by Amelia Grey
“Thank you, Lord Chatwin. I enjoyed the afternoon, too.”
Catherine was impressed with how calm John remained and how his eyes showed none of the turmoil she knew must be going on inside him. She had a feeling he would have plenty of questions for her later. Now, if only she could handle Victoria as easily as he had.
As soon as the door shut behind John, she took her bonnet off and laid it on the table beside her parasol. She looked up to find Victoria staring at her. Catherine took a deep breath, feeling confident.
“Lord Truefitt’s column is about us, isn’t it?” Victoria asked in a matter-of-fact tone.
Catherine didn’t want to lie to Victoria. She would have to take the consequences of her actions. She had known that when she told Lynette what happened.
“Yes, but truly everything that morning was as innocent as it seems.”
Victoria leaned against the foyer table and crossed her feet at the ankles, letting Catherine know she would stand right there and hear the entire story.
Catherine shored up her courage and told the story as near to the truth as she dared. She left out the part that she actually took the horse without John’s approval and that she delivered it back to him the next morning. Victoria didn’t need to know those things.
Her sister listened intently and didn’t once interrupt her, but when Catherine finished, Victoria asked, “Why didn’t you tell me about this before now?”
“You were so adamant that I shouldn’t stop and speak to anyone that I feared you wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m your guardian protecting your reputation, your sister who cares about you, not an ogre.”
Catherine had seldom seen this softer side of Victoria, and it heartened her. “Perhaps I was overly sensitive.”
“Well, I suppose you handled things as best you could under the circumstances. I guess Lord Chatwin could no longer endure the gossip about his horse and the ghost and decided to tell Lord Truefitt the truth—thankfully minus your name.”
Should Catherine let Victoria assume it was John who told the gossip columnist, or should she admit to doing it? She couldn’t let John take the blame for something she did.
Before she had time to speak up, Victoria said, “We won’t worry about any of that now. What is in the past is past. As long as no one but the three of us ever knows that you were the one who rode his horse that morning. Do you think we can trust him on that?”
Was Victoria actually asking for her opinion?
“Yes,” Catherine said, deciding to remain quiet about the truth of who told the story. “I am sure we can trust him.”
“Good. That’s my feeling, too.”
Catherine suddenly realized she trusted John more than she’d ever trusted anyone.
“And should anyone mention this to you, I hope you will be as clever and evasive with your answers as Lord Chatwin.”
“I will certainly do my best to measure up.”
Catherine smiled. Victoria had surprised her again. She had thought Vickie would be outraged about her early-morning encounter with John, but instead she’d been very understanding.
For the first time since moving to London, Catherine felt as if Vickie was her sister and not her guardian.
LATE-AFTERNOON SUNSHINE STREAMED into the room and cast shadows on the walls, the books, and the antique porcelain vase that sat on Bentley Hastings’s desk. This made John’s third trip into his uncle’s office in as many days.
John settled himself in one of the comfortable upholstered wing chairs while Bentley poured their drinks.
It was luck that he’d caught him at home. Bentley invited him to join him in a splash of brandy after he’d returned his uncle’s journal.
Now that John had agreed to help Catherine find her real father, he didn’t want to waste any time.
How the doctored truth of the lady and his horse got in the gossip column still puzzled John. He wanted to know how in the hell Lord Truefitt had found out about his first meeting with Catherine. Other than her, he and Andrew were the only ones who knew the truth.
John would trust Andrew with his life. There was no way Andrew would have told Truefitt even if Andrew knew who the man was. And surely Catherine hadn’t been in London long enough to know who the gossipmonger was and wouldn’t tell if she did.
Maybe Lord Truefitt and Lord Pinkwater were one and the same. He laughed to himself at his own silly thought. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but he had always wondered where and how Lord Truefitt got his information.
His uncle handed him the brandy and then took the matching wing chair opposite John rather than sitting behind his desk.
“I don’t know why I’ve suddenly become so popular with you, John, but I’m not going to complain. I enjoy you coming over for a visit.”
“Thank you, Uncle. I guess I haven’t been to visit too many times the past few years, but as you can see, I’m changing that.”
Bentley sipped his brandy. “Yes, but why? Something tells me that you have more questions for me.”
His uncle was sharp enough to know there was more to his nephew’s visits than family ties.
John swirled the liquid in his glass. He had to be careful what he said. He didn’t want Catherine’s suspicions about her father getting out among the ton any more than she did. While her true parentage didn’t bother him in the least, it might give others cause for ridicule.
He looked over at his uncle. “I do need your help again, if you don’t mind?”
“What kind of trouble are you in, John?”
“I’m not,” John said honestly. “Believe me, what I’m working on doesn’t even affect me or our family. I’m doing this for someone else.”
“Who?”
“I know I recently asked you to trust me on what I needed to know about my father, and I’m going to ask the same now. I’m not at liberty to say who I’m helping. And even if you knew the name, I don’t think it would keep you from helping me.”
“Is what you’re doing going to harm anyone?”
“No, I’m sure of it. This person does not want to cause any trouble and in fact wants this kept as private as possible.”
Bentley sipped his brandy again. “All right. What is it you want to know?”
“How well do you know Mr. Robert Beechman and Mr. William Chatsworth?”
His uncle looked a bit surprised by the question. “I used to know them quite well. No one knows them anymore. They’ve all but dropped out of Society. They haven’t kept up with their friends or their clubs.”
“I know that much. I’m hoping you can tell me a little more about their past.”
“Well, let’s see. William Chatsworth was a good friend of your father’s. Not as close as you are to Andrew, but close nonetheless. I’ll tell you anything I can remember, but I need to know what exactly you are looking for. What kinds of things do you want to know? Are you interested in something like where they attended school or their family connections to the peerage? As far as I know, neither of them has any skeletons hidden in their closets, so I can’t help you with anything like that.”
John didn’t know if that was good news or bad.
“Can we go back to the year seventeen ninety-eight as we did with my father? Do you remember if either of them were married?”
“You don’t ask much, do you?” Bentley pursed his lips for a moment. “Let me think, over twenty-one years ago—I’m sure Robert Beechman would have been married. He’s much older than I am, but I’m not sure whether or not William Chatsworth had married by that year. He probably doesn’t even remember anymore. I can find out for you. He’s gotten nuttier than a chestnut tree these past few years. How important is this question to what you need to know?”
John had no idea that Mr. Beechman was much older than his uncle. He’d met the man but had never really paid any attention to his age. Could Catherine’s mother have been involved with a married man? That didn’t bode well for Catherine’s peace of mind.
It wasn
’t unheard of for a young lady to be swept off her feet by an older gentleman, but John was certain that information wouldn’t make Catherine happy if it were true. No young lady would want to know her mother had been a mistress to a married man.
“It could be very important. I’m not sure yet. But you say you know for sure Mr. Beechman was married by that year.”
“Yes. He had a son who would have been in his early twenties.”
John’s hand tightened on his glass and he leaned forward. “A son in his twenties? Are you sure we’re talking about the same person? Where is his son? I’ve not heard of him.”
“I’m not surprised you haven’t. As best I remember, Mr. Beechman’s son was killed in a hunting accident. It could have happened the year you asked about. I really can’t remember.”
“Had the son married?”
“No, no, I’m thinking that he was betrothed to a young lady, but I’m not sure of that detail and I’m really not sure of the year, either. Over twenty years is a long time to remember facts about someone I wasn’t close friends with, and if it is the same year, remember that we spent half of it touring Scotland.”
“But you are sure Mr. Beechman had a son who would have been in his twenties and he was killed?”
His uncle gave him a tired look. “Yes, I’m sure of that. His son was thrown from his horse and killed instantly. Though Beechman never said it, some of us believe that’s why he never gets on a horse or rides in a carriage. It’s been so long now that most people may well have forgotten he ever had a son.”
Possibilities crowded John’s thoughts and threatened to run away. He needed to do some serious thinking about this. He wasn’t going to forget about Mr. Chatsworth but right now he would concentrate on finding out more about Mr. Beechman and his son.
“Thank you, Uncle. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“I really didn’t tell you very much. Is that all you needed?”
“You’ve given me a lot to go on. I’ll do some further checking on my own.”
“Just be careful, John. Most men don’t like to have their past dug into, not even a man whose past is above reproach.”
“I know and believe me I’m going to be very careful. I don’t want to see anyone get hurt.”
John turned up his glass and downed its contents quickly. Could Catherine’s mother have been involved with the married father, or could she have possibly been involved with the son who was killed?
Seventeen
LATER THAT NIGHT, John left Lord Baxley’s party and drove his phaeton over to White’s. He wanted to sit in a dark corner and have a drink. Mrs. Goosetree had been her usual authoritarian self and had not let him have more than a few moments alone with Catherine before she whisked her away to another party with the parting statement that John had spent the entire afternoon with Catherine and if he wasn’t ready to state his intentions concerning her sister, she had other young men to consider.
The lady was a tyrant. He had managed to tell Catherine that he’d spoken with his uncle and would be in touch with her later about his findings. Bentley had given him a valuable piece of information. John intended to study the diary and the possibilities that either Mr. Beechman or his son might be Catherine’s real father.
Perhaps he would hire a Runner to find out more about the son’s death. A Runner would be able to look at old documents, newspapers, and ask questions without involving John, his uncle, or Catherine. He wanted to get this settled for Catherine as soon as possible.
And all of that was important, but mostly tonight John just wanted to spend some time thinking about Catherine and the breathtaking way she made him feel inside, the way she stayed constantly on his mind, his agitation when he saw her dance with other men, and the way he felt as if she belonged to him.
John walked into White’s and handed his hat, gloves, and cape to a servant and headed for the taproom. He expected to find the place almost deserted at this time of the evening, as most men would still be at one of the multitude of parties scheduled for the night.
Lamps were lit but turned low in the room John knew as well as he knew the back of his hand. Tinkling of glass and rumbled chatter came from the few men who were scattered about the taproom. From a doorway he heard laughter and the sound of billiard balls smacking together. The smells of liquor and beeswax lay heavy on the air.
John signaled for the waiter to bring him the usual and was about to take a seat at an empty table when he noticed Andrew sitting by himself on the opposite side of the room staring into his glass.
Something was wrong. Andrew wasn’t one to drink alone and never one to look forlorn.
John walked over to him and without bothering to ask for permission, he pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.
Andrew looked up and squinted at him with sleepy, bloodshot eyes. “Why don’t you join me?” he said, even though John was already seated.
He immediately knew that his friend had had too much to drink for so early in the evening.
“I wasn’t sure if you wanted any company. It appears you’re having a rather good time by yourself.”
He held up his glass in salute to John. “I am. It must have been my laughter that brought you over here.”
And cynical, too? What was going on with him?
“Want to tell an old friend why you would be having such a jolly good time by yourself?”
“Are we?” His skeptical eyes belied his simple question.
John made allowances for Andrew’s mood and tried not to read anything into his friend’s words. “What do you mean by ‘are we’?”
“We’re old friends to be sure, but are we still good friends?”
It was unlike Andrew to be this way. He overindulged in the bottle once in a while. They all did from time to time, but Andrew was never maudlin.
“What kind of question is that to ask? Of course we are.”
“Well, I haven’t seen you since our discussion about Miss Reynolds in your uncle’s library.”
John should have known this had something to do with Catherine. And now that Andrew mentioned it, he hadn’t seen him since their squabble in Bentley’s office. They each had their say, and as far as John was concerned it was over. He hadn’t given their brash encounter another thought, but apparently it was eating at Andrew.
Had Andrew taken an instant dislike to her or did he in some way feel threatened by her? John didn’t like either possibility.
Andrew would just have to get used to Catherine being around because John had no intentions of giving her up.
“That would be your fault as much as mine, ole chap.”
Andrew drank from his glass again. “I’ve been at White’s the past two nights and haven’t seen you.”
I’m more interested in Catherine than White’s attractions. She is the draw for me now. Not drink, cards, and friends.
“Really? I’ve been at several parties and haven’t seen you at any of them.”
“Touché,” he said and again he saluted John with his glass. “Perhaps we’ve been hiding from each other.”
Were they? No. They’d been friends too long to let a lady come between them. John’s stomach tightened. He didn’t like the thought that there might be some kind of tension between Andrew and Catherine, or Andrew and himself.
The servant placed a glass of port in front of John, but suddenly he didn’t feel like drinking. He sat back in his chair when he realized the turn his thoughts had taken. Catherine had become a part of his life. And he wanted it that way. She was the first lady he had ever pursued that he wasn’t willing to give up.
Andrew knew that. He’d seen it coming.
“I have no reason to hide from you and you have no reason to avoid me. We settled our discussion about Catherine, remember?”
Andrew half laughed and poured more wine into his glass. “And she’s now Catherine is she? What a charming name.”
He didn’t miss a thing.
“We know each other well en
ough to be on first names with each other.”
Andrew hooded his eyes with his lashes as he looked at John and asked, “Did Miss Reynolds tell you I had a conversation with her a couple of nights ago?”
“Yes, she mentioned that she’d met you. Why do you ask?”
Andrew sat up straighter in his chair and coughed. “No reason really. I just wondered if she told you we’d actually spoken.”
“I assume Catherine considered you an acceptable gentleman. She has no fear of speaking her mind, and if you had behaved badly I’m sure she would have told me.”
“I’m sure you’re right about both those things,” he said. “She’s no wilting daisy. In fact, she’s quite admirable.”
Her self-confidence was one of the things that impressed him. She played by Society’s rules and allowed Mrs. Goosetree a certain amount of authority over her, but she was not afraid to bend the rules when she considered it necessary.
“Well, Dunraven left the two of us last year, and it appears that you will be leaving me this year.”
“No,” John said and picked up his glass of port and took a drink. It was strong but almost sweet. Suddenly he was reminded of when he’d tasted the flavor on Catherine’s lips. There weren’t too many things recently that didn’t remind him in some way of Catherine.
Andrew’s cloudy eyes zeroed in on John’s. “I’m right and I’m glad for you.”
“That’s your wine talking, Andrew, and it is nonsense. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” John said, but knew he had no real conviction in his voice.
Andrew knew it, too.
“I saw a possessive look in Dunraven’s eyes whenever he talked about Millicent, and now I see it in your eyes when you talk about Catherine.”
It shows?
“I’m attracted to her. I’m not planning to marry her,” John said and felt damned uncomfortable after the words left his mouth. He really didn’t know what the hell he was feeling for Catherine.
