Authors: Jillian Hart
“If he spoke with them...” Jonathan began. The smugglers were becoming too bold. Maybe their overconfidence would be the route to their downfall.
He looked around the table. Both Cat's and her sister's faces were blanched. Meriweather's mouth was a straight line, and fury radiated from him.
“I know what you're hoping, Bradby, but no,” Meriweather said. “He cannot identify them by either their voices or by their clothing. There were four men. They wore work clothing, but with kerchiefs pulled up over their faces, and their caps drawn low. Alfred said one man spoke in a low growl that sounded more like a beast than a human.”
“To frighten them more.” Cat fisted her hands on the table. “This must stop!”
“I agree.” Meriweather's face was grim. “I know your father tried to work out an agreement with them to stay off the lands of Meriweather Hall, but that failed. Even if it had worked, it is not my intention to let bullies have their way.”
“So what do we do?” asked Miss Meriweather.
Cat got up and went around the table to give her sister a hug. Jonathan sighed. No wonder Miss Meriweather was distressed. She had nearly had a run-in with the smugglers a couple of months ago, and the incident had scared Cat's usually courageous sister who had feared for Northbridge and his children.
“That is the question, isn't it?” asked Meriweather.
Jonathan clenched his hands in his lap. They had reached the impasse again; the place where his friend needed to make a decision, and he was unable to do so. Wishing he could think of something to say to help him, Jonathan looked away.
His gaze connected with Cat's. She was as discouraged as he was about Meriweather, and he wished he could offer some solution.
Lord,
he prayed,
Meriweather is a good man. Help him trust himself again.
“What about going to Sir Nigel?” asked Miss Meriweather.
Jonathan looked reluctantly away from Cat as Meriweather said, “He has offered to help, but he has not done anything.”
“Maybe if he learns of this threat to our people, he will consider doing more,” Cat said. “It could be his people next.”
“What do you think?” Meriweather asked Cat and Sophia. “Is it worth talking to Sir Nigel again?”
“We must take care that no one belonging to Meriweather Hall comes to harm.” Miss Meriweather glanced at her cousin, then back at Cat. “Unless you have a better idea, I say we should reach out to Sir Nigel one more time. Perhaps Lord Ashland, as well.”
“That sounds like a good idea, though I have no eagerness to call upon Sir Nigel again so soon.” Meriweather looked relieved that someone had made the decision for him. “I shall give Lord Ashland a call in the coming week. Maybe he will have some good ideas.”
“We could,” Jonathan said quietly, “pray that God freezes the sea, and that will keep the smugglers from their nefarious deeds.”
Catherine laughed as she walked around the table past Jonathan and sat. “I daresay they would simply use the ice as a path to bring their goods ashore.”
“True.”
She felt around with her toes to find her sketchbook. Where was it? Had it slid away when she got up to go to her sister? She could not bend down to peer under the table. That would bring more questions, which she wanted to avoid.
Poking about with her toes, she found nothing. She stretched out her leg, soundlessly tapping the floor. When her foot struck something solid, she lowered her eyes when Jonathan looked up in surprise. She had not intended to bump her foot into his.
She breathed a silent sigh of relief when her toes discovered the sketchbook to the left of her chair. She drew it closer to her. She carefully avoided Jonathan's eyes as he began to talk to her cousin about when they should call on Sir Nigel and Lord Ashland and demand their help against the smugglers.
A shout came from outside the breakfast-parlor. Jonathan's black-and-white pup rushed in. He ran to Catherine and put his nose on her lap. Before she could react, he hurried to her sister. He looked up at her with absolute devotion, then loped around the table to Cousin Edmund before finally hurrying to Jonathan.
He grasped the puppy by the scruff and set himself on his feet.
“Forgive me, Meriweather, ladies. I will insist that this mongrel stay in the stables.”
“Nonsense,” Sophia said, patting the puppy's head. “Charles and the children will be arriving any day now, and I know that Gemma and Michael will be thrilled to have such a playmate.”
“He can stay out there until they arrive.”
“Jonathan,” Catherine said, “it would be better if the puppy stayed inside. A barking dog will be less welcoming than a gamekeeper and his mother should the smugglers arrive here.”
His eyes narrowed, and she almost recoiled before the formidable rage in them. She wondered how many of Napoleon's men had quailed before him.
“We must keep everyone safe,” she added quietly.
“I agree.” He released the puppy who ran to Catherine again, as if he understood that she had kept him from being sent outside.
Slowly Jonathan sat. He pushed his plate away and stared at the middle of the table.
Into the silence, Sophia asked, “What do you call him?”
When he did not answer, Catherine said, “Jonathan has not yet decided on a name.”
“Really?” Sophia gave her a single pointed glance, and Catherine knew her sister was expressing her surprise at how Catherine spoke of Mr. Bradby. “As we are all among friends hereâ” She shot Catherine another questioning look. “I think we can come up with a name for him.”
“We could call him what he is perhaps. Big Bother,” Catherine said with a strained laugh as she snuck the puppy a piece of sausage. She wished Jonathan would say something.
“How about Star? He has a star marking on his forehead,” Miss Meriweather offered.
“That sounds like the name for a horse,” Cousin Edmund said. “You could always call him Jobby.”
“Why?” asked Catherine as she held out her hand under the table. The dog's tongue brushed it lightly, and another piece of sausage vanished.
“Jobby dog is a Town term for someone who likes to have a good time, and I daresay, few of God's creatures enjoy themselves more than this one.”
“I think that is a fun name.” She slid her own plate toward the center of the table, directly into Jonathan's view.
He blinked and raised his head when she asked him what he thought of calling his dog Jobby. He agreed, but she wondered if he had heard anything they had said. His gaze was turned inward. She could not help thinking how he had looked exactly the same before he had dived into the sea.
Cousin Edmund asked Sophia to help him once more with the accounts before her wedding. She agreed and suggested Catherine come with them.
“I think I will take Jobby out for some air,” Catherine said.
“I can do that,” Jonathan interjected. “You must have more important things to do.”
She did not want to admit that he was right. She had planned to spend the morning with the footmen as she outlined where she wanted holiday greens hung in the great hall, but she had not finished her sketch for that.
“I could use some fresh air myself,” she replied. “A brisk walk along the shore would be wonderful. It will be pleasant to stroll without looking for mermaid tears.”
“You should not have to handle that great beast on your own.” He squared his shoulders. “I will be glad to go with you if you would like company.”
“I had planned to ask Foggin,” she said with a smile and a glance toward her sister who gave her a slight nod of approval, “but I suspect he would be happy to have someone to help him keep Jobby under control. Let me get my wraps, and I will meet you in the garden.”
The hint of a smile returned to his face, and warmth spread through her as if she had stepped out into summer sunshine. He took her hand and bowed over it. His thumb brushed her palm, a tentative exploration that delighted her. As he raised his head, his gaze fused with hers. She could not have looked away, even if she had wanted to. She did not. She wanted to study his blue eyes that changed shade with each emotion. Now they were as deep a blue as his coat, shining brightly.
He hastily released her hand and stepped back. “In the garden then. I shall send for Foggin, if you would like.”
“Thank you.” She struggled to say those two words without her voice splintering.
If Sophia had not come over to link her arm with Catherine's, she doubted she could have moved. She yearned to return to the moment when he held her hand, lightly caressing her sensitive palm.
Her sister said nothing as they went up the stairs and to Catherine's room. Sophia sat while Catherine put away her sketchbook and sent Hubbard, the maid who served them both, to collect her outerwear. The dark-haired young woman must have guessed something was amiss, because as soon as she brought Catherine's dark navy pelisse as well as her bonnet and gloves, she excused herself to tend to a task in Sophia's room.
“You and Mr. Bradby are becoming good friends, I see,” Sophia said as soon as the door closed behind their maid.
“He is a nice man and an intelligent one.” She pulled on the pelisse and reached for her bonnet. “Did you know that solicitors used to be paid by the word?”
Sophia ignored her attempt to change the subject. “Just be careful. I don't want to see you hurt again.”
“Hurt? Jonathan would never hurt me.”
“Not intentionally, but his attempt to rescue that child has given me pause.”
“Why?”
“He saved Charles's life, but I wonder if being proclaimed a hero hasn't changed him. He may feel an obligation to repeat his great deed. After all, he jumped into the sea when the fishermen were far more prepared to save the child.”
“I thought that was something he should be lauded for.”
“It is, but I can't forget how Roland Utting was determined to prove that he was brave, too. He ended up dead.”
Catherine's numb fingers somehow tied her bonnet ribbons, but she could not hook the frogs on her pelisse. She had never told her sister how Roland had asked her to wait for him, because he had asked her to say nothing to her family until he could return from the war to obtain her father's blessing on their plans to marry. She had asked why they could not marry before he left, but he had been determined to prove that he was worthy of a baron's daughter, and if he had been part of the push to defeat Napoleon, he believed he would win the respect that was so important to him. Nothing she had said had budged him from that opinion.
So he had left and never came back.
For the first time, she wondered if Jonathan had yearned to be a hero before he went into battle. Her fingers tightened on the braided frogs. Had he been desperate to prove himself to a woman he loved? But if that were so, that woman might still be in his life, even though he had not mentioned someone special.
All the more reason for her to remember her plan to make sure Jonathan became no more than a friend to her. It was a good plan, and it was one she found simple to follow...until she spent time with him, and he made her laugh and remember how it felt to be lighthearted again.
Standing, Sophia came over and began closing Catherine's pelisse for her. “Listen to your big sister. Don't get involved with another hero. It will only break your heart anew. Mr. Bradby is a nice man, and I will be grateful to him every day of my life for saving Charles's life, but I don't want to see you as sad as you were when the news of Roland's death reached us. I don't want you to be so hurt ever again.”
Embracing her sister, Catherine whispered, “I don't intend to be.”
Chapter Five
J
obby raced around the garden, first chasing a squirrel up a tree and then taking off after a rabbit in the bushes. Each time the pup rushed back when Jonathan called to him.
“What a smart dog!” Catherine crowed before Jobby ran across the garden again, chasing a leaf that bounced along the ground.
“Occasionally.” Jonathan chuckled when the pup barked at the leaf that was no longer moving. “One thing is for sure. He has a lot of energy.” He offered his arm to Cat.
She did not hesitate. Not only was Foggin standing discreetly on the stone terrace where he had an excellent view of the whole garden, but she was sure that the layers of wool between her and Jonathan would blunt her reaction to being close to him. As soon as she placed her hand within his arm, she discovered how wrong she was. That lightning buzz sped through her anew. He put his gloved hand on hers as he led her over some uneven ground toward where Jobby still barked at the motionless leaf.
She looked up at his face while he laughed as he related the puppy's other bird-witted antics. She saw no sign of either the unsettling intensity or the silliness. He appeared more at ease than she had ever seen him. Was this how he had been before the war?
She kept that question to herself, wanting to enjoy this peaceful moment. She drew in a deep breath of the cool fresh air that was flavored with the tang of salt.
“I am glad that you and Cousin Edmund are in good pax again,” she said.
“He accepted my apology and forgave me for being cantankerous, whether I deserved it or not.” He paused by the huge boulders that jutted up out of the earth and marked the outermost edge of the garden. “I half expected him to ask me to take my congé.”
“He is happy you are here. I think he misses having other men to speak to. Before he inherited Papa's title, he spent a lot of time among men with his construction work. Now he has to leave Meriweather Hall to find male company, and as Sir Nigel is the closest...” She grimaced.
Jonathan chuckled. “Your cousin wants to avoid Sir Nigel because he apparently is eager for Meriweather to meet his great-niece.” His smile dropped away. “Oh, I shouldn't have said that.”
“Why not? Sir Nigel has always been a meddler, so I'm not surprised he wants to play matchmaker.”
“So you don't mind?”
“Of course, I mind, but nobody will ever change Sir Nigel.” She looked directly at him, pushing back one side of her bonnet that the wind tried to curve around her face. “And my cousin can be stubborn when he wishes to be. He may have trouble making decisions, but he knew his heart when he stepped aside so my sister can marry Charles.”
Jonathan nodded, and she noticed the tips of his ears were red. That was no surprise when the wind blustered cold from the beach. He picked up a stick and tossed it across the garden. Jobby took after it at top speed.
“You sound as if you don't like Sir Nigel,” Jonathan said as the puppy pounced on the stick and began chewing on it. “Not that I would blame you if you didn't. The man is too much in love with the sound of his own voice, and, coming from a solicitor, that is saying a lot.”
“I don't like or dislike him. He is a neighbor, so I must treat him kindly.”
“Now that sounds even colder than your first words.”
“You are right.” She gave him a quick smile. “I need to choose my words more carefully.”
“Or your neighbors.”
She laughed as she had not since before her father had became ill. Jonathan's droll tone along with his somber expression tickled her.
“I don't dislike Sir Nigel himself,” she said. “It's his art.”
He grinned as they continued strolling through the garden.
“What's so funny?”
“Your lip curls as you spit out
his art,
as if you took a bite of something foul.”
She watched Jobby pick up the stick and run with it; then she turned her gaze to Jonathan. His easy grin made it impossible not to smile back.
“Did you see what his latest âinnovation' is for his art?” she asked.
“I only gave the pictures a cursory look during that ball he gave back in the fall.”
“He mixed real sand with his paint. To give the scene more texture was what he told me when I asked him about it last month.” She rolled her eyes. “Have you ever heard of anything so addled?”
“I did get the feeling your neighbor is more than a bit harebrained. There are not many people outside the Royal Academy of Arts who invite people in to view their own work.”
“The Royal Academy of Arts!” Why hadn't she thought about visiting the Royal Academy and its school while she was in London? It was on the Strand, not too far from Mayfair where she would be staying with her cousin. Like the British Museum, the work displayed there could inspire her to look at her own in new ways.
“What about the Royal Academy?” Jonathan asked.
Catherine chided herself for risking the secret she had guarded closely. Hoping her laugh sounded natural, she said, “I had not considered it before now as a place that might be fun to visit while I am in London.”
His face closed up, and she wondered why. There had been enough truth in her words to make them easy to say.
When he said nothing, she went on. “Of course, before any trip to Town, we have the wedding and the Christmas Eve ball to look forward to. So many people have said they intend to attend both. I suspect there are few who can resist a wedding celebration and a masquerade.”
“Masquerade?” He halted and faced her. “Are you saying the ball is a masquerade?”
“The invitation stated so.”
He grimaced. “I didn't look too closely at it, because I assumed I would not be attending.”
“And if you
had
noticed that it was a masquerade, you would have definitely decided not to attend.”
“That is true, though I doubt Meriweather would have accepted my excuse.”
“Which is?”
“I feel silly wearing a small mask that is supposed to conceal my identity, when I am betrayed by my height.”
She tapped her finger against her chin. “There may be a way to disguise your height. I can ask Mme. Dupont to make you a costume. All we need to decide is what you want to come as.”
“Your
modiste
is busy making a wedding gown for your sister. She won't have time for any other projects.”
She smiled. “You don't know Mme. Dupont. She is not happy unless she has a dozen things going on at once.”
“That chaos would drive me mad.”
“All the more reason for you to meet with her soon, because as the time gets closer to the wedding, everything will be even busier.” She raised one brow. “Unless you want to go as a soldier or a solicitor.”
“I think not. I have had enough of the first, and most people have had enough of the latter.”
Laughing, she said, “Then you have no choice but to submit to Mme. Dupont's measurements and fittings.”
“You make it sound dire.”
“I have to own that I make every excuse I can to avoid a fitting, but Mme. Dupont will be here shortly after the midday meal. Why don't you come to Sophia's rooms around two?”
“You are not going to offer me any way to avoid this, are you?”
Catherine laughed along with him as they turned back to the house. He whistled, and Jobby came running. Jonathan promised to meet her at Sophia's room as the long-case clock struck the appointed hour.
But later, as the clock chimed the half hour past two, Catherine tried not to tap her foot against the floor. Where was Jonathan? She had not guessed he would keep her and Mme. Dupont waiting. From inside Sophia's room, she heard the
modiste
telling Sophia that she needed no more measurements until the final fitting.
A sudden motion from the far end of the hallway caught Catherine's eye. Jonathan hurried toward her, his coattails flapping. She shifted her sketchbook behind her, so he would not notice it. Even though she had planned to rip out the pages to show Mme. Dupont, she could not bring herself to tear apart her precious sketchbook. She hated subterfuge, but she was not ready to trust him with her innermost secret that had sent other men rushing for the door.
“Forgive me for being late,” Jonathan said, panting as he stopped beside her. “I have no excuse other than I lost track of time. Meriweather and I were playing billiards, and he demanded a chance to beat me at least once.”
“That sounds as if you were doing well.”
“Very.” His grin broadened. “But one learns that it is not wise to win all the time when playing one's host. I trust you will accept my apology.”
Why had she never taken note of that dimple in his left cheek? It was endearing yet did not distract from his tautly carved face. She was unsure how long she would have stared at his dimple if he had not asked her if she thought it was wise to keep Mme. Dupont waiting any longer.
She tore her eyes away from him, but not before her gaze was caught again by his compelling eyes. Now they appeared a paler blue than ever, but there was nothing cold about them. In fact she was suffused by that pleasing warmth again.
Somehow she groped for the door and opened it. He motioned for her to precede him. She did and discovered Mme. Dupont gathering up lace scraps from Sophia's wedding gown. Sophia came from behind a screen set up along one side of the room.
“Mr. Bradby, I hope we didn't leave you in the hallway for too long,” she said.
“Not at all.” He winked at Catherine. “The timing was perfect.”
“Excellent.” Sophia motioned toward the
modiste
who was staring at Jonathan, her mouth agape at the garish colors the rest of them had become accustomed to. “Mme. Dupont, Mr. Bradby needs a costume for the Christmas Eve ball. I would consider it a great favor if you would make it.”
Mme. Dupont regained her composure. “Ah, M. Bradby, it is a
très bonne
pleasure to meet you.”
“Enchanté, madame,”
he replied.
“Vous êtes bon pour faire un costume pour moi quand vous êtes tellement occupé avec la robe de la mariée. Je vous remercie à l'avance.”
Catherine averted her eyes when she saw the bafflement and dismay in Mme. Dupont's eyes at Jonathan's effortless French. If the
modiste
saw Cat's attempts not to laugh, Mme. Dupont would be even more embarrassed. Taking pity on the seamstress, she said, “Jonathan, English please. My French is regrettably far less skilled than yours, and Mme. Dupont doesn't have time to translate for me.”
“Of course,” he said. “I said that she was kind to make a costume for me, when she is so busy with preparations for the wedding and a wardrobe for you.”
“Thank you for explaining.” She did not add that she had easily understood every word he had spoken. Even though England had been at war with France for most of her life, she had learned to speak the language because many art books she wanted to read were written in French.
Mme. Dupont motioned to the box in the middle of the floor. “I must make ze... How do you say it?”
“Measurements?” suggested Catherine.
“Oui!”
“We will stand over here,” she said. “Once your measurements are complete, Mme. Dupont, we can discuss the best costume for Mr. Bradby.”
Sophia muffled a laugh as she and Catherine went to the door. In a whisper, her sister said, “I must speak with Mrs. Porter about tonight's meal.
Bonne chance
.” She hurried out, closing the door behind her.
* * *
Jonathan heard Cat's sister wish her good luck before she left the room. He wished he could have gone with Sophia, but he squared his shoulders and said nothing when Mme. Dupont instructed him to stand on the middle of the box. It was absurd because she had to get a chair to reach his shoulders. He began to understand why Cat found her fittings ludicrous.
Jonathan stared straight ahead as the seamstress whipped the string around his chest and waist. She made quick knots in the string with each measurement. He wondered how she knew what each knot was for, because he saw no hints of how she identified one from the other.
Mme. Dupont was as professional as any knight of the needle. She made her measurements with quiet efficiency and then rolled the string around her wrist when she was done. She called to Cat, who put down the book she had been paging through and came back over.
His eyes narrowed. That appeared to be the same leather-bound book she had had at breakfast. He was curious about its topic, because she clearly found it so fascinating that she kept it with her. If he knew what she found interesting, it could give him insight into her. He longed to know her better.
“I have just ze thing
pour vous,
M. Bradby,” Mme. Dupont said, pulling his attention back to her.
“And what would that be?”
“You should go as a wolf.” Her eyes twinkled. “You are a tall man, and a wolf is a large creature. You are a former soldier, so you know how to hunt as a wolf does.”
“Mme. Dupont,” Cat said, and he wondered if she had seen how he had flinched at the
modiste'
s cheerful explanation. “Mr. Bradby's time is valuable.”
Jonathan flashed Cat a grateful smile. He had no other demands on his time, but he did not want to hear that a soldier was like a wolf stalking its prey.
“Oui, oui,”
Mme. Dupont said, before going on as if Cat had remained silent. “I can create a mask that will have whiskers and a wolf's ears. With a coat of gray or even black and a sedate waistcoat, you will portray a wolf well.”
“Sedate?” He had not brought with him a waistcoat anyone would deem as
sedate.
“Dark colored,” Mme. Dupont said. “Anything else will ruin the costume. It is something I can make for you, if you have a need.” She eyed him, and he knew that she found his bright waistcoat too garish.