Promise Me Heaven (20 page)

“Where does he stay?”

Seward shook his head. “He is a friend of the Prince Regent’s. You will not be able to find satisfaction there.”

“Oh, yes,” promised Thomas, “I will.”

“Don’t a fool, Montrose. What will you gain by indulging in revenge?”

“Always so pragmatic, Seward.”

“Always.”

“I might make her life more comfortable.”

“More comfortable? By making her name a byword for scandal? What then are her chances?”

Thomas ran a hand through his hair. “Perhaps you are more clear-sighted in this than I,” he finally muttered.

“Just less involved. I am good at that, too.”

Wordlessly Thomas started toward the door. As if in an afterthought, he turned back to Seward. “I will have your man fetch a quack,” he said tightly.

It was as much as the situation allowed. Seward recognized the implicit generosity in the gesture. He became aware of a faint, long-ignored need to respect and be respected, a need for comradeship in a life singularly devoid of it.

“Thank you.” When Thomas would have left the room, once more he stopped him, saying, “I am not blameless here.”

“I know.”

“I cannot unmake the situation. I can think of no way I can offer my assistance. But I can apprise you of other situations, situations which, I personally assure you, you will no longer be called upon to resolve. And I will follow Lord Barrymore’s career. Most closely.”

There was no answer. Seward was aware of being scrutinized and weighed. He did not know how he had been judged, but Thomas nodded once before leaving the room.

It was a beginning.

The urge to act impulsively died by the time Thomas arrived back at the Old Ship. He had glimpsed the emptiness last night had purchased. He could not go to Cat and he could not leave her to Barrymore’s vile attentions. While he believed Seward—he would have killed him had he not—he did not trust him to adequately protect Cat from Barrymore. But, then, there was no one he would trust with Cat’s care. He toyed with the idea of arranging for Hecuba, Cat, and himself to leave immediately for Devon, then abandoned it as impossible to carry out. Cat would not even see him, let alone agree to ensconce herself for a daylong carriage ride with him.

Dismissing Bob from his responsibilities, Thomas spent the remainder of the morning in his suite, trying unsuccessfully to find a way to protect Cat without attending her.

Finally, in frustration, he rang up the maid for a basin of fresh water. After giving himself a quick sponge bath, he pulled on fresh linen and a newly laundered coat. Even if Cat would not see him, Hecuba might. Perhaps he could enlist her aid. He knew Hecuba would not intercede for him—he was not such a fool as to believe any possibility of repair to their relationship was beyond hope—but he might persuade Hecuba to keep him apprised of Cat’s activities.

With this thought, he rapped at Hecuba’s suite, hoping that he might find the older woman alone. His knock went unanswered.

Steeling himself for the revulsion he would see on Cat’s face, he proceeded to her door. He told himself ’twas better to get this first, awkward meeting over with, but desperation drove him. He needed to see her beloved countenance, to see for himself how deeply the wound went, hoping there was more disgust than pain there.

Once more, silence met his knock. A sudden intuition caused him to raise his voice, calling out to her. Not the slightest rustle sounded from the other side of the door. Fear uncoiled in thick waves. Standing back, he kicked, shattering the thin oak door. It swung in on broken brass hinges, the creak of its swaying the only sound. Thomas stepped into the suite.

It was empty. The bedclothes had been neatly folded at the foot of the canopied bed, the windows raised to admit the soft sea air. Cat’s soft scent teased his senses. He threw open the wardrobe. A single piece of string pooled on the floor. An amber bead winked at him from a dark corner.

He stood staring down at it, vaguely surprised his body was trembling. His gaze traveled over a room bereft of her. He heard the sea beating against the shore from far out beyond the window. Seabirds added their keening song to the inexorable rhythm. The sun seemed too bright.

He did not know how long he stood there, drinking in her dying fragrance, but slowly his eyes began to recognize what they saw. A single sheet of creamy white paper lay folded on the mantel.

Reaching out, he took it up as a man would take up dangerous blade. He unfolded it, wondering how Cat, with her pretty manners, would consign him to hell. He needn’t have worried. It wasn’t from Cat at all.

Mr. Montrose,

I have been offered, and have accepted, employment elsewhere. My prorated wages can be sent to Bellingcourt Manor, Yorkshire.

The elegant, incisive scrawl, as well as the terse, imperious phraseology, gave Lady Montaigne White away as the author. But beneath the writing were more phrases, the much-blotted chicken scratching of an untutored hand.

I dont no wat you dun to make Lady Cat so sad. I promisd her I wont tell as how she crys and so I wont. You wer a good mastr, I wont say otherways. But Lady Cat is qwality and awfl hert. I need to do for her.

Tansy Elizabeth Fielding

Lucky Fielding
, thought Thomas, carefully refolding the single sheet,
to be able to have what you need.

Chapter 17

February 1815, Devon

M
arcus Horatio Coynager, Viscount Eltheridge, drummed his fingers nervously against the arm of the chair. Recognizing the costliness of the fine-grained leather on the wingback chair, and the high polish on the large library table, he weighed the furnishings of this room against the ramshackle collection at his own home. As was his habit, he promised himself some day Bellingcourt would be as properly cared for.

After traveling two days from his beloved home to reach here, he was uncertain whether the trip had been necessary or even advisable. His letter, asking for an explanation of Cat’s unusual behavior since her return from here, had gone unanswered. With uncharacteristic impulsiveness, Marcus had thrown together some clothes and taken the mail coach, all but bankrupting his family’s monthly budget.

His arrival at the prosperous-looking estate was greeted by a tight-lipped, disapproving housekeeper. He enviously regarded the layout of orchards, gardens, and pastures before the housekeeper ushered him in to stand, hat in hand, in a foyer. Only after he’d informed the sharp-faced old shrew of his relationship to Cat did she gasp and all but push him through the door leading to the library before scurrying off.

At eighteen years, Marcus was only now filling out the promise of his long frame. He had a youthful countenance. Thick, ash blond hair tumbled over a clear, high forehead. His mouth was tender, his hazel eyes clear. But his expression, far from being adolescent, was old beyond his years. Worry, not an unusual expression judging from the fine lines bracketing the bridge of his high nose, sat too comfortably upon him.

Hearing the sound of heavy footfalls coming toward the door, Marcus leapt to his feet that he might face his unknowing host from no disadvantage. It was a pointless gesture. The man coming in topped Marcus’s more than average height by half a foot. The man’s dark head was bent over the packet of letters he held in his hand, reading their inscriptions, giving Marcus a chance to observe him.

So this was Thomas Montrose: profligate extraordinaire, rake, gamester. The man Cat had sought to teach her all the wiles a young woman would need to catch a blade of the first rank. Marcus had a hard time reconciling his concept of the man with the reality.

Montrose was large, tall, broad, and lean. But it was not his size that discounted his reputation, it was his age. Montrose was clearly well past his prime. Why, he must be nearing his mid-thirties. And elegance? Marcus knew he was ill equipped to judge the town bronze of anyone, and yet even he could see the man was beyond unfashionable. Thomas’s face was tanned nut brown, the slight hollows beneath his high cheekbones stubbled by an afternoon growth of beard. The small fans of white lines radiating from the corners of his eyes were an indictment against squinting into a winter sun. His hair, more than an occasional smoke gray strand lightening its darkness, hung so long that it coiled upon his shoulders.

Even as Marcus watched, Montrose frowned at one of the letters he held. Instead of opening it, he slowly turned his great head without lifting it, his raven black gaze impaling Marcus from a sidelong slant.

“What are you doing here?” The deep voice was curiously rich and, at the same time, discordant, nearly hollow-sounding, as though a magnificent instrument were being played by an amateur.

“I was asked to wait here by your housekeeper. Did she not tell you?”

“I came in through the kitchens. Who are you?”

Marcus drew himself up, coming close to clicking his heels together. Something in his bearing must have moved Montrose to amusement for the corners of his mouth twitched.

“I am Viscount Eltheridge.”

Montrose answered this pronouncement with a lift of one brow.

“Marcus Horatio Coynager.”

The dark brow rose higher still.

“Lady Catherine Sinclair is my half sister.”

The faint signs of humor died as though they had never been. A shutter deadened Montrose’s features. He spoke not a word.

The silence stretched on uncomfortably, and Marcus shifted his feet, uncertain where to begin. Finally he blurted out, “I want to know what happened to her.”

“What do you mean? What’s happened to her?” Montrose asked, becoming alert.

“Nothing. That is to say, no physical hurt. That is, that I know of.”

The tautness seeped from Thomas’s body. Sighing, he waved Marcus to a chair at the library table.

When Marcus had been seated, Montrose hitched his hip onto the table’s edge, folding his arms across his chest.

“Now,” he said, “what exactly
do
you mean?”

“Cat, Lady Catherine, that is, is my half sister.”

“So you have said.”

“But she is more than a half sister.” Marcus raked a hand through his heavy hair. “She has always been the head of our family. Our mother has been wed four times, five since she married your brother. Catherine and Enid were the offspring of her first union, I was born from the second, and the twins, Simon and Timon, and Marianne were the results of the third.”

“Quite a menagerie,” Montrose murmured.

Marcus nodded vigorously in agreement. “Well, as you can imagine, what with the quick succession of fathers, we have been at a loss as to how to go on. You see, none of my mother’s husbands were deft hands at financial management. Quite the reverse. They were all miserably poor.

“Mother is no better. Her idea of remedying our financial difficulties has always been to fly off to London and round up another spouse. Unfortunately, in spite of her good intentions, she always chose to wed the most charming flats and gulls in town. Quite frankly, we rarely see Mother. She always seems to be either in mourning black or bridal finery.

“Cat, being the oldest and quite the most intelligent, took over the household management in Mother’s absence. Even when Mother was in attendance, Cat has just sort of kept up the role. She was so much better at it than Mother. And then, oh, some five years ago, after my third cousin died, leaving his title and estate to me, she took over the management of that, too.”

The boy intuited Montrose’s estimation of the unfairness of the situation. Steward, land manager, housekeeper, accountant, so many roles had been foisted on Cat’s shoulders.

“I was only turned thirteen,” he said defensively.

“And she was what? All of sixteen?”

“I could not afford to retain someone to manage the land. My relative ran true to form. He had borrowed against the estate until there was nothing left. Nothing but the people who were dependent upon it. The situation might have been unfair to Cat, but to ignore it would have been more than unfair to the people who depended on me.”