A Grand Design Part 18

"Lord Althorpe."

"A delightful fellow, though rather hard on one's pocketbook, so there must be more. Who else?"

"Lord Newling," Cate replied.

"Ah. Witless creature. And . . . ?"

"Mr. St. Clair-Wright."

"Ahhh."

"And Lord Fremont."

"I see. Right, then." Julius nodded decisively. "You'd best come along with me." With that, he plunked two hands on her shoulders, turned her about, and urged her gently but persistently back the way they'd just come. "We'll go to Gunther's for a bit of refreshment. I have it on very good authority that a shipment of ice has only just arrived from the Greenlands, and we can expect to find fruit ices of several different flavors."

"On very good authority?" Cate could not resist repeating. She should have minded, she knew, both this man's ease with her person and ease of uninvited command. Instead, she felt as if she were being affectionately bullied by an old and dear friend. And she could use an old and dear friend. She had far too few.

"Very good," was Julius's reply as he rushed her down the last steps. "Gunther is fond of taking out advertis.e.m.e.nts in the Times, hawking his wares. I daresay he would list every cake and tart if there were but room."

Gunther's-bastion of Mayfair's elite, haven of those dubious adults with sweet cravings and more money than sense.

"I don't know . . ." Cate protested. "I cannot . . ."

"Of course you can."

With yet another brilliant smile, Julius reclaimed his possessions from Cook, who had not moved.

She promptly curtsied again and looked ready to stand just where she was indefinitely, should the delightful Mr. Rome have need of anything else.

Cate glanced around the foyer with a frown. Her hat and spencer were upstairs in the sitting room, precisely where she had left them. All that was downstairs was a particularly frothy millinery confection belonging to Lucy and a matching canary yellow wrap. Now she truly could not go. If she were forced to return to the sitting room, it would be too hard to explain skipping out again.

Julius was already tugging Lucy's shawl from its peg. Before Cate could object, he settled the thing around her shoulders with a flourish, then handed her the hat. "Hurry up, now," he said with a wink, "or all the ice will have melted."

Why not? She could do with something sweet and frivolous. Ignoring the certainty that she would only look ridiculous, Cate donned the elaborate composition of pale straw, Prussian net, and endless silk flowers, tied the ribbons jauntily beneath her chin, and led the way out the door.

It was not such a long walk to Berkeley Square. Cate swiftly dismissed Julius's suggestion of a hack. She welcomed the fresh air and had no intention of returning home before she absolutely had to.

They crossed busy Oxford Street. Cate would not feel guilty for either setting foot on that thoroughfare without her sister's endless shopping list or for commandeering Lucy's garb. As she and Julius turned onto Bond Street, she spied countless hats very similar to the one she wore- large, elaborate, and excessively frivolous. She blended right in.

She also felt very much the fraud, melding into a place where she clearly did not belong. The impostor.

Impostors begone. Cate's stomach clenched, much as it had when she'd first read the words, justas it had during the dozens of times she had recalled them since.

Someone knew she did not belong, that she was not who she claimed to be. And she didn't belong here in London, with its rules and hierarchies and refusal to see a man-or woman-for who he was. Oh, she would miss the little slices of life she tasted when she could: the theater where there was as much to be seen in watching the audience as the stage; Vauxhall with its countless entertainments and soft wash of starry gaslights; Mayfair-beloved, hated Mayfair, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with mostly unimpressive people and grand, glorious houses.

She would miss a small handful of people and one small dog. But what she would miss was far less important than what her entire family would lose should they not complete their work and depart before their secret was exposed. They'd had such great plans for Buchanan and Buchanan here. Cate would have continued as she was; the uncles would act as figureheads and each successive job would have given them more freedom to do their art.

Well, they would have the Marquess of Tregaron's town house on their curriculum vitae. Andthere was plenty of work to be had in Manchester, York, Edinburgh . . .

It all sounded so convincing. Why, then, Cate wondered, did it feel like a ticket to Paradise lost?

"A winter scarf would suit me just perfectly."

She blinked and turned back to her all-but-forgotten companion. "I beg your pardon?"

Julius grinned. "You were woolgathering with such intensity that I figured there must be enough to knit me a m.u.f.fler."

"Oh. Oh, I am so sorry. I did not mean-"

He patted her hand where it rested on his arm. "I sport with you, Miss Buchanan, the poor behavior of a vain man who is being ignored by a lovely lady. Beyond that, we have nearly arrived."

Charmed again by this splendid young man, she allowed him to usher her into the famed Gunther's. A bell tinkled merrily over the door as they entered. Cate caught herself gaping slightly at the vast, crowded spectacle inside. Table after glossy table, display after gla.s.s display of the confectioner's famous wares. Cate was promptly overwhelmed. "I believe I have a stomachache already," she murmured.

Julius laughed. "Not yet. You are not allowed to feel indisposed until you have consumed several ices, a fruit tart, and a selection of cream cakes."

Cate had no idea how he managed it, but Julius somehow secured them a place next to a window. The table was tiny and sticky, the seat uncomfortable, but marvelous nonetheless. The very air was delicious, smelling of warm sugar and fruit-pear and lemon, strawberry and red currant.

"Ices first," Julius decreed, "then cake," and rattled off a child's dream list at a harried-looking serving clerk.

In minutes, Cate had a spoonful of lemon ice in one hand, ca.s.sis in the other. Julius was cheerfully digging his way through pear and something a dramatic shade of blue. "Now this," he declared, waving one long-handled spoon with adolescent glee, "this is where I belong!"

Impostors . . . Who wanted them exposed and gone so badly? Cate knew there were options aplenty. A disgruntled workman, perhaps, although she did not know of anyone whom Mac had dismissed, nor of anyone expressing discontentment with the arrangements. But there was always at least one on a site. Someone who had known the Buchanans before, perhaps. In truth, it would not be all that difficult to learn the secret if one were often in Cate's company and looking closely. Fremont could know. How easily he could know. Even Gramble . . .

"Winter stockings," came from across the table. Cate opened her mouth to apologize again, but Julius waved her off. "Don't be silly. I would allow you to gather enough wool for a blanket if it did not seem to be making you unhappy."

When she nearly dropped her spoon, he rea.s.sured her, "Don't worry. I won't press. If you want to speak of it. . ." He spread his hands, and waggled his fingers toward himself. "If not, so be it."

"You are too kind," Cate managed through a tight throat. She meant the words for perhaps the first time in the countless times she had spoken them.

"Rubbish. I am an insatiable nosy beastie who just happens to have a bit of patience." He winked, then peered intently out the window. "Well, well. Looks dashed miserable, doesn't he?"

Cate could not have prepared herself for the painful jolt she got at the sight of Tregaron striding along the far side of the square. She could not see his features clearly, but there was no way to miss the stone-stiff set of his shoulders, the way his stick cracked hard against the street with each step. Even Gryffydd, right at his heels, seemed tense, his bat ears back and foxy smile absent.

"Perhaps I ought to go fetch him. Feed him something appallingly sweet-"

"No!" Cate reached out, and placed a stilling hand over Julius's before she could stop herself. "He is on his way to conduct business, I daresay, and would not care to be waylaid."

Julius raised a brow, looked at her altogether too closely for a moment, then shrugged. "Off to see his grandmother, more likely. She lives just around the corner. Only member of his family with whom he spends time since . . ."

Cate pounced, before she could lose her courage. "What do you believe of his wife's ... of the story? What do you know of it?"

"Not a thing, I'm afraid. I have only old gossip to go on. But it never looked good for old Tregaron, not as the tale is told."

He spooned up the last of his blue ice, expression thoughtful. "What do I believe? I suppose it had to have been a terrible accident. He would never have pushed her, I'm certain of it. But if she pushed too far, went too far in her behavior, he would have spoken his mind, no doubt. An argument on the balcony, too many pa.s.sions and a few bad steps ..."

"You like him."

"Certainly I do."

"Why?" Cate demanded, feeling a tug behind her ribs as man and dog vanished from her sight. "He is so very austere, forbidding."

"He is, yes, and he quite terrified me when I was a boy. I'd never met anyone quite so hard. And, my dear, had you ever met my brother before Sibyl worked her magic on him, you will know that I am more than familiar with the grim, rigid sort."

"Why, then . . . ?"

"Why did I take a liking to Tregaron? Because he was kind to me in his austere way on those occasions when our paths crossed. Our familiars were close. He and Tarquin were in the same house at school, years ahead of me. In fact, Tregaron was but a term from leaving for Oxford when I arrived, but he always knew my name. Sent me a canary and a box of sweetmeats when Tarquin mentioned I was laid up with a broken leg. Thumped one huge fellow another time for stealing my cap."

"It awes me sometimes," Cate said thoughtfully, "what sort of loyalty an act or two of careless kindness to a child can engender."

Julius's smile was as wry as it was warm. "Children have more discretion than we give them credit for, I believe. But that isn't the point." He gazed across the square in the direction Tregaron had taken. "He always showed the same careless kindness to absolutely everyone."

"I refuse to take you anywhere in your condition, Colwin." Tregaron nearly smiled. For being so averse to so many entertainments, his grandmother possessed a rather crowded social calendar lately. He thought he had a very good idea why. The more events to which she dragged him, the more likely she thought he'd be to develop a tendre for some pretty young thing. Or at least take enough of a fancy to said thing to marry her and beget an heir.

She would also know that he had less than no interest in tripping merrily through the Marriage Mart. If his "condition," whatever that was, precluded his appearing in polite company, he would be in no hurry to make repairs. He'd already had one extra bath that day.

"Honestly, boy, you look like the business end of an ill-used mop."

"When, madam, did you last come into contact with any mop, used or otherwise?"

His grandmother smacked a palm smartly against the arm of her chair. "Don't you get cheeky with me, you infant! I can still reach your mouth with a piece of soap, you know." Then, far more gently, "Tell me you are not ill."

"I am not ill."

The dowager marchioness nodded, and her grandson read relief in her eyes. "You still look horrendous."

"I am not ill, Grandmother."

"I am most glad to hear. More glad than you might think."

He raised a brow. "More glad?"

"You must be in love."

"What?" Tregaron felt his jaw dropping.

Vitality renewed, Lady Tregaron gave the maid's bell a hearty ring. Gryffydd, knowing that bells in this household always preceded food, took his place beside her chair. Both appeared much more invigorated than they had seemed mere moments before.

"I trust you have a basis for that statement," Tregaron muttered. "Otherwise, it is much like striking a man with an iron skillet with no warning."

"What sort of warning do you require, my dear? Or is it my reasoning that you require?"

"Grandmother-"

"Oh, do not try to growl and spit fire at me, Colwin. You are not a dragon, despite what your imbecilic-"

"Grandmother."

She completely ignored him, instead ordering refreshment from the familiar maid who had appeared in the doorway. Then she announced, "It is all very simple, really. Men have precisely four reasons for looking as wholly shattered as you do today. The first is a dire illness. We have disposed of that possibility.

"Second," she continued, ticking the numbers off on lavishly beringed fingers, "is a substantial loss on the 'Change. You have too much sense and far too much money for that to be the case. The third is the death of a hound or horse." She scratched absently behind Gryffydd's ears, sending the animal into a delightful heap at her feet. "The beast is still here, so it cannot be that."

"And the fourth, I a.s.sume," was his dry rejoinder, "you believe to be love. As opposed to, let's say, the demise of an adored elder relative."

"Love," the adored elder relative insisted firmly. "And I tell you, Colwin, you were not half so afflicted with Belinda."

He did not possess the requisite energy to argue over any of it. Once his grandmother got an idea in her regal jaws, she clung to it with the tenacity of a bulldog.

"I don't especially want to talk about Belinda."

"I don't blame you in the least. That was a terrible mistake on your part."

"Grandmother."

"Well, it was, Colwin. The pair of you were a disaster from the onset. It's no wonder you ended up -"

"Tipping her off a balcony?" he demanded wearily.

"My darling boy, had I been there, I would have done it for you."

Yes, he rather thought she would have.

"And there would have been nothing accidental about it," she added.

He believed that, too. "It amazes me that, with my past and your opinion of it, you are in such a rush to see me married again."

"As I said, you made a mistake, one you'd not make again. You've grown so far past being dazzled by gaiety and a beautiful face. And I am not in a rush to see-" His raised brow had her shrugging. "Fine. You go right ahead and look at me that way. Daggers to my heart, I tell you. All I wish is for you to be happy.

"You do not fool me in the least, you know. Some men are simply meant to be married, and you are one of them. This facade you have of the eternally content solitary creature is as easy to see through as gla.s.s. You are a fraud, Colwin, and I am most disappointed in you."

A fraud. Impostor begone.

He had not lingered to reread the words. One quick look had been enough. He had hurried out of the house, hurried Cate out ahead of him. Shoved her into a hack and sent her home while his body was still humming with the memory of hers against it and the smell of her still filling his head.

Ah, Cate. Peppery, vibrant, glorious Cate. Who was not afraid to challenge him, mock him. Kiss him with all the fire of a pa.s.sionate spirit.

He had handled it all badly. He had handled Cate with unforgivable callousness, pushing her away and punishing her for acting reasonably, for asking perfectly reasonable questions. Then he had shoved her into a hack and sent her home.

Even before he'd realized how much he wanted this woman, weeks and weeks before, he'd handled himself badly. He'd thought he could return to Town, move among those who judged him, without being stung or thwarted by their contempt, and carry off some replacement for Belinda to his Welsh lair. Now he was being called on his deception and his arrogance.