Simon raised his dark eyebrows. “Your staff?”
“My housekeeper says it was as though the men had just been let inside. There was no sign of any forced entry.” The words felt bitter in his mouth.
“Your butler?” Simon suggested.
Patrick sighed. Groves had been working for his family for almost twenty years. He had been a constant for much of Patrick’s life. And, he realized, Groves had been privy to his father’s downfall. Had been privy to many nights worth of dark figures appearing on the doorstep. Would have had plenty of chances to converse with such men. Patrick shook his head. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow himself to follow the thought.
“Why would my butler let a band of thugs into my house?”
Simon waved for another brandy. “I don’t know. You say this fellow, Thorne, wanted money. Perhaps the butler was getting a cut.”
Patrick shook his head.
No. I’ve no proof it was Groves.
And he refused to accept such a thing without it. Believing it was the butler who had worked for his family for most of Patrick’s life was far too difficult. Felt like far too much of a betrayal.
“I went to see Harry Penwith two days ago,” he told Simon. “At Newgate.”
“Penwith? Isn’t he—”
“The man who blames me for his incarceration. He believes I sent the authorities after him.”
Simon gave a wry smile. “Of course. How could I forget?” He folded his arms. “You went to see him in prison? Why?”
“Someone obviously has a vendetta against me. Penwith is the only man I can think of with reason to send a message like that. I wouldn’t put it past him to have made arrangements with men on the outside.”
Simon shook his head slowly. “Who would have thought it? Someone on a quest to bring you down, Ramshay. Of all people.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Simon’s lips quirked. “You’re the harmless type, aren’t you. Something of a buffoon.”
Patrick bristled. He inhaled sharply, avoiding Simon’s eyes.
Is that truly how the world sees me? As a man not to be taken seriously?
“The visit,” Simon said. “To Newgate. Was it constructive?”
Patrick snorted. “Hardly. Penwith denies any knowledge of what happened. Besides, he’s had years to take his revenge on me. Why start now?”
Simon rubbed his smooth chin. “How can we ever know what’s going on in the minds of those miscreants?”
Patrick said nothing, grateful when a fresh glass of brandy arrived in front of him. He took a quick gulp, feeling it take away a little of the tension beginning
Chapter 16
Simon was right. This feud with Edmund had gone on long enough. Patrick, it seemed, had garnered enough enemies, without turning his friends against him as well.
He debated a visit to Featherstone Manor.
Terrible idea. Edmund would never believe Patrick was there to see him. He’d probably have an entire army waiting, determined to cut him off at the pass if he was so bold as to discuss the subject of diarizing with Catherine again.
He penned a quick note to Edmund, expressing a desire to see him, talk things through. He sent his footman off to the manor.
Edmund’s reply came back at once.
Boxing match. Hargrave Field. 10 a.m. tomorrow morning. 5 pounds on the line.
Patrick chuckled to himself. The two men had both been keen boxers at university, though Edmund had been utterly dreadful at it. Patrick couldn’t fathom what it was that kept luring his friend into the ring to receive thrashing after thrashing.
But it was of no matter. Edmund had requested a boxing match and a boxing match was what he would get.
Patrick scrawled a hurried reply.
10 a.m., Hargrave Field. I shall be there.
He realized there was a smile on his lips. There was something pleasant about the thought of bestowing another beating upon Edmund Spicer.
When he arrived at the field the following morning, Edmund was pacing back and forth beside the ring he had hacked out across the grass. The clouds of the previous day had cleared to reveal a fierce blue sky. Patrick could feel warmth against his cheeks for the first time in months.
He stuck out a conciliatory hand. “Thank you for meeting me.”
Edmund ignored it. “Get your mufflers on, Ramshay.”
Patrick glanced over his shoulder. “Have you arranged for a referee?”
Edmund shook his head, fetching his mufflers from the edge of the ring. “There’s no need. I can be impartial. Can’t you?”
“Of course.”
Patrick shrugged off his jacket and pulled on his mufflers, eyeing Edmund as he did so.
He looked strangely focused. Had he been practicing perhaps? Did he plan to catch Patrick by surprise? Deliver a rattling blow to the skull as punishment for daring to lust after his cousin? Or was he just exhibiting that typical Featherstone stubbornness? It had been several years since they’d last fought. Perhaps Edmund had forgotten how dire a boxer he truly was.
The two men made their way to the edges of the ring.
“On my count,” said Edmund, fixing Patrick with hard eyes.
Patrick nodded. He felt a frisson of excitement go through him. It had been too long since he’d stood in the ring. As his eyed his opponent, his stresses fell away. Suddenly, there was no George Thorne and no man in black and no one upturning tables in his parlor. There was just the boxing ring.
Edmund, it turned out, had not been practicing.
His blows were as mistimed and inaccurate as they had been back at university. For a fleeting moment, Patrick considered going easy on him. After all, surely Edmund would be more amenable to Patrick courting his cousin if he didn’t deliver him back to Featherstone Manor blue and yellow with bruising.
To hell with it. He was the one who chose to meet me in the boxing ring.
Besides, Edmund was in no way without blame in this whole sorry matter. He had accused Catherine of being her brother’s accomplice. Accused her of having one foot in the underworld.
Patrick rammed a heavy blow into Edmund’s ribs. He reeled backwards. Patrick tried to rein in his feeling of satisfaction.
After three more rounds, Edmund stumbled to the edge of the ring and hunched, trying to catch his breath. He spat out a line of spittle. “One day, Ramshay,” he said breathlessly, “I’ll learn not to challenge you in the boxing ring.” He reached into the pocket of the coat he had tossed across the grass. Pulled out a coin pouch and tossed it at Patrick. “Five pounds. Well earned.”
Patrick pocketed the money. “I thought you were going to show me some new moves.”
Edmund gave a regretful snort of a laugh. “The memory of this was somewhat more pleasant than the reality.” He straightened, pulling off his mufflers and tossing them on the grass. “I suppose you’re going to use this victory as ammunition. Hold it over me until I let you call on my cousin.”
Patrick sat on the grass and squinted in the fierce sunlight. “This is not just a joke to me, Edmund,” he said finally. “I love her.” He swallowed heavily. “I’m in love with her.”
Though he had been aware of his feelings for Catherine for some time, it was the first time he had spoken of them aloud. The words seem to hang in the silence. Patrick could hear his heart thumping in his ears.
Edmund looked taken aback by his admission. He sat beside Patrick and scratched his chin. “I see,” he said finally.
Patrick gave a short, humorless laugh. “Is that all you’re going to say?” he asked. “I see?”
Edmund used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “You’ve surprised me, is all.”
Patrick frowned, turning to face him. “Why? You’ve always known how I felt about your cousin.”
“I knew you were lusting after my cousin,” he said. “But I didn’t realize you were in love with her.” He rubbed his ribs gingerly. “I suppose a part
of me was not expecting to hear such a thing come from your mouth.”
Patrick exhaled sharply. Simon’s words rang in his ears.
“You’re the harmless type, aren’t you. Something of a buffoon.”
“Right,” he told Edmund. “I’m not to be taken too seriously, am I? Best I don’t forget that.” He was unable to keep the bitterness from his words.
“Oh, come on, Ramshay. No one who wants to be taken seriously would think to serenade the woman he cares for.”
Patrick clenched his jaw. “Perhaps I don’t wish to be seen as a joker anymore,” he said. “Perhaps I’d like to be taken seriously for once.”
After a moment, Edmund nodded. He met Patrick’s eyes. “I have to admit, Catherine has seemed much improved since your visit.”
Patrick gave a short smile. “I’m glad of it.”
“And do you intend to marry her?”
“Of course. If she’ll have me.” His heart quickened at the thought. But he held Edmund’s gaze, determined and unwavering. “I know Catherine’s life has been upturned of late. And I’m sure marriage is the last thing on her mind right now. But I would like to call on her. See how she is faring. Nothing more. Not until she is ready.”
Edmund didn’t speak at once. He hauled himself from the ground and offered Patrick a hand. “Very well,” he said finally. “You’re a man of your word.” He gave him a ghost of a smile. “And I’m sure Catherine could do far worse.” He chuckled. “Or worse, at least.”
Patrick smiled. “I care for her more than anything, Featherstone,” he said. “I’d never do a thing to hurt her.”
Edmund met his eyes. Gave him a faint smile. “I know, Ramshay. I know.”
* * *
Patrick was awash with energy as he made his way from Hargrave Field. Turning down the bruised and battered Edmund’s invitation to share a cab, he found himself marching back toward Belgravia with his boots beating a steady rhythm on the footpath.
His heart was racing. It had little to do with the exertion of the boxing match, or his brusque pace.
He had spoken aloud of his love for Catherine Barnet. Had sent the words out into the world. And doing so made them dizzyingly, breathtakingly real.
He’d meant it when he’d told Edmund he wanted to be seen as more than a joker. He wanted to be seen as far more than that. Especially by Catherine.
He was tired of hiding behind this façade of the wag, the comedian. Tired of letting his dead father determine how he lived his life.
Patrick found himself grinning as he walked. A man gave him a curious look as he passed.
No doubt I look something of a madman, charging down the street with such a grin on my face…
He couldn’t make himself care. Edmund had given him his blessing to call on Catherine. And she had given more than a little hint that his feelings might be reciprocated.
Patrick felt his insides heat at the thought.
Might I truly have a chance of making Catherine Barnet my wife?
Perhaps he too had begun to see himself as a joke. Seen himself reflected in the eyes of those around him. He had never believed himself worthy of Catherine. Never believed he’d had a real chance with her. Perhaps that was why he’d made such a fool of himself at the New Year’s party. Making a joke of the thing made it seem less important. Being able to laugh it away would make her rejection of him easier to carry.
But perhaps there would not be rejection. Perhaps he might begin to believe himself worthy of a lady as fine as Catherine Barnet.
He let himself into the townhouse; he was buzzing with energy. Tomorrow, he would call on Catherine. But he would not blurt out his feelings for her, not yet. He would ask her about her diarizing, ask her how she was faring after the visit with her brother that had clearly rattled her to the core. He would give her a chance to get to know who he truly was, before admitting to her the depth of his feelings.
Patrick’s invigoration vanished the moment he stepped into his parlor.
A large brown envelope sat on the side table. His name was scrawled across it in splattered black ink. The sight of it made the muscles tighten in his neck.
He stood staring at it for a long time.
Just open it, Patrick, for the love of God...
But he felt utterly certain he did not want to know what was inside.
He called for his housekeeper.
At the sight of his deep frown and folded arms, Mrs. Morgan hovered edgily in the doorway.
“Is something the matter, My Lord?”
He pointed at the envelope. “When was this delivered?”
The housekeeper frowned. “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never seen it before.”
Patrick didn’t take his eyes from the letter. “The parlor was cleaned today?”
“Of course, sir. I did it myself. Along with Sarah.”
He nodded stiffly. “Please ask Sarah and the other staff if they recall this being delivered.”
Mrs. Morgan bobbed a hurried curtsey. “Of course, sir. Right away.”
Patrick sought out Groves in the library. “The letter on the table in the parlor,” he said. “Who delivered it?”
Groves frowned. “The letter, My Lord?”
Patrick clenched his jaw. He was losing patience with these blank looks and vague responses. Someone in the household had to know something. The letter could not just magically have appeared in the parlor. And once again, there had been no sign of a break in.
He went back to the parlor. Mrs. Morgan was standing in the doorway and wringing her hands together
“I’m sorry, My Lord. No one knows who delivered that letter. No one saw a thing.”
Patrick nodded, gritting his teeth. “Thank you, Mrs. Morgan.”
Someone is lying. What am I to do? Fire my entire household?
He couldn’t do such a thing, of course. Before these troubles had begun, his staff had been loyal and hardworking. None of them had ever caused him any problems. He could never put them all out of work on account of one person’s betrayal.
He marched to the table and tore open the letter. The handwriting was scrawled, the ink blotchy and splattered.
Lord Ramshay,
You will deliver one hundred pounds to the ruined church in St. Giles in a week’s time.
If you see fit to disobey, we will take our revenge on a member of this fine household.
Patrick’s stomach rolled. The sum was enormous. Would almost empty him out until next month’s rents came in. But what choice did he have? These bastards knew far too much about him. And they certainly seemed to have no trouble entering his house. Would have no trouble causing harm to a member of his household. He couldn’t bear it if someone were to get hurt on account of him.
How he longed to see Catherine. Longed to feel that warmth in his chest that appeared when she was about, instead of this horrid twisting sensation in the pit of his stomach. But how could he ever call on her with such threats hanging over him? Whoever these perpetrators were, he knew they could be watching him at any time. And if Catherine were seen in his presence, it could put her in danger. He couldn’t risk it.
Not for the first time, Patrick cursed silently at his father. Even from beyond the grave, the former Lord Ramshay was managing to drag his son into this dark world of his creating.
Am I destined to live in his shadow my entire life?
In a week’s time, he was due to attend the Viscount of Eastbury’s ball. And now it seemed he would have no choice but to forgo the ball for a visit to the crawling slums of St. Giles.
Patrick screwed the letter into a ball and made to throw it into the fire. He stopped abruptly. Instead, he shoved it into the drawer of the sideboard, then marched furiously out of the room.
Chapter 17
Five days had passed since the fateful visit to Newgate and Lord Ramshay had yet to appear on the doorstep of Featherstone Manor.
Catherine was surprised by it. Edmund had told her in no uncertain terms how Lord Ramshay fe
lt about her. And after the incident at the King’s Wardrobe, he must have known that she had begun to return his feelings.
She had expected him to call on her. Surely he hadn’t been scared off by her cousin’s wrath?
Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 11
