Chapter Twenty-five
A particularly plaintive tune filled Permount House late the next morning. Crispin stood outside the closed doors of the music room, debating what he ought to do. He remembered enough of his conduct the night before to feel like a complete cad. Catherine’s pale, disappointed face came unbidden into his thoughts. He ought to apologize but wasn’t sure she wanted to hear it.
A clean break was best, he told himself. She would leave in a few days and his cynicism and sharp words wouldn’t hurt her again. But he ought to do something to make amends.
He left the house without a word to his wife. Crispin rode the short distance to Philip’s house on Park Lane. He owed Catherine some kind of apologetic gesture. Philip would know which one, surely.
“Come to extol the perfection of my Mathematical, no doubt,” Philip said when Crispin joined him in his book room. “My valet swears he never tied a better looking knot. What a shame the Beau is not here to fawn on me.”
“I believe Brummell favors the Waterfall,” Crispin answered dryly, dropping into a chair beside Philip.
“Only because he has never seen such a fine Mathematical.”
“Can you not be serious for a moment or two, Philip?”
“Did your man nick you with the razor this morning?” Philip eyed him quizzically.
“I need your advice on a . . . personal matter.” Lud, it was difficult admitting that.
“I always have been a source of wisdom.” Philip smiled a touch arrogantly but with enough of a laugh in his eyes to make the expression humorous.
Crispin, however, was not particularly in the mood to be entertained. “I said something thoughtless to Catherine last night.”
“Finally told her how you feel?”
“I guess I was—What did you say?”
“Never mind.” Philip shrugged as if it didn’t matter much.
“What do you mean ‘how I feel’?”
“We’ve known each other since we were thirteen years old, Crispin. I’ve seen the way you look at her.”
“You know full well the nature of mine and Catherine’s connection.”
Philip lounged lazily in his chair, watching Crispin with obvious amusement. “Fustian! I know how it started. I know about the annulment proceedings. And I know you were ready to toss Finley—and, I half suspected, myself—from your box to his very disreputable death last night.”
“We weren’t discussing Finley!”
“No, we were discussing Catherine.”
“And what possessed you to ask for leave to use her Christian name? Do you have designs on my—” Crispin bit back the rest of his lecture.
“Your wife?” Philip pressed. “Or ‘your Catherine,’ perhaps?”
Blast Philip!
“Face facts, old friend. You’ve committed the most inexcusable offense known to Polite Society.”
Crispin truly hated when Philip added dramatics to his already affected demeanor. “What would that be?” As if he needed to ask to get an answer.
“You’ve fallen in love with your wife.”
“You know perfectly I don’t put a great deal of confidence in love and all that.”
“I knew a Crispin Handle once who did.” Philip’s right leg, draped elegantly over his left, swung lazily. “Then he inherited a fortune and an ancient title and found himself thrown into the company of the hypocritical ton—mercenaries and liars the lot. Deuced messy way to lose faith in humanity.”
“Thank you for that glimpse into my past.” Why had he even come? Philip was no help at all.
“You didn’t actually drink the champagne you brought into your box last night, did you?”
“What does that have to do with—?”
“You, my friend, grow exceptionally morose when in your cups.”
“I was not drunk.” Catherine had jumped to the same conclusion.
“It does not take much. Tell me, did you wax eloquent on the doomed future of the kingdom or, my personal favorite, the impossibility of love and happiness and anything remotely pleasant?”
“I did not come to discuss me.”
“But you are the problem.” A sudden flash of the knowing, intelligent Philip whom Crispin knew from years before emerged. “Admit defeat, Crispin. Your Catherine has completely destroyed your peace and undermined your determination to distrust and dislike anyone and everything you encounter.”
Crispin rubbed his weary eyes. “She’s all I think about,” he admitted, a man beaten. “I miss her after ridiculously short separations. She looks in another man’s direction and I’m jealous as a greenhorn. I’m willing to make a cake of myself just to see her smile or hear her laugh. It’s pathetic.”
“Sounds like love to me.”
“It’s torture.”
“Sweet torture.” Was that a smirk on Philip’s face? The brainless dandy Philip insisted on being returned in full force and Crispin knew he’d get no more advice from him.
The book room doors flew open and Jason rushed inside, looking anxious.
“Crispin. Glad you’re here.”
Philip swung his quizzing glass in a lazy circle. “What panic-inducing crisis has brought you here this time?”
Jason ignored his brother and spoke directly to Crispin. “Thorndale’s solicitor came by my office this morning. He’d had an unpleasant meeting with his client.”
“An unpleasant man took part in an unpleasant meeting?” Philip raised an eyebrow, his quizzing glass still going ’round. “This is an emergency.”
Crispin had no patience for theatrics when in the best of humors. In his current mood, the dramatics tempted him to land the both of them a facer and storm off.
“Thorndale has accepted that his legal challenge will not be heard before Lady Cavratt’s birthday,” Jason said.
“So you’ve come for a celebratory glass of champagne.” Philip’s comment earned him a less than amused glare from his brother.
“Thorndale has found a loophole—one that needs no ruling from any court. Knowing Thorndale for the dastard that he is, Clayton is afraid the man will take advantage of the technicality.”
“What’s the loophole?” Crispin’s head pounded anew. The introduction of another legal technicality brought the headache he’d been fighting all morning back with a vengeance.
“No stipulation was made regarding the disbursement of the Lady Cavratt’s inheritance should there be no one available to inherit it.”
What was Jason yammering about? Crispin’s head hurt, deuce take it. And he still hadn’t figured out a way back into Catherine’s good graces. Couldn’t they have a legal debate later?
“Pay attention, Crispin!” Jason’s patience had clearly gone. “She has to be twenty-one to inherit—”
“Which she will be in six days.” Must the man be so obtuse?
“Thorndale gets it all if Lady Cavratt can’t claim it.” Jason spoke slowly, as though Crispin were the biggest dunderhead.
Philip seemed to have caught on to whatever his brother found so crucial. He’d risen from his relaxed pose and was staring mouth agape at Jason.
Crispin rubbed his face. The ramshackle knight was tired, blast it.
Philip stepped directly in front of him and shook him by the shoulders. “Think, man!” he demanded, his look fierce. “The only way he gets the blunt is for her to forfeit. The only way for her to lose the inheritance is by default.” Philip shook him harder in rhythm with his words. “Not being alive to claim it.”
Crispin felt as though someone hit him just under his ribcage. “He wouldn’t . . . he wouldn’t really . . . kill her.”
“Thorndale’s man of business is afraid he might.”
“I’ll take her to Kinnley.” Crispin rushed to the door.
“Thorndale will know to look there, Crispin,” Philip said. “All your properties are easy targets.”
“I have to keep her away from him!” Crispin continued his mad rush to the stables.
Philip kept up with hi
m. “Take her to any of the Lampton holdings. I’ll come around to Permount House shortly to help with any arrangements.”
Crispin nodded, mounting as quickly as possible.
His mind turned dozens of directions as he frantically maneuvered through the London traffic. Where should he take Catherine? Which destination would Thorndale be least likely to think of searching? What if he was watching Permount House? Perhaps Philip’s Scottish hunting box would serve. It sat further from London than the other Lampton properties, and few people knew of it.
Crispin burst unceremoniously through the back entrance of Permount House. A few steps inside, he encountered Hancock.
“Where is Lady Cavratt?” Crispin frantically looked inside each room he passed.
“I believe she is still in the music room. She has not yet rung for tea, though she seems to be finished with her practicing.”
“Have Jane pack a trunk for Lady Cavratt.” Crispin kept his voice low. “The necessities only. Have her pack for a cold climate. And have my man do the same for myself. They are to tell no one—not even any of the servants.”
Hancock bowed and disappeared up the staircase.
Crispin reached the closed music room doors in record time. He flung them open, not waiting for the footman to do so. The sooner he got Catherine beyond Thorndale’s reach, the better.
He couldn’t help a sigh of relief when he spotted her, unharmed, leaning against the frame of the open French doors. She turned her gaze toward him as he closed the music room doors and crossed the room. Not surprisingly, she didn’t look particularly overjoyed to see him. He’d fix that problem later. Right then, he needed to get her someplace safe.
“Hello, Crispin.” Her eyes didn’t quite meet his.
“We have a problem, Catherine.” A direct approach seemed best—faster, at least. “With Thorndale.”
“Uncle?”
“It seems he’s figured out that he’ll receive your inheritance if you don’t claim it.” Crispin rushed through the explanation, afraid even the slightest delay would ruin everything. “As you stand between him and the inheritance, he sees you as an impediment. I believe your life may be in danger.”
Catherine’s eyes grew large, her face drained of color. Perhaps a direct approach had been a bad idea after all. “Pistols,” she said in a strangled whisper.
Crispin took hold of her hand. “You must be out of London as soon as possible.”
She nodded, her eyes still enormous with obvious trepidation, tears gathering on her lashes.
“There is no time for tears, darling. We must leave immediately.”
“We?” Catherine’s eyes jumped to his face. She looked alarmed. “Are you coming with me?”
“Of course.” Did she think he would simply abandon her? He was an imbecile at times, certainly, but he wasn’t heartless.
“But you would be in danger,” she protested. “I cannot allow you to—”
He placed the tips of his fingers against her lips and quite effectively cut off her words. “I will brook no arguments, Catherine.”
She stepped backward enough to free her mouth from his fingertips. “This is madness. If I go alone, you will be safe. We need not both be in danger.”
“Just how do you propose arriving at a destination I have not yet revealed to you?” Why was the infuriating woman arguing with him on this? They were running out of time!
“You can give the direction to the driver. Or did you intend on driving the coach as well?”
“You cannot travel unprotected, Catherine. Even without Thorndale’s threats, you would be in peril on a highway alone.”
“But you wouldn’t be in danger if you remained here.”
So Catherine had a stubborn streak, did she? Crispin, too, could be unflinching in his resolve. “I am accompanying you, Catherine, and I will hear no more arguments about it.”
“I will not place you in danger.” Catherine attempted to tug her hand free of his. A futile effort, to be sure. He had no intention of releasing her hand until she was at least six counties removed from London. Perhaps not even then.
“Confound it, Catherine! We do not have time to quibble about this.”
“But there is no reason for you to come with me.”
“There is every reason,” Crispin countered. “Please, Catherine.” He wasn’t above begging. “The sooner we are out of London, the better.”
Crispin tugged her by the hand toward the music room doors. If he had to drag her kicking and screaming all the way to Philip’s hunting box, he would do just that.
“But I don’t understand.”
“That you’re in danger?” Crispin’s anxiety and frustration began to boil over.
“Why you are making this your concern.”
Pushing down an exasperated growl, Crispin took gentle hold of her chin so she would be forced to see the determination he knew must be obvious in his face. “I am not going to sit back and let some madman threaten you, Catherine. And I will not send you off alone. Not now. Not ever.” Why in heaven’s name was she not moving more willingly? A violent man was after her—she ought to be running!
“But why?”
“Because I love you, blast it!”
“You said you didn’t believe in love.”
“I know!” Crispin pulled away and threw his free hand up in the air, allowing his bewilderment and frustration to show in his action and tone. “Apparently I am losing my mind along with my temper.”
“Crispin?” Catherine’s voice was suddenly so small and uncertain.
Somehow he had to convince her to come with him. She had to listen to him. They had to get away from there. “I know I’m not making any sense. I don’t understand it myself. But I need you to do this. I need you to just come. Where you will be safe. And I need to be there, too. I need to know that you’re safe. I . . .” Crispin felt himself shake with the frustration and confusion of it all. “I can’t explain it. I just—”
Catherine’s fingers pressed to his lips the same way his had moments earlier to hers. “I love you, too,” she whispered.
Crispin’s shock muted any reply he might have produced. She loved him? Truly? He shook his head. He’d sort all that out later. First matter of business: safety.
“So you’ll come?” he asked.
Catherine nodded and smiled. Crispin allowed a sigh of relief. He pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to her lips and another to her forehead. “We have to hurry,” he whispered. With every ounce of determination—for the temptation to stay there and kiss her far more thoroughly was quite strong—he turned toward the door, her hand still firmly held in his own, and reached for the handle.
“Don’t touch it, Cavratt.”
Thorndale.
Crispin heard the distinct click of a gun cocking.
Chapter Twenty-six
Uncle. Catherine’s heart seemed to stop for a moment. They were too late.
“Come here, wench!”
Catherine shook as she turned to face him. Uncle held one of his Mantons aimed in her direction.
“Thorndale, be reasonable.” Crispin, too, had turned to face the foe.
“This is a family matter. None of your concern.”
“You have threatened my wife. That makes this my concern.” Crispin spoke with excruciating clarity and obvious anger.
“Get out!” Uncle yelled, purple-faced.
“No.” Crispin released Catherine’s hand and stepped between her and Uncle.
“Not a step closer,” Uncle shouted. “I am aiming for your heart Cavratt.”
Catherine felt her own heart nearly stop at Uncle’s words. Crispin was in danger, precisely as she’d feared from the moment Crispin informed her of his suspicions.
“Put the pistol down, Thorndale, and let us work this out.”
“There is nothing to work out. That wench owes me!”
“I will give you the fifty thousand pounds. The entire sum of her inheritance.” Crispin waved his hand behind him wher
e only Catherine would see it. What did that mean?
“This isn’t about the blunt!” Uncle kept the pistol pointed at Crispin’s chest, though it shook violently.
Catherine stared in panic at Uncle’s wide, nonsensical eyes. Something in his demeanor bordered on insanity. “It would have all been mine without her. It should have been mine.”
“Name your price.” Crispin’s voice remained steady despite the trembling pistol aimed right at him. “I’ll give you anything you want to simply walk away and forget about all of this.”
Uncle shook his head, his eyes fiery. “Can’t do that.”
“You certainly can. Take my offer. You’d be a very rich man.”
“It’s not about the money.”
Catherine would have expected Uncle to shout, to rattle the windows with his anger. He spoke no louder than he would have for a calm conversation. No one would hear him outside the room. If only he would bellow, someone might come to their aid.
“I came here for the chit and I won’t leave without her.”
“Stealing another man’s wife? Holding a gun to an unarmed man? You are apparently no gentleman.”
What in heaven’s name was Crispin doing? He had questioned the honor of an obviously deranged man—a man who held him at gunpoint. Sheer madness! And he hadn’t stopped waving behind his back.
“How dare you, sir!” Uncle’s eyes narrowed angrily. “You dare to insult me?”
“Crispin,” Catherine pleaded desperately with him. Making Uncle more angry couldn’t be a good idea.
“Stay out of this, Catherine.” Crispin’s eyes remained glued to Uncle. “This bounder was simply making a spectacle of himself.”
“Bounder?” Uncle’s voice raised a fraction more. “You’ll answer!”
“Fine.”
Fine? Catherine grabbed Crispin’s arm, Uncle’s many lectures on the efficiency of pistols to eliminate enemies and sources of discontent plaguing her thoughts.
“But I choose weapons,” Crispin continued, undeterred.
“Crispin,” she frantically whispered. He could not do this. Uncle would shoot him dead.
“And we settle it now,” Crispin said. “Here.”
“Perfect,” Uncle growled.
The Kiss of a Stranger Page 22
