Promise Me Heaven (21 page)

“On you. Now, there’s an interesting choice of words.”

Marcus felt himself flush hotly under the deceptively mild words. “Cat has been teaching me. I have taken more responsibility with each passing year. Indeed, I am pleased to say that within another year or so I shall have paid back all debts incurred on my estate.”

“How does all of this involve Cat?”

Marcus’s moment of triumph dissolved under the reminder of his errand. He leaned forward earnestly. Unknowingly, his very openness, his obvious concern for Cat, did much to redeem him in Thomas’s cynical eyes.

“When Mother wed your brother we were, as you can well imagine, overjoyed. Finally, it seemed, she had found a suitable, and suitably set up, husband to help bail us out of dun territory. Our joy was premature. Mother and Philip, having embarked on this extraordinarily long tour of theirs, left no money for us.”

“What?” The word exploded, causing poor Marcus to wince.

“You didn’t know?”

“Of course I didn’t know! I thought you had merely run through your readily available funds. I had no idea. Do you mean to tell me Philip and your mother have been toddling about the world for two years without having left you any monetary provisions whatsoever?”

Marcus numbly nodded.

Thomas took a deep breath. “Why the hell didn’t you petition them for funds? Philip, while not the richest man in England, is still quite wealthy.”

“They never stay long enough in one place to have any letters catch up with them,” Marcus explained. “And if they are in one place, it is usually some godforsaken, undiscovered country. Oh, we have had reams of curiosities shipped to us: fertility gods, animal hides, exotic statuary. Unfortunately, there is not a huge market for gazelle horns or we should be rich.”

“Continue.”

“Well, two years ago Enid was supposed to make her bow. There just wasn’t any money for it. The only reason Cat had a come-out was because Great-Aunt Hecuba sold off a few pieces left her by her paternal grandmother. Anyway, when Enid couldn’t make her bow, Cat was fit to be tied. I’m sure she felt it more grievously than Enid.

“And then, last year, the twins were, er, dismissed from school for, ah, unpaid tuition. Simon wanted to embark on a naval career, Timon to further his education. There was, of course, no hope for either.” Marcus looked up, embarrassed at having to relate his family’s pitiful history, to find Thomas staring out the window. A vein bulged in the side of his throat, but he only blew out a deep breath in a long, controlled exhalation.

Marcus hurried on lest he lose courage. “Then Cat decided to solve all these problems in one fell swoop by getting leg-shackled.”

“I had no idea she fancied herself a martyr.”

“Oh, she didn’t! She doesn’t! She isn’t!” In any other circumstances, the over quick disclaimer might have been amusing but Montrose only looked askance him.

“She’s practical,” Marcus explained. “Cat is, above all else, practical.” He sighed. “Extremely, relentlessly practical. She didn’t propose to wed the first rich ne’er-do-well she could find. She researched the situation thoroughly. Found herself the most likely candidate, interviewed his acquaintances, friends, associates—all very surreptitiously, of course—and arranged an introduction.”

“I know I must appear sadly lacking in understanding, but allow me to clarify this in my own mind. Cat set her sights on a man she had never even seen?”

Marcus nodded, pleased to have the situation quickly understood. “She thought it best not to cloud her judgment with first impressions or aesthetic considerations.”

“And do you happen to know her criteria?”

“Not all of it. But I do know he had to be very rich; intelligent, so as not to bore her; sophisticated, so as not to interfere with her; and not given to emotionalism, so as not to demand too much of her.”

“And Lord Strand measured up.”

“Admirably. Rather too well, if you must know. He was so sophisticated and unemotional, Cat despaired of ever getting him to the altar. That’s when she thought of you.”

“God help us all.”

“And that’s really why I’m here. You see, when she first came to you she wrote every day. Her notes were brief but sharp, amusing. Like Cat. You know.”

“Yes.”

Marcus barely heard the soft reply. “And regular. Regular as clockwork. You know Cat. ’Twas her duty to write, and so she did. Every day. We quite looked forward to them. Kept dinner conversation lively. And from what she wrote we surmised her, er, education was going well. She seemed happy. Until Brighton. Since she left Brighton we’ve had only a few letters. Long, prosy, brittle things, they are, too. And now that she’s in Paris with Great-Aunt Hecuba, we’ve had nothing. We are worried about her.
I
am worried about her. And so I thought, seeing how she was… seeing how she and you… seeing how your repu—” Marcus broke off.

Thomas continued for him. “Seeing how she was under my protection when this uncharacteristic change in her habits occurred and how my reputation regarding young ladies is unsavory at best, you thought I might provide some reason as to the why and give you my opinion as how to proceed.”

“Exactly!”

“I understand. As to the first, I have a fair idea as to why she is behaving thus. It’s none of your business. As to the second, I do not know. I bloody well wish I did. There.” Thomas pushed himself off the table. “Now, next time you require information, I suggest you take pen to paper and save yourself a tedious journey.”

It was a dismissal, but Marcus, staring miserably at the hands he twisted in his lap, made no move to go.

“You have not answered my question,” Marcus said quietly. “Mr. Montrose, Cat is, for all she is only my half sister, fully that and more in my heart. She is my friend. I cannot be satisfied with your reply.”

Marcus looked up at the tall, rangy form towering above him. His hazel eyes did not waver from Thomas’s black ones, though his gulp was audible.

Thomas measured him for a long moment. “Your sister is safe. As safe as I can make her, which is considerable. I have friends who guard her welfare by all the means at their disposal. Her every movement has been watched and attended. Physically she is in no danger. There, boy,” Thomas said with finality, a world of weariness creeping into his tone, “I have given you all the information I am going to. Go home and see to your crops. Cat is my concern.”

The possessive statement made Marcus look up with filial suspicion. “How so?”

“How so, indeed?” Thomas echoed in a low, considering voice. “It does not matter. She is and always will be.”

Thomas crumpled the piece of paper, swearing as he threw it against the grate. He had waited until he had heard the click of the outer door and Mrs. Medge coldly bidding the boy adieu before reading the post from France. He had unwittingly lied to Marcus: Cat was not safe.

The message he had just read outlined her danger. Seward, true to his word, regularly reported any information pertinent to the French situation as well as Hellsgate Barrymore. This message from Seward was succinct. Rumors, as yet unsubstantiated, were rife concerning an alleged plot by Napoleon to retake his lost country. His apprehensions concerning the little emperor were to be validated. The accuracy of his intuition afforded him no pleasure. Cat was in Paris.

There had to be some way to extricate her from the potential danger. He knew that a letter from him demanding she come back to England immediately stood no hope of being obeyed. She probably wouldn’t even read it. Besides, how could she feel endangered with every titled fool in England parading through Paris? Why, the whole bloody world was in Paris.

God help him, he would have to go himself and fetch her back.

He had thought himself done with Cat. Or, more to the point, he admitted with harsh humor, he’d thought to allow her to be done with him. It had been with masochistic pleasure that he’d read the accounts posted him by the friend he’d set to watch over her. The friend had written nothing suggesting that Cat suffered. Perhaps Thomas had done her some small service. Perhaps she would abandon her scheme and find herself some smooth-cheeked boy to beguile.

She was so damn young. She would mend. As would he. And if the long, hollow days that each morning threatened to devour him showed no signs of relenting, well then, numbness had kept pace with the emptiness. It would be interesting to see if that kind opiate relinquished its hold when he had to see her, talk to her, persuade her to come with him.

Thomas sat down at his desk, penning a terse note to another well-placed and influential friend, outlining his requirements. After ringing for Bob, he barked out orders for immediate travel arrangements.

Chapter 18

March 1815, Paris

B
y Jove, she was a desirable woman
.

Giles Dalton, Marquis of Strand, watched Cat circulating through the crowded ballroom of Merton’s rented Parisian town house. Yes, indeed, Catherine Sinclair, or Lady Cat as fashionable society had taken to calling her, was well on her way to becoming the reigning toast.

She caught sight of him, and her full lower lip bowed out in plump invitation. Or was it a smile? He’d be damned if he knew. There was a lot, apparently, he did not know about the fascinating Lady Cat. And he’d been so sure he’d taken her measure during the past few seasons. So sure that he had been on the very precipice of bowing to convention and marrying the girl.

Lord Strand was finally growing weary of all the well-rehearsed lures cast his way. It had been fun for a while, but as with anything too easily attained, it had begun to pall. A practical, unsentimental man, Strand had turned his attention to a careful consideration of the candidates for his future marchioness. He had taken several seasons to study his choices, finally fixing his attention on Lady Catherine Sinclair.

She seemed perfect: lovely, amusing, pragmatic, and serene. He had even thought he’d sensed the potential for more than pure expedience in their marriage. He’d considered it possible he might come to love her.

And then she had appeared in Paris, changed.

But was it change, Strand asked himself, or playacting? Or even something else? Had the girl he’d thought to offer for simply matured into a woman? He could not tell, and ever a careful man, he waited until he had a better grasp of the situation before acting.

Because, were he not so cautious, he admitted wryly, he would have had her to an altar—or a bed—some time ago. She was enchanting, delicious, her bon mots were occasionally sharp, but the barbs were most often self-directed. He did not understand her, and he was wary of that which he didn’t understand. Meanwhile, she would probably drive him mad, though it was an enjoyable madness.

With increasing frequency, Cat allowed his touch. Her lips were honey-sweet, her body lithe. Yet Giles did not detect a trap baited with her willingness. Nothing she did or said hinted at marital expectations. On the contrary, if anything, her reaction to his caress held a hint of impatience, a frisson of desperation, which manifested itself as a readiness to learn lessons he was afire to teach. If only he were not certain she was, in spite of her sophisticated veneer and come-hither eyes, quite unimpeachably, and regretfully, a virgin.

A young woman on the marriage mart had two things to recommend her: wealth and a maidenhead. As Cat Sinclair hadn’t the first, he wasn’t going to divest her of the second. Besides, Thomas Montrose, being obstinately oblique on all other matters, had been crystal clear about Cat going to the altar in her untouched state.

Characteristically enigmatic as to his own motives, Thomas had been explicit in his request: Strand was to set himself up as sentry over the physical well-being of Lady Catherine Sinclair, protecting her from any would-be assailants, including those who would try her virtue. Little did Thomas know, thought Strand with an inner sigh, he’d set the seducer up as guard.

If Giles hadn’t such a profound respect for Thomas, he’d have suspected a scheme hidden in the request. The betting books at White’s had Giles withstanding yet another season of Lady Catherine’s siege. Anyone winning the wager stood to gain a large sum of money. Giles knew the wagers were based to a large degree on the lady’s own orchestrations. It seemed all of society knew Lady Cat had set her cap at Lord Strand. Except, lately, Lady Cat herself. She had ceased pursuing him with the single-minded and amusing determination that had distinguished the previous seasons. It was beyond puzzling.