by Cheryl Holt
“I promised Miss Barrington I would come for her. Actually, it should have been two days ago. I can’t abide any further delay in my fetching her.”
“If you’re as madly in love as you claim, your romance will survive a short period of reflection. Or are you afraid it won’t?”
“It’s not that. I swore I’d stop by for her, but I had a problem with my brother, Andrew.”
“There was some gossip about it on the way in this morning. Wasn’t he beaten by ruffians?”
“Very badly, sir.”
“For what reason? Rumor has it that it’s his gambling debts again.”
Christopher’s cheeks reddened with chagrin. The situation was so humiliating. “Yes, it’s his gambling debts.”
“He’s such a reckless child.” Bolton nodded with disdain. “It sounds as if you could use an infusion of money to put him on safer ground with his creditors.”
“It’s always been what I need. You’re aware of that.”
Mr. Bolton reached into a drawer and pulled out an envelope. He pushed it across the desk. Christopher hesitated, scrutinizing it as if it were dangerous. He picked it up and peeked inside, gasping as he discovered it contained a thousand pounds.
“I thought you might like to relieve some of the pressure on your brother.”
“I can’t accept this,” Christopher sternly replied.
“There are no strings attached, Kit. It’s a gift, and no matter what you ultimately decide about Priscilla you don’t have to pay it back. You and Andrew are family, and I’m a rich man. What sort of kin would I be if I didn’t assist my own relatives?”
“Call it what you will,” Christopher fumed, “but it’s a bribe to persuade me to renounce Miss Barrington.”
“No, it’s a reminder of what you have to lose if you cry off. Now then, I asked if you would retire to the country to contemplate your future. Will you? With how I’ve stood by you, you owe me that much.”
Christopher rubbed his temples, a terrible headache forming. “I don’t know what’s best.”
“Well, as I mentioned earlier, I am older and wiser than you. You’ve been under a lot of strain, both with Priscilla and Andrew. Take some time away. Figure out what you really want. Honestly, with how you’re acting, it’s as if you’re not that convinced about the strength of your connection to Miss Barrington.”
“I’m very convinced about Catherine.”
“Then how can it hurt to delay? Such a strong infatuation can survive a brief separation.” He pointed to the envelope. “In the interim, before you depart for Stanton Manor you should help your brother. I insist.”
Christopher snorted with disgust. He was being manipulated, and he should refuse the money, but Bolton claimed it was a gift. Fine then, he’d use it to aid Andrew. Bolton couldn’t complain if Christopher did exactly as he was demanding.
“I’ve dealt with you in a forthright manner,” Bolton said. “When your brother, Richard, died, I could have walked away with Priscilla’s dowry. Yet I was friends with your father, and I’m willing to honor the arrangement I contracted with him—even though you shamefully seduced one of my servants under my very own roof.”
There was a hint of steel under the remark, providing evidence of why Mr. Bolton was so successful in business. He often came across as a buffoon, but he wasn’t. It was shocking conduct for Christopher to have trifled with Catherine in Bolton’s house. There was no other way to describe it.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Christopher said. “I’ve been disgracefully negligent, and I most humbly apologize.”
“I may seem elderly and silly to you, but I assure you I comprehend your affection for Miss Barrington. I also comprehend a young man’s desires and passions. They can be uncontrollable, but you have behaved very badly toward me and mine. I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself. Go home and reflect. We’ll speak about Miss Barrington again when you return to town.”
How could Christopher argue with Bolton’s logic? He couldn’t pretend he was the injured party in the mess. He had wickedly dallied with Catherine, and he was anxious to toss Priscilla away. Why not leave town for a few weeks? He didn’t want Herbert Bolton as an enemy, didn’t want to make their rift worse than it had to be.
His fondness for Catherine would never fade, and if he left for awhile, it would satisfy Bolton and clarify Christopher’s resolve. He would be able to truthfully tell Bolton that he hadn’t changed his mind.
“I’ll oblige you for two weeks, but on one condition.”
“What is it?”
“I have to visit Miss Barrington. She’ll be distressed over what occurred. If I suddenly slink out of town without an explanation, she’ll be even more distraught. I’ll confer with her privately, then I’ll comply with your request.”
“I would be happy for you to meet with Miss Barrington, but there’s a problem.”
Christopher scowled. “What problem?”
“She received an urgent message that there was a death in the family, and she rushed away to attend a funeral. It’s my understanding she’s resigned from her post.”
A flash of rage rushed over him. “Where is she?”
“I have no idea.”
“Liar!” Christopher hissed.
“Careful, boy. Let’s not quarrel over her. In my opinion, women typically aren’t worth a fight. A letter arrived for her, and she departed.”
Christopher leapt to his feet, yearning to march around the desk and pummel Bolton into the ground. But he took several deep breaths to steady his temper.
“I don’t believe you,” he seethed. “I’m going over there to find out what happened.”
“You’re welcome to try, but Gertrude has no more information than what I have just supplied.”
Bolton stared at Christopher as if he held all the cards, as if he’d won every hand. Again, Christopher felt young and foolish, as if he’d been tricked without realizing he had been.
“If I can’t locate her,” Christopher warned, “I will never wed Priscilla. No matter what.”
Bolton shrugged. “We’ll see what you do—and what you don’t—in the end. Calm down, and we’ll chat again very soon.”
Christopher whipped away to stomp out, and Bolton called, “Don’t forget your money. We should start digging Andrew out of the jam he’s in. Have a pleasant sojourn in the country.”
Apparently, Christopher had no pride at all for he grabbed the envelope and stuck it in his coat. He stormed over and yanked open the door. Mr. Turner was hovering so close he had to have been listening through the keyhole. At Christopher’s abrupt appearance, he stumbled away.
“Goodbye, Mr. Stanton.” He straightened, struggling to look as if he hadn’t been eavesdropping. “Thank you for coming by.”
“Bugger off,” Christopher crudely spat, and he raced out.
* * * *
“Libby, wait!”
Catherine was in the street outside the Boltons’ residence when Libby emerged. There was a carriage parked in the drive, and she was dressed in a cloak and bonnet as if she was about to embark on a journey. A footman walked after her, carrying a portmanteau.
She spun around, and on recognizing Catherine she was very nervous. “Catherine? What are you doing?”
“I had to talk to you.”
“I don’t think you should.”
Libby glanced at the house as if afraid she was being observed. She clasped Catherine’s arm and dragged her behind the carriage and away from any prying eyes.
“I heard you were fired,” Libby said.
“I was.”
“You shouldn’t be here then. Gertrude wouldn’t like it.”
“I don’t care about Gertrude and what she might like or not like. What could she do to me that she hasn’t already done?”
“You might be surprised. Where are you staying? Are you all right?”
“I rented a room at a boarding house.”
“Hav
e you found another position?”
“No. I’ve been trying to meet with Mrs. Ford, but she hasn’t been in.”
Catherine was disturbed by the woman’s continued absence. Mrs. Ford had the constitution of an elephant. She was never sick. She was never tired. She was never late or away from her office. If Catherine didn’t know better, she’d suspect Mrs. Ford was deliberately avoiding her.
Catherine wasn’t penniless. She had the money Gertrude had given her, and she had some savings. For the moment, she wouldn’t starve or freeze to death, but London was a very expensive place and jobs were difficult to find. She couldn’t loaf forever, praying that Mrs. Ford would assist her.
What if Mrs. Ford didn’t or couldn’t or wouldn’t? What if Gertrude had tattled to Mrs. Ford about Catherine being terminated? She’d sworn she wouldn’t, but what if she’d been lying?
“I have to speak to Mr. Stanton,” she said. “I expected him to stop by, but he hasn’t.”
“You’re hoping to see Kit?”
“Yes, and it’s extremely important. Where could he be? He told me he has an apartment in the city. Have you any idea where it’s located?”
“I wasn’t aware that Kit had an apartment in the city, and even if he does you shouldn’t be wondering where it is.”
“It’s none of your business if I’m wondering, is it? I need his address.”
Catherine didn’t mean to be snide, but she was desperate. Gertrude claimed he had seduced her with wicked intent—as he’d seduced many others—but Catherine refused to believe it.
After she’d been fired, she’d loitered for hours, figuring he’d been delayed in coming to fetch her. As evening had approached, she’d been forced to head to the boarding house, but she’d risen at dawn and returned to her hiding spot to watch for him again. She’d tarried until dark—with no luck. At dawn, she’d returned yet again and had lurked all morning, and he still hadn’t arrived.
Though she’d been determined to remain loyal, waves of doubt were assailing her. What if he didn’t keep his promise? The possibility was terrifying, and she was nauseous just from considering it.
“I apologize,” Libby said, “and you’re correct. Your friendship with Kit is none of my affair.” She appeared cowed and beaten down in a way she never was.
“Has he been here? Perhaps he was, but I missed him.” Pity flashed in Libby’s eyes, and it was so unsettling that Catherine blanched. “What is it, Libby? What’s wrong?”
“Kit left for the country.”
“He what?”
“Gertrude was discussing it with Priscilla. He wanted to rest before all the wedding festivities kick up in August.”
Catherine gasped. “That can’t be right.”
“They were very clear. He visited Mr. Bolton at his office, then he retired to Stanton Manor.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. There was some trouble with his brother, Andrew, over debts that he owed. Mr. Bolton gave Kit an advance on the dowry so he could pay his brother’s creditors. He had to deal with that financial mess, then he departed.”
“He accepted an advance on the dowry?” she stupidly asked.
“Yes.”
Catherine felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. If Libby had taken out a pistol and shot her she couldn’t have been more stunned.
The footman who’d carried Libby’s portmanteau peered around the carriage. “Your bag is stowed, Miss Markham. Would you like me to help you climb in?”
“In a minute,” Libby said.
“Are you going on a trip?” Catherine asked.
Libby sighed. “I suppose it can’t hurt to tell you, and I’m dying to tell someone.”
“Tell me what?”
“I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a jam.” Libby paused, then blushed bright scarlet. “Well, not a bit of a one. It’s quite bad actually.”
“What happened?”
“I’m off to an unwed mother’s home where I will wait to see if…ah…”
She couldn’t finish the sentence, and Catherine’s shock increased to grotesque proportions.
“You might be with child?”
Libby shrugged and morosely confessed, “I might be.”
Catherine remembered Gertrude insisting Libby had been ruined by Christopher, but Catherine had deemed it a hideous lie. What was she to think now? Anymore, she couldn’t decide what was true or what was real. The Earth seemed to have spun off its axis, and everything was crumpled in a tangled heap.
“Who is the father, Libby?” She nearly gagged on the question. “Can you admit it to me? Is it Christopher?”
Libby stared at Catherine, then her gaze shifted to the house again as if she was still afraid of being watched. Ultimately, she said, “I’m sorry. I know you cared for him.”
An odd sound emerged from Catherine’s lips, a sort of feral cry a wounded animal might make.
In a blind, disoriented state, she pushed by Libby and ran out to the street. She kept on running until she thought her heart might burst. Once she couldn’t continue another step, she sank down next to a building and huddled on the sidewalk. Bereft. Betrayed. Broken. Alone.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Catherine wandered around the main receiving parlor at Middlebury Hall, trying to catalog what had been changed and what was the same. Occasionally, she would pick up an item and gently stroke a finger over it. She’d smile and remember her mother holding it or a housemaid dusting it.
But for the most part, she couldn’t recollect much about that magical period when she’d been the cherished daughter of Lord and Lady Middlebury. It had been nearly a decade since that phase of her life had ended, and it seemed so distant—and so much had happened—that it might have been a dream.
She was never sure why she traveled to Middlebury, but after events in London had swirled to a mortifying conclusion she hadn’t known what else to do.
Gertrude had promised she wouldn’t speak to Mrs. Ford, but she’d been lying. When Catherine had finally wrangled an appointment with Mrs. Ford, she’d been scolded, then promptly escorted out.
She’d returned to the boarding house, but her bag had been packed and was sitting by the front door. The rent she’d tendered for the whole month was refunded to her, and she was told to leave.
As she’d stood on that lonely London sidewalk, rain drizzling from the sky and wetting her shoulders, she’d felt like the last person on Earth. She couldn’t find her sisters and had no friends. Her parents were deceased, and she refused to claim her relatives. The only man she’d ever loved had forsaken her.
Her childhood home had beckoned like a shining beacon on a hill. Jasper was the head of their family, and while he wasn’t all that compassionate he wasn’t especially cruel either. He wouldn’t want her starving on the streets and would let her tarry until she could figure out her next move.
She’d taken the mail coach from London and had walked from the village. It had been three years since she’d visited, and as she’d strolled up the lane to the manor she’d meticulously assessed the property.
The estate had once been prosperous, but Jasper and Desdemona were lazy, impoverished stewards who liked to revel in town rather than carry out their duties at Middlebury. The signs of neglect were evident everywhere. The trees in the orchards appeared sick and untrimmed. There were no horses and just a few cattle in the pastures. The grass on the lawns hadn’t been scythed or the driveway swept of leaves.
Inside, conditions were also deteriorating. There were stains on the rugs, dust under the furniture, and a general air of abandonment hanging over everything.
“The Earl will see you now,” the butler said, and he gestured for her to follow him.
At his remark, Catherine was a tad startled. Whenever Jasper was referred to as the earl, she was always momentarily confused. Fleetingly, she’d assume her father was still alive and waiting for her down the hall.
“Thank you,”
she replied.
She would have called the man by his name, but she had no idea who he was. Desdemona wasn’t renowned for paying wages that were owed so there weren’t many servants from the old days.
They climbed to the upper floors to what had been her father’s grand bedroom suite. Jasper was in the sitting room, lounged in a chair by the fire and drinking a glass of wine. Though it was two in the afternoon, he hadn’t dressed yet and was wearing a robe and trousers but no shirt or shoes. The lapels of the robe were open, the belt untied so his chest was visible, showing that he was developing quite a paunch from his rich diet.
The Henleys had strong bloodlines so, with his blond hair and blue eyes, he looked like Hayden—but a slighter, lesser version.
Hayden had been handsome and statuesque, six feet tall with wide shoulders and a muscled physique. He’d been charming too, smart and funny and kind and wonderful. In contrast, Jasper was shorter and smaller in stature, his blond hair not as golden, his blue eyes more gray than the dazzling sapphire Hayden’s had been.
Jasper was ordinary and uninspiring, a greedy, petty sloth who was arrogantly convinced of his importance to the world.
He tipped his glass in her direction and downed the contents.
“Cousin Catherine! Long time no see.”
“Hello, Jasper.”
“What brings you by? You must be having a spot of trouble. I never hear from you otherwise.”
“I might be in a bit of a jam.”
“I hope you’re not planning on staying. Des won’t like it.”
“I don’t care what Desdemona thinks. This house has over a hundred rooms. How would she even discover I’m here?”
He pushed himself to his feet and went to a desk in the corner where he pulled out a pouch from the drawer. He tossed it on the desktop, and it clinked when it landed.
“I suppose you need some money,” he said. “How much will it take to make you go away?”
