A Grand Design Part 17

"Isn't it?" she shot back. "I was not thinking to demand a declaration. You were certainly not going to give one. No man would feel compelled to offer for a long-in-the-tooth spinster whom he merely kissed once."

"Good G.o.d, Cate. Where did all this come from?"

She waved off the question with a sharp jerk of her wrist.

"Forgive me, my lord. I am overset. I lead a simple life, you see, and could not help but be tipped off balance by the circ.u.mstances-"

"Rot."

"I beg your pardon?"

"What rot!" he repeated, irked himself now. "You are one of the least henwitted young women I know and quite probably the very least to be rattled completely out of countenance. Rot, I say.

"So you want to discuss love and marriage, do you? Fine. Marriage is purgatory, Cate. Promised Heaven when the truth of it is that no matter how hard you work and how good you are, you are always just trying to get past one prior sin after another. And you never know if there is a reward awaiting you just around the corner or merely more of the same. It is virtually endless, rarely virtuous, and endlessly demanding."

"I did not-"

"Yes. I loved my wife. In the beginning. And I hated her in the end. Just another Society marriage. The question, I suppose, is where I was more stupid-beginning or end."

There was a heavy silence. "For what it is worth," she said shakily, "I do not believe you had anything to do with your wife's death."

Exhausted, frustrated, Tregaron dropped back to lie flat on the rug, arms splayed, eyes on the dirty ceiling. "For what it's worth, and I say this with all due respect, Miss Buchanan, you are a fool."

Her response, whatever it might have been was interrupted by a soft tap at the door. Someone cleared his throat. "Er . . . my lord? Miss Cate?"

Tregaron lifted his head in time to see the quill disappear out the latch hole. The knock came again. "Yes, d.a.m.nit!"

"We are here, Gordie," Cate called, rising from the floor.

"Ah, well, er . . . good ... ah ... I have the k.n.o.b here. Shall I use it, or would you prefer . . . ?"

"Open the b.l.o.o.d.y door!" Tregaron bellowed, pushing himself to his feet.

He saw Cate frantically scrabbling among the folds of the divan cover. She poked several pins into her hair as she found them. She looked so distressed that he was of half a mind to tell her that it hardly mattered; post roll, as she'd chosen to call it, the fiery ma.s.s looked no different than usual.

He retreated to the desk, and she took a shaky seat on the divan, just as the door clicked and swung open. A comically concerned face peered in. "Done, my lord," the workman said unnecessarily.

"Thank you ... er ... Gordie," Tregaron muttered. "We appear to have been on the wrong side of a bit of bad luck."

"Aye." The other man's eyes scanned the jumbled room. "Miss Cate?"

"Oh, I'm fine, Gordie." Anyone who didn't know her might miss the slight tremor to her voice. "We have not been trapped long."

"Where the h.e.l.l were you?" Tregaron demanded, offering Cate a hand up from the divan. Not surprisingly, she declined.

"We're all working upstairs today, my lord. I came down when I heard-"

"After you." Tregaron rested a hand lightly on Cate's back to hurry her along. He would not have touched her, but she was moving with all the speed of mola.s.ses. He felt the familiar flare of heat where his hand rested. He felt, too, her flinch. "Gordie, go fetch Miss Buchanan's uncle. Either one."

'They are not here," Cate said dully. "They are at the museum."

"My lord, I think perhaps you ought to-"

"A museum? Oh, for G.o.d's sake, They are supposed to be here, seeing to their d.a.m.ned work."

"My lord-"

"What is it, man?"

The Scot ran one hand through his wiry hair and cleared his throat. "You have guests, my lord."

He stepped aside then. Tregaron looked down the corridor. There, not six feet away, stood a familiar pair. "We were pa.s.sing by, Tregaron," the elder announced grandly, "and decided we simply had to see what old stains you had painted over."

"Lady Reynolds, Miss Reynolds," he greeted the pair with a flourishing bow. "If I had but known you were arriving ..." He might have locked himself in the library and dismantled the doork.n.o.b.

He did not know Caroline Reynolds at all, other than observing that she always seemed to be chattering away at the entertainments they'd both attended, but he knew her unpleasant brother. The fellow was a member of Fremont's set. Her mother, to add to the dismal situation, was well known to possess a mouth that moved far faster than her brain. Gossip was not merely a pastime, but a longstanding, ardent occupation.

All in all, she was just the sort of person-they were just the sort of pair-he did not want to be facing just then. But just as leopards did not change their spots, he doubted fate would ever see fit to look upon him differently.

Fate was certainly being predictable today. "There is a message for you in the foyer, Tregaron," Lady Reynolds informed him. She was doing her best to look into the library. Tregaron pulled the door shut smartly behind him. "I did not mean to intrude on your privacy, of course, but it is rather difficult to miss."

Caroline was staring intently at Cate. Cate was staring at her own st.u.r.dily shod feet. Tregaron decided it was time to end the encounter, no introductions made.

"Ladies, if you would forgive my appalling rudeness . . ." He did not care one way or another. After being regarded as a monster, impoliteness would be a mere nick in his repute. "I fear I am very much pressed for time. Miss Buchanan."

Cate needed no urging. She slipped around the unwelcome little party and nearly ran down the corridor. By the time Tregaron caught up with her, she was fumbling with the front door. He placed one palm against the portal, keeping it tightly shut.

"My lord, I did not... I cannot. . ." She was not staring at her feet any longer, but still did not lift her gaze above his watch chain. "I do not know what to say about . . . what happened."

"No? Fine. Perhaps you can shed some light upon that instead." He pointed.

On the south wall, just above the spot where once had stood a hideously ugly table originally from Versailles, a wedding gift from Belinda's family, was the message Lady Reynolds had mentioned. Fashioned of foot-high letters, it appeared to have been written with coal. "Impostor begone!"

Chapter 13.

If there had ever been an instance of going from pan to fire, Cate was living it now. She'd climbed from the hackney Tregaron had all but shoved her into, wearily let herself in her own front door, and been deposited firmly in a sort of Cruikshankian h.e.l.l.

"Catey," Lucy called from the sitting room, "is that you?"

Cate, wearily stripping off her worn gloves and felt hat, looked in. Lucy was seated prettily in the room's best chair, flowers decorating the tables all around her. Becky the maid was in her Aunt Rebecca garb-an old mourning dress of Lucy's-and was stuck in the far corner, facing the glowing hearth, draped and shrouded in several shawls and at least one lap robe. Cate did not think they were paying the poor girl sufficiently for this.

Four gentlemen had risen from their own seats. Cate did not know Evan Althorpe well, but was pleased to see him nonetheless. She did not know Lord Newling at all, but was perfectly willing to bid him welcome. She could even have tolerated Edgar St. Clair-Wright's presence. He was, after all, too stupid to do any real harm on his own. But Cate had never met him when he was not dancing attendance on Fremont, and this was to be no exception.

"Now our happy little party is complete," Fremont said smoothly. "Miss Lucy said you might not be home for some time, Miss Buchanan, and we were most dejected."

"Were you?" Cate would have liked nothing better than to crawl upstairs and lock herself in her bedchamber for the next sennight or so. But Althorpe was graciously urging her into his seat, and Cate did not know how she could refuse. At least it was across the room from Fremont.

"Thank you," she said to Althorpe, having already expended her words for the other.

"And where have you been this fine afternoon?" Fremont asked. He had never been one to be easily ignored. "There is a most becoming blush to your cheeks."

Cate imagined she still looked rather like a boiled lobster. Humiliation and anger had a way of doing that to her appearance. Given the choice, she would have opted for fragile pallor, but such was not her lot.

"I have had a brisk walk," she lied. Then she lied again. "It is a marvelous day."

The weather might be fine indeed, but the day thus far had been blessed awful.

"Tell me you were not in Oxford Street, Catey," Lucy chided. "You know I am in need of countless things, and it would not be fair at all for you to visit the shops without my list."

"Oh, I daresay, Miss Buchanan was not shopping at all," Fremont announced before Cate could respond. "In fact, I am quite certain of it."

He was the very picture of ton elegance, lounging as he was, one arm propped on the back of hischair, legs stretched over the worn carpet. With his rakishly tousled blond hair and enigmatic smile, hewas a sight indeed. Even the battered old parlor chair looked opulent beneath him. Cate deliberatelyturned away and thought she heard him chuckle as she did.

"And how, sir," Lucy demanded, "can you be certain of my sister's activities?"

Fremont did not answer for a long moment. Unable to resist, Cate tossed him a quick glance. He was staring straight at her, looking, she couldn't help but think, like a blond tomcat with something rodential in its sights.

Finally he spoke. "She has nothing intriguing for us to examine." Another pause. "No parcels, you see."

The entire party turned to Cate then, as if expecting her to produce said parcels, or at least to say something of interest to be pondered. / have just come from a perfectly incendiary embrace with the Marquess of Tregaron, she could have told them. In comparison, Lord Fremont's kisses were no more than the mouth gapings of an oversized fish.

That would certainly give the company something to discuss. Of course, she would have to omit the final scenario.

He does not truly want me any more than you did, Lord Fremont. And it hurts a thousand times more fiercely to know it.

She was ultimately saved from having to say anything at all by the appearance of Cook. The eternally red-faced woman stomped in with fresh tea and biscuits, looking none too pleased to have been given Becky's tasks atop her own. The tray hit the table in front of Lucy with a distinct clack and rattle of china.

"Ere's yer tea, miss," she muttered. "I were going to give ye scones like ye asked, but 'aven't time to make a batch if ye want supper on the table tonight."

Lucy, completely unperturbed, set in to pour. "No scones, gentlemen," she informed her guests cheerfully. "I don't think you'll mind overmuch."

Of course they would not mind. Lord Newling looked ready to chew on coal should Lucy serve it to him with a smile and a large enough cup of tea.

As Cook stomped back out again, there was a knock at the door. Cate saw Becky half rise from her seat in the corner before sinking back into the pile of wrapping. No doubt she did the same each time someone arrived.

No one else seemed to have noticed. Nor did anyone seem terribly curious as to who was at thedoor. For her part, Cate wanted to know who was going to answer the door and decided she herselfcould do so and then keep right on going down Binney Street. Then she heard Cook's Yorkshire voice,muted, and an equally quiet, much deeper one-male, smooth, cultured.

Cate's heart, taking no cue whatsoever from her sensible brain, did a joyous little leap. He had come. Tregaron had come to apologize and bear her off ... somewhere.

"If you would excuse me," she murmured to no one in particular, and slipped into the hall. She paused halfway down the narrow steps to the foyer. Her heart thumped again at the sight of a well-formed back, of night-black hair and dark blue coat.

It dropped with a sorry thump when the man turned.

"Miss Buchanan!"

Julius Rome looked perfectly delighted to see her. Cate managed a welcoming smile as she descended to the bottom step. It was not his fault, after all, that he was not Tregaron. And he was such an agreeable fellow that, had he been able to transform himself into another man, he would almost surely try to do so, just to be amiable.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Rome. How lovely to see you. Do come in."

"With pleasure." He handed his hat and stick to Cook with such a charming smile that the woman actually dropped into a lopsided curtsy.

"You have come to see Lucy." Cate turned to lead the way back up to the sitting room.

"Not at all. I was hoping to see you."

"Really?"

He loped up the first several stairs to stand just below her. "To be sure. I fancy us to be friends of a sort, and I have seen so little of you about Town that I decided I must come see what has kept you in such thrall here."

Charmed, Cate gestured wryly at the house's narrow stairs and dull paint. "Enthralling it is not, sir, but you brighten its modest walls."

"Truly?" He looked pleasantly flattered. "Well, then, I am delighted to serve."

Just then a thump and ripple of laughter came from above.

"Sounds lively enough to me," Julius commented. Cate sighed.

"My sister has guests."

With a single, lithe leap, Julius was past her and standing on the step above. Then, almost comically, he leaned down, tilted up her chin with a forefinger, and gave her face a good once-over. "That," he said after a moment, "is a frown not to be ignored."

"Oh, nonsense."

"Who has come to call?" he demanded shrewdly.