Scandal's Reward (13 page)

The marquis was of exactly the type and the generation to forgive or even admire an entanglement with a woman. What had he said to Lady Montagu? “I never gave a damn about the girl, ma’am. And I don’t give a damn about young Charles showing up at Lion Court. Do that pompous son and insufferable daughter of yours good to get a shaking up. I’m damned if I wouldn’t have liked to see their faces! But Dagonet broke his word to me, and he can go to the devil where he belongs as far as I’m concerned. I just don’t want any more impertinent letters on the subject from your daughter, ma’am.” Then seeing Catherine’s expression, he had turned to her. “And what the devil do you have against my grandson, miss?”

At which point, Catherine realized quite how much the old man had been hurt by the discovery of his grandson’s betrayal, and quite how much there was that she could not fathom about Devil Dagonet. How could he be both musician and swordsman, soldier and horseman, risk his life for the sake of helpless creatures, yet carelessly destroy the hearts of women? What had really happened by Lion Court Lake? Why had he arranged to meet Millicent Trumble? He might be a ruthless rake, but to her chagrin, she was forced to admit she could not stay indifferent. Somehow she must discover the truth.

During the rest of her stay in Bath, however, her resolution was not to be tested. The marquis did not again refer to Dagonet or to the reason for his disgrace. Instead Catherine played chess or cards with the old man, entertained him at the harpsichord, and argued the issues of the day. The pale sun of October gave way to November’s gray skies. They had been in Bath almost a month when, at last, she and Lady Montagu packed up to go on to London. Lord Somerdale hobbled out with his cane to see them off.

“Good-bye, Papa,” Lady Montagu said, fussing with her gloves. “Shall we see you in London this winter?”

“Bah! I’m damned if I’d make the journey for the sake of your whey-faced offspring. Now, if Miss Hunter would promise me a game of chess, I’d come for the sake of one more checkmate.”

“You’ll not get it, my lord,” Catherine replied with a laugh. “I’m determined not to be beaten again.”

The old man’s face was suddenly wistful. “We’re a good match, young lady. It was only Dagonet who could never be bested. I’d like to see you in a match with him. But then you don’t care for him, do you?”

“I think my feelings match yours, Lord Somerdale. He can go to the devil as far as I’m concerned.”

He gave her an extremely shrewd glance. “Yes, I was afraid your feelings might match mine, my dear. He’s a damnable fellow! But if he should ever cause any hurt to you, he’ll answer to me for it.”

Catherine was furious to find that her voice was a little unsteady. “How could he possibly injure me, my lord?” she lied. “I am immune to Devil Dagonet.”

It was still early in October when Charles de Dagonet rode casually into Bentwhistle Park. All the way from Newmarket, he had not allowed himself to think once about Catherine Hunter. If he did, her fresh scent would fill his nostrils. He would be haunted by a vision of her as she had looked in the grotto and on the moor: her face, framed by a cloud of tumbled dark hair, flushed with color; her wet muslin dress clinging to the curves of her breasts and thighs. He would be pierced by the memory of the sweet taste of her mouth and the feel of her soft hip beneath his palm. He cursed softly and deliberately, though with a certain acerbic acceptance of irony.

Whatever tender feelings she might have unexpectedly aroused, he could never allow her to be part of his life. As long as the mystery about his past conduct remained, there was nothing he could in honor offer her.

He was an outcast and made his living at hazard. She was the respectable daughter of an old benefactor and the sister of his best friend’s wife. It was to be sincerely hoped that she was so disgusted by him that she had forgotten all about him.

He entered the stable yard and was accosted at once by a groom, who doffed his cap respectfully at the sight of the powerful-looking gentleman mounted on a silver-gray Thoroughbred.

“May I be of any help, sir?”

“You might provide a trough for the gray, young fellow, and walk him out a little. Here’s a guinea for your trouble. Then I should like a word with your head stableman. I’m in the mind to purchase a new mount.”

“Why, thank you, sir! Much obliged. That’d be Mr. Grimes, sir.”

“Mr. Grimes, is it? I don’t recall the name, but I’ve been away in the Peninsula. Has he been here long?”

“These five years, sir. Since I first started as a lad.”

“He must be a good man, then, for I just saw a couple of Lord Bentwhistle’s nags win up at Newmarket. Seems I remember some of the horses from the old days, too. Who was the trainer then?”

“A Mr. Catchpole, sir. But he’s gone now from Hertfordshire. There was some kind of trouble about him, had something on his mind, most like, and he took to drink. The master turned him off without a reference.”

“Did he, though? Whatever became of the chap?”

“Went to London, as I heard tell, sir. Came to a sticky end, I wouldn’t be surprised. He was a rough customer after a bout with the bottle. Though good enough with the horses, he took to beating up us lads. I had a hard knock or two from him myself. Well, the master wouldn’t stand for it, and Catchpole was turned off. None of us was sorry to see him go, and that’s a fact. Never heard of him since, and good riddance.” The groom spat into the cobbles. “Why, here’s Mr. Grimes now, sir. Good day to you.”

As the groom led the gray away to water, Dagonet turned to the newcomer and engaged him in a knowledgeable conversation about Thoroughbreds. They were occupied for over an hour, but as it turned out, there was nothing in Lord Bentwhistle’s stables that interested him, after all, and much to the regret of Mr. Grimes, Devil Dagonet rode away without making a purchase. He had what he had come for, however, and the silver Thoroughbred was turned at a spanking trot for that great city where anyone with something on his mind could disappear for five years or longer: London.

* * * *

Catherine and Lady Montagu arrived at Mrs. Clay’s Leicester Square residence quite exhausted. The journey to London from Bath had taken two long days. The weather had been terrible, so that the turnpike was mired in mud. All her life Catherine had longed to see the capital city, but as they drove in there was a solid downpour of rain, and Lady Montagu insisted on having the windows drawn tight and curtained. Thus she saw nothing of all that glory, splendor, and bustle that she had dreamed of admiring. She caught the briefest glimpse of the gracious square with its imposing modern facades as she was hurried into the house, before they were greeted by Charlotte Clay herself.

Lady Montagu was instantly whisked into the elegant parlor, which boasted a roaring fire that crackled and flamed in the most inviting way, while Catherine, in her damp coat, was directed to oversee the servants’ disposal of the luggage.

As the ladies left her in the hall, she could not help but overhear Mrs. Clay comment to her mother. “Really, Mama, why did you have to bring that impossible country companion? Dagonet saw right away what kind of woman she is. I trust you will not expect me to entertain her in my drawing room. Mr. Clay was always so particular about maintaining the highest standards of propriety amongst one’s acquaintance. But let me introduce Lady Pander, my most particular friend. Lady Pander and I always agree on every detail, especially on this.”

Catherine glanced through the open door to see a sharp-faced woman in blue silk, who simpered a little as she bobbed a curtsy to Lady Montagu. The ladies were barely seated before Lady Pander launched into a description of the society that had already arrived in London for the season.

“Lady Beauville is reliably said to have been seen traveling with the Viscount Fenchurch, quite unchaperoned! I trust it can’t be true, but I do have it on the best authority that Miss Hope was compromised by Lord Albers, and yet he won’t marry her, they say. My dears, she is quite ruined. Of course, I shall not spread the tale, but it’s on everyone’s lips.”

Good Lord! There were definitely compensations to being excluded from such vicious company. Catherine grimaced to herself and concentrated on the correct disposition of Lady Montagu’s bandboxes, while the drawing room conversation dropped to a whisper. Yet the ladies’ gossip was soon interrupted by a hammering at the front door, announcing the arrival of Sir George Montagu. The footman showed him into the drawing room, where he was greeted by an effusion of arch comments.

Catherine was quietly explaining to a maid how Lady Montagu liked her morning chocolate served, when George’s voice rose to a bellow.

“Yes, it is true! The talk of the whole damned town! Begging your pardon, Lady Pander. He’s here in London, and lording it up with a crack high-perch phaeton and pair. Been here almost six weeks. I met Lord Kendal the other day and the fellow had the nerve to tell me that Dagonet was fast becoming the favorite in the Prince’s set. He’s even been elected to White’s. He’s gambling deeper than any of them. Yet the money’s coming from horse trading. They say he’s taken up with the lowest crowd in the city: horse dealers and touts and such like!”

“La!” Lady Pander cried. “How delicious! You can’t mean it.”

“You understand, Lady Pander,” Charlotte interrupted. “We have quite overthrown any connection. Charles de Dagonet is no longer considered to be a member of our family.”

“That’s what I told Kendal, ma’am,” George continued. “I informed him that after the behavior which Dagonet displayed at Lion Court and the scandal that caused the marquis to disinherit him, we could trust he would never be accepted again by polite society. And Kendal had the effrontery to fix me with that dammed quizzing glass of his and insult me to my face.”

“What did he say?” Lady Pander asked.

“He said, ‘I wish I’d had the presence of mind to drown all my past mistresses, sir. I could have saved myself a great deal of trouble.’ Those were his very words.”

There was a shocked silence for a moment. Catherine could easily imagine Lady Pander’s smirk, as she saved up this
on-dit
to spread around town.

“Well,” Mrs. Clay commented at last. “My late husband would not have found Dagonet defensible. Mr. Clay had the highest of standards. But what can you expect from someone who is half French? Bad blood will out. That the other gentlemen tolerate him for their amusement in the gaming hells is all very well, but we can rest easy that we shall not encounter our cousin at Almack’s or in any well-bred drawing room.”

Catherine would hear no more. She had disposed of Lady Montagu’s overflowing baggage and taking up her own modest valise, asked the housekeeper for directions to her room. She was not in the least surprised to find herself placed in the attics.

* * * *

The next morning, she rose early and ruefully looked out of the window at endless rooftops of other houses. The faint noise of the city drifted up to her: horses and carriages, the cries of street vendors, the flutter of pigeons. The servants had been long awake, of course. The housemaids started at five with the fireplaces and the rugs, before beginning on the silver and boots. It would be another hour before they began to bring hot water and chocolate to the ladies.

How on earth was she supposed to fit in with this household? And how could she possibly pursue her determination to find out the truth about Devil Dagonet? Everything she knew of him was damning, except that he was kind to animals and good with children. Little Annabella had been entranced by him. Yet he was still an unmitigated rogue.

Catherine gazed steadily at the forest of chimneys and forced herself to be honest. Just because he had kissed her so expertly and dallied with her with such unaccustomed gallantry, she had been about to lose her heart to him. No doubt he was an accomplished seducer, a man without scruple. He had only tried to win her affection in order to use her to aid him in his scheme to influence Mary.

How easy she had been for him! The thought made her wince. A green girl straight from the vicarage, she had been no match for his practiced wiles. And yet, there was something else about him, as if he himself were keeping some great secret. She remembered that cold little room over the entry at Lion Court, with its books and music; the gallant courage it must have taken to stand up to his uncle with such defiance over George’s rabbit traps. How could such a boy have so easily become a rake and now be living by his wits as a gambler?

She shook her head and turned back toward her small room. She must know more about this enigmatic man. What had really happened at Lion Court Lake? Why had Dagonet been found there, sodden with drink? Why had the mention of Milly’s note made him blanch in Captain Morris’s garden? There was only one clue, the name of the man who had discovered him at the lake: that of a certain John Catchpole.

Her thoughts were interrupted by one of the maids. “Miss Hunter? There’s a lady to see you downstairs, ma’am, a Lady Brooke.”

She knew absolutely no one of that name, and it was far too early for a polite morning visit. Puzzled, Catherine followed the girl down to the drawing room. A very pretty young lady was sitting by the fire. She was dressed in extremely fashionable ebony silk, with a black hat and veil perched on her golden curls. As the door opened, she leapt from the chair with a delighted squeal and flung herself into Catherine’s arms. It was Amelia.

“Amy! What on earth? What has happened?”

“Oh, Cathy, it’s so good to see you! I knew you would be up. David couldn’t come, but he sends his best.” She quickly indicated her black dress. “Don’t mind the mourning; it’s not for anyone you know. Everyone is as well as could be.”

Catherine warmly returned her sister’s embrace. “Then I’m very relieved. But where is this Lady Brooke I’m supposed to meet?”

“Right here!” With a merry grin, Amy indicated herself. “Come and sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

The two girls sat by the fire, and Amelia, her blue eyes shining, began her tale.