“But once a wager has been made, it can’t be withdrawn.”
“We shall make an exception.”
“I don’t wish to have an exception made. I’m of the belief that a person learns more from his mistakes than his successes, and I’m quite willing to put that belief to the test.”
He sighed again and waved his hand over the chips. “Gentlemen. I’ll allow the lady to learn from her mistake.”
He turned over three kings.
Catherine turned her cards over. Luke stared at the three threes. There was no better hand in brag.
“If I remember the rank of better cards, while it would seem that three kings are better, actually my hand is, and so it appears that all this lovely money comes to me.”
“But—”
“I would venture to guess, my lord, that you did not know what I was thinking.” She stood. “I believe, I’ve made my point. It’s getting rather late and we should be leaving soon.”
Frannie helped her gather up all her chips. Catherine walked out as though she’d just been crowned.
Luke couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. “Damn, but I do enjoy her.”
His outburst was met with silence, and he was suddenly very much aware of what he’d said. Coming to his feet, Luke gave Jim a hard look. “She didn’t seem to find you familiar.”
“I told you she wouldn’t.”
“Find out who is following her and the reason for it.”
He was smiling when he came to get her. Truly smiling. Not one of his sardonic twists of the mouth. Not one of his mocking smiles. Not a sneer or an insolent pout.
Catherine had not expected this reaction. Hadn’t even thought him capable of it. She’d expected him to be miffed that she’d taken his money, expected to find him in a foul mood. But his eyes were lighter than she’d ever seen them, as though there was suddenly a brightness inside him.
He led her through the now-familiar dark corridor to the back door, where his coach waited on the other side. For the first time since they’d begun their nightly ritual, he kept the coach lantern lit inside. The curtains were in place, preventing anyone from peering in. He settled back in the corner, and while she knew she should be embarrassed by his perusal, she wasn’t. On the contrary, she rather liked it. And she was feeling a trifle smug that she’d duped him.
She was aware of his deep chuckle before his smile grew, and she wondered if he could read her thoughts.
“You don’t care what people think,” he said.
She couldn’t tell from the way he emphasized the words if he was asking a question or making an observation. Still, she felt obliged to answer.
“Of course I care. To a certain extent we all care, but we can’t care to the point that we live in fear of others’ opinions, that we allow them to change who we are. We must be willing to stand up and defend what represents the very core of our being. Otherwise what is the purpose of individuality? We’d be nothing but imitations of each other, and I daresay we’d all be rather boring.”
“I don’t think anyone with any sense could ever accuse you of being boring. As a matter of fact, you are the least boring person I know.”
His admission made her uncomfortable, because it pleased her far too much. Shouldn’t his love be the least boring person he knew?
She looked down at her gloved hands, nestled in her lap. He shifted until he was sitting directly in front of her. He took her hands in his. His were so large. With his thumbs, he began stroking her knuckles.
“Is your wound hurting?” he asked.
She lifted her gaze to his. “No.”
She wanted to lean into him, wanted to press her lips to his. It was wrong of her to want so much from him, when his heart belonged to another.
“I was thinking that it might be a good idea to have Dr. Graves join us for dinner tomorrow night,” she said.
He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“It would make it seem more like a true social dinner, rather than simply you and Frannie dining with me looking on.”
He released his hold on her, leaned back, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you fancy him?”
She was taken aback by his tone; it had taken on an unfriendly edge, as though he were—heaven forbid—jealous. “I like him. Of all your friends, he seems the most polished.”
“You don’t like Jack?”
“Not particularly, no.”
“Why?”
“I’m not exactly sure. I don’t”—she shook her head—“I don’t quite trust him.”
“And Jim?”
“Jim?”
“Swindler.”
“Ah, yes, the one with the unfortunate name. I really formed no impression of him. Rather he seemed to blend in with the woodwork.”
“He’s good at that.”
“How does he make his living?”
“He’s an inspector with Scotland Yard.”
“So everyone is reputable except for Mr. Dodger.”
“Jack doesn’t force people to sin.”
“But he makes it very easy for them to do so.”
“Save your sermons, Catherine, for someone who cares to listen to them.”
“I wasn’t going to preach about the evils of drinking, gambling, and fornicating—”
“I would hope not. That would make you a bit of a hypocrite after gambling tonight. And you’ve drunk whiskey…which leaves but one sin. Have you indulged in it?”
“That, my lord, is none of your business.”
He smiled, seeming far too pleased with her answer.
“Shouldn’t we be home by now?” she asked.
“I’m having my driver take us on a circuitous route. We’ll take different streets every night. Lessen the chance of being set upon—if the attack before was planned. It could have been random. Some lads looking for a quick bit of coin.”
She hoped that’s all it was and that it would never happen again.
“About dinner tomorrow evening. Will you ask Dr. Graves?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It is. And Frannie gave you the menu. I can have myself delivered—”
“I’ll send my coach around. What time did you want dinner served?”
“I would like it at eight, but that time of evening it might be more difficult to be unseen. I truly think it would be better if I arrived on my own.”
“And what about the gent who’s been following you?”
The fury in his voice caught her by surprise. Apparently it did him as well, because he looked toward the window as though he could see through the curtain. She watched as he struggled to regain control of his emotions. He was angry, she realized, not at her, but for her. Wanting to protect her, but that wasn’t part of their bargain.
“I’ll be careful,” she assured him. “I’ve eluded him before. I shall do so again.”
He shifted his gaze to her. “You worry me, Catherine. You seem to think you’re quite invincible.”
“I’m well aware that I’m not. But I’ll not spend my life cowering. That would be no life at all.”
He was studying her again, as though she’d revealed something monumental.
The coach stopped. He blew out the flame in the lantern. The door opened, and they went through their usual ritual. She said good night to him at the gate.
Only this time as she closed the gate behind her, it seemed harder to leave him.
Chapter 13
“Whatever happened to your hand?” Winnie asked.
“Whatever happened to your chin?” Catherine responded.
They were in the library at Winnie’s residence where they’d planned to address the invitations to their ball. But Catherine was still having difficultly holding a pen, and she was no longer in the mood to discuss the plans for the ball anyway.
Winnie rubbed her chin. “I ran into a door.”
“Oh, Winnie, how stupid do you think I am? Where else are you hurt?”
Winnie squeezed her eyes shut.
“Nowhere else. He slapped me because I didn’t want to perform my wifely duties.”
“Slapped? More likely punched. Is that his idea of the best way to entice you into his bed?”
“Please, don’t say anything more. It should be gone by the ball. And if it’s not, you’re the only one who won’t believe I ran into a door. Everyone else thinks I’m clumsy.”
Because she’d so often blamed any visible bruises on small accidents that hadn’t happened. “I detest Avendale,” Catherine groused.
“So you’ve said on more than one occasion, but he is my husband and I must honor him. Tell me about your hand.”
“I cut it on a piece of glass. It was an accident.”
“It appears I shall have to address all the invitations.”
“I’m sorry, but yes, I think you will.”
“I don’t mind. It’s a chore I enjoy. I daresay if I were a commoner, I might try to find employment addressing things for people.”
“You’ve always had such lovely handwriting.”
Winnie blushed. “Thank you. I like to think so.”
“I would like to take one unmarked invitation and envelope for my memory book.”
Catherine was bothered by how easily she lied to her trusted friend—about her bandaged hand and about her desire for an invitation. It wouldn’t find its way into her memory book. With any luck, it would find its way into Claybourne’s hand.
It was madness. The amount of time he spent obsessing about Catherine.
Even knowing that Jim was watching her more closely, that he would do what he could to discover who was following her, Luke paced his back garden, awaiting her arrival, his body tense, his nerves taut. Bill was going to fetch Frannie in his carriage. They would travel through some rough parts of London—and yet, Luke was not the least bit worried.
But Catherine, traveling from one exclusive part of London to another, had him on edge. He told himself it was because Frannie was born to the streets and could take care of herself, while Catherine would hurl herself into harm’s way without thought. He should teach her to defend herself. He should buy her a sword cane. Or perhaps a pistol.
He should entice her into telling him what he needed to know. He should ask her why she wanted someone killed, who she wanted killed. This game of cat-and-mouse was putting everyone in danger.
He heard the latch on the gate give way, and he was there pulling it open, grabbing her arm, and drawing her inside.
“Oh,” she gasped. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I…Did you have any problems?”
Even in the shadows, with nothing but the glow from his garden lanterns to cast light, he could see her amused smile.
“You were worried.”
“Naturally, I had some concerns. Perhaps if you were more open about your reason for wanting me to kill someone—”
“Are you ready to do the deed?”
Do the deed? And how would she look at him then? Frannie would never know, but Catherine, Catherine would know the worst that he was capable of: taking a life in order to gain a wife.
What had possessed him to agree to this bargain?
The irony was that he’d keep true to his word. But he wanted to hold on to what remained of his soul for a bit longer. “I’m not convinced Frannie has learned anything.”
“Then tonight will be very telling, won’t it?” She began walking toward the house. “Have your guests arrived yet?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been out here.”
“What sort of host are you?”
“They’re friends. I don’t have to welcome them into my home. They know they’re welcome.”
“Tonight is all about presentation.”
When she walked through the house and removed her pelisse to hand it over to the butler, Luke couldn’t deny that she was presenting herself very nicely. She wore a gown of deep blue that came off her shoulders and revealed a hint of the swells of her breasts.
“Dr. Graves and Miss Darling have only just arrived, my lord. I’ve shown them to the parlor.”
Luke escorted Catherine to the parlor. He’d instructed Fitzsimmons that they were to avoid using the library tonight. Luke would find himself distracted with too many memories of Catherine in that particular room. It just occurred to him that he might experience the same problem when he took Frannie to his bedchamber for the first time. That he would be thinking of waking to find Catherine in his bed. No, that was not going to happen.
“Ah, there you are,” Bill said.
Luke noticed that Catherine seemed to light up at the sight of him. Just as Bill’s attention toward her had irritated Luke last night, so hers toward the doctor irritated Luke now.
“Don’t you look lovely this evening,” Bill said, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.
“Did you tell Frannie she looked lovely?” Luke asked.
Bill seemed startled—no doubt a reaction to Luke’s tart tone—but he recovered quickly enough. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Are you bothered by my finding the ladies in your life lovely?”
“No, not at all. I just wanted to make certain that Frannie didn’t feel ignored.” Even as he said it, he realized the only one ignoring her was him. He turned to her. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here.”
“Yes, but it all looks the same.”
She was wearing a dark blue dress, the buttons done up to her throat. It appeared to be something she’d work in, not dine in.
“I fear as hostess that I don’t know what to do,” she said.
“How can you not know what to do? It’s been weeks,” Luke said.
“Hardly,” Frannie replied. “Not more than two.”
Luke spun around to face Catherine, who jerked back as though to avoid a blow. He could only imagine the frustration his face revealed. “What have you been doing every night? You said she was learning.”
“And she has been, but I also said that a gaming hell was not the best environment for learning all that needed to be taught.”
“I have an idea,” Frannie said. “Why don’t we pretend, just for tonight, that Lady Catherine and Luke are married? Bill and I will come to call and then you can show me what to do. I learn much better by example.”
“I want to see what you know,” Luke said.
“I’ve told you. I’ve yet to learn how to properly host dinner.”
“But, Frannie, we discussed—” Catherine began.
“I know, but I can’t remember everything. Please just show me.”
“Please do something to move this along,” Bill said, “because I’m starving.”
“Very well,” Catherine said, raising her hands in surrender. “We won’t pretend that we’re married, but I shall be the hostess. First, we need to check on the dinner preparations.”
“Lovely. Let’s go to the kitchen shall we?”
Frannie took Catherine’s arm. They walked from the room, and Luke strode to the side table, where he poured himself a generous amount of whiskey and downed it in one swallow, before pouring another for himself and one for Bill.
“You seem out of sorts,” Bill said, coming to stand beside him.
“I’m supposed to be acting like a damned earl tonight. Do you not think she’ll be judging my behavior as closely as she will be Frannie’s?”
“What do you care of her opinion?”
Luke took another swallow of whiskey.
“You want to impress her?” Bill asked.
“No, of course not.”
“Just be yourself. The old gent taught you that.”
Luke feared, when it came right down to it, that he was going to let the old gent down.
“Sometimes, I think I would be much happier moving back into Frannie’s world than having her move into mine. What if I do nothing more than make us both miserable?”
“You’ve loved her as long as I’ve known you. Everything you’ve ever done has been to secure her happiness. I can’t see you making her mis
erable.”
Luke wished he was as sure.
“Are you nervous about tonight?” Catherine asked as she and Frannie walked down the hallway to the kitchen. She was still trying to figure out Frannie’s strange reaction and suggestion.
“A bit, I suppose. It reminds me of when we lived with Feagan and had to learn to take a handkerchief or coins out of a pocket without being noticed. I don’t suppose any bell will ring to alert anyone to my mistakes.”
“I don’t understand,” Catherine said. “A bell—”
Smiling, Frannie stopped. “Feagan would hang jackets and bells on a rope. You had to reach carefully into the pocket of a jacket without causing a bell to ring. If the bell rang, you felt the sting of Feagan’s cane across your knuckles.” She blushed. “Well, I never did. Luke always put his hand over mine, so he took the blow. Oddly, it made me try harder to learn the task, because I hated to see him hurt.”
“It seems you two have always been close.”
Frannie nodded. “The first night Jack brought him to us, I can’t explain it, but something about him was different. He seemed to expect us to do things for him, but Feagan beat that attitude out of him quick enough.”
“Do you think it’s possible that he’s the rightful Earl of Claybourne?”
“Well, of course, he is. The old gent asked him questions, and he knew the answers. I know he doubts sometimes, and I don’t understand that. He knew the answers.”
No, Catherine thought, he’d somehow managed to give the right answers even though he didn’t know them. Was he really that good at deception? Then a rather odd thought came to her and a shiver raced down her spine. What if Claybourne hadn’t deceived the previous earl? What if he’d deceived himself?
Dinner was an absolute disaster.
Half an hour into it, they’d finished their fish and were to be served their beef when Catherine’s patience snapped. She’d been trying to start conversations about the weather, the theater, and the park. Frannie’s and Claybourne’s answers had all been succinct as though neither of them had a clue how to expand conversation into something interesting. Dr. Graves had given it a halfhearted attempt, but it seemed his life was little more than dealing with the infirm, and they weren’t likely to engage in trite conversation. Claybourne was drinking wine as though it were the main course. He narrowed his eyes each time poor Dr. Graves spoke, and Catherine had little doubt that the doctor was aware of the scathing glances, and probably as confused by them as she.