And so she sucked in her breath and walked down the staircase, listening to the sharp click of her shoes against marble. Her footsteps echoed around the still house, reminding her that her life here was over. She made her way out through the entrance hall, swallowing the pain that was stabbing at her throat. Casting one final glance over her shoulder, Catherine pulled the door closed on her old home and followed her aunt into the carriage.
* * *
Catherine watched out the window as the whitewashed, manicured streets rolled by. She could feel her aunt’s eyes on her. Pitying eyes.
She kept her gaze fixed out the window. She did not want pity. Pity was a stark reminder of all she had lost.
Two days after her brother’s trial, Catherine had written to her aunt, telling her all that had happened. It had been an act borne of necessity; with Robert in prison, they had no means of keeping the household together. The staff—many of whom Catherine had known her entire life—would be released from their positions and the house sold to pay off Robert’s debts.
Besides Robert, Aunt Cornelia and her son Edmund were the only family Catherine had left. There had been a part of her that had wanted to keep Robert’s misdemeanors a secret, even from her aunt and cousin. But soon she would be homeless. What choice did she have but to write to them, begging them to take her in like some hopeless street urchin?
Catherine would not have been surprised if Cornelia had sought to distance herself from the whole situation. Her aunt was the widow of the Viscount of Featherstone, and she prided herself on upholding her husband’s good name.
But a letter had come back almost immediately. In her usual forthright tone, Aunt Cornelia had instructed Catherine to have her belongings packed at once. She had expressed her surprise to hear of Robert’s imprisonment, a thing Catherine found at once both endearing and infuriating. She knew it more than likely that gossip-hungry Cornelia Spicer had heard about her nephew’s fall from grace the moment the soldiers had dragged him from the manor.
As per the letter, a coach had appeared outside Bolmont Manor at the stroke of three p.m. the following day, carrying Catherine’s furred and feathered spectacle of an aunt.
“I’ve had a room prepared for you,” Aunt Cornelia said as the carriage rattled and thudded through the gates of her Chelsea manor. “A lovely little room overlooking the garden. I’ve no lady’s maid for you, but I’ve a young kitchen hand who has agreed to help you at your toilette.”
Catherine managed a faint smile. A kitchen maid helping her at her toilette seemed the best someone like her could hope for. “Thank you, Aunt,” she managed. “That’s very kind of you.”
Her voice was thin and childish.
Listen to me.
When had she become this pitiful, downtrodden creature, afraid to speak a word out of place?
She wasn’t sure when the transformation had occurred. She only knew she had not always been so mouse like and fragile.
Had it happened after Robert’s arrest? Worsened, perhaps, but she knew she had begun to retreat into her shell long before that dreadful night the soldiers had appeared.
Life with Robert had not been easy. After their father’s death, he had become morose and unfriendly. He had been hot-headed and quick to snap.
As children, Robert had always taken care of her, had let her cry on his shoulder whenever the world had tried to beat her down.
Though he had never spoken of such things, Catherine knew he had taken Papa’s death hard. He spent many nights ensconced in their father’s smoking room, with Papa’s pipe in one hand and his brandy in the other. Catherine had been determined to be there for him, to help him through his grief. She had been determined to repay the kindness he had shown her in childhood.
But it had been the gambling halls rather than his sister Robert that had turned to in an effort to stem the grief. One night a week quickly became two, then three, then four, then five. Often, Catherine would go days without seeing him, and when he finally did appear, he would be surly and foul-mouthed.
He began to look at Catherine as though she were nothing more than a kitchen maid. The heartfelt conversations they had shared as children and teenagers became a thing of the past. There had been times too—times Catherine was doing her best to forget—that he had raised a hand to her. A slap here, a wrench of her wrist there. Nothing she couldn’t disguise with a little rouge, or a strategically-placed shawl. But enough to have worked its way beneath her skin and ensured her nerves were constantly on edge.
She tried to wrestle the uncomfortable thoughts from her mind.
Little wonder I’ve become scared of my own shadow...
For the first time, she felt a flicker of relief that Robert was safely locked up in Newgate. The thought was followed by a pang of guilt.
Robert is my brother, she reminded herself. And I will support him no matter what.
The carriage came to a halt outside the stables and the driver bounded out of the box seat to open the door. Catherine accepted his proffered hand and stood looking up at the house.
Featherstone Manor was large and white, rising three stories above the neatly-trimmed grass. Long, wide windows lined the first and second floors, the triangular shapes of the attic jutted up between the red planes of the roof. The house was undeniably beautiful. But it did not feel like home.
In a rustle of skirts and a waft of Night Jasmine, Aunt Cornelia appeared beside her. She caught hold of Catherine’s arm and, apparently, the sour expression on her face.
“And here I thought you’d always been fond of my house,” she said.
Catherine turned to look at her aunt. “Forgive me,” she said hurriedly. “Your house is beautiful. I was just thinking of—”
“It’s all right, child,” Aunt Cornelia cut in. Her meaty fingers pressed against Catherine’s arm. “This will take some adjustment, I’m sure.” She began to walk, leading her niece up the front steps. “I’ll show you your room.”
My room, yes.
Catherine realized she was exhausted. The strain of leaving behind her old home and being thrust, like some helpless puppy, into Aunt Cornelia’s care had drained her of her energy. She longed to hide in her room and disappear from the world for a time.
Perhaps a very long time.
Keeping Catherine’s arm in a vise-like grip, Aunt Cornelia walked up the winding staircase that rose from the entrance hall. Catherine remembered racing up and down this staircase with her brother and cousin back when they were children. Remembered her mother calling after her.
“That’s not how young ladies behave!”
She managed a faint smile at the memory. How unfair it had seemed to her that Robert and Edmund might be permitted to tear about the place like wild animals, but she was expected to sit quietly with an embroidery sampler in her lap. An activity, her mother had explained, was far more fitting for a fragile young girl.
Catherine had argued with her mother that day.
“I’m just as strong as the boys,” she had said.
Now, she began to see how wrong she had been. As she walked up that staircase, she felt as though her legs might give way beneath her.
“We can expect Edmund home later this afternoon,” Aunt Cornelia said, yanking Catherine from her reverie. “He will be joining us for supper.”
At six and twenty, her cousin Edmund was just a few years older than Catherine, and the two of them had always been close. Having inherited his father’s title of Viscount of Featherstone, Edmund was serious and business like. And yet, beneath his solemn exterior, he had managed to maintain the gentle streak Catherine had come to love about him.
The thought of living with her dear cousin was vaguely settling. And yet, after the events of the day, sharing supper with anyone felt like a step too far.
“Do you think Edmund would mind if I were to wait until tomorrow to see him?” she asked softly. “I’m ever so tired.”
Aunt Cornelia gave her an understanding smile. “Of course, my dear. I understand. I’ll ha
ve Ellen bring your supper to your room.”
She opened the door to Catherine’s new bedroom and ushered her inside. It was considerably smaller than her old bedroom, Catherine noted. She wondered on it. Aunt Cornelia’s house was palatial. Was this truly the best they could manage for their new resident? Or was the small bedroom Aunt Cornelia’s way of reminding Catherine she was a lesser addition to their family?
She shoved the bitter thought away. Aunt Cornelia had been nothing but generous to her since she had received the letter. No doubt she had chosen this room for Catherine because of its view across the garden…
She made her way across the room, running a hand over the soft blankets lying across the curtained bed. She peered out the window.
A fine view, yes.
“Your things will be brought up here shortly,” said Aunt Cornelia. “I trust you’ll let us know if there’s anything else you need.” She gave a final, pitying smile that made the muscles in Catherine’s neck tighten.
“Thank you.” she managed, doing her best to keep her irritation in check.
And then Aunt Cornelia was gone.
Catherine kicked off her shoes and rolled onto the bed, still wearing her bonnet and cloak. Moments later, she fell into a distressed and exhausted sleep.
* * *
Edmund Spicer sat at the supper table and nodded his thanks to the footman as he filled his wine.
He turned to his mother, who was already half way through her glass. “Will Catherine not be joining us tonight?”
His mother put down her wine and leaned forward. She lowered her voice conspiratorially, the way she always did when she had information to share. “The poor girl is something of a mess. Not herself at all, I’m afraid. I’ve told Ellen to take her supper upstairs.”
Edmund nodded. “Of course.”
He had been looking forward to seeing his cousin, but he understood. News of Robert’s arrest and sentencing had been trying for him and his mother. He could barely imagine how Catherine must be feeling.
Though he had never said a word, Edmund had always been wary of his cousin Robert. Though Catherine had doted on her brother, her affections had rarely been reciprocated. Even from childhood, he had been sharp and impatient with her. Sometimes even rough.
When he was fourteen years old, Edmund had watched Robert chase his younger sister across the grounds of their manor. He’d shoved her hard—too hard—in the back, causing her to tumble to the ground.
After she had dusted herself off and inspected the holes in the knees of her stockings, Edmund had pulled Catherine aside. “Are you all right?” he had whispered. “Did he hurt you?”
Catherine had laughed it off. “Of course not. We were just playing. Robert would never hurt me.”
She’d been blind to her brother’s nasty streak back then, but he knew she was blind to it no longer. Robert’s betrayal had cut his sister deep and Edmund knew the wounds would take a long time to heal.
Still, he told himself, she was free of him now. Robert Barnet was in prison where he belonged. And while Catherine was living under his roof, Edmund would do everything in his power to see no harm came to her.
Chapter 3
Patrick Connolly, Baron of Ramshay, sat back in his chair at the coffee house and let the vehement words of the speaker wash over him. The man was in fine form this afternoon, regaling his audience with a passionate recitation of satirical poems, arms flailing and a shag of red hair spilling across one eye. Patrick chuckled to himself. This place could always be counted on for decent entertainment.
He pulled his watch from his pocket and glanced at it.
Typical. Edmund Spicer was always late. And Simon Moore was even worse. Patrick was fairly sure they’d never been on time for anything in the ten years he had known them.
He had turned up at the coffee house ten minutes after they’d agreed to meet. He had still been waiting almost half an hour.
He ordered a second cup and brought it to his lips, inhaling its rich nutty scent. Never mind Simon and Edmund. This speaker was a riot and the coffee was good.
Finally, Edmund came charging through the doorway, followed by their good friend Simon Moore, the Marquess of Ayton. Despite their frenetic arrivals, they were both dressed impeccably in dark tailcoats and brass buckled boots.
Patrick stuck out a hand to one, then the other, not bothering to haul himself from his chair. The three men had been close friends since their days at Cambridge and they had dispensed with formalities years ago—if they had ever observed them at all. If Edmund and Simon couldn’t bother being on time, Patrick wasn’t going to bother standing to greet them.
The two men went to the counter to order their drinks, then returned to the table and sat down beside Patrick. Simon glanced over at the speaker who was gesticulating wildly in the corner.
“What’s he on about then?”
“He’s a poet,” said Patrick. “Sharp as a tack.” His latest offering, a scathing attack on the prince’s love life, was being met with murmurs of shock and howls of laughter.
Edmund listened for a moment, then quirked his eyebrows at Patrick. “Seems like something you’d find amusing, Ramshay.”
Patrick returned his smile wryly. He’d always had the reputation of being the joker of the group. But surely even strait-laced Edmund had to admit this poet had a grand sense of humor.
Simon gave the speaker a final, cursory glance, then turned to look at Edmund. “Never mind this fellow,” he said with a wink. “Tell us the latest news about your thieving family.”
Patrick winced slightly at Simon’s words, but Edmund seemed unfazed. He ran a hand through his blonde hair and sipped his coffee.
“What’s there to tell?” he said. “You know it all already. Robert was found guilty of involvement with an underworld syndicate. His house has been sold. Catherine’s come to live with us.”
At the mention of Catherine’s name, Patrick felt an unbidden jolt inside him.
He’d met Edmund’s cousin three years ago at the Duke of Redbridge’s Christmas ball. It had been her first Season, and she’d been achingly shy. She had been achingly unaware of her own beauty. She was wearing a simple, pale pink gown, a single matching rose pinned into her dark hair. Her eyes were sharp and serious, and Patrick could sense there was an intelligence behind them. She’d had a smile that seemed to light up the entire room.
He had been unable to take his eyes off her.
He’d had one dance with her that night, an utterly cringeworthy waltz in which he’d trodden on her feet at least fifteen times. Catherine’s steps had been practiced and flawless. He had felt gawkish and graceless. Dancing had never been his strong suit.
Catherine had been polite enough not to comment, but Patrick had left quite sure he’d not made the greatest of impressions. For the past three years, he’d been expecting to hear of her impending marriage to this duke or that marquess. Had steeled himself against the ache of it. Instead, he’d heard of her brother’s arrest and imprisonment.
As the ton were wont to do, they had all acted as though they’d seen the thing coming.
The man’s never been any good, they’d say. Or: That scoundrel, Lord Bolmont? Can anyone truly pretend to be surprised?
Patrick had found himself thinking of Catherine. He could barely imagine the strain such a thing must have put on her. He’d been glad to hear she’d been taken under the wing of her aunt, Lady Cornelia Featherstone.
“And how does Catherine seem?” Patrick asked Edmund, doing his best to sound off-hand.
Edmund sipped his coffee. “As you would expect. The thing has rattled her. I’ve not seen much of her in the week she’s been with us. Keeps to her room most of the time.”
Simon shook his dark head. “A shame. She’ll be tainted by her brother’s actions forever now. She’s a lovely girl. Deserves far more than that.”
Patrick said nothing. He knew that, in all likelihood, Simon was right. The world would look at Catherine and see only
her brother’s crimes. Little wonder she’d been reluctant to venture from her rooms.
“And you’ve not spoken to Robert?” Simon asked Edmund.
“No. Of course not.” He snorted. “I’ve little desire to go near the man ever again, dragging our family name through the mud as he’s done.”
Simon nodded knowingly. “An underworld syndicate,” he said, with another shake his head. “Can you imagine such a thing? It’s utterly shocking to see where a man’s love for gambling can lead.”
Patrick peered into his cup. In his experience, it was rarely love for gambling that kept a man ensconced at the Whist tables. Rather, desperation. A hope that one’s luck might one day miraculously change.
Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 2
