Miss Fellingham's Rebellion (27 page)

At the mention of her mother’s co-conspirator, Catherine perked up. Of course, Lady Courtland! Why hadn’t she thought of her before? Swiveling in the hallway, Catherine reached for her pelisse, realized she was still wearing it, and called for Caruthers to bring around the carriage.

“You are going out again?” Lady Fellingham asked, more mystified than angry at this additional proof of her daughter’s peculiarity. “But you’ve only just returned.”

“I have an errand,” she explained, eager to be gone. She strode to the door, even though it would be a few minutes before the carriage appeared. “Have you seen Evelyn today?”

The change in subject, though abrupt, did not confuse Lady Fellingham, who expected interest to be shown in her middle and favorite child at any given moment, and she launched into a lengthy discussion of Evelyn’s condition (languid, pale, no appetite) that lasted for several minutes.

When the carriage finally appeared, Catherine heaved a sigh of relief, grateful for the opportunity to advance her plan, of course, but also thankful not to have to listen to any more of her mother’s inane monologue.

“Of course, she could be coming down with something,” Lady Fellingham continued. “The dear thing doesn’t have quite your stout composition and—”Cour

“I’ll be off, then,” Catherine said, opening the door. “Please tell Evelyn I haven’t forgotten my promise and that I’m working on a plan.

“What promise?” her mother called after her, surprised that her daughters could have any dealings that didn’t involve her. “What plan?”

On the ride to Arabella’s, Catherine thought about how much more she’d rather take the lady to task for breaking her heart than ask for help. But she was not a fool and would never let her sister suffer because she was weak and gullible.

Catherine was confident her mother’s friend would agree to lend her assistance, as her ladyship seemed always on the lookout for a distraction. She had almost said as much to Deverill when she was so coarsely—and very publicly—arranging Catherine’s future. She didn’t doubt that the challenge of besting an opponent would appeal to her more than the moral imperative of rescuing an innocent girl, which was fine with Catherine. Lady Courtland’s motives didn’t concern her, as long as they aligned with her requirements.

And they had better align, thought Catherine with a touch of despair, for if this plan didn’t work, it would be pistols at dawn for her and Finchly.

CHAPTER TWELVE

When the dour-faced
Perth opened the door and saw that it was Lady Fellingham’s daughter, he quickly stepped aside. “Please, miss, why don’t you wait in the drawing room. I will get her ladyship presently.”

Catherine, trying not to be offended by the butler’s easy admittance—had she really been that forceful the last time she came?—followed him into the drawing room to wait.

Lady Courtland didn’t tarry long, and minutes later she entered the room and immediately enveloped Catherine in a lavender-scented embrace. “You poor dear,” she crooned in her ear. “Come, sit and tell me all about it.”

Flabbergasted, Catherine sat down on the settee next to her mother’s closest friend, wondering how she could possibly know what had transpired. Had Finchly spoken about it? To whom would he confess such a dastardly deed?

“I must admit, Lady Courtland,” she said slowly, her hands still enveloped in the older woman’s grasp, “to being surprised that you already know.”

She smiled understandingly and squeezed Catherine’s hand, as if to give comfort. “Lord Deverill was just here looking miserable, and you must call me Arabella.”

The admittance of Deverill into the conversation at once embarrassed, confused and annoyed Catherine. For goodness’ sake, she thought peevishly, why must everything be about him? “I don’t understand. How does Deverill know about Finchly’s blackmailing scheme?”

“Well, the man is clearly besotted and— Did you say Finchly’s blackmailing scheme?” Arabella asked, shocked.

Catherine nodded vigorously. “Yes, that horrid Mr. Finchly is threatening to tell the beau monde about my mother’s indiscretion lest Evelyn refuse to marry him,” she said and watched in amazement as a series of emotions darted across her ladyship’s lovely face.

“Oh, dear. That’s quite an unexpected development. ’Tis a pity we can’t foresee
all
the possible snags with our plans when we originally conceive them,” she said, sounding deeply disappointed by her inability to predict the future. “But I can’t say that I’m entirely surprised by Mr. Finchly. I didn’t feel entirely right about offering him our assistance. You see, I knew his mama and there wasn’t a more conniving peeress among the
ton.
She died some years ago in a carriage accident. Good riddance, I said. But one does want to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, and Finchly did seem respectable. I see now, however, that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Arabella released Catherine’s hands and stood up. “Your sister must be frantic. Don’t worry, we’ll thwart his scheme.”

The relief Catherine felt at these words was incalculable and she took her first easy breath in hours. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that. I’ve come up with a plan, but I need your assistance to bring it off.

“Of course you have. I’d expect nothing less,” Arabella said admiringly. “Tell me, what do you need me to do?”

“Help me arrange a card game at which Finchly will be caught cheating,” Catherine explained.

“Brilliant. Then we can ensure his silence by promising ours. You are very clever to make use of his weakness against him. Have no fear, I know exactly how to do it. Now,” she said, matter-of-factly, “on to more important matters.”

Catherine, who could think of nothing more vital than thwarting that wretched cad who would destroy her sister’s happiness, looked at Lady Courtland quizzically. “What’s more important?”

“Deverill, of course,” Arabella said.

Catherine snapped to attention, her newfound calm deserting her. “I do not know what you mean,” she said coldly.

“He’ll be relieved that Finchly is only blackmailing your sister,” she said calmly, either insensible of the upset she caused Catherine or indifferent to it. “He came here this morning in a frenzy, begging me to gain your confidence and find out what it was between you and Finchly. He said he saw you coming out of his apartments this morning without your maid and drew all sorts of horrible conclusions. Ordinarily I would not excuse such ungallant behavior in a gentleman, but given the circumstance, it’s forgivable. No man wants to see the woman he loves coming out of another man’s apartments without her maid at nine-thirty in the morning.”

As she listened to this speech, Catherine felt herself growing agitated, and she had to take several long, deep steadying breaths. Deverill love her? No, the idea was too ludicrous to indulge, and yet she reveled in hearing it said. “I think you mistake the matter. Deverill does not love me,” she said with surprising composure.

“Pooh,” Arabella said with a wave of dismissal. “You are in love with him and he you. I know it for a fact since I arranged the whole thing myself.”

“Deverill does not love me.” Her tone was more forceful this time. “Nor I him,” she added and then marveled with disgust at how thoroughly her words could lack conviction. She very much feared that her heart was sewn quite plainly on her sleeve.

Lady Courtland laughed with amusement. “That’s right, Julian Haverford, Marquess of Deverill, the most sought-after lord in all of society, is mooning after you like a puppy in the first throes of calf love because he has nothing better to do.”

Catherine dipped her head with a jerk. “Precisely.”

“Ridiculous.”

“’Twas you who said it,” Catherine insisted, feeling sick as she recalled the conversation that had led to so much misery. “I heard you say it. You can’t deny it.”

“Of course I said it,” Lady Courtland admitted, eyes wide and innocent. “The surest way to scotch a matchmaking plan is to admit it exists.”

This simple statement quite took the wind out of Catherine’s sails and she stared at her ladyship, bewildered and aghast. “Wh…what?”

“My dear girl, one can’t just go up to a man like Deverill and announce that you’ve found him the perfect mate,” she said slowly, as if explaining a simple mathematical equation to a child. “You need a ruse to give him the opportunity to get to know the girl without feeling threatened by matrimonial prospects. I assure you, I know of what I speak. I’ve arranged several very successful matches. The Earl and Countess of Shrewsbury, that appallingly happy couple that live in each other’s pockets? One of mine.”

Catherine shook her head, unable to believe that Arabella had orchestrated far more than she had known. Seeing her confusion, Lady Courtland sat again on the settee and took Catherine’s hands in her own.

“I knew from the moment you barged into my drawing room, overwhelming poor Perth, that you would be perfect for Julian. The respectable girls he courts—Incomparables all—are simpering misses like your sister, and they bore him to distraction, though, like all men, he’s not sensible enough to admit it. Instead, he feels an enduring sense of dissatisfaction and can’t conceive of its cause. It’s the same with his mistresses,” she stated forthrightly, causing Catherine to startle, then blush at the appalling indelicacy of the topic. “They are all stunningly perfect creatures with nothing but looks to recommend them. But you are something out of the ordinary. You’re clever and well informed and forthright and daring. For goodness’ sake, my dear, you read
journals
. Who among our acquaintance does anything as shocking? I knew right away the match would take and so it has. We simply need to sort out this misunderstanding about Mr. Finchly first,” she said happily.

Catherine pulled her hands free and stood up. Her disquiet was so great, she needed to move around. Sitting still felt intolerable. “Bringing about a match might have been your true purpose, but it was not Deverill’s. He fell in line with the assignment, not your intentions,” she said, determined to remain sensible, despite the provocation to believe the unbelievable. “He doesn’t love me. I’m an ape leader, the veriest quiz.”

“Pooh,” her ladyship said dismissively. “You are a lovely young woman with spirit and backbone, if lacking
a little
in confidence. Why else do you think I made sure you heard my conversation with Deverill?”

This revelation shocked her as much as the last, and she dropped into an armchair by the fireplace. “You
meant
for me to hear that?”

Arabella smiled. “My dear girl, I am the wife of a politician and have enough sense of discretion not to bandy about the name of my good friend’s gently bred daughter in public. When I saw you there, standing with your mother with a bored expression your face—you were clearly woolgathering—I recognized an opportunity and took it. Fortunately, Deverill obliged by following me to the exact spot where I knew you would overhear. I don’t think anyone else did. We were positioned in an alcove that had no neighbor.”

Catherine could scarcely credit her story, though Arabella’s look of triumph seemed to confirm it. “But you said such cruel things.”

Now Arabella’s lips turned down in an exaggerated frown. “I know, my dear, and I’m sure that was horrible of me, but I thought it only fair that you have the same information as Deverill. It would not be sporting to give him the advantage. Furthermore, I knew the shock of hearing the words out loud would do you good.”

“Do me good?” Catherine echoed, wondering if her mother’s friend had become completely unhinged. How could hearing something that awful do anyone good?

“Why, yes. The words I used might have been harsh, but I didn’t say anything to Deverill that your own mother didn’t say to me here in this very room,” she stated boldly and, Catherine had to concede, accurately. “It was clear to me that she had quite given up on you and you, in return, had given up on yourself. But I knew if you heard the words spoken by someone else, you would hear them for what they are: ugly, nasty lies. And it worked beautifully. You rose to the challenge and Deverill was enchanted and now you shall be married and I can add another match to my roster of success stories.”

Arabella finished her remarkable speech with another triumphant grin, and Catherine shook her head, unable to comprehend such Machiavellian scheming, the depth of play of which exceeded anything she’d encountered before. She wanted to believe her—oh, what a lovely tale she weaved of two fated souls—but Catherine was too practical to be taken in by a pretty yarn. She could accept that her intention in wanting to shock her out of her own pitiful opinion of herself had been good. That part of the plan worked exactly as its architect had intended, and for that she could be grateful, if not glad.

“Thank you for the interest you have taken in my life and I appreciate the good you tried to do,” Catherine said with far more graciousness than she was feeling. Indeed, her thoughts were in a jumble and she wanted nothing more than to run home and hide in her father’s dark study until she could make sense of them. “However, I came here to discuss my sister’s happiness, not my own.”

“But your happiness is so much more interesting to me,” Arabella declared. “What is your issue with Deverill? Tell me, does he not meet your requirements for a future husband? I assure you, I have complied with your request.”