She lay in bed staring at the ceiling. She could hear her heart thundering in her ears.
Her head was full of him. She thought of his kind brown eyes, and the way he had pulled her into his arms when she had been unable to hold back her tears. How wonderful it had felt to be in his embrace. It had made her feel, however fleetingly, that the rest of the world was unable to touch her. She felt as though nothing and no one could hurt her.
Her thoughts drifted. She found herself thinking of his gambling father and his acquaintance who was locked up in Newgate beside Robert.
Though she knew it wrong to be taking pleasure in another’s misfortune, the knowledge that she was not the only one with ties to the criminal world had come as an enormous relief. Had made her feel like less of an outlier in this polished, prim and proper society.
A knock at the door yanked her from her thoughts.
“Catherine?” Aunt Cornelia’s voice was gentle and brimming with concern. “May I come in?”
Catherine hurriedly yanked the pins from her hair and let it spill messily over the pillow. “Of course, Aunt,” she croaked, following it up with a cough.
Aunt Cornelia pushed open the door and perched on the edge of her niece’s bed, enveloping Catherine in a cloud of Night Jasmine. “Ellen told me you were unwell.”
Catherine nodded feebly. “Yes. I’ve not been feeling well at all since breakfast.”
She can tell me lying, I’m sure of it.
She was sure there was a shine in her eyes, a flush in her cheeks. And keeping the smile from her face was proving rather an enormous challenge. She couldn’t get the image of Lord Ramshay from her mind. She thought of his thick blonde hair, and the way it strayed scruffily past his collar. Found herself thinking of his warm hands, his broad shoulders. Imagined the warmth of his lips beneath her own. Imagined those lips moving across her skin.
Aunt Cornelia pressed a hand to Catherine’s forehead. “Yes, you do seem rather hot,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve a fever.”
“I think I just need to rest,” Catherine managed. She made for another burst of coughing, stopping as she realized it was a little too much.
“Of course.” Aunt Cornelia smoothed her niece’s hair with a glittering hand. “It’s been a trying few weeks for you, I know. A few days of rest will do you good.”
Catherine nodded obediently.
Aunt Cornelia straightened the blankets. “Shall I have Ellen bring you anything, my dear?”
Catherine’s stomach was groaning, but she knew she was doing a terrible job of pretending to be ill. She’d best feign a lost appetite. Scarfing down dinner to regain the energy she had expended traipsing across the city to Newgate would surely blow her cover. And so she shook her head. “No, Aunt,” she said meekly. “I’m quite all right. Thank you.”
She let out her breath in relief when Aunt Cornelia disappeared from the room. Her footsteps clicked rhythmically down the stairs.
Catherine sat up in bed and hugged her knees. She was far too jittery to lie still.
Her thoughts were a whirl.
In the three years she had known Lord Ramshay, he had never been anything more than her cousin’s kind friend, that clumsy man she had once attempted to waltz with. She had always enjoyed his company, yes, but she had rarely had cause to look at him twice.
Today she had seen a side of Lord Ramshay she had never imagined had existed. Was it the dark shadow of his past that caused him to act the joker? Cover up the ache of his father’s betrayal with a carefree façade?
She regretted letting her thoughts veer toward the former Lord Ramshay and his misfortune. They had led her back to Robert. Battered and bruised Robert with hate in his eyes. Battered and bleeding Robert who blamed her for everything.
Now there was a little distance between she and her brother, a scrap of clarity had begun to return to Catherine’s thoughts.
Does he truly believe me responsible? Or is he just trying to blame someone other than himself?
Now she was out from beneath Robert’s searing gaze, Catherine could see the utter injustice of his trying to pin the blame on her. She was the one who ought to be furious. She was the one who ought to be hurling blame.
His crimes had seen them destitute and shamed.
His crimes had seen her utterly unmarriageable.
Hadn’t they?
Lord Ramshay knew all about Robert’s crimes and still he had seen fit to help her. Had seen fit to hold her in his arms and let her cry. And he had not pulled away when she had flung herself at him in a moment of unbridled passion.
She felt hot and foolish.
Am I truly thinking of Lord Ramshay as a potential husband?
She tried to push the thought away. Allowing herself to believe in the possibility of marriage felt dangerous. Her common sense was hollering at her, reminding her that such a thing could never be. But her common sense was being overruled by this new heat that was beginning to bubble beneath her skin. That urge to feel Lord Ramshay’s lips against her own again. To feel his breath against her neck. To feel his hands against her skin.
Catherine rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. She felt quite certain that sleep would not be forthcoming.
Chapter 15
“You seem much better,” said Aunt Cornelia at supper the following night.
Catherine had played the patient role for the remainder of the day, following her return from Newgate. She’d let out a cough whenever she heard someone passing the room and forced down cup after cup of Ellen’s healing honey tea.
But she’d spent so much time moping about in bed of late, she was reluctant to drag the act out for any longer than necessary. She was feeling energized for the first time in longer than she could remember. The following morning she had been out of bed with the dawn.
“Thank you, Aunt,” she said, bringing her wine glass to her lips. “I’m feeling much better.”
“You’re looking positively bright-eyed,” Aunt Cornelia continued. She narrowed her eyes at Catherine, as though aware her niece was hiding something. “What’s brought this on?” She leaned forward for a tidbit of gossip like a dog lurching for scrap of meat.
Catherine turned her eyes to her plate and began slicing her lamb with a far greater level of concentration than it required. She could never tell her aunt about what had happened between she and Lord Ramshay, of course. So she said simply, “Perhaps I just needed the rest.”
Aunt Cornelia made a noise from the back of her throat. Catherine felt certain she did not believe a word.
Catherine dared a sideways glance at Edmund, who was remaining suspiciously quiet. She knew Lord Ramshay would never dare betray her confidence, of course. But might her cousin have guessed at something?
She bristled at the thought.
Edmund was furious at Lord Ramshay when he did nothing more than bring me a gift. He’d be positively livid if he discovered he’d accompanied me to Newgate…
And if he discovered she had stolen a kiss? She could barely imagine the horror…
Edmund sipped his wine. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Catherine,” he said. His face gave nothing away.
“Well then,” said Aunt Cornelia, far too enthusiastically. “What about the Viscount of Eastbury’s ball?”
Catherine’s stomach plunged, her cheerfulness falling away. She had forgotten about the ball.
There was no way she could bring herself to attend. The ton had not forgotten about Robert’s crimes. She couldn’t show her face among them. All those wretched feelings she had felt while visiting her brother would come charging back.
She shook her head. “No, Aunt. I’m sorry. I couldn’t.”
“Of course you could. You must.”
“Why? I’ll only be a source of entertainment. There’s no man in London who would see fit to make me his wife.”
Is there?
“Nonsense.” Aunt Cornelia flapped a hand at Catherine. “You are a beautiful, intelligent young lady. Any man woul
d be lucky to have you.”
Catherine could tell her words were forced.
“I have nothing, Aunt. No wealth, no inheritance. My name has been forever tarnished.”
“You’re the cousin of the Viscount of Featherstone,” said Aunt Cornelia, waving her fork about like a rapier. “A man well-respected and liked.” She flashed her son a proud smile. “You’re one of us now, Catherine. We’ll soon see you back on your feet.”
Catherine managed a small smile. There was warmth in Aunt Cornelia’s words. Kindness.
It was barely a fortnight ago she and Edmund were sitting around this table debating whether or not I helped Robert on his foray into the underworld…
What had brought about her aunt’s change of heart? No doubt Edmund had told her that she had overheard their conversation. Or rather, gossip-hungry Aunt Cornelia had battered Edmund down until he had spilled everything…
Catherine eyed her aunt and cousin. Though a part of her was loath to upset the peace and raise the issue, she felt unable to let it slide.
She sliced a tiny piece off the edge of her lamb and chewed thoughtfully. “I assume this means you’ve decided me innocent,” she said, “of involvement in my brother’s crimes?”
Aunt Cornelia flushed. “Innocent? Oh, but of course, Catherine. I—We—” She glanced helplessly at Edmund.
“We are both truly sorry, Catherine,” her cousin said. “It was wrong of us to entertain such a notion.”
“Yes,” Aunt Cornelia echoed, her eyes on her plate. “Very wrong…”
Catherine swallowed. However forced it had been, the apology was welcome after her visit with Robert. “Thank you,” she said, her voice low. “I appreciate it.”
Aunt Cornelia nibbled on a slice of potato. “So,” she said meekly. “The ball, then?”
No.
Being vindicated by her aunt and cousin was one thing, but Catherine felt quite certain the rest of the ton would not be so keen to let the issue of Robert’s crimes slide.
Besides, what point is there filling my dance card when I know quite well the man I wish to marry.
The thought caught her by surprise.
“I don’t think it necessary,” she blurted, the words escaping before she could call them back.
Aunt Cornelia, it seemed, looked just as surprised at Catherine’s outburst. Her grey eyebrows shot up. “Not necessary?” she repeated, as though Catherine had just declared she would never eat again. “Of course it’s necessary! Do you want to spend your life as a lonely spinster, locked up in that room of yours?”
“No,” Catherine mumbled. “Of course not. I just—”
“No,” Aunt Cornelia interrupted. “That’s right. And how will you ever find a suitable man to marry if you lock yourself away like a prisoner?”
At the word prisoner, Catherine felt her stomach twist. Of course she couldn’t attend the ball. No one had forgotten about Robert’s indiscretions. And no one, she felt certain, would let her forget about them either.
“I’m sorry,” she told Aunt Cornelia, shaking her head emphatically to make it clear the conversation was over. “I cannot attend the ball. I’m not ready.”
* * *
“How are things between you and our dear friend Lord Featherstone?” Simon asked Patrick.
The two men were sitting at the bar at the Grand Hotel with glasses of brandy in their hands. The situation was not quite dire enough for the Dog and Fox, but Patrick had to admit, it felt strange to have an empty seat beside them. Nonetheless, lingering anger at Edmund was still simmering beneath his skin.
He tossed back his brandy. Avoided the question.
Simon chuckled. “Things are good between you, then,” he said wryly. He raised a dark eyebrow at Patrick. “I’d say this has gone on long enough, wouldn’t you?”
Patrick gave a short smile. In truth, he had all but forgotten about his feud with Edmund. Had only been reminded of it by the empty stool. There had been far more pressing developments of late, most notably, the way Catherine Barnet had thrown herself into his arms outside the King’s Wardrobe two days earlier.
True to form, Patrick had spent those last two days replaying the events in his mind, churning through what might possibly have possessed Catherine to have done such a thing. A fleeting moment of insanity, perhaps, brought about by the strain of visiting her brother. He dared not think, even for a second, of that most coveted of possibilities: that his feelings for her might be reciprocated.
He was a baron who couldn’t dance and had a bevy of dangerous men on his doorstep. Hardly a fine catch. Especially for a lady as intelligent and beautiful as Catherine Barnet.
It wasn’t until Simon snapped his fingers in front of Patrick’s eyes that he realized he was staring blankly across the bar.
“Scintillating company as always, Ramshay.”
He tried to shake himself out of it. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
Simon emptied his glass. “So I see. Care to enlighten me? This have anything to do with a certain young lady? Have you been prowling around Miss Barnet again?”
Patrick couldn’t hold back a smile.
“You sly dog!” Simon jabbed a finger at him. “Something’s happened between you two. I know it. Tell me everything.”
Patrick hesitated. Hell, he longed to tell his friend everything that had transpired after the visit to Newgate. But of course, he could do no such thing. As far as the world was concerned, Catherine Barnet had been sick in bed that day, not gallivanting about the prison unaccompanied. And certainly not entangled in the arms of a man who was not her husband…
No, he had no choice but to keep his tryst with Catherine a secret, however much it was killing him.
He shook his head. “Nothing’s happened, of course. Edmund won’t let me near her.” The untruth felt jarring. He hated having to lie to his friends. But he knew the truth would destroy Catherine.
Besides, there was far more weighing on his mind. Far less pleasurable things. Things that had been blissfully silenced for a time by the feel of Catherine’s lips against his.
He eyed Simon, debating whether to tell him about the ransacking of the townhouse. A far less enjoyable thing to be discussing. And possibly just as questionable.
Though Simon had always listened intently when Patrick had spoken of the troubles gifted to him by his father, Simon had been unable to hide the look of disapproval in his eyes. Simon, the highest ranked of Patrick’s friends, had a life that appeared unblemished. A beautiful Kensington manor, lands across the country, a dukedom waiting for him and his choice of any lady he wished. Though Simon had never said such a thing, of course, Patrick felt certain there was a part of him that felt ashamed to have a friend with such dubious connections.
He shook his head. “It’s no matter,” he told Simon. “Nothing I can’t handle.” He forced a smile. “How was the hunting trip?”
Simon frowned, pushing past his question. “Those cursed debt collectors causing trouble for you, Ramshay?” This time there was concern in his eyes, not scorn.
Perhaps I’ve not given the man enough credit.
“Things have gotten worse,” Patrick admitted. “Far worse.”
And out came the story of George Thorne’s visit and his demands for money. Out came the story of the ransacked parlor and the smears of coal across the walls.
When he had finished speaking, Patrick let out an enormous sigh. He rubbed his eyes. It brought a faint sense of relief to have shared such things.
Simon didn’t speak at once. Patrick knew he was trying to find the right words. What did the Marquess of Ayton know about debt collectors and house invaders? Patrick smiled wryly to himself.
Still, he’s had plenty of practice over the years of listening to my sorry tales.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Simon said finally. “Have you spoken to the authorities?”
Patrick snorted. “The authorities? I’m quite sure the army has enough to do without being bothered with th
e predicaments of a debt-riddled man.”
“The watchmen?” Simon suggested. “Perhaps you might ask them to station themselves closer to your house?”
Patrick nodded. There was little point, he knew. Shiny, manicured Belgravia was hardly crawling with night watchmen. Thorne and his men would have had few eyes on them has they’d slipped into his house.
He emptied his glass and planted it back on the table with a heavy thud. “I fear one of my staff is involved,” he said. It was the first time he had spoken the concern aloud and it made something tighten in his stomach.
Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 10
