Her words were so welcome, Catherine maintained a neutral countenance with difficulty. “Is he so haughty?”
“Not at all. It took me a while to realize it, but he has a natural diffidence around anyone he has not known for hundreds of years. My husband, Beau, and Viscount Strangeways are his only close friends. I do not know why he is that way. He just is.”
“Hmm. A little mystery there.” Catherine laughed. “Nothing more intriguing than a mysterious man.”
* * *
Catherine had received a letter from Sir Bertie in answer to her own. When she returned from the Wellinghams’, she took it out to read again with the intention of answering it.
Heyford Abbey
Lower Heyford, Oxfordshire
My dear Lady Catherine,
What a pleasure to find your letter waiting upon my return from London. I hope this note finds you well.
I was happy to be reunited with my little family. I have a niece and nephew who are twins, and my widowed sister lives here with them. Since I have been home, they have kept me very busy. We have been engaged in refurbishing the old gardener’s shed as a fort for the twins. My niece is very particular, and she keeps her brother and I bent to the task, despite the cold. We have also built a snowman, written a play (starring Gweet, my niece, of course), and pulled taffy. I am worn down to a shade of the man you knew. It is well-known among my friends that I come to London to recover from the rigors of my life in Oxfordshire!
I pray that you are safe in Somerset and that the smugglers are happy just to have you out of London.
I hope your winter ball goes well.
Yours very truly,
Sir B.
Catherine was charmed by the letter. How unexpected that the Sir Bertie she thought she knew should be so enamored of children. He opened up a pleasant picture in her mind. She had thought him rocklike. That supposition had not kept her from being attracted to him, but this new vision entranced her in a wholly different way. There was a warmth to him that she had never experienced in any man except her father. It was altogether more mysterious in light of Lady Wellingham’s observations about his reserve. What a complex man!
She was engaged in a return letter when the footman announced that she had a caller in the silver sitting room.
William here? Now?
She pinched the bridge of her nose hard. He came to see her alone? What could he possibly have to say? Had he come all the way from London?
She automatically checked her appearance in the hall mirror, but then went on. What did it matter how she looked? It was only William. Catherine entered the silver sitting room. She found her former fiancé leaning casually against the mantel just as though he belonged in Westbury Castle. The sight angered her.
“Lord William? What are you doing in Somerset?”
He straightened and walked across to her, taking both her hands in his. “I have come to see you, Catherine. I have news.”
She managed to disengage herself. “News?” She could not imagine what he meant. She was satisfied that she had shown much progress on becoming immune to his charms.
“Your Gentleman Smuggler?”
She bit her lip. “Oh yes.”
“I heard from the Excise in Dorset. None of the smugglers who are under arrest can give a name to the accomplice who sells their liquor and pays them. They do know he’s a gentleman, though they think he disguises his speech and clothing. He goes by the name of Smith, which is not helpful. The best lead we have is the brandy itself. Sir Herbert Backman says it is Saint Barnabas, which is a rare but coveted brand.”
“I’m afraid I am no help. Whatever the smuggler may think, I have never seen him to my knowledge,” she said.
“I came to put you on your guard. If he is disguised in Dorset, you may have seen him and not known him there, but it’s very likely that you would know him by sight from ton parties. Your assailant in London may be being paid by him to intimidate you.”
Catherine put some distance between her and William by taking a seat in a wingback chair. “So it comes down to catching him selling the brandy, then.”
“The Excise impounded that last lot, and the men who did the actual smuggling are in jail because they don’t have any money to pay the fine. The Gentleman may need to start all over and set up a new operation, but obviously he thinks you are a liability. I am glad you are here at the Castle and not in London.”
William was regarding her with a look she recognized. His eyes were warm with admiration. It was as though they were still engaged.
Once again, it called up her anger. How could he play with her emotions this way? “You need not have come all this way,” she said. “A letter would have been sufficient.”
He sat in the chair opposite and leaned toward her, his elbows on his knees.
“I wanted to see you,” he said simply, looking like the golden hero in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s Gothics.
How dare he act as though everything were unchanged between them! “And Sybil? How is she?”
“Sybil is quite well. She is down here, too. We are visiting her parents.”
She did not know what to say. There was nothing in the etiquette books about this situation.
Growing annoyed, she said, “Why have you really come, Lord William? This was quite an unnecessary visit, and to be blunt, you are not welcome here.”
He stood and wandered to the mantel again, placing his arm across it and fixing her with his eyes. “I miss you,” he said, his voice husky.
She could only stare, her anger increasing.
Catherine stood and said, “I must ask you to leave at once. You have no further business here. I do not care to hear a recital of your feelings. Good day. I believe you know your way out.”
Holding up her skirts, she left the room and returned to her private sitting room.
What was happening? Was he truly planning to leave poor Sybil?
She sat on the daybed and stared out the window. It was a blustery, chilly day. Spent leaves blew through the garden with its thorny, bare rose branches. Snowflakes began to swirl between her window and the landscape. She was very glad to be inside.
When she found that William had strayed from her emotionally, she had thought his feelings for Sybil must be a once-in-a-lifetime passion that neither of them could deny. But it seemed that was not true.
Her heart went out to her friend.
Both her pride and her inclination dictated that accepting him back into her life was impossible. How could she ever trust her love to a man who tried on women like he tried on coats?
Pacing her bedroom, she thought of Sir Bertie. She sensed that he was different. She had been rather bold with him. It was unlike her, but his company was both comforting and delightful. Going back to her desk, she wrote to him.
Westbury Castle
Somerset
Dear Sir Bertie:
Lord William Cumberwell came today to tell me essentially that they are no further in finding out who has been selling Saint Barnabas brandy in London. The men they caught evidently told him that the Gentleman Smuggler disguises himself and his speech. Lord C. thinks I would recognize him among the ton if I should see him and that is the reason he wants to rid the world of me. It is his opinion that my assailant is in his employ.
Allow me to change the subject. What were you thinking that day when you met me on the beach? The look in your eyes told me that you were startled. Were you expecting someone else?
Do write me another letter about the adventures of your niece and nephew. I enjoyed hearing about them very much.
It is too bad you are so far off. I should love for you to come to our ball.
Sincerely,
Lady C.
Chapter Fifteen
Lady Catherine’s letter made Bertie uncomfortable, but he couldn’t have said why. He did not think much of Cumberwell’s efforts. Unless the Gentleman Smuggler set up shop somewhere else, there wasn’t much hope of catching him in the act of sellin
g liquor. Perhaps the rogue was even someone she knew from Somerset. The Dorset crew had said he wasn’t a local man. He could very well be someone she had known all her life. But all of that was not the reason her letter disturbed him.
It was days before his discomfort worked its way to the surface and formed itself into one word: Cumberwell. He went all the way to Somerset to tell her he still didn’t know the identity of the smuggler. Was he still attached to Lady Catherine despite his engagement to her friend? Would she take him back if given the opportunity? Knowing how miserable his defection had made her, Bertie couldn’t help but wonder.
At least he could answer her question about their first meeting. He smiled at the recollection. She had fairly bowled him over. But he wouldn’t tell her that, exactly. He couldn’t afford to say anything that would make her hesitant about their friendship. Very aware of his inferior status in her brother’s eyes, he wanted to stay in her life any way he could.
And was it just a friendship? He was still uncertain on that point.
Heyford Abbey
Lower Heyford, Oxfordshire
Lady Catherine,
The smuggler obviously thinks you are a danger to him, even though you say you only heard his voice. Perhaps he is someone you know well. Possibly someone you have known all your life. I pray you will be safe in Somerset.
By now it must be nearly time for your ball. I heard from Viscount Wellingham that they are going to be in attendance. I am very glad you invited them. Penelope Wellingham is an interesting lady. She very nearly did not marry Beau because she did not think London society would suit her or she it. She much prefers the country.
Which do you prefer? I find I like the country most of the year, but I enjoy London in the Season when my friends are there. I hope I can count you as one of them now.
Why did I look startled when I met you there on the beach? To answer your question: No, I was not expecting to meet anyone else. But I certainly was not prepared to meet you. That day you could have been the heroine in one of your Gothic fantasies. To me, your eyes were tragic, your face—framed by your cloak—mysterious. If I was startled, it was because you pulled me out of my everyday world into a romance, where unexpected things happen. The sea could have carried me away to America, the cliff could have fallen upon us, or fairies could have dwelt in the cave.
I have been told that I express myself much differently in letters than I do in speech. I am certain that is true, but I do not know the reason for it.
Yours most truly,
Sir B.
Bertie sent his letter before he could reflect that it was too transparent. He regretted it after it was in the post. Had he put himself forward overmuch?
In order to stop thinking about what he had said, he helped Warrie set up a battlefield on the nursery floor. The boy was keen to be a soldier, but as he was the heir to his father’s title, that wouldn’t be possible. His estate was now under the care of his steward and his home now let and waiting for him. Bertie, his guardian, had encouraged the lad to become a military historian.
His sister had convinced Bertie to put off sending him away to school until he was twelve. He respected Marianne’s wishes, as Warrie’s presence raised her spirits, which were liable to be low since her husband’s death.
Lord Ian Deveridge had been an explorer, so his son’s hankering for adventure did not surprise Bertie. He also knew him to be a thoughtful lad who was sincerely attached to his twin. It would be a hard day for Gweet when Warrie left for school.
* * *
“Uncle Bertie, will you teach me to dance?” Gweet asked him. He was busy cataloging a pair of Egyptian bracelets from Ian’s collection destined for the British Museum but was happy for the interruption.
“Won’t hurt me to stir myself,” he said. “Ask your mother if she can play for us, and find your brother. I will teach you a reel.”
He and Marianne spent an hour teaching the twins their first dance.
His sister said, “Let us show them the waltz, Bertie. I have not waltzed since Ian’s death.”
As they stood up together and counted out the measures, Bertie found himself imagining that he was holding Lady Catherine in his arms. He guessed that she would be a graceful, lively partner—light as down and as soft.
The idea that had been simmering in the back of his mind bobbed to the surface.
“Marianne, should you like to accompany me to a ball?”
“A ball? I was not aware there was to be a ball in the neighborhood.”
Hoping he sounded offhand, he told her, “My friend, Lady Catherine Redmayne, is putting on a ball in Somerset. I shall write to Beau and Penelope. They are invited, and I am certain they shall be glad to have us to stay for a few days.”
“Oh, may we come?” asked Gweet, her brown eyes shining.
Bertie looked at Marianne, an eyebrow raised. She nodded briefly.
“If you are on your best behavior. It’s a long carriage ride—a couple of days. And it will be cold,” warned Bertie. “You must know that you are far too young for the ball. You must wait for your come out when you are eighteen.”
Gweet made a face. “It does not sound like it would be much fun, after all. What do you think, Warrie?”
“I think I would rather stay at home. The Wellinghams have no children. Remember the last time we stayed with them? Boring,” Warrie said.
Bertie made arrangements by letter with the Wellinghams, who replied that they were looking forward to hosting them and attending the ball together.
He wrote: It is by way of being a surprise. I would appreciate it if you did not warn Lady Catherine.
With all his preparations made, Bertie began to be very impatient to see the lady again.
* * *
Marianne and Bertie arrived at Somerset Vale in high spirits. Bertie’s sister had not been away from Oxfordshire for over a year and said she was very glad to see new people and new scenery.
Though his sister had known Beau for years, Bertie introduced Marianne to Lady Wellingham for the first time.
“I have heard so much about you from Bertie,” his sister said. “Is it true that you rode all the way from Northamptonshire to London to save Beau from death?”
Their hostess laughed. “That is a bit of an exaggeration. I did nurse him back to health. A wretched French spy had slashed his arm, and he lost quite a bit of blood.”
Beau put his arm around his wife and clasped her to his side. “She is my good angel.”
“Watch out, Marianne. An angel she may be, but she is also a bit of a cardsharp,” Bertie warned her.
They had an excellent dinner of roast beef and stuffed game hens, after which he and Beau had a private conversation over their port.
“Had word on the Gentleman Smuggler,” Bertie said. “Cumberwell says the men in Dorset claim he wears a disguise and goes by Smith. They divine, however, that he is a London gentleman. I surmise that Lady Catherine is in danger because he may be someone familiar to her.”
“Probably some dashed loose screw,” said Beau. “I’m surprised Cumberwell took the time to write to you. He’s not known for cooperation with the public.”
“Wasn’t me he told. It was Lady Catherine.” Bertie swirled the port in his glass. “I think there must be something loose in Cumberwell’s brainbox. I can’t imagine him preferring a timid gel like Sybil Anderson.”
“Mayhap he doesn’t like a lady who thinks too much,” said Beau with a chuckle. “On the other hand, I’ve never known you to put yourself to so much trouble over a lady.”
“It will probably come to nothing,” Bertie said. “Redmayne doesn’t like me.”
“More the fool, he. Her father is different—not the least toplofty in spite of his title. But he’s become a bit of a recluse, so I don’t know that he’ll appear at the ball.”
After they rejoined the ladies, Penelope proposed a rubber of whist.
“Only if you’ll partner me,” said Bertie. “I’m past tired of losin
g to you and Wellingham.”
The following morning, Bertie woke with keen anticipation of the night’s entertainment. He couldn’t wait not only to see Lady Catherine but to hold her in his arms during a waltz. But there was the day to be gotten through first. Beau took him shooting grouse.
Between shots, Bertie asked, “Any advice on how to handle Redmayne?”
“Man’s a snob,” Beau said, taking a shot. “No hope for him. You’ll want to make yourself known to the marquess.”
“And if he’s not present?”
“Bad luck.”
Bertie grimaced and resumed shooting.
* * *
Westbury Castle at night was a sight to behold. Huge torches lit the drawbridge, which carried them over the moat. Once they reached the castle’s outer wall, torches lit the massive coat of arms hanging over the front gate. Bertie began to wonder at Lady Catherine’s ever speaking to him at all and to question his appearing without a formal invitation.
The front hall seemed like something out of a storybook with its coats of armor and display of weaponry. The House of Westbury had obviously participated in wars going back hundreds of years. Footmen lined their way up a gilded staircase to a vast ballroom hung with gold fabric. Though it was the middle of winter, the room held stands of orchids and other exotic flowers Bertie guessed had their origins in tropical climes. These must be products of the famous succession houses.
He brought his hand up to make certain his neckcloth was in place. There stood Lady Catherine next to her brother in the receiving line. Her father was not to be seen.
“Buck up,” Beau whispered in his ear. “She favors you. That counts for something.”
Indeed, upon spotting Bertie, Lady Catherine gave a brilliant smile. “Sir Bertie!” she said. “What a wonderful surprise!”
“I’ve come to claim a waltz,” he said.
“I have the second one free,” she said, her eyes sparkling.
Redmayne barely nodded. “Backman. Didn’t know you were on the guest list.”
“My invitation was informal,” he said. “Lord Redmayne and Lady Catherine, may I present my sister, Lady Deveridge? Marianne, Lady Catherine Redmayne and her brother, Lord Robert Redmayne.”
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