Hero's Redemption

by Georgie Lee

  The door swung open without a knock and Martha stood on the threshold, watching Cathleen gather up the last of her things.

  “Have you come to make sure I don’t steal anything?” Cathleen closed the trunk and yanked the strap tight. “I assure you, there’s nothing here I want.”

  “I’d always thought you too honest to be of any use to us, but you’ve outfoxed us all,” Martha mockingly praised. “Perhaps you’re more like us than I realized.”

  “I’m nothing like either of you.”

  “I’m not so sure. Look how you trapped the earl.”

  “I’ve trapped no one. He proposed of his own free will.”

  “I saw you with him last night and the way you sneaked out of Lord Felton’s study. Makes me wonder what you learned when you were scraping by in France. Won’t that be the talk of society?”

  “Don’t think to blackmail me. You know nothing of my life in France except the twisted stories your filthy mind invents.” Cathleen dragged the trunk to the door. “Now, step aside. He’s waiting for me.”

  Martha didn’t move. “Don’t think you’ll be rid of us so easily. You owe us.”

  “I owe you nothing.”

  “Except your upkeep for the last four months.”

  “Then I’ll be sure to send you a few pounds in thanks for all your kindness.” Cathleen pushed past her, dragging the small chest down the hall to the stairs.

  “Allow me.” The earl took the stairs two at a time, grasping the trunk in one hand and offering her his arm.

  “Thank you.” Cathleen laid a steadying hand on his arm, drawing from his sturdy presence the calm she needed to stop herself from turning and unleashing a torrent of unladylike words on Martha. Lord Malton led her down the stairs and past Lucien, who stood in the middle of the foyer glaring at her.

  “Be sure to write me when you’re settled in. After all, we are family,” Lucien sneered.

  “How could I forget that, or your kindness? I don’t know how I shall ever repay you,” Cathleen answered with equal contempt before Lord Malton escorted her out the front door.

  Neither spoke as the earl led her to the carriage, gave the trunk to the footman and handed Cathleen inside. She rested against the squabs, taking a deep breath and balling her fists to stop her hands from shaking. Lord Malton climbed in the carriage and took his place opposite her then rapped on the roof. The carriage set off with a jolt before settling into a rhythmic sway as the horses pulled it down the street.

  “Lord Malton—”

  He held up a hand. “Devon, please.”

  “Devon, I cannot thank you enough for what you’ve done.”

  “It was my pleasure.” He smiled. “I don’t think your brother was expecting it.”

  “Nor was I. Of course I won’t hold you to the proposal.”

  His smile faded and he leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach.

  “If we can come to an arrangement, such as we discussed last night,” Cathleen continued, fiddling with her ring, “I’ll leave London and you’ll be free to make a more advantageous match.”

  “The only arrangement we’ll come to is the one you’ve already agreed to.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I assure you, I’m very serious.”

  “No, you must have some other plan in mind.”

  “Such as?”

  “Investing in my shop or securing a companion position for me.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “You must.”

  “Why would I propose if I didn’t want to marry you?”

  “To shock Lucien, of course.”

  “I am not in the habit of proposing simply to shock people.”

  “Aren’t you? All of London will be stunned when they discover the Hero of Hougoumont has married the penniless sister of a well-known wastrel.”

  “Quite possibly, but beyond society’s expectation there’s nothing else preventing our wedding. When we reach my house, I’ll send my man of affairs for a special license and we’ll marry at Malton Hall.”

  “But think what you’re proposing.”

  “Marriage,” he glibly answered and Cathleen clenched the edge of the squabs in frustration.

  “Not if I don’t consent.”

  “You will.”

  “I assure you, I will not.”

  “But you already have, Mrs. Selton. You don’t wish to be labeled a jilt, do you?”

  Cathleen sighed, wondering where the brooding man from last night had gone. She could reason with him but this jovial earl only annoyed her.

  “Society will pin me with many more labels if I become a countess. I have no wish to become the center of a scandal.” Nor to marry where there is no love, she wanted to say but didn’t, knowing he wouldn’t understand. A man of his station only understood the duty of marriage, the need to increase a family’s status or produce an heir. She could help him do neither. She crossed her arms over her chest, the old sadness creeping through her.

  “You are very stubborn,” he teased.

  She opened her mouth to tell him she was barren, knowing it was the one thing sure to make him change his mind, then stopped. Despite everything they’d shared last night in Lord Felton’s study, she couldn’t reveal something so intimate to a stranger. She leaned back against the squabs, watching a hackney pass outside the carriage window. Soon enough she’d make him see the foolishness of his proposal, making such a painful revelation unnecessary.

  “One does not stay out of the street by being meek,” she said.

  He cocked his head at her, a wry smile on his lips. “So you’re more than happy to take my money but you don’t want me.”

  “No...I...not at all,” Cathleen stammered before recovering herself. “I’m not trying to take your money. I’m simply asking for a loan, which I will repay. Please, try and see reason.”

  “I’m quite blind to it.”

  “Then think of your family.”

  “Family be damned.” He slammed his fist against the carriage window sill, making her jump. “What has my mother ever done for my consideration?”

  She didn’t answer, his mercurial turn tightening the worries knotting her stomach. Thankfully, the carriage rattled to a stop and a footman pulled open the door. Fresh air poured in and Cathleen took a deep breath, accepted the servant’s hand and stepped out.

  She looked up at the imposing houses of Grosvenor Square standing shoulder to shoulder like a menacing wall designed to keep out women like her. Devon spoke briefly to the footman, then took her arm and led her up the front stairs. Inside, the house was no more inviting, with large wood furniture and dozens of relatives staring down their painted noses at Cathleen. The footman entered behind them, carrying her shabby trunk across the foyer and up the massive staircase. The little trunk had been with her through so much. Never in any of her fantasies did she expect to see it in a house like this. Nor would it stay.

  “Is there anything you need before we leave London?” Devon asked. “Traveling clothes or a sturdier cloak perhaps?”

  “When are you planning to leave?”

  “We will leave the day after tomorrow, after I’ve secured the special license.”

  Good, it’ll give me time to think of a way to change his mind. “No, there’s nothing I need.”

  Devon’s eyes dipped down the length of the old pelisse covering her much-mended brown dress, silently challenging her reticence, but she didn’t budge. She had no wish to be any more in his debt than necessary. To her surprise, he didn’t insist or argue as he had in the carriage.

  “To protect your reputation while you’re here, I’ll send word to my mother to join us and act as chaperone until we’re married.”

  Cathleen nodded, not looking forward to mee
ting Devon’s mother. She’d seen something of the haughty dowager countess at balls, and doubted she’d welcome Cathleen as her new daughter-in-law.

  “Ah, Mrs. Smith,” Devon clapped his hands together when the stout, older woman entered the foyer. “Mrs. Selton, this is the housekeeper, Mrs. Smith. She will show you to your room and make sure you have everything you need.”

  Mrs. Smith turned to Cathleen and motioned to the stairs. “This way, please.”

  Cathleen followed the housekeeper up the large staircase, her hand gliding along the wide polished banister until they reached the long hallway at the top.

  “His lordship’s room is at the end of the hall.” Mrs. Smith motioned toward a suite of three doors at the end before turning abruptly to her right. “Your room is here.”

  She pushed open the door and Cathleen followed her inside, noticing a collection of Italian landscapes hanging over the expensive blue paper on the walls. Heavy blue brocade draped the bed, its somber tones echoed in the silk upholstery covering the large gilt chairs, none of which invited guests to sit down and make themselves comfortable.

  “Shall I help you unpack your things?” Mrs. Smith asked, her hands clasped primly together in front of her ample chest.

  Cathleen shook her head. “Perhaps later. I wish to rest now.”

  “Very well, madam. Please ring if you need me.” She dipped a shallow curtsey and left.

  Cathleen took off her pelisse and moved to lay it across the bed then stopped, afraid to let the old garment touch the fine silk coverlet. Tossing it over a nearby wooden chair, she paced the bedroom like a nervous hound. Stopping at the window, she moved aside the sheer curtain to take in the garden below. Rigid squares of neatly clipped hedges surrounded a beautiful marble statue of Venus holding her infant son Cupid.

  I should have told him I can’t have children. It would have ended everything. She let go of the curtain and dropped down onto the window seat. The thought of announcing such a thing, of watching his face fall as Thomas’s had each time her courses began, was more than her already-strained nerves could bear.

  I’ll find another way to dissuade him. Or am I mad to refuse him?

  Many women in London would gladly accept the security Devon offered, yet all she could think of was how to change his mind and convince him to invest in her shop. Twisting her wedding ring on her finger, she sighed. Though she hated to admit it, his arguments against a shop had merit. There was no guarantee her business would succeed, and if it didn’t there was no one left to turn to for help. But to marry a man she didn’t love, to place herself under the complete control of someone who drank himself into stupors, or grew angry at the smallest mention of his family worried her more than failure.

  No, my shop simply cannot fail.

  She strode to the desk and sat down, looking over the array of silver writing instruments, India ink and linen paper. Taking one sheet and dipping the nib in the inkwell, she composed a follow up to her inquiry about a small shop for lease in Bath. Hopefully, it would take more than two days for Devon to acquire a special license and she would hear from the shop owner, who resided in London, before they left. She penned another letter to a London apothecary, requesting prices on various supplies, knowing they would be cheaper here than in Bath. Drawing a third sheet of paper from the small stack, she sketched out ideas for her business. She wouldn’t let the earl’s arguments against the shop dissuade her. Instead she’d use them to her advantage, counter each one with a well-thought-out answer, make him see it could only succeed, even where others had failed. The more well presented her plans, the more likely Devon would invest in her idea.

  Chapter Four

  “I received your note.” The Dowager Countess of Malton marched into the foyer, her gray hair pulled tightly away from her face, emphasizing her sharp cheeks and pinched lips. Six small dogs of various breeds followed behind her, their toenails clicking across the wood floor, tails wagging with excited delight. “What could possibly be so important for you to call me out in the afternoon when I have the little ones to walk?”

  “Good afternoon, Mother,” Devon greeted through a forced smile. “Please, join me in the morning room.”

  She swept past him into the sunny room off the foyer and perched herself on the edge of a chair near the window. The dogs sat obediently at her feet, their large brown eyes watching Devon. “Well?”

  “I’ve asked you here to act as chaperone to my fiancée.”

  “Your fiancée?” She clutched the front of her dress.

  Devon inwardly groaned at his mother’s theatrics. “Due to issues with her family, she’ll reside here until the marriage, which will take place at Malton Hall as soon as possible.”

  His mother’s eyes widened slightly before narrowing into two hard stones. “And who exactly is this fiancée?”

  “Mrs. Selton. Her brother is Sir Lucien Wells.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him,” she said. “Nothing good. Is she your mistress?”

  “She is not.”

  “Is she carrying your child?”

  “No.” Devon took a deep breath, willing his voice to maintain a conversational tone. “She’s the widow of a gentleman I served with at Waterloo.”

  “Ah yes, France again. It is always France.”

  Devon clasped his hands behind his back, forcing himself not to bodily remove his mother from the house. Indifferent to his tense jaw, she continued in her caustic vein.

  “Hundreds of men have come home without dragging the battlefield through the ballroom, yet you cling to its specter. Now you wish to marry some woman who’ll only help you wallow in it further, and not just any woman but the sister of a debauched baronet with no money and no family connections.”

  “That’s enough,” he roared.

  She flinched but did not back down. “No, it is not. For the last two years I’ve endured your dark mood, humored this strange temper, and perhaps in doing so, allowed it to last longer than is good. But no more.” She stood and swept past him into the foyer, the dogs obediently following.

  “Yes, your motherly affection and concern since my return has been most heartfelt and welcome.” Devon marveled again at how she took in the unwanted lap dogs of society with the enthusiasm of a mother hen for her brood, while easily ignoring her own son’s suffering.

  “You may align yourself with a family of such low means and debase the Malton name, but do not expect me to lend it any veneer of credibility.” She marched to the door, sending the butler scrambling to open it without tripping over the dogs.

  “Then I’ll ask Elizabeth.”

  “Ask her. She’s a married woman, and like you, will do as she pleases whether I approve or not.” She pushed past the butler and out the door, the dogs running forward and bounding into the carriage.

  “Blasted woman,” Devon growled before movement on the stairs caught his attention. He looked up to see Cathleen standing on the center landing. Had she witnessed the entire scene?

  “An auspicious start to our married life,” she remarked.

  Evidently, she had. “Mother doesn’t take surprising news well.”

  “So I see.” Cathleen’s dignified attitude was betrayed by the two wrinkled letters clenched in her hand.

  “Shall I have the butler post those for you?” He walked up the steps to join her and reached for the letters, but she pulled them back.

  “No. They’re only notes to old friends in France,” she explained, a slight tremble in her voice. “Please, I’d like to post them myself. I wish to walk. I need some fresh air after the excitement of today.”

  Devon nodded. The protective way she clutched the letters raised his suspicions, but he didn’t press the matter. “Since you don’t have a lady’s maid yet, I’ll have Mrs. Smith accompany you.”

  “There’s no need. I’m us
ed to walking alone.”

  “I insist.”

  Cathleen moved to object, but seemed to think better of it and nodded her agreement. “I’ll fetch my pelisse.”

  She went back upstairs. Devon sent word to Mrs. Smith to join Cathleen, and then he headed to his office.

  Seating himself at the mahogany desk, he took out a piece of paper and composed a letter to his sister Elizabeth, briefly explaining the situation and asking for her assistance. While he wrote, the conversation with Cathleen in the carriage played out in his mind for the hundredth time since coming home. The alacrity with which Cathleen accepted his proposal didn’t surprise him. Her determination to refuse it once they were alone did.

  What made her change her mind? His hand paused over the letter and a drop of ink dripped from the nib, staining one corner of the note.

  He sensed more in her refusal than the differences in their stations. Perhaps her hesitation was an act, a way to draw him in, make him trust her so she could take advantage of his wealth. No, it couldn’t be. Neither she nor her brother had known he intended to propose. And surely Thomas, who’d so quickly sacrificed himself for Devon, couldn’t have married a woman who schemed for money. Unless Cathleen’s days of poverty had turned her into a thief.

  Movement outside the window caught his attention and he turned to watch a cluster of yellow roses sway in the breeze. The image of Cathleen’s calm face in Lord Felton’s study rushed back, along with the peace he’d felt in her presence. The woman who’d listened to his story of Waterloo without judgment or flimsy pity, confessing the truth behind their encounter, was no thief. He sensed it as he did her calm inner strength, even if his rational mind could not explain it.

  Returning to the letter, he signed his name then sealed it, ignoring the lingering guilt hovering along the edge of his thoughts. He hadn’t told her the truth about Thomas’s death. He’d intended to tell her. She had a right to know. However, the way she argued against the marriage, refusing him for no good reason, unmoved by any of his assurances or arguments, changed his mind. Telling her about Thomas would give her one more reason to reject him, placing her at the mercy of Wells or some questionable business arrangement that might leave her more destitute than before. It would also give her a reason to hate him.