She walked toward the rose garden at the edge of the manor grounds. The first blooms of the spring had begun to appear; pink and yellow among a sea of green.
She sat on the grass beside the flower garden and lifted her face to the sky. The rays against her cheeks began to thaw her, as though she were slowly awakening after a long and difficult winter.
She sat the inkpot at her side and carefully unscrewed the lid. She dipped in the pen and began to write.
May will be upon us soon, and at last the sun has appeared.
She smiled to herself. It felt foolish to be writing about something as trivial as the weather after all she had endured. But she welcomed the simplicity of it. Writing about the weather allowed her to lose herself in the warmth of the sun, the soft sigh of the breeze skimming through her hair, the hum of bees and the fragrant wash of rose petals. Writing about the weather reminded her that, despite society’s attempts to shun her, she was still a part of this world.
“Miss Barnet?” A man’s voice yanked her from her thoughts. She looked up to see one of Edmund’s footmen holding an envelope out toward her. “This came for you. I thought you might wish to see it immediately.”
Catherine took the envelope and glanced at the seal. Her stomach tightened. The letter had come from Newgate Prison.
She swallowed heavily. “Thank you,” she managed, turning her eyes away to make it clear to the footman it was time for him to leave.
She stared at the envelope for a long time, her stomach rolling. Had something happened to Robert? How could she bear such a thing? In spite of all the pain he had caused her, the thought of losing her brother was unbearable.
Finally, sucking in her breath, she yanked at the seal and unfolded the letter. It was short and terse, written in a hurried scrawl.
Miss Catherine Barnet,
Your brother, the Viscount of Bolmont requests your presence at your earliest convenience. Permits to enter Newgate Prison can be obtained from the Lord Mayor of the City of London.
Catherine tossed the letter onto the grass and closed her eyes. Visit Robert in prison? Why would he ask her to do such a thing? No self-respecting young lady would ever be seen in such a place. Did her brother wish to destroy her image even further?
She pushed the bitter thought aside.
Robert must have something important to tell me.
She folded the letter and slipped it into the back of her notebook. There was no need for Edmund or Aunt Cornelia to find out about this. There was no reason for them to know she was considering venturing into a warren of thieves and debtors. People who, Catherine couldn’t help feeling, she somehow belonged among.
Chapter 11
There had been no sign of any trouble at the townhouse for several days. Patrick was optimistic things would stay that way. With luck, George Thorne and the men he worked for had realized he was not some witless fool they could threaten into parting with his money.
But one evening, almost a week after Thorne’s appearance, Patrick returned home to find his housekeeper, Mrs. Morgan charging from the house in a frenzy.
“Oh thank goodness you’re home, My Lord.” She clutched frantically at the sleeves of Patrick’s jacket. “It was just horrible. I—”
He held the woman’s shoulders to steady her. “Calm down, Mrs. Morgan. Tell me what’s happened.”
The old woman burst into a fresh flood of tears. “We couldn’t stop them. I was afraid they would kill us.”
Patrick’s stomach rolled. Deciding he would get no more from the housekeeper, he made his way cautiously up the front steps and entered the house.
Mrs. Morgan pointed a shaking finger toward the parlor. “In there.”
Patrick pushed open the door. He let out his breath. Pictures had been flung from the wall, their frames lying shattered across the floor. Vases had been crushed, the furniture upturned. Coal had been streaked across the wall and the crystal glasses inside the cabinet lay in shards across the floor.
Patrick turned to Mrs. Morgan. “Who did this?”
“Three men. I didn’t recognize any of them. They had pistols.” She sniffed, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’m so sorry, My Lord. We couldn’t stop them.”
Patrick touched her shoulder gently. “It’s all right, Mrs. Morgan. You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” He rolled his neck, the muscles feeling like iron. “Was anyone hurt?”
She shook her head tearfully and knotted her hands in her apron. “No. We all hid in the basement kitchen. Locked the door behind us.”
“And you’ve never seen these men before?”
She shook her head. Wrapped her arms around herself.
“Did you see their faces?”
“Barely. They all had beards. All dressed in black. Paupers’ clothing, full of holes. I remember one of the men was short and fat.”
Patrick bristled. Thorne…
Mrs. Morgan’s gaze panned around the ransacked room. “Has anything been taken?”
“Not that I can see,” Patrick told her. “I suspect they just wanted to scare me.”
“Scare you?” Mrs. Morgan repeated. “How dreadful.” She looked at her feet. “There’s something else, My Lord. I…” She faded out.
“What is it?” Patrick pushed.
The housekeeper drew in her breath. “The front door,” she said. “It’s not broken. Nor are any of the windows. It’s as though someone let those men inside.”
* * *
Patrick couldn’t help but admit it. He was rattled. If Thorne and his gang had been intending to scare him, they had succeeded.
He had combed his way through the house and found nothing of value missing. As far as he could tell, the men’s sole purpose had been to send him a message.
But it was not just Thorne’s visit that had sent a chill through him.
It’s as though someone let those men inside…
Had Mrs. Morgan been wrong? Had the men somehow forced their way in? Or had someone in his household betrayed him?
Patrick had asked all his staff for their recollections of the incident. None of them had claimed to see the men enter. Certainly, none of them had admitted to letting them inside.
He sighed as he picked up the last of the broken pictures and leaned it against the wall. The painting was salvageable. The frame, less so.
A knock at the door startled him. He snatched his pistol from the side table and shoved it into his pocket. How he hated having to carry a weapon. And yet he had no intention of answering the door without it.
This time, Groves did not even attempt to answer the door. He watched Patrick from the bottom of the stairs. “Be careful, My Lord.”
Patrick nodded. Gritting his teeth, he pulled open the door.
And found Catherine Barnet on his doorstep.
Chapter 12
“Miss Barnet,” Patrick garbled. “I…I was not expecting to see you here.”
He was exceedingly glad he had kept the pistol in his pocket.
“Forgive me for just appearing like this,” she said. “But I thought…” She held out the calling card Patrick had shoved in the back of the notebook. Wrapped in a dark velvet cloak, she seemed to blend into the night.
Patrick glanced over her shoulder, but no saw sign of a chaperone. “Did you come alone?” he asked.
She nodded. “Forgive me,” she said again. “I know it is dreadfully improper.”
He had not guessed that Catherine would be the kind of lady to run off unsupervised into the night. Though the thought of her alone in the city made him uneasy, he couldn’t help but smile at her bold disregard of propriety. “I shan’t tell anyone if you don’t.”
He realized suddenly how close they were standing, close enough for him to feel a faint hint of her breath against his cheek. Close enough to see how long and dark her lashes were. Close enough to feel an unbidden tug of arousal.
He stepped back hurriedly and ushered her inside. “Has something happened?” he asked.
Ca
therine slipped into the parlor behind him. She stood in front of the fire, knotting her cloak in her fists. “I need some help,” she said. “And I did not know who else to ask.”
Her gaze fell to the battered picture frame leaning against the wall, the faded coal streaks still dirtying the picture rail. “Has there been trouble?” she asked.
Patrick shook his head dismissively. He gestured for her to sit. He tried to swallow. “What is it you need help with?”
She looked up to meet his eyes. “You mustn’t tell a soul,” she said. Her voice was low and conspiratorial. The sound of it sent a frisson of excitement through Patrick’s body.
“Promise me.”
He nodded.
“I’ve got to go to Newgate Prison,” she said. “My brother has asked to see me.”
“I see.”
“And to get into the prison, I need to secure a permit from the Lord Mayor of London.” She lowered her eyes. “As I’m sure you can imagine, a young lady such as myself cannot simply walk up to the mayor’s office and request such a document.”
“No,” said Patrick. “Of course not.”
“I know if I were to ask Edmund for his help, he would forbid me from going,” she continued. “Me being seen in such a place would reflect dreadfully badly on him. And I know he would think me too fragile to be able to cope with the visit.”
Patrick didn’t speak at once. A visit to Newgate would be no easy thing for a young lady like Catherine. But he could see the determination in her eyes.
I bet Catherine Barnet is far less fragile than her cousin gives her credit for.
“You need me to secure a permit for you,” said Patrick.
She nodded. “I know it a dreadful thing to ask. But—”
“It’s no matter,” he said. “I can do it for you tomorrow.”
Catherine’s face broke into a smile. The sight of it made something move in Patrick’s chest. When had he last seen her look this way? Her whole being seemed to suddenly light. “Thank you, My Lord,” she gushed. “Thank you ever so much. How can I ever thank you?”
Patrick paused. He glanced out the window at the thick darkness. He thought of George Thorne and his band of men drifting through the night. “You can allow me to see you home,” he said. “I don’t wish for you to be alone out there tonight.”
* * *
Catherine awoke full of nervous energy.
Newgate Prison.
Yes, she could manage such a thing. She would visit Robert, just as he had asked. Whatever her brother had to say, she would hear it.
She took her breakfast with Aunt Cornelia and Edmund, then returned to her bedroom. She began to pace.
Disappearing from the house last night had been easy enough. Edmund had retired to his smoking room; Aunt Cornelia was ensconced in her dressing room with her lady’s maid. Catherine had waited until the kitchen staff were downstairs, then crept soundlessly past the unsuspecting butler and footmen. But escape would not be so easy in the bright light of the morning.
Catherine glanced down at her silky blue skirts. It would never do to wear such a thing to Newgate. She would be recognized immediately as a noblewoman—and an unaccompanied one at that. She couldn’t let such a thing happen.
She crept out of her bedroom and tiptoed downstairs. She stood at the doorway that led down to the servants’ quarters. She could hear movement in the kitchen, footsteps and a deafening rattle of plates.
Tentatively, she pushed open the door and lowered herself onto the staircase.
She made her way down to the narrow passage leading past the kitchen and washing rooms. Beyond the laundry, three narrow doors lined the corridor.
The bedrooms of the kitchen maids, Catherine guessed.
She tiptoed down the passage, holding her breath as she passed the kitchen. The cook and scullery maids were too engrossed in their work to notice her.
Catherine turned the handle of the first bedroom. It opened easily and she slipped inside, closing the door after her.
Her heart was thumping. She felt like an intruder.
She would not steal a thing from whoever’s room this was, she reminded herself. She would simply borrow it for her venture to Newgate. Then she would return it the moment she arrived home.
She pulled open the wardrobe and found a plain gray wool dress hanging in the front.
Perfect.
She slipped it from the hanger and held it to her chest. Then she hurried out of the servants’ quarters and locked herself back in her bedroom.
She changed into the dress and peered at herself in the mirror.
Much better.
Now she could slip much more surreptitiously through the streets. A woman alone would still raise eyebrows, of course. But who would bother to ask after a kitchen maid running accompanied around the city? Disguised as a servant, she would have a few blissful hours of being someone other than Lord Bolmont’s sister.
Now, to escape the manor.
It would not be easy. After breakfast, Edmund had disappeared to his study, but Aunt Cornelia was floating about the manor like a butterfly, along with a bevy of housemaids and footmen.
She rang for her lady’s maid. She threw off her gown and dived back into bed, pulling the covers to her chin.
Ellen appeared in the doorway. “You rang for me, Miss Barnet?”
Catherine let out a theatrical sigh. “I seem to be feeling quite unwell. It came on rather suddenly after breakfast.”
She wished she’d thought to begin this ruse a little earlier in the day.
I clearly don’t have my brother’s skills at deception…
But Ellen didn’t question it. She began to bustle around the room, fluffing pillows and straightening blankets. “What do you need, Miss? Shall I fetch the doctor?”
Catherine shook her head wanly. “That shan’t be necessary, Ellen. Thank you. Perhaps you might bring me a little weak tea? And then I should like to sleep.”
Ellen bobbed a curtsey. “Of course, Miss. I’m sure the rest will do you good.”
Catherine nodded again, throwing in a delicate cough for good measure. “Indeed.” She flashed a pale smile. “Thank you, Ellen.”
With the tea brought to her room and the household instructed not to disturb the sleeping patient, Catherine climbed out of bed and laced herself into the servant’s dress. The wool felt coarse under her hands, and exceptionally warm.
She glanced out her window. Beyond the house, the grounds were empty. There was only one thing for it. She would have to climb out the window.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she had bundled herself into her cloak and climbed out onto the roof.
She stood there for a moment, wind lashing her hair about her cheeks and the grounds unfolding beneath her.
What a ridiculous situation this is! Just look where my life has taken me…
She was the sister of a viscount. And yet here she was in a housemaid’s dress, creeping across the roof so she might visit Newgate Prison.
This was not the way ladies behaved. It was the way fallen women behaved. The way those involved in crime behaved.
She felt suddenly glad her parents were not around to see this.
But then she laughed. She felt strangely exhilarated. She felt like she had the day she had gone tearing across the garden with her brother and cousin after her mother had told her to sit still and sew.
To hell with these rules, this etiquette. Whose place is it to tell me I can’t go climbing across the rooftops?
Who was this society to dictate the way she ought to live her life? What had the ton given her but scorn and contempt?
Her mother and father had raised her believing she was lucky to have been born into such a well-off family. A part of her knew they were right. She had never gone hungry, been cold, or wanted for something she couldn’t have. But life at the upper reaches of society had its own challenges.
Life at the upper reaches of society could make a person feel completely, utterly w
orthless.
She made her way carefully across the roof and climbed down the lattice that led into the garden. She smiled to herself.
Just imagine what Aunt Cornelia would say if she were to catch me!
Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 7
