Anne Barbour (30 page)

Justin was startled. No, he had not. He had not been able to think past the mire of betrayal and humiliation in which he had been immersed for what seemed like an eternity.

“I suppose I shall go back to soldiering,” he said slowly. “Although,” he continued, an unconscious smile warming his eyes, “now that I am a man of property, I suppose I must give some thought to selling out—later—so that I may take up residence at Longbarrow.” He turned impulsively to Catherine. “I can’t wait to show it to you. I know you’ll—” He halted abruptly. Good God, what did he think he was about? When this ugly mess had been settled, his first priority would be to remove himself from the tempting vicinity of Catherine Meade with all possible speed. “That is,” he concluded stiffly, “I hope you—and Marian and Lady Jane—will come to visit—someday.”

Catherine, feeling his rebuff as though he had physically put up his hands to push her away, replied with great precision. “Yes, that would be very nice—someday.”

An awkward silence fell between them, and Catherine almost sagged with relief when, a few minutes later, Mariah entered the room.

After an exchange of greetings, Justin yawned ostentatiously once or twice before bidding the ladies a courteous good morning and taking himself off to his bedchamber for a few hours’ rest.

“Did he just come in?” asked Mariah curiously.

“Yes. He’s been out combing the city for pieces of his puzzle.”

“Poor man. What a dreadful situation to find oneself in.”

“Yes,” replied Catherine thoughtfully. “Particularly, when the pieces of the puzzle may include the involvement of his best friend.”

“What!”

Briefly, Catherine related her suspicions of Robbie, to which Mariah responded in some indignation. She had met Robbie during his visit to Winter’s Keep, and she had been favorably impressed with him at the time.

“Goodness!” she exclaimed. “I never heard of such treachery. What is Justin going to do about it?”

“Please, Mariah, we mustn’t jump to conclusions. I may be entirely wrong about Robbie. I just wish Justin would at least consider the possibility that he may be—

“Nurturing a viper in his bosom,” finished Mariah dramatically.

“Well—yes,” replied Catherine.

“At any rate, I hope we won’t have to remain in London for a long period of time.”

Catherine shot her cousin a surprised glance. “I thought you wanted to come. Really, my dear, if you wished to remain at home, you needed only to say so.”

“Oh, no,” said Mariah quickly. “I have long wished you to winkle yourself out of the hole you’d crept into at the Keep, and I’ve looked forward to a time when we could come down to town to enjoy the sights and the shopping, but—well—”

“Would your sudden attachment to the Keep have anything to do with a certain physician of our acquaintance?” Catherine asked archly.

“Oh, my, no!” Mariah flushed to the roots of her brown ringlets. “That is—oh, Catherine, do you mind? Adam and I—that is, we have become much closer of late, and before we left the Keep—well, he asked if I would marry him.”

In her agitation, Mariah had spilled coffee in her lap and now she addressed herself to it in some agitation.

“Mind!” Catherine set her own cup down with a clatter and reached to enfold her friend in an embrace. “Of course, I don’t mind. I’ve been watching the good doctor fall under your spell and wondered when he would bring himself to the mark. Oh, Mariah, I am so happy for you! Have you set a date?”

“No. We thought next spring, perhaps. He wishes me to go to Scotland with him to meet his family.” She laid a hand on her friend’s arm. “Oh, Catherine, I’m so glad you’re not overset by my news. I know that you and Adam—”

“Have been friends for a very long time,” finished Catherine firmly. “And that’s all we were. When Ann died, he turned to me for a time for solace and companionship. I think I became rather a habit with him—but that’s all it was. Truly, Mariah. You and Adam are perfect for one another.”

Mariah smiled mistily. “Thank you, O best of my relatives. I must say, I agree with you.” She shot Catherine a sidelong glance. “In any event, I have no compunction about snatching Adam from under your nose, since that spot has been so admirably filled lately.”

Catherine stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Now, don’t poker up. I’m talking about Lord Justin, of course, and there’s no use your denying there’s something going on with you two, the way you’ve been going about smelling of April and May.”

Catherine forced herself to relax. She was not given to unburdening her soul to others, but this, after all, was Mariah. She smiled a little sadly.

“I’m not sure just what you’d call whatever is going on between Justin and me. He seems to regard any sort of commitment as nothing short of a prison sentence.”

“Oh! but when he’s cleared his name…”  “When he’s disproved the charges against him, he plans to take up the life of a soldier again—alone.”

“Oh. Well—” Mariah grinned. “You’ll just have to change his mind, won’t you?”

Catherine lifted her brows. “Do you think it will be that easy?”

“You love him, do you not?” Mariah replied, laughing.

Catherine hesitated before nodding slowly.

“And it’s obvious he loves you. I see no problem here.”

“You relieve my mind,” responded Catherine dryly. She rose, feeling several years older than she had when she came into the room. “I must go now. Grandmama will be waking soon, and I promised I would take breakfast with her in her room.”

Slowly mounting the stairs, Catherine reflected on her conversation with Mariah. Was her cousin right? Did Justin love her? Her heart lifted and seemed to turn over in her breast at the possibility. It returned to its customary position with a thud, however, as she contemplated his avowal that the brief embraces they had shared were only part of a few fleeting moments of pleasure. He had as much as said he wanted nothing more from her. He felt he was unworthy of love. Could she change his mind?

Catherine and Justin saw little of each other for the next few days. To Catherine’s surprise, Justin’s words proved true. She found herself embarked on what to one accustomed to a life of seclusion, was a dizzying round of social engagements and shopping. Her days were filled with trips to bookstores, museums, and modistes; her evenings were spent at glittering gatherings of the
ton.

Justin’s activities were almost solely confined to the nocturnal hours. He was now a regular customer of an establishment near the mouth of the Thames called by the singularly inappropriate name of The Angel, and he closeted himself by the hour with owners of certain small boats that made clandestine trips between the French and English coastlines. He was also spending an increasing amount of time with Jerry Church.

It was as he was setting out for this third visit in as many days to this gentleman when he encountered Catherine in the entrance hall of the house in Caroline Street, in company with Mariah and Lady Jane. She was in full evening garb in a gown of amber satin, trimmed with acorns embroidered in a glittering, golden thread, and the light from all the candles in the chamber seemed gathered in the waves of her honey-gold hair and in the depths of her jeweled eyes. She was so beautiful, thought Justin with a swift intake of breath, that it hurt just to look at her. However, he said only, “You’re all looking very fine tonight. Where are you off to?”

Catherine laughed a little breathlessly. “Oh, Justin. We’re going to the opera! Is it not famous? I have not attended in years! Lord and Lady Abingdon have asked us to share their box.”

“Lord Whissenhurst has promised to be there as well, has he not?” asked Mariah innocently. “At least he said he would make it a point to attend if you were going to be there.”

Justin had seen men grind their teeth, but had never had occasion to perform the act himself. Now he felt as though he must be fairly pulverizing his entire jawline. Pulling himself together, he bowed smoothly over the ladies’ fingertips and murmured something suitably inane.

Later, as he rode Caliban through darkening streets toward Westminster, Justin wondered if he were not perhaps going mad. He admired Catherine Meade greatly. She was unlike any other woman he had ever met, and he was undoubtedly sexually drawn to her. But, when all was said and done, she meant nothing to him. She had been a welcome port in a storm, and he was surely indebted to her. He had already acknowledged the fact that he would miss her when he left her company to take up the threads of his life. In addition, he was pleased that she was renewing the fabric of her own existence. She deserved whatever happiness friends and beautiful clothes and the acceptance of the
ton
would bring her. And that certainly included the inevitable presence in her life of a male admirer or two—or even several.

Why, then, had Mariah’s reference to Lord Whissenhurst come as such an unpleasant shock? Shock, hell. It had been as though something large and sharp had exploded just under his rib cage.

He stiffened in his saddle. This was ludicrous. Was he actually thinking of making some sort of declaration to Catherine? Declaration of what? His undying lust, at worst, he supposed. At best, his enduring affection. Yes, she would always have that. And that would have to be enough, for he had nothing else to give.

With a strong effort of will, he turned his thoughts away from Catherine and bent them toward Jerry Church. He pondered the revelations produced by the young man on his last visit. He had discovered that Cyrus Bentick, too, had evidently come in for a little windfall recently. He’d been seen about town squiring various high flyers, and a couple of weeks ago he had purchased a new, very stylish phaeton and pair. It now seemed certain that Cyrus Bentick was the man responsible for arranging Rivenchy’s escape, as well as the attempts on the life of Major Lord Justin Belforte.

On the other hand, Bentick certainly did not appear to possess the intelligence to put together a scheme of such magnitude as the whisking away of a French officer of the highest rank out of an English encampment and through miles of enemy lines.

Absorbed in his thoughts, Justin almost missed the turning off Horseferry Lane, but in a few moments he pulled up before the bakery in Gardiners Lane. From habit, he assured himself that he
was not observed before climbing the stairs to the second floor. The door opened at his first knock, and Jerry’s cherubic face appeared around the jamb.

“What ho. Church?” queried Justin mildly. “Have you anything for me this fine evening?”

“As a matter of fact, guv’nor,” replied Jerry, his voice cracking with suppressed excitement, “yes, I do. Something you’ll find very interesting, indeed, or my name isn’t Jeremy Church.”

Chapter Twenty

Jerry urged his guest to a seat at a table cluttered with papers.

“Look here, Justin,” he said eagerly. He picked up a bulky packet of papers, bound with tape. “I got these from Bentick’s house.”

“His house! Good God, you broke into his home?”

“Well—” Jerry grinned. “I wasn’t having any luck with the material I found in his desk. Bentick went out of the country on one of his flying visits to the Peninsula recently, so I took the opportunity to do a little extra reconnoitering. And wait till you see what’s in here! I spent almost all of one night copying it all from his own private papers.”

Justin gaped disbelievingly at Jerry before slowly lowering himself into a chair at the table. Gingerly, he untied the tape and began to read.

“Good Lord!” he exclaimed after a few moments. He was apparently looking at a ledger. “These go back at least two years!”

“ ‘April 12, 1810—received, 300 guineas for services.’

‘June 7, 1811—received for expenses—packet sent to Borchambeau at Sinebucco.’ Lord, that was just before Badajoz.’ My God, he was sending off Wellington’s battle plans to— The devil! Borchambeau was Soult’s aide, as I recall.

“‘September 25, 1811—200 pounds for trip to Brozas. See Maltby and others (Binns, Trooper, Budger)—need more money from Mac.’

Justin froze for a moment. Mac? He hurried on, paging through a chronicle of treason written in Bentick’s spidery hand. At last, he came to more recent events.

“‘June 30, 1812—for Simon Jarvis—12 guineas,’ ” he read. “ ‘Trip to Santander, July 3.’ “Mmm, there are several entries of payments to Jarvis, who, if I’m not mistaken is one of the smugglers hired frequently by the Depot.

“ ‘July 21—For Frank Borritch—200 pounds!’ “My God! That’s the forger!”

“Yes! And look here,” interposed Church.  “‘Received from my man—500 pounds for expenses—Fry, Maltby etc.’ Do those names mean anything to you?”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Justin grimly. “At least—Maltby is known to me, but I don’t know anything about a Fry. Perhaps he was the one who did in Private Kemp.”

“Um,” said Jerry. “And see here, again an entry noting more funds from ‘my man.’ Do you think he’s the same person as the ‘Mac’ mentioned earlier? And look, another two or three more personal payments to Bentick. Justin, you were right, Bentick was not the organizer of the plot to free Rivenchy. He was working for someone else! Who the devil do you suppose this ‘man,’ or ‘Mac’ is?”

Justin could not speak. Only one name leaped immediately to mind, but such an assumption was unthinkable. Numb with shock, he thumbed through the rest of the file. Some of the pages were Bentick’s personal notes on the progress of the plot, starting with the day he had been contacted by “my man” with the offer of a substantial amount of money for his help. Bentick, it seemed, enjoyed the good life, and he had invested unwisely to obtain the wherewithal for his pleasures. For years, he had gambled, drunk, and womanized far beyond his means, and now, as attested by other records shoved into Justin’s hands by an excited Jerry Church, was deeply in debt.

The self-loathing initially expressed by Bentick soon gave way to long, rambling, exculpatory passages that sickened Justin. He scrutinized the papers in growing anguish. “Victory at Salamanca—Rivenchy captured!—Must be released or we all face ruin.” Ah. So Rivenchy had known of the agents in place deep in the heart of Whitehall, spreading their ruinous tentacles. Justin could imagine the dismay that must have struck the conspirators at the thought that Rivenchy might reveal this knowledge.