by Cheryl Holt
“We shouldn’t walk out together. It would cause such a stir.”
“I agree.”
“Could you meet me down the block? Is that an insult for me to suggest it?”
“No, I think that’s very wise. I’ll sneak out and wait for you around the corner.”
“I have to talk to Mr. Bolton to inform him I’m crying off. He deserves to hear from me in person. I’ll visit him at his office at ten, then after I’m finished I’ll stop by for you.”
“To take me where? To the country?”
“I keep a small apartment in town. We’ll go there initially.”
“I suppose that will be all right, but all of this is frightening, and it’s transpiring so fast. I could be in the middle of a romantic drama. Or perhaps it’s a story about someone else, and it isn’t really happening to me.”
“After we catch our breath, we’ll travel to Stanton Manor.”
“I’d like that so much.” She gave him a tight hug. “Can I stay there forever? I don’t have to ever return to town, do I?”
“Yes, we can stay there forever.”
They were quiet for a bit, then she said, “I have two sisters.”
“Sisters! My goodness. You’ve been so furtive I suspected you had been raised by wolves in a cave, but now I discover you have siblings.”
“Could they live with us? They’re working here in London, and I’m always so fearful about their situations.” She must have thought he’d protest because she hurriedly added, “They wouldn’t be any bother. I swear it. You’ll hardly know they’re there.”
“Yes, of course they can come. It’s a huge house. We’ll be fine.”
“Where and when will we marry?”
“We have a few options. You can pick the one that suits you.”
“What are my choices?”
“We could elope.”
She popped up, her brow wrinkled with disapproval. “That never ends well.”
“Or we could get a Special License and wed the instant we’re home. Or we can have my vicar call the banns, and we can marry in a month at my church.”
“In light of what we just did, we should probably wed as quickly as we can.”
“So it will be the Special License.”
“Could we have a ceremony at your church later on?”
“Yes.”
“With a breakfast and a little party afterward?”
“Absolutely.”
She nestled down, and they were relaxing, the sexual languor settling in and shortly they’d doze off.
“We’re going to be very poor,” he mumbled as he stifled a yawn.
“Yes, but we’ll have each other.”
“I hope you can stand me.”
She snorted with amusement. “I hope you can stand me.”
“I will never grow weary of you. Not ever.”
“Oh, you sweet man.”
“I’m falling asleep.”
“Don’t you dare. I can’t have Gertrude find you in here.”
“I’ll nap for a minute, then I’ll leave.”
“You’ll come for me at noon? Yes?”
“Yes. After you get up, pack your bags, but don’t carry them out with you. We’ll send for them. I don’t want to arouse suspicions or start any quarrels.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be ready.”
“I can’t wait to take you home.”
He drifted off, and she murmured some other comments that didn’t quite register. One remark poked through though. He thought she said, “My name isn’t Barrington. It’s Henley…”
Was that it? The Henley family was one of the most prominent in the kingdom, and vaguely he wondered if she was related to Jasper Henley, the Earl of Middlebury. If she was connected to such lofty people, why was she toiling for wages and using a fake name? It made no sense so he must have dreamed it.
When he awakened, it was very dark, the house quiet. He’d been slumbering so deeply he was lucky he hadn’t loafed until noon and been caught precisely where he shouldn’t be.
He might be a cad and a bounder, but he respected Mr. Bolton and Catherine, and he wasn’t about to embarrass them. He wouldn’t let others guess that she’d been debauched prior to the wedding. Nor would he let Mr. Bolton know how he’d misbehaved under the man’s roof. Bolton had always been kind, and Christopher had repaid him with treachery.
She was still peacefully snuggled to his side. He tarried, listening to her breathe, memorizing the scent of her hair and skin, then he slid away. She didn’t stir which was a relief. If she’d opened her eyes and smiled at him, he’d never have pulled himself away.
He tugged on his clothes, and once he was halfway presentable, he snuck to the door and unlocked it. He glanced over at her, and before he could stop them, the words I love you whispered out of his mouth.
He paused for several seconds as if tasting them, and ultimately he decided they sounded exactly right.
He tiptoed out and crept to the upper floors where his own room was located. He packed his things, then poured himself a whiskey. He went over to the window and stared at the eastern sky. The moment the sun lightened the horizon, he would march out and proceed to his apartment.
But he’d be back soon. And when he left again, Catherine would be with him.
* * * *
Bertha sat in a shadowed corner in the kitchen. She wasn’t a particularly loyal person, and she had no grudge against Miss Barrington. She seemed very nice and was muddling on in difficult circumstances.
Yet Bertha’s job as maid to Gertrude Bolton was a very good one, and she was determined to keep it. The salary was fair, the working conditions easy. She hated to betray Miss Barrington. She didn’t care if the girl was sweet on Mr. Stanton, but Miss Bolton had asked Bertha to spy so she would.
Hours earlier, she’d stumbled on Miss Barrington and Mr. Stanton. They’d been alone and had tried to pretend it was all very innocent, but they couldn’t fool her. Their fondness was so blatant it floated around them like a golden halo.
Once Miss Barrington had vanished into her bedroom, Bertha had plopped down in her seat. She wasn’t sure she’d be proved correct—actually she was praying she wouldn’t be—but she’d deemed it important to watch.
As she’d expected, Mr. Stanton had eventually appeared, and when it became clear he was staying, she’d walked behind the pantry and put her ear to the wood of Miss Barrington’s door.
She wasn’t a voyeur so she’d had no deviant intent. She’d simply wanted to be positive of her facts. Mr. Stanton would arrive at noon the next day to run off with Miss Barrington. He’d told her to depart inconspicuously and meet him down the block.
What was the reckless pair thinking? Did they really assume he could waltz away from his engagement to Miss Priscilla with no consequence? Well, Mr. Bolton might have a few things to say about that!
The temperature was icy cold, and her hips ached. Just as she figured he’d pass the entire night with her, he tiptoed by and continued on down the hall. She rose and returned to Miss Barrington’s room, listening to be certain she was asleep. Then she peeked in.
Moonlight shown in the window, a sufficient amount to reveal that Miss Barrington was naked. Her facial expression was serene, her beautiful blond hair spread across the pillows so she looked like a slumbering angel.
A decadent, ruined angel.
Bertha trudged away, shaking her head with every step.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“It’s your brother, sir.”
“What about him?” Christopher snapped at his footman.
He’d just returned to his apartment, the sun up and the day beginning. He felt like a new man and didn’t want to deal with any problems. He especially didn’t want to hear about any issues regarding his brother.
He simply wanted to wash and change so he would look his absolute best when he conferred with Mr. Bolton. Then he’d fetch Catherine, and the next phase of his life could comm
ence.
“He’s had another…incident,” the footman said.
“What sort of incident.”
“Perhaps you could go upstairs and talk to him?”
“I definitely will. Where is he?”
“In your bed, sir.”
“In my bed? The oaf knows I don’t like him to use it.”
“It was all my doing, Mr. Stanton. When he arrived, he was in no condition to decide. Your room was nearest.”
Christopher dropped his bags and pounded up the stairs. He supposed Andrew had been carousing with his dodgy friends. Was he foxed out of his mind? Had he been robbed again? The prior time they’d spoken, Andrew had promised to mend his ways, and Christopher had taken him at his word.
“What now?” he muttered as he burst into his bedchamber.
He was ready to shake his brother, to scold him and pound some sense into him, but the sight he witnessed stopped him in his tracks.
Andrew had been violently pummeled. His eyes were blackened and swelled shut, and it appeared as if a few teeth had been knocked out. His nose was crooked so his handsome Wakefield-Stanton face would never be quite the same.
His coat and clothes were caked with blood. His arm was resting on his stomach at an odd angle and clearly broken. His breathing was labored, an indication that some of his ribs were broken too.
Christopher had meant to shout at his brother, but instead he quietly murmured, “Andrew, are you awake?”
“Kit? Is that you?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
Christopher went over and eased a hip onto the mattress, causing it to shift a bit. Andrew grimaced, the slight movement jarring his injuries.
“What happened?” Christopher asked.
“Those debt collectors caught up with me.”
“Oh, no…”
“I attended the theater last night. They followed me as I was leaving and dragged me into an alley.”
He started to cry. He looked young and pitiful—as if he were Christopher’s son rather than his twenty-year-old sibling—and Christopher yearned to cradle him to his chest and hug him. But they weren’t demonstrative people, and besides it would be agony for Andrew to be touched.
“If I don’t pay what I owe by Saturday,” Andrew said, “they’ll kill me. They threatened they would, and I believe them. I’m so afraid, Kit.”
Christopher stared down at him, his happy mood crashing around him like bricks falling from a wall. He’d been so wrapped up in his plans to sever his engagement that he hadn’t reflected on his brother’s quandary. He’d simply decided Andrew would have to forego his stint in the army, that there would be no money to buy a commission.
Yet he’d forgotten about Andrew’s massive debts. Christopher had never pressed him over how much had accrued, and he wasn’t sure Andrew could state the figure with any precision. But in light of this thrashing, the sum had to be incredibly high so he thought the brigands might truly murder Andrew. They probably weren’t joking.
Andrew wasn’t the greatest brother who’d ever lived, and they weren’t particularly close, but Christopher was head of the family now and there wasn’t much family left. Just some elderly aunts and distant cousins such as the Boltons. Andrew and Christopher were the ones who remained, and they had to comport themselves in a manner that would generate some semblance of respectability.
They had to hold onto Stanton Manor, to proudly bear their name so they could carry it forward to future generations.
“I want to join the army.” Andrew was blubbering, weeping. “I want to flee England and go where I’ll be safe.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to die.”
“I don’t want you to either.” Christopher chuckled morbidly.
“You won’t let them hurt me again, will you? Will you protect me?”
Christopher exhaled a weary sigh. His older brother, Richard, had been a weak, ineffective person, and Andrew was cut from the same cloth. They were exactly like their wastrel father. Only Christopher was different. Only Christopher was tough and strong and brave.
“I’ll protect you, Andrew,” he vowed. “I promise.”
He patted his brother on the shoulder, then slid off the bed and walked to the door where his footman was nervously hovering.
“How can I be of assistance, sir?” the man asked.
“Fetch the doctor for me. His arm is badly broken. I’d set it myself, but it will be very painful. I think I should have some help.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll hurry.”
The footman was married, his wife their maid. She was hovering too, the pair of them obviously distressed.
“I’ll need hot water and soft towels,” Christopher told her. “We’ll clean him up a bit before the doctor arrives.”
“Certainly, Mr. Stanton. I’ll have them for you in a quick minute.”
She rushed off, and the footman peeked in at Andrew, then his gaze shifted to Christopher.
“I’m sorry about this, Mr. Stanton. We made him comfortable, but he begged us not to send for you. He insisted you not be bothered over what had happened. He forbade me from attempting to locate you.”
“I understand.”
“I hope you’re not angry with us.”
“I’m not angry,” Christopher said. “Get going now. It might be difficult to track down the doctor.”
“I won’t stop until I find him.”
He dashed out, and Christopher returned to the bedroom. He pulled up a chair and sat down to wait for what would come next.
* * * *
Catherine entered Mr. Bolton’s library which Gertrude used for an office. She was aggravated at being summoned and had tried to avoid the encounter, but the housemaid who’d fetched her was adamant she speak to Gertrude immediately.
It was just after eleven, and she was on pins and needles over what was about to occur. Before the hour was out, she would run away with Christopher, and it would put into motion a series of events that would change her life forever.
She was so happy!
She yearned to shout her news to the world, but she didn’t dare. Christopher had to talk to Mr. Bolton to end his betrothal, and she actually felt guilty about the part she was playing in it. She’d never pictured herself as the other woman in any romantic scenario, but Priscilla was all wrong for Christopher. In an odd way, it seemed as if she was doing them an enormous favor by interfering.
No one else would view it like that though. She and Christopher would be scorned and condemned, but they would retire to Stanton Manor and be far from any rancor in town. People could blather and rage, but hopefully any gossip would fade quickly.
“Hello, Miss Bolton.” She walked over to a chair by the desk and seated herself. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, Catherine, thank you for being so prompt.” Gertrude studied her in an unsettling manner, then she said, “I have to ask you some questions, and I demand you be entirely candid with me.”
“Well, of course I’ll be candid. What is it you wish to know?”
“When we were at Bolton House, I noticed you—quite by accident—in a very rigorous conversation with Kit.”
It was the last topic she’d expected Gertrude to raise, and her mind was awhirl with the need to tread cautiously.
“I was arguing with Mr. Stanton?” Catherine inquired.
“Not arguing. You were having a very passionate discussion, and it intrigued me. Were you acquainted with Kit prior to your working for us?”
“No,” she honestly answered.
“You’d never met him before we traveled to the country?”
Catherine froze. She was a terrible liar and couldn’t spew any falsehoods. Her expression would give her away. “I might have socialized with him once or twice.”
“Where?”
“I was at Vauxhall one evening with Miss Markham. And there was also a picnic I attended with her. He was there on both o
ccasions.”
“Would you say the two of you grew friendly?”
“Yes, I suppose. He’s a very nice man.”
“That he is.”
Gertrude tapped a finger on the desktop, studying Catherine again until she squirmed with nerves and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“After the incident, I had my maid, Bertha, keep an eye on you.”
Catherine frowned. “She was spying on me?”
“Yes. I wondered if you and Kit might have a secret attachment. I was worried it might cause problems for Priscilla.”
“I have no idea why you’d think that,” Catherine claimed, but her pulse was racing.
What was happening? What was this appointment really about?
Very quietly, Gertrude asked, “Is there something you’d like to tell me, Catherine?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? I’d like to hear it from your own mouth. I deserve that. Considering the job I’ve supplied, the wages I’ve paid, and the bed you’ve slept in, I deserve some sincere replies from you.”
Suddenly, Catherine was very afraid and very ashamed.
She and Christopher shared such a potent attraction that it was impossible to fight it. The previous night, when they’d been alone in her room, it had seemed appropriate and practically destined that they be together.
Yet in the cold light of day, their agreement seemed sordid and wicked. Christopher was engaged to be married, and unless and until that engagement was severed Catherine had no business interfering. If he chose to cry off, she should have had no role in his decision. Nor should her name ever be connected to it.
She understood that now, but what could she do about it? Christopher would arrive shortly, and she intended to leave with him. How could she explain such a wild conclusion to Gertrude? How could she justify such a moral lapse?
There was no way to declare it ethical or honorable—because it wasn’t.
“You’re very young, Catherine,” Gertrude said, “and Kit is a handsome, mature, and sophisticated man. He’s sailed the oceans and seen the world. He’s served his country where he constantly displayed great courage and audacity so I don’t blame you for any infatuation. But I am extremely vexed about how I ought to proceed.”
