A Hint of Seduction (30 page)

Somehow she knew immediately it was from John. She tore it open and read:

Plead headache or illness to get out of afternoon obligations. Go through your back garden to the mews. Promptly at half past two.

There was no salutation or signature, but Catherine knew who it was from. He wasn’t coming to see her; he wanted her to meet him in secret. Her heart thundered in her chest at the prospect. He must have news for her about her father that couldn’t wait.

Catherine looked up at the clock. She had less than half an hour to get out of the house unseen and on time.

She sent her maid on errands and then told their housekeeper that she didn’t want to be disturbed. With anticipation building inside her, she quickly put on her bonnet and shawl. She quietly made her way down the stairs without seeing anyone and left the house by a side door off the parlor. Her stomach jumped with an unusual excitement as she casually walked around to the back garden as if she planned to take a stroll.

Catherine looked all around the grounds before she headed to the back where a tall yew hedge grew. No one was in sight, so she opened the gate and stepped out into the mews.

A large, fancy black carriage with gold and red accents was parked just outside the gate. The door opened and a hand came out and helped her step inside.

The carriage took off with a jolt, and Catherine almost fell into the plush, cushioned seat opposite John. The draperies that framed the small windows in the doors let in a little light. The compartment smelled of new leather.

Catherine suddenly realized she’d never been alone with a man in a closed carriage before, and there was something strange and alluring about it.

John was handsome in his dark brown coat and camel-colored waistcoat. She liked the way he always wore his neckcloth low on his neck and simply tied. He looked every bit the comfortable gentleman he was.

She had no regrets about loving him.

“Did anyone see you leave?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so. I was careful. I sent my maid on errands for the afternoon and Vickie is out of the house for the day.”

“Good. That should give us plenty of time to accomplish our mission.”

“Did you read the diary? Have you discovered something I missed? Do you know who my father is?”

His eyes told her his answer before he actually said the word, “No.”

Her hope fell. “Oh.”

“You were right about the diary. In the condition it is in I’m surprised you were able to piece together as much of the past as you did. But my uncle told me some fascinating
things about Mr. Beechman, and I do have some hunches. We are going to act on one of them this afternoon.”

Her hope soared again and she leaned forward. “What, tell me?”

“I spent the entire day yesterday reading old copies of newspapers.”

“You did that for me?”

“When I told you I would help you, I meant it and I saw no reason to waste time. I thought about hiring a Runner from Bow Street but decided it would be faster to just do the work myself.”

Her heart swelled with love for him even as she grew more anxious about what he’d discovered. “Thank you,” she whispered earnestly. “What did you find out?”

“Enough information that we are on our way to pay a visit to Mr. Robert Beechman.”

Her stomach felt as if it rolled, and suddenly the rocking of the coach seemed to intensify. Her hands tightened into fists in her lap. She tried to force herself to be calm and to relax as she asked, “Is he my father?”

John reached over and placed his hands on top of hers, and she immediately felt his comforting warmth. She looked down at his hands and realized she’d forgotten to wear gloves.

“I don’t know, Catherine. He might be, but I think it’s much more likely that your father is his son.”

Catherine studied John’s eyes as she breathlessly took in what he’d said. “The man who never rides carriages or horses has a son? Where is he?”

He squeezed her hands. “Had a son, Catherine.”

Her low, deep breaths changed to short choppy ones, and she felt like her lungs couldn’t catch up. “Are you saying he’s dead?”

“Yes. He died in a hunting accident late in the year of seventeen ninety-eight.”

“That is about the time when I was conceived.”

“That’s right.”

She was not one given to bouts of weakness, but suddenly the coach was hot and stuffy. She felt light-headed and it was difficult to catch her breath. She sat back against the cushion and tried to get control of herself. The last thing she wanted to do was have an attack of the vapors in front of John.

“Mr. Beechman’s son was just three years older than your mother. Their names were linked together in two gossip columns.”

“You think this man was my mother’s lover and my father?”

John’s eyes were kind, steady. “I think it’s possible. I’m hoping Mr. Beechman will tell us more. I sent him a note this morning saying that I would like to pay him a visit with a guest and he agreed.” John paused. “But if this is too upsetting and you don’t want to see him today, we can turn around.”

She flinched. “What? No, absolutely not.” She would not let her fear of the unknown keep her from finding out the truth. “I’m not going to miss this opportunity. I want to see him and talk to him now.”

He smiled at her and sat back in his seat. “Good. The color is coming back to your cheeks. For a moment there I thought you might faint.”

“Me faint?” she said indignantly, refusing to even admit how close she came. “Sir, I have never fainted in my life, and I don’t intend to do it today.”

He smiled. “Good. That’s the Catherine I know.”

As if by magic the roiling of her stomach subsided and her breathing slowed. “Now, tell me all you’ve discovered.”

A short time later Catherine and John were welcomed into Mr. Beechman’s home. The butler immediately showed them to the back garden, where he said his employer was waiting.

When they stepped outside, the first thing Catherine noticed was that the clear blue skies of yesterday had turned to a pale shade of gray. She smelled tobacco smoke and felt the heaviness of rain in the air. Mr. Beechman’s garden was small but well tended, and vibrant colors of early spring blossoms filled his grounds.

And then she saw him.

Mr. Beechman rose from a chair at the far side of the house and beckoned them to come toward him. He was tall, slender, and impeccably dressed for a man who had all but given up Society. His hair was thinning, but it was a handsome shade of silver. This man was much older than Catherine had always imagined him to be, but then she never gave thought to the possibility that she might be meeting her grandfather instead of her father.

When she approached him, she immediately started searching for something about him that was recognizable, some kind of proof that his blood ran through her veins. She had to look no farther than his eyes. They were the same shade of blue as were her own.

She was glad she had brought her shawl, because she was feeling chilled, and as much as she hated to admit it she was nervous. Her throat thickened with hope; her heart felt light with anticipation that she might finally know her past and her mother’s.

After introductions they joined him at the patio table.
Tea and small sandwiches were immediately brought out by a servant, but Catherine knew there was no way she could even take a bite of the beautifully prepared food.

All three of them were quiet until the maid poured the tea and left.

Mr. Beechman said, “I don’t often get requests to entertain an earl or a young lady anymore. To what do I owe this pleasure today?”

John had suggested that he start the conversation and that she pick it up whenever she felt comfortable.

That is what he did by saying, “Miss Reynolds is new to London, but her parents grew up here. She wanted to meet some people who might have known her mother when she lived here.”

“I don’t know anyone anymore. I can’t ride, you know, so I don’t get out much. I still have a few friends who insist I attend their parties. Occasionally I go, but I don’t stay long.”

“Mr. Beechman, I wanted to ask about twenty-one years ago,” Catherine said without any hesitation in her voice.

He picked up his teacup and sipped. His hands were as steady on the cup as his gaze was on her eyes, but Catherine didn’t feel any discomfort at his staring.

For a moment she thought he was going to ignore her, but finally he said, “I don’t like to talk about the past. I learned a long time ago you can’t change it, so why try to relive it by going back over it.”

Her hands remained in her lap, her tea untouched. “We can’t change the past, but sometimes talking about it can help us understand it. I was hoping maybe you remembered my mother, Julia Wilson.”

She saw recognition light in his eyes as his gaze searched her face. He pointed a stern finger at her and said,
“Yes, that’s who you remind me of. Miss Wilson. Oh, yes, I remember her,” he said, with no emotion in his voice. “But she didn’t have blue eyes like you.”

That’s because I have your eyes.

“What else do you remember about her?”

Suddenly his expression softened. “Nothing. I didn’t know her very well. I don’t like to talk about the past. It can’t be changed.”

Catherine glanced at John and he gave her a slight reassuring nod. “But you must remember something else about her if you remembered the color of her eyes.”

“She wanted to marry my son, you know,” he said, as if the thought suddenly struck him. “She set out to capture his heart knowing that he was already promised to marry someone else.”

Catherine moved to the edge of her seat. “But they didn’t marry?”

“No, my son never married.”

Catherine felt as if her heart stopped. “Why?”

“I don’t like to talk about the past,” he said again, and then he picked up his pipe that lay smoldering on the table and took a pull on it, but there was no fire in the tobacco. She looked at John again and he shook his head. No, she couldn’t leave until she got more information from him.

“Tell me about your son,” she said softly. “Was he tall and slender like you?”

“Yes,” he said with the pipe held between his teeth and not seeming to look at anything but the air in front of his eyes. “He was a handsome fellow.”

Catherine and John remained quiet.

“He came to me one afternoon on a day very much like today and said he must speak to me. I was out hunting with friends and told him I’d see him later. He said it couldn’t
wait. He must marry Miss Wilson. I told him I had already made the contracts for him to marry another. He was such a headstrong young man.” Mr. Beechman took the pipe out of his mouth. “But I don’t like to talk about the past. It can’t be changed,” he said for what must have been at least the third time.

There was a lump in Catherine’s throat, but she managed to ask, “What happened to him?”

He looked directly into her eyes. “He got on his horse and took off like the devils of hell were after him. I was watching him leave when suddenly the horse went down on his front legs. My son flipped over the horse’s head and never got up.”

Catherine wrapped her shawl closer about her. She felt tears gather in her eyes. “Did your son tell you that Miss Wilson was carrying his child?”

He picked up his teacup and sipped. “Yes,” he said in an unconcerned tone. “But I knew it was just a ploy to try to make me say yes to his wishes. I knew it wasn’t true.”

“Do I look like your son?” she asked.

Mr. Beechman looked at her and as calmly as if he’d been talking about the weather said, “Yes, that’s who you remind me of. My son. He had eyes the same color and shape of yours. But you can’t be my son’s heir. He died a long time ago, and I don’t like to talk about the past.”

Catherine felt John’s hand grab hers under the table. She blinked rapidly, forcing the tears to spread in her eyes and not roll down her cheeks. She looked at John and shook her head.

To Mr. Beechman she said, “I’m sorry about your son. Thank you for telling me about him.”

“Yes.” He chuckled, but it was a sad sound with no
laughter in his tone. “He was a headstrong young man, but I never talk about him anymore.”

A few minutes later Catherine and John said good–bye and quietly walked back to the coach. Catherine felt as if she were walking with iron pots on her feet rather than her soft leather shoes. She felt odd, as if her spirit were disjointed from her body, yet her heart felt heavy and light at the same time.

She was satisfied that Mr. Beechman’s son was her father, and that he had tried to do what was right by her mother. It pleased her that he hadn’t abandoned her mother, and that gave her peace about him. But she didn’t know exactly how she felt about her grandfather right now. That would take more thought than she was capable of at the moment.

John helped her step up and into the carriage. She heard him tell the driver to take his time on the ride back to her house before he closed them inside and took the seat opposite her.

Misty late-afternoon light filtered through the small windowpanes, giving off a gray glow inside the small compartment. Catherine liked being alone inside the coach with John. She felt comfortable and protected, yet inside herself she was restless. She knew there was something more she wanted.