In Bed With the Devil (14 page)

“I would like it at eight, but that time of evening it might be more difficult to be unseen. I truly think it would be better if I arrived on my own.”

“And what about the gent who's been following you?”

The fury in his voice caught her by surprise. Apparently it did him as well, because he looked
toward the window as though he could see through the curtain. She watched as he struggled to regain control of his emotions. He was angry, she realized, not at her, but for her. Wanting to protect her, but that wasn't part of their bargain.

“I'll be careful,” she assured him. “I've eluded him before. I shall do so again.”

He shifted his gaze to her. “You worry me, Catherine. You seem to think you're quite invincible.”

“I'm well aware that I'm not. But I'll not spend my life cowering. That would be no life at all.”

He was studying her again, as though she'd revealed something monumental.

The coach stopped. He blew out the flame in the lantern. The door opened, and they went through their usual ritual. She said good night to him at the gate.

Only this time as she closed the gate behind her, it seemed harder to leave him.

“W
hatever happened to your hand?” Winnie asked.

“Whatever happened to your chin?” Catherine responded.

They were in the library at Winnie's residence where they'd planned to address the invitations to their ball. But Catherine was still having difficultly holding a pen, and she was no longer in the mood to discuss the plans for the ball anyway.

Winnie rubbed her chin. “I ran into a door.”

“Oh, Winnie, how stupid do you think I am? Where else are you hurt?”

Winnie squeezed her eyes shut. “Nowhere else. He slapped me because I didn't want to perform my wifely duties.”

“Slapped? More likely punched. Is that his idea of the best way to entice you into his bed?”

“Please, don't say anything more. It should be gone by the ball. And if it's not, you're the only one who won't believe I ran into a door. Everyone else thinks I'm clumsy.”

Because she'd so often blamed any visible bruises on small accidents that hadn't happened. “I detest Avendale,” Catherine groused.

“So you've said on more than one occasion, but he is my husband and I must honor him. Tell me about your hand.”

“I cut it on a piece of glass. It was an accident.”

“It appears I shall have to address all the invitations.”

“I'm sorry, but yes, I think you will.”

“I don't mind. It's a chore I enjoy. I daresay if I were a commoner, I might try to find employment addressing things for people.”

“You've always had such lovely handwriting.”

Winnie blushed. “Thank you. I like to think so.”

“I would like to take one unmarked invitation and envelope for my memory book.”

Catherine was bothered by how easily she lied to her trusted friend—about her bandaged hand and about her desire for an invitation. It wouldn't find its way into her memory book. With any luck, it would find its way into Claybourne's hand.

 

It was madness. The amount of time he spent obsessing about Catherine.

Even knowing that Jim was watching her more closely, that he would do what he could to discover who was following her, Luke paced his back garden, awaiting her arrival, his body tense, his nerves taut. Bill was going to fetch Frannie in his carriage. They would travel through some rough parts of London—and yet, Luke was not the least bit worried.

But Catherine, traveling from one exclusive part of London to another, had him on edge. He told himself it was because Frannie was born to the streets and could take care of herself, while Catherine would hurl herself into harm's way without thought. He should teach her to defend herself. He should buy her a sword cane. Or perhaps a pistol.

He should entice her into telling him what he needed to know. He should ask her why she wanted someone killed, who she wanted killed. This game of cat-and-mouse was putting everyone in danger.

He heard the latch on the gate give way, and he was there pulling it open, grabbing her arm, and drawing her inside.

“Oh,” she gasped. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing. I…Did you have any problems?”

Even in the shadows, with nothing but the glow from his garden lanterns to cast light, he could see her amused smile.

“You were worried.”

“Naturally, I had some concerns. Perhaps if you were more open about your reason for wanting me to kill someone—”

“Are you ready to do the deed?”

Do the deed? And how would she look at him then? Frannie would never know, but Catherine, Catherine would know the worst that he was capable of: taking a life in order to gain a wife.

What had possessed him to agree to this bargain?

The irony was that he'd keep true to his word. But he wanted to hold on to what remained of his
soul for a bit longer. “I'm not convinced Frannie has learned anything.”

“Then tonight will be very telling, won't it?” She began walking toward the house. “Have your guests arrived yet?”

“I don't know. I've been out here.”

“What sort of host are you?”

“They're friends. I don't have to welcome them into my home. They know they're welcome.”

“Tonight is all about presentation.”

When she walked through the house and removed her pelisse to hand it over to the butler, Luke couldn't deny that she was presenting herself very nicely. She wore a gown of deep blue that came off her shoulders and revealed a hint of the swells of her breasts.

“Dr. Graves and Miss Darling have only just arrived, my lord. I've shown them to the parlor.”

Luke escorted Catherine to the parlor. He'd instructed Fitzsimmons that they were to avoid using the library tonight. Luke would find himself distracted with too many memories of Catherine in that particular room. It just occurred to him that he might experience the same problem when he took Frannie to his bedchamber for the first time. That he would be thinking of waking to find Catherine in his bed. No, that was not going to happen.

“Ah, there you are,” Bill said.

Luke noticed that Catherine seemed to light up at the sight of him. Just as Bill's attention toward her had irritated Luke last night, so hers toward the doctor irritated Luke now.

“Don't you look lovely this evening,” Bill said,
taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.

“Did you tell Frannie she looked lovely?” Luke asked.

Bill seemed startled—no doubt a reaction to Luke's tart tone—but he recovered quickly enough. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Are you bothered by my finding the ladies in your life lovely?”

“No, not at all. I just wanted to make certain that Frannie didn't feel ignored.” Even as he said it, he realized the only one ignoring her was him. He turned to her. “It's been a while since you've been here.”

“Yes, but it all looks the same.”

She was wearing a dark blue dress, the buttons done up to her throat. It appeared to be something she'd work in, not dine in.

“I fear as hostess that I don't know what to do,” she said.

“How can you not know what to do? It's been weeks,” Luke said.

“Hardly,” Frannie replied. “Not more than two.”

Luke spun around to face Catherine, who jerked back as though to avoid a blow. He could only imagine the frustration his face revealed. “What have you been doing every night? You said she was learning.”

“And she has been, but I also said that a gaming hell was not the best environment for learning all that needed to be taught.”

“I have an idea,” Frannie said. “Why don't we pretend, just for tonight, that Lady Catherine and
Luke are married? Bill and I will come to call and then you can
show
me what to do. I learn much better by example.”

“I want to see what
you
know,” Luke said.

“I've told you. I've yet to learn how to properly host dinner.”

“But, Frannie, we discussed—” Catherine began.

“I know, but I can't remember everything. Please just show me.”

“Please do something to move this along,” Bill said, “because I'm starving.”

“Very well,” Catherine said, raising her hands in surrender. “We won't pretend that we're married, but I shall be the hostess. First, we need to check on the dinner preparations.”

“Lovely. Let's go to the kitchen shall we?”

Frannie took Catherine's arm. They walked from the room, and Luke strode to the side table, where he poured himself a generous amount of whiskey and downed it in one swallow, before pouring another for himself and one for Bill.

“You seem out of sorts,” Bill said, coming to stand beside him.

“I'm supposed to be acting like a damned earl tonight. Do you not think she'll be judging my behavior as closely as she will be Frannie's?”

“What do you care of her opinion?”

Luke took another swallow of whiskey.

“You want to impress her?” Bill asked.

“No, of course not.”

“Just be yourself. The old gent taught you that.”

Luke feared, when it came right down to it, that he was going to let the old gent down.

“Sometimes, I think I would be much happier moving back into Frannie's world than having her move into mine. What if I do nothing more than make us both miserable?”

“You've loved her as long as I've known you. Everything you've ever done has been to secure her happiness. I can't see you making her miserable.”

Luke wished he was as sure.

 

“Are you nervous about tonight?” Catherine asked as she and Frannie walked down the hallway to the kitchen. She was still trying to figure out Frannie's strange reaction and suggestion.

“A bit, I suppose. It reminds me of when we lived with Feagan and had to learn to take a handkerchief or coins out of a pocket without being noticed. I don't suppose any bell will ring to alert anyone to my mistakes.”

“I don't understand,” Catherine said. “A bell—”

Smiling, Frannie stopped. “Feagan would hang jackets and bells on a rope. You had to reach carefully into the pocket of a jacket without causing a bell to ring. If the bell rang, you felt the sting of Feagan's cane across your knuckles.” She blushed. “Well, I never did. Luke always put his hand over mine, so he took the blow. Oddly, it made me try harder to learn the task, because I hated to see him hurt.”

“It seems you two have always been close.”

Frannie nodded. “The first night Jack brought him to us, I can't explain it, but something about him was different. He seemed to expect us to do
things for him, but Feagan beat that attitude out of him quick enough.”

“Do you think it's possible that he's the rightful Earl of Claybourne?”

“Well, of course, he is. The old gent asked him questions, and he knew the answers. I know he doubts sometimes, and I don't understand that. He knew the answers.”

No, Catherine thought, he'd somehow managed to
give
the right answers even though he didn't know them. Was he really that good at deception? Then a rather odd thought came to her and a shiver raced down her spine. What if Claybourne hadn't deceived the previous earl? What if he'd deceived himself?

 

Dinner was an absolute disaster.

Half an hour into it, they'd finished their fish and were to be served their beef when Catherine's patience snapped. She'd been trying to start conversations about the weather, the theater, and the park. Frannie's and Claybourne's answers had all been succinct as though neither of them had a clue how to expand conversation into something interesting. Dr. Graves had given it a halfhearted attempt, but it seemed his life was little more than dealing with the infirm, and they weren't likely to engage in trite conversation. Claybourne was drinking wine as though it were the main course. He narrowed his eyes each time poor Dr. Graves spoke, and Catherine had little doubt that the doctor was aware of the scathing glances, and probably as confused by them as she.

Claybourne was obviously not happy. But then neither was she. She needed him to see that Frannie was learning, because Catherine was growing desperate for him to take care of the problem of Avendale. But Frannie wasn't cooperating. She was acting as though she knew nothing. And Claybourne had his dratted elbow on the table. He looked as though he was going to slip out of his chair.

“We are hosting a proper dinner. One does not lounge during a proper dinner,” Catherine finally told him.

He sipped more wine. “It is Frannie who needs the lessons, not I.”

“That is hardly evident by observing your behavior now. We either do this properly or not at all.”

“I vote for not at all. I'm bored with this endeavor. I'm certain Frannie has grasped the gist of the occasion.”

Catherine had gone to the trouble of dressing properly for the occasion. For these people, she'd put aside the nightly reading to her father who was weaker and paler than ever. She'd spent the afternoon reassuring Winnie that Avendale wouldn't kill her. She'd met with her father's man of business only to discover that some of the investments he'd recommended were not going to pay off as well as he'd hoped—they weren't going to pay off at all. She'd heard not a blasted word from her brother, and when he finally did return to England's shores, he might do so only to discover that he no longer had a source of income, that the estates were in decline—because of ventures she'd approved.

And now Claybourne was bored! He was fortunate a length of table separated them or she'd reach out and slap the boredom right off his face. Since she couldn't reach him, she threw words at him.

“You seem to have little understanding of the aristocracy. Do you believe everything we do is for our pleasure? I can assure you, sir, that it is not. We do it because it is required. We do it because it is a duty. We do it because it is expected. How much more difficult it is to do things because they are right, proper, and required. How much easier life would be for all of us if we could go about and do things willy-nilly, however we pleased. It is the very fact that we understand responsibility and adhere to it that raises us above the common man. I am becoming quite weary of your mocking me.

“Do you think this is easy for me? These ridiculously late hours? Perhaps you can lounge about all morning, but not I. I have a household to oversee.”

She was suddenly aware of the tears washing down her cheeks.

“Catherine?” Claybourne was no longer lounging. He was coming up out of his chair.

“Oh, forgive me. That—that was not polite at all. Please excuse me, I need a moment.” She rose and walked out of the room.

Luke watched her leave. He'd been insolent and rude. He was upset with Frannie for not trying harder. He was angry with Catherine for having the habit of touching the tip of her tongue to her top lip—just a quick touch, barely noticeable, but he noticed—after each sip of wine as though she
needed to gather the last drop. He was angry at Bill for smiling at Catherine, for pretending to have an interest in the amount of rain that was falling on London this summer. He was furious with himself because he wanted to gather that wine from Catherine's lips with his own. He was furious because he was intrigued with Catherine, because he was noticing so many things about her—the way the light captured her hair, revealing that it wasn't all the same shade of blond. Some strands were paler than others. He told himself that his interest in Catherine was only because he didn't know her well, while he knew everything about Frannie. They'd grown up together. There was little for them to learn about each other. But Catherine was another matter entirely.