Anne Barbour (21 page)

As she spoke, Justin’s heart lightened infinitesimally. Did Catherine believe him, then?

“I don’t know,” he responded slowly. “I have considered that possibility, but there would have been time for Rivenchy’s release just before I set out. We were camped just outside of Salamanca, and Rivenchy was interned not five miles from our post. He was first missed, apparently, not long after I left for Huerta. The same
man could have accomplished both the escape and the journey to the bridge at Huerta, although I should imagine he would have required some help.”

A long, thoughtful silence ensued. Justin stared intently at Catherine, but she found that she could not return his gaze.

“Do you believe me?” Justin asked at last, his voice a harsh croak.

“I don’t know,” Catherine replied baldly. “You have deceived me about so many things, it’s hard to discern the truth from your expert lies, particularly when you lie so charmingly.” She bent a penetrating stare on him. “Even now, I feel there is something you are not telling me.”

Justin reddened. God, she was doing it again. In his brief narrative, he had omitted mention of the paper covered with St. John’s handwriting.

“I am truly sorry, Catherine—” he began, but Catherine held up her hand.

“Please spare me, my lord. I don’t think I could take any more self-serving apologies. Let us just take it as read that you would not have lingered at Winter’s Keep any longer than it would have taken to get your clothes repaired if you hadn’t required a bolt-hole at the moment.”

Her words were so close to the mark that once more Justin felt his cheeks go hot.

“Yes, but—”

“It’s all right. Your actions were eminently reasonable. You could not very well reveal your identity to us, so your supposed amnesia was a master stroke.”

Catherine spoke coolly, but Justin had no difficulty in discerning the anger that trembled in her voice.

“You’re right, Catherine. It was necessary. I am not proud of trying to dupe you, but—

“Oh, not trying, my lord. You were supremely successful. If it were not for your habit of sneaking off to London in the dead of night, I never would have found you out.”

“Ah, I’ve been wondering about that.”

Briefly, Catherine related her sightings of the cloaked, midnight rider, and her subsequent search of his room.

“So you are not above a little sneaking and lurking yourself, my dear.” His eyes lit with momentary laughter, instantly quelled by the indignation that flared in her gaze. “What do you propose to do now?” he concluded quietly. “You have me at your complete mercy.”

“I very much tend to doubt your entire story,” Catherine said. “The evidence against you is overwhelming, and my brief experience of you is such to make me believe that nothing is beneath you.”

She was aware as she spoke that she was fueling her anger, and giving vent to it at the same time. She wanted to see him wince, to make him pay in some small part for her own foolishness in nearly succumbing to his charm. And his wiles. She was fully rewarded, for he went white, his eyes hard and flat as slate. She knew a moment of compunction, which she suppressed instantly and with great firmness.

“However,” she continued austerely, “I do believe a man should be given the chance to prove his innocence. On the slight possibility that you are telling the truth, and on the premise that you are not likely to scarper off to the West Indies or to the Antipodes in your present condition, I shan’t notify the authorities—yet.”

Justin let out the breath he had been holding for what seemed like the last half hour. ‘Thank you,” he said simply.

“Don’t thank me yet,” she commented in a sharp tone. “The time for duplicity is over. I must insist that you tell Mariah and Grandmama what you have told me.”

Justin sat upright in bed, causing him to gasp with pain. He fell back against his pillows, shaking his head to clear it. “No! You must not tell anyone. It will mean my death! Or”—a sardonic gleam lit his eyes—”do you mean to have your revenge, after all?”

Inside her palms Catherine’s fingers turned to rakes, but she maintained her pose of detachment. “Not at all. Mariah and Grandmama will remain silent, if I ask them. They will not betray you.”

Despite another fifteen minutes of rather desperate cajolery, Catherine would not be moved from this position. Indeed, it was only with a great deal of difficulty that Justin dissuaded her from revealing his identity to Adam, as well.

At last, Justin sighed heavily. “Very well. I suppose I must consider myself lucky that Sir Whatsit, the magistrate, is not even now waiting in the wings to pounce on me.” Glancing up at her, he suddenly grew serious. “I do thank you for your forbearance, Catherine. Were I in your position, I would not believe a word of what I have told you, and if I were in a position to be giving you advice, I would tell you that you should probably take immediate
steps to see me into the hands of the law.” He reached to take her hand in his. “But thank you for not doing so.”

Flushing hotly, Catherine pulled her hand away. “Your advice seems eminently sound, my lord. I cannot think why I do not avail myself of it. Suffice it to say that at the slightest hint of any further duplicity on your part, I will send for Sir Reginald so fast it will make your ears spin.”

Affixing a suitably chastened smile to his lips, Justin recalled a maxim related to him by a horse trader of his acquaintance. “When you’ve made the sale, stop selling the merchandise.” With this in mind, he closed his eyes as a very real wave of fatigue swept over him.

“Thank you, my dear,” he murmured. However, just before he sank into a laudanum-induced slumber, his eyes snapped open.

“Ah—Catherine?” He cleared his throat. “There is just one more small favor I must ask.”

A week or so later, Catherine, immersed in her account book, was called to the morning room to greet a guest. The gentleman who rose from the chair at her entrance to the room bowed with surprising grace for one so rangy in build. Eyes of a peculiar shade of blue-green gazed down at her from an alarming height, and when she held her hand out to him, it disappeared in his grasp like a bird flying into a cavern.

“Mr. McPherson,” she said, smiling. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

“How is he?” asked the gentleman, without further preamble.

Catherine laughed. “A great deal better than he was when I wrote to you. In fact, now that you are here, you may help us keep him lashed into his bed.”

“Thank God.” At Catherine’s gesture, he sank again into his chair as she took one opposite. “I expect he is giving you no end of trouble. It—it is good of you to—to give him succor, ma’am, I know it looks bad, but Justin could no more betray England than I could fly to the moon. As you can see”—he chuckled, extending legs that were long and lanky and thickly muscled—”such a feat would be pretty much beyond me.”

Catherine smiled faintly. “It appears Lord Justin has chosen his friends wisely, Mr. McPherson. He has been anxiously awaiting your arrival.”

A troubled expression crossed the Scotsman’s craggy features. “Ah—something has come up since I last saw Justin. I wonder—that is, I apologize for being so abrupt, but may I see him now?”

Puzzled, Catherine rose immediately, and with her guest at her heels, led the way from the morning room.

“Good God, if you don’t look like something the cat threw up on Aunt Tillie’s best carpet,” were Robbie’s first words on beholding Justin sitting up in bed.

“Why, thank you, you miserable reprobate. It’s good to see you, too.”

These amenities out of the way, Robbie perched on the edge of the bed and subjected his friend to a minute scrutiny. “Hmm,” he drawled at last. “It appears you’ll live.”

Indeed, thought Catherine, Justin looked markedly improved from the day when he had emerged from his fever, and it was apparent that he was reposing in bed very much against his will. He was propped up by innumerable pillows and his coverlet was strewn with books, newspapers, and an open notebook in which could be discerned pages of slashing handwriting.

“Yes,” he remarked, “thanks to Miss Meade and her family, I have been snatched from death’s door and will probably make a full recovery.”

The smile that accompanied his words was a model of courteous gratitude, but Catherine sensed the plea that lay behind it. Lord, did the man still require some sort of assurance that she believe in him? Why, for heaven’s sake? He had what he wanted. She had promised not to turn him over to the law. Surely, her good opinion could not matter to him.

Hardening her sensibilities, she returned the smile with a noncommittal stare and turned toward the door. “I know you two gentlemen have much to discuss,” she said. “I shall leave you to it.”

“No!” Justin uttered the word with an odd urgency, and Robbie shot him an inquiring glance. “Please stay. I—I want you to be aware of what I shall be doing, and your counsel will be most welcome.”

Catherine hesitated a moment before moving back into the room. She perched on the edge of a chair some distance from the bed.

So far, so good, thought Justin before turning to Robbie. He realized, to his intense irritation, that his relief at her decision to stay in the room was out of proportion to his request. Why he cared so much that Catherine believe in his innocence, he could not say. She had promised to keep his secret, and he believed she would hold to that—at least until he healed. Over the past few
days, however, she had rejected, in the politest way possible, all his overtures.

Well, what else had he expected, for God’s sake? She must be weary in the extreme of being betrayed by the men who entered her life. He could only hope that her agreeing to stay in the room signaled a thaw in the offing.

“It was the damn—most peculiar thing,” he said to Robbie. “I was riding along and—”

Robbie lifted his hand uncomfortably. “Wait, Justin. I am most interested in this latest attack, but I have something I must tell you first. I was at Horse Guards yesterday, and stopped in to see Charles. He told me he had just received word that—I’m sorry, Justin. Your father is dead.”

Chapter Fourteen

It seemed to Justin that the room dimmed, almost imperceptibly, and the air around him chilled just a little. For a moment he simply stared at Robbie, uncomprehending. Then, with a slight start, he passed a hand over his forehead.

“He’s gone? Really?” he murmured, forcing a smile to his lips. “I suppose I have been expecting it. It appears I have fulfilled the prophecy he made so many years ago that I would be the death of him.”

“Justin—” began Robbie, but Justin forestalled him with an uplifted hand.

“No, no, never mind. I would be lying if I said that I feel any grief for the old man. I did rather wish—But, no. Death is a melancholy subject, and I should prefer to think about living.” With an effort, he widened the smile he had finally been able to contrive. “And if I wish to continue doing so, I’d best confine my thoughts to the problem at hand.”

To his relief, Robbie made no remonstrance, but said quietly, “Very well, then, tell me what happened. In Miss Meade’s note, she said only that you arrived here early in the morning a few days ago with a bullet in your side.”

“It was the most peculiar thing.” Justin related the events that had occurred after he left Robbie’s house five nights before.

“I don’t understand,” Robbie said some minutes later from the large easy chair in which he was now ensconced. “How could anyone have known you’d be in Coppersmith Street at that hour of the night?

“The obvious answer, I suppose,” he continued, answering his own question, “is that someone was following you. But who?” He steepled his bony fingers before him.

In her chair some distance away, Catherine bent over fingers clasped tightly in her lap. She listened to the two men, but her mind persisted in drifting to the news Justin’s friend had just imparted and the manner in which Justin had responded to it.

Catherine had nearly cried aloud in her shock at Justin’s posturing, for she was sure that was what it was, but a glance from Robbie had silenced her.

She sighed. It had been almost a week since she had sat in this same chair in confrontation with Lord Justin. Why, she wondered for the hundredth time, could she not admit to him that yes, she believed with all her heart that he was no traitor. Was it pride that had caused her to maintain a cool aloofness from him in the days that had followed? Even to Mariah and Grandmama, she had been unable to express her belief in his innocence, as deep as it was instinctive.

Oddly, she had not been obliged to convince either of those ladies of the necessity for keeping his identity a secret.

“Treason!” Mariah had exclaimed. “What a daft idea. Mr. Smith—or Lord Justin Belforte—is no doubt something of a rogue, but I’d be willing to wager my best Sunday tucker that he’s no traitor.”

Lady Jane echoed these sentiments and proclaimed herself ready and willing to do all in her power to assist “dear John” in exonerating himself.

Neither lady, however, was on hand to help greet Mr. McPherson on his arrival, and once Catherine had brought Justin’s visitor to his bedside, she had felt very much
de trop
. It was not as though she had anything to contribute, she reflected pensively. None of the persons discussed by the two men were known to her, and the theories propounded one after another were meaningless to one unfamiliar with the workings of the Depot, whatever that might be.

Catherine lifted her head, realizing that a silence had fallen between the two men.

“In any event,” Justin said at length. “It appears I must go to Sheffield Court.”

“To attend your father’s obsequies? But you won’t be fit to travel until after—”

“No,” interposed Justin sharply. “To confront St. John.”

Catherine’s ears pricked up. St. John? Ah, yes, the mysterious brother with whom Justin was apparently on no better terms than he was with his father. But—

“What does St. John have to do with anything?” she said aloud.

Robbie and Justin glanced at each other before Justin replied slowly. “You were right when you sensed I was leaving something out, Catherine.” A knot formed in his throat, and he swallowed hard, angered that the words were so hard to speak.