“Lord Cavratt.” Thorndale offered a short bow.
“Mr. Thorndale.” Crispin tried to hide his anger. “Allow me to introduce Lord and Lady Henley. Edward, Elizabeth, this is Mr. Thomas Thorndale of Herefordshire.”
The expected bows and curtsies were exchanged.
“Dinner is served,” Hancock announced.
Crispin repressed a smile. He’d specifically instructed Hancock to announce the evening meal before Thorndale had any opportunity to create havoc. Hancock had obviously taken his instructions to heart.
“Catherine, dear.” Crispin turned toward her and held out his hand.
She looked up at him, the first time in hours she had looked directly into his eyes. He smiled encouragingly. Catherine’s gaze shifted to her uncle. She seemed to debate for a moment before walking to where Crispin still stood waiting for her. She didn’t slip her hand in his as he’d hoped, but her gaze had returned to his face, anxiety written in every inch of it.
“Uncle always precedes me into meals.”
Crispin matched her whisper, but with firmness. “Not in this house.”
He slipped her arm around his own and began the procession into the dining room. Crispin noticed with satisfaction that since Edward accompanied his wife, Thorndale walked alone in to dinner. It was socially unacceptable. Crispin could not have cared less. Thorndale, with any luck, would turn tail and run before the end of the night. Then—Crispin smiled at the thought—he’d have his Catherine back.
There it was again: his Catherine. This possessiveness wasn’t at all like him.
Propriety required that Catherine be seated at the foot of the table and Crispin at the head. He would have greatly preferred to keep Catherine at his side. However, the more formal seating arrangement clearly indicated Catherine’s position and importance in his home, something Thorndale needed to understand.
“How long were you guardian to our dear Catherine?” Crispin heard Lizzie ask Thorndale several minutes into the meal.
Crispin smiled at the endearment. Lizzie wasn’t backing down from this undeclared war.
“My brother died eight years ago.”
“Your brother was her father, then?” Lizzie somehow managed to look and sound pleasantly curious when Crispin knew she fully intended to draw blood. “And her mother had passed on then also, I assume.”
Thorndale grunted an affirmative as he swallowed a generous mouthful of fish. “Died seven or so years before her husband. Left the worthless girl on my hands.”
It was the outside of enough. To insult a lady in her own house! Crispin opened his mouth to firmly set Thorndale in his place, but a fleeting look from Lizzie told him not to.
“How fortunate for Catherine that you took her in.” An almost undetectable look of scrutiny entered Lizzie’s eyes.
“Didn’t have a choice,” Thorndale grumbled. “The will stipulated it.”
“That does happen sometimes,” Edward observed dryly.
“George was an imbecile.” Thorndale continued stabbing at his meal, oblivious to the censure that had settled around the room. “Most ridiculous will I’d ever seen. Challenged it, of course, but it couldn’t be broken. Wasted an entire year with worthless solicitors.”
The year Catherine spent locked in her room, no doubt.
Dinner conversation moved to remarkably neutral topics and remained so through the rest of the meal. Crispin continually glanced at Catherine. She didn’t participate in the conversation around her. Her gaze remained firmly locked on her plate, though she did little more than push her food around.
“What brings you to London, Thorndale?” Edward asked after the ladies had left for the music room, leaving the gentlemen to their port.
Thorndale took a generous swallow. “Business with my solicitor.”
“Bothersome profession,” Edward grumbled. Crispin watched him look away from Thorndale. Crispin knew Edward had no such dissatisfaction with solicitors. He too, it seemed, was fishing for information.
“I generally ignore the infuriating man,” Thorndale said.
“Must have seemed worth the effort this time.” Edward gave Crispin a conspiratorial glance.
“Seems the man only just learned of some complication with my late brother’s estate.” Thorndale looked thoroughly annoyed. “Had to come to Town to ensure he got it right. He’d have given away a blasted fortune if I hadn’t stepped in.”
“I hope you completed your business to your satisfaction,” Edward said.
“Not yet. Soon.”
Crispin digested this bit of information as well as the momentary look of triumph Edward shot in his direction. That, then, had been the purpose of Edward’s strangely friendly conversation with the man they’d all agreed they disliked. Thorndale didn’t intend to stay in London long. Of course, the length of his residency depended on the nature of the problem with his brother’s estate. Did the complication involve Catherine? Surely Brown would have come across any significant problems. Still, it might warrant looking into.
Thorndale didn’t seem to expect to remain in Town much longer. Crispin would tell Catherine the good news. She would be relieved, and he could relax—just as soon as he knew the man was back in Herefordshire.
When they reached the music room, Catherine was nowhere to be seen. Crispin headed directly for Lizzie. “Where is Catherine?”
“She needed a moment to compose herself,” Lizzie said. “She seemed particularly concerned about showing emotion in front of her uncle.”
“He punished her for becoming emotional.”
“I can tell she is afraid of him. Horrible man.”
Crispin nodded. “With good reason. I’d hoped inviting him here tonight would fulfill, in the safest way possible, any obligation she has to see him.”
Quite suddenly, Lizzie’s eyes grew wide in alarm. She motioned with her head over Crispin’s shoulder toward the door. Crispin turned. Catherine, barely past the threshold, nodded in response to something her uncle said to her. He was likely berating her—she stood with her head hung and shoulders slumped—and Crispin was not going to stand for it.
He crossed the room, visions of pummeling the man to a pulp filling his mind. Thorndale deserved to be taken down a few pegs, and that seemed a very justified means of doing so.
Catherine looked up when Crispin reached her side. The sparkle had gone out of her eyes. Thorndale had a great deal to answer for once Crispin had Catherine safely away.
“Catherine, dear.” Crispin stepped between Catherine and her uncle.
“I am having a word with my niece.”
“Yes, but I am requesting the presence of my wife.” Crispin slipped Catherine’s arm through his. “I believe my claim outweighs yours.”
Without allowing Thorndale a response, Crispin guided her away. “Shall I ask Lizzie to add a few drops of cream to your uncle’s tea?” he asked in a low whisper.
“Yes, please.” A hint of a smile hovered on Catherine’s face.
Resisting the urge to kiss her nearly smiling mouth, Crispin pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. She blushed quite flatteringly. “What was he saying to you?”
He regretted the question almost immediately. Catherine’s whole countenance fell once more.
“He felt the need to remind me of my place.” She lowered her eyes. “He thinks I am acting better than I am.”
“Better than—? He said that to you?”
“Crispin, please don’t make a scene.”
“He can’t treat you that way. Not in this house. Not in front of me.”
“You’ll only make him angry.”
“He has certainly made me angry.” He turned back to where Thorndale was making himself comfortable on the sofa. The man was going to get the set-down of his life. Crispin could almost hear the trumpets announcing the start of a jousting match.
“Please, Crispin. Please don’t. If we leave it be, he’ll leave. Please. That’s all I want.”
Catherine’s pleas
hardly registered. Crispin made his way to the sofa, his anger steaming hot, his eyes burning a hole right through Thorndale’s overstuffed waistcoat.
“Thorndale,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Crispin, please.”
“Shut your mouth, wench,” Thorndale snapped at Catherine.
A muffled sob was all Crispin heard before Catherine fled past him in a flurry of skirts and ran from the room.
“She never did have any sense of propriety,” Thorndale sneered.
“You will speak respectfully of and to my wife.” Crispin barely repressed the urge to grasp the man’s thick neck in his hands.
“I will speak however I—”
“Catherine is obviously not feeling well,” Lizzie interrupted them both. “We should leave early so she won’t be overset.”
“I’ll have the grooms bring your carriage around as well, Thorndale.” Edward’s tone allowed no argument.
At what point had Crispin lost control of the situation? Catherine had run out of the room like a frightened child. Edward was ordering the carriages, with Lizzie orchestrating Thorndale’s removal from the house. Meanwhile, Crispin stood seething in the middle of the room, anxious to bloody the nose of a man who’d been permitted to leave without so much as a scratch.
He was supposed to be looking out for his wife. He ought to have been her rescuer, not the bystander. Thorndale’s departure would have been far more satisfying had he been the one to toss the cad from the house.
“We had his carriage parked out front all night,” Hancock admitted after Lizzie and Edward had departed as well. “Thought it would facilitate a quick removal should one be necessary.”
“Which it was,” Crispin grumbled.
“Lady Cavratt’s woman tells me her ladyship was quite overset,” Hancock continued. Most of the ton would be shocked at Crispin’s easy relationship with his butler. But in moments like this, Hancock was invaluable. “Jane’s given her a small amount of laudanum to help her sleep.”
Laudanum? Catherine required sedatives? His presence during Thorndale’s visit should have been supportive, preventative of disaster. True to form, Crispin seemed to have disappointed her. Again.
Chapter Seventeen
“I am not receiving visitors,” Catherine told Hancock almost desperately the next afternoon when he announced a visitor awaited her in the music room.
“I attempted to say as much. He didn’t consider himself a visitor.”
“Who is it?” Catherine had her suspicions.
“Mr. Thorndale.”
Catherine’s stomach made a full turn inside as it inched its way toward her throat. Crispin had left earlier to meet with his solicitor. She’d barely managed to hide her dismay when Crispin had announced his destination. What else could they be discussing but the annulment? Now she had to face Uncle alone again.
“Shall I attempt to send Mr. Thorndale off?” Hancock asked.
That would certainly be the easier course of action. Catherine had no desire to see her uncle. But she couldn’t avoid him forever, especially if she was a few signatures away from being left to her own defenses. Steeling herself for the encounter ahead of her, Catherine straightened her shoulders.
“No,” she told Hancock. “I will see him. Briefly.”
“Of course, my lady.” Hancock sounded as though he were attempting to convince her of her own statement. “If his lordship should return during Mr. Thorndale’s visit, shall I send him in?”
Catherine’s heart sank. She had very quickly come to depend on Crispin. She needed to learn to survive without him. “If he wishes to join us, he would certainly be welcome, though I do not anticipate Mr. Thorndale remaining long.” That sounded far more confident than she felt.
She opened the doors to the music room, her heart pounding in her ears. Uncle sat near the pianoforte as if he were master of Permount House.
“Have you begun your daily practice?”
Catherine shook her head.
“Sit.”
She very nearly complied. Obedience had always been her instinctual response to her uncle. Catherine remained standing and took a breath to steady her nerves. “Did you have a particular reason for your visit, Uncle?”
The look of shock on his face bolstered Catherine’s courage. She stood straight, shoulders back, and didn’t cower. But his surprise slid into annoyance, and Catherine involuntarily took a step back.
“You dare question me?” Anger laced his words.
She swallowed and reminded herself of her determination to stand on her own two feet. “This is my home,” she said. “I have every right to know why you are here.”
“How much longer do you think Cavratt’ll keep you around? Can’t take much longer to get the annulment.”
“Perhaps he does not intend to obtain one.” Crispin absolutely intended to obtain an annulment, was seeing to it at that very moment, in fact. But Catherine had no intention of telling her uncle as much.
“My brother would not have wished you to be turned out on the street.” Uncle offered this, what could have been a kind sentiment, with as much tenderness as a rabid dog. “I will be returning soon to Yandell Hall and you will return with me.”
Catherine could feel her jaw drop. Return with him? Panic gripped her insides. She could not live with her uncle again. She had been free of the pain and the beatings and the humiliation for weeks. Going back was not an option.
“In fact”—Uncle rose and strode determinedly toward the door—“I will instruct your things be packed at once for your removal to Hill Street.”
She forced her voice to remain calm even as she felt herself begin to shake. “No.”
Uncle spun around, his face registering complete shock. He began to sputter.
Catherine’s heart pounded. She could not go back to Yandell Hall. “I am a married woman and will stay with my husband.” Her voice remained level, though her knees quaked beneath her.
“Wretched wench!” Uncle apparently found his voice again. He stormed to where she stood only a few feet from the closed door. “How dare you talk back to me!”
“My place is here.” Defying her uncle had never seemed an option over the past eight years, yet there she stood, refusing to be bullied.
“I’ll show you your place!”
Living at Permount House had so unaccustomed her to Uncle’s trademark violence that the sting of his hand across her face came unexpectedly. She stumbled backward, barely keeping her balance.
“Grown mighty high in the instep, have you?” Uncle grumbled. His massive hand wrapped hard around her arm as he pulled Catherine closer to him. “You’ll pay for your impertinence.”
“I am not leaving this house.” Catherine struggled against him with all the strength in her body, but his grip held fast. “You have no right—”
“We will depart without your personal effects,” Uncle decreed. “That dandy can keep the fripperies he bought you.”
She refused to be dragged from the house in disgrace to live another eight years in misery. Catherine dealt a swift kick to Uncle’s shin and his grip slackened. She pulled away and grabbed the door handle, throwing the doors open.
Hancock stood in the doorway. “My lady?” he asked. Catherine heard the concern in his voice.
“Mr. Thorndale will be leaving now.” Catherine stood as tall and confident as she could manage with blood trickling down her chin.
Hancock motioned to two footmen just out of sight in the hall. They took hold of Uncle’s arms and accompanied him from the room. As he passed the threshold, Uncle shot Catherine a glance that told her with chilling certainty that they would cross paths again.
She hadn’t precisely defeated her foe, but she had stood up to him.
* * *
Crispin stepped into the back sitting room of Permount House, his mind heavily occupied. Mr. Brown had unearthed more information regarding the inheritance Catherine had received through a somewhat distant maternal relative. The amount w
as significant—at least £25,000—but the matter had proven complicated. The solicitor had spent the better part of thirty minutes expounding on laws of inheritance and something involving order of death and the will of Catherine’s father. Crispin had heard very little and understood even less.
Should she receive this bequest, Catherine’s future would be secured and one more obstacle to the annulment would be eliminated. Crispin ought to have found relief in the knowledge. Instead, he’d grown increasingly more sullen.
“My lord.” Hancock’s anxious tone caught Crispin’s wandering attention.
“Hancock? Is anything amiss?”
“He was here.”
He? He who? Had Lizzie tracked Philip down and brought him here to court Catherine right in Crispin’s own house? Behind his back? He’d ring a peal over Lizzie’s head she’d not soon forget!
“I tried denying him entry, but he’d have none of it.” Hancock walked with Crispin toward the front of the house.
Crispin eyed Hancock warily. How much did his ever-faithful butler know of Lizzie’s schemes? And why did Hancock feel the need to prevent Philip’s entrance? Did he know Crispin would disapprove? Good man!
“I believed the situation safe enough with both of them in the music room,” Hancock said. “Her ladyship enjoys playing.”
“The music room?” Catherine had played for Crispin’s would-be replacement? His jaw clenched.
“But I never heard any music,” Hancock said.
Crispin turned to face Hancock, silently demanding the story be completed.
“He began shouting. Then her ladyship threw open the door and—” Hancock stopped abruptly, shoulders squared in determination. “I had Thorndale thrown bodily from the house!”
“Thorndale!” Crispin felt his heart drop to the pit of his stomach. Thorndale!
“No lady should be treated that way in her own home.” A muscle twitched in Hancock’s jaw. He was angry. Livid, even. What had Thorndale done?
A sense of panic began settling in. “Where is Lady Cavratt?”
“In her room, my lord.”
Crispin ran up the stairs. So help him, if Thorndale had hit her again, he would leave the man a bloody mess! He flew through the door to Catherine’s sitting area without stopping to knock. Catherine sat wrapped in a blanket on the sofa facing the fireplace. Her eyes flicked to his for a fraction of a second before she snapped her head back around, facing directly away from Crispin.
The Kiss of a Stranger Page 14
