Seduced by a Stranger (6 page)

With her chin dipped down, Madeline cast her a sidelong glance, then looked away quickly as her gaze met Catherine’s. She bit her lip and plucked at her skirt. “I have seen death. A girl. Killed not far from here.”

“Killed? How?”

“I do not know.” Madeline shook her head, her expression one of confusion. “My cousin took me away so quickly…” A shudder shook her. “He did not want me to see. But I looked back. Like Lot’s wife. Only I am not turned to a pillar of salt.” She paused, frowned, as though she had lost what she meant to say, then her brow cleared and she continued. “There was blood, so much blood, and I saw that she was cut open…or did I only hear that after, from one of the maids?”

Catherine stared at her, appalled. “Madeline, who was the girl who died? A servant? A friend?”

“No…no…I don’t think so. I don’t know.” Her voice rose in agitation and she began anew to pluck at her skirt. Then she grabbed Catherine’s hand and held it tight between both of her own, drawing it to her breast. “I am so very glad you came here. You have done me a service. You will probably never know the magnitude of what you have done for me.”

There was such sincerity in her tone that it took Catherine aback. Before she could form a rejoinder, Madeline whispered, “And I think you are safe here, for you are not…” She stared into the distance, her expression blank as a marble slab. “Well, I believe he likes to play with a different sort entirely. But have a care…” A sigh escaped her and she released Catherine’s hand. “Try not to be caught alone or unawares.”

Catherine recoiled, the implication of those words knifing through her. Did Madeline refer to the fate of the dead girl and express her concern that there lurked some danger? Her admonition did not make it sound so. Her word choice implied something else. Did Madeline dare to voice aloud St. Aubyn’s preferences in female companionship? The first possibility horrified, while the second mortified. But what else could she mean by such an odd observation? The inflection on the word
play
sounded almost…sinister, and the warning could be construed as nothing else.

“Madeline, do you—” Catherine hesitated.
Do you believe your cousin killed that girl?
No, of course such fancy was ridiculous. Whatever ill feelings hounded her relationship with Sir Gabriel, Madeline could not mean to imply that he was a murderer.

Rubbing her palms along her upper arms, Catherine mastered her confusion. She knew well that monsters hid behind any façade, but she must not let her own memories color the meanings she heard in the words of others.

Madeline sat unmoving for a moment, and then she whispered, “Do nothing to draw yourself to his attention.” She took a shuddering breath. “I cannot say more.”

“I see,” Catherine murmured, though she did not see at all. But she
did
know that she had no wish for St. Aubyn to turn his attention to her. No wish for any man to notice her in that way. The very thought made a greasy sickness roll in her belly.

She must have made some outward show of her musings, for Madeline made a sound of dismay, and cried, “Oh, I never meant…that is…well, he is away now, and that is for the best.”

For the best, indeed.

Catherine allowed herself to conjure an image of him in her mind’s eye, Gabriel St. Aubyn, with his perfect features and thick, pale hair, the breadth of his shoulders, his long fingers holding the cup of tea with such perfect grace. Deceptive grace. She had seen the way lean muscle shifted beneath perfectly tailored cloth. He could have shattered the delicate china with those strong fingers. Crushed it in his fist.

She shuddered, and beside her, Madeline shuddered as well.

“The sun has gone behind a cloud,” Madeline observed.

Arranging her expression in a serene smile, Catherine reached over and laid her hand on Madeline’s. She thought that even through the gloves she could feel how cold her friend’s hands were.

“Come, let us go and have a cup of tea and find a warm fire,” she said, and like a child, Madeline rose and did as she was bidden.

St. James’s Street, London, March 1828

The position of the moon in the clear night sky left no shadowed niche to cling to. No matter. Gabriel was not here to hide, but rather to be seen by as many as cared to look. He stood on the far side of the street, across and a little down the way from his club, studying the moon in all its bright and pale detail. It made him think of her. Catherine Weston. Of her midnight hair and porcelain skin, and the smooth, cool sound of her voice. He was both surprised and faintly annoyed that his thoughts turned to such whimsy, for his was not a nature inclined to contemplate the poetry found in the curve of a woman’s cheek. He was more inclined to the analytical and the focus of the moment.

The focus of
this
moment was the need to walk into White’s and pretend interest in gambling and gossip, because that was what gentlemen did. And Gabriel knew the value of doing exactly what was expected. There was no better shield than the mundane.

His gaze dropped and lingered on the club’s famous bow window. Several men sat there, backlit by the lamps in the room. They were chatting and laughing, their heads turned subtly so that any who passed could not help but recognize them, but more than that, they wanted to watch those in the street, to judge them, betimes poke fun at them. It was a game of sorts, one Gabriel neither understood nor enjoyed.

Even from this distance, it was not difficult to place names to silhouettes. Bodley and Ashton and Hale, and two others on the opposite side of the table whose faces were in shadow. A few steps closer and he would know their identities, as well. Those steps were difficult to take tonight, for there were other entertainments he would rather seek out. Still, he could not come to London and avoid the club altogether. That would cause talk, speculation, perhaps even a ridiculous wager to be recorded in the betting book that lay open on the table. He preferred not to draw that sort of attention; he preferred to draw no attention at all.

As a matter of course, he was careful to blend into the background, smiling and nodding when others did the same, dragging forth an appropriate quip at an appropriate time. Mimicking his peers had become an easy thing, though in the beginning it had taken some attention and care. Over the years he had become quite adept at appearing to be exactly as they were, to share similar thoughts and emotions. They thought him genial enough, if rather dull, a situation that he found amusing.

He was nothing like them. His thoughts were a twisted maze, what emotions he had a dark, fetid pool.

He was anything but genial. To know it, they had only to ask the companion he had left a mere hour past.

But they would never know of his companion, and so they would never ask.

He was careful about such things. Methodical.

No one ever saw past the mask.

Except he thought that given even a hint of opportunity, Catherine Weston, with her perceptive gaze and quick tongue, might. And here he was, back to thinking about her. Wondering at the workings of her mind. Pondering the mysteries she hid. He half imagined that spending any length of time with her, catching hold of the chance to search out her secrets, might be worth the risk that she would see him for exactly what he was.

Just then, the front door of the club opened, spilling light across the stairs and cobbles. Two likely fellows sauntered down the steps, Newton and Pratt, a pair of harmless fools. They laughed too loudly and cuffed each other on the shoulder. Pratt’s aim was off and his fist glanced across Newton’s chest, unbalancing him as he stepped down, his foot sliding on the last stair. He spun, tipped to one side then lurched to the other, swaying and laughing, fighting for balance.

Gabriel moved quickly, thrusting his shoulder forward to bolster Newton as he wove and dipped again, dangerously close to landing on his drink-sodden rump. He had little care if the man sprawled in drunken ignominy, but appearances must be maintained. A gentleman would not fail a friend in need, especially not one who was so clearly foxed.

Of course, Gabriel was no true gentleman. No chivalrous heart beat at his core. But no one knew the man obscured by the veneer he cultivated, and he preferred to keep it that way.

“Careful,” he warned as Newton blinked at him blearily.

“Who’s that?” Newton demanded, peering up into Gabriel’s face. “Ah, St. Aubyn. Impeccable timing. Impeccable.” He caught hold of Gabriel’s forearm just long enough to steady himself and then straightened and let go, weaving slightly where he stood. “Saw your cousin earlier this evening. Didn’t know he was back on English soil.”

An interesting tidbit of news.

“Neither did I.” Gabriel could feel the eyes of those in the bow window, and he suppressed a smile. He could not have wished for a more perfect circumstance. His presence on the steps would be noticed by all and sundry, but the auspicious timing of Newton and Pratt had saved him the bother of going inside the club. He could wander off with them and all would assume they had gone together to sample a fine brandy or to find a game of chance. Perhaps he would indulge in exactly that for an hour or two, before returning to his other, more interesting pursuits.

Pratt stared at him a moment and then blurted sheepishly, “I must confess…I wagered against you, old man.”

“Did you?” Gabriel murmured, but asked nothing more. Clearly, he had not escaped the betting book. His name was part of some wager or other, but he could not summon enough interest to inquire what it was. On his last visit to White’s, the odds were for Miss L. wearing blue to the Featherstone ball, and against Lord F. marrying Lady B.

“I did. Wagered a nice sum.” Pratt bobbed his head up and down. “But I hope I am wrong. ’Twould be a sad thing for her to burn Cairncroft to the ground.”

“I beg your pardon?” Gabriel asked, suddenly interested despite himself. “Burn Cairncroft?”

“Surprised you dared leave her there unsupervised.” Newton slurred his observation enough that it took Gabriel an instant to understand the words.

He narrowed his eyes and turned his gaze to Pratt, the less inebriated of the two. “Explain.” Both men appeared startled by his tone. “If you please,” he added, an afterthought.

“Miss Weston. Baron’s daughter, though which one”—he pressed his lips together and squinted his eyes as he tried to recall—“Ah, it was the Lord Sunderley,” Pratt said. “Word is, she’s visiting Cairncroft. I heard it from my sister, who heard it from Mrs. Foxx, who heard it from Mrs. Northrop herself.”

“So she is there, and you are here. In London,” Newton supplied helpfully. “Which means there’s no one
there
watching her.”

Gabriel studied the two, his patience stretched taut. What game were they about? Their words circled around to nothing. “Sunderley died unmarried and without issue. In a fire, as I recall,” he said.

“Yes, exactly.” Newton beamed up at him, as though he had offered some unique and brilliant insight.

“Terrible thing.” Pratt shook his head. “But
he
was not Miss Weston’s father. The Right Honorable Lord Sunderley, Aubrey Weston, was. He and his wife died in a carriage accident some years back.
His
daughter is Miss Weston. Miss Catherine Weston.”

Gabriel was silent a moment, trying to understand their inebriated logic. “You imply that Miss Weston is somehow responsible for the fire that killed the most
recent
Baron Sunderley?”

“Well, yes…She didn’t kill her father…or perhaps she did…can’t be certain about any of that.” Pratt frowned and muttered under his breath as though trying to work out the logistics of the relationships. His expression brightened. “But she did turn the
next
Sunderley into a torch.”

“After Sunderley died, then Sunderley…er…the
newer
…let her stay on. There was some issue of”—Newton lowered his voice—“financial constraint.”

“She was left destitute,” Pratt offered. “Sunderley was a good sort. Let her remain in her childhood home, somewhere north…perhaps Derby or Durham or Lancashire…” He waved one hand dismissively. “Then came the fire and circumstances being what they were, there was little doubt that Miss Weston was to blame.”

“What circumstances would those be?” Gabriel inquired, tamping down the anger that settled in his gut like a lump of coal. The reaction was odd. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome. What matter was it to him if they gossiped about Catherine Weston? Why did their casual accusation send rage pounding through him? He was never one to succumb to temper. Not in nearly a score of years.

“Well, they were…that is…she was there when the fire began…” Newton shook his head in confusion.

“As was Sunderley and probably a houseful of servants,” Gabriel pointed out in clipped tones. “Why blame Miss Weston?”

“Well…” Newton looked at Pratt and Pratt looked at Newton, confounded. Then Newton continued as though the question was irrelevant. “Sunderley died. Burned. The servants formed a bucket line but there was no hope. He was trapped. They saw him in the window, begging and writhing, but none could reach him. He lived for two days after that, alternately screaming or passed out cold.”

“And they say she stood there, watching, calm as you please,” Pratt added. “Some say she smiled as he burned. Some say she smiled the entire two days he screamed.”

Not to be outdone, Newton leaned in and spoke in a low, fervent tone. “They say she was not right in the head. There was talk of sending her to a private hospital near York.”

That whispered tidbit edged Gabriel’s rage up a notch. He knew far too much of such places. The thought of her there—with her hair shorn or plaited and sewn to her head, her nails cut short, her body subject to the tortures they called treatments—made him want to reach out and close his fingers around Newton’s throat. Instead, he glanced down, veiling his thoughts, and flicked an imaginary bit of lint from his sleeve.