by Cheryl Holt
“I’ll stay out here. I like to watch the traffic on the river. It soothes me.”
Pippa stood and stared down at her old friend, perplexed over how she could be so smart, but so stupid too. Bryce Blair! Of all the inappropriate, unsuitable men in the world! How could such a low-born fellow have enticed her?
When and how had the romance flourished? How could it have progressed so far and Pippa hadn’t noticed? Gad, what if Kat had eloped? Kristof would have blamed Pippa. Why, he might have had her arrested for incompetence!
“Don’t do anything foolish, Kat,” she murmured.
“I won’t.”
“You can’t run off with Mr. Blair.”
“I’m not planning on it. I refused him, didn’t I?”
“Just don’t act rashly. Promise me you won’t. Come to me if you find yourself having second thoughts.”
“I won’t have second thoughts. Now take your nap. Don’t worry about me.”
Pippa studied her another moment, then hurried away. Kat couldn’t be permitted to flit about any longer. Kristof had to be informed and action implemented. Pippa knew what Kristof wanted, and she’d sworn to him that it would be accomplished.
* * * *
“I don’t have much time left.”
“Nonsense, Lady Radcliffe. You’re looking healthier every day.”
As Katherine listened to Father Macgregor gush and pretend Susan was fine, she struggled to keep her temper in check. They were in Susan’s bedchamber, with a very ill, drained Susan still in bed and attired in her nightgown and robe.
The obsequious priest always filled her head with drivel, always told her that her condition would improve if she prayed frequently enough.
Katherine would like to shake him. It would give her great satisfaction.
At age twenty-five, she’d cared for several people all the way to their demise, including her parents and a younger sister. It served no purpose to lie and claim it wasn’t happening. Denial simply made matters more awkward.
She’d like to have the authority to bar him from the premises, but when he visited, his presence gave Susan some comfort. Katherine preferred the healer from the village who was truthful and blunt in her assessments. There was no wondering with her. She stated the facts right out loud.
Susan glanced at Katherine and said, “Bring my quill and inkpot.”
Father Macgregor sighed. “Must we do this, milady?”
“Yes, we must.” Susan was displaying an unusual amount of vigor. “I won’t be condemned to Hell over this secret. I’ve kept my mouth shut much too long.”
“You’ve confessed your sins,” the priest insisted. “You’re forgiven.”
“Pardon me, Father, but my sins are grave and monumental. I don’t believe you have sufficient power to forgive them on your own, and I can’t risk that I might arrive at Heaven’s gates and not be allowed in.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” the priest grumbled.
Katherine frowned, about to tell him to stuff it, but it wasn’t her place to chastise him. She whipped away to retrieve the items Susan had requested. Then she approached the bed, balancing a writing tray on Susan’s lap.
Katherine didn’t know what Susan intended so she was surprised when Susan pulled out a sheath of papers from under the blankets. She shifted to the final page and signed her name, then she gestured for Father Macgregor to sign too.
He hesitated, his expression so wrinkled he might have been sucking on sour pickles. “Really, Lady Radcliffe, I wish you’d forget this mad scheme.”
“It’s my last chance to fix it.”
“I must encourage you to discuss the subject with your husband.”
“I’m fully aware of George’s opinion. And he is not the one who is dying.”
“Everyone is dying, Lady Radcliffe,” the priest intoned as if he was in the middle of a sermon.
“Sign it or leave me be!”
Ultimately he did as she’d demanded, and as Katherine was fussing to remove the tray, Susan snapped at the priest.
“Where are you going with those?”
“Oh, I was just holding them for you.”
Katherine whirled to see that—whatever the documents—he’d tried to stick them in his robe so he could sneak out while Susan was distracted.
“Give them to Katherine,” Susan fumed, and she stared him down until he relented and slapped them into Katherine’s hand.
“This is a terrible mistake,” the priest said to Susan. “Your husband has to be informed.”
“You would break the privacy of the confessional?”
“If we’ve put it all in writing, it’s not private any longer.”
“I will do what I must do.”
“As will I,” the priest muttered like a threat.
“Go away,” Susan said, “and don’t come back.”
“What?” Macgregor huffed. “I must return. I’m cognizant of how much solace I bring you. I refuse to stay away.”
“Since you won’t support me in this vital issue, you bring me no solace at all. Go!”
He appeared eager to argue, to harangue at her, and Katherine wasn’t about to let him. She deftly clasped his arm, and as she was escorting him out, he leaned in and hissed, “She’s insane. The illness is affecting her wits.”
“Her reasoning is sound,” Katherine loyally declared.
“If you care for her, you must get those papers away from her. You must burn them, or if you don’t dare, take them to her husband. He must be warned.”
“I serve her, not you. You’re in no position to order me about.”
She pushed him into the hall and shut the door in his face. There was a latch to bar it, and she laid it across the wood.
“Good riddance, you pious old grouch,” she murmured loudly enough that he’d hear.
She hurried to the bedchamber, and Susan was over by her desk, searching through the drawers.
“Is he gone?” she asked.
“Yes, and I locked the door so he can’t slither back in.”
“You’re a smart girl.”
Susan pulled out a leather satchel and handed it to Katherine.
“I need you to do me the greatest favor you ever will,” Susan said.
“Of course I’ll do it.”
“There are two Englishmen in the area. At least I think they’re still here. I haven’t been notified they’ve left.”
“The twins? Michael and Matthew Blair?”
“Yes. Rumor has it that they’ve rented rooms at the coaching inn in the village.”
“Yes, they have.”
“Put on your cloak—with your hood up to conceal yourself.”
“My hood up? Honestly, Cousin, why all the melodrama?”
“Then you must sneak down the rear stairs and walk to the inn to speak with them.”
“On what topic?”
“Give them this pouch. Tell them the papers in it are from me, and I…I…” Susan’s voice broke off, and for a moment, she nearly collapsed. But she took a deep breath and finished her sentence. “Tell them I’m very, very sorry for my part in what was done to their parents. I will be eternally ashamed, and I hope this will help them to attain the justice they seek.”
Katherine stared at the satchel, wishing she could peer through the leather to the documents inside. What could Susan be sending to them? Katherine couldn’t imagine.
Since the Blair twins had arrived, there had been a thousand stories circulating. They were boasting that their father was murdered by George, that their older brother, Bryce, was the rightful earl. They insisted George and Susan were usurpers, that they’d stolen what belonged to the twins’ brother.
People were grumbling about George, who was generally despised. They were spreading tales hither and yon, starting to agree that they’d suspected he wasn’t the heir, that Julian had children who should have inherited. It was a small fire of gossip and innuendo that was growing bigger by the day.
Katherine didn’t kno
w why George hadn’t had the twins run off or jailed, but they looked dangerous and tough. He probably couldn’t find any men courageous enough to confront them.
“You must leave at once.” Susan’s urgent tone yanked Katherine out of her reverie.
“To the coaching inn?” Katherine asked.
“Yes. I’m positive Father Macgregor went directly to my husband. George is likely already on his way to stop me.”
“From doing what, Susan? You’re scaring me.”
“Don’t be frightened. I am simply trying to correct a very hideous and immoral wrong I perpetrated many years ago.”
Katherine scrutinized her cousin, wondering if she should assist in the stealthy endeavor. After Susan passed away, Katherine’s role in delivering the satchel would eventually come to light. George would be furious. In punishment, he’d kick Katherine out of Radcliffe and she was truly a poor relative with nowhere to go. Dare she risk it?
Yes. Susan had brought her to Radcliffe when she’d been alone and without a friend. She would always be grateful.
God will provide…
She wasn’t certain she believed the adage. But if George evicted her, surely there would be some divine compensation for carrying out Susan’s final wishes.
“What is in here, Susan? Will you confide in me?”
“It’s my Last Will and Testament. I had a new one drafted recently.”
“And what else? I saw you add the document Father Macgregor signed.”
“It’s a confession of my perfidy. Because of my pride and vanity, I committed a horrendous sin against an innocent woman and her children. I’ve listed all of my transgressions so—after I perish—there will be a written record. I can’t let the facts die with me.”
“No, no, you shouldn’t.”
“I made Father Macgregor sign too so he’d bear witness to what I told him in the confessional.”
Susan’s strength was fading, and she staggered to the bed, being nearly too weak to climb up on her own. Katherine dashed over to aid her, but Susan waved her away.
“I’ll be fine, Katherine. Please go now. You must be away from the castle before George arrives.”
Someone pounded on the door. Father Macgregor called, “Lady Radcliffe, may I come in? May I explain myself? You’ve placed me in an untenable position with regard to your husband. I have to speak with him about what you’re planning!”
Susan called back, “Do what you must, Father.”
She motioned Katherine to the rear stairs. Katherine grabbed her cloak and scooted out. She exited into the side yard without encountering a single soul. There was an ancient gate that wasn’t locked anymore, and she slipped through it without being observed.
Within a matter of seconds, she was in the woods. She didn’t use the main trail, but took a circuitous route that skirted her past the village. In a quick half hour of walking, she was at the coaching inn.
She entered the building to ask after the twins at the front desk, but when she glanced into the taproom, she saw one of them sitting at a table by himself. He was drinking a glass of ale, his back to the wall, as if worried an assailant might creep up on him from behind.
Feeling furtive and reckless, she marched over to him, and he raised a curious brow as she approached. He didn’t stand but gestured to the chair across from him. She seated herself, and he studied her, waiting for her to clarify her purpose, but she wasn’t sure how to start.
“If you’re offering your delectable services,” he said, “I’m very happily married. I’m not interested.”
As she realized what sort of services he meant, she blushed so fiercely, she was glad her cloak hood was still up.
“I’m not here for salacious reasons,” she replied.
“Then why are you here?”
“I have something for you from Lady Radcliffe.”
“Susan Blair,” he corrected. “She was never the true countess. My mother should have been, and her name was Anne.”
Katherine wasn’t about to be drawn into an argument over the succession. She simply laid the satchel on the table.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It’s some documents for you.”
“What kind of documents?”
“You’ll see. Keep them safe. It took an enormous amount of effort for her to give them to you, and they’re very valuable.”
“What the devil…?” He lifted the flap and peeked inside, then whipped his blue gaze to hers. “She wanted me to have these? You’re positive?”
“Yes, and she said to tell you she was sorry. She said to tell you exactly this: She will be eternally ashamed, and she hopes this will help you to attain the justice you seek.”
“Thank you, Miss…?”
Katherine didn’t supply her identity. “Please don’t ever reveal how you came by this information. It would cause me harm that I’d rather not suffer.”
“I won’t breathe a word. I swear it.”
“Goodbye, and good luck to you.”
She stood and hastened out, sneaking into the woods to the trail that led to the castle. It appeared no one had noticed her swift trip, but then that’s the person she tried to be, the most ordinary, unexceptional woman in the world.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“May I drag you away from the party, Miss Webster?”
“Of course, Monsieur Valois.”
“This shouldn’t take long.”
Valois led Kat out of the main parlor. It was crammed with people, but no one noticed her departure.
To celebrate her return to Cairo—which she wasn’t certain ought to be celebrated—he’d hosted a large supper in her honor, complete with fourteen courses and four dozen guests.
She’d protested the extravagance, but he’d insisted if she was staying in the city for an extended period, she needed to meet other expatriates so she could begin building a social circle. She knew he was correct, but she was extremely upset over her quarrel with Bryce the previous night and in no mood to mingle with strangers.
After intense deliberation, she was positive she’d given him the wrong reply. On initially hearing his proposal, she’d viewed it through a royal lens, had evaluated it as if she was a princess who had to promote her family and country.
But as he’d bluntly reminded her, she was an adult who could choose any ending that tempted her. Why shouldn’t she wed Bryce Blair? Why shouldn’t she move to England with him? What was stopping her?
She’d looked for him all day, being sufficiently desperate that she’d even snuck into his bedchamber and peeked in his wardrobe to be sure his clothing was still there, that he hadn’t packed and left.
Neither he nor Mr. Hubbard had attended Valois’s supper, and she was terrified they’d book passage to England, then slip into the villa, grab their bags, and leave without her learning they had.
If it occurred before she had a chance to speak with him, she truly thought she might book her own passage and chase after him. Yet she was so self-centered that she hadn’t bothered to discover any personal details about him. If she showed up in London, how would she find him?
The only genuine fact she possessed was his being an occasional actor and gambler. Would she tarry at the theaters on Drury Lane, hoping to espy him? Would she lurk in the shadows outside White’s gambling club, praying he was a member?
“Mr. Blair and Mr. Hubbard seem to have vanished,” she casually mentioned.
“Oh, I forgot. They asked me to calculate their wages so they can be paid.”
To her great aggravation, his comment didn’t reveal their current situation.
“Yes, Mr. Blair requested it of me.”
“Your offer of employment was a godsend for them.”
“I’m glad I could be of assistance.”
Valois was whisking her down the hall toward his private quarters. Even though she was a guest, there were areas of the house that were off limits, so she hadn’t been in this section.
They halted at a closed doo
r, and he murmured, “You have visitors.”
“I have visitors? Who is it?”
“They’re from Parthenia.” She blanched with astonishment, and he said, “I had them wait in here. With you shielding your identity, I didn’t suppose you’d want them paraded into the dining room.”
“Thank you.” She scowled. “Why have they come? Did they say?”
“No, and I didn’t feel I should pry. Let’s go in, shall we?”
“All right.”
“I’ll stay with you—if you like.”
“Yes, please stay.”
He nodded that he would and guided her into an ornate parlor.
There were four men from home, all dressed in formal court regalia displaying honorary sashes and swords. They were standing two on each side of the door, forming a sort of honor guard for her. When they saw her, they snapped to attention and bowed very low.
They were acting as if she was a princess, and she couldn’t decide how to interpret their behavior. Valois raised a curious brow as Kat shrugged and walked by them.
As she spun around, their leader, Captain Romilard stepped forward. He was Dmitri’s brother, a treacherous fiend whom she loathed, and she carefully shielded her exorbitant dislike. Why would Kristof send a Romilard to her? He had to realize she’d rather cut out her tongue than converse with him.
“Your Royal Highness,” he started, but she interrupted him.
“I’m sorry, Captain Romilard, but as you’re aware, I no longer claim the title.”
“Yes, but I am happy to inform you that your rank has been reinstated.”
“By who?”
“By his most gracious and benevolent majesty, King Kristof the First.”
The pronouncement was so strange, he might have been babbling in a foreign language. She frowned. “I have been reinstated?”
“Yes, and your brother and sister too.”
“Well…”
Kat was struck dumb. She wanted to spit in his face, wanted to tell him to take his benevolent King Kristof and jump off a cliff. But she had to tread cautiously. There was mischief afoot, and until she fully grasped what it was, she didn’t dare say or do the wrong thing.
“Miss Webster is my guest,” Valois said.
“Her Royal Highness is your guest,” Romilard corrected him.
