“But your happiness is so much more interesting to me,” Arabella declared. “What is your issue with Deverill? Tell me, does he not meet your requirements for a future husband? I assure you, I have complied with your request.”
Catherine could not recall making any requests, and she stared at her ladyship in amazement. “I recollect no requirements.”
“Don’t be absurd, dear. You stated right here in this room that he must be tall. And Deverill fits the bill quite nicely. You have to look up to him, do you not?”
She vaguely remembered the conversation to which Arabella referred but couldn’t believe the woman had actually been serious. “Let us return to the matter of Finchly,” she stated firmly, “for the matter of my future is none of your concern and, regardless, it has already been sorted to my satisfaction.”
Amused, Arabella folded her arms across her chest and raised a curious eyebrow. “Has it?” she asked, mildly.
As soon as she made the claim, Catherine realized she’d overstated the matter but refused to back down. “Yes, I’m going to set up my own establishment. Nothing grand, of course, but just a little place where—”
She flinched as her hostess laughed with genuine humor. “You are a delight, dear, and I quite admire your pluck, but that will never do.”
The plan still needed for its finer details to be worked out, Catherine knew that, of course, but she also knew it had merit, and as she told Lady Courtland about it, she became more and more convinced of its feasibility. “It will do very nicely,” she insisted with surprising vehemence. “I’ll find some doddering old female relation in want of a position—surely we have one knocking about on some branch of the family tree—and have her as my companion, for respectability’s sake. And I will be completely self-sufficient and live on my earnings.”
“Your earnings?”
Catherine nodded emphatically. “Yes. I shall be a lady investor.”
“A lady investor?” Arabella asked with more wonder than derision.
“My dear friend Miss Clarice Menton assures me it’s quite the easiest thing to earn a sufficient amount,” she explained. “I’m good with figures. Not brilliant like my sister Melissa but tolerably useful.”
“You know, my dear, as many fortunes have been lost in silver mines as they have at the faro tables.”
In fact, Catherine did not know this, and the excitement that had been mounting since she first proposed the scheme began to wane. “I…uh, will not be investing in silver mines. I shall follow the suggestions of my friend.”
“Fustian!” dismissed her ladyship. “You will marry Deverill and have children and make your mama happy. Now, come, tell me what is wrong between you and Deverill, and we will sort it all out together. There is no need to be shy, my dear. I have only your best interest at heart. And your mother, pea-goose though she is, is one of my oldest and dearest friends. I wouldn’t have offered her my help if I didn’t regard her so highly.”
Realizing that they would never return to the matter of Finchly until Arabella had her pound of flesh, Catherine decided to stop avoiding the topic and answer honestly and openly. “There’s nothing to sort out,” she said in what she hoped was a flat, detached tone. “He courted me as a favor to you, and despite my knowledge of the prank, I found myself growing more attached than was wise. I therefore made it clear to Deverill that there was no reason to continue the charade and that far from being taken in, I had been using the connection with him to further my own ends.”
“Oh, dear, you have made quite a muddle of it, haven’t you?” Arabella asked. “No wonder poor Deverill was in here earlier looking very much the worse for wear and muttering some nonsense about how you were just using him to meet other men. I could scarcely credit it.”
Catherine stared at her ladyship in wonder, afraid to believe her. What if she was still trying to mastermind a match with half lies and overstated facts?
“I did tell him that,” she admitted. “And it was partly the truth. You see, after I overhead your conversation, I resolved to take advantage of my would-be popularity because I knew how fleeting these things are. And if I happened to meet a gentleman whom I could admire as much as Deverill… I told him of my thoughts because I was angry and humiliated and I didn’t want him to know how much I—how I felt about him.”
“Well, no bother,” said Arabella airily. “The next time you see him, you must simply tell him you love him and all will be right.”
“What?” Catherine shrieked, sounding alarmingly like Evelyn when denied an ostrich-plumed hat. “No, I couldn’t possibly.”
Her ladyship considered Catherine silently for a long moment, then shook her head sadly. “Then you are not half the girl I thought you were and undeserving of him anyway. Now, regarding your plan for Finchly,” she said brusquely, sitting down at the writing table, which was situated near the window, and locating a sheet of paper.
Now? Catherine thought, nearly hysterical. Now she wanted to talk of Finchly, after saying such remarkable things and throwing her entire being into turmoil? Tell Deverill she loved him! She couldn’t possibly to something so bold and terrifying and potentially humiliating. He wouldn’t laugh, of course, he was too much of a gentleman for that, but he would be embarrassed for her and try to extricate himself as gently—and quickly—as possible.
No, she wouldn’t do it.
And yet, to be not half the girl Lady Courtland supposed her! How could that statement affect her so much? The woman was a born manipulator and no doubt carefully chose her words with maximum calculation to get the effect she wanted. Even knowing that, Catherine found that she very much wanted to be the girl Lady Courtland supposed her. Her ladyship had a better opinion of her than her own mother and, apparently, than she herself.
Not half the girl I thought you were.
How was she to talk about Finchly with that thought rattling about in her head?
She would simply have to try. “Yes, thank you. Please tell me how you think we may execute it,” she said in what she thought was a reasonably calm tone.
Scribbling wildly, Lady Courtland rang for a servant. “I am just dashing off a note to—” The doors opened, and the footman entered the room. “Ah, there you are, Perth. I’m finishing this note that I want you to deliver. You do not need to wait for a response.” She folded the missive and slid it into an envelope. “Here you are, my good man. Do be quick about it. And on your way out will you tell Mrs. Taylor that we’d like some tea.”
Catherine stared in wonder as the footman bowed and left. Dashing a note off to whom? she thought, wondering if in her emotional tumult she had lost track of the conversation.
Misinterpreting the look on her young visitor’s face, Arabella said, “You poor dear, you look quite parched. Tea will be here in a moment. We’ll have to wait for a little while, at least, and nothing quite passes the time like a pot of tea and a little gossip.”
“Wait for what?” Catherine asked, still trying to figure out if she had missed something or if her ladyship had failed to explain.
“The response to my note.”
“But you told the footman not to tarry.”
“There was no need,” she explained. “If he’s at home, Deverill will come directly here. He has never been one to refuse a damsel in distress.”
Her ladyship could not have said anything that would have struck more terror in Miss Fellingham’s heart, and the poor girl did not have the composure to hide it. “Deverill is coming here?” she squawked, jumping to her feet and walking to the window, as if to see him arriving at that very moment.
“I understand your concern,” Arabella said reasonably, “but you have no cause for fear. I will not pester you to make a confession of love, and Deverill is far too well bred to trouble a lady with his emotions. We will simply discuss a plan for Finchly.”
Her assurances did little to quiet Catherine’s mind, and unable to be so close to the window, where he might see her when he arrived, she walked to the oth
er side of the room. “I cannot believe you would tell Deverill about my sister’s trouble and my mother’s indecent scheme.”
“He’s an honorable gentleman,” Arabella promised her, “and can be counted on for his discretion.”
Catherine shook her head and strode to the window again to peek out. “These are family matters,” she explained logically. “I cannot approve and must insist that you send a second letter telling him not to come.”
Arabella dismissed this suggestion with a wave of her hand. “He’ll be family soon enough, you’ll see.”
Catherine, who somehow found this statement more unsettling than all the other unsettling statements made by her ladyship that morning, begged her to please not say things like that.
“Yes, yes, of course. It is I who have misread the situation. You’re charming dear. Very well,” she said, throwing up her hands in defeat, “I will accept that I am wrong—Deverill isn’t in the least bit besotted with you; there, are you happy now?—if you will sit down and stop that incessant pacing. You are making me anxious.”
Just then a footman entered carrying a silver tray, and Catherine thought about darting through the open door to escape. But she knew that that sort of behavior wouldn’t solve anything and she was sensible enough to admit that Deverill was just the person who could bring about Finchly’s disgrace. If matters between them hadn’t devolved to such a wretched state, she most likely would have brought the plan to him herself. “Very well,” she said, submitting.
“Thank you,” agreed Arabella, gracefully filling a teacup. “Now do sit down. You are frightfully tall, and I am getting a crick in my neck from looking up at you.”
Catherine sat in the armchair adjacent to the sofa and accepted the cup of tea. From there, she had a view of the window but could keep her back turned so as not to indulge it.
True to her word, her ladyship talked of inconsequential things, gossiping with the same enthusiasm as her mother but without the same level of spite. Some of her stories were quite amusing and Catherine smiled to be polite, but nothing she heard could take her mind off the fact that in a few minutes the Marquess of Deverill would be there. Her anxiety slowly increased until she could barely contain her nerves and it was all she could do to remain seated, politely drinking tea.
When Deverill did arrive, she knew the exact moment, for she’d turned her head to the window when the clop-clop of horses stopped in front of the house.
“Deverill,” Arabella said, standing to greet her new guest. “Your prompt reply is extremely gratifying.”
Deverill, whose eyes had been trained on Catherine from the moment the doors had opened and revealed her to his sight, turned his head slowly toward his hostess. “My dear,” he said, bowing over her hand, “I came over as soon as I got your note. Please tell me how I may be of assistance.” He turned to Catherine. “Miss Fellingham, I’m happy to say you look much improved from earlier today.”
Catherine, unprepared for his presence despite the ample warning, muttered an unintelligible reply. Her hand holding the cup was shaking, and she had to put it down lest she spill tea all over her dress.
“Please join us, Deverill,” said Arabella, holding out a cup of tea. “I was just telling Miss Fellingham here about Mr. Benchley’s kerfuffle yesterday in the Serpentine, but she’s too distracted by her troubles to appreciate the humor of a overly large gentleman splashing around in a pond looking for his spectacles.”
“Understandable, of course.” He accepted the tea and looked at Catherine. “I’m yours to command. How may I help?”
Catherine blushed at this gallantry but saw nothing of the besotted lover in his behavior. Indeed, he seemed more distant than ever—his civility, while flattering, felt like mere obligation—and that made her even less inclined to confide in him. But confide she must and she wouldn’t be a ninny-hammer about it, pussyfooting around the details of her mother’s disgrace to save the Fellingham honor. No, she would simply state the matter in a calm, indifferent tone, as if discussing a mundane business matter with an associate.
“To help my mother supplement our income, Lady Courtland devised a scheme wherein they would sell commissions in the king’s army,” she explained, determined to parcel as much of the blame as possible on Arabella’s shoulders. “The scheme went on for a while without our family knowing it until a friend of Freddy’s kindly informed us of it. As soon as I find out, I put a stop to it immediately. However, one of the men my mother helped was not so honorable and now he’s threatening to expose our family to the scandal if my sister doesn’t agree to marry him.”
“Finchly!” Deverill exclaimed suddenly. “He is blackmailing your sister.”
Catherine sighed, relieved that he had figured it out for himself, for it meant that he understood now why she had been at his apartments earlier this morning. “Yes, he is. I thought I could reason with him, but he is a true villain and would not be swayed by morality or common decency. I’ve come up with a plan to thwart him, but I can’t carry it out on my own and that’s why I called on Lady Courtland.”
Her ladyship nodded. “And that’s why I called on you, Deverill. As you know, Finchly is widely suspected of cheating at cards, although nothing has ever been proven.”
“That’s quite true,” Deverill confirmed, looking at Catherine. “Won’t play with him myself. He’s a slippery eel.”
“I’m very much afraid you are wrong, Julian. You’ll be playing cards with Finchly tonight at your club.” Arabella patted prettily at her lips with a serviette.
“I shall?” he asked, as though he had a small idea of where his friend was headed. “And I suppose he will cheat?”
“Of course,” she said. “And even if he doesn’t cheat, you shall make it look as if he has.”
Deverill nodded thoughtfully, and Catherine waited anxiously for him to speak. It was one thing to grasp quickly what was being asked of him; it was quite another to agree. He knew Finchly to be a villain and could not condone his treatment of poor Evelyn, but that did not mean he would agree to behave in a manner that was potentially dishonorable. If Finchly didn’t cheat, then perhaps the marquess could not consent to making it look as if he had.
After a long moment, he turned to Catherine. “You thought of this plan?”
Catherine nodded and examined his handsome face, trying to find some indication of how he truly felt about her, but he gave away nothing. His green eyes, usually so expressive, were oddly flat, and he wore an expression of polite curiosity. “We must trade our silence for his silence,” she explained. “It’s the only way to make sure the sordid tale does not get out.”
“It’s a good plan, Miss Fellingham,” he said quietly. “I did not realize you could be so diabolical.”
The second the word was out of his mouth, Catherine felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair, for he did indeed know just how diabolical she could be. She had told him so herself only the night before. “I…I don’t…I didn’t…” she stammered, not sure if she was trying to defend herself or apologize. Then she ordered herself to gather her wits and murmured a polite thank you, as if he had offered her a compliment.
If Deverill noticed anything strange in her behavior, he did not refine upon it. Indeed, Catherine was despondent to note that his behavior was everything that was correct, proper and aloof. Arabella was wrong. He felt nothing for her, not even disgust. He consented to help with mild indifference, as if agreeing to wear a fawn-colored waistcoat instead of a taupe-colored one.
Despite his coolness, Catherine smiled warmly at him, grateful for his assistance. He didn’t have to be effusive with her as long as he saved Evelyn. “I thank you, my lord, on behalf of my whole family.”
“Very good,” Arabella said approvingly. “Now, Deverill, the details. We must decide when, where and who.”
“The who is easy enough. I will invite Bainbridge, Martindale and Halsey to play,” Deverill said, casually rattling off a list of the beau monde’s most sought-after Corinth
ians. “They’re all good men with impeccable reputations. Finchly knows that they’re not given to idle gossip and should he become the subject of talk, society would be inclined to believe them over him.”
“Excellent choices.” Arabella nodded approvingly. “I understand that Halsey has just returned from the Continent. You’ll do it tonight, of course, before Lord Raines’s ball. At your club, I presume?”
“No,” he answered consideringly. “I would rather not dirty my own pen. I have a gambling hell in mind that would serve us much better. For one thing, Finchly is a regular and I should be able to find him there easily enough. And for another, the owner, Marlowe, owes me a favor. I helped his establishment avoid a rather embarrassing situation recently.”
At this oblique reference to their earlier escapade, Deverill kept his eyes trained on the peeress and didn’t so much as glance in Catherine’s direction, another indication, she felt, of his indifference toward her.
“Splendid!” Arabella said. “I knew you were just the man for this problem. Now what about—” she broke off as the doors to the drawing room opened to admit her butler. “Yes, Perth?”
“A missive marked urgent has arrived for milady,” he said, holding out a white slip of paper.
Lady CourtlandCourtland apologized to her guests whilst retrieving the note from the hand of her servant. After a quickly perusal, she said, “You’re going to have to excuse me. There’s a matter I have to take care of. I shall return presently. Catherine, isn’t there something you wanted to discuss with the marquess?” With these distressing words, which she had promised not to utter, she left the two of them alone.
Not entirely surprised by her ladyship’s betrayal, Catherine stared down at her own clasped fingers and wondered if she had the nerve to look up at him.
“Yes, Miss Fellingham?” he prompted.
Miss Fellingham's Rebellion Page 21
