Dangerous to Hold (18 page)

When his meaning finally registered, her mouth twisted in fury. “You were going to make me your mistress! You were going to set me up in style!” And that’s what rankled. She’d become the envy of all her friends. She’d already chosen a fashionable house in Knightsbridge and had spent hours in Rundell and Bridge poring over trays of expensive trinkets.

“Oh, no,” said Marcus. “I said nothing about making you my mistress. An
affaire
is what I wanted, and you know it.”

“I lost Leinster because of you,” she railed.

“And I paid you handsomely for your loss. That’s all you care about, isn’t it—money? I’m not a miser. Tell me what I owe you and we’ll consider our accounts settled.”

A hard, calculating look came into her eyes. “There’s someone else. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Julia, I’m a married man.”

“You never gave a thought to your wife before now.” When he shrugged, she said vengefully, “Don’t think you can come crawling back to me after this. I never want to see you again.”

“You’ve taken the words right out of my mouth.”

She started up and pulled on the check string to halt the coach. Marcus opened his mouth to try and diffuse a situation that had suddenly turned ugly, and received a slap that jarred his teeth. She was out of the coach before he could stop her.

He half rose from his seat to go after her, then sank back when he realized they were on the Oxford Road. It was a very busy thoroughfare and she would be perfectly safe. Besides, blood dripped from a cut on his lip and he dabbed at it with his handkerchief. He would have been angry if it was not all so absurd. They’d had an
affaire
, and that’s all it amounted to, an
affaire
which he’d ended shortly after he’d met Catherine. As far as he knew, their
parting had been friendly. Then what the devil had got into the woman? He shook his head, reflecting that the thought processes of females were beyond a mere male.

He watched her from the window as she crossed the road and hailed a hackney. Once she had entered the cab, he put his head out the window to tell his own driver to return to Portland Square. That’s when he caught sight of someone who looked strikingly familiar. It was a young man on the other side of the road, and he was looking back at Marcus as though he couldn’t quite place him either.

Recognition came to them both at the same moment.
El Grande
flashed Marcus a cold, hard stare before he turned and disappeared into an alley. Marcus flung open the cab door, shouted to the driver to wait for him, and ran across the road, dodging carriages and riders.

He hared down that alley like the sprinter he’d been in his Oxford days, and he came out on Soho Square. There were plenty of people around, but not the man he was looking for. He struck out along Frith Street, but soon decided it was hopeless. Still, he wasn’t ready to give up yet. He turned right, came out on the Oxford Road and found his driver still waiting for him.

“Go down Charing Cross Road,” said Marcus, “then make for Piccadilly. And hurry.”

Inside the coach, he cursed himself for not taking one of his own coachmen with him. Two hunters were better than one.

He’d grown careless lately, and spent far too much time thinking about Catherine when he should be remembering the purpose of having her pose as his wife.

On that sober thought, he removed his pistol from his coat pocket and cradled it in the crook of one arm.

When the footman advised Amy that Mr. Robert Cordes was waiting downstairs, she was not well pleased. This was the third time Cat’s priest, or whatever he was, had called on her in the last month, and each time he’d been told she was not at home. He was pestering her, and she
made up her mind there and then that she was going to put a stop to it.

“Show him up,” she told her footman.

Miss Collyer, her companion, set aside her knitting and began to fuss with her muslin cap. Amy would have laughed if she hadn’t been so nervous. Her companion had watched, from an upstairs window, each time Mr. Cordes had been turned away, and the silly twit had taken a fancy to him. The old saw was right: there was no fool like an old fool.

Amy said, “Perhaps, Miss Collyer, you wouldn’t mind waiting in the parlor?”

“Shall I bring tea and cake?”

“Oh no. Mr. Cordes won’t be staying long.”

“No?”

Amy smiled at the disappointment that one word conveyed. “He’s a priest, Miss Collyer, or a monk. I’m not sure I know what the difference is, but you can take that speculative gleam out of your eye. Not only that, but he’s young enough to be … well, he’s years younger than you or I.”

“That handsome young man is a priest?”

“So I understand.”

“What a waste!”

“Yes, isn’t it? I’ll call you if I need anything.”

Miss Collyer left the room, and moments later Mr. Robert Cordes was announced. Amy greeted him coolly and invited him to be seated.

“You’ll join me in a glass of sherry or Madeira?” she asked.

“Madeira,” he responded. “Why do you look so surprised?”

She went to the sideboard where she poured out two glasses of Madeira. “I had an aunt who was very religious. She said that strong spirits were the invention of the devil. I never thought a priest would drink anything stronger than coffee or tea.”

He accepted the glass she offered. “I told you before you have a strange idea of priests. I also told you that I was not a priest. I’m not even a monk, and now I know
I won’t ever be one.” He sipped his Madeira. “I have another life waiting for me when I leave the Abbey. One day, I’ll tell you about it.”

This was becoming too cozy for Amy’s peace of mind, and she said abruptly, “This is all very interesting, but would you mind telling me why you are here?”

“I have a letter for you from Catherine.”

She took the letter from him and broke the seal. “Why did she send it with you?”

“She was afraid that if she sent it by the post, you would return it unopened.”

Without replying, she sat down and quickly scanned the two pages he’d given her, then she read them again. Looking up at him, she said, “It says here that she’s gone off to France with some widow woman. Did you know about this?”

“Yes, I knew.”

“Well, at least that will keep her out of Wrotham’s way for a month or two, though I don’t know why I’m worrying. His wife has arrived from Spain, so that should keep him occupied.”

He said, “You don’t care for Lord Wrotham, do you, Amy?”

She heard something in his voice that caught her attention. Squinting up at him, she said, “Marcus, that is, Lord Wrotham, has been a good friend to me, a very good friend. But that doesn’t mean I want my sister to take up with him. Catherine is … well, she’s the sort of girl who should be married and raising a family. Marcus is already spoken for, so that’s that.”

He was looking at her oddly.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You need someone to look after you, Amy.”

“So that’s it! Cat sent you here to save my soul.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Then she sent you to spy on me.” She abruptly rose, moved to the sideboard, and picked up a tray to show him. Nestled on the tray were a dozen promissory notes all made out to Mrs. Amy Spencer. “This should please Cat,” she said. “She thinks I’m a whore. Well, of course,
I
am a
whore, and this proves it. Now I come to think of it, she thinks I run a brothel. Why don’t I show you over the house, and you can tell her how right she is?”

He merely said, “How did you get these notes?”

He had a way of looking at her that made her want to tell him her darkest secrets. She fought the power of that look and tried to say something flippant, but she couldn’t quite manage it.

“I give parties,” she said at last. “Gentleman pay for the privilege of being my guests.”

“Parties where men meet women who are not their wives?”

“Parties where they meet my friends. I’m not responsible for what they do once they leave here.”

“Aren’t you?”

His rebuke made her blush. “You sound just like my aunt Bea. She was a killjoy too.”

“This brings you joy?” he asked incredulously, making a sweep with one hand that encompassed far more than the room.

Tears suddenly clogged her throat, something that hadn’t happened to her in years, and that made her angry. She tried to give him the same speech she’d given Cat, about her fine clothes and jewels, and her financial security, but the words stuck in her throat.

“I’m not like your aunt Bea,” he said. “She didn’t know how to live. You’re right. She was a killjoy. She should never have had the charge of two young girls. But that’s in the past. You are a grown woman now. You can choose your own life.”

“Like Cat, I suppose.”

“Yes, like Catherine. Why not?”

“My, my! You and Cat appear to be in each other’s confidence. I suppose you think you know all there is to know about me. I don’t want your pity, Robert Cordes. In fact, I don’t want anything from you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“Don’t go, Amy. Please, won’t you talk to me?”

She should run from the room, and didn’t know what held her. “What is there to talk about?”

He shrugged helplessly. “Nothing. Everything. I don’t know London well. I thought you might show it to me. Perhaps next week? For the next little while, I’ll be on retreat, progressing through the spiritual exercises my spiritual director has set for me.”

Spiritual exercises? Spiritual director?
The words terrified her. She shook her head. “What would be the point?”

He gave her one of those looks that made her feel transparent and terribly, terribly guilty, then he smiled, and that smile made her heart turn over. “Do you think God has a sense of humor?” he asked.

She stared at him blankly.

He rose and faced her. “I thought there was to be no more joy for me. Then I walked into a room and there you were. I’d been praying, you see, for a sign that God really exists. And He answered my prayer. I’d lost my faith and God restored it, but I never expected him to restore it in quite that way. No, don’t look frightened. Am I going too fast for you? Forgive me, but I don’t know how to go about courting a woman. You will have to teach me, Amy.”

“I’m not frightened. I’m
horrified.
You know what I am. And I’m years older than you. There can never be anything between us. Look away from me, Robert Cordes. Look to someone your own age, someone like Cat.”

She backed away from him, and with a choked sob turned on her heel and ran from the room.

A few minutes later,
El Grande
exited the house, but surprised the footman by using the back door. In the mews, he took a quick look around before stepping out. At odd intervals, he stopped to make sure that no one was following him.

For the next little while, he put all thoughts of Amy out of his mind and focused on Catherine and her mission.

He’d been overconfident. He’d never expected to run into Wrotham. Carruthers had told him that the earl and Catherine were on their way to Warwickshire. Something
must have delayed them. Next time, he’d make sure they were gone before coming to London.

When he came out on Charing Cross, he hailed a hackney. There was still no sign of pursuit. Relaxing against the banquette, he closed his eyes and thought of Amy.

Marcus arrived home in a temper. Not only had he lost
El Grande
, but Catherine had not waited for him at the modiste’s. For her own safety he needed to know where she was at all times, and she knew that.

As he entered his front door, he heard laughter coming from the drawing room upstairs, Cat’s laughter. For a moment, he felt intense relief. Then the anger returned.

As he took the stairs two at a time he heard a masculine voice answering something Catherine had said. Another rule broken—she wasn’t supposed to entertain guests without him.

When he entered the drawing room, he found her with Tristram and their cousin David. There was a crystal goblet in everyone’s hand, and it appeared to him—he glanced at the unstoppered decanter on a side table—that they were making short work of his prize sherry. No one noticed that he had entered the room. Tristram was sitting silent with a bemused expression on his face, staring intently at Catherine, while she carried on a lively flirtation with David.

“Ireland sounds fascinating,” she said with just a trace of a Spanish accent. “I can’t believe Marcus has never been there. Naturally I shall try to persuade him to accept your very kind invitation. You’ll have more cake?”

David declined, but at Tristram’s nod, she rose gracefully and moved to the side table against the wall. Marcus couldn’t take his eyes off her. She wasn’t walking, she was gyrating, swaying her hips like a woman of the streets. He looked at his cousin and brother. They couldn’t take their eyes off her bottom either.

“Marcus!” exclaimed Catherine, and all heads turned to look at him.

He greeted everyone cordially, but the look he gave Catherine spoke volumes. She ignored it, fluttered her eyelashes, and offered Tristram the plate of cake. Marcus caught the amusement in his cousin’s eyes; David seemed to know something was going on between husband and wife.