by Liz Carlyle
Her expression stiffening, Kate strode back in the direction of the library. But she did not go far; just around the corner. There, she stopped.
“Very well, Reggie.” Kate crossed her arms over her chest. “Your five minutes have begun.”
The fawning pretense vanished, and his expression darkened. “Kate,” he rasped, “what in God’s name can you be thinking, to permit that man inside this house?”
Kate arched one eyebrow quite deliberately. “Inside my home, do you mean?” she echoed. “I rather got the impression he was an acquaintance of yours.”
“Certainly not!” sniffed Reggie. “Not socially. And just because Heatherfields is now in his hands does not give him the right—and certainly not the social standing—to enter a gentleman’s seat at his leisure.”
In her outrage, Kate didn’t fully absorb his words. “But this is not a gentleman’s seat, is it?” she said warningly. “It is my seat, Reggie. My home. Oh, you’re welcome here—you were, after all, Stephen’s best friend. But do not for one moment forget to whom Bellecombe belongs.”
“Well,” said Reggie, anger twisting his face. “That’s what it always comes down to, doesn’t it? Your house—and good old Reggie put thoroughly in his place!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Kate, tapping her toe impatiently. “So, he has got hold of Heatherfields, has he?”
“Good God, he hasn’t told you?”
Kate avoided the question, but her brain was furiously churning. “How, exactly? Did you sell it?”
“Well, yes.” Reggie looked confused. “What’s that black devil up to? Dropping round in some vain attempt to befriend the local gentry?”
“Actually, Reggie, Mr. Quartermaine has been staying here,” said Kate, “in Stephen’s old room. I collect your shock was such that you failed to notice the sutures in his forehead?”
“Staying here?” Reggie looked stricken. “Kate, you … you do know who he is, don’t you?”
“Yes, he has made it plain to me who he is,” she said. “The gentleman met with an accident along the road—one that was, regrettably, my fault—and since he could not possibly stay at Heatherfields in its present condition—”
“The devil!” said Reggie. “Heatherfields is the prettiest house in Somerset.”
“Indeed,” said Kate, “and apparently the most decrepit. Anstruther says you’ve let the roof fall in on the south wing.”
“Kate, never mind Heatherfields.” Reggie still looked grim. “You have guests arriving. You will not wish them to know you have been harboring a—”
“Careful, Reggie,” said Kate, leaning near him. “I will not hear you insult him.”
Reggie’s face had lost its color. “My dear, think what you say,” he replied. “You have London’s worst gossip, Lady Julia Burton, practically on your doorstep. Do you want this to get out? She’ll gazette the whole wretched story!”
“Lady Julia—?” said Kate incredulously. “Even I know Julia has bedded half the men in Mayfair—and I live two hundred miles away! The Comte de Macey is just an elegant scoundrel. And what of Mamma’s new puppy, Sir Francis Smythe-Whoever? A paragon of virtue, is he? Or Mamma’s new gentleman friend, the banker? Oh, saints all, I’m sure!”
“Kate, she has thrown the banker off,” said Reggie in a warning tone. “I collect she took offense to his admiring one of the singers at the Royal Opera House last week.”
“Merely that?”
“Well, you know how she is,” said Reggie. “In any case, I had to listen to her peevishness all the way here—so you can strike him from your guest list.”
One less mouth to feed, thought Kate uncharitably.
“Yes, well, I’m sorry to hear of Aurélie’s travails,” she said, “but no one here is in any position to look down upon Mr. Quartermaine, and I tell you, Reggie, I will not have it.”
“Kate,” he said, catching her hands again. “Kate, my girl, you don’t know what you’re doing.”
But Kate was quite sure she did.
And she was, once again, quite wrong.
“Reggie, I’m not your girl,” she said.
Reggie’s expression softened with what looked like true tenderness. “No, Kate. You are not,” he said, “and I have rued that circumstance every day since you left me.”
It was such arrant nonsense, Kate didn’t bother to respond. “I must go, Reggie, and help Mrs. Peppin get everyone settled,” she said stiffly. “Welcome back to Bellecombe. It is good to see you.”
“Kate.” He caught her arm and spun her around. “Kate, don’t speak to me so coldly. You’ll break my heart.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Reggie. You haven’t any heart.”
“Kate, my God, how can you be so cruel? After all we’ve been to one another?”
“Oh, Reggie, such drama!” she said. “You likely haven’t spared me two thoughts since last you laid eyes on me.”
“Kate, that just isn’t so.” Reggie let his thick black lashes sweep down. “I’ve longed to see you. Longed for it so desperately I came all the way from London—and not in a train, like some civilized person, but in a lumbering coach, trapped for miles with your mother and that damned farting dog of hers.”
His words ended on a faintly petulant note. Had he truly expected her to fall into his arms?
“I’m sorry about the dog,” said Kate impatiently. “As to the other, Reggie, we’re childhood friends who were briefly betrothed. Stop making more of it.”
“But, Katherine, my dear,” he replied, leaning inappropriately near, “there was more, wasn’t there? I do hope you haven’t forgotten?”
“I have not forgotten you made it plain you preferred another.”
Reggie tried to snake a hand around her waist. “Kate, love, men will have their little trifles,” he murmured. “Why didn’t you tell me how you felt?”
“Oh, and then you would have cast your mistress off?”
“Bess?” Reggie shrugged. “Yes. Why not?”
Kate sighed, and tried to pull away. “Reggie, I would call you a liar if I cared enough to quarrel, but I do not, so kindly take your hand off my—”
Instead, Reggie kissed her. It was swift but hard, and when he lifted his head away, his eyes were glittering almost dangerously. Kate was still staring at him when she felt a cold chill down her back.
“Katie, love,” Reggie was whispering, “you know we are meant for one another. You know I can make you feel—”
“I beg your pardon, Lady d’Allenay.” Edward’s deep voice pierced the gloom of the passageway. “Your mother requires you upstairs.”
Humiliated, Kate pushed Reggie away and turned. Edward stood silhouetted against a shaft of low afternoon sunlight, large and impossibly male.
Behind her, Reggie laughed. “Pardon us, old fellow,” he said, pushing past them both. “Just rekindling an old romance. Kate, my love, I’ll see you at dinner.”
Edward looked her up and down. “Are you all right?”
Kate wanted to spit the taste of Reggie from her lips. “I’m fine,” she said, “but Reggie is a presumptuous ass.”
“Would you like me to deal with him?” asked Edward evenly.
She gave a sharp laugh. “What? Pistols at dawn for that?”
“No,” said Edward. “I’m not a gentleman. I don’t have to go through the dainties of dropping a damned handkerchief to get my satisfaction.”
Kate gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “I wouldn’t do him the honor of caring enough to encourage you,” she replied. “Besides, he amuses Aurélie. And he was like a brother to Stephen.” She paused to sigh. “Have the other carriages come?”
“Yes, three, I’m afraid.”
There was an edge in his voice Kate didn’t like. She stopped and looked up at him. “Edward,” she said quietly, “is there anyone else you know?”
His face was still without emotion. “Yes. In fact, they are all precisely the sort of people I do know.”
“Does that include Lady Ju
lia?”
“Yes.”
“My mother?”
“I recognize her name now,” he admitted, “and I know she is much admired in certain circles for her beauty and charm.”
It was a diplomatic way of putting it. Kate eyed him warily for a moment, but she did not have the luxury of time. Reggie’s words had spooked her a little. “Why didn’t you explain to me, Edward, that you had bought Heatherfields?”
“In part because you would not slow down and listen to me just now in the library,” he said. “And because it isn’t an easy explanation to make. You see, I did not, strictly speaking, buy it. I took it.”
“Took it?” Her brow furrowed. “But Reggie said …”
“I don’t care what he said,” Edward grimly replied. “I forced his hand, but ever so politely. I took Heatherfields in lieu of his gaming debts, and he was in deep. That’s what you need to understand. Like so many of his kind, Lord Reginald owed me. And I always—always—get what I am owed, Kate. I operate a private gaming club. A high-stakes hell, for lack of a gentler phrase. That, you see, was my father’s—my real father’s—line of work, and I learnt it from the master.”
She could only stare at him, horror blooming in her chest like blood from a stab wound.
“Do you understand what that means, Kate?” he pressed, as if to shove the knife deeper.
Mutely, she nodded. “Yes, certainly,” she finally managed, “and in the most vile of ways; my father and brother practically lived in the hells. What did you imagine ran Bellecombe into the ground, Edward? A run of bad luck on the exchange?”
He stood silent before her, his shoulders filling the passageway, his expression still cool, utterly businesslike. He made no move to touch her; indeed, from the set of his jaw, it looked as if he had resolved never to touch her again. And yet, if one looked closely, there was something like pain stirring in the backs of his eyes.
Kate closed her own and remembered his touch.
Remembered that he was still Edward.
That whatever he was, she still … what? Loved him? What balderdash. She’d once believed she’d loved Reggie; look how that turned out.
“Good Lord,” she murmured, feeling suddenly wan. “So your inability to read numbers—to make sense of them—that’s why it horrified you so?”
“It horrified me, yes, but I wasn’t sure why. Kate, I would never lie to you.” She felt his hand slip under her elbow, warm and steady, but beyond that he didn’t touch her. “Kate,” he said again, more softly. “Oh, Kate. I’m so sorry. For all of this.”
Something in her heart wrenched. “You overheard, then? What Reggie said?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s just Reggie, Edward,” she managed. “We mustn’t mind him.”
“I do mind him,” he said. “I mind him very much indeed. But … he is not wrong.”
“So you still wish to leave—” She bit back the last word, me.
“Kate, I do not wish to leave,” he said. “Will you make me say it? Very well. I don’t wish to leave you.”
She opened her eyes. “Then don’t,” she replied. “Don’t give him the satisfaction.”
His lips thinning, Edward slowly shook his head. “Tell your mother the truth; that we just discovered who I am. I can assure you that she knows me by reputation, if not sight. Fendershot will support your story. Tell her you were duped, if you wish. Then tell her you’ve sent me away. Mitigate the damage.”
But whatever the damage, it was done, Kate realized. Reggie had seen him. Her mother had seen him, and apparently did indeed have some notion who he was—which, given her circle of friends, was quite likely. Edward had just admitted some sort of acquaintance with Julia, de Macey, and Sir Francis. And one could never stop the servants from talking.
No, far better to brazen it through. Besides, she would not give Reggie the pleasure of knowing he had been right.
She set her hand on Edward’s arm, felt her fingers digging into the wool of his coat sleeve. “A gaming hell,” she whispered. “Where?”
“Does it matter?” he replied, looking down at her. “In St. James. Between the Carlton Club and Spencer House.”
At her gaping stare, he added, “As I said, it is a very exclusive sort of club.”
And situated amongst some of the most expensive real estate in Christendom, she realized. Decadence and vice had been very good indeed to Ned Quartermaine.
Yes, Reggie had been right. She had not known that Edward was the sort of man who bankrupted young gentlemen for personal gain. But she had known his touch—known it intimately. And just now, it was clouding her judgment. Kate knew it, even as she spoke.
“Please, you mustn’t go,” she said. “You still have stitches. I’m still responsible. Edward, I’m still …”
“What?” he said, the word so soft she barely heard it.
She lowered her lashes. “I still want you here,” she managed. “I will not pretend I approve of what you do; I do not. But that … that is not who you are. Not to me. I cannot reconcile all this in my mind. Not yet.”
Nonetheless, something inside Edward had changed in the minutes since their return; shifted in a way she could not define. Even his face looked harder. And his wicked smile, those laugh lines about his eyes—had she simply imagined all that?
“Kate, my dear, don’t be naive,” he finally replied. “It’s precisely who I am—and I learnt my trade in a hard, cold school.”
Kate shook her head, mystified. “If you say so,” she replied. “But you are a gentleman born, and a better man, I suspect, than those who are about to descend on me.”
“From what I saw in your hall just now,” he said dryly, “that is not far from true.”
“Aurélie does prefer people who amuse her,” Kate acknowledged. “How well do you know them?”
“De Macey, by reputation only,” he said. “Sir Francis is a frequent client. Lady Julia Burton has come in once or twice on a gentleman’s arm.”
Kate sighed. “Well, I had better go and greet them,” she said. “Tomorrow … tomorrow, Edward, we will all be less on edge. Let us decide not to decide anything just now.”
Edward gave her an almost mocking bow. “As you wish.”
She nodded, and started down the corridor. Then suddenly, she jerked to a halt and turned back around. “Can you stay?” she asked. “I am sorry; I didn’t think. Have you a family? Is anyone worried about you? Expecting you? Surely—”
“No one,” he interjected. “There is no one. The club’s manager expected me away for a few weeks, perhaps. There might be a letter awaiting me at Heatherfields, but I doubt it.”
“I see,” she said.
But something uncertain had flickered in Edward’s eyes, and Kate knew there was more to be said. Something he didn’t wish to say, perhaps. But she didn’t press him; she had had all the surprises she could bear for one day.
“Well, then,” she said. “I shall see you at dinner?”
He nodded, but held back rather than accompany her.
Dreadfully torn, Kate returned to the great hall. There she found herself thoroughly hugged and kissed by Lady Julia Burton—a plump, pretty widow who, like Aurélie, was of uncertain years and even less certain morals—and by the Comte de Macey, her mother’s near-constant companion and occasional lover.
“Kate, my dear!” The dapper gentleman kissed her lightly on the cheek, his enormous mustache tickling her ear. “How good you are to have us.”
Kate managed a smile. The man was an aging roué, yes, but one could not help liking him. Years ago, she’d half hoped Aurélie might marry the man and put him out of his misery—that her restless mother might finally settle down—but just now Aurélie and de Macey were in one of their merely friends stages.
“It is a pleasure, de Macey,” she said. “My home is ever yours.”
“So you’ve always said.” The comte beamed. “Come, let me introduce our young friend, Sir Francis Smythe-Feldon.”
Acr
oss the great hall, a dashing gentleman of fashion tore himself away from cooing over Nancy to join de Macey, bowing over Kate’s hand and declaring himself enchanted.
The three of them made for a blessedly small crowd, given Aurélie’s usual entourage.
About age thirty, Sir Francis possessed dark, pomaded curls and a pair of dangerous-looking eyes. Had Aurélie really intended him for Nancy? Just now Lady Julia had her arm hooked in his, and was looking a tad proprietary.
Perhaps, like Filou, the gentleman was just the ladies’ pet, brought merely for amusement? If so, Kate could only pray he didn’t break quite as much wind.
“De Macey says the shooting here is outstanding this time of year,” said Sir Francis. “So kind of you and your mother to have us. We three shall endeavor to be entertaining houseguests.”
Kate forced a dazzling smile. “Aurélie’s friends are always entertaining,” she said truthfully. “Speaking of which, she has ordered me upstairs. Lady Julia, Mrs. Peppin will situate you next to me, just across the corridor from Aurélie. I know you will wish to be close to her. De Macey, Sir Francis, I believe you’re one floor above. Do let me know if you’re not comfortable.”
Kate left them well occupied—along with her mother’s maid and two servants she didn’t recognize—sorting the last of the baggage. But rather than go to her mother’s room, she instead turned coward and pushed open the door to her parlor, tears pressing hotly against the backs of her eyes.
“There you are, mon chou!” Her mother’s lazy voice carried from the hearth. “I knew you would eventually show yourself.”
After Kate’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, she could see that Aurélie lay upon Kate’s favorite divan near the fireplace, her feet propped up on a pillow, and one arm cast over her eyes. Filou was snoring, nestled in the folds of her skirts.
“Mamma?” Kate sniffed the air, displeased.
“This is such a lovely suite of rooms,” her mother murmured dreamily. “I have always preferred it.”
“Then by all means, take it.” Kate was jerking back the draperies. “But Mamma, you cannot shut everything up. What did you feed that dog for luncheon?”
“Ooh, this chaise is heavenly!” declared Aurélie on a languid, catlike stretch. “And Filou had … let me think … oui, rabbit confit.”
