A man clamped a firm hand around the back of his neck, making Patrick start and bat him away. His hand returned hurriedly to his pocket.
“You like Pharo?” the man pressed, his bristly face close to Patrick’s. “Pharo, this way.”
Patrick shook his head stiffly. “No. Leave me be.”
Could the man sense the wealth in his pocket? Could he sense he had appeared from the polished streets of Belgravia?
He swallowed heavily. These were the streets his father had frequented.
Could he see my father’s likeness in me?
He shook the thought away. Ridiculousness. No doubt the man herded as many passers-by into his Pharo den as possible.
But Patrick found his eyes darting from side to side. Did the man run the same gambling den that had ruined his father? Where among these sordid streets was that illegal establishment that emptied the Ramshays’ pockets on a regular basis?
Escaping the maze of Seven Dials, he found the ruined church on the edge of the rookery. Many of the street lamps had died out and the narrow alleys were lit by the fires blazing in vats on the edges of the road. The streets were caked in filth and the violent stench of human waste hung in the air. On the street corner opposite the ruins, an entire family sat huddled in ragged blankets, a baby wailing in its mother’s arms.
Patrick’s chest tightened. For a moment, he thought to reach into the coin pouch and give the family a little of his wealth. But there was exactly a hundred pounds in that pouch. He had no idea what Thorne and his men would do if he were to underpay them.
He looked down. Resolved to return to this corner and give the family a little assistance. Perhaps at a time when his own life wasn’t in such disarray…
Patrick looked about him. He saw no sign of Thorne and his men. He began to pace back and forth, not wanting to remain still. Standing still, he felt an easy target. Felt as though every sorry creature in this place could tell his pockets were heavy with coin.
* * *
For the eighty-seventh time that evening, Catherine peered across the ballroom, doing her best not to look too obvious. She was hemmed in at her table between Aunt Cornelia and Edmund. Was acutely aware of the empty seat at the far end of their table.
She couldn’t stop herself from glancing at it.
Why is Lord Ramshay not here?
“Oh,” she’d said to Edmund, as flippantly as she could manage. “It seems your friend Lord Ramshay has decided not to grace us with his presence tonight.”
Edmund had looked at her with those all too knowing eyes. “I’m sure he’ll show himself, Cousin. No doubt he’s just delayed.”
Before she’d had a chance to response, Aunt Cornelia had whisked her out of her seat to dance with the Duke of Whitley’s son.
The dance had been among the direst experiences of Catherine’s life. She had been unable to stop her attention from straying to the empty chair at their table. And the Duke’s son, it seemed, had been unable to stop his attention from straying to a young lady in pink on the opposite side of the room. When the final chord of the gavotte had mercifully sounded, they’d excused themselves with barely a word.
Watching for Lord Ramshay went some way to distracting her from the whispers she had known would eventuate.
Catherine had felt eyes on her the moment she had walked into the ballroom. Had seen ladies cluster together and begin to whisper, their eyes shamelessly following her across the room. Catherine’s head had drooped and her shoulders sunk as though they’d had a mind of their own.
She’d been prepared for this, she reminded herself. Had been expecting it.
Gossip loses its power the moment you cease to care about it…
But despite her best attempts, Catherine couldn’t bring herself not to care.
“Accomplice” she’d heard as she walked back from the dance floor. And “snobbish.” Once even “little witch.”
She’d spent most of the evening pinned between the protective shields of Edmund and Aunt Cornelia.
Lord Ramshay would show himself, she’d told herself over and over. After all, he’d told Edmund he’d be attending. He would show himself and all this discomfort would be worth it.
But now dessert was being served, garish pink masses of jelly and cheesecake, and Catherine was forced to admit that chair was going to remain empty for the rest of the night.
She felt an unbidden surge of anger. She had risked ridicule to attend the ball tonight. She had sat through people calling her an “accomplice” and “snobbish” and a “little witch.” And that cad of a Baron—who had her cousin’s blessing, no less—had not even bothered to show himself.
Her anger gave way to confusion. It made no sense. She knew Lord Ramshay cared for her. Both Edmund’s words and the Baron’s thoughtful, selfless actions had assured her of that.
She took a miniscule bite of jelly. It slid down her throat, making her wince at its sweetness.
Something was keeping Lord Ramshay away. And she was determined to find out what.
* * *
George Thorne appeared from the shadows behind the ruins without making a sound. Beside him stood two other men, both at least a head taller than their stocky, wolf-eyed leader.
“Lord Ramshay,” grinned Thorne. “Good of you to show yourself. A wise decision.”
Patrick tightened his jaw. He was wildly outnumbered and it made his heart quicken in panic. He sucked in his breath and straightened his shoulders.
No, I’ll not let myself be intimidated. These men have broken into my home, threatened my household. And they are ruining my chances with the woman I love.
He met their eyes furiously. “I want to know who you’re working for. Who sent you?”
Thorne chuckled. “And why should I tell you that?”
Patrick pulled the pistol from his pocket. “Because if you don’t, I will kill you.” His spat the words out through clenched teeth.
Thorne laughed. “Kill me? And how long do you think these men will let you live? Even the finest of marksmen couldn’t reload his pistol in time.”
Patrick glared at him. “Is this truly about my father?” he hissed. “Did you truly know him? Did the men from the gambling den send you?”
Thorne chuckled again. “So many questions. And I ain’t going to answer any of them.”
Patrick lurched forward and shoved Thorne backwards, pinning him against the wall of the ruins. Immediately, he felt thick hands around each of his arms, the two other men yanking him backwards. He thrashed his arms, trying to free himself, but their vise-like grips tightened.
Patrick looked back at Thorne. The smug look on the man’s face had vanished, as though Patrick’s outburst had wiped it away. In spite of the situation, he felt a tiny flicker of satisfaction.
Thorne straightened his oversized coat. “This ain’t about your father, My Lord,” he said darkly. “This is about you.”
“About me? I don’t understand.”
Thorne sniffed loudly. “It seems your actions have upset someone.”
“What actions?” Patrick pressed. “Who?”
Thorne shook his head. He looked to the two other men. “Check his pockets.”
Patrick felt one thick hand dive into this pocket and pull out the money pouch. The other man produced the pistol. He opened the chamber and removed the ball, before tossing it across the mud-caked cobbles. The first man handed Thorne the pouch. He peered inside, the grin returning to his face. He pulled out a few coins and shoved them into his own pocket.
Patrick clenched his hands into angry fists. The two men released his arms suddenly.
“Wait,” he called, as Thorne and the others turned to leave. “If this isn’t about my father, how did you know how to find me?”
Thorne’s eyes darkened. He shook his head. “I’ve already said far too much.”
Patrick stared after them as they disappeared into the dark maze of the rookery. He hurriedly picked up his pistol and shoved it back into his pocket.
<
br /> His thoughts were racing.
“It seems your actions have upset someone…”
Penwith. It had to be. He was the only man Patrick could imagine might have any reason to hold a grudge against him.
But Harry Penwith was safely locked up in Newgate. Could he truly engineer such a thing from inside?
Patrick turned up his collar and began to stride back through Seven Dials. He wanted—no, needed, to get out of this place as quickly as possible.
* * *
Catherine needed to get out of this place as quickly as possible. The meal was finished and the table was strewn with the sad pink remains of the jellies. Another of Edmund’s friends had launched into a story about his latest hunting trip that was making Catherine positively queasy.
She glanced at Aunt Cornelia, trying to catch her eye in an attempt to leave. But her aunt was listening to the Viscount’s story with wide eyes and parted lips, as though she’d never heard anything so scintillating.
Catherine stood abruptly, muttering to Aunt Cornelia about needing a moment in the salon.
She drew in her breath as she left the table. With her eyes on her feet, she made her way out of the ballroom and into the salon, glad for the respite from the Viscount’s gruesome anecdotes. The ball was quickly descending toward the inevitable drunken chaos and Catherine felt sure she could steal a few quiet moments in the salon without bother.
But the moment she stepped inside, she caught eyes with Elizabeth Croft, the daughter of a marquess. Catherine had grown up with Elizabeth. She was sitting on the chaise with three of her friends, giggling, chattering and waving her hands about. Catherine had not seen Elizabeth since her soiree just days after Robert’s trial. The moment Elizabeth caught sight of Catherine, the chatter in the room fell silent. The two eyed each other. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
“Good evening, Elizabeth,” Catherine opened her mouth to say. But before the words were out, Elizabeth had turned away. She resumed her conversation with the other young ladies, sly glances darting in Catherine’s direction.
Catherine felt a sharp pain in her throat. She hurried from the salon, slipping through the hallway and out onto the terrace. The night was cold and the terrace was, mercifully, empty. Catherine wrapped her arms around herself.
I need to see him.
She needed to be with someone who did not look at her like a criminal. Needed to be with someone who did not equate her with her brother’s crimes. Lord Ramshay made her feel worthy, decent. All the things the rest of society did not.
Before her common sense could catch her, she was darting toward the manor gates. The viscount’s manor was close to Lord Ramshay’s townhouse. She would appear on his doorstep and demand to know why he hadn’t bothered to show himself that night. Then she would return to the ball before anyone noticed her missing.
Edmund’s friend might even still be droning on about his hunting trip.
Her heart began to thunder. Here was that same exhilaration she had felt when she had scrambled out of her bedroom window to visit her brother in Newgate. She welcomed the feeling. It made her feel alive.
But before she reached the gates, she heard a voice cutting through the darkness.
“Miss Barnet?”
She whirled around, her heart shooting into her throat. Beside the gates stood Edmund’s friend, Lord Ayton. He was puffing on a cigar, one arm wrapped around himself to keep out the bitter wind.
“Oh,” Catherine said breathlessly. “My Lord. I—” Her thoughts began to knock together.
How am I ever going to explain this away?
He frowned. “Are you all right, Miss?”
“Yes. Quite all right. Thank you.” She tried to catch her breath. The air was cold against her blazing cheeks. “What are you doing out here?”
Lord Ayton gestured to his cigar. “I felt the need. Your cousin has banned me from smoking the things beside him. Doesn’t like the smell, you see.”
Catherine nodded edgily. “Yes, that sounds like Edmund.”
Lord Ayton tossed the remains of his cigar into the garden and trampled it with the heel of his shoe. “Has something happened, Miss Barnet? One doesn’t often see young ladies fleeing a ball in such a manner.”
Catherine felt the flush in her cheeks intensify. She was grateful for the darkness. “I wasn’t fleeing,” she said hurriedly. “I was just…I—” Her words tangled. How could she pretend otherwise? She let the pretense fall. “Please, My Lord, you cannot tell a soul.” She looked into his eyes, imploring. “Especially not my cousin.”
Lord Ayton held her gaze for a moment. Was it too much for her to ask this of him? She knew he and Edmund were close friends.
But he gave a faint nod, making Catherine’s racing heart slow a fraction. “Of course, Miss Barnet. I’ll not say a word.” He took a step closer to her. He smelled of cigar smoke and brandy. “Are you in trouble? Can I assist with anything?” The corner of his lips turned up. “Between you and I, of course. Edmund need not know a thing.”
Grateful for his kindness, Catherine managed a smile. “Thank you. But I just need to leave,” she said. “I thought I was ready for an event such as this, but it seems I was wrong.”
Why didn’t I think of such an excuse earlier?
“Ellen, my lady’s maid is fetching us a cab right now.” The lies fell from her mouth all too easily. Ill-formed lies, Catherine knew.
Surely he does not believe me…
But if he could sense her lying, Lord Ayton said nothing. “Of course, Miss Barnet,” he said, gifting her a warm smile. “Shall I wait with you until the cab arrives?”
She pinned him with hard eyes. “No,” she said pointedly. “That won’t be necessary.”
Lord Ayton gave a short nod. “I see. I’ll be making my way back then.” His lips quirked. “I’m just dying to see how this hunting story ends.”
Catherine stood motionless as he turned and began to walk back toward the manor. Then she let out her breath and slipped through the gates.
Her heart pounded as she hurried down the street.
What am I thinking?
This was by far the most foolish thing she had ever done.
In her silk gown and ringlets, she was anything but inconspicuous. No doubt the footmen at the Viscount’s gate had seen her leave. They’d not know who she was, of course, but this part of the city was crawling with lords and ladies who would take great delight in telling the rest of the world they had seen Catherine Barnet racing alone through the streets at night.
Her floundering reputation would be trampled beyond recognition. Never mind Robert and his crimes. That would be old news if this little excursion of hers reached the ears of the ton.
But she didn’t care. Right now, none of it mattered. Right now, she just needed to see Lord Ramshay. Needed an answer as to why he had seen fit not to attend the ball.
And she needed him to remind her that was possible to escape her brother’s shadow.
Chapter 21
Catherine hurried up the front steps of Lord Ramshay’s townhouse and pounded on the door.
A wave of panic seized her. What would he think of her charging through the streets like this? He had already witnessed her flouting propriety more than once. It was starting to become a thing of alarming regularity.
Besides, how would she explain herself to the butler when he answered?
But it was Lord Ramshay himself who pulled open the door. He was dressed entirely in black, his fair hair windblown as though he had been out in the cold night. His eyebrows shot up at the sight of her.
“Miss Barnet.” He ushered her inside quickly.
Catherine felt strangely breathless. Lord Ramshay looked different in his dark clothes. Striking. Powerful. And devilishly handsome. She felt the warmth in her chest begin to move throughout her body.
“You weren’t at the ball,” she said. Her voice came out sounding more accusatory than she had intended.
“No,” said Lord Ramshay.
“I…” He faded out. He glanced down at her peach-colored gown. “You look beautiful,” he blurted. “Truly.”
Catherine’s stomach fluttered. She could feel his eyes taking in the milky skin on her neck. Boldly, she took a step closer to him. She could feel the heat rising from his body. “I had hoped I might see you,” she said. “I didn’t fill my dance card.” She swallowed, meeting his eyes. What point was there in being coy now? Things had gone much too far for that. She peered up at him from beneath long, dark lashes. “I was hoping we might have another chance at a waltz.”
Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 13
