Anne Barbour (9 page)

By now, Francis was pale and perspiring. He, too, seemed to have forgotten Catherine’s presence in the room.

“If you think to fob me off in such a manner,” he all but shouted, the desperation in his voice plain, “you are much mistaken, my good sir. Do you think I will skulk away without my due? Whether Catherine and I marry or not, you will pay well to be rid of me. What will the world think when they know your daughter is no longer a maiden?”

Catherine gaped at him unbelievingly. What was he saying? Of course, she was still a maid. How could he lead her father to think ... ? To threaten to expose her to—

“Your due!” echoed the earl. “You haven’t tuppence to rub together, and you sniffed out
my
daughter to recoup your fortune. Well, you chose unwisely, puppy. I am not without power, and if you think I will wed my only child to the likes of you, you have badly miscalculated. Come, Catherine!”

Unresisting, nearly blind with grief, Catherine allowed herself to be drawn from the inn.

And then disaster struck.

Sir Geoffrey Witbolde and his lady chose that precise moment to break their journey from their home in Durham to London. The couple were known as the most voracious gossips in the
ton,
and their mouths dropped open as they disembarked from their carriage to behold Josiah Meade, one of His Majesty’s most prominent barristers and husband to the daughter of the Earl of Carstairs, hauling his daughter from the inn, with a protesting Francis Summervale in his wake.

“Well!” breathed Lady Witbolde.

“As I live and breathe,” echoed her husband.

With a supreme effort, Josiah affixed a smile to his face. Greeting the baronet and his wife courteously, he declared himself pleased at their happenstance meeting. However, he explained through teeth gritted together so hard they hurt, he could not stop to chat. As they must have surmised, they had surprised his daughter and her affianced husband in a domestic spat, and he had been forced to take a hand.

Their little eyes glittering like those of wild dogs falling on a doe. Sir George and Lady Witbolde protested that they had no intention of keeping Mr. Meade from family matters. He could, of course, rely on their discretion, and they cordially wished the young couple their heartiest congratulations.

Catherine watched a triumphant smile spread across Francis’s features, and thought she would be sick. Numbly, she allowed herself to be bundled into her father’s carriage, but when Francis reached for her hand, she jerked it away as though she had touched something slimy. Glancing at his betrothed in sharp surmise, Francis said nothing, but addressed himself to making himself agreeable to his future father-in-law.

“Never mind that,” Josiah had snarled. “What’s done is done. You have your wish, Summervale, and may you rot in hell. Now, we must begin making plans. You must be married by special license, of course. No telling if Catherine is with child. The wedding will take place in St. George’s in Hanover Square with as much pomp as we can manage. No matter—”

“No,” said Catherine in a small, firm voice.

“No matter what the expense,” continued her father as though she had not spoken. “We must—what?”

“I said, no,” repeated Catherine, this time in a louder voice. “I will not marry Francis.”

Francis shot her a look of pained bewilderment. “But, beloved, I don’t understand—”

“I thought you loved me,” Catherine said in a choked wail. “I didn’t believe Papa when he said you were nothing but a fortune hunter, but now I perceive that he was right.”

‘There, there, dearest, you are distraught,” murmured Francis.

“Yes, I am,” she replied, pulling away from him. “But, that does not alter the fact that I am not going to marry you. You have broken my heart, Francis, and I shall never forgive you.”

She knew she sounded like the persecuted heroine from a Gothic novel, but the words might have been written for her sole utterance. How could she have been such a fool? She looked at Francis, and it was as though she had never seen him before. How could she never have noticed that those magical blue eyes were close set and hard as marbles? That his golden hair owed its gleam to the artifice of pomade and curling iron? Miserably, she huddled in a corner of the carriage.

“Catherine,” said Josiah reasonably. “I don’t like the situation, either, but you have made your bed, and you must lie in it. You may be sure that the Witboldes will have the story of your elopement spread through every drawing room in London by week’s end. If your betrothal announcement does not appear within a few days, you will be ruined.”

Her voice trembling so that she could hardly speak, Catherine replied, “I am sorry for that. Papa, but I will not marry Francis.”

To all of Francis’s pleadings and cajolery over the next several days, and to all of her father’s blustering threats, as well as her mother’s tearful exhortations, she stonily repeated herself until at last she was left alone in her misery. All alone. Her father virtually disowned her, and her mother, though she mouthed words of sympathy, eventually acquiesced in her husband’s abandonment of their daughter. Her friends, while commiserating with her to her face, gradually withdrew, and their sly murmurings when they thought she could not hear, cut her to the soul.

Only Grandmama Winter remained at her side. Her comfort was astringently phrased, but sincerely offered, and she steadfastly faced down the whispers and the cuts direct.

At last the day came when her father declared that he washed his hands of her. She was to be packed off forthwith to a cottage in Yorkshire, to remain there for the remainder of her days. Not only would the rest of the family have no more to do with her, but she was forbidden to remain in contact with those few of her friends in London who had sided with her.

It was at this point that Grandmama had taken a hand. Her granddaughter would not, by God, be made a pariah for holding to her principals. She was not to be punished for spurning a man who had taken advantage of her youth and innocence in such a despicable manner.

In the face of her family’s vituperative opposition, Grandmama whisked Catherine away from London to the sanctuary of Winter’s Keep, and there allowed her to heal in her own time. She saw to it that Catherine renewed her friendships among the local gentry, and, although those worthies at first looked askance at Catherine’s presence in the neighborhood, such was Lady Jane’s influence—and the fact that they had all known Catherine since she’d been in short skirts—that they gradually accepted her among them as one of their own.

When Cousin Mariah had returned from the Peninsula, dazed and in shock, much like a young doe shot by hunters and left for dead in the forest, the household at the Keep had expanded to enfold her, as well. She became a fixture there, and had made herself an indispensable part of their family.

As for Catherine, she was happy. She almost repeated the words aloud like a talisman as Winthrop at last braided her mistress’s hair for sleep. When she climbed into bed a few minutes later and blew out the candle, she wondered why she suddenly found it necessary to reflect on her good fortune. She had a lovely home, good friends, and family who loved her. What more could she want?

As she turned into her pillow, her thoughts returned unwillingly to the stranger who lay in her guest bedchamber. A stranger whose gun-metal gaze seemed to bore within her to an uncomfortable depth, raising disturbing and unwanted questions in her mind.

Chapter Six

The following morning, having intercepted Catherine in the breakfast room, Justin repeated his invitation to her for an early ride. Since she had come downstairs dressed in riding garb, planning a brisk, early gallop, she was obliged to accept with a show of good grace.

“Do you always rise so early?” she asked, pulling on her gloves of York tan.

Justin was about to answer in the affirmative, when he caught himself. He smiled cautiously.

“I think I must, for it feels natural to be doing so. I should imagine, however, that I rarely venture forth in such charming company.”

He watched in some satisfaction as a delicate flush swept over her cheeks. Was the lady so unused to even the mildest of compliments?

Once mounted, they cantered sedately past the environs of the house. During his solitary excursion the day before, Justin had been struck by the beauty of Winter’s Keep. Palladian in style, it lay in a fold of hills, an exercise in symmetry, its two main wings spread on either side of a graceful portico.

“The house was built early in the seventeen hundreds,” explained Catherine, “by the Earl of Stanchin, and it was owned by the family until about fifty years ago, when it was purchased by the Duke of Berkshire for a younger son. Charles Winter acquired it in 1792.”

“It’s very handsome,” remarked Justin. He glanced around. “The parkland is quite extensive.”

“Yes, the whole estate covers about two thousand acres.”

He whistled silently to himself. What was Charles Winter’s chosen field of endeavor that he had attained such an impressive success?

Catherine grinned. “Charlie had his fingers in a number of pies. He started out in mining, and he moved on to manufacturing. Toward the end, he had some interest in the East India Company and liked to call himself a nabob—although he did not actually spend much time in that country.”

Justin shook his head abruptly. He wished she’d stop doing that. Reading his mind, that is. For years he had prided himself on the ability to keep his own counsel, but he was apparently an open book to this chit.

As they progressed past the Home Farm and onto fields ready for harvest, he continued to probe gently for information on the estate. Why he found it necessary to avail himself of this information, he could not have said, for surely he could see no benefit to himself in it. He was simply interested, he discovered with surprise. He wanted to know more about Miss Catherine Meade and her little family. He could not think why this should be, except that she was an unusual woman. She had chosen to live apart from society, without benefit of masculine support, and she seemed completely happy in her decision.

He wondered again why she had never married. He grinned to himself. If he were in the market for a wife, he might consider laying siege to the lady. Not that any female in her right mind would consider him as husband material. On the other hand, females so seldom were. In their right minds, that is. They were almost universally susceptible to skillful blandishment, as he had discovered much to his profit, early in his checkered career.

Once again, the familiarity of Catherine’s name niggled at the back of his brain. Miss Catherine Meade. He rolled it around in his mind. Daughter of a barrister. Had he met the gentleman somewhere? In White’s perhaps? Certainly not at Horse Guards. He’d surely remember if the fellow were with the Foreign Office.

“You are fortunate that Winter’s Keep lies so close to London,” he remarked idly.

“Why is that, Mr. Smith?” Her tone was not precisely sharp, but it held little encouragement.

“You have all the benefits of living in the country, yet you can avail yourself of all the delights provided by the city.”

Catherine stiffened. “I’m afraid that the delights of the city hold little temptation for me.”

Justin lifted his brows. “Surely, you jest! A lady who does not enjoy shopping in town? Or the theater? Or the museums?”

She was silent for a moment. “Yes,” she replied at last. “I suppose I do miss some of those things. It is simply that—that I do not care enough for them to risk—that is, I—I do not like all the noise and dirt and—and encountering persons one would rather not talk to.”

She bit her lip, obviously vexed at having said so much. Justin proceeded smoothly.

“Of course. Actually, I cannot say that I am anything but pleased that it is your habit to stay close to home. Otherwise, I would not have enjoyed the good fortune of meeting you.”

She sent him a sardonic glance. “Do you call it good fortune to have sprained your ankle and sustained a serious head injury all on my account?”

Oops. Justin backpedaled. “I count the cost light at becoming acquainted with a lady of such breeding and charm as yourself.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them. Lord, what was the matter with him, spouting such shopworn, not to say smarmy phrases? He could feel himself coloring as Catherine sent him a derisive glance.

She smiled coolly. “Really, Mr. Smith, it is not necessary to turn me up sweet. You are welcome to stay at Winter’s Keep as long as necessary until you regain your memory—and the use of your foot. It is not my custom to turn beleaguered strangers away from my door, particularly those to whom I am in debt.”

My God, she was doing it again. Seeing into his thoughts as though his head were made of glass. He was usually a little subtler in his methods. He flushed.

“I suppose I deserved that,” he said, affixing what he hoped was an engaging smile to his lips. “But you are, in truth, a lady of breeding and charm. And,” he continued in a more serious vein, “I do most sincerely appreciate your allowing me to stay here. I’m sure I must have a home somewhere, but until I can remember where it is, behold me greatly in your debt. There,” he concluded, once more having recourse to the grin, “is that better?”

“Minimally,” she retorted.

Justin sighed in mock despair. “Really, I never encountered a female so averse to compliments. I find it hard to believe that you are unused to receiving them.”

“I appreciate a sincere compliment as much as the next woman, I should imagine. It is pretty, empty phrases to which I object.”

“But—

“Oh, please, Mr. Smith, may we talk of something else? I have nothing but disgust for men who mouth polished little nothings. In any event, I think it is time we returned home.”

With a jerk on her reins, she wheeled her little mare about and cantered off in the direction of the house.

Justin followed slowly, his eyes on her rigid back. Phew! It appeared he had been right. The cause of Lady Catherine’s withdrawal from the polite world had been a man. A man, he’d wager his best curly-brimmed beaver, who had gained her trust with his empty, polished little nothings and then had broken her heart.