A Grand Design Part 22

Both brothers returned to their seats, the larger with a tremor that Tregaron felt across the room. "A good la.s.s, our Catey," Ambrose said jovially. "Did you come to have another go at her, then?"

'"Ambrose!" the other scolded. "Forgive my brother, m'lord. He is sadly lacking in refinement at times. Drink?" He gestured to the bottle. Tregaron declined. "So, have you come to have another go at Cate?"

"A good question, that, Angus." Ambrose reached across the table to give his brother an approving thump on the shoulder. Angus would have gone right over backward had not the room been small enough that his seat was placed helpfully close to a solid if threadbare wing chair. "Well?" Ambrose demanded of their guest. "You'd best get on with it, then. Catey's making noises about packing us all up and heading north. Made Lucy cry, that did. Or was that you, Angus, lad?"

"Tis the churches," came the mournful reply, accompanied by a damp sniff. "Can I help it if I'd miss them something fierce?"

"Nay, nay. You cannae. And the museums . . ."

Tregaron's patience, already worn thin by the events of the past several days, was near snapping. "Gentlemen, is Catherine here?"

Angus lifted bleary eyes. "Catherine here? Why, I don't know. Ambrose?"

"I'm here."

"Ambrose is here," Angus informed Tregaron.

"Yes, so I see. Thank you. And Catherine . . . ?"

"Catherine," Ambrose repeated softly, thoughtfully. Then, with a bellow that might well have reached Scotland, "Becky!"

"Becky." Angus brightened. "Becky's here, m'lord."

And the little maid did appear eventually. "I tried to stop him, I did," she began protesting before she was fully in the room, "but he's so big."

"Is Catherine here?" Ambrose asked, still shouting. He clearly wasn't angry, just making certain he was heard.

"No, sir," was the maid's reply.

Angus gave a decisive nod and thumped the table with his fist, sending the bottle a few inches to his left. "There you have it, m'lord. Catherine's not here. Thank you, Becky. You may go."

Tregaron counted three. "Becky." She froze in the doorway. "Do you by chance know where Miss Buchanan is this evening? And"-he antic.i.p.ated her response- "should the answer be yes, please be so kind as to add where she might be found."

"Yes, m'lord." And after a pause, "Lady Leverham's, my lord."

"Thank you, Becky." Feeling somewhat revived, and more than ready to be gone, Tregaron bowed briefly to his nominal hosts. "Gentlemen." Then he all but sprinted for the door.

Cate glanced around the crowded room for an escape. The gilt-painted double doors of the ballroom beckoned warmly, but there were a good two dozen warriors, armed to the teeth, between her and that exit.

A few were garbed in leather, some in chain mail, and several were sporting complete sets of armor. They carried lances, maces, broadswords, crossbows, and, in one case, a longbow that seemed twice the height of its diminutive bearer. Cate did not think any of these men were actually dangerous, but she still didn't fancy weaving her way between the various blades and spikes.

Their companions did not seem to mind. If the gentlemen were shiningly impressive, the ladies were blinding. Silks, satins, velvets, all in brilliant colors, tangled with sable and ermine, gold and jewels. There were conical hats aplenty, some seemingly horned headpieces, and an endless supply of floaty scarves.

It was the monthly meeting of the Mayfair Medieval Society.

Diminutive Lord Leverham, looking uncomfortable but graciously resigned, was swathed head-to-toe in shiny mail. By his side, his wife positively glowed in cascading red velvet and towering hat. She was holding court among her guests, not all of whom were costumed, like a plump Eleanor of Aquitaine.

The speaker, a dusty old don long retired from his active duties at the university, had spent a long hour lecturing on bardic tradition. Now, his listeners, eager and bored-to-snoring alike, were gathered in the ballroom, devouring the authentic if odd-looking victuals and chattering about bards, Crusades, and the fact that King John had not been a good king.

Cate was ready to leave. Sighing to herself, she seemed to have been ready to leave-her house, the Hanover Square house, various parties, London-ever since arriving from Scotland. It wasn't the way she would have chosen to live, always halfway out some door, but that's the way it was. She would leave now, but she knew Lady Leverham had informed her firm and formidable butler that, should Miss Buchanan try to wander off alone into Mayfair, the staff was authorized to sit on her until the lady herself could be summoned.

Beyond that, Lucy was having a marvelous time. Perhaps the gentlemen surrounding her were slightly fewer than usual, but that was only to be expected considering the occasion. Still, garbed in a lush, yellow silk dress commissioned by their hostess just for the occasion, hair caught up in a gold net, draped in a selection of Lady Leverham's jewels, Lucy was quite the princess, and she had her share of eager swains paying court to her. When Cate last walked by, she had been holding forth to Lord Newling and comrades on Gothic architecture. And, being Lucy, she had known just enough of the right words to outshine the wrong ones and to sound perfectly knowledgeable indeed.

She was enjoying herself, Lady Leverham was in heaven, and Cate had no desire to be sat upon. So she decided to escape to another part of the house. Some fresh air would be welcome.

Keeping to the wall, she slipped to the rear of the ballroom and out the small door there. In moments, she was in the cool hollow of the Leverhams' equivalent to a marble garden folly. In deference to his wife's pa.s.sions, Lord Leverham had built a turret onto the back of the house, complete with rough stones and crenellated roof. The only floor, made of wide wood planking, was at the very top, level, with the house's third floor. There was a large, gla.s.sless window and a plain bench for the lady's meditations. Authenticity, apparently, had been more important than comfort. The chamber, such as it was, was reached by stone steps that spiraled with the tower's walls, their only concession to modernity the st.u.r.dy iron banister that was set against the stones, leaving the outside of the steps open all the way to the floor.

It was cold, rough, and slightly damp, but Cate had to admit that there was an aura of peace and isolation about the place. The view, too, out over the house's lovely knot garden and the neighboring gardens, was lovely-at least during the day. At night it was dark and tranquil. Cate chose to sit on the window ledge rather than the bench. She breathed in the night air, tried to clear her mind of its countless concerns.

"The lady in her ivory tower, inviolate in its shadowed bower."

She felt her jaw stiffen. "I do not much care for poetry."

"Liar. You love Donne." Lord Fremont climbed the last several steps until he stood on the wooden floor. "Really, Cate. Did you think I would forget?"

"I suspect you are rather selective in what you remember," she retorted. "Why are you here?"

"Because you are, of course." He wandered over to stand beside her, looked down, and whistled. "You've certainly chosen a lofty clime, but then, you've become something of a lofty creature since last we met." He came closer until his knees were almost brushing hers and she was forced to crane her neck to see into his face. It wasn't quite so angelic in the single torchiere Lady Leverham kept lit in the tower. "How fortunate that I know you are not nearly so indifferent inside as you seem."

Was there no end to this man's arrogance? Cate wondered. Probably not. Fremont had always made Narcissus seem selfless.

"Were the messages to Lord Tregaron not enough?" she asked him wearily.

"Messages? Did he repeat our conversations to you? How curious." Fremont's satisfied smile widened. "How very droll. I do wonder what he thought to gain from it. It's not as if he could ever get the upper hand on me."

Cate stared at him closely, but saw only vain amus.e.m.e.nt. So it hadn't been Fremont after all.

"What is it you want from me?" she asked at last.

"What if it is simply you that I want?"

She snorted. "You never wanted me. You wanted my cow-eyed devotion."

Tell me you adore me, Catherine, he'd coaxed her under the Scottish moon. Just let me hear the words.

This was after a sennight of pursuit, of recited poetry and stolen flowers from his hostess's garden, of stolen kisses. When he'd requested the words, Cate had dutifully spoken them. And again, louder, at his command. For the benefit, as it turned out, of his cronies who were hiding in the shrubbery that grew around Lady Maybole's gazebo.

He'd grinned, patted her on the head, and said, Good girl.

"You had it briefly," she said now, "and will not have it again, so why don't you be a good boy and go away."

His mouth thinned for a moment before relaxing into its familiar smirk. "You don't mean that."

"I d-"

"You don't," he repeated and bent toward her.

Cate gasped as, instinctively moving away from him, she suddenly found herself leaning backward, partway out the window. Her fingers scrabbled for good purchase on the rough sill. "Back away, sir," she commanded, her voice reasonably steady.

"Certainly," was his response. "All you have to do is pay me with a kiss."

"Why?"

"Why? Good heavens, what a silly question. Because it is what the moment demands." He moved closer.

Cate was leaning farther out the window now and darted a quick and unwise glance at the gardens far below. She did not believe for an instant that Fremont would let her fall, or even wobble much, but she also knew he was perverse enough to let her hover there for far longer that would be comfortable.

If she did it, if she kissed him, he would win. He would best her again. If she didn't . . .

One second he was there, looming above her. The next he was doing an almost graceful pirouette across the chamber. He fetched up hard against the far wall, then slid gracefully indeed into a heap on the floor.

"When a lady requests that you back away," came a familiar growl, "you listen, you miserable toad."

Almost immediately, Cate found herself being hauled from her precarious seat by a pair of very strong, very welcome hands. The night breeze whistled by her, fluttering the gauzy wrap Lady Leverham had insisted she wear over her perfectly substantial grey cotton dress. Then she was being pressed to an even more substantial chest. "I will not ask why you are here. I am getting used to finding you in unexpected places."

Cate's heart was going like thunder as she stared up into Tregaron's beautiful, shadowed face. What she saw in his eyes was enough to keep her heart pounding for years to come. "What took you so long?" she demanded.

They were both distracted by a grunt from across the chamber. Fremont was hauling himself slowly to his feet. His elegant cravat was crooked and unraveling; there was a sizeable tear in his coat, displaying some white shirt and even more thick batting.

"I will give you the benefit of the doubt and a.s.sume Reynolds did not find you," Tregaron snapped.

Fremont glared for a moment, took a half step forward, hands fisted. Whatever he saw then must have changed his mind. He came to an unsteady halt and shook his head.

"If you move quickly," Tregaron continued, "you might be able to reach him before he meets with his mother."

"What do I care for his mother?" Fremont hissed.

"Oh, you will care, very much, when she starts spreading the remarkable tale her son will be telling her soon. It involves a certain penniless baron and a predilection for certain costume dramas."

Fremont snarled as he all but launched himself down the stairs. In a minute, his footsteps could no longer be heard.

"What on earth did that mean?" Cate asked.

Tregaron shook his head. "I have done my gossiping for the day."

Cate didn't press the matter. In truth, she didn't really want to know. Instead, she asked, "How did you find me- us-here?"

"I followed him following you out of the ballroom just as I arrived," was the brusque answer. "Forgive me for not arriving sooner. Lady Leverham insisted on giving me those."

Tregaron pointed to the floor by the stairs. Cate couldn't help but laugh. There, in a tangle, rested a mace, a dagger, and a small crossbow. "I am impressed that you even got them up the stairs."

"Your lack of faith in my strength wounds me." He paused then, glancing over her shoulder and through the open window. "Oh, h.e.l.l."

Suddenly, he was leaning all of his considerable weight on her. Cate, glancing at him in alarm, saw he looked very grey of face. Wasting no time, she guided him as best she could to the bench. He sat down with a thump, pulling her with him.

"My lord?" She chafed his wrists, alarmed by the sheen of sweat that glossed his pale brow. "My 1 ... Colwin? I will fetch help."

His hand wrapped around her wrist, holding her still. "No. I will be fine. I am fine."

"You are shaking like a leaf!"

"Thank you, my dear, for continuing to flatter me with comments on my fort.i.tude."

"I am going for a.s.sistance. You are ill."

His sigh was far stronger than his grip had been moments earlier. "What I am," he muttered, "is b.l.o.o.d.y well terrified of heights."

"What was that?"

"You heard me." Some of the pallor had left his face, and his scowl was nearly enough to scare the devil. It made Cate want to go climbing into his lap. "I cannot even sit in the front of a theater box."

"Or come anywhere near the edge of a balcony."

"Or come anywhere near the edge of a balcony."

Cate shook her head at the utter folly of man's pride. "Why did you not tell people, after . . . Why did you not explain that you could not possibly have harmed your wife?"

"Because," came the quiet answer, "it did not matter in the end. So Belinda took a drunken tumble that night-the how did not matter. I made her miserable; she took her wine and her laudanum and her lovers. I might as well have pushed her off a balcony. Or she me."

"You don't mean that . . ." Cate let it go. Instead, she said softly, "You know I will probably push you to the point of apoplexy on occasion."

"Undoubtedly."

"And beyond, I expect."

"I am certain of it. And I will revel in the experience."

"I'm so glad." Sighing in contentment, Cate rubbed her jaw against the impossibly soft wool of his coat. "Did you only just realize you needed me?" He grunted. "Hardly. It struck me like a barb to the back ages ago. There was no way, no matter how much I writhed and struggled, that I was going to pull it free."

Cate rolled her eyes. "So romantic."

His arm tightened around her. "Teach me. Tell me with pretty words how you were smacked into knowing you adored me." "Mmm. Well. It was more of a slow creep, actually. Like a rash, or a mold, taking over a little bit more of my heart every day."

"So romantic. Kiss me, Cate."

So she did, and found herself surprised when the bench did not begin to smolder beneath them.

"My lord?" A faint voice drifted up from the stairwell. "Lord Tregaron?"

He gave an inward groan. He wanted to go on kissing Cate Buchanan indefinitely. Then he wanted to promise her flowers and sparkly things and the sky. Then he thought he would kiss her some more. He did not want to deal with Lady Leverham and her ridiculously dressed guests. But he supposed he would have to. And he would have to be polite. They were, after all, Cate's friends.

He pulled back and, steeling himself against her soft protest, asked, "Has it been awful? The gossip about us?"