As Catherine made her good-byes to the marquis, he leaned close and said gruffly, “You’re a fine young woman, my dear. I’ve spoken with Dagonet. I’m going to ensure that he gets the opportunity to do the right thing this time.”
She had no idea what he intended, but she was relieved to see the party leave. Morning visits from the Montagus and the Marquis of Somerdale were not her idea of the most pleasant way to spend one’s time. She wanted to be alone to think through everything she had learned about Millicent Trumble. There must be something they had all missed.
* * * *
Hobart’s Club was not one of the most fashionable of the gaming establishments of London, but Dagonet could be assured of always finding a suitable crowd of young bloods there, eager to loosen their purses over a game of hazard. He moved through the crowd nodding to his acquaintance and exchanging slightly barbed witticisms with some of the bolder players. He was known to be a genial companion and a demon player, but there was a certain undercurrent of opinion that he would be a dangerous man to cross.
There was a general ripple of apprehension, therefore, when the young Viscount Hammond deliberately stood up and, blocking Dagonet’s path, belligerently demanded that he stop and give an accounting of himself.
“Whatever do you mean?” Dagonet asked quietly.
“You’re a very clever fellow at the tables, aren’t you, sir?”
“I hope I may give the other gentlemen a good game, sir. They say that next to the pleasure of winning at hazard, the next greatest pleasure is losing.”
“But you don’t lose often, do you?”
“
La critique est aisée, et l’art est difficile
.”
Dagonet bowed insolently and made as if to move on, but the viscount who was by now extremely red in the face, caught him by the lapel.
“Damn your French, sir!”
Lord Kendal had approached the two men and propped himself nonchalantly on the edge of the nearest table. He took a delicate pinch of snuff from an exquisite gilt box.
“Mr. de Dagonet comments that it is easy to criticize, sir, but art is difficult. Hazard presents the highest opportunity for art. Don’t you agree, Viscount?”
“I say that there is more cunning than art in his skill, sir,” the youth insisted. “Lady Luck never smiled so long on one player without a little assistance from the backs of the cards or a weight in the dice.”
“I think you are drunk, sir,” Dagonet said calmly. “Perhaps you should cool yourself before you say more than you mean?”
“I mean you’re a cheat, sir!”
A deadly silence fell over the room. No other outcome could possibly arise from this exchange than a fatal meeting with their seconds at dawn. Every man in the room unconsciously held his breath, waiting for Dagonet’s wrath to flatten the importunate accuser.
The reply was made casually, however, and while gently removing the viscount’s fingers from his coat, Dagonet’s eyes showed nothing but amusement.
“And the liquor agrees, no doubt.”
The viscount was stiff with determination. He raised his arm and tried to strike the taller man in the face. Dagonet caught his wrist in one hand.
“I am not drinking, sir!” Hammond struggled to remove his wrist from the other man’s grip, and failed. “I accuse you in front of your friends. You win their money by base trickery. You are a cheat, sir!”
“You are resolved, aren’t you, my friend?” Dagonet replied wearily. “Very well. Since you insist. Lord Kendal and Lord Brooke would be happy to represent me. Your friends may wait upon those gentlemen at their leisure.”
With that he released Hammond’s hand, bowed, and left the room.
Viscount Hammond sat down as the room exploded with conversation.
In the hubbub, one of the viscount’s friends leaned close and said quietly, “Are you out of your mind, sir? Nobody believes the man a cheat, and I hear that Dagonet is the best marksman in the city. He’ll kill you.”
“It’s a risk I’ll have to take,” the viscount muttered. “I have also been told by the Marquis of Somerdale that Dagonet will stand there and allow me to slay him. If he does and I can dispatch him, the marquis will pay off my debts and set me up in the world. If he does not and kills me instead, Lord Somerdale will make sure that the authorities are informed and Dagonet will hang. If I don’t get out of debt I shall go to the devil anyway, so it’s a bargain for me. And either way, Devil Dagonet dies.”
“Good God!” the other man said. “What on earth does the Marquis of Somerdale have against Charles de Dagonet?”
“I’ve no idea,” Viscount Hammond said with a bitter laugh. “He’s his grandfather, I understand.”
* * * *
Catherine saw no more of Lord Somerdale or his grandchildren. She hoped daily that Dagonet would call, but there was no sign of him. She spent her days escorting her little sister about London to see the sights. The capital city was festive with preparations for Christmas. Not even the Punch and Judy show or the string choirs singing carols, however, seemed able to lift Annie’s depressed spirits very much. They did not raise his name, but both sisters found themselves looking about in the streets, without any luck, for a glimpse of Devil Dagonet.
Amelia was happy because David was home for the holiday. They all spent a merry enough Christmas day together at Brooke House, even though Lord Brooke seemed to have something on his mind and was often distracted when the ladies spoke to him. Amy put it down to the press of business. She had no idea that her husband had gone to see Viscount Hammond’s friends in order to arrange a duel with rapiers for one morning early the next week.
The duel concerned David Morris more than he wanted to admit. No one could best Dagonet with a sword, of course, but dueling was illegal. And there was something else. Ever since the night of the ball at Lady Easthaven’s, his friend had been in a very odd mood, drinking deeper and gaming more carelessly than was his wont, though always with a splendid wit.
When David had challenged him to discuss whatever was on his mind, Dagonet had only laughed.
“They say the gallows sharpens the intellect, dear Lord Brooke. Perhaps a duel has the same effect. You will have fast horses on hand so that you can make your own escape, won’t you?”
“I refuse to believe you are rattled by the Viscount Hammond, Dagonet,” David had replied.
Dagonet had given him one of his most infuriating smiles. “No, I am not. But I am rattled by my grandfather.”
And with that enigmatic statement he had refused to say more.
* * * *
Catherine was playing softly at the pianoforte one morning, going over again in her mind, as had become her habit, every conversation, every encounter with Charles de Dagonet. The memories mocked and teased until dulcet warmth spread over her face. At first it was as if a summer breeze stirred her hair and kissed her skin. But then— No! No! She stopped playing and closed her eyes. Tears threatened. For now she would burn, as if the desire of the sun to heat the earth scorched deep into her bones. She was lost. In longing. In a strange ecstasy. In a pain so sweet it took away her breath. In despair.
She wiped her eyes and forced herself to keep playing. She was a fool. It was no surprise that she had lost her heart. Women had been doing so for many years. How long would it be before he was able to get the marriage annulled and release her? Would she then never see him again? She couldn’t bear it!
She was interrupted by one of the maids. “There’s a person below to see you, ma’am.”
Catherine looked up. “I really don’t want to see anybody. Please say that I am not at home.”
“He was most persistent, ma’am. Said he didn’t want the reward, but what he knew was a burden to him and he’d be glad to unload it.”
She stopped playing in a jangle of chords. “What name did this person give?”
“Peter Higgins, ma’am. He’s a sailor. Said he wanted to talk to you about Lion Court.”
Catherine’s color fled her face, then returned in a hot rush. Peter Higgins! She had never given the gardener’s boy any more thought. All her efforts had been launched against Catchpole.
Now the memory of Mary’s voice, all those months ago at Lion Court, came rushing back. ‘Poor Peter Higgins ran off, too. He was just a lad really. I dare say it broke his heart.’
Peter Higgins! The gardener’s boy that Milly Trumble thought she was too good for. The name Mary had mentioned in the same breath with Catchpole’s, but that Catherine had unconsciously dismissed, and therefore not mentioned to Dagonet when she had told him in Captain Morris’s garden what she had learned from Mary. Peter Higgins also had disappeared from Lion Court before Dagonet awoke from his coma. Had he fled because he had some vital piece of information?
“Very well,” she said a little unsteadily. “Please show him up!”
The man who entered the drawing room a few moments later had obviously not been ashore very long. He had the sailor’s honest far-seeing gaze and wore the typical reefer jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons of his trade. He looked about nervously at the luxurious room, then bobbed an awkward bow to the young woman who rose to greet him.
“Was it you, ma’am, as put in the advertisement about John Catchpole? My Ma saw it and figured it might involve that business at Lion Court. If it does, I’d be glad to tell what I know. It’s been a burden to me these many years.”
“Please sit down, Mr. Higgins. My name is Catherine de Dagonet. Charles de Dagonet is my husband.” The words gave her a strange thrill to say aloud. “I can reward you well if you tell me the truth.”
“I don’t want no reward, ma’am. The truth is all you’ll get from me. I’d be happy to get it off my mind.”
“Please,” Catherine said. Her throat was dry and the words felt as if they might choke her. “Just begin at the beginning and tell me the whole.” She rang for the maid. “Please bring some ale for Mr. Higgins and see that we are undisturbed.”
Then, with her heart in her mouth, she turned to her guest, who had once been gardener’s boy at Lion Court and in love with Millicent Trumble.
“Well, it was this way, see, ma’am,” the sailor began, sipping his mug of ale. “Milly was the prettiest girl at Lion Court, and merry and bright with it. Nothing seemed too high for our Milly. I suppose you could say that she was a flirt, though she wouldn’t look at me that way, and I mooned over her like a calf. I was just the gardener’s lad and hadn’t much in the way of prospects. She treated me like a little brother and would confide in me. It’s awful hard, ma’am, to love like that and not have it returned.”
“Yes,” Catherine said with a wry smile. “I know. Please go on, Mr. Higgins.”
“Well, she took up with a gentleman in the house. She was flattered by his attentions. I believe she thought he would marry her, but she ought to have known better. He was a careless, cruel fellow and didn’t really care for her. It’s just a casual thing with these gentlemen, ma’am.”
“Yes, I believe it often is. And that was Sir George, Mr. Higgins?”
“It was, ma’am. Master George, as he was then. But I believe Devil Dagonet found out. And John Catchpole knew about it and he may have told Sir Henry. Of course, Sir Henry wouldn’t have cared, as long as it didn’t get known to old Lord Somerdale. Milly thought it was such a secret, but these things tend to get about. George wasn’t a subtle fellow, not like the other gentleman.”
“So she took another lover?”
“Well, you see, ma’am, Master George began to pay her less attention. I believe Devil Dagonet had confronted him, because you could see that George was trying to avoid him. Master George had given her some gewgaws and baubles, more than any of us working lads could afford, and she liked to feel important and enjoy fine gentlemen paying her compliments. So when George began to neglect her, and the other gentleman began to notice her, she didn’t say no.”
“But this time was different?”
“Aye, ma’am, this time she got herself in trouble. She told the father, didn’t she, and like a silly ninny she thought he’d take care of her, but he laughed in her face. Well, she was desperate. A girl in her position, she’d have been turned off without a reference and she didn’t have no one to help her. Sir Henry Montagu was a hard man, and the old marquis was a stickler for his grandsons treating the servants right. He wouldn’t have liked it, if he’d known that George had been the first to seduce Milly and had started her on that kind of a life. So if Sir Henry did know about that, he would have wanted to make sure that no one would spread the tale. Be damned to Milly and her babe!”
“I understand,” Catherine said quietly. “I met Sir Henry Montagu myself when I was little. So Milly really had no one?”
The sailor shook his head. “She was dead afraid, ma’am, and she wept to me that she’d been a silly fool. And George, for all he’d been willing enough to ruin her, would never have helped her. He was too afraid of his father and the marquis.”
Catherine’s heart was in her mouth. So Catchpole was right. Millicent Trumble had not been carrying George’s child. There had indeed been someone else.
“But why did she give herself to this other man?” she asked. “Didn’t she foresee that this might happen?”
“Milly never saw it coming, ma’am. The new gentleman had promised to set her up in a house in London and get her away from Lion Court, but all his promises were worthless. He’d given her ribbons and such frippery, too, and what was more to the point, started her drinking his fine wines and brandy, instead of the honest ale that was right for her station. Let her think she could dine like the gentry the rest of her days! She teased me about it when she saw me in the yard with my tankard. But he left without a thought for her. She was cruelly betrayed, ma’am.”
“But her lover was not Charles de Dagonet?”
The sailor laughed, his brown face open and candid. “Master Charles was kind to her, ma’am, and all the girls worshipped him. Such a fine set-up young man as he was, and always funning and teasing, and so dashing and handsome and all. There wasn’t a woman on the place as wouldn’t have given her eye teeth for a special look from Devil Dagonet. But there was only kindness there, nothing more. They all understood that. The men liked him, too. He was always fair and caring. Not like Sir Henry Montagu or young George.”