t.” And FitzRoy bowed and walked out of the room.
Benedict was left wondering what to do. He was safe at his club, but he hardly wanted to spend every day here. He was often called into the Foreign Office to consult or lend the wisdom of his experience to the ministers there. He wasn’t afraid to move about London, but neither did he want to tempt fate.
And with his wife at home and his attraction to her growing, going home would also tempt fate. They would end up in bed together if they spent much more time together. He wanted her. He couldn’t deny the truth of that to himself. But he would let her go if that was what she wanted. Unless of course, there was the possibility she was carrying his child. How could he grant the annulment then? How could he send her into the world with a sister, a cat, and a child to care for? But how would he ever convince her to stay? Better to keep his hands off her than to risk pregnancy.
Which meant he didn’t want to bed h
er unless she was sure she wanted to remain married to him. Last night she’d clearly had reservations about the idea. And why not? It would mean spending the rest of her youth with an aging former soldier. He might be hale and hearty now, but what about ten years from now or twenty? Why would she want the burden of caring for an old man when she was still in her prime?
But he couldn’t leave Ward—capable as he was—all on his own. Benedict would have to go home at some point. And if it was inevitable that he took Catarina to his bed, there were ways they could find pleasure without risking a child.
The thought made his throat go dry. Before he could reconsider, he was on his way down the stairs. In the vestibule, Neil was still trying to convince Ewan to frighten his workmen into doing what he paid them for. But at his approach, Neil broke off. “Is everything all right, sir?”
“Perfectly fine. Why do you ask?” He held out his arms, so Porter could help him into his greatcoat.
“You seem in a hurry.”
“No hurry. Good afternoon, Wraxall. Mostyn.”
“Enjoy your evening,” Ewan said.
The man had so few words that Draven looked back at him and was left with the impression Ewan knew exactly why he was rushing home.
Ten
“You have witchcraft in your lips.”
Henry V, William Shakespeare
CATARINA WAS IN THE blue parlor working on Lady Philomena’s lace when Benedict burst into the room. She jumped, dropped her bobbins, and stared at him. His face was flushed, his hair tousled—which was not unusual—and he was breathing quickly.
She half-rose from her chair. “What is it? Has something happened?”
He stared at her for a long moment. “Pardon?”
“What happened? You look as though you ran all the way here.”
His cheeks colored slightly. “Nothing is the matter. I wanted to...speak with you.”
At that moment, Ward came into the parlor, making clucking sounds. “Colonel, you did not give me time to take your coat or hat.”
Benedict looked at his servant with annoyance, and Catarina stared at her husband.
“Are you certain you are well? You are acting very strangely.”
“I’m fine. I—” But Ward was attempting to assist him out of his outerwear, and he turned to remove the garments himself and shove them at his man.
“Well!” Ward said, leaving the room with a huff.
“I think you’ve upset him,” Catarina said, taking her seat again. She’d thought the awkwardness of the night before had passed, but it seemed to be returning. Now Benedict was simply standing in the middle of the parlor, staring at her. When their eyes met, he quickly looked away.
“I’ll speak with him later. I wanted to talk to you.”
“What is it?” She folded her hands and gave him her attention, but instead of launching into whatever topic he had in mind, he ran a hand through his already disordered hair. She was still not used to being in such close proximity with him. When she was close to him, she had the constant urge to touch him in some way—smooth his hair or take his hand or kiss his lips...
She was having a more difficult time controlling that urge every day, but she reminded herself men were not to be trusted.
Finally, after looking everywhere in the room but at her, Benedict said, “It’s about last night.”
Her heart clenched in her chest. She did not want to talk about last night. She didn’t know how to feel about all of his rules and her own growing desire for him. She didn’t want an annulment, but she didn’t want to be forced into a marriage either. She’d married him the first time to avoid just that.
She wanted a choice, and if bedding him removed that choice, she had no option but to refuse him. “You mean, what happened at the theater?” She could hope.
“After the theater.”
Her shoulders slumped. That was exactly the subject she’d wanted to avoid.
She pressed her lips together, and focused on a spot to the right of his head so she did not have to look into his beautiful blue eyes. “Has something changed? Have the rules changed?” She darted a look at him as he sat on the couch beside her chair. He leaned close, his voice low.
“No.”
Oh, how she wanted to lean closer to him. She managed to restrain herself and give him a perplexed look.
“Yes. Yes and no. I was thinking about you at my club. Imagining...well, I don’t need to detail what I was imagining, but it occurred to me that I can still give you”—now he leaned even closer, so close his breath warmed her cheek—“pleasure without causing a baby. We could—”
Her breath hitched in her throat and heat flooded her...everywhere.
“Oh, Ward said you were home,” Ines said, walking into the room and sitting in the chair on Catarina’s other side. Benedict moved back and Catarina sprang away from him, as though the two of them were naughty children engaging in mischief. “I asked him to bring tea for us. He will return in a moment.” She lifted her bobbins.
“Perfect.” Benedict rose and Catarina followed.
“You’re not staying for tea?” She knew they couldn’t continue their discussion with Ines in the room, but she did not want him to leave in the middle. She wanted him close again, wanted to feel the heat from his body.
“I’m not thirsty at the moment, and perhaps it might be best if I returned to my club.”
Ines looked up at him. “You’re leaving again?”
“Yes.” He looked at Catarina, and she swallowed hard. “But I’ll be back, and I’ll be here tonight. And every night..” His gaze held hers for a long moment, and she wondered if he could read her thoughts. Then he was gone.
CATARINA SPENT THE next several days engrossed in lacemaking. She made lace, though her mind continually turned over Benedict’s words. He could pleasure her without creating a child. He wanted to pleasure her. She was curious and uncertain. She very much wanted him to touch her and to touch him. She wanted to kiss him and explore his body and all manner of wicked things. But if she gave in to her baser instincts, would she be able to leave him when this business with Juan Carlos was at an end? Benedict was polite and solicitous to her when she saw him, but his eyes held a promise. She knew the next move was hers to make.
Ines and she worked seven or eight hours a day, often in the dining room, as it had the best light and opened to the garden, where Tigrino liked to nap if the weather was not too cold or wet. She finished the handkerchief for Lady Philomena and sent it with her compliments as well as a half dozen more handkerchiefs, a fichu, and assorted pieces that could be added to garments for ornamentation.
Ines had done almost as much work, though she hadn’t been quite as enthusiastic about staying home and working all day. She was eager to see more of the city, and of course, she had nothing she needed to keep her mind off.
Making lace seemed all Catarina could do to keep her mind off Benedict. He was home most days, although he was occasionally called away. If he was home, he generally stayed out of her way, attending to his correspondence or business matters.
But even if he was in one room and she in another and they didn’t see each other for hours, she still knew he was there. She felt his presence. Sometimes at night she would wake and think about the way he’d held her and kissed her. She would imagine him sleeping in his bed chamber and know that she could go to him and be welcomed with open arms. He would give her pleasure, and she desperately wondered what wicked things he would do to her.
But what happened after the pleasure? How could she walk away after sharing intimacies with him? Was she ready to give up her freedom for a few hours of pleasure? Sometimes the answer was yes. She’d half fallen in love with him the morning he’d told her she was an artist. Nothing he’d done in the meantime had diminished that feeling at all. In fact, the more she saw of him, the more she respected him. He was a good man. He treated his servants well. He was indulgent toward her sister. He obviously managed his finances in a manner that left him qu
ite comfortable. And his counsel was sought on a regular basis by those who valued his service to his country.
And that said nothing of the way he looked at her. Sometimes when the three of them—four if one counted Tigrino stalking under the table hoping for a scrap to fall—ate dinner together, she would catch him looking at her, and her own heart reflected the longing she saw in his eyes.
He wanted her to come to his bed. Did that mean he also wanted her for his wife? Could she trust him to cherish her? She’d watched how her father treated her mother. He used her mother in the night when he had need and then treated her like a servant the rest of the time. And her father could be kind and generous to his daughters when he wanted something and then violent and frightening when he did not get his way.
It was during one of these dinners, when she and Benedict were studiously avoiding looking at each other and probably too quiet for Ines’s liking, that Ines announced. “I will go shopping tomorrow.”
Catarina’s spoon clattered to the table. “No, you will not. Benedict thinks it is dangerous for us to go out.”
“Juan Carlos is still in London,” he said. “I don’t know why he’s still here, but I can’t think it’s for any noble purpose. I’d prefer he doesn’t give us an illustration.”
“But I must go shopping,” Ines said. “We are out of thread.”
Catarina sat forward. “What? You are mistaken. There is more in my valise.”
“I took it out yesterday, and now it is all but gone.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“I did tell you. I do not think you hear half of what I say.”
“I will send a servant to buy more thread,” Benedict announced.
Ines and Catarina scoffed in unison.
“And what is the matter with that idea?”
“A servant cannot choose the thread,” Ines explained. “If we were in Barcelona, we might be able to tell the servant where to go and the proprietor would know what we wanted, but here we do not know the shops or the quality of thread to be found in them.”