“If one were hiding,” Jocelyn said curtly.
“Ah.” The man nodded. Jocelyn glanced at him, his resentment rising. Not at being found – he had not been taking particular care to disguise his movements – but at who had done so. If the messenger had been intended to humiliate him, he had been perfectly chosen. Although it did seem odd that they would send such a person.
“You knew my brother,” the golden-haired man said abruptly. He peered at his fingers intently, then reached into a pocket for a handkerchief. He wiped his fingers with distaste.
“Your brother?” Jocelyn asked blankly.
“Tobacco. Stains everything brown.” The man frowned and peered more closely at his fingers. He slanted a glance up at Jocelyn, who was frowning in confusion.
“Jonathan Waters.”
Jocelyn shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t recall—”
“You saved his life. During a knife fight. It was, I believe, in an alleyway. In Bombay.”
Jocelyn’s brow cleared. “Was that your brother? Oh! Only I thought he said …” That had been the fateful day, the fateful occasion. He would never forget it.
The man nodded, staring absently at the distant shrubbery. “He should have been dismissed from the service.”
“But wait! His name wasn’t Waters. It was … Rowland, Rowles … something or other.” Jocelyn drew his brows together, trying to remember. “He was lieutenant on the Majestic.”
“Yes.” The man nodded. He turned to Jocelyn. “That’s right. His name is Jonathan Waters, but he’s Viscount Roland. One of those strange family inheritances. He prefers to be addressed as such.” He shrugged lightly, but his dark blue eyes were not laughing. “After you returned him to the Majestic, the ship’s surgeon managed to keep him alive. Barely. He’s missing a finger, of course.”
“I’m glad to hear that he survived,” Jocelyn said. “It was a brutal fight. We left port immediately and I never heard of his fate.”
“Actually, Captain Avebury, it was a miracle that you survived.”
Jocelyn flushed. “Not at all.”
“Oh? I take it that the natives simply … ran away when you appeared? There were apparently some nasty knife wounds. Quite a feat, to calmly return to your ship when you are covered in blood.”
Jocelyn did not reply.
Suddenly, the man laughed. “Come, come, Captain Avebury. I meant to thank you. But, gentleman that you are, of course you don’t wish to be identified as a hero.”
“I’m not a hero.”
“But you did not have to go in search of my brother when he went off like that. Especially when I am sure you knew what he was about.”
Jocelyn looked sharply at him. The man’s face was smoothly impassive. “I dislike not knowing your name,” he said abruptly.
“I beg your pardon. My name is Barrington. Jonathan is my younger half-brother.”
“How did you know where to find me?”
“It’s not difficult to find someone who isn’t hiding.” A small smile curled Barrington’s lip.
Jocelyn nodded. “Exactly so,” he said, keeping his voice bland. “I wish you and your brother well. Where is he, by the by?”
“Aboard the Surrey.” An uncomfortable pause. “He avoids alleyways. My mother and I would like to thank you for rescuing him. I am well aware that you took a grave risk in doing so.”
“’twas nothing.” Jocelyn turned to leave. A hand on his arm stopped him.
“They would have strung him up without so much as a Christian funeral. He certainly deserved to be punished – but no one, not even Jonathan, deserved to die at the hands of savages.” Barrington paused. “We owe you a debt that will be difficult to discharge. You were under no obligation to search for him in the first place and, when you found him, you could have chosen to leave him where he was.”
“No one would have done such a thing,” Jocelyn said. “I simply followed my conscience.”
“Would that all of our fine officers possessed such a conscience.” A flash of anger flickered on Barrington’s face then disappeared. He spoke softly. “We know what you risked to save him, what bravery was required. We know you did not tell your officers where you were headed, lest they prevent you going. And that you alone could speak the native tongue well enough to gain entrance into that den of thieves. We merely wish to thank you.”
Jocelyn nodded curtly. He wanted to leave, to get away from this all-knowing stranger. He turned on his heel. As he strode away, he heard Barrington say softly, “I know all about it, Captain Avebury.”
He kept walking.
“The Admiralty will come for you,” Barrington said, a little more loudly. “But you are not without friends.”
At this, Jocelyn stopped. He turned. “Friends?” he said bitterly. “I have no friends.”
Barrington walked over to face him. “What I say is true. When the time comes, you will see who your friends are.”
Jocelyn shook his head and turned to walk away. As he put out his hand to pull open the door, Barrington called after him.
“I have your best interest at heart.”
He tugged open the doors and returned to the ball.
* * *
He had asked her to dance.
“Really, Catherine,” Melinda complained. “Speaking to naval men whom we don’t even know.”
With her eyes closed, leaning into a darkened corner of the swaying carriage, Catherine could almost imagine herself dancing. She would rest one hand lightly on the arm of her partner and trip gaily down the line of dancers. She would not miss a single step.
“We know nothing about his family, his property. Nothing. Why on earth are you so intent on befriending him?” Melinda’s voice rose sharply.
Catherine opened her eyes. “Because he seemed interesting.”
Disapproving silence.
Catherine sighed. “You do not have to worry about me, Melinda.”
“I do worry about you.”
“You need not. I can take care of myself.”
Melinda did not reply. The sound of the coachman murmuring to the horses melded with their steady clip-clop. It was not very late, but the streets were empty. A pathetic substitute for London, Catherine thought.
She reached out for Melinda’s hand. “I am sorry if I alarm you. I will try to be more prudent.”
“I’m only thinking of you, dearest.”
Catherine squeezed her hand. “I know. Are they saying dreadful things about me?”
“Not within my hearing. But I would imagine that the world is puzzled, wondering why you are attending balls at this time.”
Catherine shrugged lightly.
“Although, of course, now you have a title of your own, everything will change.”
“Will it?”
“Certainly,” Melinda said in a surprised tone. “You are the Countess St Clair. You will be able to do anything you please.”
“Yes,” said Catherine dryly. “Anything at all.” For a bitter moment, she reflected on her life. I have done everything that I please, she thought. I did it long before any title came my way. I did it in spite of my name, the loss of the Delamare title, and the aching load of my family. I did it alone, no thanks to anyone. What more can a title do for me?
She remembered Beaseley’s words: “Should you have a son, he would become the next Earl St Clair.”
The truth was, she wanted a son.
She bit her lip until she tasted blood. She knew it was impossible. Impossible.
But to head her own family, to bear an heir! To become the reason for the flourishing of the St Clairs, after a lifetime of knowing that the reversion of the ancient Delamare title to the Crown was her fault.
She wanted it desperately.
She wanted the St Clair line to blossom once again, to spread, to exert power and influence. All she needed to do was to bear a son.
A son would marry and produce more St Clair children. A son would be the centre of a St Clair family home, fill it w
ith the happy voices of people who loved each other. A son would mean there would be no dilution of the title. Instead of daughters to marry into families where they would be silenced, where the St Clair story would be secondary to those of their husbands, the St Clairs needed sons to ensure that their voice would be heard forever.
If she did not marry and produce children, the St Clair line would be gone forever: her mother’s sacrifice – as well as her own – would have been for naught.
She would do it. But how?
Chapter 8
Lydia Barrow provided Catherine with the excuse that enabled her to live alone. She was not a relation; in fact, no one really knew where she had come from. On the very day Catherine bade her governess goodbye, Lydia had arrived, carrying one small valise.
Catherine was aware that the staff gossiped about her companion’s origins. Lydia spoke well, but a little too carefully. She was a little too proud in front of the staff, a little too brusque in her requests. The staff knew when someone was hiding her discomfort.
But Catherine did not care. Lydia’s presence made it possible for her to live at Wansdyke without brother or father or husband.
Mutual friends had introduced them in town. Lydia was the daughter of a lady of quality, the result of a scandalous affair with a duke. Although London-bred, she did not move in the circles that mattered and her parentage was a closely guarded secret. Lydia’s need of a genteel position in a household that would not pry into her secret matched Catherine’s need for a tight-lipped companion.
She was not a true companion in that she did not care for walking in the shrubbery or riding in the fields. At Wansdyke, Catherine did those things alone. At Mansion Place, Lydia sorted through the invitations and managed Catherine’s callers, but Melinda usually accompanied Catherine into the world. Lydia did not care for society.
* * *
It looked like rain. Grey, damp, cold. The fires were lit. The maid brought in a fresh pot of tea. Catherine leant against the window, gazing down on the cobblestoned street, watching as pedestrians hurried to and fro. Lydia sat sewing quietly in a corner.
“I want to go back to Wansdyke,” Catherine said without turning around.
Lydia continued sewing.
“They will want me at Albrook any day now. I would rather not receive condolences here in Mansion Place.”
A fat raindrop spattered onto the glass. Umbrellas appeared. The flower seller ducked into an entrance.
“I would rather be riding.”
Still no answer. Still more raindrops splashed.
Catherine turned away. She glanced at Lydia. “Have you managed to procure anything black?” she asked listlessly.
Lydia looked up. “It is already packed.”
“I am tempted not to wear mourning at all,” Catherine muttered. She limped over to a chair. Just as she had eased herself into it, there was a rap at the door. Lydia put down her sewing.
“My lady.” It was a maid. “Sir Lyle Barrington.” She curtsied and held open the door.
“Sir Lyle,” Catherine murmured. She began to rise, but Sir Lyle held up his hand.
“Please do not disturb yourself.”
Lydia gathered up her sewing. She dropped a silent curtsey and stole from the room.
“Am I so disliked?” Sir Lyle came to kiss Catherine’s hand.
Catherine laughed grimly. “Lydia hates everyone. How are you, sir?”
“Very well, thank you. Is that tea? I will help myself.”
“Let me ring for refreshment.”
“Absolutely not. I am merely cold and damp, and would like something hot immediately. Atrocious weather.”
“It is no longer hot, or fresh,” said Catherine and rang the bell. “So you did not come here to see me in particular? Were you merely on your way to someplace else, and thought to warm yourself here?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes. It would be nice to … er … warm myself,” Sir Lyle muttered. He shot Catherine a smile and poured himself some tea.
“You are impertinent,” Catherine returned, but her cheeks were hot.
“And you, my lady, should have pretended ignorance of my double entendre.”
“Must I be stupid on top of everything else? Is it not enough that I cannot walk or run?”
Sir Lyle raised his cup. “You walk very well. And I imagine that you can run quite well too – will you give me the opportunity to watch you? At Wansdyke, perhaps?”
Catherine laughed. “You are dreadful, Sir Lyle. No, I cannot and do not run. So you will have to forego that pleasure. But where have you been? You are tanned, even more so than usual.”
Sir Lyle lifted an unconscious hand to rub his jaw. “Am I? I can keep no secrets from you, Lady Catherine.”
“You keep many secrets,” Catherine retorted. “I wish you would share them with me.”
Sir Lyle bowed slightly. “Certainly. I have been to the continent and beyond. Greece. India. Shall I tell more?”
“Yes, absolutely! How very exciting.” A maid brought fresh tea. Catherine motioned to her to remove Sir Lyle’s cup. “You shall have hot, since you are chilled.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sir Lyle murmured. He smiled wickedly.
Catherine frowned at him over the maid’s head. Once the girl had gone, she begged him to describe his journey.
“Really, it was only occasionally exciting. More often it was tedious.” Sir Lyle shrugged. “I have some shipping interests here and there. Ran myself ragged checking up on the vessels. Making sure Bonaparte is not disturbing our trade.”
“Not exactly a man of leisure, are you, Sir Lyle?”
“Never, Lady Catherine. Except when I am with you, of course.”
“Now, now.” Catherine dimpled. “That is enough for one morning.”
Sir Lyle laughed. His lips parted in a wide white grin. Catherine could not help but admire the way that his darkened skin set off the gold of his hair, the intensity of his eyes.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Catherine. I have overstepped the boundaries of friendship.”
“Do not be a bore,” she returned. “I merely wish to keep the conversation … appropriate. Are you in Bath for long?”
“For a little while. I have some business to attend to.”
“You are always attending to business! What a very busy person you are!”
Sir Lyle shrugged lightly. “That is the fate of a man whose fortune is invested in trade,” he said. “I should feel flattered that you will even speak to me.”
“Nonsense!”
“I meant to inquire after your father. How is the earl?”
“Not well. I am sorry to say that we are awaiting the end.”
“I am sorry. This must be a difficult time.”
Catherine shrugged. “It has been expected for some time. You have been away – you could not have known.”
“I hope you know I am happy to be of any assistance.”
“Thank you.” She inclined her head. There was a moment of silence.
“Lady Catherine.”
She looked up. She had been brooding over the thought of having to wear black. It was not a good colour for her. Sir Lyle put a chair next to her own and sat down. He leant forward.
“You are distracted this morning.”
“I am sorry. The last few weeks have been rather difficult.”
“We have known each other a long time.”
“We have.”
Sir Lyle chuckled. “Bath’s favourite outsiders.”
Catherine smiled weakly. “Yes. Although I have never understood why you are unaccepted. My leg makes me so. And my refusal to follow the rules.”
“It is my interests in trade. Stodgy Bath matrons dislike it immensely.”
“Well, that has not prevented them from setting their daughters at you,” Catherine returned.
“Unfortunately. All of them cross-eyed or worse.”
Catherine giggled. “Surely they are not that bad!”
“Every bit that bad
.” Sir Lyle looked away. He seemed to compose himself, then reached out for Catherine’s hand.
Surprised, she allowed him to take it. “Why, whatever is wrong?”
“Nothing at all. Lady Catherine, I am here to ask for your indulgence.”
“My indulgence?” Catherine wrinkled her brow in a puzzled frown. Then she tried to laugh. “For your bad manners?”
She liked Sir Lyle. She did not know precisely what he traded and where but had maintained an on-and-off friendship with him for years. He treated her almost as if she were a young widow, not an unmarried woman. Perhaps that was a consequence of her refusal to conform to society’s expectations. She almost liked it. She certainly appreciated that he thought her smart and independent. But his intensity did occasionally unnerve her.
“I suppose my manners are quite bad,” Sir Lyle admitted. He held Catherine’s hand firmly in his own. “I should be approaching your father but, being that he is ill—”
“Come, Sir Lyle,” Catherine said with impatience. “You have never hesitated to speak frankly with me.”
“I would like to see you … often. Do you take my meaning?”
Catherine opened her mouth to speak. Sir Lyle’s grasp on her hand tightened. Her heart began to race, and she stammered, “I-I do not know.”
“Surely you understand what I wish for us. If your father were not so ill, I would ask him for permission to address you.”
Catherine pulled her hand away. She laughed nervously. “This is absurd, Sir Lyle. We have known each other for years. I never suspected such interest on your part.”
“You were a schoolroom miss when I saw you last.”
“I was not. Well, perhaps I was.”
“I am much older than you are, my dear. It would have been – shall we say – inappropriate for me to pursue you when you were a child.”
Catherine pouted. “Thank you very much for saying so. I am grateful that you did not wish to corrupt my innocence.”
“Do not change the subject, Catherine. May I call you Catherine?” He did not wait for an answer. “I am in England for a little while. I would like to see you. May I? Perhaps we will find that we should suit. I expect we shall.”
The Portrait Page 5
