Jacquie D'Alessandro (7 page)

A formally attired, slightly built butler stood by the door like a sentinel, his spectacles riding low on his beaklike nose.

“Welcome home, Lady Catherine,” the butler said in a voice far too deep and sonorous to come out of a man of such slight proportions. Indeed, it looked as if a stiff wind would knock the man on his posterior.

“Thank you, Milton.” While handing him her bonnet and shawl, she said, “This is Mr. Stanton, my brother’s business partner and a dear friend of the family. He’ll be staying for several days. I’ve instructed that his things be taken to the blue guest chamber.”

Milton bowed his head. “I shall see that the room is readied at once.”

Spencer nodded toward the mahogany table. “Did you see your newest flowers, Mum?”

Andrew noted the slight flush that crept up her cheeks. “They are rather difficult to miss.”

Spencer made a disgusted sound. “That one isn’t nearly as large as the arrangement in the drawing room. They’re turning our house into an indoor garden! Why can’t they leave you alone?” He turned toward Andrew, clearly seeking an ally. “Don’t you think they should leave her alone?”

“They?”

“The
suitors
. Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth. The Duke of Kelby. Lord Kingsly. Then there’s Lord Bedingfield, who recently purchased the estate bordering ours to the west. Between them, they send enough flowers to make one feel as if one is living in a botanical prison.”
Spencer made a disgusted sound. “I feel as if I’m choking on flowers. Don’t you think they should stop?”

Hell, yes.
Andrew forced himself not to shoot the floral tribute a sizzling glare. Before he could answer, Lady Catherine, whose blush had deepened to rose, said, “Spencer, that is very discourteous. Lords Avenbury and Ferrymouth and the others are merely being polite.”

Andrew swallowed the irritated
humph
that rose in his throat. Polite? Hardly. He had to bite his tongue to refrain from announcing that a man didn’t send a woman enough flowers to sink a frigate just to be polite.

“Shall I arrange for tea?” Milton asked, wading into the awkward silence.

“Yes, thank you, but just for two. In the drawing room.” She turned to Andrew. “I’ll see you settled in, but then I’m afraid I have a previous appointment.” She touched Spencer’s sleeve. “Will you entertain Mr. Stanton while I’m gone?”

“Yes. Is your appointment with Mrs. Ralston, or with Dr. Oliver?”

“Doctor?” Andrew asked, his gaze jumping to Lady Catherine. “Are you ill?”

“No,” Lady Catherine said quickly. “My appointment is with Mrs. Ralston.”

Spencer turned to Andrew. “Mrs. Ralston is my mother’s greatest friend. Unless the weather is foul, Mum walks to her house every day to visit and help her.”

“Help her?” asked Andrew.

Spencer nodded. “Mrs. Ralston has arthritis in her hands. Mum writes letters for her and tends her flower beds.”

Andrew smiled at Lady Catherine. “Very kind of you.”

She appeared to blush. “Genevieve is a very dear lady.”

“And fortunate to have such a staunch friend.” Andrew returned his attention to Spencer. “And who is Dr. Oliver?” he asked casually.

“
Another
suitor, although he’s quite nice, and isn’t wealthy enough to send these gargantuan bouquets. No, the doctor merely gazes upon Mum with mooning eyes.” Spencer proceeded to demonstrate “mooning eyes” by adopting a simpering expression and fluttering his lashes.

If any other woman besides Lady Catherine were involved, Andrew would have found the boy’s antics highly entertaining. Instead, he grimly noted that Lady Catherine’s cheeks flamed to crimson. He clearly recalled Philip mentioning that one of Lady Catherine’s admirers was a village doctor. Based on her reaction, he strongly suspected this was the man.

“What nonsense, Spencer,” she said. “Dr. Oliver makes no such faces and is merely a friend.”

“Who stops by every day.”

“Not
every
day. And besides, he is only being polite.”

“It would appear that there is an abundance of polite gentlemen in Little Longstone,” Andrew said dryly.

Spencer looked toward the ceiling. “Yes. And they’re all intent upon courting my mother.”

“It cannot be considered courting if I do not respond,” Lady Catherine said in a firm voice. “Their interest will cease once they realize I am not interested.”

Andrew cleared his throat. “Based on these”—he waved his hand, encompassing the trio of floral arrangements visible—“they have not yet realized that.”

“Lord Bedingfield now knows,” Spencer said. “I told him myself when he called upon you yesterday afternoon.”

“What on earth did you say to him?” Lady Catherine asked.

“I said, ‘My mother is not interested in you.’”

A noise that sounded distinctly like a poorly smothered laugh emitted from Lady Catherine, followed by a cough. Andrew bit back a smile of his own. Spencer was indeed a good lad.

“And what did Lord Bedingfield say?” Catherine asked.

Spencer hesitated, then shrugged. “Just something about children being seen and not heard.”

Milton cleared his throat. “Actually, his lordship said something extremely unpleasant which does not bear repeating, at which time I instructed him to leave before I set the dogs upon him.”

Andrew’s jaw clenched at the realization that Lord Bedingfield had clearly said something unkind to Spencer.

“We don’t have any dogs,” Lady Catherine said.

“I did not feel it was necessary to point that out to his lordship, my lady.”

Although there was hurt in his eyes, a smile flirted around the edges of Spencer’s mouth. “Where upon Lord Bedingfield departed, only to trip as he crossed the threshold—”

“—My foot somehow got in his way,” Milton said with a stoic expression. “Most unfortunate.”

“I’d never before seen the shade of red he turned,” Spencer said, his grin now full. “Can’t imagine how angry he would have been if he’d known we don’t actually have any dogs.”

“Yes, I fear his lordship won’t be coming back,” Milton said with a perfectly straight face. “A thousand apologies for my clumsiness, Lady Catherine.”

“I shall endeavor, somehow, to find forgiveness in my heart,” she replied in an equally serious voice. She then turned and shot her son a huge wink.

Well, that was one suitor gone, Andrew thought with an
inward grim smile. Unfortunately, there were still quite a few more who needed to go.

While her coachman remained with the carriage, Catherine entered Ralston cottage’s modest foyer.

“Good afternoon, Baxter,” she greeted Genevieve’s imposing butler, tilting back her head to meet his obsidian gaze. “Is Mrs. Ralston at home?”

“The mistress is always at home for you, Lady Catherine,” Baxter announced in his deep, gravelly voice. Relieved, Catherine surrendered her velvet bonnet and cashmere shawl to Baxter’s ham-sized hands.

No matter how many times she saw him, Baxter’s sheer height and breadth never ceased to amaze Catherine. He stood at least six inches over six feet, and his impressive muscles strained the confines of his formal black attire. His proportions, combined with his bald head, not to mention the tiny gold hoops adorning his earlobes, or the fact that he tended to answer questions with a monosyllabic growl, lent him a most intimidating air. Certainly no one encountering Baxter would ever suspect that he loved flowers, clucked over Genevieve’s brood of cats like a mother hen, and baked the most delicious scones Catherine had ever tasted. He guarded Genevieve and her menagerie as if they were the crown jewels, and referred to Genevieve as “the one wot saved me.”

Catherine knew they’d known each other in Genevieve’s “former” life—the one she’d lived before settling in Little Longstone, and she was thankful Genevieve had a strong friend to help her. And protect her. Baxter’s hands alone looked as if they could pulverize rock, and, according to Genevieve, they had on more than one occasion. Catherine prayed they would not need to know such violence again.

Baxter escorted her to the drawing room, then retreated. Five minutes later, Genevieve entered the room, her beautiful face alight with pleasure. A pastel green muslin gown adorned her lush figure, and her pale blond hair was arranged in the simple chignon she favored, a style that highlighted her pansy blue eyes and full lips. At two-and-thirty, Genevieve’s complexion remained creamy, and even the faint lines etched around her eyes and on her forehead could not detract from her beauty.

“What a lovely surprise,” she said, crossing the blue-and-cream Axminster rug with her slow, measured steps. “I thought you’d be too weary after your journey to visit today.”

As was her custom, Genevieve blew her a kiss in greeting, touching her lips to her gloved fingertips. Catherine returned the gesture, her heart pinching with sympathy for her friend at her misshapen hands that even the heavy gloves could not hide. In all the years they’d been friends, Catherine had never seen her friend’s hands bare.

“I had to come,” Catherine said. “There is something we must discuss.”

Genevieve gave her a sharp-eyed look. “What happened to your lip?”

“That is part of what we need to discuss. Come, let us sit.”

Once they were seated on an overstuffed brocade settee, Catherine told her friend about the shooting.

“Dear God, Catherine,” Genevieve said, her eyes filled with concern. “What a horrifying ordeal. How do you feel now?”

“A little achy and sore, but much improved. The wound was superficial”

“How fortunate. For all of us.” Her expression grew fierce. “Hopefully the scoundrel who did this will be ap
prehended. When I think about what might have happened with a stray shot…you, or anyone else at the party, could have been seriously injured. Or killed.” A delicate shudder shook her frame. “An absolutely horrifying accident. I’m so relieved you weren’t seriously hurt.”

“As am I. But…” Catherine drew a deep breath. “Actually, I’m not convinced that it was an accident.” She quickly told Genevieve about the conversation she’d overheard just prior to the shooting, concluding with, “I’m praying it was indeed just a random incident, but I’m frightened. Afraid that it might have been specifically directed at me. That someone, perhaps this investigator, has discovered my connection to Charles Brightmore. And if that is so…”

“Then I would be in danger as well,” Genevieve said slowly, her expression turning to one of deep sorrow and regret. “Oh, Catherine. I am so sorry that your involvement with me, with my book, has placed you in this untenable situation. This must be stopped. Immediately. I shall travel to London tomorrow to speak with our publisher and instruct Mr. Bayer to reveal that
I
am Charles Brightmore.”

“You shall do nothing of the kind,” Catherine said firmly. “That would only serve to place you in more imminent danger and destroy your reputation.”

“My dear, do you think that matters when compared to your
life?
I can always leave and resettle elsewhere. You have Spencer to think about.”

“You will not leave here,” Catherine insisted. “You need the warm waters for your hands and joints as much as Spencer does.”

“There are other warm springs in England. In Italy.” She looked down at her hands and her lips tightened.
“I’ve cursed these crippled hands so many times. They cost me my livelihood. The man I love…” A humorless laugh pushed past her lips. “After all, who wants a mistress with hands like these? No man wants to be touched with such ugliness. But never have I cursed them more than I do now. If I were physically capable to write, to hold a pen, I never would have enlisted your aid to author that cursed book.”

“Please do not say that. I wanted to help you. Writing the book, listening to your dictation, being involved, gave my life a sense of purpose that had been lacking for years. You think you took something from me, but just the opposite is true. You’ve given me more than I can ever repay.”

“As you’ve always given me, yet you cannot deny I’ve taken away your sense of safety, that this enterprise I involved you in has placed you in danger.”

“We can’t be certain that is true. Crime is rampant in London, and this very well could have been an accident.”

“Yet how will we determine that?” Genevieve asked. “We cannot simply wait until one or both of us is harmed. Or worse. This must be stopped. Immediately. I must speak with Mr. Bayer.”

“I beg you not to, at least for a day or two. There was a witness who can identify the culprit. My father promised to write to let me know if the perpetrator is caught. If he is, then our worries are for naught. Let us wait to hear from Father.”

Genevieve worried her lowered lip, then finally jerked her head in agreement. “Very well. However, if you haven’t heard from him by tomorrow evening, I am going to London the following day. In the meanwhile, we must do something to guarantee your safety. Baxter will see to it that no harm comes to me, but I fear that although Mil
ton and Spencer are brave, they cannot offer you adequate protection should the need arise.”

“I have already taken care of that. My brother’s American friend, Mr. Stanton, accompanied me to Little Longstone and is remaining for a visit.”

“But is he capable of protecting you?” Genevieve asked in a dubious voice.

An image of Mr. Stanton carrying her in his strong arms flashed through her mind, and to her mortification, heat crept up her neck. “Er, yes. He is definitely capable.”

Genevieve’s gaze turned speculative, then she hiked up one perfectly arched blond brow. “Indeed? Well, I am vastly relieved. I recall you mentioning this Mr. Stanton, but only in the vaguest terms. What is he like?”

“Annoying and opinionated,” she answered without hesitation.

Genevieve laughed. “Darling, all men are
that
. Does he possess any good traits?”

Catherine shrugged. “I suppose if pressed to do so, I could think up one or two.” When Genevieve continued to wait with an expectant expression, Catherine looked toward the ceiling and blew out a resigned sigh. “He was apparently quite helpful after I was injured last evening. And, um, he does not have an unpleasant body odor.”