“Think carefully, Finchly, about what you say before you say it,” Halsey warned. “You don’t want to sully your honor any more than you already have.”
Finchly’s helpless look was almost comical, and Mr. Lewis had to hide an inappropriately gleeful smile. Thinking again of their conversation earlier, Catherine didn’t feel one wit of sympathy for him. Maybe if he hadn’t said those despicable things about her, she wouldn’t relish his misfortune but… He was a horrid toad who had tried to destroy her sister’s life and deserved all that he got.
Deverill let him stew for a full minute more before saying, “Martindale, Bainbridge, Halsey, why don’t you let me have a moment alone with Finchly. Perhaps if there isn’t such a crowd, he’ll be able to explain himself better.”
“What about Lewis?” Bainbridge asked.
“I don’t think Mr. Lewis’s presence will bother Finchly. Come on, gentleman,” said Halsey, who seemed to have a better sense of what was going on than the others, “I find I’m suddenly in need of fresh air.”
Finchly watched them leave with something akin to regret written on his face, and Catherine wondered at it. Did he think they would go straight to Brook’s to spread the tale?
Calmer now and with a better grip on himself, Finchly turned to Deverill and said, “Thank you, my lord, for giving me the opportunity to defend myself. Sadly, I fear the others”—he looked at the door through which they had just passed—“have already judged me.”
“Save it, Finchly,” said the marquess crushingly.
“But, my lord, you said—” Finchly clenched his fists.
“I don’t care if you are guilty or innocent. Considering all I know of you, I very much doubt that you are innocent. But, as I said, that is neither here nor there,” Deverill announced coldly, showing more interest in straightening his shirt cuff than he did in Finchly.
Finchly seemed prepared to defend himself again in righteous anger, but to Catherine’s relief, he wisely held back. She was tired of listening to meager protestations. She supposed Deverill was as well.
“Very well, then,” he said, sitting back down in his chair and leaning his arms against the table, careful of the spilled gin, “what do you care about?”
Deverill smiled thinly. “What do I care about? Yes, that seems to be the question, doesn’t it?” He pushed his chair back and stood up. He was already a fair number of inches taller than Finchly and now he towered above him. “I am prepared to convince Martindale, Bainbridge and Halsey that what happened here tonight was all a simple misunderstanding.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” he asked, hope creeping into his voice and color into his face.
“Don’t let that bother you,” said Deverill mysteriously. “The point is, I am willing to save your worthless reputation…for a price, of course.”
Finchly nodded as if he had expected this development. “Of course. But what can I do for the exalted Marquess of Deverill?”
Catherine, watching the proceedings quietly from her chair, marveled that there wasn’t a trace of irony in Finchly’s voice. He sounded completely resigned. Perhaps that was what persistent cheating did to a man, she thought. It prepared him for the inevitable worst.
“Nothing much,” the marquess said coolly. “Simply release Miss Evelyn Fellingham from your—shall we say agreement—and I will ensure that nobody hears about your transgression.”
Finchly stared at the marquess for several seconds, then fixed his glare on Catherine. His eyes blazed with sudden recognition, and he showed none of the resignation from moments before. “It’s you, isn’t it?” he sneered angrily, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I knew something wasn’t quite right.…” His voice trailed off as he realized that he had walked right into a trap.
Sitting very stiffly and holding in a smile of relief, Catherine said calmly, “I warned you, Mr. Finchly. I told you that you would be thwarted by a woman with no power, but you didn’t have the sense to believe me. I believe now I’ve proven my point.”
Finchly’s face curled into a hideous snarl. “Why, you conniving little—”
In a flash he was up, his chair overturning behind him as he leaped across the table to tackle Catherine. The force of his weight knocked her over, and she tumbled to the floor just as his open palm struck her cheek. She cried out, feeling the pain before she understood its cause, and thrashed her arms and legs to break free of the mass that was now pressing on her chest. And then just as quickly, the weight was gone and Finchly was across the room, clutching a bloody nose. Lord Deverill stood over him, grim and fierce and as terrifying as any avenging angel.
Struggling to regain her breath, Catherine sat up and stared at Deverill as she began to fill in the gaps in her understanding. Her cheek throbbed and she knew a welt would soon form, ensuring she would not be going to Lord Raines’s ball tonight or anywhere else in the immediate future. Her clothes were disheveled, her shirt ripped from her trousers, the top button torn, her cravat thoroughly unraveled. So much for Freddy’s hard work, she thought, somewhat hysterically as she felt laughter rise in her throat. She pushed the hysteria back, unwilling to lose her wits now that the danger had passed.
Deverill, flushed and also breathing hard, was determined to give her time to recover, and although the look he gave her was searching and concerned, he didn’t say anything. He was waiting for her to signal that all was well.
She gave her pulse a few moments more to steady, then said with a calmness she didn’t quite yet feel, “Thank you, my lord, for your assistance. I fear if it weren’t for your quick intervention, it would be me with a bloody nose.”
“Catherine, my dear, how many times do I have to tell you that ‘Julian’ will suffice?” he asked with a sort of chiding good humor that belied his grim expression. “And there’s really no need to thank me. I’m gratified to learn that dozens of useless hours spent sparring with Gentleman Jackson have some purpose after all.”
His handkerchief soaking with blood, Finchly listened to this exchange and growled in disgust. “I see it all now,” he said, his voice nasal from the blow to his nose. “Your sister came crying to you, and you went crying to Deverill. How cozy for you all.” He repositioned the cloth, trying to find a clean patch to apply to the bleeding appendage. “Your sister mentioned something about Deverill courting you, but I told her not to be ridiculous. Why would a nonesuch even look at an on-the-shelf spinster with no conversation?”
It occurred to Catherine that Finchly had no idea that he was imperiling himself further with talk like this. He seemed completely oblivious to the marquess’s clenched fingers or the way his nostrils flared.
“I told her the very idea was preposterous,” he continued. “Indeed, her form is nothing to scoff at with that pair of luscious—”
Deverill had the other man on his feet and by the collar so quickly, Catherine hadn’t even seen him move. “I don’t think you are in a position to be disrespectful to a lady,” he said with quiet menace.
With Deverill tugging so abruptly at his shirt, Finchly was forced to abandon his nose and balance himself with both hands. As Catherine watched the blood dribble down his chin, she decided that she had seen enough. Her intention was for Finchly to be humiliated. Well, he had been humiliated, and seeing it afforded her little of the satisfaction she had anticipated. It merely gave her an additional disgust of him.
“Deverill, let him be,” she said, suddenly exhausted. She wanted the whole episode over and done with. “And do give him a fresh handkerchief. All that blood is becoming tiresome.”
The marquess complied, releasing Finchly with a jerk of his hand that sent the other man tumbling backward. He took a white square from his waistcoat and threw it at him.
“Am I to assume that we are agreed,” asked Deverill, seemingly picking the conversation up where it had been left before the violent interruption. “My silence for your silence?”
Finchly, his pugnacious little face pulled tight, clearly wanted to argue
further, but he realized the wisdom of silence and acquiesced with a nod.
“Good, then your business here is concluded,” Deverill said, turning his back on the pathetic figure and striding over to where Catherine sat on the floor. “Would you be so good as to send in the others? I would like to have a word with them.”
“But I can’t go out there looking like this,” Finchly protested, appalled by the notion of being exposed to his peers with his nose dripping blood.
Deverill waved an indifferent hand as he got down on his haunches to examine Catherine’s face. “It’s really no concern of mine what you can and can’t do. But I see no reason why you can’t go out there looking like that. We are in a gaming hell, not White’s or Brook’s. The level of decorum is not as high.”
This wasn’t altogether true—bloody noses were not de rigueur in any venue save the boxing ring—but Finchly was smart enough not to belabor the point. Instead, he simply stood up, held on to a chair for a few seconds to assure his balance and then walked to the door.
“Oh, Finchly,” Catherine called as he was about to leave, “do be a dear and send in my brother, Freddy. He’s out there somewhere.”
He slammed the door behind him with a crack.
“Freddy!” exclaimed my lord. “Is that cawker here as well? I thought I told him with sufficient menace never to bring you here again.”
Catherine laughed weakly. “Poor Freddy. But you mustn’t take it out on him. He’s no match for me.”
At the sound of her laughter, Deverill froze. He stared at her for a long time, long enough for her to become aware of how ridiculous she must look. First the mustache, then the ugly welt on her cheek, then her tumbledown neckcloth. She tore off the mustache, the pain of which was minimal compared with her cheek, and sought to break the tension. “Another Roman Ruin ruined,” she said, lifting one end of the cravat.
The marquess smiled, as she had intended, and gently ran a finger along her cheek. “That must hurt.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes trained on his, suddenly so close.
“I’m afraid there will be no hiding the bruise,” he said, pressing a kiss so gently against her cheek she could barely feel it.
She nodded again, her heart quivering at the contact.
“You’ll have to keep a low profile for a while.” He laid a kiss along her jawline. “Your coterie of admirers will be disappointed,” he added, inching another kiss nearer to her mouth.
“Will you?” she murmured, though the ability to make coherent speech was rapidly leaving.
“That depends,” he said, finally capturing her lips in a searing kiss that shook her to the core and left her more breathless than ever. “No, I don’t think I will mind greatly if your suitors are denied the pleasure of your company.” He was about to kiss her again when a discreet cough from the doorway brought them to their senses.
“Ah, Halsey,” he said, seemingly unperturbed by the fact he’d been caught kissing a gentleman of their acquaintance. “Good of you to wait. Aside from a slight alteration or two, everything proceeded as planned.”
Halsey smiled. “I saw Finchly’s nose.”
“Yes, well, we can’t have him offending a lady. But, of course, you haven’t met Miss Fellingham,” he said, rising to his feet and gently helping Catherine to hers. “Please let me do the honor. Miss Catherine Fellingham, may I present to you Eric Peters, Earl of Halsey.”
Catherine, feeling sillier than ever in her disguise and thoroughly embarrassed at being discovered in Deverill’s arms, curtsied. “My pleasure, sir. I thank you very much for your participation in tonight’s proceedings. It means a great deal to me and my family.”
He bowed in return. “Not at all. I can always rely on Deverill to make things interesting.” He looked at the marquess. “If that is all, I’m going to leave. I have to make an appearance at Lord Raines’s ball.” At the door, he paused. “By the bye, Martindale and Bainbridge were too caught up in a game of faro to be interrupted, but I’ll assure them all is well on my way out.”
Just then the door opened and in walked Freddy. “Hallo, Catherine, Deverill.” He didn’t recognize Halsey so he just nodded at him as the other man passed through the door. “What the devil happened to—” He broke off as he saw the bright red mark on her cheek. “Did Finchly do that?” he growled.
Fearful that her brother would storm out after the villain and create a scene, Catherine said, “Yes, he did, and Julian has already planted him a facer, so you needn’t tackle him as well.”
“Did you, sir?” he asked Deverill. “A hook or an uppercut?”
“Never mind all that,” Catherine said impatiently. “The important thing is, it’s all over. Finchly has agreed to withdraw his suit and not to say a thing about Mama.”
“That’s jolly good, of course. But I want to hear more about the fight. Did he put up a defense?”
“But that’s not important,” she insisted.
“Not important?” he repeated in disgust. “Catherine, I just spent the last hour fetching drinks for that house with a scar so that he wouldn’t beat me to a bloody pulp for spilling whiskey on him. I deserve some reward.” As if realizing that his sister simply couldn’t understand this reasoning, he applied directly to Deverill. “Surely, my lord, you think the hit is important.”
Before Deverill could answer, Catherine hooked her arm through Freddy’s and led him from the room. “Come, we must go home and tell Evelyn the good news. She must be crawling the walls by now.” She looked behind her to make sure Deverill was following.
Freddy shook free of her grasp. “Don’t do that. I can’t be seen linking arms with another man.”
“Oh, I forgot,” she said with a laugh before realizing the motion hurt her cheek. She raised a hand to quiet the throbbing and Deverill disappeared for a few minutes to fetch a towel with ice.
“Try this,” he said, once they were settled in his carriage. “The cold should help reduce the swelling.”
Although he was sympathetic to his sister’s pain, Freddy was dying to hear the details and impatiently insisted that someone tell him all that had transpired before the sun came up.
When he was assured of Catherine’s comfort, the marquess said, “Everything went according to plan. Halsey, Martindale, Bainbridge and I asked Finchly if he wanted to join us in a game in the back room. He was so flattered by the invitation that it didn’t occur to him to wonder at it. I had arranged the room with the owner beforehand, and he told Munson—the man you call a ‘house with a scar’—to serve us watered-down drinks and Finchly the real stuff. I wanted him to be a trifle foxed and not thinking clearly. I hoped that he would cheat on his own, but his losses were minimal and I could not detect anything suspicious. Then your sister showed up and practically gave the whole thing away—several times, I might add.”
Catherine sputtered and tried to interrupt, but Deverill would not let her.
“Don’t deny it. You did almost ruin everything,” he insisted. “For one thing, you cough like a lady.”
She had never heard anything so ridiculous. As if ladies coughed any differently than gentlemen. “That is so—”
“Once your sister arrived and upset the cart,” continued Deverill as if Catherine had not spoken, “I decided to put an end to the whole charade. I made a gesture to Munson that indicated it was time. He then pretended to bump into Finchly, all the while planting the incriminating card on him. Munson used to be the finest pickpocket in Piccadilly before he grew too large to be invisible, although he still moves with enviable speed.”
“Good show, sir,” cried Freddy admiringly. “I’m sorry that my sister nearly toppled your scheme. I tried to keep her out of it, my lord, but I’m afraid she coerced me.”
“Think nothing of it, my boy,” Deverill said, surprising both Freddy and Catherine with his good humor. “I know how convincing she can be when she wants something.”
Freddy smiled, relieved that he wasn’t going to be taken to task for his sister�
�s behavior. The rest of the ride home was consumed with his questions, and when they arrived at the Fellingham town house, Freddy said, “Are you sure you don’t know who Halsey’s tailor is? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a coat cut finer.”
“Don’t be silly, scapegrace,” his sister scolded. “How would Julian know a thing like that?”
“He might not know, but he could find out,” Freddy said, looking embarrassed and hopeful at the same time.
Again, to the surprise of both Fellinghams, Deverill laughed. “I shall devote myself to solving the mystery first thing in the morning.”
Freddy smiled hugely. “Thank you, my lord. You’re a regular out-and-outer.” Just then, the driver opened the door and Freddy shook hands with Deverill before climbing out. “We are greatly in your debt, and if there is ever anything the Fellinghams can do for you, it would be our pleasure.”
“Actually, I have something in mind,” he said, “but I’ll take it up with your father.”
As Catherine moved to climb out of the curricle, an arm snaked around her waist and pulled her back against the seat. She looked at Deverill in amazement, but he only grinned widely at her and told Freddy that they would both be in in a few minutes. And then her blasted brother shut the curricle door and left her alone with him.
“My lord, I don’t think—”
Before she could say anything more, she was pushed back against the cushions and ruthlessly kissed. She thought about protesting, but the sensations were far too enjoyable and she just sank deeper and deeper into the web of desire he was weaving.
After several minutes, he pulled back slightly, although his body was still pressed against hers. As soon as her lips were free, she resumed her sentence from earlier “—that you should—”
He cut her off with another kiss, and when he released her this time, he placed a finger over her lips to keep her from speaking. “No, not this time. You’re not going to do that to me again.”
She stared up at him, baffled. Since his finger did little to impede speech, she asked, her voice not quite steady, “Do what to you?”
Miss Fellingham's Rebellion Page 24
