Dangerous to Hold (5 page)

When she came to the junction that led to Charing Cross, she stopped to get her bearings. She didn’t think Marcus had given up the chase. He’d been like a man possessed. He’d panicked her, and that didn’t happen to her very often. Now that she had got a grip on herself, she was beginning to wonder if she should have held her ground and waited for the Watch to arrive.

She pressed back against the brick wall of a stable while she considered her options. To get to McNally, she had to cross the street. If Marcus was still on Pall Mall, he couldn’t fail to see her. It was too risky. She would have to make a detour. If she turned right and went around Charing Cross, she would come out on the Strand. Once there, she could hire a hackney to take her to the Haymarket.

There was one other possibility. The Horse Guards were on Whitehall, just a stone’s throw from Charing Cross. The militia, who policed the city streets, would be there. If she could get to Whitehall, she could call out the militia. And of course, they would arrest Marcus Lytton, Earl of Wrotham. The idea was laughable. They would
question
her
, and ask all sorts of awkward questions she didn’t want to answer.

The detour it was, then.

It took every ounce of willpower to leave the shelter of the mews. With a swift glance to her left to make sure the coast was clear, she stepped out boldly and made a right turn. She walked briskly, staring straight ahead, ignoring the stares of various male loiterers who were looking for female companionship.

When she came to Whitehall, she chanced a quick glance over her shoulder and checked in mid-stride. Marcus! He was a good way behind her, but he was moving with speed, not running, but striking out with long strides, fairly eating up the distance between them.

There was no thought in her mind now of going around Charing Cross to the Strand. She picked up her skirts and darted into Whitehall. Only one thought possessed her. She must escape him. Gasping for breath, she ran headlong the last few yards that took her to the Horse Guards, and she dashed into the courtyard. There were several guards in blue uniform who seemed to be on duty. One of them, the officer in charge, came forward to meet her.

“Please help me.” She could hardly speak, she was so out of breath. She pointed with a shaking finger. “There’s a man following me. He’s insane.”

Captain Hailey summed her up in one comprehensive glance as a respectable lady, and he took her at her word. He barked out an order, and he and two of his soldiers stepped into Whitehall. Catherine retreated to the archway that gave onto the parade grounds on the other side of the building. When Marcus came into view, her heart leapt to her throat, and she instinctively edged deeper into the shadows.

“Marcus!” The officer in charge sounded astonished. “I didn’t know you were back in London. Oh, there’s a lady here who says you’re insane.”

Catherine cursed her ill luck. She should have remembered that Marcus had been a cavalry officer. These men all knew each other. She would get no help here.

There was much laughter, then she heard Marcus’s voice above the others. “She dropped her reticule. I only wish to return it to her. Where is she?”

“She’s … She must be here somewhere.”

Catherine did not wait to hear more. She had passed through the arch. Ahead of her were the deserted parade grounds, and beyond that, St. James’s Park. There was no caution now. She heard footsteps approaching, and she made a dash for it. When she reached the gate to the park and found it unlocked, she let out a long sobbing breath. At this time of night, the park should have been closed to the public, but it was no secret that when darkness fell it became the haunt of prostitutes and their patrons. Locked gates were nothing to them, nor to the footpads and thieves who frequented the park at night. She was afraid to enter, but more afraid still of the peril behind her.

She flung through the gate and almost immediately swerved from the path. In the dim light from the buildings on Whitehall, she could just make out trees and undergrowth. With head down and muff protecting her face, she pushed her way into the center of a dense thicket of holly bushes and dropped to her knees. She’d made so much noise when she’d sped across the parade grounds that she knew Marcus would have no difficulty tracking her. The most she could hope for was that he would follow the path in his search, taking him deeper into the park and away from her. Then she would slip away, retracing her steps to Whitehall.

The earth was sodden with rain, and like a dry sponge, her clothes began to absorb it. She removed her pistol from her muff and cradled it in the crook of her left arm. A good soldier, McNally had taught her, always kept his powder dry. Almost at once, she became aware that she was not alone. She’d expected Marcus to come thundering into the park. He’d come by stealth, and was playing the same waiting game as she. She couldn’t see him, but she sensed his presence. Fear tightened every muscle and her eyes frantically searched the darkness. After what seemed like an eon, a shadow moved. She heard the quick rasp of his breath, and the soft tread of his steps as he made off along the path. Only then did she begin to
breathe. Ears straining, she tried to follow his progress. There were sounds, but those came from the lake—oars plying small boats, muffled laughter, and the drone of crickets and other nocturnal insects.

She didn’t know how long she crouched there listening. Satisfied that she was alone, she inched her way out of the thicket. She waited for a long time, then slowly straightened. Careful to make no sound, she crept toward the gate that led to the parade grounds, looking over her shoulder at every other step. Only when she was through that gate did the tension gradually seep out of her.

She inhaled a long breath—and a shadow came hurtling out of the darkness. Instinct took over. She cocked her pistol and pulled the trigger. The report was deafening. She saw him check, but sensed that she had missed her target. He still came on, and she turned to flee. Hard fingers bit into her arm, wrenching her round.

“You bitch!” he snarled.

She opened her mouth to scream and his fist caught her a glancing blow on the chin.

A red mist enveloped her. She went limp in his arms.

She came awake on a moan, and her hand fluttered to her jaw. Then she remembered everything, and she jerked herself upright. He was bending over her, his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back against the chair.

“Here, drink this,” he said. “You’ll feel better in a moment or two.”

She didn’t have the will to fight him. Her head was swimming and she felt nauseated. She swallowed a few sips of brandy, but when she began to cough and splutter, he set the glass aside.

Though her mind cleared rapidly, she remained as she was, eyes half closed, head supported against the back of the chair. She was taking his measure, trying to sense what was different about him. Then, it came to her. He was no longer threatening her.

She opened her eyes and glanced around the small room. “Where are we?” she asked.

“In one of the upstairs offices.”

“We’re at the Horse Guards?”

“Yes.”

“Where are the guards?”

“Attending to their duties, I presume. I told them there had been a dreadful mistake, that I’d frightened you half to death, and that you were only defending yourself when you let fly at me with your pistol.”

“And that’s the truth!”

“So it would appear.”

She watched him warily as he pulled a straight-backed chair close to hers and seated himself. He was smiling, and that mobile mouth managed to convey that, really, he was quite harmless. His hand reached for her, and she flinched away, pressing herself as far from him as possible. His hand dropped away.

“I’ve never seen hair that color,” he said. “It’s very beautiful.”

She touched a hand to her hair. It was falling loose about her shoulders. Her bonnet had been removed, and was sitting on top of a flat-topped desk along with her muff and pistol.

He said abruptly, “Look here, I owe you an apology. The thing is, for a while there, I really did take you for my wife. Now that I’ve seen you clearly, however, and when I saw that red hair, I realized my mistake. And, of course, you did put up quite a fight. What else was I to think but that you had good reason to fear me?” He paused, then said lightly, too lightly for her comfort, “I’m Wrotham, by the way, and you are … ?”

The retort was instantaneous. “I’m the woman you frightened half to death.”

“Touché.”

He laughed, but there was no answering laugh from her. Her mind was grappling with what approach she should take. One wrong word could be fatal. She debated whether or not she should tell him her name and decided against it. What could she tell him? That her name was Catherine? That she’d been in Spain when
he
was in Spain, when, in fact, he’d married Catalina? True, her hair was red, but there were ways of getting around that-No, she didn’t want him to know anything about her.

It might come down to it as a last resort, but not if she could help it. She was a respectable lady and this man had attacked her. That’s the approach she should take.

She rose slowly, and he rose with her. “You may take your apology and go to the devil,” she said. “I’m going to call the guards. I’m going to lay a complaint against you. You attacked me.”

“I could counter with the charge that you tried to
murder
me. You were the one with the pistol. Please, sit down till we have a chance to sort this through.”

There was no threat in his tone, but it fairly reeked with self-confidence. “No, really,” he went on gently, “you need time to come to yourself. Besides, aren’t you a little curious about me? I know I’m curious about you. Do sit down.”

Remembering her role, she said tartly, “I know as much about you as I care to know.”

“What do you know?”

She knew more than most. She should. She’d followed his career long before he’d become a soldier. It was common knowledge that he’d been blessed with good looks, fortune, and a great title which he’d come into when he was only a boy. He’d been spoiled and pampered almost from the cradle. An army of servants catered to his every whim. The result was inevitable. He’d come to believe that the world revolved around him. He fought duels at the drop of a glove; he flaunted his mistresses. It was said that no woman could resist him if he decided he wanted her. His thoughts went no further than the pleasure of the moment. Even his years as a soldier were the result of a wager. In Spain, briefly, she’d thought she’d met someone special, but that man had been a figment of her imagination. He was unscrupulous and heartless, as she had good reason to know.

She hadn’t meant to sit down again, but she found herself doing it all the same. He was too tall, too powerful for her comfort, and without her pistol, she felt defenseless. “You are Marcus Lytton, the Earl of Wrotham,” she said. “I know you by reputation.”

“Reputation?” He cocked an eyebrow as he seated
himself. “I was not aware that my military exploits were so widely known.”

The roguish grin got her dander up, and she couldn’t help elaborating. “Your reputation as a rake is what I meant.”

“You flatter me.”

“Only you would think so.”

There was a moment of startled silence, then he said softly, “Touché, again, Miss … oh yes, you don’t wish to tell me your name. You cannot be suggesting that I have designs on your virtue?”

“It never crossed my mind.”

“Didn’t it?”

His tone was provocative. She matched it exactly. “You are, are you not, my lord, a
married
man?”

The smile was erased. “What do you know of my wife?” he asked.

She hesitated, shrugged, and said boldly, “Until tonight, I knew only what everyone else knows, that you’d married a Spanish girl when you served with Wellington in Spain.”

“And after tonight?”

This time she did not falter. “I know that you hate her enough to kill her.”

His eyes burned into hers, then the look was gone and the careless smile was in place. “You have misread the situation. It is my wife who wishes to kill me. She may yet succeed. Oh, don’t look so stricken. I believe it happens in the best of families. Divorce is so hard to come by, and for a Catholic girl, the word doesn’t exist.” His voice turned hard. “So you see, Catalina and I are bound together until death us do part. An intolerable situation.”

Her mind was racing off in every direction. There were a million questions she wanted to ask, but she dared not voice a single one. Even now, he was suspicious of her. She could feel it in her bones.

She tried to look amused. “I’m sure, my lord, you are exaggerating.”

“Am I? I wonder.” His mood changed abruptly. “Enough about me. I am at a disadvantage here. I know
nothing about you, and until I know more, I refuse to let you go.”

He spoke gaily, as though it were all a great game, but she wasn’t taken in by it. She’d seen that darker side of him and knew that the danger wasn’t over yet. She intended, if at all possible, to leave this place without his knowing who she was or where to find her.

She moistened her lips. “My lord, I appeal to you as a gentleman to let me go. You see, there is someone waiting for me. If he were to hear of my … misadventure, it could prove awkward for me.”

There was a strange undercurrent in the silence, as though her words disturbed him in some way. “I see,” he said. “And this gentleman, I take it, was someone you met tonight at Mrs. Spencer’s house. Did you make a secret assignation?”

Alarm coursed through her veins. “Mrs. Spencer? I know no one by that name.”

“Don’t you? I could have sworn that I saw you leave her house tonight. What happened? Did you quarrel? Did she throw you out in those rags? I know how jealous women can be. And you are very beautiful. Did you steal one of her lovers? Is that it? Who is waiting for you? Is it Worcester? Berkeley? Whatever they offered, I can do better.”

A moment before, she had been trembling in her shoes. Now, a wave of rage flooded through her. Each question was more insulting than the last, and he was doing it on purpose. This time, when she rose to her feet, there was no tremor in her knees. She was Catherine Courtnay and no man spoke to her in those terms. “My business with Mrs. Spencer,” she said, “is no concern of yours.”