Lady Catherine's Secret: A Secrets and Seduction book (34 page)

“It’s perfect,” Catherine said, smiling with delight. “Thank you, Daniel. I love it.” The look she gave him made him feel as though she’d just given him an even greater gift.

“I’m glad you like it. It’s an unusual piece. One of a kind. Just like you.”

Lady Wilmot craned her neck forward as if curious to see what kind of necklace had inspired such delight in Catherine. Her face fell, however, once she caught sight of it. Clearly she had been expecting something other than simple malachite and onyx stones. She shot Huntley a startled look. “Malachite? How... unusual.” She clamped her mouth shut.

Daniel and Catherine exchanged amused glances.

“I assure you, Lady Wilmot, that Lord Huntley could not have chosen a more perfect gift. I love it.”

“Of course, dear,” Lady Wilmot said, turning a bright smile onto the couple as she tried to cover her
faux pas
with good cheer. “It’s lovely. And thank you for allowing me to have a few moments alone with Elizabeth. I’m going to return to your mother’s compartment now. Would you care to join me, or will you return to Elizabeth?” Obviously there was no third alternative.

“Thank you, Lady Wilmot. I believe I’ll join Elizabeth.”

Lady Wilmot stood waiting while Catherine stepped into the corridor and then followed her out, sliding the door shut behind her.

40 - Striking a Deal

Lord Stansbury tailed the newly married couple to a flat in Oxford. The woman seemed jubilant, in stark contrast to the man’s subdued demeanor. The pair went inside, and Stansbury tried to resign himself to a lengthy wait in the cold. He hoped Attwood wouldn’t take too long. One never knew with a man barely wed, but judging by his behavior, he’d probably try to escape his bride as soon as possible.

There weren’t many places where Stansbury could easily watch the flat without drawing undue attention, so he wandered from shop to shop on the street below, pretending to browse the wares and casually chatting with the shop owners as he tried to glean some information about Attwood. At least the shops were a bit warmer.

Everyone he spoke to seemed surprised to hear the flat had been rented to someone after sitting empty for so long, so it would seem that Mr. and Mrs. Attwood were new to the area. It was a fairly low-class district, which was no surprise to Stansbury. He’d already noted a certain lack of refinement in the couple. One could always read the signs in dress, speech, and demeanor if one looked closely enough.

As a boy, Stansbury had once secretly followed his father to just such an area. The man would often leave the house, carrying a wrapped item, and then return much later, drunk and flush with money. It hadn’t taken long for Stansbury to realize his father had been selling off family heirlooms to pay his gambling debts; that much had been obvious even to a child. But Stansbury had needed to know where his father went and how the transaction took place. He’d planned to do the same thing the next time Father left them for an extended period of time with no funds. He was tired of going hungry.

Now, he entered a pawn shop that was similar to the one he’d followed his father to so many years hence. Stansbury knew how to haggle for the best price. It was a skill he’d perfected long ago. Many of his family’s possessions were scattered around London in the hands of various pawnbrokers. Some had even gone on to be owned by other families. Just a few weeks ago, in the home of one of his friends, he’d recognized a longcase clock that had been his great-grandfather’s. It had been repaired, and the long scratch his father’s knife had cut across the front was almost completely invisible. Nevertheless, Stansbury had recognized it. He hadn’t minded losing that particular item, though. Certain pieces were tied too closely to unpleasant memories, and those associated with the longcase clock were ones he preferred not to dwell upon. They included too much blood, too much pain, and too much death.

Unfortunately, he had little about his person to offer a pawnbroker today. He couldn’t part with his warm cloak on a day as cold as this one, so he’d be forced to leave his pocket watch in Oxford if he wanted enough cash to buy dinner and a ticket home. With luck, he’d have some coin to spare. He tried not to let the loss of the watch bother him. After all, once he was flush again, he could come back here and collect it.

The negotiation was a fierce one. The odious pawnbroker pretended he didn’t appreciate the quality of the piece and only began to haggle in earnest when Stansbury followed through on his threat to leave. When the man actually trailed him out the door and onto the damp, narrow street, Stansbury hadn’t bothered to hide his contempt. Stansbury knew he’d gained the upper hand, and the pawnbroker knew it too.

It didn’t take long to complete the transaction after that, and Stansbury walked out with even more money than he’d expected.

Just as he stepped back into the cold, he spied his quarry. Seconds later and he would have missed the man. But of course his timing was perfect. Hadn’t everything been working in his favor today?

Attwood went directly to a nearby pub, and Stansbury ducked in behind him. He made a show of taking off his hat and coat in an angry huff as he stood at the bar near Attwood.

“Whiskey,” he overheard Attwood say to the bartender as he settled onto a stool. He looked as though he planned to stay for a while.

“I’ll have the same,” Stansbury added brusquely. The bartender gave him a nod, and then set the glasses of whiskey in front of the two gentlemen. Stansbury set down his coin and leaned casually on the bar as he raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to a good woman,” he said in a surly tone. “Just let me know if you ever find one, because I never have.”

Attwood snorted and tossed down his drink.

“I just got married today,” announced Attwood. His bottom lip jutted out petulantly.

“You’re a fool, then. You don’t sound happy about it.”

He shrugged. “It could be worse. Her father settled a bit of money on her. Just wish it was more.” He stared morosely at the wooden top of the bar.

“Then why’d you marry the girl?”

Attwood looked at him sidelong. “You really want to know?”

Stansbury gave a small shrug to show mild interest.

“Buy me a whiskey, and I’ll tell you,” he offered.

“What? She has you on a tight leash already? No ready cash?” By the man’s tightening jaw, Stansbury could see that his jab had hit home. He shot the man a condescending look.

“Buy me that drink,” Attwood insisted. “Think of it as a wedding gift.”

Stansbury gave the bartender a nod and set the coins on the table. Attwood tossed back the second drink and smacked his lips.

“Fine, then. The chit lied to me. Told me she had a big dowry, so I trotted her off to Gretna Green, quick as I could. Fathers don’t usually approve of men like me, so if I wanted to marry her and get that dowry, it was the only way.” He grinned at Stansbury, and an ugly curl of disdain pulled at the corner of his mouth. “The stupid girl actually believed I loved her, and when we stopped at an inn for the night, she told me the amount of her
real
dowry.” He shook his head in chagrin. “I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Even before that, when I thought she had more, I was beginning to wonder if I’d be able to put up with her for long. She won’t ever shut her mouth. Her tongue wags from sunup to sundown.”

“So how’d you end up married?”

Attwood smiled. “Buy me another whiskey.”

Stansbury grimaced and plunked another coin on the table, annoyed that he’d shown too much interest. Attwood would fleece him if given half a chance.

“Her father had some powerful friends and they tracked me down in London. So now, not only am I married to her, but her money is locked up tight as a miser’s fist in an irrevocable trust.” He glared at the drink the barman set in front of him. “I can’t get my hands on it even if she dies.” He scowled and tossed back his third whiskey.

An irrevocable trust? Stansbury winced at the mere mention of it. These contrivances were the bane of every man’s existence. Women shouldn’t be able to control money. The very idea of it was outrageous. “Then why in blazes did you go through with it? Why would you agree to a marriage contract that forced you to sign over your rights that way?”

“Those powerful friends I mentioned? They ended up sweetening the pot, so to speak. Doubled her dowry. And then there was this man named Huntley. He kept me locked up in his house so I couldn’t disappear even if I wanted to. ‘Not that we don’t trust you,’” Attwood said in a pompous voice, clearly mimicking Huntley. “Ha!”

“Huntley?” he said, relieved Attwood had provided this opening. “Do you mean that marquess fellow? The one from Scotland?” Stansbury scowled deeply.

“That’s the one. You know him?” Attwood eyed him warily, but with unconcealed curiosity.

“Know him? The man’s a menace. He pretends to be the perfect gentleman, but he isn’t. He’s a disgusting cur of a man.” Stansbury was pleased to note a gleam of smugness in Attwood’s gaze. It was as though he reveled in hearing Huntley disparaged.

“I knew it,” Attwood said. “And that high-and-mighty arse-hole thought he could look down his nose at me? Why, I should’ve thrown a punch at him when I had a chance. I probably could’ve broken that nose.”

“I wish you had. He swindled me out of money, ruined me financially, and stole my fiancée right out from under my nose. If I could get that man alone in a dark alley....” He paused, giving Attwood a considering look. “It appears that we have a common enemy. Since ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ perhaps we should work together.” He held out his hand. “Stansbury is the name,” he said, and then pointedly added, “the Earl of Stansbury.”

Attwood leapt from his seat, and gave a bow. “Your lordship,” he stammered, “I had no idea.”

“No, you wouldn’t. But perhaps we can be of assistance to one another, Mr. ....”

“Attwood. Charles Attwood at your service, m’lord.”

41 - Reverberations

The following day, Daniel sat alone in his study and read the same line of the contract he was reviewing for the fourth time. His mind kept drifting back to those moments he’d spent alone with Catherine on the train. With a groan, he tossed the sheaf of papers onto his desk and ran his fingers through his hair. She was making him think and feel things that he didn’t want to think or feel.

He’d been much too careless in the train compartment. If they’d been discovered, Catherine would have been mortified. What if Lady Wilmot had opened the door just one minute sooner? He grimaced at the thought.

Another week. He sighed, pushing back from his desk to stand. He’d simply have to exercise self-control. And to that end, he’d ensure that he wasn’t tempted again. He needed to avoid any situation where he might find himself alone with Catherine. He strode across the room to release some of the restless energy building within him.

Public meetings would, of course, be acceptable, but no more private encounters. As long as their relationship remained public, he was confident he’d able to keep his attraction for her under control. The risk came in being alone with her.

He gazed blankly toward the window, and an image of her crystallized in his mind. He could see her face as she gasped in unrestrained passion. He groaned, spinning on his heel, banishing the memory from his thoughts. He needed to stop remembering her on the train. He glanced down at the bulge in his trousers and grimaced.

He reminded himself of Catherine’s unsuitability as a wife, hoping that would help cool his ardor. He’d come to London with a plan, and she’d destroyed it with her foolish risks.

No, that wasn’t fair. If not for her risks, anything could have happened to him the night he’d been attacked. He owed her an enormous debt, and he intended to repay it. He’d treat her well, and he’d do his best to respect her choices, even when they didn’t correspond to his.

He’d always refused to accommodate people who tried to force him into a role he didn’t want to play, and he’d be damned if he’d force Catherine into being someone she wasn’t. She’d never be a prim and proper wife, and he’d known that before he’d asked for her hand in marriage.

He glanced down at his trousers to ensure that he’d regained control of his own body and then headed down the hallway toward the kitchen. He burst through the door, causing the cook to drop a container of flour, spilling it all over the counter.

“Lord Huntley. You startled me,” Mrs. Meigs said. “Is there anything I can be getting you?”

He grimaced. Why was he in here? He’d just needed to move, and his legs had automatically carried him here. When he’d been a boy, he’d always sought out the comfort of the kitchens.

He noticed the startled expressions on the faces of the cook and her staff, so he pasted a polite smile on his face. “I’d like a pot of tea sent to my study. And some bread and cheese.” He turned on his heel and sped back toward his office. The kitchen hadn’t been the comforting retreat he’d needed, and he still felt restless.

His thoughts immediately flew back to Catherine, like homing pigeons. An ideal wife was not in the cards for him. He shook his head. Wentworth had been right. His goal of finding a perfect bride had been a foolish dream. It had been conjured by the lonely and isolated child who still hid in his core, but he wasn’t that person any longer. He was a man, accountable for his own actions and his own decisions.