“Do you think I haven’t?” Cat cried, pulling her hands from his. “Day after day. Night after night after ni—” Her voice broke, choking off her last words.
“Promise me you’ll listen to him.”
“I can’t!”
“Dammit, why not?”
Cat fished in her reticule for a handkerchief, blew her nose. “Because I’m a stubborn fool.”
Tony threw up his hands. She was as bad as Alex. It was like talking to a wall. He stood up, unsure if he had made any impression on her at all. Driving in the park with Amabel was going to be a refreshing change from the doom and gloom which seemed to surround him on all sides.
With one last admonitory look, Tony placed a chaste kiss on Cat’s cheek and left.
Late that afternoon, when Anthony arrived back at Marchmont House after his drive with Amabel, he found two heavy traveling coaches in the circular drive and a succession of footmen struggling to unload mountainous piles of luggage. Evidently, the Duchess of Marchmont was certain the London house, which had been closed for so many years, was bare of all necessary luxuries and had packed vast quantities of items from Marchmont to bring to town. Thus, the duke and duchess were arriving only in the nick of time for the debut of Miss Amabel Lovell, an event in which they had considerable interest. They were also aware that Catherine Perez was to be one of the guests at the Lovell ball.
Tony found his father and Alex sharing a bottle of brandy in the library. His mother was already touring the house, planning the renovations needed after so many years of neglect. The duke and his eldest son wore matching scowls, their customary expression when confined in the same room for more than five minutes. Anthony had no desire to discover what had set them off this time. Perhaps it was merely force of habit. After a dutiful greeting to his father, he poured a glass of brandy, sank into a comfortable chair, and propped his feet up before the fire. Thank God for the peaceful people of the world. The cheerful ones. Like Amabel.
Captain Percy Markham regarded the glittering crowd in the Lovell’s ballroom with great satisfaction. It was by far the finest event to which he had been invited since he had sold his commission after taking a ball in the shoulder at the siege of Pamplona. He usually did not have entrée into the higher levels of the ton, but his mother and Lady Lovell had been friends since girlhood. Markham was prepared to enjoy his good fortune. And take advantage of it if he could.
He was not above reading the society items in the newspapers and not surprised when he spotted Catherine Perez dancing in the arms of another familiar face, Gordon Somersby. How like old times in Lisbon. Except he had no money left to lose at the Casa Audley’s gaming tables. Poor as the proverbial church mouse, he could still see the blank unsmiling face of the miserable chit’s husband—who dared call himself a Don—as he swept the captain’s coins into the bank at the faro table. All of it. Gone in a week of non-stop fever. His pay, his winnings from countless games with brother officers, his battlefield lootings. Don Perez Something or Other had refused his vowel for his small estate in East Anglia. Damn his supercilious hide! And bloody good thing he was dead. He just might have called him out. Though it was beneath a gentleman to go to the field of honor with a dealer from a gaming house. A Spaniard at that. Surprising they let the Perez woman into a place like this. The little bitch thought she was so grand. When he’d cornered her in the Casa’s courtyard one night and tried to snatch a kiss, she’d had one of her Portuguese bullies throw him out. Wouldn’t have done it he hadn’t lost all his money, the little whore.
Percy Markham watched as Catarina lifted her laughing face to her partner as she romped her way through a lively country dance. What right had a gaming house girl to enjoy an endless round of ton parties when he, the perfectly respectable son of a country squire could not? Markham caught himself glowering. He had come to take advantage of this rare invitation, to meet the right people, to be charming enough to be remembered as a suitable single gentleman worthy of future invitations to even greater houses. Temper tantrums were a mistake.
The ex-captain of infantry pasted a smile on his innocuous face and went in search of a drink. He would then concentrate on charming the chaperones and their bevy of innocent charges—wealthy innocent charges—before he would allow himself the self-indulgence of slipping into the sanctuary of the cardroom.
Cat was not surprised when Amabel begged she stay close by on this exciting night of the younger girl’s official debut in society. They had, after all, become the closest of friends over the past six months. Between each set Amabel and Cat returned to chairs set next to Lady Lovell, Clara, and Blanca. It was only when Cat looked up to see an unknown, exceptionally distinguished gentleman of a certain age advancing steadily toward them, the crowd parting around him like the Red Sea before Moses, that Cat realized even Amabel had defected to the enemy. With the gentleman was a highly attractive woman of middle years, as autocratic and distinguished as the man at her side. And behind them, thoroughly enjoying the sensation caused by the return of the Duke and Duchess of Marchmont from their years in exile, were the roughly handsome faces of Alexander and Anthony Trowbridge. All five ladies rose, sinking into deep curtseys as Alex made the necessary introductions.
Cat doubted her legs were going to bring her upright. She was going to crumple in an ignominious heap at their feet. She could not get up. Could not look up. The other ladies were already upright, embarking on a spritely conversation, while Cat prayed for the floor to open and swallow her up. A strong hand gripped her arm and pulled her to her feet. Golden amber eyes glittered as Alex leaned close to whisper, “It’s all right, you know. They don’t bite.”
He straightened and turned to his father, pronouncing a low-pitched private introduction with grave formality. “Your Grace, “I have the honor of presenting to you my wife.”
Sebastian Trowbridge raised Catherine’s lifeless hand to his lips and kissed it. He no longer wondered if his son had made this mésalliance merely to spite him. The girl was exquisite. And presentable, thank God. “Welcome to the family, my dear,” said the Duke of Marchmont, and found the words did not stick so hard upon his tongue.
Cat was never able to remember if she made the correct polite response. She only knew she was trapped. Alex had brought up the heavy guns, and she was pinned down for the slaughter to follow. She could not let him get away with it. He was so sly, so sure of his ultimate triumph. Gratefully, she escaped into the arms of Lord Wrexham, who had come to claim a promised waltz.
Fortunately for all concerned, Percy Markham had been occupied on the far side of the ballroom during the dramatic entrance of the Duke and Duchess of Marchmont. Having done his homework well, he had discovered a young lady whose purse was as plump as her body, and was thoroughly occupied with making an impression on the young lady and her two guard dog aunts. So he did not witness the parental approval bestowed on Catherine Perez. Less fortunately, an hour later he had the shock of discovering he was in the same room with two men who could claim the name of a dead man. Don Alexis Perez Whatever. Gambler. Cheat. And now, surely, whoremaster. For Markham had no trouble discovering the identity of the twin ghosts. And how else to explain one or both of the sons of the Duke of Marchmont passing themselves off as a Spaniard?
While doing their duty for their country, the twins had used the beauteous Catarina to amuse themselves. Which made the arrogant little bitch who had had him thrown out of the Casa Audley nothing more than the twins’ shared whore. For a few sweet moments Markham contemplated blackmail. But, like other gentlemen before him, he recognized the twins were as dangerous as they were powerful. He would settle for revenge. He had, after all, made excellent progress with an heiress tonight. His fortunes were looking up. A hint here, a word there, and he would dine out for weeks on this story, carving a niche among bored sophisticates constantly on the lookout for the most titillating on dits. The twins would be tarnished, the little whore ruined.
As he wended his way toward yet another dip into
the punchbowl, Percy Markham was smiling.
Chapter Twenty-seven
In the manner of rumors, the people most closely involved were the last to hear. The consequence of the Duke and Duchess of Marchmont was such that, at the beginning, only the scavengers lurking on the outer fringes of the ton chose to believe Percy Markham’s winks, nods and intimations that London’s finest had been sadly deceived into making a heroine of Harborough’s Portuguese whore. But, all too soon, the possibility—which Markham always added in a sly aside—that both Trowbridge twins had enjoyed Catherine Audley’s generous nature, was enough to erode the better judgment of a surprising number of society’s more righteous members. Nothing but trouble, the Trowbridge twins, from the day they were born. Within three days it was generally conceded—with sad shaking of heads while hearts thrilled to such a titillating scandal—the twins had taken shocking advantage of their illustrious parents by introducing them to their mistress. Not done, old boy, simply not done.
At Everingham House all was unusually peaceful. On the day after Amabel’s ball Cat received a note from Alex. He would be leaving London for a week or so. He wanted to be sure Harborough Castle, which he had not seen in seven years, would be ready for them. Both of them.
Cat gritted her teeth, opened a nearly identical note from Anthony. Tony, it seemed, planned to accompany his brother to Somerset. In short, he did not trust Alex out of his sight. He hoped Cat would enjoy her few days’ respite.
Although Cat would never admit it, the absence of her twin nemeses had more than a little to do with her decision to send her regrets for the multiple ton events scheduled on the next few evenings. She spent much of the time in her room, quietly puzzling out her next moves in the chess game she and Blas—Alex—were waging. She would not be manipulated.
The Duchess of Harborough called upon the ladies of Everingham House. To Cat’s relief the duchess confined herself to a few innocuous questions about Catherine’s mother’s family and life in Lisbon during the war. At no time did Lady Marchmont, who was well aware her consequence could intimidate the stoutest heart, indicate anything more than polite interest in someone her sons had known while on the continent. The duchess, well pleased with the quality of her daughter-in-law and of her companions as well, went away with an enigmatic smile on her lips. Cat, though vastly relieved to have survived the encounter, was even more strongly convinced she could never, ever, achieve the regal consequence of a Duchess of Marchmont.
At teatime on the afternoon of the fourth day after the Lovell’s ball, Sir Giles entered the drawing room where the ladies were having a desultory discussion about why they had received no callers that afternoon. He appeared more puzzled than worried as he said, “Catherine, my dear, I’ve just had a most peculiar conversation with Wrexham. He has requested a private interview with you. You have told him the truth, have you not? Usually, a request to be private with a young woman is tantamount to an offer of marriage.”
Marriage? Cat strongly doubted it. But something was surely wrong. Since the start of the season, there had not been a day when the ladies had not been inundated with callers. With instincts heightened by seven years of war, Cat experienced an intense frisson of alarm.
“You’ll find him in the morning room,” Sir Giles directed. “That is, I’m told, the favored spot for entertaining gentleman callers.” Looking like an innocent middle-aged cherub, Sir Giles raised one brow and gave Cat a knowing smile. Behind him, Clara and Blanca stared at each other, uncertain if they should rejoice or be horrified that the elusive Earl of Wrexham might be on the verge of offering marriage.
Wrexham was pacing the floor when Cat walked in, a scowl deepening the lines of dissipation which creased his cheeks. “Sit down, Catherine,” he ordered abruptly. Startled by his tone, she did as he commanded. “When I spoke with Sir Giles,” said the earl, “I determined he had not heard what is being said about town, and I did not choose to enlighten him. I know you would not care to put him in the position of defending your honor.” Ignoring Cat’s gasp of alarm, Wrexham continued: “But with you I have no choice, Catherine.” His gray eyes examined her, all the way to the soul. Incredulous, he added, “Are you truly ignorant of the latest on dit?”
“Have you run mad, Wrexham? I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about.”
So he told her.
“Madre de deus!” Cat breathed softly. “I knew there might be trouble, but I did not think it would be this . . . this vicious.”
“An appropriate word,” said Wrexham grimly. “I’ve been to Marchmont House, but it seems Harborough and his brother are in Somerset. Their timing is unfortunate. Though, admittedly, it’s too late to silence Markham. The damage has been done.” The earl paused, a dark smile flitting across his saturnine features. “I wonder if the captain realizes just how foolish he has been. When Harborough hears of it, Markham will be fortunate to survive this with his life.”
The earl paused, regarding Cat with an uncharacteristic moment of hesitation. “Catherine,” he ventured, “I don’t suppose you would consider an offer of marriage?”
“From whom?” Cat inquired, genuinely puzzled.
Not even when Cat told him the truth about her years in Portugal had Wrexham been so taken aback. “From myself,” he snapped, sparks flying from the flint of his eyes.
“Oh, my dear!” Cat jumped up from the sofa, clasped her hands around his. “Forgive me. It’s just that I have always been so sure you would never make me anything but the most improper of offers.”
“We have been friends, have we not?” Wrexham retorted angrily, conveniently dismissing his earlier less than honorable intentions. “If I had been going to defect from your side, I should have done so when you told me about Harborough.”
“You are quite right,” Cat admitted with sincere humility. “Once again I have been a fool.” She sank back down on the sofa, struggling to find words which would not compound her offense. “Wrexham . . . I am truly humbled by your offer. That I did not expect it, I lay to my own most unbecoming cynicism. But the truth is, I like you too well to marry you. I would not see you with a wife who could not give you the devotion you deserve.”
The earl took it well, his mind was relieved, if his heart was not. “Then you must send for Harborough,” he declared. “This is not a scandal which is going to disappear with the next on dit which drifts to the surface. You are about to be ostracized, Catherine. It will take not only a great deal of power and influence to mend matters, but a wedding as well. And quickly.”
Wrexham bent down, picked up her hand, placed a kiss on the inside of her wrist. “It has been a pleasure, Catherine,” he murmured. “I shall inform the twins they may call upon me if help is needed.”
Cat was still sitting, motionless, on the sofa in the morning room when Rankin came to inform her that yet another caller had arrived.
When she returned to the drawing room, her cousin Edmund Audley, Viscount Norwell, was attempting to carry on a conversation with Lady Everingham and Dona Blanca. His brown hair was windblown, his brow creased; a sheen of perspiration overlaid his earnest young features. He was wearing his spectacles. At his cousin’s entry he sprang to his feet, bolting to her side.
“You have heard, have you not?” he whispered fiercely. “I can see it in your eyes.” He nodded toward the two older ladies. “It is apparent they have not, and I have told them nothing.” The young viscount ran an agitated hand through his hair. “They will think me run mad,” he said, “but I must speak with you alone, Catherine.”
Cat took a deep breath. “No, cousin, I fear we must have it all out in the open.” She drew him back to his chair, then gave the ladies a brief account of what she had learned from Wrexham.
“That’s why I’ve come,” Lord Norwell burst out as soon as she had finished. “You must marry me, Catherine. “It’s the only solution. Papa won’t care for it, of course, but I’ve plenty of income of my own. Great Aunt Matilda left me her fortune, don’t you know?
And we shall go on very well. Believe me, cousin, marriage is all that will save you.”
“He is right,” Clara agreed with a significant look straight into Cat’s green eyes. “But not to your cousin, I think.”
Blanca added her fierce endorsement. “Listen to Clara, Catarina. Stop this stubbornness and accept Harborough’s offer.”
“Harborough?” said Edmund blankly. “Harborough made you an offer?”
It seemed to be Cat’s afternoon for apologies. While she was struggling to explain the complexities of her situation to her cousin and thank him for his truly noble offer, Rankin announced additional visitors.
“Edmund, what are you doing here?” demanded his mama as she paused just inside the door, her daughter Lydia and the Earl of Ailesbury close behind.
Norwell rose to his feet with great dignity, adjusted his spectacles, and faced his family with considerable bravery. “I–I am making cousin Catherine an offer, mama. S–she has been much wronged, and I am determined to m–mend matters.”
“Fiddlesticks!” scoffed his mother.
“But you can’t!” cried his sister, who knew a great deal more about Catherine’s anomalous situation than her innocent young brother.
“Nonsense!” added Lord Ailesbury. “Your cousin is well provided with protectors.” He choked for a moment on the unfortunate choice of words. “She does not need a young pup like you to defend her honor. Though I cannot deny your family feeling does you credit.”
Ailesbury paused to properly greet the ladies before turning to his cousin’s child. “Catherine, I presume you have heard the tales that whelp Markham has been spreading. Lady Ailesbury, Lydia, and I have come to inform you that we reject such aspersions on a member of our family and will lend you the full support of the Audleys against such dastardly lies.”
The Sometime Bride Page 38
