Dangerous to Hold (12 page)

Captain Marcus Lytton—that’s how she’d thought of him then. She’d fallen in love with him, of course, but she’d fallen in love with someone who didn’t exist. She could still remember her shock and nausea when she’d discovered that the man she loved was really the Earl of Wrotham. She knew all about Wrotham. He was part of the crowd that her sister, Amy, had taken up with when Aunt Bea had come to live with them. Wrotham loved her, Amy had told her, and she had thought Amy the luckiest girl in the world. Until she’d found her one night in the stable, distraught, bleeding, terrified their aunt would find her. Then Amy had told her that Wrotham had raped her. Not long after, she’d eloped with someone else, and that was that. Later, much later, she’d heard that Amy had become Wrotham’s mistress. Perhaps, by ruining Amy, it’s what he had intended all along.

At
El Grande’s
headquarters, when she heard that name on the lips of the young ensign and the jest that accompanied it, suggesting that
El Grande’s
sister was ripe for the plucking, she’d been filled with a murderous rage. She’d wanted to punish the earl for what he’d done, not only to Amy, but also to her. He’d been trifling with her—that’s all their cozy conversations had meant to him, while all the time she’d been falling in love with him.

She’d punished him for both Amy and herself, and she didn’t regret it. She refused to regret it.

She replaced the sketch of Marcus and selected another. This was the face of a young man in profile, darkly handsome, ascetic, passionate. At the time she’d done this portrait of
El Grande
, there had been a price on his head. A thousand French crowns had been a phenomenal sum, but there wasn’t a partisan or peasant alive who would
have dreamed of betraying him.
El Grande
had inspired a fanatical devotion among his followers.

Now there were no followers, no more battles to fight, and no passion left. He had escorted her to England, and then had withdrawn from the world. She’d expected him to return to Spain, but it was the one place he didn’t want to be. He’d told her he was not sure that he would ever go back. She didn’t know what would become of him.

Other memories tried to intrude but she pushed them away. She wasn’t up to examining them right now. It had been a long night, and her head ached from thinking so much. Unfortunately, she wasn’t done yet. She still had those letters to write.

She went through the sketches systematically, but it was just as she remembered. Except for Marcus, there was nothing here of the other English soldiers who had been in the monastery at the same time as he. She’d kept well away from them and wouldn’t recognize any of them if she saw them again.

The thought made her wince. She wouldn’t be seeing any of them again. They were all gone, all but Marcus and one Rifleman. Oh God, what did it mean?

She closed the portfolio, returned it to its hiding place, then stilled as her eyes came to rest on the box of relics of her year with
El Grande.
These were her partisans’ clothes, divided skirts, and a short pelisse that had once belonged to a French soldier. She stood for a long time looking at that box of clothes. Then she laughed softly and began to remove the confining pins from her ruined hair. As the tresses fell to her shoulders, she shook them out and let out a sigh of pure pleasure. A moment later, she began to strip off her muslin dress.

She used no lantern in the stable, but Vixen knew her scent. The mare neighed softly as though she, too, understood the need for stealth. It took only a moment or two to saddle her, and a few minutes after that to lead her to the track that gave onto the heath. Catherine mounted up male fashion, and pulled gently on the reins, restraining
the mare. Confident that no one was around to see them, she kneed Vixen to a slow walk and then to a canter. When they came out of the trees, she gave her horse its head.

There was no balking on the mare’s part. She knew the way, knew what was expected of her. They had made this ride in all kinds of weathers. In the daylight hours, she was kept to a slow, ladylike trot, unless McNally was riding her. At night, with Catherine, she ran the race of her life.

The mare hurtled down the first incline and leapt over a stream. Her hooves clattered on the pebbles, but she did not falter. Up, up they went, toward the highest point on the heath. The wind came rushing headlong to meet them and Catherine relished the contest. She laughed and looked up at the stars.

Amy Spencer, formerly Amy Courtnay, kept her expression gracious as she ushered the last of her callers out through her front doors. They were all under the impression that she had an appointment with some eminent gentleman who wished to keep his identity a secret. She had fostered that impression. For a woman in her position, style, beauty, and wit were not enough. She must always appear to be in demand, exclusive, a prize worth capturing—for a price.

As soon as her footman shut the doors on her departing guests, her smile slipped. Today was her birthday, and there wasn’t a soul in the world she wanted to share it with. The night before, her box at the theater had swarmed with young nobleman who were eager to kiss the tips of her fingers or bask in the warmth of her smile. This afternoon had been no different. But they didn’t care for her as a person. They didn’t even know her. She was the rage, and to be seen with her driving in the park, or in a restaurant, or in her box at the theater was regarded as an accomplishment. To receive an invitation to one of her parties was considered an enviable distinction.

That’s what she was. A distinction. She couldn’t get any higher, not in her world. She wasn’t received in polite society, but that didn’t stop polite society from beating a path to her door, if they were males. Right this minute, she could have her pick of six titled gentlemen, each of them eager to take her under his protection. Yet, not one of them loved her. What they wanted was the distinction of having Amy Spencer as their mistress. Happily, she was her own mistress, and since she didn’t care a straw for
any of her suitors either, she was quite content for the moment to live like a nun.

She entered the little parlor at the back of the house where Eliza, her maid-companion, usually went when there was no company in the house. The room was empty. Amy wandered over to the sideboard, poured herself a generous glass of Madeira, and settled herself on one of the stuffed sofas flanking the fireplace.

“Many happy returns, Amy,” she said, and took a healthy swallow from her glass.

There were no presents, no letters of congratulation. She never told anybody about her birthdays. Dates always made her feel uneasy, and she’d stopped counting after her twenty-sixth birthday. Twenty-six was an excellent age for a woman, she’d long since decided, and she had made up her mind to halt there for the rest of her life.

You’re almost thirty-three years old. How long do you think you can continue like this?

“A damn sight longer than you would imagine, Cat,” she told the empty room, but the thought prompted her to lay aside the glass of Madeira.

She couldn’t afford to indulge herself as other women did. Her face and figure were her fortune. Youth. It was such a bore, but that’s what men wanted in a woman. Every morning, she spent hours at her toilette to achieve the desired effect. With each passing year, it took a little longer to achieve.

The thought soured her. In fact, ever since Cat’s unwelcome visit, she’d felt restless and irritable. That her prissy little sister should actually think she ran a brothel in her house! She gave parties, entertained, introduced her “friends” to gentlemen who wanted something different from the prim little misses and wives who made up their social set. What her friends did after they left her house was no business of hers.

She was thirty-three years old. She should be savoring her success. It had been a long hard climb from the day the lover she’d hoped to marry had cast her off without a penny to her name. Many women in her position had ended their days as drabs in St. James’s Park, selling
themselves for a shilling. By choosing her lovers carefully after that, with an eye to the future, she’d reached the top of her profession.

As for the future, she had no qualms there. She’d learned to be careful with her money. She knew when to be frugal and when to splurge. Her parties never cost her a penny. The morning after, her footman would present her with a tray of envelopes, each stuffed with fifty-pound notes and the card of the giver. She would then write to each gentleman indicating that though a gift was unnecessary, she accepted her benefactor’s generosity in the spirit in which it was intended.

Her own money went mostly on clothes, servants’ wages, and the upkeep of the house and carriage. Everything had to be up to the mark. To appear shabby was to court disaster. Then people would start to wonder if she were slipping, and if once the rumor got started, they would desert her for the next rising star.

She was thirty-three years old. It was her birthday. Where the hell were her friends?

She laughed mirthlessly. What had got into her? She was her own best friend and had known it for a goodly number of years.

With a touch of defiance, she reached for her glass of Madeira. “A toast to Amy Spencer,” she said, and drank deeply.

The door opened and Miss Collyer, her maid-companion, entered. She was a handsome lady approaching forty who had fallen on hard times, and had been in Amy’s employ for over a year. Amy felt sorry for her, and at the same time, amused. She was convinced that the poor woman had hopes of snagging herself a rich husband from her mistress’s coterie of gentlemen friends. What Miss Collyer had yet to grasp was that the older men got, the younger and prettier the women they chased after.

Miss Collyer said, “Mrs. Bryce is here. Will you see her?”

“Why not?” said Amy. “Julia is my closest friend.” Or what passed for a friend in their circles. “No, I won’t
receive her in the drawing room. This little parlor is more intimate. Show her up.”

The young woman who entered a few moments later was dressed in the height of fashion. Amy could not help reflecting, as they kissed cheeks, that her rival was not looking in top form. And that’s what Julia was, her rival—or she hoped to be. She had a rented house in Charles Street, and kept a box at the theater. But she had not yet reached that pinnacle of popularity where her parties were attended by men of the highest rank and fashion. Like Amy, she understood the need to appear exclusive and sought after.

After Miss Collyer had left to arrange for tea and biscuits, they talked of mutual acquaintances. Amy sensed there was another reason for Julia’s visit, something particular. She seemed distracted and on edge. It was not until the tea and biscuits had been served and they were alone that Julia came to the point.

“Wrotham has quite deserted me,” she said with her silvery little laugh. “In fact, I’ve been displaced.”

The laugh grated on Amy’s nerves. Lord Melbourne had once complimented Julia on her charming manner of laughing, and she had never forgotten it. “Men were ever fickle,” replied Amy.

“So you do know something,” said Julia, pouncing on her. She tossed her head in another affected gesture and her dark ringlets bounced. “They are all saying that they met on your doorstep. Who is she, Amy? Who is my rival?”

“I know of no rival, unless … could it be that Lady Wrotham has arrived from Spain?”

“Oh no, that’s not it. It’s rumored that he’s set his mistress up in a little house in Hampstead. He never takes her anywhere. Nor does he go anywhere. I’ve sent round several notes to his house in Cavendish Square. He has not answered any of them. This is so unjust. I turned down Leinster because I was so sure I had Wrotham in my pocket. Now, everybody is laughing at me, saying I counted my chickens before they had hatched.”

A peculiar sensation was unfurling in Amy’s stomach.
“Hampstead?” she said. “And they met on my doorstep?”

“You didn’t know?”

Amy didn’t hear the question. She was remembering Marcus describing Catherine to her, wanting to know who the girl was and why she had come from her house. He had accepted her answers without pressing her, and had led her to believe that he had lost interest. Clever, clever Marcus.

Without a pretense of civility, she interrupted Julia’s monologue. “Who told you about the house in Hampstead?”

“Bertie Lamb, last night at the theater. He said his coachman had it from Wrotham’s coachman.”

Amy decided to put a stop to this before it got out of hand, and she knew just how to handle Julia Bryce. “Bertie Lamb is an old woman. He likes nothing better than to cause trouble. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It wouldn’t surprise me if Bertie wants you for himself. Don’t you see, it would suit him very well if you were to cut Wrotham. Then you might turn to him.”

The pout vanished, and a speculative look lit up those lovely green eyes. “Bertie? You think he’s taken with me?”

“Of course he’s taken with you. Isn’t every man?”

The silvery laugh rang out. “But Bertie doesn’t have a penny to his name.”