He remembered holding her impulsively, tightly as her tears had spilled, remembered the warmth of her in his arms. And then that unexpected kiss by the King’s Wardrobe…
I must win her back. I must get to the bottom of this and win her back.
He had no other option. He would rather die than live a life without Catherine Barnet in it.
He followed the guard into the jail, Simon and Edmund were close behind.
Robert Barnet, it seemed, had not been given the same privileges as Harry Penwith. Instead of being led into the recreation room, they were being taken down a dim and cold stone corridor with cells on each side. Prisoners stared out from between the bars, watching the men as they passed, shouting strings of garbled curses.
Patrick shot a glance over his shoulder at his friends. Simon had a hand clamped over his mouth and nose to block out the fierce stench of waste and unwashed bodies. Edmund was walking with the same determined expression he’d had as they’d approached the Red Queen.
Patrick felt the tension in his neck and shoulders build; that feeling was starting to become all too familiar. But there was a new anger beginning to bubble beneath his skin. Anger at Robert Barnet.
He knew the man held Catherine responsible for their family losing their house and lands. An attempt to shift the blame from his own shoulders, no doubt.
Has he no thought of how this ordeal has affected his sister? Does he not care for her at all?
He forced himself to stay calm. He needed Robert Barnet on his side.
Anger will accomplish nothing here.
When they reached his cell, Robert Barnet was standing with his shoulder blades pressed to the back wall. His eyes were wide, one hand edgily gripping the ragged hem of his shirt.
Patrick did not know Robert Barnet well. Though they had met through Edmund on several occasions, he had never found much to say to the man. Robert Barnet had always seemed cold and unfriendly. Had seemed to look down on Patrick for his lower rank.
But Robert was that haughty nobleman no longer. His dark hair was tufty and uneven, his face discolored with bruising. His eyes darted between the men as the guard let them inside.
They were the same deep blue eyes as Catherine’s, Patrick noticed. And Robert Barnet’s were full of fear.
Why? Is he so horrified that we might see him in this state?
Edmund held out a hand toward Robert. “Cousin. I’m sorry to find you here.”
Robert took a tiny step forward and shook his hand reluctantly. “Are you just? And here I was thinking I deserved it.”
Edmund said nothing.
There’s that coldness I remember…
Had Robert been this bitter and unfriendly to Catherine when she had visited? Little wonder she had left in such a state.
“You remember my friends, Lord Ramshay and Lord Ayton.”
Robert eyed Patrick. “I remember you. You’re the one who fancies my sister.”
Patrick dug his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat. “We need your help, Lord Bolmont.”
Robert’s jaw tensed. “With what?”
Patrick hesitated. “The Red Queen,” he said finally, bluntly. What point was there being delicate about the matter?
“The Red Queen?” Robert repeated.
“Yes. The gambling den in—”
“I know the place,” Robert said hotly. He took a step backwards so his spine was hard against the filthy stone wall again. “Why do you want to know about the Red Queen?”
“I’m searching for a man named George Thorne,” Patrick told him. “He frequents the Red Queen. I need to know how to find him. And I need to know who he’s working for.”
Robert pressed his lips into a thin white line. “You’re best off staying away from the men who frequent the Red Queen, Lord Ramshay.”
“Yes, well. This is not a matter of choice.” He met Robert’s eyes. “Have you ever come across the man? Or heard his name mentioned? I know you were involved in…business dealings at the Red Queen.”
Robert’s eyes fell. “No,” he said, his voice low. “I don’t know the man.”
He’s lying. I’m sure of it.
“Please Robert,” Edmund pushed. “If there’s anything at all you can tell us, it would be—”
“I told you, I don’t know the man,” Robert said sharply. He turned away from his cousin and looked back at Patrick. “I can’t help you, Lord Ramshay. I’m sorry.” His voice was dark and hard. “Please leave.”
Patrick eyed the man for a moment. Finally, he gave a resigned nod.
“Good Lord,” said Simon, when they emerged into the street. “Robert Barnet has had quite some fall from grace.”
“He’s lying,” said Edmund. “I’m sure of it. He knows something.”
Patrick nodded. “Yes. But why?”
“He’s protecting someone,” Edmund said emphatically. “We need to find out who.”
Chapter 27
“I don’t like this, Featherstone,” said Simon. “I don’t like this one bit.”
Edmund and Simon were tossing back their third glasses of brandy, ensconced in palatial armchairs in the parlor of Featherstone Manor. After the events of the previous days, it had felt like a necessary debrief.
Simon stretched his arms behind his head. “Ramshay is a dear friend and all, but I…” He sighed. “Gallivanting about the gambling dens and cavorting with prisoners? Surely one has to draw the line somewhere.”
Edmund decided not to remind Simon that said prisoner was his cousin.
Instead, he just nodded. His mind had been racing since they had first set foot in Seven Dials. He had hoped the copious amounts of brandy he had quaffed might still his thoughts a little. But it seemed to be doing little, beyond making them both speak in dramatic whispers.
“I want to help Ramshay and all,” Simon continued. “But imagine what being seen in a place like Seven Dials would do for our reputations. Such a thing could destroy us.” He gulped back another mouthful and let out an anxious sigh.
What was behind Simon’s reluctance, Edmund wondered? Was it truly anxiety over his reputation? Or was there more than a little fear in his words?
Edmund supposed he couldn’t blame Simon if he truly were afraid. He had felt more than a little on edge himself when they had stepped into that dark maze of streets and hidden courtyards. Walking among drunkards and beggars and women of the night had been a stark reminder of just how sheltered they were here at the top of society. The horrors of Seven Dials were taking place not five miles from his home, and Edmund had managed to spend almost thirty years oblivious to them. Ladies and gentlemen of the nobility, he was coming to realize, only saw what they wanted to see. For the most part, at least.
But Edmund had to admit there was a part of him that was finding their adventures exhilarating. They made him feel as though he were breaking free of the role he had been playing since his father’s death, the role of the fine, upstanding viscount who never put a toe out of line. The fact that he was doing all this to help Patrick somehow made it permissible to explore the underbelly of the city. And exploring the underbelly of the city, Edmund was learning, made him feel alive.
He could tell Simon did not feel the same.
“I’m sure Patrick would understand if you were unable to help any longer,” he said.
Simon snorted. “And make myself look like a coward?” He shifted uncomfortably, giving a sharp shake of the head to signal the issue was done with. “Miss Barnet. How is she faring? She seemed rather out of sorts at the Viscount’s ball last week.”
Edmund swirled the liquor around his glass.
Out of sorts indeed.
He didn’t dare imagine what might have happened had anyone seen Catherine on her little jaunt across the city the night of the ball.
“She’s not been herself of late,” he admitted. “This has been a difficult time for her.”
“Is she here?”
“I assume so,” said Edmund. “She rarely leaves the
house these days.”
“Perhaps we ought to invite her to join us?” Simon asked casually.
“Join us? We’re half way through a bottle of brandy.”
Simon slammed his glass emphatically on the side table. “I’ve had enough. But tea and cake would be wonderful.”
Edmund hesitated. He had an inkling he was not as entirely sober as he had first believed. And he very much did not want Catherine to see him in his cups. He opened his mouth to argue, but Simon said:
“We’ve no more to discuss with regards to Ramshay’s sorry affairs, I assume? It sounds as though your cousin would benefit from a little company. Would she not?”
Edmund sighed.
Damn him to hell, Ayton is right.
“Very well.” He lurched across the armchair to ring the bell for the maid. “I’ll have Ellen send for her.”
* * *
Catherine sat by the window in her bedroom, neatly embroidering a pattern on the bodice of one of her shifts. She’d never felt so bored in her life. Her mind was craving stimulation and sewing was not providing it.
As she stitched, she found her gaze drifting to the wardrobe in which she had buried the notebook. She longed to write. Longed to scrawl down her thoughts in the diary, longed to put pen to those blank pages and fill them with words.
I ought to just do it. Never mind Lord Ramshay. He’s caused me enough pain. I’ll not let him stop me from doing something I love.
Catherine stood resolutely, throwing down the shift and marching toward the wardrobe. She was interrupted by a knock at the door.
She opened it to find Ellen in the hallway. “Excuse me, Miss. Lord Featherstone and Lord Ayton have requested you join them in the parlor.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“They’re having tea, Miss. They thought you might like to join them.”
Her eyebrows shot up.
Tea with Edmund and Lord Ayton? I don’t think so. I want nothing more to do with my cousin’s cursed university friends.
But the thought left her with a pang of guilt. Lord Ayton had been desperately kind to her the night of the ball. Perhaps not all of Edmund’s friends were untrustworthy like Lord Ramshay.
“I don’t think so,” Catherine told Ellen routinely. “Tell my cousin I appreciate the invitation, but I’m afraid I have to decline.”
“Very well, Miss.” Ellen bobbed a curtsey then, mercifully, disappeared down the hall.
Catherine watched as she disappeared.
What was that? An invitation out of pity? No thank you.
She had no desire to sit face to face with Edmund and Lord Ayton. Both of them knew what she had done the night of the ball. They would have the good grace not to speak of it, of course, but she would be able to see behind their eyes, see them remembering, thinking, judging.
She closed the bedroom door and let out her breath in frustration.
This mess is making me mad. I really need to start writing again.
She dug into the wardrobe and found the notebook. The sight of it brought that familiar tug in her chest. She pushed it away. She had to do her best to forget Lord Ramshay.
There was a second knock at the door.
“Catherine?” Aunt Cornelia bellowed.
She sighed and rubbed her eyes. She sat the notebook on the desk.
“Catherine! Open the door at once!”
Reluctantly, Catherine pulled open the door. Aunt Cornelia stood in the hallway, her brow creased with a deep frown. She was dressed in a voluminous crimson gown and reminded Catherine very much of an angry beetroot.
“Get yourself downstairs this instant,” she hissed. “You’re hardly in a place to be turning down invitations.”
“But Aunt, I—”
“No excuses, Catherine. Downstairs. This instant. I’ll not have you turn into a recluse on my watch.”
Catherine nodded resignedly. She had been something of a recluse of late, she had to admit. And a miserable one at that.
She had begun to feel as morose and unsociable as the most heartbroken of widows. She felt betrayed by Robert, betrayed by Lord Ramshay.
But she did not want this torrent of bitterness to take her over. Once, before all this, she had seen the best in people. She had laughed and smiled and joked. Had enjoyed being a part of the world. She longed to be that person again.
She hated who she was turning into.
Hated who she had let herself be turned into.
The realization struck her suddenly. Everything she had become had been the result of her reaction to the way people had treated her. Robert pinning the blame for the house and land on her. Lord Ramshay’s lies and betrayal.
I cannot live this way. I cannot let the behavior of men determine the way I feel.
She felt quite sure Elizabeth and the other young ladies with husbands they cared little for did not allow themselves to be swayed so violently by the actions of the men in their lives.
Catherine sucked in her breath. She would go downstairs. Drink tea with Edmund and Lord Ayton. And if she sensed them thinking of her actions at the ball, then she would let them do it. It was time she developed that thick skin she had longed for when she had stood in the churchyard and listened to gossip fly around her.
It was time she stepped out of her bedroom with her head held high. She had had enough of self-pity.
She nodded at Aunt Cornelia. “All right,” she said resolutely. “I’ll go.”
Aunt Cornelia beamed. She chased Catherine down the hall, pinning a stray strand of hair into the knot at her neck and smoothing her rumpled blue skirts.
“Oh Aunt,” Catherine said. “There’s little point primping and preening me. It’s just Edmund, for goodness sake.”
Aunt Cornelia looked at her pointedly. “And Lord Ayton,” she reminded her. “We can’t have a visitor seeing you looking a mess.”
When Catherine edged into the parlor, Lord Ayton stood to greet her.
“Miss Barnet. A pleasure to see you again.”
She gave him a small smile. “Lord Ayton.” She offered him her hand, which he took gently and kissed. “You’re well, I hope?”
She glanced at Edmund, who was reclined in one of the armchairs. His eyes looked slightly glazed. She smiled to herself, quite certain he’d been into more than just tea.
One of the maids bustled into the room with a tea cup and plate of cake for Catherine. She filled the cup from the teapot on the table.
“Fine weather we’re having,” said Lord Ayton.
“Yes, very fine,” said Catherine, taking a delicate sip. “I spent the morning in the garden, enjoying the sunshine.”
And on it went, an uninspiring afternoon of small talk and cream cake. But small talk and cream cake, Catherine was coming to realize, was easy.
Easier—and safer—than tearing through the night to meet a man who made her weak at the knees.
She bid Lord Ayton farewell at the front door, feeling far more intact than her dealings with Lord Ramshay had left her. Since learning of Patrick Connolly’s feelings for her, the very sight of him had turned her into a jittery mess. Each time she had seen him, she had left with a thumping pulse, and hot skin, and lustful thoughts that had refused to slow.
The night of the ball she had also left with a broken heart.
Yes. Small talk and cream cake is far safer.
When she returned to the parlor, Edmund was stumbling sleepily upstairs and Aunt Cornelia was flitting around the room like an oversized butterfly.
“That Lord Ayton,” she said, watching out the window as his carriage pulled away. “He’s a good man, wouldn’t you agree?”
Catherine sighed inwardly. She supposed this was inevitable. She knew her aunt would not be satisfied until she had safely delivered her niece to the altar.
After all that had happened with Lord Ramshay, marriage was the furthest thing from Catherine’s mind. But she would give her well-meaning aunt a little to smile about.
“Yes, Aunt,” she said
. “He’s a good man indeed.”
Chapter 28
Patrick opened his eyes. He had fallen into a dazed sleep on the chaise in his parlor again. The late afternoon sun was streaming through the windows, specks of dust dancing in the light.
Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 17
