Dangerous to Hold (8 page)

He replaced the cameo bracelet, then the pochette, and after emptying his pockets, threw several letters into the trunk also. Having locked the trunk, he called for the clerk to take it away.

Moments later, he left the bank. Soon, he promised himself, very soon everything would be in place, and he would remove the one obstacle in the path of his ambitions.

Catherine could not make up her mind whether her ride on Hampstead Heath was for pleasure or because she enjoyed torturing herself. It was early on Saturday morning during one of the warmest spells they’d had all summer; she was mounted on Vixen, a sweet little goer if she knew anything about horseflesh, and she was constrained to ride sidesaddle and hold her mount to a sedate trot. What she wanted was to throw caution to the winds, toss off her bonnet, loosen her hair, and ride pell-mell for the summit of Parliament Hill, the highest point on the heath.

Should she follow her inclinations, she would become the talk of Hampstead. People would wonder how she came to be such an accomplished rider, and McNally would explode in righteous wrath. This was not how ladies conducted themselves. Already, she was in his black books for her little escapade the night she’d met Marcus.

She looked over her shoulder and nodded at her burly, bad-tempered chaperon. McNally was mounted on Derby, the old pony that pulled her buggy, which explained McNally’s foul temper. It was long past time that Derby was put out to pasture, but she couldn’t afford to replace him. Vixen was the horse of a neighbor who paid Catherine to board her while he was away.

She turned her head when someone hailed her. Emily Lowrie, a pleasant-faced, dark-haired young woman, detached herself from a group of riders and trotted over. The two women had been friends since Emily had come to live in Hampstead some six years before. Though Emily had recently married, she and Catherine still had a great deal in common.

“Don’t forget Thursday evening,” Emily called out. “There’s to be a special guest of honor.”

On the third Thursday of every month, Emily hosted a small gathering of friends at her house on the other side of Hampstead Heath. Catherine enjoyed these informal affairs. Emily’s husband was a member of Parliament, just starting out in his career, and so the mix of guests was always interesting. There was usually a guest of honor, someone with thought-provoking views. Many an article had been inspired by a conversation Catherine had engaged in at these parties.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said. “Who is this special guest of honor?”

“The Earl of Wrotham,” said Emily with a big smile on her face.

“Wrotham?”

Emily was delighted by her response. “That’s how I reacted when William told me.” she said. “
‘Wrotham?’
I croaked. ‘But the earl is so far above us. William, are you sure he accepted an invitation to one of our little affairs? Perhaps you misunderstood him.’ And William replied that the earl had practically invited himself.”

“I wasn’t aware that William knew Wrotham,” said Catherine weakly.

“He didn’t, until last week. A mutual acquaintance introduced them. Oh, Catherine, isn’t it wonderful? If Wrotham were to take an interest in William’s career, there’s no saying how far he might go. Wrotham knows all the right people. Oh, don’t tell William I said that. You know how he feels about patronage.”

And on that jubilant note, Emily trotted off to tell the good news to someone else who had caught her eye.

Wrotham!
She’d been so sure, the last time she’d seen him, that she’d finally convinced him she wasn’t Catalina. Then why had he invited himself to Emily’s little party? Damn the man! Did he never give up?

Her first impulse was to beg off, but on thinking it over, she decided to brazen the thing through. Obviously he was still curious about her. What she must do was satisfy that curiosity so that there wasn’t a shadow of a
doubt in his mind that she really was who she said she was. Then, he would stop pestering her.

She dressed carefully that evening. As she turned this way and that, studying her reflection in the long cheval mirror, she was quite taken aback by the transformation in her appearance. Mrs. McNally had swept up her hair and fastened it to her crown with a cluster of silk rosebuds. Her skin seemed softer, somehow, with a faint blush to it. And as for what the new high-waisted, low-cut ivory muslin did to her figure … she shuddered to think what Aunt Bea would have to say if she were here now.

It wasn’t vanity that had made her splurge on a new gown, she told herself. True, she’d been annoyed that first night by the remarks he’d made about the “rags” she was wearing, and something about her being the mother of six children.
Six children!
She spread her hand against her abdomen.
Flat
, she told her reflection. And what difference did it make if he’d summed her up as an aging dowd? All she wanted was to look as different from Catalina as possible, as
English
as possible.

She tried not to think about Aunt Bea when she slipped her new high-heeled satin slippers over the white silk stockings that had cost her ten shillings. Ten shillings for a pair of silk stockings! That shocked her more than the cost of the gown. A gown could be made over and could last for years. She’d be lucky if the silk stockings lasted the night. All this finery just to throw Wrotham off the scent? She must be out of her mind.

She was out of her mind in more ways than one. Everybody would take one look at her and think that she was setting her cap for the earl. Before she could decide whether to change, there was a knock on the door and Mrs. McNally entered.

“It’s as good as new,” said Mrs. McNally, indicating the newly pressed cloak she carried over one arm. She’d found it when she was cleaning out the attics, in a trunk of old clothes that had once belonged to Catherine’s mother. The trunk had been deposited in the attic during
Aunt Bea’s regime, and Mrs. McNally had a fair idea why.

From all Mrs. McNally could gather, Beatrice Courtnay had been a relic of a former era, a Puritan who had damned vanity in all its manifestations. There had been no pretty clothes for her nieces, no parties, no dancing or trips to the theater. Religion, hard work, and book-learning had taken their place. She’d had no use for the pretty things Catherine’s mother had kept about her. The attics had told an interesting story. When she and McNally had arrived on the scene, they’d found them choked with pictures, mirrors, ornaments, and boxes of “unsuitable books” as well as trunks of old clothes, pretty clothes, such as the green satin cloak she had just pressed.

Without fuss or bother, she and McNally had gradually distributed the pictures, mirrors, and ornaments throughout the house. Catherine had been pleased; the house, she’d said, was more like it was in her mother’s day. After that, Mrs. McNally had decided to make over some of the clothes she’d found in the trunk, and Catherine had been happy to wear them.

As she looked at Catherine now, a lump formed in her throat. She was a beautiful, vibrant young woman and it was no thanks to the aunt who had raised her. Beatrice Courtnay had a lot to answer for, and so had Catherine’s father. When his wife had died, he’d turned his daughters over to the care of a woman who had no notion of how to be a mother to them. She’d driven off one girl and tried to make the other into a replica of herself. Fortunately, Catherine’s character had been formed long before the straitlaced maiden aunt had come into her life. And now that Aunt Bea was gone, Catherine—the real Catherine—had come into her own again.

There was only one thing that would make Mrs. McNally’s joy complete. She wanted Catherine to meet the right man, a gentleman who would appreciate Catherine’s fine mind and, at the same time, put his foot down and stop her reckless visits to places no lady should even know about.

She held the cloak as Catherine
slipped
into it, then turned her around and did up the buttons. Taking a step back, she assessed the girl from head to toe. In her broad Scottish brogue she said, “Ah, lass, ye’re a bonny sight for these old eyes. Ye sly puss, with never a word to McNally or me. Go on with ye. He’s waiting downstairs.”

Catherine was still turning this little speech over in her mind as she descended the stairs. Halfway down, she almost lost her footing. It wasn’t McNally who was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, but Marcus.

“I thought I’d surprise you,” he said, grinning up at her. She looked flustered, and that pleased him. He’d only just had time to recover his own balance. When he’d first caught sight of her, he’d been struck speechless. “No sense taking two carriages when I have to pass your door to reach our destination. I met McNally on my way in and I told him not to bother with the buggy. I hope you don’t mind?”

As if on cue, McNally entered and stood to one side beaming up at her. From the upstairs landing, Mrs. McNally watched with a bemused smile. Catherine descended the stairs and took a moment to draw on her gloves. For the benefit of anyone who might be eavesdropping, she said coolly, “And does your wife go with us this evening, Lord Wrotham?”

“My wife?”

“Lady Wrotham,” Catherine prompted. She glanced meaningfully at McNally, then at Mrs. McNally. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting her.”

“Ah, no. Perhaps next time.”

The silence sagged with the weight of disappointed hopes. Satisfied that her servants had taken the point, Catherine sailed out the front door.

As soon as Marcus entered the carriage, he said, “That was a fine piece of horseflesh I saw McNally leading into your stable as I arrived. He tells me you stable it for a neighbor who is visiting America.”

“It’s hardly a visit. Admiral Collins will be away for a year, if not longer.”

“So you have the use of the mare?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I thought we might go riding together sometime.”

It wasn’t hard to see where this was leading. He must have seen her riding in Spain. Was he testing her, still trying to determine whether or not she was Catalina?

“I do have the use of Vixen,” she said, “but I’m afraid I don’t much care for riding.” She thought of her wild midnight rides across the heath, when there was no one there to see her, and she turned her head away to conceal the laughter in her eyes.

“Then who exercises the mare?”

Did the man never give up? “McNally, mostly, though I do take her out once in a while.” Before he could probe further, she said, “You deliberately invited yourself to this party because you knew I’d be there.”

“True,” said Marcus.

“How did you know the Lowries were my friends?”

“You mentioned them in passing, last time we met. Don’t you remember?”

Now that he mentioned it, she did remember, and she cursed herself for her stupidity. Her lashes swept down and she took a moment to compose herself. As far as possible, she should be herself, but she mustn’t provoke or challenge him. And most of all, she mustn’t let him see how utterly she hated him.

She looked at him steadily. “You’re hounding me, my lord. I don’t like it. What is it you want from me?”

One brow shot up and he let out a quick laugh. “More than either of us has bargained for, but I’d rather not go into that right now. You puzzle me, Catherine. There are so many questions about you that remain unanswered. I can’t get you out of my mind.”

“And if I answer your questions, do you promise to leave me alone?”

There was a heartbeat of silence, then he shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. “If that’s what you want.”

How could he doubt it? She nodded, took a deep breath, and said calmly, “What is it you want to know?”

“Have you ever slept with a man?” He couldn’t resist it. He had to try shaking up her composure.

Her head whipped up, and when she saw the grin on his face, she exploded. “You crude oaf! I should have expected something like that from you! Have you no manners?”

He caught her wrist as she reached for the door handle and he yanked her back. “It was a forlorn hope,” he told her, laughing.

She shook off his hand. “A forlorn hope? What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “You live alone. You travel without benefit of chaperon in a closed carriage with a gentleman of—so you say—unsavory reputation. In my circles, that usually means the lady is open to, shall we say—suggestion?”

“I, thank God, do not move in your circles. I’ve never required a chaperon until I met you. I’m not a highborn lady, Lord Wrotham. I’m a decent, respectable girl who works for a living, and the gentlemen who move in
my
circles are decent and respectable too.”

He let her go when he was sure she wouldn’t throw herself out of the carriage. “I won’t apologize for the question,” he said. “It makes things simpler between us.” He abruptly shifted focus. “You said you work for a living. What kind of work?”

It makes things simpler between us.
She gave up trying to puzzle out his odd way of expressing himself. She had more to worry about than that. He enjoyed provoking her, which made her nervous. If he got her dander up, she might betray too much.