She bit her lip. “That may be,” she said. “And it would explain how he knew so much about me. But he would be risking hanging for this person. Do you really think it’s likely?”
“If he were paid enough.”
“I may be wrong, but this person seemed to have a personal stake.” She shook her head smartly. “Let’s forget it for the afternoon,” she said. “Now tell me about the Rosetta Stone. I have never understood why it is such an important discovery. I know that we got it from the French when we defeated them in Egypt.”
“It has huge potential. Egyptian scholars are very excited about it. It holds the key to understanding an entire ancient civilization.”
“Tell me more. How is it the key?” Her eyes held a hint of laughter.
“It is a decree written in three languages: ancient Greek, ancient Egyptian script, and Egyptian hieroglyphs. Since we know ancient Greek, there is hope that scholars can use the stone to translate the Egyptian. Efforts are going forth to do so, but it is a slow process. It may prove to take another ten years.”
When they finally made their way to the stone, Lady Catherine was disappointed that it was so small—only about forty-five inches tall. “The engravings are small. I expected a huge monolith.”
“But surely it is old enough to give you the perspective you are seeking,” said Bertie. “Although, I must say it is positively young for an Egyptian artifact. The civilization was so old it is hard for modern men to comprehend. The Early Dynastic Period is thought to be thousands of years before Christ.”
“Yes. In matters of perspective, it is really rather awe-inspiring. I should love to be the one to translate it! I must brush up on my ancient Greek, I suppose.”
“I am certainly giving it a try,” he said quietly.
“Really? You are an Egyptian scholar?”
Bertie looked around him in mock terror. “Never let it be known. It would ruin my reputation as a self-respecting Corinthian!”
She laughed. “Do you camp out here in the BM in front of the Rosetta Stone?”
“No. I have a graphite rubbing at my home. It is what occupies me during long winter days.”
They spent the remainder of the afternoon studying the antiquities. Bertie tried not to batter her with his knowledge and enthusiasm, but he explained the detailing on the mummy cases and the significance of the sculptures. The thing that interested her the most was the length of time that the Egyptian civilization had been dominant, and the fact that she knew so little about it.
“This,” Bertie said, “is a bust of a pharaoh whom some believe to have been the leader of Egypt when the biblical Joseph traveled there in the Egyptian caravan. When we can translate the Egyptian, we will know much more about him. From the amount of statuary in which he is depicted, he must have been very great.”
As they were leaving, Lady Catherine proclaimed, “That was exceedingly interesting and refreshing. I can see how it could carry one away. In light of that vast civilization, my problems appear very small now, I assure you.”
Bertie smiled. “Would you like an ice?”
“Oh! I should adore going to Gunter’s! But you must be prepared. Our names will probably be linked in the gossip columns.”
Grinning, he said, “I wonder if they had anything like gossip columns in ancient Egypt?”
It was teatime, so Gunter’s, essentially a tea shop, was crowded with members of the ton.
“This is my first society appearance since I cried off, Sir Herbert,” she said.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you—I dislike people calling me Sir Herbert. It is Sir Bertie. Now! I will try my best to look adoring,” he said.
She laughed. “That really would start gossip. I think you should stick with your normal impassivity. Unless you want people to wager on when we will announce our nuptials!”
He merely smiled.
Lady Catherine ordered a raspberry ice; he ordered lemon.
“Is your perspective restored?” he asked.
She gave him the look of a startled animal. “It is about to be upended. William’s fiancée, my former friend, Sybil Anderson is coming over to us.”
“Steady on,” he said.
Bertie watched as a lady with a rounded figure, a round face, and a pleading expression approached.
“Catherine, it is so good to see you enjoying yourself. Will you introduce me to your companion?”
Bertie stood and bowed his head. “Sir Herbert Backman.”
Lady Catherine said, “Sir Bertie, this is Miss Sybil Anderson.”
She did not invite Miss Anderson to be seated at their table. The lady said, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir Herbert.”
“You are not here alone, surely,” said Lady Catherine.
“No. I am here with Lady Anne, William’s sister.”
He watched as Lady Catherine’s eyes moved over the room. “She is visiting Town, I take it? She is such a shy thing.”
For some reason, Miss Anderson blushed a bright pink, which did not go at all with her ginger-colored hair. “She just arrived from the country. I am showing her the sights.”
Bertie said, “You must take her to the British Museum. We’ve just come from there. Lady Catherine longed to see the Rosetta Stone.”
That lady looked at him in gratitude, presumably for his intervention.
“You have become a scholar?” asked Miss Anderson. “I have never known you to be interested in antiquities.”
“I found it vastly interesting. And the mummies, too. It seems I have lived a very narrow life. Sir Bertie is bent on improving my mind.”
A glint of suspicion sparked in Miss Anderson’s eyes. “You are having me on.”
“I am not, I promise you!” said Lady Catherine. “We met at a house party in Dorset and have formed a fast friendship. Have we not, Sir Bertie?”
“The fastest of friendships,” said Bertie solemnly. “She knows my deepest secrets.”
Miss Anderson looked from one of them to the other, as though suspecting they were making game of her.
“When is your wedding to be?” asked Lady Catherine. Listening to her, Bertie would never guess she felt anything but the most polite curiosity.
“We have not settled on a date,” Miss Anderson said, looking down. “Sometime at the beginning of the Season, most likely.”
Lady Catherine had finished her ice. Bertie had not had a chance to eat his, as he was compelled to remain standing, with the consequence that his ice now resembled a pool of goo.
“It was lovely to see you, Sybil,” his companion said. “But we must be going. We are expected elsewhere.”
“I hope I may call on you,” the lady said.
“You are welcome to try,” said Lady Catherine airily. “But you will not often find me at home.”
As they sailed out of Gunter’s, he felt Lady Catherine’s rigid hand go limp on his arm.
“Well done!” he congratulated her.
She said nothing. When he looked at her, her eyes were brimming with tears. “I treated her badly,” she said. “We used to be the very best of friends.”
“That must make the situation doubly difficult.”
“You have no idea,” she said. Stopping on the street, she took a handkerchief out of her reticule and dabbed at her eyes. “Thank you for standing in as my suitor. Fortunately, Sybil is not a gossip.”
There was no “standing in” about it.
Chapter Ten
Catherine was sorry to see Sir Bertie go. It had been difficult to face Sybil, and though she had misled her former friend into thinking she and Bertie were a pair, he did not seem to mind. She was very glad he had been by her side for that first encounter.
There was a restrained strength about him that lent itself to her. She had felt it all afternoon, not just at Gunter’s but at the museum, as well. She did not think of herself as a weak person, by any means, but of late she had been . . . well, perhaps a bit impaired. Especially here in London, where her busi
ness was on the tip of every tongue.
Fortunately, according to Stebbins, Robert was at his club, so she did not have to answer questions about where she had been that afternoon. The butler did hand her a note that had come by hand. To her surprise, it was from William.
Did she really want to open it? What possible business could he have with her? He was probably urging her to be friends with Sybil once again. When she reached her bedroom, she cast the letter on the fire, unopened.
Looking at the invitations propped on her mantel, she wondered what frivolity she was missing that evening. Since it was not the Season, there was not an overabundance of festivities, but there were some.
She was reminded that Lady Clarice and Miss B. were hosting a benefit musicale for their literacy project that evening. The Duchess of Ruisdell, who was her friend and a very accomplished pianist, was to play Beethoven. Did her self-imposed seclusion dictate that she should miss both her friend and Beethoven?
Would a smuggler attend a musicale? The man who had attacked her certainly would not. But how about the Gentleman Smuggler? Surely she would not be in any danger at such a public venue.
No. The only danger she could imagine was from gossips.
One did not have to mingle with others overmuch at a musicale. One could arrive just as the entertainment was meant to start and leave as soon as it was over. She could carry her donation to the Blossom House ladies in private tomorrow. That way she would not have to brave the crowds at the donation table. The only problem was that she did not have a chaperone to accompany her. She would have to see if Robert could spare an hour or two of his evening.
* * *
“A musicale at Blossom House?” Robert asked over dinner. “You are actually going to be seen in public?”
“Only if you will accompany me.”
“This smuggler bloke doesn’t worry you?”
“Not if you escort me to and from. He would not harm me in your company. I do not think he would risk attacking me in the presence of the ton! That would defeat his purpose, surely.” She looked at her brother with pleading eyes.
Robert raised an eyebrow, considering her. “Trying to butter me up, are you?”
“Not at all,” she said sweetly. “You are a veritable Samson with all the boxing you do. I would feel perfectly safe in your care.”
“I think it safe to say that such a fellow would not find musicales to his taste. I will accompany you. I can postpone my visit to my card party until later. It’s a very informal affair—vingt-et-un. The Prince will not be there tonight.”
In the interests of furthering her object, she did not chide him about his gambling with the expensive set that followed the Regent. “Thank you, Robert. You will enjoy Beethoven. He’s very masculine, and the duchess is a wonderful pianist.”
* * *
When Catherine and Robert reached Blossom House shortly before the concert was due to start, there was a line of guests through the front hall all the way into the ballroom. Observing this with dread, Catherine was ready to ask Robert to take her home when she was caught by Lady Sally Jersey, the biggest gossip in London.
“Oh, my dear! You are returned from Dorset! So glad you could attend this evening. Number fourteen is my very favorite sonata. So accessible, you know. So romantic, do you not find it so?”
“I do love it,” said Catherine. “It is very moving.”
“And the duchess is such a fine pianist.” She put her gloved hand on Catherine’s arm. “I heard that you were at Gunter’s today with that divine Sir Bertie. He is so irresistibly droll! And imagine Sybil Anderson walking right up to you like that! Whatever could she have to say to you?”
Catherine wished she could go through the floor.
“Sir Herbert Backman?” Robert hissed in her ear. “You appeared at Gunter’s with him?”
“Sir Bertie very kindly escorted me to the museum this afternoon. I had a great desire to see the Rosetta Stone. One hears so much about it, you know.”
Lady Jersey appeared startled. “The . . . the Rosetta Stone. Oh . . . of course. I had no idea you were a scholar, Lady Catherine.”
She said, “I do so enjoy antiquities. They give one such a unique perspective on one’s life, I find.”
“To be sure,” the lady agreed faintly.
Another of Lady Jersey’s acquaintances appeared just behind Catherine.
“Oh, Lady Manchester! How glad I am that you were able to brave the weather tonight!” She moved back in the line so she could converse with the new arrival.
Robert said in Catherine’s ear, “What is this rubbish about the Rosetta Stone? My dear, people are going to think you very odd! First Sir Herbert and now a thirst for random antiquities. I have a very good mind to escort you out the door right now!”
“You would not do such a thing. It would be odd. And heaven knows you are never odd!”
He flattened his mouth against his teeth. “You are the limit!”
Though Catherine saw other people whispering behind fans as they looked her way, no one else dared to approach her. She took a seat in the back of the room. She had never gotten used to the sound of so many whispering voices at an event such as this. It reminded her of a hive of bees. She must take very great care not to get stung.
Gradually, she became aware of William speaking somewhere behind her. She could not make out the words he spoke, and she kept her face forward, not wanting to catch even a casual glimpse of him with Sybil.
At that moment, Lady Clarice stepped on the purpose-built stage at the end of her ballroom to introduce the duchess, who was indeed going to be playing Sonata no. 14. Catherine sat back and enjoyed it. She wished she had someone besides her fusty brother with whom to listen to the haunting music. She tried to ignore the knowledge that William and Sybil sat behind her.
As the melancholy notes played, she felt a great well of hurt grow in her chest. Why had she come tonight?
Forcing her mind away from the pain, she intentionally focused on Egyptian artifacts.
Think of the Rosetta Stone. The mummies. Life is short. Heartbreak shorter. This will all pass.
Then Sir Bertie’s image came into her mind, looking down at her, his face inscrutable as usual. He had been a good friend to her today. And he had smiled his divine smile. The one with the dimples. During the time they had been together, she had forgotten William and Sybil entirely.
Now that she thought on it, she had never heard his name coupled with a lady at any time in the two years she had been out. However, her brother was right when he implied that they did not mix in the same circles. Perhaps Sir Bertie had someone tucked away in Oxfordshire.
She knew his friends, the Viscounts Wellingham and Strangeways, slightly better than she knew him. Lord Wellingham had been a bit of a rake before he was married very hastily to a lady from the country with whom he was involved in a scandal last year. Viscount Strangeways’s marriage was recent, as Bertie had told her. His American wife had seemed very pleasant, but she would like to know the story there. After all, there was a war on between their countries. How did she get to England?
Then the music was over, and she came out of her reverie. Her brother hustled her to her feet, anxious to be gone to his card party. As she and Robert worked against the tide of people making their way to the donation table, she was surprised to see Viscount Wellingham and his wife speaking to Lady Clarice.
That is right! Lady Wellingham is Lady Clarice’s niece and cousin to the Duchess of Ruisdell. No doubt Robert thinks she married beneath her.
Robert suddenly pulled at her elbow most inelegantly. “Come. I must be on my way.”
Before she could complain, she saw William and Sybil walking toward her. No wonder Robert was in such a hurry. Looking straight ahead, she hastened her step, putting the crowd between her and the two who had once been most dear to her in the world. The pain revisited her as her heart pounded in her ears.
* * *
As she sat in her sitting room, home
alone, watching the snow swirl outside her window in the faint glow of the streetlamp, she was devastatingly lonely.
What did William write in the letter I burned? Why did he come calling? What could he possibly have to say to me?
She saw a man in a top hat and greatcoat coming down the walk. The clock had just struck ten. Who could be calling at this hour?
It must be some sort of emergency. Had something happened to Robert? Fortunately, she had not yet gotten undressed.
Shortly, there came a knock at her door.
Soon after, Stebbins entered the room. “My lady, Lord William Cumberwell is calling. He says it is in the nature of an emergency.”
Her heart lodged in her throat. An emergency! Robert? She could not very well deny him under these circumstances. But oh, how difficult it all was!
“Put him in the blue saloon, Stebbins. I shall be down shortly.”
Hastening to her dressing table, she checked her appearance in the mirror. Her hair was neat, but even in the light of the candles, she could tell she had gone pale.
But what does it matter? He did not come to see me out of any romantic motive. It is an emergency.
Opening her door, she made her way down the stairs and into the blue saloon, the most formal of Westbury House’s receiving rooms. When she entered, her former fiancé was pacing in front of the grand marble fireplace, running a hand through his fair hair.
“What is it?” she asked, clutching at her throat in fear.
He turned to face her, fists clenched at his side. “Catherine!”
For a moment, he was mute, staring at her.
“Tell me what is amiss!” she pleaded. “Is it Robert?”
“No. It is you. Sir Bertie Backman called on me at the Home Office. He says you are in the greatest of danger. Did you actually see this smuggler?”
Sir Bertie called on William?
“Why would he call on you?” she asked before she could stop herself.
“I am the Home Office expert on smuggling along the southern coast. I work hand in glove with the Excise. You are in danger, Catherine. The Portland Bill lot have been arrested. We do not yet know who their London connection is, but he has to be fairly desperate that he might be given away.”
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