Dangerous to Hold (21 page)

He said impatiently, “I wasn’t thinking of that.”

“Then what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that when I look at you I see more
than one woman. There’s more to you than you want me to know.”

She hoped her shock didn’t show. “You’re not making sense.”

“You’re passionate about things and reckless too … then a mask comes down, and you’re like ice.”

“Well, I’m playing a part, of course.”

“But which part is the real you?”

This conversation was too close for comfort. It was time to change the subject. Her eyes fell on their trunks and boxes.

Frowning up at him, she said, “Where is your room, Marcus?”

He slouched down in his chair and grinned. “Ah, yes. My room. What would you say if I told you there is a Wrotham tradition that the lord and his lady always share a room?”

“I’d say I don’t give a fig for Wrotham traditions.”

“Somehow, I thought you’d say that.”

He rose and made for the door.

“Marcus?”

“Yes?”

“I mean, that is, what are you going to tell them?”

“If anyone asks, I shall say that my wife is convent bred and is too modest to share a room with a man, even if that man is her husband. That’s not far off the truth, is it?”

And with that question hanging between them, he left the room.

Penn was the last to arrive for dinner that evening. When he saw Marcus seated at the head of the table, the seat he, Penn, usually occupied, he muttered something under his breath, and took the empty chair beside his mother. One look at Penn told Catherine all she needed to know. She knew the signs. Penn had been drinking again. He was past the expansive stage and into the silent one. With her father, the next stage was either a bout of weeping, or he would turn on those closest to him and rail at them for all his troubles. When Penn called the footman over to pour him a glass of wine which he immediately raised to his lips for a long swallow, her heart sank.

“Tus ojos son azules.”

Catherine let out a startled,
“¿Qué?”

David Lytton, who was seated at her right, was smiling at her. “Your eyes are blue,” he repeated in flawless Spanish.

She flicked a look at Marcus. This was what she feared most—to be confronted by someone who spoke the language fluently. Marcus did not appear to have heard his cousin.

“Sí,”
she replied softly.

Again he spoke in Spanish. “Where did a Spanish girl come by those blue eyes and fair skin?”

She spoke with the Spanish accent she’d adopted since she’d made her debut as Catalina. “From an English ancestor. Speak English, señor. I wish to practice my English.”

Marcus broke in. “Where did you learn to speak Spanish, David?”

There was a pause. David looked down at his plate, then looked up to see everyone staring at him. Everyone could see that Marcus’s question had embarrassed him.

“One of my friends is married to a Spanish girl,” he said lamely.

“Oh yes,” said Penn, snickering. “One of your friends! Marcus, how can you be so gauche? How did you learn Spanish? Not from a tutor, I’ll wager.”

“Penn,” said the dowager, smoothing things over, “why don’t you tell Catherine about the horse you’ve set aside for her use?”

The dowager had an anxious look on her face, and Catherine’s heart went out to her. She remembered so well trying to placate her father on occasions just such as this. She’d felt so helpless.

“Let Marcus tell her,” said Penn sullenly. “They’re his horses. My opinion counts for nothing around here.”

Marcus ignored Penn. He called one of the footmen over and said something quietly in his ear.

The dowager looked back to Penn in appeal, and he said finally, “She’s a spirited little filly who comes from your own neck of the woods. Her name is Magazin.”

“One of the Andalusians?” asked Catherine, feigning delight. She’d been expecting the offer, and she and Marcus had already decided how to get out of it.

Tristram said, “That one is a lady’s mount! I’ll wager Catherine is used to something better. I’d be happy to lend you Charon—also an Andalusian, but not nearly so tame as Magazin. In fact, Charon is the best that Wrotham has to offer.”

“Oh, I couldn’t accept such a sacrifice,” said Catherine. “You’ll want to ride Charon yourself.”

Tristram made a face. “My time is going to be occupied studying Latin and Greek with Mr. Reeves, our chaplain.”

“All the same,” said Catherine, “I think I shall stay with the filly, but thank you for the offer.”

This was Marcus’s cue, and he said, “I’m afraid I can’t allow it, Catherine. You know the doctor has forbidden it,”

The dowager’s face lit up and she said impetuously, “You’re with child! Why, that’s wonderful news!”

Catherine’s hand fluttered to her throat. “Ah, no.” No one blinked. Not a muscle moved in any of the faces that were turned to her. They might have been carved out of stone. Color rushed to her hairline, and her eyes flashed to Marcus. “Marcus?” she appealed faintly.

Marcus made a small sound of exasperation. “It’s nothing more than an old riding injury that acts up once in a while.”

“My hip,” said Catherine quickly “!; always pains me when the weather changes. Oh, not enough to lame me, but enough to make riding awkward.”

There was a moment of profound silence, then everyone began talking at once. Catherine looked at Marcus, who answered that look with an imperceptible shrug. No one believed them. To argue the point would only make matters worse.

It was then that Penn looked around for a footman to refill his wine glass. There were no servants in sight, nor bottles of wine or decanters. He turned his head to stare at Marcus, then, leaning heavily on the table, he rose to his feet.

The eyes of the two brothers locked, battled, and moments later, with a snarl of rage, Penn knocked over his chair and stumbled from the room.

“What was that all about?” Catherine asked David in a shocked undertone.

He did not raise his eyes from the food on his plate. “Marcus ordered the footmen to remove all the liquor,” he said, “and Penn has just discovered it.”

Later, three very subdued ladies entered the drawing room while the gentlemen remained in the dining room. Catherine wondered whether Marcus would allow the usual port and brandy and she thought not. He’d had that hard, inflexible look about him when Penn had tried to stare him down. Marcus was determined to break Penn of his addiction even if he had to smash every bottle of
liquor in the house. But that’s not how it worked. A drunkard always knew where he could find his next drink.

The dowager looked at Catherine, tried for a smile, failed, and said, “This is a fine welcome to Wrotham, Catherine. I’m sorry. Penn isn’t always like this. It’s just that, well, he was angry with Marcus for offering David better terms on the brood mare he wanted.”

Samantha said the first words Catherine had heard her say since they’d sat down to dinner. “I don’t blame Penn for being angry. Marcus should have known better. Penn is the one who knows everything about running Wrotham—Marcus is more like a visitor!”

“Samantha!”

The girl colored. “Well, it’s true, Mama.” Though the words were defiant, she was looking at Catherine with an appeal in her eyes.

Catherine said, and meant it, “No, that wasn’t well done of Marcus, and”—she paused, groping for the right words—”I understand, truly I do.” And she did, far more than these ladies could possibly know.

Now that she had a chance to study Samantha, she saw that her first impression hadn’t been completely true. She’d summed her up as a quiet little mouse, but now she saw that she was also loyal to a fault. It was more than loyalty. The girl loved Penn, and if Marcus did not watch his step, he would find his mouse of a sister had turned into a lioness.

“Do you play whist?” asked the dowager.

“No, ma’am.” Cards, according to Aunt Bea, were an invention of the devil. Of course, just about everything, according to Aunt Bea, was an invention of the devil. The thought arrested her. Was it possible that in some ways, she was still unwittingly under her aunt’s thumb? “But I’m willing to learn,” she added.

The dowager beamed. “Splendid!”

“Drat!” said Samantha. She had spread the pages of a newspaper on top of the piano and was going through them systematically.

“What is it, dear?” asked the dowager.

“A. W. Euman’s column isn’t in this edition of
The Journal
either. She must still be on holiday.”

Catherine had just been lifting the first card the dowager had dealt her, and she dropped it. “A. W. Euman?” she said. “But surely he is a gentleman.”

“That’s what I used to think,” said Samantha, “but Mama has convinced me that she’s a female.”

Catherine was astounded, and couldn’t help showing it. To her knowledge, no one had ever guessed that A. W. Euman was a female. “Whatever gave you that idea?” she asked the dowager.

“It’s just a feeling I have.” When she saw that Catherine wasn’t really interested in the cards, she set them on the table. “Do you read A. W. Euman?”

Catherine nodded.

“Have you ever noticed that she sees everything through a woman’s eyes? There are times when I think she’s seeing things through
my
eyes.”

“Really?” said Catherine faintly. “But she, that is, he has been to Newgate and to parts of the city that no decent lady would dare visit.” Not to mention the brothels that proliferated in and around Covent Garden.

“This is no conventional lady,” said the dowager with enthusiasm. “That’s what I like about her. She’s intrepid, and reckless. She never lets anything stand in her way. When she wants a story, she goes after it. It wouldn’t surprise me if she disguises herself as a man.”

And she’d thought of it, but she didn’t have the height or build to pull it off.

“And you’re not shocked?” Catherine looked from mother to daughter.

The dowager’s eyes dropped away. “I envy her,” she said. “I suspect she’s a woman who lives on her own—well, she must be or the men in her life would never allow her so much freedom. She comes and goes as she pleases.” She seemed to be enthralled at the idea. After a reflective moment of silence, she continued, “Such a woman would know how to take care of herself. She wouldn’t depend on any man for anything.”

“I think you have the wrong idea about A. W.
Euman,” said Catherine, not altogether sure whether she was flattered by this portrait.

“Don’t you approve?” This was from Samantha. “You were once a partisan. I would think that you and A. W. Euman would have much in common.”

Admiration was shining in the girl’s eyes. Catherine opened her mouth then shut it.
Hell and damnation
, as McNally would say. She’d found two kindred spirits—in Wrotham, of all places.

“Yes, I approve,” she said, “though I wouldn’t want Marcus to hear me say so.”

Above the laughter that followed, a voice from the door—Marcus’s voice—said, “What wouldn’t you wish me to hear,
mi esposa?”

The men entered, but Penn was not with them.

David took the chair next to Catherine’s. “A dry house,” he whispered, and winked at her.

Catherine pretended not to understand. “Helen believes that A. W. Euman is a female.”

“A. W. Euman?” said Marcus. “Oh, the fellow who writes for
The Journal.
I’ve met him a time or two.”

“You’ve met him?” said the dowager, astonished. “And he’s not a woman?”

“Oh, he’s womanish, I’ll give you that. Come to think of it, he puts me in mind of a spinster.”

The dowager and Samantha couldn’t hide their disappointment, Catherine was more successful at concealing her fury.

“Well, don’t stop there,” she said. “We’re all ears. Do tell us more.”

Marcus obliged. “He’s very straitlaced, very moral. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t play cards, and doesn’t run around with loose … that is, let’s just say he is very moral.” He kept a straight face.

“I see nothing wrong in that,” declared Catherine, and all the gentlemen chuckled.

Shortly after, tea was served, and the conversation became general. The men decided to go hunting early the next morning—and Tristram only if he made up the lost hours of study. One by one, people made their excuses and retired for the night.

When Catherine made to leave, Marcus walked her to the door. “Wait up for me,” he said.

She gave him a startled look, nodded, and slipped through the door.

He found Penn in the estate office, which was in the stable block, outside the castle walls. Penn was standing at his desk, studying his ledgers. There was an opened bottle of brandy on the desk, and in one hand he was cradling a filthy glass that was empty. At the sight of Marcus, he reached for the brandy bottle and filled his glass to the brim.

“Here’s to the return of the Prodigal,” he sneered. He drank deeply, then wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

Marcus said, “I’m sorry about David. He caught me by surprise. Once I’d given my promise, I couldn’t go back on it. I give you my word that it won’t happen again.”

It was obvious from Penn’s expression that whatever he had expected to hear, it certainly wasn’t this. Coming to himself, he said, “Apology accepted.”