Lady Catherine's Secret: A Secrets and Seduction book (35 page)

Reentering his study, he thought about his moldering old mansion in Scotland. It had never been a home— at least, not for him. He slid his hand into his pocket, fingering the smooth metal of his pocket watch.

As he pictured Catherine in his childhood abode, the scene changed, becoming brighter. The fire and passion she carried within her seemed to bring life to that dismal place. Catherine would be the foundation of his new family, not that tumbling-down building.

As he imagined the old building, its form seemed to go through a transformation in his mind’s eye. It had been sorely neglected by its past two owners, and many updates were needed, but five generations had lived there. It was time to set aside his childhood loathing of the place and recognize the gem that had been hidden there all along.

“No man is an island.” Those words were as true now as when John Donne had penned them more than two hundred years ago. His father had tried to create an island of isolation within that house to protect himself from the pain of loss and had ended up losing so much more in the end.

And by putting off searching for a wife and creating his own life, Daniel had begun walking down that same path.

In a burst of inspiration, Daniel realized he was finally ready to restore the manse. A sixth generation would call it home, but this time it would different— it would be a place of kindness, warmth, and refuge.

He turned to the shelves behind his desk, searching for the plans he’d tucked away. When he spied the long leather cylinder, he plucked it from the shelf. He pulled the furled papers from within it and laid them out on a nearby table, using paperweights to keep the large drawings from curling back into a tube again. He stared at the heavy piece of glass he held in his hand, recalling the way Catherine had tried to release him from his promise to marry her.

Returning to his desk, he pulled out a sheet of paper and began to write a letter to his estate manager in Scotland, instructing him to begin implementing the plans Daniel had drafted five years ago to restore the main house. The man would be pleased to begin the task. He’d been urging Daniel to move forward with the plans for years.

He realized with a jolt of surprise that he now had two homes to renovate: his original one in Scotland and his new Savelle estate outside London.

He’d need a second letter.

“Madson,” he shouted. “I have some messages!”

42 - A Plan

“Blast it!” Stansbury crumpled the note he’d just read and tossed it onto the floor of his study, in the general vicinity of the fireplace.

“What’s wrong? Bad news?” Attwood drawled. He’d only arrived a few minutes ago, wearing the expensive new clothing his wife had purchased.

“The ship still hasn’t arrived. No ship means nothing to sell and no money coming in. And by now, even when it does arrive, it’ll be too late. The advantage of being early to market has evaporated. Too many other speculators made the same gamble on the same commodities. Now they’ll flood London with the same items I thought would be scarce.” Stansbury kicked his foot against the leg of his chair, causing it to tip over with a loud bang.

Attwood turned his back on Stansbury and examined the bookcase. Most of the books that used to grace the bookshelves had been sold, some by Stansbury, but most by his father. Attwood selected a slim book from the nearly empty shelves. He leafed through it, studiously ignoring Stansbury.

Smart man. He’d learned when to keep his head down to avoid having it bitten off.

Stansbury turned back to his desk, and his hand shook as he sorted through his bills. His creditors were becoming more and more insistent. Three months ago, he’d used the money from the first of his investors to pay off his most pressing debts, but his other creditors were still clamoring for money.

Fretting, he shuffled through the papers again, trying to place them in order of priority. Gambling debts, of course, must take precedence. It would be unseemly not to pay them, and his reputation would be ruined if he failed to do so. The ones that absolutely must be paid were on top, those that could be delayed a week or two came next, and any that could be delayed a bit longer went to the bottom. The remainder he chucked into the wastebasket below his desk.

Unfortunately, the pile remained much too large, and bills requiring immediate payment made up the largest part.

Stansbury smacked the stack of bills down onto his desk and grabbed the fallen chair, righting it with a clatter.

Attwood turned at the commotion and cocked an eyebrow.

Stansbury glared at him. “This situation is intolerable. Everything’s going wrong.” Walking around to the back of his chair, he shook his head. “This streak of bad luck has lasted for over a year now. One business deal after another has withered away, and to make matters worse, each heiress I offered for turned me down. Me! The Earl of Stansbury! My title is one of the oldest in England. It goes back to 1074 when William the Conqueror created it!” His voice thundered in the nearly empty room.

He clenched the back of his chair, his knuckles growing white with the force of his grip. “Women should be
begging
to marry me, if only for my title. Instead, they had the temerity to refuse me.”

“Why not marry some rich American heiress? That’s what I’d do if I had a title to peddle. At least you’d be able to offer something in exchange for the dowry. I had nothing, and that solicitor wouldn’t let me forget it.”

Stansbury bristled. “I refuse to marry someone beneath me. I’d never debase myself by pairing myself with a lowly American or some upstart member of the middle class. I’d rather die.” He might have fallen low, but not that low. He deserved respect. “No, my wife
must
be the daughter of a peer. Anything less would be intolerable.” He shoved at the back of the chair as he stepped away from it, almost causing it to topple over again.

“I can’t fault you there. Calliope is unbearable. Her father may have settled a sizable dowry on her, but she still holds the purse strings. It’s that damned marriage contract they made me sign. Now I’m forced to ask her for every penny I spend. It’s unnatural. A man shouldn’t have to degrade himself by begging his wife for money.”

“Bah!” Stansbury’s voice echoed in the nearly empty study. The room was sparsely furnished, its former ornamental objects and valuable pieces of furniture having been sold or traded to creditors. The Stansbury fortune, built over generations, had been ravaged by his father. A grimace deepened on Stansbury’s face as he considered how his current dilemma could have been averted with the influx of some cash. “It’s that bastard, Huntley. He’s behind all this. First he scuttled my business deals, then my marriage plans. He had no right swooping in and plucking the Kensington chit from my grasp. He’s entirely responsible for my current straits. I invested two years in wooing Catherine. I had her in the palm of my hand. She was ready to say yes. I could read it in her eyes. The audacity of that man, interrupting my marriage proposal with one of his own!”

“She’s a silly, stupid wench for choosing to accept
Huntley’s
proposal,” Attwood sneered, fueling Stansbury’s anger.

“She’ll soon learn he isn’t the hero she thinks he is. He’s only sniffing around for her money. He might be wealthy, but it will take more than he has to restore that falling down estate in Scotland! Once her money fills his coffers, he’ll find a way to hide her away in that castle of his. Mark my words, he’ll be a recluse, just like his father. I’d never treat her that badly.” He pinned Attwood with a glare. “A thorn in my side. That’s what Huntley is. A thorn in my side.”

“Didn’t you tell me that every time your business deals go bad, Huntley makes money?” Attwood smirked. “I’ve heard that the man has King Midas’s golden touch.”

“And now that damned Midas touch has spilled over into his personal life, destroying all my plans.” Stansbury considered taking his anger out on the toppled chair by kicking it, but thought better of it. He didn’t want to break a toe.

“Could there be more to it than luck? It can’t be a coincidence that Huntley always triumphs when you fail, can it?”

The comment brought Stansbury up short. Could Attwood be right? Could Huntley be intentionally working against him? Up until now he’d assumed that the misfortune Huntley had caused him had simply been due to the man’s single-minded focus on making money and defeating every rival. But what if it was more than that? What if Huntley had singled him out for reprisal?

That might be the case. The more Stansbury thought about it, the more it made sense. He approached the fireplace, its embers glowing as hotly as his anger toward Huntley. “Maybe he’s been working against me for years. Maybe this is his revenge for the fact that I plucked a couple of ripe contracts out from under him.” He chuckled. “Did I tell you about that? I was able to swoop in and steal them out from under his nose. I made quite a lot on those deals.” He scowled. “But that didn’t work for long. I thought that last shipping contract would set me up for years, but it turned out to be a bad one. Dreadful even. It wiped out all my previous earnings. I’m certain Huntley knew— he tricked me into pursuing it when he knew I’d lose everything.”

And now the man wanted to claim Catherine.

Catherine. Little Cat
. He smiled, thinking about how the minx had squirmed so deliciously when he’d pressed her against the wall in the duke’s study. A girl like that would provide many nights of pleasure, especially when he made her scream like a cat in heat. A wildcat. He’d seen the passion in her eyes. Even now, his body responded to the memory of her lithe body. The feel of her writhing against him. God, wouldn’t she’d be amazing in his bed? Especially once she’d learned how to please him. And teaching her would be an amazing experience as well.

But one he’d never have. Not since that cur Huntley had ruined all his careful plans. “That self-righteous ass! He thinks himself so superior.”

“Just because he has money,
that
doesn’t make him superior,” Attwood said. His tone held an odd mixture of commiseration and persuasion.

At first, Attwood’s comment barely registered with Stansbury, but when he realized the man had echoed his own words, he scowled. Was Attwood trying to manipulate him?

“It’s a shame. The two of you are so similar. Why is it that where he succeeds, you fail?”

Those words were a spark that ignited Stansbury’s ire. “Everything always goes his way, doesn’t it? Because of his grand title and his money, all but the most discerning members of society welcome him with open arms while turning their noses up at me. They’re ready to sell their daughters off to him, but they turn their backs when they see me coming. They even ignore his base connections with trade, whereas I’ve gone to extreme lengths to hide my involvement from them. I follow the rules. He breaks them. The man is detestable. How is it he’s led such a charmed life? Of course, there’s his childhood. Did you know Huntley’s father was stark raving mad?”

“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. Maybe his rule-breaking is a symptom of his own growing madness. After all, he did hold me captive against my will.”

Stansbury immediately latched onto the idea. “I hear that as a boy, he was raised in that falling-down castle in Scotland, mostly ignored by his own father. Could that have sown the seeds of insanity within him? When the old marquess finally tipped up his toes, everything was in ruins.” Stansbury shook his head. “But I still don’t know how he does it. How did he build his shipping business when he started at such a disadvantage? He created it from nothing.”

“Not from nothing. Didn’t you say he had timber to sell?”

“That’s right, I did. I’d forgotten that.” Stansbury glanced at his sparsely furnished room. He’d had things to sell as well, but only in bits and pieces. “But I still don’t understand how he did it. I tried to do the very same things, but everything I touched turned to dust. How is it that things turned out so differently for me?”

Was it better to have a drunken madman as a father, like Huntley, or a drunken gambler? His own father had usually been absent, but when he’d been around, he’d been intoxicated. And he’d been a mean drunk. At an early age, Stansbury had learned to disappear when Father was home and remain as invisible as possible.

Mother had normally provided a diversion, distracting Father away from him; however, it had never been intentional, but simply a byproduct of her mercurial moods. She’d been an unstable woman. She’d be happy and laughing at one moment, screaming the next. When Father was home, her anger had a focal point, and she directed all of her frustration with her life at the man she held responsible. But when Father was gone, she became despondent, and her focus would shift to her son.

“So his father ignored him and his mother was dead?” Attwood asked.

Stansbury shrugged. He wished he’d had the same benefit. It had been worse with Father away, because then Mother threw things at him. But he could always duck out of the way of flying shoes and teacups. The worst was when she’d lock him away in a room. If not for the servants, she’d probably have forgotten him, leaving him to starve or die of thirst. He was fairly sure that was what had happened to his pet cat. It had disappeared one day after annoying Mother, never to be seen again. He’d always suspected she’d locked it in a trunk and then forgotten about it. He’d never risked caring about an animal again after that.