A Grand Design Part 9

Tregaron caught on. And found himself considering the possibility of an actual Tuesday night outing. He could certainly do with a night of uncomplicated entertainment. With a woman who was pretty, welcoming, every bit as high-spirited as she wished to be, and wholly unlikely to expect declarations and devotions in return.

The act ended then, with something of a whimper. Julius promptly leapt to his feet. "Thank G.o.d. I'm off, then. Care to join me, Tregaron?"

Oh, it was tempting. But he had no desire to give offense to the Hythes. "Thank you, no. I shall . . ."

"Turn to stone, most likely. Ah, well, I wish you the joy of it." The younger man bade an unapologetic good night to his brother and sister-in-law and, with a jaunty salute, trotted from the box.

Tregaron was halfway to his feet, thinking that he could, at least, offer to go for refreshments, when the curtain was jerked open.

"My goodness, what a lot of nonsense!" The feather attached to Lady Leverham's turban bobbed in time with her words as she swept into the box. "Who wrote this piece of drivel?"

"Sheridan, Aunt Alfie," Sibyl replied. "It is certainly not his best work, but-"

"Drivel. Not a knight or minstrel to be found." The lady lowered herself with a huff into an empty chair." And the actors speak their lines so loudly. I ask you, how can a body possibly hope to have a civilized conversation with that going on in the background?"

Tregaron was eyeing her off-center fur collar with suspicion. He was fairly convinced it was not a collar at all. When he glanced up, it was to find her eyeing him with some interest.

"Tregaron."

"Lady Leverham." If he remembered correctly, she had never actually snubbed him, but he'd always a.s.sumed she had been rather vocal in her opinion of his poor character. Come to think of it, however, he realized she hadn't thought particularly well of him before the scandal. Nor had she held much of an opinion of Belinda. "This is a ... pleasure."

He thought he might have heard her snort. Of course, it might have been Hythe, who was now staring intently into the gallery. But Hythe would never snort.

"Are you enjoying the play?" Lady Leverham demanded.

He debated praising the dismal piece to the rafters. "Not especially."

"Well." Apparently that earned him a point, or at least half of one. "What do you think of the Season so far? I would imagine it is all very different for you now. After all, you did dispose yourself of your-"

"Aunt Alfie," Sibyl cut in, shooting Tregaron a dismayed glance that he felt was entirely unnecessary.

He would have been more than happy to let her aunt say whatever she b.l.o.o.d.y well pleased. "Was not Miss Buchanan with you?"

He snapped to full attention.

The older woman glanced about vaguely. "Oh, dear. Have I lost her again? She was right behind me not a minute ago. One must not take one's eyes of the girl for an instant. She is forever being waylaid by some breathless swain or another."

Tregaron was hauling the curtain aside before she'd stopped speaking. Indeed, Miss Buchanan was there. Only he was not certain if she were the Miss Buchanan he'd expected to see.

"Miss Lucy."

"Lord Tregaron!" She stepped lightly toward him, eyes bright, a celestial vision of floaty ivory gauze and t.i.tian curls. "How very delightful to meet you here."

She certainly appeared sincere, if a bit breathless. Her swain, on the other hand, seemed decidedly unconcerned with the sudden shift in her attention. "Tregaron." There was no censure in the man's eyes, merely a wry amus.e.m.e.nt. "It appears the years have not altered you in any unfortunate manner."

Tregaron wasn't certain that was true, but he was certainly as wealthy as he had been, guaranteeing him a certain amount of attention from unmarried ladies. Evan Althorpe rarely had two guineas to rub together. "Nor you, Althorpe."

The man had never seemed to mind his aristocratic poverty overmuch. He had a t.i.tle, a house, an estate that more or less sustained itself, and a decent collection of wealthier friends who could be counted upon to buy the grog. Tregaron had always admired Althorpe's resourcefulness, and had been entertained by the his utter lack of concern for much of anything. He rather expected he would have liked the man had he ever been given the opportunity.

Althorpe, ever fair and angelic in appearance, gave a wicked smile. "I daresay a bit of heavenly intervention might change me . . . but probably not." As Miss Lucy's delectable visage was still pointed in Tregaron's direction, he turned his own to the other inhabitants of the box. "Lady Leverham," he announced solemnly, "you continue to outshine every other demoiselle in the land."

He bent over the delighted lady's hand. Tregaron flinched as her collar, much as expected, detached itself from her shoulder and, scampering over Althorpe's arm, got a firm grip on the man's quizzing gla.s.s. Tregaron's last sight before turning away was of Althorpe trying to tug the thing from the monkey's now distended mouth. Galahad, as all of London knew, especially liked the taste of gold.

"You are looking very well, Miss Lucy," Tregaron offered, unable to do other than admire the artfully arranged red-gold curls and the lovely creature they topped.

She giggled. "You are too kind, my lord. I fear after wading through the crush in the halls to attend the Hythes, I must resemble the veriest of hedgehogs."

Well, that was a new one, but after several acts of Sheridan's Mrs. Malaprop butchering the English language, Tregaron could only be amused. "You are the very pineapple of perfection, mademoiselle."

Lucy blinked at him. Apparently she was not familiar with Mrs. Malaprop's most famous line, declaring a gentleman "the very pineapple of politeness." But then, there was no guarantee that "pinnacle" was even in the girl's vocabulary. He was beginning to wonder if the lovely Lucy wasn't something of a henwit. Either way, it was merely one more indication to Tregaron that, no matter how piquant the impulse, he should not make jests. They always seemed to fail.

Weary suddenly, he forced a smile and returned to being the pineapple of politeness. "Are you enjoying the performance?"

"Oh, very much. I do so love the theater!"

Yes, he mused. One who was likely to be welcomed and admired and flattered at every public appearance would no doubt love the theater, regardless of what was transpiring on stage.

"And your family, they are well?"

"Quite, thank you. My sister is here tonight-"

"Here? At the theater?"

Lucy negligently surveyed the thumb of one pristine white glove. "Of course she would insist on remaining in the box, all the way at the back, no less. I ask you, my lord, where is the joy in that? I wonder why she bothered to come at all. She will not like the play, no matter what I say to the contrary, and will not put herself forward to be seen. Is she not a perverse creature?"

Perhaps a discriminating one. Among other things, he preferred the back of the box, too. Tregaron murmured a few noncommittal words. Not that what he said mattered much. Miss Lucy had found her stride and was chattering away with the enthusiasm of a small child or well-trained parrot. By the time Lady Leverham rose, indicating it was time to return to their box, the girl had informed him on the proper choice of colored paint for his house, the very best places in London to purchase fabrics, and the truly stunning picture the Duke of Conovar's barouche made as it navigated the park.

He wasn't entirely certain why she'd added the third bit of nonsense. But then again, he wasn't the best ear for the first two, either.

It took several minutes to disengage the monkey from Althorpe's watch fobs and for Lady Leverham to gather up her yards of gauzy wrap. Lucy accepted Tregaron's offer of an escort back to their seats with a brilliant smile guaranteed to reduce most men to quivering aspic. Her chaperone gave him a long look before a regal if curt nod. The monkey was eyeing his watch chain.

It was a short walk to the Leverham box, a mere few from the Hythes'. Lord Leverham was there, dozing happily in his chair. The other seats were empty.

"She's done it again!" Lucy sighed. "Run off in the middle. How, I would very much like to know, does she plan on getting home?"

"Don't be ridiculous, dearest." Lady Leverham settled her ample self, her copious wrap, and her monkey into a seat. "She has merely gone ... for a stroll. She'll be back soon enough."

As it turned out, soon enough did not happen before the end of the intermission. Tregaron remained in the box until that point, one eye on the entrance, one ear on Lucy's descriptions of the interiors of Devonshire House. As the play recommenced, and Lady Leverham's repeated glances in his direction made it clear that he had graced them with his presence quite long enough, he made his farewells and moved into the hallway.

He waited there for another quarter hour.

There was no sign of Cate. He did, however, get a very good look at his cousin Edgar, Lucius Gramble, and Beau Graham as the trio returned to their own box. He was fairly certain they did not see him. Judging from the volume of their voices and weaving walk, all they were seeing was spots.

The sight drew him right back to the question that had been bedeviling him for seven days: How did Catherine Buchanan know the Fremont set, and how well? He had no answer, and that bothered him nearly as much as the possibilities that refused to leave his head. Suddenly, the concept of watching the rest of the play was most unappealing.

As he descended the theater steps to the street, he was trying not to imagine his cousin and Cate having a pastoral interlude on some northern estate where Edgar was a guest and the Buchanans were working. He then tried not to recall the reprobate Fremont's reputation for seducing any number of young women who ought not to have been seduced.

Tregaron was in no mood to be bothered, so when the small figure appeared at his side, he was ready to just hand over a coin and be on his way. Only when the shilling stayed in his hand did he glance down. It was the sweep from several weeks before, just as small, just as grimy. Tregaron thought he might have seen the boy from a distance once or twice, but hadn't paid much attention.

"'Evening, guv." the sweep said now, tipping his cap.

"Up a bit late, aren't you?" Tregaron demanded, then felt foolish. These creatures of the streets hardly kept normal children's hours.

He was surprised when the boy replied, "I'll be on me way home once all you fine folk have left here for yours." He jingled coins in his pocket. No doubt the theater crowd was a splendid place to beg-or pick pockets. "Me mam'll crease me if I don't."

"You have a mother?" Most of these children, as far as Tregaron knew, were orphaned. Those who weren't had been sold into virtual slavery by what parents they had. "She knows where you are, I take it. What you do with yourself."

"Aye, to be sure. Right on top of everything is me mam."

"I'm sure she is. What's your name?"

"Billy 'Arris," was the reply, "but I goes by 'Arris."

"Well, Harris"-Tregaron flipped him a guinea rather than the shilling-"I'd say it is high time to retire, at least for the night. Hmm?"

"You, too, guv. You look like someone kicked you in the b-"

"Good night, Harris."

"Just looking out for you, guv."

"Thank you," Tregaron said wryly. "You are too kind."

"Not a bit of it." With that, the boy flashed a grin and the guinea and vanished into the shadowy alley next to the theater.

Tregaron, as he waved for a hack, had to admit the imp wasn't so far off the mark. He felt rather as if someone had given him a good wallop that evening. In fact, as he climbed into the carriage, he even felt a very physical twinge between his shoulder blades.

Even the best-laid schemes, he mused, could turn out badly. Perhaps he ought not to have come back after all. Perhaps he ought to think about going home to Wales. Or perhaps, and suddenly this idea seemed the only option, he just needed to follow an entirely new direction.

Chapter 8.

Cate surveyed the plasterwork in the master bedchamber with satisfaction. It had been a good week's work. Gone was the red silk from the walls, the rampaging gilt and endless plaster cherubs from the ceiling. In their place were simple moldings and vast expanses of white walls awaiting a wash of light, smoky blue paint and whatever paintings the marquess would choose to hang in his private s.p.a.ce. He would be pleased. How could he not? Buchanans and crew were giving him a wonderful house.

Somehow, Cate had been able to avoid encountering Lord Tregaron for nearly a fortnight. And it had not been easy. Between the persistence of her sister and Lady Leverham, demanding her presence at various evening activities, and Tregaron's habit of dropping in at the house on random occasions, Cate had become a master of the side step. To avoid the demands of but not offend Lucy and Lady Leverham, she'd had headaches, toothaches, and even a three-day cold, which had oh-so-conveniently only plagued her at night. To avoid Tregaron and his sudden appearances, she'd been inside most of the tall presses and wardrobes in the house. She'd even nearly gone diving out a convenient window when she'd heard him calling to MacGoun. His voice was as familiar to her now as the nuances of his neglected, hollow gem of a house. The window had been on the third floor; he'd been on the first.

Foolish. Once Cate's heart had stopped thumping in her ears, she'd felt utterly, inexcusably foolish. The work must be sending her mad.

She and her crew were slowly changing the house. Each day, a bit of colored gla.s.s, or varnish, or a swath of rich paint brought out a new facet of the structure's Palladian glory. There was a long way to go, to be sure, but each day brought new accomplishment, a new surge to Cate's pride, and added certainty that she would be so very sad to let go once it was all complete.

Better, she thought, to do the work and leave it behind her at the end of the day. It was a good philosophy, she knew, but she couldn't quite fool herself into believing that was why she had been so determined to avoid Lord Tregaron. That, she decided, was due to embarra.s.sment-he'd witnessed the dismal scene with Fremont et al.-and her need to keep the private matters of her life private, especially from that pair of stirring and disturbingly sharp amber eyes. He was her employer, even if he didn't know it. That was all. Absolutely all.

As for all of her sister's demands for her presence, Cate felt a twinge of guilt at her deceptions, but not enough to relent on any but the most quiet occasions. She'd attended the theater twice, one small musical soiree at Lady Leverham's, and could not resist, no matter how hard she'd tried, a night at Vauxhall Gardens. There, hidden by the generous shadows of night and their outdoor box, she had been able to watch the other attendees-from all walks of London life. Everyone, shopkeeper or servant or peer, seemed to be having a marvelous time. No one save Cate herself seemed burdened with anything more than the choice of which glittering spectacle to take in next.

She had watched the fearless acrobats with her jaw slack, gasped at the fireworks that lit the sky and made her heart leap cheerily. Surrounded and anonymous, she had been able to let go of just enough of her worries to laugh aloud and enjoy every moment. She and Uncle Angus had shared too many sugar-rock sweets and both had been slightly jittery and green of face on returning home. Lord Leverham had shared enough champagne with Uncle Ambrose that the latter had had to carry the former to his carriage at the end of the evening. Galahad had gone missing until a merry band of soldiers had gone off in search of him. Upon returning, monkey in tow-apparently he had been entertaining a group of flashily dressed lightskirts, a fact that was kept from Lady Leverham-they had demanded only smiles from the young ladies as payment. Most had fawned over Lucy, but two had settled themselves at Cate's feet and not budged until the end of the entertainments.

All in all, it had been a magical night.

Now that the Season was in full swing, there was something to do, someplace to be nearly every single night. The coveted invitation to Almack's had not arrived, much to Lucy's bitter disappointment, but there was no shortage of requests for her presence elsewhere. She flitted from day to day, ball to ball, like the loveliest, liveliest of sparrows. The uncles joined Lord Leverham at his home which, by their report, was possessed of an incomparable games room and wine cellar, or they trundled about London seeking their own amus.e.m.e.nts. Cate, relieved of any companion duties whatsoever, was in her bed by nine o'clock most nights. She scarcely noticed how quiet and lonely the house was. Scarcely at all.

Lucy spent much of her time in the company of the Leverhams and the Hythes. Sibyl Hythe was all that was kind, extending every invitation to Cate as well. No doubt the dashing young countess thought the elder Miss Buchanan something of a backward creature, a dull stick, but she was nothing but cheerful and gracious on those occasions when they did meet. And she opened her arms, her home, and her social set to Lucy, a kindness for which Cate would gladly have embraced her.

On those afternoons when not with one of the other ladies, Lucy relied on aged, shadowed corner-occupying Auntie Rebecca. Either way, Cate inevitably arrived home to find a new batch of overly fragrant flowers crowding every surface in the little drawing room, and often an overly dedicated swain or two lingering after polite visiting time was past, just to be in Lucy's presence. Considering how often the girl was out in the afternoon, Cate was never surprised to find an aforementioned swain waiting hopefully in the foyer or even on the street for her sister's return. Early on, she had taken pity on the poor fellows and tried to feed and entertain them. That had been short-lived. They were invariably polite, but they most certainly did not want to be chatting with the elder Buchanan sister. For Cate's part, after a long day in Hanover Square, she was ready for a bath, a meal, and silent time. Now she just left Lucy's ardent suitors where she found them and went about her own business.

The current favorite seemed to be a dashing young marquess, Lord Aubert, who had taken the girl driving once and cheerfully if casually partnered her in several sets at various parties. Cate had seen the fellow; he was certainly handsome, well dressed, and possessed of a very expensive phaeton. Handsome, rich, t.i.tled, and debonair. The gossip, glumly pa.s.sed on by Lady Leverham, was that Aubert was in absolutely no hurry whatsoever to take a bride, much to the apoplectic distress of his father, the Duke of Earith. Surprisingly, Lucy did not seem to mind overmuch. She was having the time of her life.

At present, Lucy was visiting Hookam's with the delightful Lord Althorpe, who, the girl said, would be quite the perfect creature were he not poor as a church mouse. To Cate, of course, it did not matter that he possessed neither carriage nor vast, echoing town house. To Lucy, such things were of paramount importance. It was all well and good, she insisted, to visit a lending library on occasion. It was necessary, however, that a gentleman be able to purchase the entire stock of Hatchard's should he so desire.

Of Tregaron, she merely shrugged, sighed, and murmured what a shame it was that he was so very old and stiff. Cate resisted the urge to argue the matter.

Tonight was the Tarrant ball. Lucy would be accompanying the Hythes. Cate needed to find an excuse quickly if she were to avoid going. She had been invited to the Tar-rants', of course. She had even met the viscount and viscountess. Both had been perfectly pleasant, charming even. In fact, Lady Tarrant had rather reminded Cate of Sibyl Hythe.

The piquant impulse to accept the invitation had returned more than once. Of course, half of the ton would be in attendance and for that simple reason, Cate knew she should not. She did not want to chance encountering Fremont and his entourage again. Perhaps their earlier meeting had not been as miserable as she had expected-courtesy, she was forced to admit, of Lord Tregaron's timely appearance-but it was one she was loathe to repeat. The basest moments of one's life, she firmly believed, were best lived only once.

"I'm off, Miss Cate." MacGoun spoke from the doorway, startling Cate out of her reveries. "Fetch your things and I'll see you home."

Cate shook her head. "I've the other bedchamber designs to check before I go. Uncle Angus is about somewhere. We'll walk home together."

The foreman grunted. "You work too hard, la.s.s."

"Not nearly so hard as your crew. They did a marvelous job here. And ahead of schedule, no less."

MacGoun took less than a second to survey the room. "Aye, aye. No' bad." Which was, Cate knew, the man's expression of supreme delight. "'No' bad at all." With that, he shoved his battered cap onto his spa.r.s.e hair and announced, "You've two minutes if you change your mind about an escort home."

"That's very gracious of you, Mac, but truly, I'd prefer to wait for Uncle Angus."

"As you like. 'Night, Miss Cate. Don't you be letting the old coot keep you here till all hours."