Dangerous to Hold (16 page)

“Catalina’s English was very sketchy.”

“Well, no one will know that, will they? Marcus, if you don’t think I can pull this off, perhaps we should forget the whole idea?”

He almost smiled when he saw the hopeful look in her eyes. Forget the whole idea? Not if he had anything to say about it. He was no longer thinking only of bringing
El Grande
and Catalina to justice. He was thinking of having Catherine under his roof for the next few months. It was a tantalizing thought.

With hands on her waist, he hoisted her into the saddle. “I have every confidence that you can pull this off,”
he said. “I don’t know why you’re worrying. You’re a born actress.”

Her eyes slid away from his. “You may be right,” was all she could find to say.

Later that night, Catherine completed her notes, then used the pounce pot liberally to dry the ink. Though these notes were meant for Major Carruthers, at this stage she didn’t need to hide them. Anyone reading them would take them for the pages of a lady’s diary. Tomorrow, sometime during the day, she would leave them, as though by accident, in the conservatory. By the next morning they would be gone. And if she ever needed help, all she had to do was include their password in her notes. In an emergency, she could go to Crewe, one of the gardeners who’d been put into place even before she and Marcus had arrived.

So far, everything had gone off without a hitch but the real test would come when she darkened her hair. There must be a way of throwing Marcus off the scent. She stared into space—thinking, planning, plotting.

Catherine gazed at her reflection in the looking glass in horrified fascination. Catalina gazed back at her. Her hair was dark, though not as dark as she’d made it in Spain. Her ploy would never work! Marcus would take one look at her—and he would know. He’d already knocked on the door, wanting to come in and see her handiwork. She dared not unlock that door and let him see her like this.

“Catherine?”

She had to unlock the door. She had to go through with it. What else could she do? She picked up the basin of hair dye and began to slop the contents on covers, chairs, even on her own garments. It was all part of her plan—and it now seemed hopelessly inadequate.

“Catherine, let me in.”

She finished by dipping her hands in the basin and wiping them on a towel. The third time he called her
name she took a deep breath, ran her fingers through her mane of rapidly drying hair, and went to unlock the door.

The smile on his face froze when he saw her. For one, heart-stopping moment, their eyes locked. Then Catherine’s instinct took over.

“I could kill you for this!” she cried, and flinging away from him, she stalked to the mirror. “Just look at me!” she wailed. “I could pass for one of the witches in Shakespeare’s
Macbeth.
This isn’t me! I never knew, never guessed … I was a pretty girl once. Now look at me! Oh God, what have I done?”

Marcus had recovered his wits. There had been a moment of electrifying recognition, but it was fleeting. Catherine was right. The dark hair was not flattering.

“A witch?” he said. “I wouldn’t go that far.” It was then that he saw the state of her room, and he began to laugh. “Cat, what the devil have you been up to? This place looks like a slaughterhouse.”

She scowled at him. “Oh, it’s easy for you to laugh! That horrid stuff drips everywhere. I should have dyed my hair while I was bathing, not at the washstand. Oh Marcus, this is never going to work. I don’t look like a Spanish girl. All I’ve done is turn myself into an ugly English girl.”

“It’s not as bad as that.”

She said with a shade of incredulity, pointing at her reflection, “Is this what your wife looked like?”

Hand on chin, the other hand cupping his elbow, Marcus studied her.

She could hardly breathe. “Well?”

He shook his head. “When I try to think of Catalina now, I can’t see her face clearly. All I can see is your face.”

“That’s hardly flattering!”

“But I do remember that she had a mole right here.” He touched the corner of her mouth.

“A mole?” There had been no mole. Was he testing her?

“Then again, perhaps not. I just can’t remember.”

She turned to face him. “It would seem that your wife didn’t make much of an impression on you.” She
didn’t know why she was so angry. “Has
any
woman ever made an impression on you, Marcus?”

He smiled wickedly. “You have, Cat.” He took her in his arms. She slipped her hands inside his coat and spread them wide against his chest.

“What the devil!” He dropped his arms and took a step back. “Your dressing gown is soaking wet!” He looke at the stains on his hands.

Catherine gasped. “There’s dye on your shirtfront, and on your coat. No, don’t touch it. This stuff spreads so easily.” She dived for a towel and began to mop at the stains her hands had made.

“For God’s sake, Cat! You’re only making it worse!” He quickly retreated to the door.

She was standing there with that unruly mop of hair sticking out in every direction. “You’ll have to do something with that hair,” he said. “Oil it, I don’t know. Something. Don’t forget, we have an early start tomorrow.”

When the door closed behind him, Catherine heaved a sigh and collapsed against the bed.

The following morning, Marcus and Catherine started out for London. They left as Mr. and Mrs. Lytton and arrived at Marcus’s house in Cavendish Square as the Earl and Countess of Wrotham. This would be Catherine’s debut into Marcus’s social world and her first real test as Marcus’s wife before he introduced her to his family in Warwickshire.

Their first social engagement was a small dinner party at his godmother’s house in St. James’s Square. Lady Tarrington’s idea of a small dinner party was thirty people or so.

“Don’t be nervous,” Marcus said. “You can hold your own anywhere, Cat.”

He helped her into the carriage then climbed in after her.

“I can’t help being nervous,” Catherine replied. “I have friends in London. What if someone recognizes me?”

“Who, for instance?”

She was thinking of her sister. “My friend, Emily, and her husband, or Melrose Gunn.”

“They wouldn’t be at a party like this. If they happen to see you at the theater or some other public place, it will be from a distance. They will see what they expect to see—my wife.” Misunderstanding her silence, he went on, “We’ve gone over it all already. The best way to spread the news that my wife has arrived from Spain is to show you off. That ought to give
El Grande
and Catalina something to think about. After that, we shall retire to Wrotham.”

Marcus believed, or said that he believed, that it
would be much easier to control the situation at Wrotham where anyone or anything out of the ordinary would be instantly obvious. He wasn’t going to leave everything up to Catalina and
El Grande.
He was going to make them come to him.

She said, “I understand all that. But it’s still nerve-wracking to pretend to be Catalina. What if people see through my disguise? I have blue eyes. Did you ever think of that?”

“You worry too much. Catalina’s eyes were blue. As for pretending to be Catalina, there are times when even I could believe that you really are my wife, and I
know
you are an impostor.”

“Truly?” She smiled into his eyes.

“Truly.” He grinned. “Except when you open your mouth. Your Spanish leaves much to be desired, as I’m sure you already know.”

She pretended annoyance at his flippant tone. “I speak Spanish as well as you. Better in fact.”

“Yes, but that’s not saying much, is it?”

As it turned out, it wasn’t as much of an ordeal as she had feared. Marcus hardly left her side, and his godmother and friends were determined to enjoy everything she said or did. They avoided asking her any awkward questions, though it was no secret that Marcus had met her under extraordinary circumstances. Many of Marcus’s friends were out of town, at their country estates for the hunting season, and this made things easier too.

During the week that followed, they went to the theater and she caught sight of Amy in her box surrounded by admirers. Marcus acknowledged Amy with a bow, but he did not leave Catherine to visit her, as many men would have. Respectable ladies simply ignored what their husbands were doing in front of their noses. Marcus was right about one thing. Though Amy’s eyes frequently strayed to Catherine, there was no shock of recognition.

As the days slipped by, she was surprised to find that she was enjoying herself. It would have been easy to confuse reality and fantasy if not for the fact that she was on a mission and could never forget that Marcus, too, might be playing a part.

Major Carruthers wasn’t sitting idle either. While she played her part, he was investigating all the circumstances surrounding the other murders, trying to find something that was common to them besides the fact that all the victims had been at
El Grande’s
base at the same time. Catherine found herself hoping that they would soon find evidence that would clear Marcus. It was one thing to punish him for what he’d done to Amy, but she did not hate him enough to want to see him hang—unless, of course, he had actually committed the crimes. In fact, she was afraid she was beginning to like him all too well.

Almost every afternoon, weather allowing, she and Marcus went out for a drive in his curricle. They were never alone, for there was always a groom trailing them on horseback, and she knew he was armed. All the coachmen were armed. When she duly reported this to her superior, adding that it seemed to support Marcus’s version of events, she received a terse message to the effect that Marcus might be merely trying to throw suspicion off himself, unless, of course, she and
El Grande
really
were
the villains.

She was mulling this over in her mind as they turned into Hyde Park when Marcus said, “I saw you talking to one of the gardeners this morning, before breakfast. What were you talking about?”

The gardener was Crewe, Major Carruthers’s man. She said lightly, “That was Crewe. He’s such a dear. He served in the Peninsular Campaign, did you know?”

“Yes, I did know,” said Marcus. “That’s why I hired him.”

His gaze was fixed on his team of chestnuts and she wasn’t sure if he was suspicious or merely making idle conversation.

“Since I’m Spanish,” she said, as though
she
were making idle conversation, “he thought I should know it. Naturally, I thanked him for saving my country from French domination.”

Marcus flashed her a smile. “You did well,” he said, and some of the tension went out of her.

A moment later, he pulled on the reins and they drew to a halt. “Tristram,” he called out.

Catherine turned her head and saw a young man mounted on a handsome bay. He immediately separated from a group of riders and trotted over. Just by looking at him, she could tell he was related to Marcus, though he didn’t have Marcus’s powerful physique yet. Tristram, she remembered, was Marcus’s younger half brother.

“Catalina,” said Marcus, “allow me to present my brother Tristram.”

There was an edge in Marcus’s voice that made the young man color up. “Charmed, I’m sure,” he said. “That is, welcome to England. I mean—”

“We know what you mean,” said Marcus. “What I want to know is what you are doing here. The new term has started. Why aren’t you at Oxford?”

“How do you do, Tristram?” Catherine said, “I have been looking forward to meeting you,” and she extended her gloved hand.

Tristram accepted it, saw that something more was expected of him, and blushing hotly, dutifully kissed it.

Marcus shot her a look, then immediately resumed the conversation. “Well?”

“The thing is, Marcus,” said Tristram, tugging at his collar, “I’m not cut out for the university.” He began to stammer. “Latin and Greek—I just can’t get the hang of them.”

“You mean you failed your term examinations. I see. We’ll have to talk about that later. But why haven’t you shown your face at Cavendish Square? How long have you been in town?”

“Oh, a week or so. I just thought … well, that you wouldn’t want company—not when you’re just … that is … I thought you might want to be by yourselves for a while.”

Marcus snorted.

Catherine smiled and said, “How very thoughtful.”

“Where are you staying?” asked Marcus.

“At the Carillon. I’m with Cousin David. He’s here
somewhere.” He threw a hopeful look over his shoulder. “At any rate, David came over from Ireland to buy stock for his stud.” His voice took on an eager tone. “We’ve been to Tattersall’s and, oh, all over the place. It’s not easy—” He broke off and exclaimed in a relieved tone, “Oh, here he is!”

The man who came toward them was older than Tristram. He looked to be in his late twenties, had finely chiseled features and fair hair that was long on the collar. Though his garments were conservative, he had a certain presence. Catherine found herself responding to his smile.

When the introductions were made, Marcus said, “It’s good to see you again, David. It must be all of—what?—twelve years?”