The Husband Hunt (5 page)

"You are mistaken, Mr. Aubrey," she said with an air of authority; an indisputable mystical awareness ran in her Welsh veins. Much to the chagrin of her staff, the woman was rarely wrong in such matters. All voices stilled in deference to her opinion.

"What it means," she continued in a deep, lilting whisper that conjured the land of daffodils and dragons, "is that a certain female in this house is going to surrender her chastity."

"Well, don't look at me," the young laundress said into the electrified silence that met this prediction.

The coachman grinned at her across the table. "No good in cryin' over milk wot's been spilt, eh?"

"But there were two owls hooting," Howard said. "You can't lose your innocence twice, can you?"

The butler allowed himself the smallest smile. "As my dear mother always said, you are only a virgin once. Unless, of course, you happen to work in certain London brothels, where I understand there are means of extending the number of times—"

"Mr. Aubrey!" the housekeeper said in horror.

"As if an owl can foretell a seduction," Dorcas said, snorting at the idea. "You made that up, Mrs. Evans."

The older woman frowned at her. "I most certainly did not. In my little Welsh village, people still lament the loss of innocence whenever an owl is heard to hoot outside the house."

"I wonder what it means if it's heard hooting inside," Howard said to himself.

"It means that I shall be watching each of you very carefully," Mrs. Evans said in a humorless voice. "No one under my employ is going to surrender her virtue if I can help it. This will be a moral household."

"Why? " Howard asked. "It never was before."

Knight found Olivia and the mysterious relation standing together at the window of the green drawing room the next morning. Their breakfast plates sat virtually untouched at the table. For several moments, he remained in the doorway, enjoying his unguarded scrutiny of the young Scotswoman who was speaking in an animated voice to his sister. An unexpected warmth flushed through his veins as his gaze traveled slowly up and down Catriona's figure.

"And that's a painted lady butterfly," she was explaining, her heavy hair caught back in a ribbon.

"Really?" Olivia sounded as interested as if she were being shown the Crown Jewels. "Is that what it's called? I never even knew it had a name. I just thought it was a pretty garden butterfly."

Catriona looked wistful. "My mother knew the names of every bug and beast within a hundred miles of our home."

"An amateur botanist, was she?" Knight said as he entered the room, ending his lustful examination of his houseguest. He would at least try to be civil in front of his sister.

Catriona pivoted slowly. "I suppose you could call her that."

They studied each other in silence. He had to admit she looked more worthy of her claims to the family clad as she was in one of Olivia's older gowns. It was a morning dress that his sister had not worn since Lionel died. The high-waisted lines of the lemon-yellow silk drew attention to Catriona's slender grace and the well-proportioned curves of her figure. He could see now what Wendell had perceived the night before and felt his male senses stirring in response. In fact, she was quite a lovely young woman, he thought in surprise.

"Oh, look," she said, breaking the strained atmosphere, "that's a grayling, Olivia. They're attracted to the clover."

"Is there any breakfast left?" Knight asked as the two women hurried back to their butterfly watch. Receiving no answer, he turned to the table and frowned at the untouched plate of eggs in front of his sister's chair.

"You eat like a bird, Olivia."

She turned, a smile lighting her face. "Speaking of birds, did you hear those owls last night?"

He glanced up meaningfully at Catriona, feeling that sting of arousal again. Hell, what was the matter with him? "Everyone from here to Dartmoor heard those blessed owls."

Catriona pursed her lips. The brief look he'd given her when he entered the room, meditative and brimming with male sensuality, had made her skin prickle with a rather wicked sensation. "They really were not my birds, you know."

"Of course I know that," he said with a touch of amusement. "No one really has that sort of power over wildlife."

Olivia, intrigued, sat down at the table opposite her brother. "What are we talking about? Have I missed out on a previous conversation?"

"His lordship believed that I summoned those owls to the park: to bedevil him," Catriona said, her face remarkably innocent.

He glanced up, his lips tightening. It sounded so absurd, put like that, and yet last night, in the mist, he could have sworn there was a connection. He could have sworn that she had cast a spell over the house. "That isn't exactly what I meant."

Olivia's eyes darkened in distress. There was nothing she hated more than hurting someone's feelings. "Knight, really. Tell me you did not go to our cousin's bedchamber after I gave orders she was not to be disturbed for the night."

"I most certainly did not go to her room."

"He didn't come to my room at all," Catriona said quietly. "He told me off from his window."

Olivia sighed in dismay. "You just could not help yourself, Knight, could you? Not even for one hour."

He grinned. "I simply made a casual remark that the owls might have come from Scotland."

"Because they had no sense of propriety," Catriona murmured. "Just like me."

"Oh, Knight," Olivia said in chagrin, clearly horrified by his behavior. "Must you be so high-handed?"

"Was I being high-handed?" he asked Catriona.

She hesitated. "Well—"

"As if Catriona could possibly attract birds to the house," Olivia said incredulously.

Knight arched his brow. "Is there any toast?" he inquired.

Olivia sighed. "On the sideboard, Knight. Would you like to walk with us in the woods this morning?"

"No," he said. "I would not." He deliberately did not mention Thomas's disappearance. Olivia had been up since dawn, making lists of everything she needed to do to ensure her alleged cousin's social success. It was the first time since losing Lionel that his sister had shown any purpose at all. He put two slices of buttered toast on his plate. "Tell us a little more about your background, Catriona. What did your uncle do for a living?"

He noticed the faint lines of tension around her soft red mouth. "He dealt in cattle," she said vaguely, returning her gaze to the window.

"Cattle," Knight said. "A farmer, was he?"

"Sometimes. Oh, my heavens," she exclaimed in genuine excitement. "Are those black swans swimming on the lake?"

He noticed that a red-gold curl had escaped her ribbon to curve around the contour of her breast. The rogue in him fought an impulse to touch that wayward strand of hair. "Yes."

"They're lovely."

It was unnerving, she thought, the way he stared at her, the type of questions he asked. Why had she hoped she could ever hide everything from him? Her heart began to pound every time she looked into those stormy eyes, and a weakness spread through her, drawing the strength from her bones. In the daylight, he seemed even more dominant than he had in the garden. More intensely male, and mesmerizing. She had the feeling that if she made the slightest move to escape, he would be on his feet to stop her in an instant. The odd thing was that she felt drawn to these dangerous aspects of his personality and yet threatened by them at the same time.

Knight studied the graceful arch of her back as she leaned closer to the window. Exactly what was it he sensed that lay beneath her charming appearance? What problems could a young woman of her background be hoping to escape? Could she be in trouble? He glanced down at her slender waist, frowning in displeasure at the possibility. Despite himself, he felt a rush of anger that someone might have used her for sexual pleasure and discarded her in such a way. Yet these things happened every day. It was not difficult to imagine a man desiring her. He could not deny her appeal.

"Catriona?"

She hesitated before turning to look at him. Was she frightened—frightened of him or of what he would discover?

"What about your brother?" he asked.

"What about him, my lord?"

"Doesn't he mind that you have come here?"

She paused, her thoughts going back to her last night in the castle, her brother's voice a roar of rage as she confronted him.

"Don't tell me who you will or will not marry after everything I've done for you! You'd be living in a hut if not for me."

She had faced James in front of his retainers, her voice ringing in the silence of the banqueting hall. "I am grateful that you have given me a home, James, but I will not marry a man who is old enough to be my grandfather, and I will not watch you destroy yourself, either."

She'd flinched when he slapped her, the blow knocking her backward into a chair. "Get out of my sight. Go to your room."

"I love you, James."

"Go, damn you. Don't speak to me of love when all I ask is your obedience, a simple favor of respect."

She released her breath, her thoughts slowly returning to the present and all its complications. "No," she said quietly. "I do not think my brother minds that I am here."

Knight glanced shortly at his sister, wondering if she understood what in his questioning had caused Catriona to flinch. Obviously, he was on the right track in pursuing the subject of her past, and if she had something to hide, well, he might even try to help her, though heaven knew why.

He pushed aside his plate, determined to pursue the subject of her guardian's past. He did not acknowledge Olivia's warning looks, but unfortunately even he could not ignore the persistent knocking that sounded at the door.

It was the young footman Howard, who carried himself into the room with the swagger of a London buck. "There is a man asking to see you, madam."

"A man?" Olivia said, glancing up in surprise. "For me?"

Knight looked around slowly, not at his cheeky footman but at the young woman still standing by the window. She had not turned around at the interruption, although her shoulders had stiffened, almost in a self-defensive stance, and he sensed she was straining to listen without trying to show it.

"Who is this man?" he asked, watching her from the edge of his eye.

Howard blinked, caught in the act of admiring himself in the mirror above the mantel. "What?"

"I asked you who this man was."

"Some silly old coot who went on about being lost, and Sir Lionel and a lady—"

"Lionel?" Olivia came slowly to her feet.

Knight attempted to read the expression on Catriona's face as she glanced back once over her shoulder. He had engaged in only one waterfront spying mission in France several years ago, but he had never forgotten how he'd feared every waking moment that his true identity would be discovered.

He half rose, motioning Howard to the door. "Bring our visitor in here."

Catriona turned back to the window. Knight noticed the quick breath she took, her fingers curling into her palms. He had to admire the way she tried to cover her anxiety.

"In here?" Howard said, smoothing down his sideburns. "A servant, my lord?"

"You didn't mention he was a servant," Olivia said with a frown. "Honestly, Howard."

"Didn't I?"

"Bring the poor man in," Olivia said, "although I daresay if he is seeking employment, he ought to go around to see Mr. Aubrey."

Catriona turned to the door. "I'll leave you alone to—"

"Stay." Knight's voice was so forceful that Howard took a step back.

She crossed her arms over her chest, silent and self-protective as Howard hastened to obey.

Several moments later, a befuddled-looking older man in rumpled livery appeared in the doorway. "Oh, Ames," Olivia said, bursting into a gust of giggles. "You dear old thing."

"Am I in the right house, then?" the gray-haired man asked in confusion, staring around the room.

Knight stole another glance at Catriona. She had lowered her arms to her sides and was so visibly relieved that he felt ashamed of himself for hoping to trap her. "Who the hell is Ames?" he asked without thinking.

Olivia giggled again, pulling a straight face as she recovered. "Aunt Marigold's butler."

Knight looked blank. "Aunt Marigold?"

"Lionel's great-aunt from East Briarcombe," Olivia said, shaking her head. "The sweet old lady with all those wigs. Don't you remember?"

He sighed. "Ah, yes. I'm afraid I do. She was here last Christmas."

"Have you heard of her, Catriona?" Olivia asked as if making an effort to include her in the conversation.

"No, but if you don't mind, I shall take a walk outside while you have your reunion."

Knight settled back in his chair, wondering now if he would be vindicated. "Perhaps great Aunt Marigold was acquainted with your father, Catriona. Perhaps she will know of you."

"Perhaps she will." Her cool gaze met his, accepting the challenge he had thrown down.

He watched her as she walked toward the door, her slim figure in the gossamer dress as enticing as one of the butterflies she had been admiring earlier. "Call me back in if the lady would like to meet me," she said without looking around.

He got up from the table, feeling Olivia stare at him in chagrin as he turned toward her chair. "What is it you are trying to prove by interrogating her?" she whispered in bewilderment. "You chased her away with your mistrust."

"And I would not be wholly surprised if she did not return," he said without apology. "If my guess is correct, Catriona Grant is about to be unmasked as a fraud."

A n hour later, Marigold, Lady Ellis,
was comfortably ensconced in the green drawing room, a tray of sherry and biscuits set before her. Silver-haired and scatter-brained, she had to be reminded twice that Lionel had died, and once the fact registered, she began to weep softly into her handkerchief. Olivia and Knight sat awkwardly on either side of her, patting her shoulder until her sobs subsided.

Knight had been hoping for a lull in the conversation to question her, and at last it came. "Do you remember Lionel's Scottish uncle, ma'am? The Earl of Roxshire?"

Olivia frowned as if to warn him against spoiling a poignant moment with his suspicions, but he refused to be deterred. It was a stroke of luck that had brought Lady Ellis to them today. Simmons could take weeks to unearth any useful information about Catriona's background, and in the meantime, well, at least let them know what they were dealing with. Perhaps he was wrong. He would at least be fair.

"The Earl of Roxshire?" The old woman frowned in effort. "I do not—oh, yes, of course. The Border earl. A bit of a scoundrel in his day, like you, Knight, as I recall."

"Do you remember anything about his children, Aunt Marigold?" Olivia asked, leaning forward. "He had—"

Knight cut her off in mid-sentence, determined to get to the truth. "Let her finish. No prompting, please."

"She can hardly be expected to recall the name of every distant cousin in the family," Olivia said crisply.

"I do remember, actually," Marigold said, fingering the pearls at her throat. "The earl had two sons, Rogan, the heir, and James, the young soldier. Rogan died in a riding accident, and James inherited the castle while he was away at war. There were troubles the last I heard. The sweetheart died. I don't know why. I lost contact with the family after Rogan's death."

Knight exhaled slowly, unaware he had even been holding his breath. As he looked up, he caught sight of Catriona outside. She was standing by the garden pond with a cluster of servants gathering around her. He did not know what to feel now that he had been proven right. Hurting his own sister seemed a hollow victory, and there was the unpleasant task now of deciding what must be done.

"Olivia—" he said, searching her lace.

She refused to look at him, but her voice sounded a little unsteady as she continued. "Thai is all, Auntie Marigold? There were no more children? Not a girl—"

"Olivia,"
Knight said.

"A girl?" Lady Ellis's wrinkled face brightened. "Gracious, I forgot all about the young girl. Born on the wrong side of the bed, as they say. Her mother was some sort of soothsayer, and as the story goes, she had come to the earl's aid when he was lost on the moor one night. I reckon they both got more than they bargained for when a baby arrived nine months later."

"She's illegitimate," Knight said in an expressionless voice. "She did lie to us."

Olivia's voice trembled with emotion. "She said she was the earl's daughter. That is not exactly a lie."

"A bastard," he said, shaking his head. "A by-blow." But even then, he wondered how much it really mattered. Wendell's own father had left a few illegitimate offspring behind, all of whom were doing quite well in London.

Lady Ellis sat forward. "May I ask what this intriguing little
tête-à-tête
is all about?"

"You may not," Knight said, his own voice low.

Olivia leaned around Marigold to look at him. "Don't you dare talk to my aunt like that, you narrow-minded man."

"What did become of the girl, anyway?" Lady Ellis asked, her pleasant face concerned. "I thought her uncle had taken her in, but he must be ancient by now."

"He's dead, and she's staying with us," Olivia said firmly.

"Though not for long," Knight added.

Olivia's eyes glittered with purpose. "Just until we find her a decent husband."

"What?" Knight said in disbelief. Where had this diabolical idea come from?
"What?"

"I planned it last night after I went to bed," she said, staring back at him in undeterred defiancé. "I couldn't sleep because of the owls, and I kept thinking of her, and how much I wanted to help her, and what would Lionel do in my place."

"A matchmaking scheme," Lady Ellis said, her ringlets bobbing as she gave a full-bodied chuckle. "How positively delightful."

Knight shook his head, utterly stunned by this. "I am not playing Hunt the Husband for a—a—"

"Her mother was what the Scots called a green-woman, somewhat of a healer," Olivia explained, completely overriding Knight's sputters of objection. "You did remember well, Auntie Marigold."

"I wonder if she could cure my corns," Lady Ellis said, bending over to examine her feet. "They're killing me."

"Oh, my God." Knight stared at the pair of them in amazement, two spiders spinning an awful web around them in which he was in serious danger of becoming ensnared like a hapless fly.

"I think she has other gifts, too," Olivia whispered. "You know, she predicted I would have a fall down the stairs, and sure enough, a few minutes later, I did."

"You didn't?" Lady Ellis whispered back. "Do you think she could give me a few tips for the next Derby?"

"I had hoped to spend the next months getting her ready for her debut." Olivia gave a long, rueful sigh, and her voice returned to its normal tone. "But now, well, now we shall have to lower our sights and simply do what we can. Not that the details of her birth will destroy her chances for acceptance. But without wealth, hmm, it is going to present a challenge."

Lady Ellis clasped her hands to her ample chest. "I should love to offer my services, as a tribute to Lionel."

Knight stood up, his gaze returning to the window. Nearly every servant in the house was clustered around Catriona now, listening raptly to whatever twaddle she was telling them. And what in God's name were they doing with that bucket?

"She's got Howard draining the pond," he said in a startled voice. "Did you hear me, Olivia?"

"It probably needed draining," she said, not about to be distracted from her discussion of the latest style in female attire and what a stylish debutante would wear that summer.

"She's dropping stones in the water now," he said. "Those weird stones of hers."

Lady Ellis looked up at him in alarm. "I think you ought to go back to London, Knight. The country doesn't seem to agree with you at all."

"Do you know what she's doing?" He gave an incredulous laugh. "She's casting a spell in my very own garden. The little pagan you two silly things plan to launch into society is brewing magic in a bucket."

The two women never even noticed him leave the room. They were too busy discussing the whos and hows of hiring dancing masters and dressmakers to make their Celtic Hecate presentable to the
ton,
lamenting that they could not aspire as far as getting her vouchers for Almack's. They had
purpose,
and heaven help anyone who stood in their way. He strode across the lawn, ignoring Wendell's call from the study window to stop. In less than twenty-four hours, Lionel's cousin had turned the house upside-down. Yes, Olivia needed a distraction, but preferably one in a tamer form who wouldn't transform an ordinary garden tool into a cauldron or bring birds of prey flocking to the house. And call him low-minded, but he still maintained there was more to her than met the eye. If she had not lied, she had not been forthcoming about the nature of her life, either.

Yet was it such a sin, or even her fault, to have been born illegitimate? Even the highest-born families made mistakes, and she was an interesting young lady.

He stood at the outer perimeters of her magic circle, ignored for the second time that day, when he was used to commanding an audience with his mere appearance alone. But Catriona Grant possessed something that he did not. The common folk did not use the word
charmer
for nothing. And so for a few minutes, he allowed himself to be enchanted by her, to see her not with his usual cynicism but with a simple curiosity he rarely indulged.

At first, Catriona feared she was about to have another confrontation, this time with the servants of the house. She had experienced so many throughout her life that she ought to know how to avoid them— whenever one of her mother's love spells failed, and sometimes when they worked all too successfully, or the rare times a patient's condition had worsened after taking one of Mary Grant's herbal potions. She and her mother had fled to the seaside then, though never for more than a few months until the hostility against them died down and Mary could resume her practice in relative safety.

They had always returned to their small house of unmortared stones on the moor so that the earl would be able to find them, to sweep Mary off her feet and declare his undying love for her. Which he never had because—and it took Catriona years to realize this—he did not want to. All the days of waiting for him to appear, all the nights her mother had watched from the window, for nothing.

But as it turned out, this was not to be another mortifying experience. Catriona had been admiring the water lilies on the pond when the footman Howard hurried by on an errand. Being a sapskull village lad who did not understand his position on the ladder of life, he had spotted Catriona alone and looking vulnerable and had gallantly offered his assistance, asking if she were lost.

Mrs. Evans, peering from behind the curtains of her parlor window, had immediately come outside to make sure Howard did not make a nuisance of himself. The kitchen maids, on a pretense of snipping herbs, had followed. Small dramas such as this enlivened their dreary days.

And so Catriona had been cornered, bravely facing a den of lesser lions, unsure herself what her place was to be in this house.

Mrs. Evans had practically flown across the lawn to interrupt the improper conversation. "Howard! I thought I sent you to the pantry for tea."

He jumped, moving away from Catriona. "And I was on my way, Mrs. Evans, when I noticed Lady Deering's cousin here looking lost.”

"And how can she be lost, Howard, when the house is right before her in plain view?"

"I don't know, Mrs. Evans," he said. "But she looked lost to me."

Mrs. Evans cast a curious glance at the young woman and had to admit there was a lost quality about her. Who exactly was she, anyway? Word had already reached the lower echelons that the new arrival might not be all that she claimed. For example, no one had explained whether she was to be addressed as Lady Catriona, as befitting an earl's daughter, or simply as Miss Grant. No one had explained, either, where that old Scotsman had gone with that dog. And what, Mrs. Evans wondered, about those owls last night?

She curtsied, preferring to err on the side of correctness, covertly giving Howard a thump in the ribs. "Forgive him, I beg you. None of us have our wits about us this morning with those owls hooting half the night."

Catriona smiled back at her, apparently unaware that a proper lady would end this conversation on the spot. "Are you Welsh?"

The warmth of that smile might have won Mrs. Evans over for life, but her loyalty lay with the master, and she wasn't about to hand her allegiance to a hanger-on who might be gone in a month. "I am indeed. Hazel Evans is my name."

"Hazel is one of the most sacred trees in Celtic lore," Catriona said. "If one believed in such things, one might assume you had been born with certain supernatural gifts."

Mrs. Evans pressed her work-worn hand against her heart, momentarily at a loss for words. When she spoke, her voice was low with emotion. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to one who sees beyond the obvious."

The woman stared at her in understanding. "Then you are also—oh, my. Oh,
my."

"Do you have a pain in the chest, Mrs. Evans?"

"Nothing that you should worry about. It comes and goes."

Howard made a face. "All over the place. One day it's in her stomach, the next her heart."

"Shall we find out exactly where the trouble is?" Catriona asked.

"Can you do that?" Mrs. Evans said, lowering her hand.

"The stones can," Catriona said confidently. "They are centuries old and very powerful. I shall need a bucket, though."

A bucket was found as Catriona dug through her collection of pebbles at the bottom of her bag. Several more servants had emerged from the house, and Mrs. Evans, kneeling beside Catriona, was too intrigued by the proceedings to pay much attention to the tall man who hid behind the others in the shadows of a leafy tree.

Silence fell as Catriona filled the bucket with pond water and dropped the pebbles one by one to the bottom. She suspected that the viscount wouldn't approve of what she was doing, but she couldn't stop herself. How could she refuse to help someone? She would just have to follow her instincts and face the consequences later, even if those consequences came with steely-gray eyes and a broad-shouldered body that gave her the most delicious goose bumps.

"Well," she said after a moment, "it
isn't
your heart, or your lungs or liver. The problem appears to lie in your stomach."

"My stomach," Mrs. Evans exclaimed. "Why, I haven't eaten a thing all day."

"Except for half a pork pie," Howard said.

"And a few nips of brandy," one of the kitchen maids muttered.

"I believe you might be right," the housekeeper said thoughtfully. "The pain does seem to come after I eat certain foods."

"I shall brew you a tea to help."

"Tell her that the owls last night don't mean we all ought to be wearing chastity belts," Howard blurted out impetuously.

Mrs. Evans shot to her feet and cuffed his ear. "Don't you dare use such filthy talk to a lady, who, if I may hazard a guess, would appreciate the validity of genuine Welsh superstition. Mark my words: when an owl hoots, innocence is lost."

Catriona rose from the ground, the hem of her borrowed gown sopping wet. "That belief is a shade better than what the Romans claimed. In ancient days, it was thought an owl hooting meant someone would die."

"Better death than disgrace," Mrs. Evans said stoutly.