Evelyn’s head bobbed back and forth, as if it were too much effort to sit up, but she anchored herself with her fists on the bed. “Finchly wants to post the bans right away.”
“Tell him he can’t. Tell him it’s indecent or that your mother would like to get to know him better,” she said, thinking quickly. “Surely he can’t cavil at such a reasonable request. Indeed, if he is assured of your obedience through this dastardly deal, I can’t see why he would mind waiting another couple of days. You’ll give me a little time, won’t you?”
In the candlelight, Catherine could see that her sister’s heart was breaking. She knew that she was making it worse by offering hope, and she was sorry for that, but it wasn’t a false hope. She would come up with some measure by which to thwart Finchly. She simply needed time to organize her thoughts and identify an approach.
“Yes, darling, I’ll give you some time. I’ll talk to Finchly tomorrow when he comes to ask Papa for my hand,” she said in a tone of voice that led Catherine to conclude that her sister was trying to comfort her.
“Indeed, we might not have anything to worry about, considering the unlikelihood of Finchly finding Sir Vincent at home,” Catherine said with a laugh that sounded hollow and had no real humor.
Her sister smiled blankly in return. “That’s true. Now, darling, it has been a long day and I must get some rest. You should go to sleep as well.” She pulled back the covers, slid underneath and laid her head on the pillow. “You look tired. I know I never asked how your meeting with Deverill went. I saw that you and he had a tête-à-tête on the balcony. Perhaps we can discuss it in the morning.”
Catherine tucked the covers around her sister as if she were a small child. “Yes, in the morning I can tell you all about my encounter with Deverill. I assure you, my predicament is a mere bagatelle and the details will give you much-needed amusement.”
“Please don’t, darling,” she said. “He broke your heart and you mustn’t pretend that doesn’t matter, for it does, hugely.”
Her frivolous sister’s deep understanding and sincere concern moved Catherine greatly, and she leaned forward to press a kiss against Evelyn’s soft cheek. “I love you,” she said and as she spoke the words she realized she hadn’t uttered them to her sister in a very long time—certainly not in the past six years, perhaps not since they were in the schoolroom together. She would do better, she promised. When this nightmare was over, she would treat her sister as a friend and confidante and a conspirator.
Evelyn smiled sleepily and her eyes fluttered shut. “I love you, too, Cathy,” she murmured before dropping off.
Worry she wouldn’t let her sister see clouded Catherine’s face as she blew out the candle, shut the door and returned to her room. She climbed into bed and closed her eyes, but it was many hours before she fell asleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After only two hours’ sleep, Catherine awoke and rang for Betsy. She would have liked to lie in bed for several more hours—indeed, from the way she felt, she would have opted to spend several more days not only in bed but hiding under the covers—but she could not. She had to save Evelyn and send Finchly packing, and she would do so by any means at her disposal. Even if she had to dress up as a man, arrange a duel and shoot him herself, Mr. Oscar Finchly would not marry Miss Evelyn Fellingham. Her first preference, of course, was for a resolution that didn’t require bloodshed, but if that was what the situation demanded, then she would have no choice but to oblige. C’est la guerre.
As Betsy entered the room, Catherine reflected on the ironical fact that Evelyn’s troubles had sent her own scurrying. Compared with the monumental task of freeing her sister from the clutches of a dastardly blackmailer, unrequited love seemed rather inconsequential. Once the crisis had passed, she knew, the pain would start again, and she would have to find a way to live with a broken heart. But for now, at least, she had been given a reprieve. The Marquess of Deverill could walk into her father’s office today and ask for her hand and she would give it no more thought than she would her morning chocolate. There were other things in the world more important than love—such as family and loyalty and her sister’s happiness and thwarting evil.
Catherine bid her maid an unenthusiastic good morning and climbed out of bed, confident that if she gave the matter enough thought, she could find a solution. Her optimism carried her to the breakfast parlor, which she was much relieved to find empty. She was not up for the effort of small talk, especially when it centered on Deverill, for if Evelyn had seen her go off with Deverill, then in all likelihood her mother had, too.
Caruthers handed her the newspaper and asked what she required for breakfast. “I’m not very hungry this morning. I’ll have some toast with jam and a cup of coffee,” she said, flipping through the paper more out of habit than actual interest. The answer to the Finchly problem would not be found among a Parliamentary debate about the Coinage Act.
The logical place to start, it seemed to Catherine, was with Mr. Finchly himself. He was the problem; surely he could be the solution. Despite his behavior thus far, he was still an English gentleman, schooled in the code of proper conduct, and might need only to be made aware of how unprincipled his behavior was. Perhaps his confidence was such that he didn’t understand how unpleasant his proposal was to Evelyn. She could scarcely credit that any Englishman could be so lacking in proper feeling as to coerce a young lady into marriage and began to wonder if maybe her sister had misconstrued the offer.
Yes, she thought, the entire debacle could simply be one large misunderstanding on both their parts.
This idea so encouraged Catherine, she found her appetite had returned and she ate two pieces of toast and some scrambled eggs before collecting her reticule and leaving the house. Nine o’clock was an improper time for house calls but since visiting a bachelor’s residence was somewhat more improper, she didn’t scruple about the time. Her course of action required her to perform unconventional feats and she would not balk. She would execute her duty boldly and bravely, though it wouldn’t do to be too bold, she thought, pulling up the hood on her pelisse.
She found a hack with ease and directed the driver to Upper Seymour Street, where her mother had mentioned Finchly lived. His man reluctantly allowed her entry but made her wait in the foyer alcove instead of the parlor. Catherine wanted to cavil at the treatment, for it implied that the butler thought she was a lightskirt, at worst, or a fast woman, at best, but she knew it was exactly what her unconventional behavior deserved. Respectable women did not call upon bachelors at all, and certainly not without their maids.
Despite the indecently early hour, Finchly was awake and prepared to receive her visit. He stepped out of the breakfast parlor with a quizzical look on his face, which was quickly replaced with a smile—a calculating smile that sent shivers down Catherine’s spine. “Ah, Miss Fellingham or shall I call you Catherine or perhaps just ‘dear sister’? No doubt you are here to congratulate me on my good fortune in securing your sister as my bride.” He turned to his man. “Bigelow, let’s have some tea for the young lady, and I will have my coffee in the drawing room.”
Catherine followed him into the drawing room, which was decorated in a respectable if not lavish style, and took a seat in a wingback chair several paces removed from the settee he’d indicated with a flourish of his hand. She didn’t want to open herself up to the possibility of sharing a cushion.
“Pray tell me, my dear, to what do I owe the pleasure?” He smiled again, but he didn’t seem the least bit pleased.
Well, neither was Catherine. “Mr. Finchly, I—”
“Come now,” he interrupted with a raised hand, “we are to be family quite soon. You may call me Oscar.”
The last thing Catherine wanted was to be on familiar terms with the gentleman, but she saw no reason to provoke him. “Oscar, then, I was talking to my sister last night and she informed me of your…ah”—she struggled for the proper word—“compact.”
“Did she?” he
asked, raising the coffee cup to his lips. “Dear sweet child. She will make me very happy.”
The fact that he wasn’t the least bit perturbed by her knowing the truth of his arrangement with Evelyn did not bode well for the future of the conversation, but Catherine soldiered on. It was possible that she’d been too subtle in her explanation. “I know, Mr. Finch…Oscar, about the sword you held over my sister’s head.”
He took a sip of coffee and dabbed at his lips with a linen. “Of course you do,” he said calmly. “I expect you girls talk about everything.”
At these words, Catherine realized that her mission to clear up a misunderstanding had been futile. Finchly knew exactly what he’d been doing and Evelyn’s interpretation of the events had been accurate. Nevertheless, she made one last attempt. “Perhaps then you don’t realize how reluctant Evelyn is to marry a man she hardly knows,” Catherine suggested tactfully.
“Indeed I do, Catherine. Why else do you think I had to blackmail her?” he said, boldly admitting to his crime like the callous villain he was. “If I had believed that Evelyn would have welcomed my suit, then of course I would have proposed in the usual way, but she is clearly a young fanciful girl whose head is filled with images of romantic heroes. I thought it best not to coddle her. I am not a romantic hero, and I have no intentions of indulging my wife in such nonsense.” His smile disappeared into the coffee cup, and she was confronted with his beady black eyes.
“But why do you want to marry a woman who is reluctant to marry you?” she asked, unable to grasp his motive or to understand his reasoning. “Evelyn has no great dowry. A small portion, really.”
“Dear girl, rest your mind on that score. I won’t have you thinking I’m a heartless fortune hunter,” he said with a laugh. “I’m comfortably situated, if not extravagantly so. I need not chose a wife for the material benefits she could bring me.”
“Then why coerce my sister into marriage?”
Finchly raised an eyebrow in exaggerated curiosity. “What is this? A sign of sibling rivalry? Perhaps you are too old and envious of her success to appreciate her value. Evelyn is a charming child, extremely beautiful and well-behaved. She’s from a respectable—or rather respectable-seeming—family. I, of course, will not hold the sins of the mother against the daughter. Having decided it was time I married, I looked around to see who would make me a suitable wife and decided your sister, who is biddable and will give me beautiful children, is the perfect candidate.”
Halfway through this appalling speech, Catherine stood up, for she could not bear to be in his company a moment longer. “I see that talking to you will get me nowhere. I had come here with the intention of appealing to your finer nature, but I realize now that you are singularly lacking in any proper feeling.” She collected her things and went to the door. “Very well,” she said, delivering the words in a dry clipped tone that in no way reflected the anger that was bubbling over inside her, “consider yourself warned. You will not marry my sister. I will do everything in my power to see that it does not happen.”
Finchly laughed again, and although he seemed outwardly affable, Catherine observed the squinty eyes and an odd facial tick that revealed his annoyance. “Power?” he dismissed scornfully. “I wasn’t aware that you wielded any power. Please feel free to do whatever you can. I shall enjoy watching your meager efforts.”
Catherine’s anger grew so that she could barely contain it, and she trembled slightly as she thought of this horrid, detestable man married to her sister. “And I shall enjoy watching your face once you realize that your ambitions have been well and truly thwarted by a woman with no power. It will be all the more satisfying.”
Finchly cackled with amusement. “My dear, you must stop tormenting me with your passions. I must remain faithful to my beloved—for a little while, at least. Perhaps you should return in a few months after the first blush of wedded bliss fades. I would be very happy to entertain your offer again,” he said with a leer, and all of a sudden Catherine felt stripped bare, as if she were still wearing a gown with a low neckline.
“You are reprehensible,” she said coldly.
“Compliments will get you everywhere,” he assured her as she escorted her to the door and held it open for her. He grabbed her hand as she passed, holding on despite her attempts to tug free, and kissed her palm. “It has been a great pleasure. And do remember what I said. There is no reason why we can’t be très intimate friends.”
Unable to remember when she had been so repulsed or so angry, Catherine turned away and marched down the path to the street. As she looked for a hack, she thought about how much she would enjoy shooting Finchly or stabbing him or drowning him in the Thames. All manner of painful death occurred to her as she looked down the road for approaching vehicles. She could bring him to a glassworks, tie him to a rod and throw him in the—
“Good morning, Miss Fellingham.”
Catherine spun around and was confronted by the very horribly unwelcome sight of Julian Haverford walking toward her from across the road. Oh, God, not now.
She took a deep breath and ordered herself to remain calm. “Hello, Deverill.”
“Out for a morning stroll?” he asked disingenuously. He knew that she was much too far from home to have walked there—and that she would have taken an abigail with her if she had.
“Uh, no, I was out visiting a…friend,” she lied poorly.
“Indeed?” He raised an arrogant eyebrow and examined her somewhat contemptuously from his superior height. “A very good friend, I trust, if you can call this early.”
“Uh, yes. A good friend.” She knew he was implying something with his seemingly mild comments, but she lacked the inclination or the presence of mind to figure it out. She was far too unsettled by the awful conversation with Finchly to stand on the street sparring with Deverill. Seeing him like this—bright and handsome, dressed for a morning drive—made her ache for all the things that would never be, and she didn’t have the time to indulge in her own tragedy, for, compared with Evelyn’s, it was no tragedy at all. “If you’ll excuse me, I am in a rush to get home.”
She moved to step around him, but he wouldn’t let her. “If you are truly in a great hurry, please let me escort you in my carriage. It would be much easier and more comfortable than taking a hack.”
Catherine knew he spoke the truth, but although the ride might be quicker, it would feel ten times longer as she sat in the enclosed space with him. “I thank you, but a hack will be fine.”
“I must insist, Miss Fellingham, that you allow me to do this for you.” He put a hand around her waist and directed her toward the carriage. “Please.”
The interview with Finchly had taken a lot out of Catherine, and she really just wanted to get home in the fastest way possible. Realizing Deverill would not take no for an answer, she gave in. “Very well, thank you.” She stepped into the carriage, sat across from him and examined her gloved hands with intense fascination to avoid his gaze.
They drove for a while in silence, and Catherine was glad of it because she had no desire to trade pleasantries. His offer to drive her home was mere courtesy—he’d proven time and time again that if nothing else, he could be extremely gallant when he devoted himself to the task—and after the things she had said last night, he was probably even less inclined to talk than she.
“What’s this between you and Finchly?” he growled suddenly.
Her eyes flew to his. “What?” She was so surprised that she almost laughed, but something in Deverill’s intimidating countenance warned her that laughing wouldn’t be wise.
“Come, Miss Fellingham,” he said coldly, his shoulders stiff against the back of the seat, “when a man sees a woman leaving a bachelor’s quarters without her maid at nine-thirty in the morning, he must draw certain conclusions.”
Catherine was appalled that he could think such a thing. Her anger was of a kind that she could barely speak, and she chose not to defend herself. It was none of his business what
she did and, besides, she hadn’t done anything that needed defending. Furthermore, if he could think such horrible, hurtful thoughts about her, well, then, he didn’t deserve to know the truth. “My relationship with Finchly is none of your concern,” she stated just as coldly, turning to look out the window.
“Isn’t it?” He reached over and took her gloved hand. His voice was angry, but his touch was remarkably gentle. “Surely if I am responsible for your meeting, then I have some small concern. I saw you flirting outrageously with him last night. Is he one of the men you thanked me for introducing you to? Perhaps you expect him to make you an offer? If that’s true, my dear, I think you should hold out for a better proposal. Even Pearson, who has been living in your pocket these many weeks, is more acceptable. I know it’s not quite the thing for a woman of your considerable years to marry someone so much your junior, but you have always been unconventional and an ape leader like yourself can hardly be choosy.”
Her outrage at the very idea of this charge was immediately crushed by anguish. How could he say such cruel things to her? First to suggest that she had set up a dalliance with Finchly! Then to imply that she was trying to entrap her brother’s friend in an unsuitable connection! The pain was so intense, she had no answer at first. She just continued to stare out the window, refusing to let him see the hurt on her face. Then she pulled her hand away and said quietly, “As I said, my lord, I’m not accountable to you for my behavior. Now I beg of you, leave off questioning me.”
Catherine expected him to persist, but much to her surprise, he sat back and remained quiet for the rest of the short journey.
When they arrived at her address, Deverill insisted on escorting her to the door, even though she declared it was quite unnecessary. Not only did she want to get away from his unnerving presence as quickly as possible, she also didn’t want her mother to see them together and jump to more impossible conclusions.
Miss Fellingham's Rebellion Page 19
