Dangerous to Hold (37 page)

“But?”

“Well, he’s not very sociable. He keeps himself to himself. He doesn’t make friends very easily.”

“I know that,” said Marcus. A moment passed, then he went on, “Even so, I’d like you to make a friend of him, Peter. In fact, beginning next Thursday evening, I want you to keep him in your sights at all times. Invite him to your clubs. Introduce him around. It won’t be for long. A week should do it. I can’t keep him with me every minute of the day. It would be too awkward.”

“Why are you asking me to do this?” asked Farrel in his blunt way.

“On the chance,” said Marcus, “that Penn may need an alibi.”

“What’s happening on Thursday?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Farrel looked at his friend in perfect comprehension, then he said, “You may count on me.”

“I knew I could,” said Marcus.

Marcus was exhausted when he returned to Cavendish Square but even so, he could not get to sleep. He kept going over things in his mind, wondering whether he’d overlooked anything. He’d made absolutely sure that his carriage was not followed when he’d taken Cat and Amy to the dower house. If anyone was going to be a target, it was he.

His plan was simple. He was relying on the murderer’s ingenuity to track down the author of the article and
sketch that were to appear in
The Journal.
He’d thought of laying a trail that even a simpleton could follow, and had decided that would be too easy. The last thing he wanted was for his quarry to become suspicious. The man he was after was clever and tenacious. It might take him a day or two to trace the article to Catherine, but Marcus was convinced he would find a way to do it. And when he did, it was he, Marcus, who would be waiting for him.

Something else kept turning in his mind—his conversation with Peter Farrel. He didn’t suspect Penn; he truly was trying to protect him. If anything went wrong, he didn’t want Carruthers accusing his brother of something Marcus was quite sure Penn wasn’t capable of doing.

That thought led him to
El Grande.

Neither Catherine nor Major Carruthers would ever suspect
El Grande
, but Marcus was not so sure.
El Grande
had been a ruthless partisan during the war, and Marcus was not convinced he had changed so much since then.

El Grande
had come to England. Why? Was he really trying to find his soul with the brothers at Marston, or had he a more sinister purpose in mind?

He thought about
El Grande
for a long time, then he thought of Catherine. He had yet to tell her that he’d been to his solicitors and that there was no hope for a divorce. He couldn’t believe, after the night they’d spent together—was it only last night?—that she could still want one.

Then why had she run from him?

It was a long, long time before he fell asleep.

Amy and Catherine did not sit down to dinner until late. They hadn’t talked yet about anything important, putting that off until they had time for it. There had been a great deal to do during the day, for the house had been empty for years, and it had to be cleaned and aired.

Now, bathed and changed, they faced each other across a small table that had been set up, at Catherine’s suggestion, in the less formal morning room. There was
so much to say and Catherine hardly knew where to begin. Though they were sisters, they were strangers, and if it had not been for a bizarre set of circumstances, they might have gone their separate ways without crossing paths again.

“I understand,” said Amy, “that this house belonged to Marcus’s grandmother?”

She was making small talk only because one of the servants was present.

Catherine said, “She came here when her husband died.”

She spoke absently. Her eyes were trained on the footman who was fiddling with a bottle of wine. He didn’t look as if he knew how to open it. In fact, he didn’t look much like a footman at all. The same could be said of the other two footmen Marcus had installed in his house. They looked like pugilists, as did the cook who had taken over the kitchen—and she was a female.

The cork popped, and Hale, the footman, carefully poured out the wine.

“I’ll ring for you if we need anything,” said Catherine.

When he closed the door, leaving the two girls alone at last, they both sighed, then they began speaking at once. Catherine stopped and let Amy speak first.

Amy wanted to know all about the Spanish vendetta, and Catherine’s year with the partisans, and she had many questions about
El Grande.
Catherine told her everything. She could tell that
El Grande
had made a great impression on Amy, and she began to speculate. Amy’s popularity was waning. She no longer gave lavish parties. She was planning to spend the winter months in Italy. Catherine did not go so far as to suspect that Amy might be in love with
El Grande
, but she sensed that
El Grande
, with his priestly gift for seeing into a person’s soul, had turned Amy around.

When Catherine had no more to say, Amy looked up. “Do you think he will go back to being a priest?”

“I don’t know. He certainly has a gift for it.”

“Yes. I’m sure that’s true.”

When the covers were removed and they were alone
again, a long, companionable silence fell between them. Amy caught Catherine’s eyes, started to speak, then cleared her throat before starting over.

“There is something I must say to you, Cat. I want you to know that I bitterly, bitterly regret the lie I told you about Marcus, all those years ago. I didn’t even know him then. As I told you in my letter, I did it to make myself appear … I don’t know … glamorous, I suppose, not in your eyes, but in Aunt Bea’s.”

“I understand, Amy. I understand how it was.”

“Do you?” She searched Catherine’s face, and she nodded. “I believe you do. Thank you for that, Cat.” She raised her glass. “And now, even if I am a little tardy, I’d like to propose a toast to my little sister and wish her happy with her husband.”

Catherine’s smile faded. “I take it Marcus didn’t tell you that we are suing for a divorce?”

Amy lowered her glass. “Why would you do that?”

“Many reasons, which I’d rather not go into.”

A frown knit Amy’s brow. “Marcus said nothing to me.” When Catherine remained silent, Amy went on carefully, “Is it because of me, Cat?”

“No. I told you, I understand why you lied about Marcus.”

“That’s not what I mean. Is it because Marcus and I were … friends at one time?”

“Friends?” said Catherine, brows raised. “Oh yes.
Friends.”

And with Catherine’s snide insinuation, Amy’s hangdog demeanor vanished into thin air and she became more like herself. “All right then, if you want it with the bark off, I was his mistress. What of it?”

“What of it?” asked Catherine. “How would you like it if you were married to a man who had taken your sister to bed?”

Amy rested one elbow on the table, and cupped her chin. “I suppose,” she said reflectively, “I would always wonder if he was comparing me to her.”

Catherine gasped. “No such thought ever occurred to me.”

“Didn’t it? Then what were you thinking?”

“What was I thinking?”

“You heard me, Cat.”

“Well, I was just wondering if Marcus was kind to you. Oh, I don’t believe we are having this conversation.”

“Let me tell you about Marcus so we’ll never have this conversation again.”

“I don’t want to hear.”

Amy let out a theatrical sigh. “He wasn’t one of my more memorable lovers. In fact, I think it would be no exaggeration to say he was the least memorable. He was inept and gauche and gave me no pleasure. Frankly, I don’t know how he came by his reputation, but it certainly didn’t start with me. There was some excuse for him, I suppose. He was only twenty-one or so. Boys of that age don’t make good lovers as a rule.”

Whey Amy paused, Catherine said incredulously, “Are we talking about
Marcus?”

“Ah,” said Amy with a knowing glint in her eyes. “I see your experience with him is different from mine. Perhaps he has learned a thing or two over the years, but I can assure you, he did not learn with me. In fact, it would surprise me if he can remember anything about me at all, except perhaps that I was very, very expensive.”

Her voice changed, and she said, “I swear to God, Cat, I’m not making this up. There is one more thing that I would like to say. Though Marcus was not an exciting lover, he has no equal as a friend, and I’ve been grateful for that friendship more times than I care to remember. I like, trust, and respect him, and there are very few of my past lovers I can say that about. Does that answer your question?”

Catherine’s cheeks were burning. “I never meant—oh, this is so embarrassing.” She was staring at her clasped hands. “It makes no difference, Amy.”

Amy’s patience was wearing thin. “Cat, long before he met you, Marcus had a mistress. Her name was Amy Spencer. That woman had nothing to do with your sister, and now she no longer exists. Can’t you let it go at that?”

“I’m not holding that against Marcus or you, not really.”

“Then what is it?”

Catherine finally looked into Amy’s eyes. “Don’t you understand? He never really wanted to be married to me. I forced him into it. Then afterward, when he found me again, I lied to him and deceived him. Good God, I
spied
on him and passed my reports to British Intelligence.”

Amy looked at Catherine, and after an interval said, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, surely there’s more to it than that?”

“Isn’t that enough?” Catherine cried out passionately.

“Not if you love each other.”

“Oh, I know he wants me, but I don’t think he wants to be married to me.”

Amy saw the tears gathering in Catherine’s eyes, and she said in a matter-of-fact way, “And I know Marcus, and I know you are wrong. Now, let’s talk about something else. Are you really a crack shot, Cat?”

Catherine sniffed and nodded.

“Could you teach me to be a crack shot?”

“No. That comes with practice. But I could teach you how to handle a pistol, you know, load it and unload it, that sort of thing. But I don’t advise target practice for the present. Marcus’s footmen might get the wrong idea, and we wouldn’t want to upset them, would we?”

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“Because I think they are crack shots, too.”

“The footmen?”

Catherine shook her head. “I know an old soldier when I see one,” she said, and both girls began to laugh.

Catherine’s article appeared on the front page of
The Journal
along with a small sketch of the ruined monastery that had served as the partisans’ headquarters during the winter of 1812-1813. All over London, the paper was read with astonishment, for the anonymous author described herself as an English girl who had served with
El Grande’s
partisans for a time. It was all verified by the publisher, who also mentioned that this was only the first in a series that would be published in each issue of the paper.

Major Charles Carruthers was one of the first to learn about Catherine’s article. He was in his office in Whitehall when his secretary, a recent graduate of Oxford, placed
The Journal
on his desk.

“I haven’t got time for this,” said Carruthers, giving the paper a quick glance. “Just tell me what it says.”

“It says a lot of things,” said young Crabbe, “but the paragraph that struck me was the one that says that in future issues of
The Journal
there will be biographies and portraits of everyone who was with
El Grande
at that time. She even mentions the Spanish vendetta.”

“Good lord.” Carruthers threw aside the report he was reading, picked up the newspaper, and scanned it. When he came to the end of it, he sat in silence with a thoughtful look on his face.

He looked up at his secretary. “She never told me anything about portraits or a journal. Now why wouldn’t she?”

Thinking the question rhetorical, the secretary said nothing.

Carruthers pinned him with a steely eye. “Well, come
on, man. You want a career in Intelligence. One presumes you have a brain. Use it.”

The secretary, who was in awe of his legendary superior, cleared his throat before speaking. “Why didn’t she tell you about the portraits and sketches?”

“That is the question, Crabbe.” replied the major.

“Maybe she didn’t realize how important they were.”

“They’re not important. I’m convinced of that.”

Working up his courage, the secretary declared, “You can’t know that for sure.”

“How very true—and neither can the murderer. If you were in his shoes, what would you do?”

Crabbe didn’t have to think about it. “I’d go into hiding until I could figure out whether or not these articles could really incriminate me.”

Carruthers made a rude sound. “Not bloody likely. Our villain has been masterminding his plot for almost four years. The stakes are too high to bow out at this stage of the game.”

“But what else can he do? You don’t mean, sir, that he’s going to try to kill our agent?”