Catherine stared. This hardly seemed possible. A male heir? A St Clair earl?
She suddenly understood. This was why her father was so deeply angry. This was why he wanted her hidden away in Bath. Because, were she to one day bear a son, the St Clair dynasty would live to see another century but the Clavertons would be gone.
“Why did my father not become involved? I was a mere child when my mother died; ten years old. Did he not want more control over the disposition of her estate? He could perhaps have taken my mother’s wealth into his own hands. Did he not see fit to somehow derail my mother’s wishes?” Catherine tried to calm her racing heart. She brought up the image of her father, lying unconscious in his bed. He had been a powerful man once, even if he was now a broken shell of a human being. Why hadn’t he tried harder to steal her mother’s legacy?
“He told me that I was to keep aside anything that was to go directly to you. He wished to avoid touching anything that she had owned. So it is intact, every last guinea. And it will all come to you.” Beaseley gave a great sigh, as if with those words he had finally discharged the last bit of tension from his body. “He can be a difficult man. But he is not dishonest. The properties and assets that you will receive from him are also considerable. He has made no effort to deprive you of the Claverton inheritance either.” He watched Catherine anxiously.
“I am not interested in Papa’s affairs,” Catherine said coldly. “I suppose I ought to feel some attachment to Albrook, to the beautiful things that my family has owned for three hundred years and more. But I do not.”
“I am very sorry, my lady.” Beaseley shook his head. “I have always tried my best to do my duty to your father. But it was very hard when the countess died. Very hard. To see you sent away—”
“Thank you,” Catherine said, cutting him off. “I don’t know how I would have gone on without your assistance. I know that you were the one who made it possible for me to live so well at Wansdyke. I can only assume my father intended me to remain in seclusion. He would be sadly disappointed were he to learn the truth. Had he ever done so, I have no doubt that you would have somehow rescued me from his displeasure.”
“You are very good, my lady.”
Catherine rose slowly from her chair, placing her weight on the writing table next to her. Carefully, she limped over to the windows, leaning against the heavy dark furniture in her path. Beaseley watched her, his brow creased with concern.
“Mr Beaseley. You broke your word to my mother in order to tell me that I am, and have been all along, the Countess St Clair.” Catherine paused to catch her breath. The words seemed strange on her lips, but she savoured the sound of them. She raised her eyes to his and put one hand gently on his arm. “I know how difficult this decision was for you. And I thank you.” She looked out of the window. The bay mare was gone, but the ubiquitous sheep were still there, waddling about stupidly in the grass. She lifted her chin.
She was a Claverton of Albrook, it was true. But she now had an opportunity to do the one thing that her father had never wanted her to do. Should she?
“If you please, Mr Beaseley, I would like to hear more about my mother.”
Chapter 6
“Cursed insipid entertainments,” muttered Forster. He cast a despairing look about the room.
“Think of your sister,” Jocelyn said reassuringly. “She could not be here if you were not.”
“I sometimes think that she would be better off at home, reading her silly novels, than giggling at these worthless entertainments.” Forster looked grim. “How shall I stand it, Avebury? Another two weeks.”
Jocelyn maintained a sympathetic silence. The past week had indeed been filled with boring outings like this one, a dress ball at the home of an important personage. Every doting mama seemed to bear down on a man in uniform the minute he appeared. Forster had counted on at least a pleasant flirtation or two while in Bath, but so far he had not had much luck or attention beyond that of the occasional polite matron. He was rapidly lapsing into disgruntled whining and becoming rather a bore.
“Got to try to get the new list,” he was saying to Jocelyn. “I will make it this time, surely. I’ve heard there are newly repaired ships out there, ships captured from under Bonaparte’s nose…”
Jocelyn stopped listening. Forster’s obsession with his first command was also beginning to annoy him. He preferred not to think about the navy at all at this juncture. Sooner or later, they would come to find him. He did not plan to spoil what little time he had by anticipating their moves.
He moved his gaze restlessly around the room. The giggly Miss Forster was happily tripping away through a country dance. Several of the matrons who routinely snubbed him were present, as well as the pinch-faced Miss Lovell, thirty years old and still hopeful. Weary, he considered an early departure, but was reluctant to leave Forster to deal with his flibbertigibbet of a sister and her friend alone.
Then he saw her. Tucked away on an elegant gold chaise longue next to the doors that led to the garden. Her fine blonde hair was swept up in a simple knot adorned with a single pink rose. She wore white – something shimmery and iridescent that settled lightly around her like cream – and her slender shoulders peeked temptingly from the airy confection. She was smiling, clapping her hands in time with the music.
“Pardon me,” he said to Forster, who was still speculating about ships, and moved away through the crowd. He kept his eye on her, as if she would fade away in a puff of smoke if he blinked. Spying, she had called it. She was doing it again, he knew: from her vantage point in the corner of the room she taking careful note of everyone’s shoes.
He had no idea why he felt so compelled to approach her, except for some vague notion that she had seen something in his boots. She therefore knew him better than anyone else did.
“Good evening, Lady Catherine.” She turned slightly. He saw the brief moment of surprise. Then an expression of pure pleasure crossed her fine features. It was a strange sensation, feeling his mere existence pleased someone so.
“I have been found out!” she exclaimed. Her voice was one of chagrin, but her eyes sparkled. She held out her hand. “Please know that I meant to find you and to apologise sooner. I have had some family business to attend to, and was obliged to leave Bath for a while. But I knew we would meet again.”
“Apologise?” He went around to the other side of her chair and stood beside the doors, where he could hear her better over the happy rhythms of the country dance.
“Yes, apologise,” she said sincerely. Her smile softened, became grave. “I did not mean to disguise my identity. But it looks as if I have been found out in any case.”
“There aren’t many Catherine Clavertons in Bath,” he said, smiling.
She laughed. “I expect not! And how long do you plan to be in Bath, Captain Avebury?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied. “Several weeks, at least.”
“Well, good. I will make it up to you.” The country dance was ending. He saw Miss Forster searching the room for him.
Something made him turn and say to Catherine, “May I have the honour?” For a fleeting second, he imagined himself whirling her pale, sparkling beauty about the room, melting her coolness with his heat. But the silence that followed told him it was ridiculous. He never danced, anyway.
He felt his face flush. Then he saw her expression. Her lip was trembling, and she appeared to be controlling herself only with considerable effort. Her face had gone white.
“Good God. Have I said – or done – aught wrong, Lady Catherine? Are you all right?” He looked around desperately, seeking help. Surely she was not attending the ball alone?
“No,” she whispered. She reached out and grasped his hand tightly. “No, please do not call anyone. I just … I only …” In quick confusion, she ducked her head. When she raised her face, however, her eyes were shining. She seemed … happy! But why?
“I beg your pardon, Captain Avebury.” The music started up again, and i
n spite of himself, he moved closer to her so that he could hear her speak. Her grip on his hand tightened.
“I beg your pardon,” she said again. “But I do not dance.”
“But-but I have upset you.”
“No, no. Not at all. My mind was … elsewhere. Please do forgive me. As I said earlier, I was away from Bath because of family – my father. He is quite ill and not expected to live.”
Jocelyn remembered the overheard conversation. “I am so sorry. How foolish of me.” He felt like an idiot. Being at sea had eroded his sensibilities and his knowledge of social graces. Of course she would not dance at such a sad time. But then, why was she there at all? At a ball where she could not dance? Confusion threatened again and he felt his head swim. She still had his hand in her firm grasp, the glorious light was still in her eyes. She did not look like a woman anticipating a sad event.
“I thought, Captain Avebury, that you did not dance?” She tilted her head to see him, a mischievous smile teasing her lips.
“I-I … I do not dance, usually. But—”
Lady Catherine threw her head back and laughed. He could see the rows of her teeth, as white as the double strand of pearls wound about her long throat. Everything about her was white, white, white, like the brightest light. Her laugh was musical and sweet. “I will stop teasing you, Captain Avebury. Are you here with your friends?”
Jocelyn glanced uneasily about the room in spite of himself. She answered the question for him. “You must be. You would not be here alone. Do you ride?”
He looked back at her. He suddenly realised that, for once, he liked not hiding.
“Not very well,” he said.
“Really? Because you’ve been at sea for so long?”
“Yes.” They looked at each other silently. The hint of a teasing smile ebbed slowly away from her lips, leaving something sober, something soft, in her look. He looked down at her hand, still warm and firm on his. He could feel a pulse. Whose it was, he couldn’t be sure. Had they perhaps exchanged pulses?
“Might I persuade you to call on me here in Bath? Or is that dreadfully forward of me? I’m at Mansion Place. It’s very close. Are you at the White Hart?”
Slowly, he shook his head. The White Hart – no, he avoided fashionable inns like the plague. He thought that he ought to pull his hand away. It would not do for all the matrons who disapproved of him so to begin to talk. It would not do for Lady Catherine at all.
Lady Catherine was leaning forward. Automatically, he bent to hear her. “Please come,” she whispered. “We’ll ride out to Wansdyke.”
Wansdyke? He had no idea what she was talking about. But he found himself nodding. As if in relief, she suddenly released his hand. She smiled.
“Good, then. I will expect you.” It was a dismissal. He stepped back, a little perturbed. Then he saw her companion, a pretty young woman, dark-haired and dark-eyed, returning from the dance floor. A besotted-looking gentleman was at her side.
“Melinda, meet my friend, Captain Avebury. He has just returned from the glorious sea, have you not, Captain Avebury? This is Miss Melinda Carlyle.” Melinda blushed and curtsied. Her escort, Mr Kingsley, begged the honour of escorting the ladies to supper, but Lady Catherine shook her head.
“We are to leave early this evening, Mr Kingsley. We are very sorry.” Melinda looked disappointed, but she obligingly made her own apologies to Mr Kingsley, who drifted away into the crowd.
Jocelyn stood, unsure as to whether he should stay or leave.
“Captain Avebury.”
He turned back to Lady Catherine. There was something determined, yet hopeful, in the set of her jaw. He stared at her mouth. Her lower lip was full and as pink as the rose she wore in her hair, her upper lip perfectly chiselled, the little indentation firm and delicious-looking. Alarmed at the involuntary workings of his mind, he coughed and nearly choked.
“Yes, my lady?”
“Would you mind seeing to our carriage for us? We travel alone tonight, and so—” He knew he did not mistake Melinda’s quick gasp of alarm and Lady Catherine’s swift pressure on her friend’s arm. He bowed.
“Certainly,” he said in a frosty tone. As he walked toward the door, he heard Melinda’s agitated whisper, “But we hardly know him!”
He kept his spine rigid. Lady Catherine was mocking him. That was it. He did not know what kind of game she was playing, but she was no innocent girl. The more he considered it, the angrier he got. With a few curt words, he ordered their carriage. He contemplated leaving. It was all so ridiculous. For a few minutes, he had imagined that Lady Catherine Claverton wanted to know him. That she somehow already did know him. But, of course, she was just flirting. A beautiful woman like Lady Catherine, with title and fortune …
Jocelyn frowned. He could hear the sounds of the carriage as the driver brought it around to the front entrance. No one else was leaving so early, before supper, so the entrance was relatively deserted.
Something was odd, not quite right. She was a young woman, in Bath society, with face and fortune to recommend her as well as a noble name. And yet he had not seen anyone soliciting her hand for a dance or even striking up a conversation with her.
As he began to chew on this new and strange realisation, he heard a muffled thud and scrape. He turned quickly. Lady Catherine was approaching, leaning heavily on Melinda’s arm. Jocelyn stood blinking, confused for a moment. And then he understood.
Lady Catherine walked with a limp. It was not a bad limp – or perhaps it was. It was hard to tell because of the skirts, and because Melinda bore her weight. He watched as they made their way through the double doors, the attendant footmen preserving their blithe and impassive expressions. On closer inspection, the limp appeared to be slight, but he knew with the instinct of a soldier that it would be much more painful, much uglier than it appeared. Lady Catherine had learnt to disguise it, and Melinda was accustomed to the lurching predictability of it. Between them, they created a smooth shuffle-scrape-step that made it look like no more than a slightly twisted ankle.
He tore his fascinated gaze away. His eyes met hers. He knew with unerring instinct that if he offered any assistance, she would never speak to him again.
She looked away, but her cheeks were pale. What are you trying to tell me, Lady Catherine? he wondered.
The carriage was waiting. Jocelyn bowed politely as the two women crossed his path. Catherine stepped up into the carriage first, leaning heavily on Melinda’s arm. She pulled herself up neatly and settled herself in. She was plainly very accustomed to doing so. She kept one hand on the door, and looked over at Jocelyn.
“Good night,” she said softly. “I shall count on seeing you. Mansion Place. Do not forget.”
“Good night, my lady,” Jocelyn replied. He watched as the carriage rolled down the drive.
Chapter 7
So Lady Catherine was a cripple. He considered the notion dispassionately. On the one hand, it was a terrible shame. She was a beautiful young woman, certainly the most stunning woman at the ball. But now it was no wonder that she was not surrounded by a coterie of male admirers. She was rich and beautiful – but not quite marriage material.
On the other hand, it was ridiculous. What exactly did those men who ignored her expect from a woman? A pretty face and some maidenly accomplishments, no doubt. Lady Catherine could probably paint watercolours and play the pianoforte tolerably well. Perhaps she could sing. She had a title and a fortune. What did they want that she could not provide? An heir, perhaps?
The thought interested him. He turned it over in his mind. He had seen many injured soldiers and sailors, soldiers and humble citizens of far-flung countries – limping delivery boys and maimed street beggars. He knew well enough that the single word concealed a thousand injuries, all of them individual and each painful in its own way. He’d had crippled sailors under his command. They worked as hard as the next man. They did as much as they could, and then some.
But a crippled female – how mi
ght her abilities as a wife and mother be changed? How would lameness affect her role in society? Perhaps the eligible young men of Bath did not believe that Lady Catherine was capable of bearing an heir.
But perhaps Lady Catherine was uninterested in finding out whether this was the case.
Jocelyn lolled about the entrance, reluctant to return to the stultifying ballroom. Spring had arrived with warm breezes and the scent of flowers and young women in airy, gauzy gowns. He hadn’t realised how much he had missed the spring. Aboard ship – in the Mediterranean, or the Indian Ocean, or the West Indies – spring was no more than another wave of hot air. The birds changed, true. But it had not struck him that he longed for the smells of a wet and fecund English spring, the odour of damp earth and moss. Cold stone foundations. A cottage on a moor. Bluebells under the trees.
He did not hear the person approach.
“Bath is a poor hiding place.” The voice spoke directly in his ear and was attended by a tobacco-smoke smell.
Jocelyn stiffened. He turned around slowly. The man was a little taller than he, golden-haired, bronze-skinned, with an easy carriage. And, from the points of his shirt-collar to the fine leather of his boots, obviously aristocratic.
“One would be a fool to hide in Bath,” Jocelyn replied. He had never seen this man before. Was this his time of reckoning, he wondered. But he had supposed that the messenger would be someone from the Admiralty. Not a finely dressed man in his thirties.
“Such a small town,” the man continued. He examined his cheroot with indifference, then tossed it into the gutter. He looked at Jocelyn. “But in Dover, Brighton – or even London – one might be able to get lost in a crowd.”
The Portrait Page 4
