She gave him a short nod, smiled a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Lord Ramshay. A pleasure to see you.” And then she was gone.
* * *
Catherine watched as Aunt Cornelia and Edmund climbed into separate cabs and rattled away from the church. In the end, she had pleaded exhaustion and her aunt had disappeared toward the pleasure gardens with the Duchess of Bromley and a sizeable amount of pity in her eyes.
Pity, Catherine decided, was worth it if it meant she might avoid the horrors of the erroneously-named pleasure gardens.
Ellen, the lady’s maid—or rather, the kitchen maid who assisted with Catherine’s toilette—was hovering by the churchyard gates. “Are you ready to leave, Miss?”
Catherine nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
Though she was craving the solitude of her bedroom, the church service had not been quite as dreadful as she had anticipated. Yes, there had been gossip and whispers, but somehow, her meeting with Lord Ramshay had pushed those things to the background.
She had always liked Lord Ramshay. Whenever she thought of their clumsy waltz at the Duke of Redbridge’s Christmas ball, it brought a smile to her lips. She had been disappointed when he had not called on her after the occasion. There had been his ridiculous serenade at Edmund’s New Year’s Eve celebration a few weeks later. Though a part of her had wanted to believe there had been something to it, she knew Lord Ramshay to be something of a joker. Knew it would have been foolish to have taken his actions as anything more than play.
When he’d approached her outside the church, she had seen nervousness in his eyes. The thought of anyone being nervous to approach her was laughable. What was she but a criminal’s sister? Guilty by association. What in the world did it matter what she thought about anything?
But what she thought had clearly mattered to Lord Ramshay. And that had left a warmth in her chest she wished could last forever.
Curse Edmund and his misplaced heroics. Catherine was grateful for his protectiveness, of course. But she felt quite sure she didn’t need protecting from the wiles of Patrick Connolly.
She and Ellen made their way out of the churchyard to find a cab.
“That’s her,” came a hissed voice. “The Viscount of Bolmont’s sister.”
Catherine clenched her teeth. She knew well the ladies intended for her to hear them. She kept walking.
“I heard she was in on it. The brother’s accomplice.”
An airy laugh. “But of course! How could anyone have lived under the same roof as the man and not known what he was up to?”
Catherine felt suddenly hot and unsteady. Rage bubbled inside her. Who did these ladies think they were? How dare they!
A part of her longed to protest, longed to proclaim her innocence for all of London to hear. But what good would that do? She knew this society thrived on gossip. They cared little for the truth, especially if it would destroy a good tale.
What was I thinking, coming out here today? I ought to have stayed locked in my room and deprived these people of their entertainment.
“Ignore them,” said a gentle voice behind her.
She whirled around to see Lord Ramshay at her shoulder. He was staring after the ladies with fierce eyes.
Catherine pulled her cloak tighter around her body. “They’re wrong,” she said shakily. “I had nothing to do with my brother’s crimes. I didn’t even know of them until his trial.”
Tears pricked behind her eyes and she hurriedly blinked them away. She had not cried in public since she was a child. She had no intention of beginning now. Especially not in front of Lord Ramshay…
“Of course they’re wrong,” he said gently. He looked down at her with warm brown eyes. Not pity in them, Catherine realized. Just kindness. “Please, Miss Barnet. Will you allow me to see you home?”
Chapter 5
The moment she climbed into the cab, Catherine felt better. Perhaps it was the fact that there were now sturdy wooden walls between her and the rest of the world. Or perhaps it had more to do with the close proximity of Patrick Connolly.
He sat on one side of the carriage, she and Ellen on the other. He pushed his thick blonde hair from his face and gave her a shy smile. There was that nervousness again. Nervousness, Catherine realized, that was utterly endearing. She allowed herself a faint smile. She had seen that look on his face before, right before they had launched into their ill-fated waltz.
“I’m sorry about Edmund,” she said. “He has become quite protective of me lately.” She managed a faint smile. “A little too protective perhaps.”
Lord Ramshay shook his head dismissively. “Don’t you worry about Edmund. I can handle him.” His face broke into a wide grin, making him look young and boyish.
“Thank you,” Catherine blurted. “For rescuing me.”
Lord Ramshay raised his eyebrows. “For rescuing you from your cousin?”
Her lips quirked. “No. For rescuing me from that parade of feathers and frills.” It was a pitiful attempt at humor, Catherine knew, but Lord Ramshay chuckled anyway.
“Those ladies not worth worrying yourself over,” he said.
Catherine lowered her eyes. She knew he was right. And yet somehow, their words had managed to work their way beneath her skin.
If I’m was going to survive in this world, I’d best develop skin a damn sight thicker than this…
“Sometimes ignoring them is not so easy,” she said, hating how pathetic her words sounded.
Lord Ramshay nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I understand.” And something in his voice made Catherine feel certain that he did, truly, understand.
A part of her longed to tell him more. Longed to tell him of the way she lay in bed at night, wondering if there were something she might have done to stop what had happened. Wondering if she was in any way responsible.
How desperately I need to share these worries. How desperately I need to speak them, to stop them from racing around inside my head.
But of course, she could do no such thing. Lord Ramshay was little more than a stranger. And as much as she longed to believe he would understand, she knew it was not her place to burden him with such things.
“How is your writing?” he asked suddenly.
Catherine raised her eyebrows. “My writing?”
“Yes. I remember you were a keen diarist. And one with quite a talent, too.”
She looked down. Writing had been her passion, once upon a time. She had taken great joy in recording the details of her life, observations on society, vivid descriptions of the world around her. While portions of her diary had remained private, she had often shared passages with her family and friends. She had performed a reading that New Year’s Eve, she recalled.
How strange that Lord Ramshay has remembered…
She shook her head, keeping her eyes down. “I’ve not written for a time,” she admitted. There had been little in her life of late she had wanted to remember.
“I’m sorry to hear it.” After a moment, he said, “You know what this society is like. They’ll be fascinated with your story for a while. But in a few months, they will have moved on to something else. Everything your brother did will have been forgotten.”
Catherine nodded, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. Robert had betrayed his family, proven himself a dishonest thief, unworthy of his title. And that, Catherine felt certain, was not something that would easily be forgotten.
“The thing that bothers me the most,” she said softly, “was that I truly had no idea he was involved in such things.” She knotted her hands together.
What am I doing?
She had told herself she was not going to engage Lord Ramshay in such a conversation. It would hardly be the decent thing to do. And yet she felt strangely unable to stop herself. “I was blind,” she said. “I was a fool.”
He caught her eye and the intensity of his gaze sent a jolt through her. “You trusted your brother,” he said. “That doesn’t make you a fool. It makes you a good person.”
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Catherine managed a small smile. “I wish I could believe you.”
“Yes,” he said, a faint frown creasing the bridge of his nose. “I wish you could believe me too.”
* * *
Patrick returned home to his townhouse in Belgravia and locked the door behind him.
His head was full of Catherine Barnet.
He knew he could likely expect a thrashing from Edmund when he discovered he’d been sniffing around his cousin again. But Patrick couldn’t bring himself to care.
Her brother’s arrest had clearly affected her far more than he had anticipated. The events seemed to have cut her to the very core. It was almost as if she believed her brother’s crimes had been a personal attack on her.
And as for the behavior of those ladies in the churchyard? Little wonder Catherine had imprisoned herself in her room of late.
He had been glad to see her relax a little on the carriage ride home. By the end of the journey, the anguish had begun to fade from her eyes and they’d discussed more trivial things. He’d told her of the mouthwatering fruit cake his cook had made the previous day. She’d responded with tales of sneaking into the kitchens as a child to steal sugar cubes from the pantry. When they’d arrived at Featherstone Manor, her smile had almost reached her eyes. Patrick hoped he’d had some small part to play in making her feel better.
He went upstairs to his study. The desk was a mess, strewn with papers and pots of ink. He pulled open the bottom drawer.
Good. The leather-bound notebook was just where he remembered. He opened the book and leafed through its blank pages. It had sat unused in his desk drawer for years.
Might this encourage Miss Barnet to begin writing again?
He took the book back downstairs and sat it on the side table in the parlor.
Though spring was, theoretically, upon them, the warm weather felt far away. Patrick ate a simple supper of bread and cold meat while sitting in front of the fire. He rarely ate at the dining table these days. Since his father’s death, it had just been himself and a handful of staff at the townhouse. Eating alone at the table made him feel like a friendless prince.
He finished his supper with an enormous slice of fruitcake and poured himself a glass of brandy to wash it down. He drank edgily, staring into the flames. It was the first day of the month. His least favorite of days. In a few hours, he could expect a knock at the door. Expect a thug in black to demand money and make thinly-veiled threats.
When his father had died almost three years earlier, he had left Patrick his house and his title, along with lands scattered across the midlands. But he had also left him his debts.
Patrick had not known the seriousness of his father’s gambling problems until the late Baron was in his grave. His death had been sudden, and Patrick had not been expecting to take the man’s place for many years.
The day after his father’s burial, a man had appeared at Patrick’s door. He had produced a document signed by his father, a document outlining the enormous debts the Baron had somehow managed to accumulate. Debts, the man explained, that now belonged to Patrick.
The man was dressed in a patched black greatcoat, his hands were grimy, his fingernails almost black. Patrick felt sure he was not someone his father had met in the gentlemen’s clubs.
“Who are you?” he demanded, his muscles tightening.
The man chuckled. “It don’t matter. You just need to know I’m the man to whom you are now indebted.” He spoke carefully, his words dripping with faux pomposity.
Patrick shook his head. “No. I’m no fool. Tell me who you are. How did my father get involved with you?” A part of him wanted to know nothing of the troubles his father had found himself in. But those troubles were his now. He needed to know what he was dealing with. Who he was dealing with.
“Your dear departed father had a penchant for the gambling dens,” the man told Patrick. “We got to know his face quite well in Seven Dials.”
No, the man was lying. Patrick knew his father would never have gone within a ten-mile radius of Seven Dials. Certainly not to frequent an illegal gambling den.
And yet there was the Baron’s signature, scrawled on the bottom of this man’s ledger.
The Baron had certainly been one to spend his nights out and his mornings asleep. Patrick had never asked for details of his escapades. He’d had little desire to know more about his father’s vices. He’d expected drinking, smoking, whoring, all within the confines of the glittering west. He’d never for a moment considered his father might be dirtying his hands in a Seven Dials gambling den. And yet, given the man the Baron of Ramshay had been, Patrick found his surprise was rapidly fading.
“Your father took a liking to the Pharo tables,” the man told Patrick with a grin. “Unfortunately, the Pharo tables did not take a liking to him.”
Patrick cursed under his breath. The Pharo tables were riddled with corruption even in the grandest of the golden halls.
“The Baron claimed he couldn’t pay what he owed.” The man in black took a step closer. The stench of unwashed skin clung to him, making Patrick’s stomach turn. “I knew he was lying, of course. Being a nobleman and all. Told him I knew he had a fancy house out here in fancy Belgravia. Plenty of fancy things in that house he could sell.”
Patrick stiffened. He remembered his father’s footman carrying two china vases from the house. The Baron had claimed he was donating them to a charity auction. But had he really been sending his footman to the pawnshop so he might pay debts accrued at the Pharo tables?
The man shoved the ledger into Patrick’s hand. “You’ll make payments on your father’s debts on the first day of each month. The money owed, plus interest accumulated.”
The back of Patrick’s neck prickled as his skimmed over the ledger.
“This is a legally-binding document, My Lord,” the man said with a grin. “You’ll find all of this is above board.”
Patrick snorted. “Like hell it is.”
The man’s eyes darkened. “I suggest you do not test me, Lord Ramshay. The men who own the gambling den are not men to be trifled with.” He gave Patrick a smile brimming with menace. “You’ll have the payment ready on the first day of each month, as requested. Do so and there’ll be no trouble.”
* * *
Though he had been expecting it, the knock on the door still made Patrick jump. He leapt to his feet and charged into the entrance hall before his butler, Groves, could answer the door.
“It’s all right,” Patrick told him. “I’ll answer it.” Though he was sure his staff were aware of these late-night visits, he always did his best to keep them away from it. The men who appeared to collect his father’s debts were likely capable of anything. He hated the thought of putting his household in danger.
Groves continued buttoning his jacket. “Are you sure, sir?”
Patrick nodded. He and his butler seemed to have the same exchange every month. “Of course. Go back upstairs.”
He opened the door to find the man in black on his doorstep. He wore his customary stained greatcoat and a woolen cap pulled down over his brows.
“You’re early,” Patrick said sharply. “You don’t usually grace me with your presence until after midnight.”
The man grinned, revealing a yellowing, gap-ridden smile. “I’m a busy man, Lord Ramshay. I’ve places to go. People to see.”
Patrick gave him a wry smile. “I’m sure you do.” He dug into his pocket for a coin pouch. “Here.” He tossed it at the man. He had been chipping away at the ugly sum of his father’s debts for almost three years. Handing the money over still stung.
The man in black emptied the coins into his palm and counted carefully.
Patrick bristled. “When have I ever tried to swindle you?”
The man grinned. “First time for everything, My Lord. We’ve got to be vigilant at all times, wouldn’t you agree?”
Patrick folded his arms. “Leave,” he said. “The money’s all there.”
&
nbsp; The man in black returned the coins to the pouch with infuriating slowness. He stuffed it in the pocket of his coat and gave Patrick a curt nod. “See you in a month, My Lord.”
Patrick snorted. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Chapter 6
Edmund Spicer had never been one for rumors. Not like his mother. And yet there was something about these latest whispers that he was unable to ignore.
Catherine, her brother’s accomplice?
He didn’t want to believe it, of course. But he found himself unable to fully dispense with the idea.
Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 4