Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Scarlett Osborne

  “It’s not like that,” said Patrick. He felt suddenly, stupidly hot. He was a grown man. It was high time he married. Why did he feel so reluctant to discuss his feelings for Catherine? They were no secret, especially not to Simon and Edmund.

  But he had not called on her expecting anything in return. Had not called on her expecting their relationship to suddenly blossom. Catherine had had plenty of occasions over the past three years to hint that his feelings may have been reciprocated. He had never seen anything from her other than polite friendship. He knew he would never be more to her than her cousin’s buffoon of a friend.

  And while the knowledge of that caused a dull ache inside him, Patrick knew himself capable of putting his feelings for her aside. He had simply called on her that day as a concerned friend. Had called on her believing he might be able to help.

  “I just understand what she’s going through,” he told Simon. “I know she could use a sympathetic ear. Nothing more.”

  Simon sipped his whisky and winced. “Sorry Ramshay,” he said, “but I’m afraid I agree with Edmund on this. You sniffing around Catherine Barnet is trouble. I know you believe you can put your feelings aside,” he leaned forward, fixing Patrick with his sharp brown eyes. “But I think we both know that’s easier said than done.”

  * * *

  A knock at the door yanked Patrick from his sleep. He sat up in bed, fumbling for his pocket watch. He had stumbled home from the tavern around midnight after downing several more questionable whiskies with Simon. How long had he been sleeping? His head was pounding.

  A second knock echoed through the house, louder this time.

  Who could be calling at this hour? The man in black isn’t due for another few weeks.

  Patrick stumbled out from beneath the blankets, gripping at the bedpost to keep his balance. He fumbled in the dark for his trousers, then pulled them on and tucked in his nightshirt. He slid on his jacket and hurried downstairs, passing his butler, Groves, on the stairs.

  He opened the door a crack. A man he didn’t recognize was standing on the doorstep. He was short and stocky, dressed in a grimy waistcoat and shirtsleeves that dangled down past his hands. He wore breeches without stockings and a pair of scuffed leather boots. He stank of filth and stale tobacco.

  “Who in hell are you?” Patrick hissed.

  The man bobbed his balding head. “Name’s George Thorne, My Lord. I was an acquaintance of your father.”

  Patrick cursed under his breath.

  Just how many questionable acquaintances had my father had?

  He rubbed his eyes, desperately trying to make them focus. “I don’t know what your business was with my father,” he hissed. “And I don’t care to know.” He heaved on the door.

  Thorne held out a hand to stop it slamming in his face. “I’m sorry, My Lord, but that ain’t your decision.” He took a step closer and Patrick could see a long, pale scar along his chin.

  The back of his neck prickled with anger. “What do you want?” he snapped.

  Thorne smiled; a thin, menacing leer that made the muscles in Patrick’s shoulders tighten. “Money, of course. I’ve simply come for what your father owes us.”

  “Do you think me a fool? You’re not getting a penny from me.” He clenched his teeth. “Get away from my house.”

  Thorne took a step closer. The top of his head barely reached Patrick’s shoulder. But he peered up at him, unperturbed by their difference in stature. “That’s not wise, Lord Ramshay. The men I work for are men not be trifled with.”

  Patrick snorted.

  Yes, yes, I’ve heard all this before.

  He’d had enough of cleaning up after his father. Although he was beginning to feel certain this George Thorne had nothing to do with his father at all. No doubt some other lowlife had caught word of his debts and was seeking to scare him into parting with more of his wealth. He fixed the man with a fierce glare. “I told you to get away from my house.”

  He slammed the door emphatically and leaned against it to draw in a long breath.

  Groves was standing at the bottom of the stairs, his bony fingers twisting together. “Who was that, My Lord? Anyone we ought to be concerned about?”

  Patrick shook his head. “No one of any importance, Groves. A troublemaker is all.”

  Groves raised his furry gray eyebrows. “Didn’t seem like just a troublemaker. Seemed like a man we ought to wary of.”

  Patrick gritted his teeth. He knew his butler was right. With all these sorry creatures appearing on his doorstep, his home was beginning to feel anything but secure.

  Chapter 9

  Edmund felt decidedly wretched. He had never intended, of course, for Catherine to hear his concerns over her involvement in Robert’s crimes.

  Two days had passed since his heated words with Patrick Connolly. Heated words, Edmund was coming to realize, that he had well deserved. What had he been thinking, even entertaining the idea of Catherine’s involvement with the underworld? Let alone discussing such things with his gossip of a mother?

  He had not seen Catherine since he had herded Patrick from the house in a fit of rage. He and his cousin had been avoiding each other like cantankerous siblings. But enough was enough. Edmund couldn’t bear living with such tension in the air.

  I owe Catherine an apology.

  He knocked tentatively on the door to her bedroom, unsure if such a thing might be seen as too forward.

  “Who is it?” Catherine’s voice was clipped.

  “It’s me, Edmund.”

  He half expected her to fall silent or tell him to disappear. But her footsteps creaked across the room and the door opened a crack. She looked at him expectantly.

  “I’ve come to apologize,” he said.

  Catherine raised her eyebrows. She opened the door fully and gestured to him to enter. He followed her toward the window seat and perched tentatively on the edge. The notebook Patrick had given her was open on her desk, he noticed. A nib pen and pounce pot sat beside it. Was Catherine writing again?

  She sat beside him and looked at him expectantly.

  “I’m sorry for doubting you, Cousin,” he said, the words feeling awkward on his tongue. “You ought not have been subjected to such talk in your own home.”

  She lowered her eyes. “Thank you,” she said stiffly.

  Edmund reached out and touched her wrist. “If you were angry about having overheard us, you ought to have come to me,” he said firmly. “Not gone spreading our family business to Lord Ramshay.”

  “Come to you?” she repeated. “After all you said about me?”

  Edmund shifted uncomfortably. “Surely you must know how all this looks. Robert was hiding stolen goods in your own home. You must—”

  “I know exactly how it looks.” Catherine’s blue eyes flashed. “I know exactly how it sounds. And so does the rest of society. They have made sure I am well aware of what they think of me. I had thought I might be safe from such things in my own home.” Her voice wavered slightly and Edmund felt something twist inside him.

  The last thing he had wanted to do was hurt his cousin. He was also exceptionally bad at apologizing, he realized.

  “Do you truly think me capable of such things?” Catherine asked icily.

  Edmund sighed. “I know you love Robert dearly,” he said. “And I know you’d do anything for him. I admit I…” He rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t know where you would draw the line.”

  “I draw the line at breaking the law,” Catherine shot. “I had hoped you might know me well enough not to question that.”

  Edmund nodded, feeling suitably chastened. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right. I ought never have doubted you.”

  They sat in silence for several moments.

  “I assume you will also be making your apologies to Lord Ramshay,” Catherine said after a time.

  Edmund’s eyebrows shot up at her sharpness. Where had this ferocity been hiding?

  “No,” he said, his voice hardening to ma
tch hers. “I’ve nothing to apologize to Lord Ramshay for. I specifically told him he was not to bother you. He deliberately acted against my wishes.”

  “Lord Ramshay has been nothing but a perfect gentleman.”

  Edmund sighed. “Perhaps. But you know, surely, that Lord Ramshay has feelings for you. Whatever he may have led you to believe, I can assure you his intentions are not entirely honorable.”

  For a moment, Catherine said nothing. Her eyes drifted to the notebook sitting on her desk. After a moment, she turned back to Edmund. “Do you always think so badly of your friends?”

  * * *

  Catherine stayed planted on the window seat long after Edmund had left.

  “You know, surely, that Lord Ramshay has feelings for you…”

  Edmund was wrong, surely. Lord Ramshay had had three years in which to court her. As far as she knew, he had never made any attempt to do so. There had been the serenade, of course, but Lord Ramshay had a reputation as a joker. She had known better than consider it anything more than playfulness.

  She stood and began to pace across the bedroom. She realized her heart was thudding. And she also realized she was holding Patrick Connolly’s notebook in her hands.

  That morning, she had written for the first time in almost a year. It had been no great prose, no earth-shattering observations. Simply a description of the view from her new bedroom window. But Lord Ramshay had been right. Writing had helped her feel better. It helped lift her from her misery for a time.

  She squeezed the book to her chest. She had never known a man to have feelings for her before.

  Even before the mess with Robert, she had been shy, inhibited.

  “Difficult to get to know,” her governess had said once. Catherine had been a child, but she had been able to tell from the governess’s tone that difficult to get to know was no great compliment.

  Difficult to get to know, she had also come to see, was no great quality in a potential wife. Her three seasons had yielded no proposals of marriage. Even before her name had been tarnished, she had not been seen as a sought-after prize.

  Had Lord Ramshay truly been thinking of her all this time?

  Nothing could come of this, of course. She had no wealth to her name, no dowry, nothing but a family name drenched in scandal. She had missed her chance to ever be a nobleman’s wife.

  And yet the idea of Patrick Connolly thinking of her made something swirl warmly inside her.

  Chapter 10

  Lady Cornelia Featherstone was well aware of the tension that had sprung up between Edmund and Catherine. Her son had grown up to be a fine, young man, but to hell if he didn’t have a knack for saying the wrong thing sometimes.

  Edmund was the head of the household now, and since her husband’s death, Cornelia had done her best to step aside and let her son act as he saw fit. But sometimes she wanted nothing more than to sit him down and give him the talking to of a lifetime.

  First there had been his questioning of Catherine’s innocence. True, they had been questions Cornelia had been wondering on herself, but she had had the sense not to speak them aloud. Until Edmund had broached the subject at least. Once he’d done so, she’d not been able to resist sharing her own concerns.

  She had overheard Edmund’s berating of Lord Ramshay from the sitting room. Poor Ramshay was as harmless as a fly, Cornelia was certain. A sweet boy, if something of a buffoon. Certainly not a man to take advantage of Catherine in her fragile state.

  Still, there was something endearing about the fierce protectiveness that had fallen over Edmund when his cousin had arrived in pieces on their doorstep. He’d had a sister once, a babe lost in the cradle. When Edmund was fawning over Catherine, Cornelia could see flashes of how things might have been if the girl had survived.

  At supper the night before, Edmund had admitted his apology to Catherine had not been entirely well received.

  And so Cornelia was unable to hide her surprise when her niece appeared at the breakfast table that morning. With things still tense between the cousins, Cornelia had expected Catherine to remain ensconced in the safety of her room.

  She was dressed in a plain-blue day dress, her dark hair pinned neatly at her neck. There was a faint light in her eyes; it was nothing like the girlish shine that had once been there, but more than Cornelia had seen in the weeks since she’d scooped her broken niece from the remains of the Bolmont Manor.

  “You seem well,” Cornelia said, as Catherine took her chair at the table. She was unable to hide the surprise in her voice.

  “I’m feeling better, Aunt. Thank you.” Her voice gave nothing away.

  Cornelia glanced at Edmund. Did he know something? What had caused this change in Catherine’s demeanor?

  But Edmund’s eyes were on his plate. He scooped up a pile of eggs and crammed them into his mouth, looking very much the boy Cornelia longed to scold.

  Whatever the reason for Catherine’s change in mood, Cornelia was glad of it. She couldn’t blame her niece for her sadness, of course, but the melancholy was beginning to spread across the household. Cornelia had gotten this far without managing to be dragged into the mire Robert Barnet had created. She had no intention of doing so now.

  She sipped her tea and looked across the table at Catherine. She was slicing at her bacon and eating hungrily. It was the first time she’d shown any hint of an appetite since she had arrived.

  Yes, a little of her spirit is certainly returning.

  The Viscount of Eastbury’s ball was approaching. Cornelia had been surprised when Catherine had received an invitation, along with the rest of the family. Had the Viscount not heard about her brother’s crimes?

  Still, she reasoned, the Featherstone name had, by association, also been tainted by that scoundrel Robert Barnet. And the Viscount of Eastbury had seen fit to invite her and Edmund to the ball.

  Cornelia had not for a moment considered telling Catherine about the event. What was the point? Catherine would just shake her head and refuse to attend.

  But as she watched her now, Cornelia began to wonder if perhaps she had made the wrong decision. Her niece was young, beautiful and of marriageable age. Surely she would not let her brother’s bad decisions deprive her of the chance at a happy life.

  Catherine had been willing to accept Patrick Connolly’s visit. Perhaps she was beginning to feel a little more comfortable showing her face to the world again.

  Perhaps the chance to secure herself a decent husband might be just what she needed.

  * * *

  “A ball?” Catherine repeated. “No. Absolutely not.”

  Aunt Cornelia had cornered her in the doorway of the dining room and dropped this cursed piece of information at her feet. She pressed Catherine’s fingers between her meaty, jeweled hands.

  “There’s no need to be quite so disagreeable. The Viscount of Eastbury has requested your attendance.”

  Catherine’s eyebrows shot up. “My attendance?”

  “Yes,” said Aunt Cornelia. “You need not be so surprised.”

  I need not be so surprised?

  Had Aunt Cornelia not heard the whispers fly through the churchyard? Had she not watched ladies whisper behind their hands as she passed? Had she not heard about the things Robert had done?

  Catherine shook her head emphatically. “No,” she said again. “I couldn’t.”

  Buoyed at her discovery of Lord Ramshay’s affections, Catherine had woken feeling happier than she had in a long time. She had even felt up to sitting around the breakfast table and attempting conversation with Edmund.

  But attend a ball? Was Aunt Cornelia mad? She’d walk into the room and the gossip would begin to fly.

  Perhaps that’s why the Viscount invited me in the first place. As a source of entertainment…

  The thought made her want to run back to her room and never emerge.

  She pulled her hand from her aunt’s and tried to slip past her into the hallway.

  “Just think about it, my dear,�
� Aunt Cornelia called after her. “Promise me you will think about it.”

  Catherine returned to her room and gathered the notebook from her desk. The sun had finally appeared from behind the wall of clouds that seemed to have hung over London for an eternity. She would sit in the garden, Catherine decided and enjoy the feeling of sun on her skin. She would have the notebook on hand should she somehow feel inspired to write.