Dangerous to Hold (32 page)

“What about that attack on you? What about the lantern on the tower stairs?”

“Major Carruthers put it this way: if we hadn’t suspected that there was a murderer at large, what would we have thought of that attack on me and the lantern on the tower stairs?”

She stared at him in silence as she reflected on his words. At length, she said, “We’d think that the attack on you was made by thieves who had very cleverly set you up with a note from your … from your mistress, and
that the lantern on the stairs had, in all likelihood, fallen from the wall.”

“Exactly. So we can stop looking over our shoulders.”

“What if Major Carruthers’s theory is wrong?”

“The only reason I didn’t suspect the Rifleman from the beginning was because I thought you and
El Grande
were behind everything. If we three are in the clear, who else could it be?”

He buttered some toast and began to munch on it. Catherine stirred the cold coffee in her cup. She looked at Marcus and something in that look put him on his guard.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You see what this means? We are free to do whatever we want. I can go back to being Catherine Courtnay again.”

He toyed with his toast. “You are not Catherine Courtnay. You are my wife, my countess. But I do see what you mean. You don’t have to go on playing the part of Catalina.”

She leaned forward slightly. “I’ve been thinking, Marcus, and I see a way out.”

“Do you now?” He spoke without expression.

“
El Grande
and I can testify that you were forced into this marriage. You have witnesses, now, Marcus. The marriage will be annulled, and we can go our separate ways.”

There was such ferocity in the look he flung at her that she jerked back as though he’d struck her. His voice was hard and clipped. “I told you I would be calling the shots from now on, not you, not
El Grande
, but me. Do you understand?”

She jumped to her feet and the words spilled from her mouth in a torrent. “I don’t care how you do it, but I want this impossible marriage to end. And I refuse to go on playing the part of Catalina. I hate brown hair. I want my own life back. I want my friends and my own things about me. I want to be myself again.” She felt weak at the knees and steadied herself with both hands spread flat on the table. “And I won’t have you use me as you used me last night.”

His eyes were as black as pitch and his whole face
was clenched. All the torments he’d suffered the night before in his library rushed back in full force. He felt hurt to the quick, not only by her betrayal, but because it seemed to him now that even the passion they’d shared had been a sham on her part.

“A divorce it is, then,” he said, and he flung out of the room.

Catherine returned to Heath House in a sleek, well-sprung traveling chaise. It was a relief to be herself again—no more feigning a Spanish accent, no more lying in her teeth to people she’d come to like, and—most glorious of all—no more dyed black tresses. It had taken her hours to scrub the nasty stuff from her hair.

And no more Marcus—damn the man!

She’d brought with her a jumble of boxes, the supposed booty of her three months with the widow Wallace. Marcus had rehearsed her till she was almost word perfect. They had even mapped out a possible itinerary she and Mrs. Wallace might have followed. Nothing was left to chance. He hadn’t sent her home from London, but had made it look as if she had just crossed the English Channel. The last time she had seen him, they were in a posting-house in Dover.

He’d been polite but reserved, and she’d taken her cue from him. They would have to communicate from time to time, he said, if only to discuss the details of their annulment or divorce. But he assured her that whenever they crossed paths, no one would ever know they were more than acquaintances.

“What are you going to tell your family?” she’d asked.

“I haven’t really thought about it. Does it matter?”

It did matter, more than she wanted it to. She’d never see any of them again. In the short time that she’d known them, she’d come to feel as though she were one of them. Now she must be divorced from them too. It hardly seemed fair.

“I suppose not,” she said. “I’m sure whatever you decide will be fine with me.”

Almost the first thing she did after returning to Heath House was to go through her sketches and diaries. These were not really diaries—they were notebooks where she wrote down details that later became reports for Major Carruthers. The sketches, the few that she still had, were all portraits of partisans—except for the one portrait of Marcus.

She stared at it for a long, long time before going on to the next. There was a sketch of Juan playing cards with the padre; partisans, mostly women, coming and going, and one of
El Grande
returning from a mission with some of their comrades. No one had posed for these sketches. They were all done from memory, something to occupy her on those endless stretches when
El Grande
was on a mission that did not involve her.

There had been many of those.

The first time she saw Marcus after she’d returned to being Catherine Courtnay was when he came to look over the sketches. He had sent a note beforehand and arrived at the French doors of her study long after the McNallys had retired for the night.

He looked over her notes and sketches, but found nothing revealing in them.

“I don’t suppose it matters now,” he said, breaking one of the long silences that had fallen between them.

“No, I suppose not. Marcus, have you seen your solicitors yet?”

“Hardly, I’ve only been back in town for a few days.”

“Of course.”

Another long silence ensued. “Would you like some tea? Coffee?” she asked, just for something to say.

“Thank you, no. I really shouldn’t be here, alone with you, so late at night.”

When she didn’t say anything, he inhaled sharply and went on, “Now, don’t get the wrong idea, but I’ve rented a cottage not far from here. Old Dalby’s place. Do you know it?”

“I know it,” she said carefully. It had been lying empty for six months.

“I’ve installed caretakers to look after things for me. Mr. and Mrs. Mills they’re called. If something comes up and you need to get hold of me, you can reach me through Mills.”

“What could come up?”

“Nothing, I hope. But you are still my wife, and I am still responsible for you. That reminds me—how do I give you the money I owe you? Do you want a bank draft?”

“What money?”

“For playing Catalina.”

“I didn’t do it for money! I was on a mission. I knew I would never see a penny of it.”

A sudden tension gripped his face. “Of course,” he said. “How could I possibly have forgotten?”

He left shortly after and she spent a sleepless night trying to decipher every look he’d given her, every word he’d uttered, and what he’d been thinking during those long silences.

She slipped into her old life with barely a ripple to mark the transition. It felt as though she had never been away. The itinerary with the fictitious Mrs. Wallace stood her in good stead, but really, no one was trying to catch her out. When she became confused about dates and places, everyone made allowances. They had no reason to suspect that she wasn’t telling the truth.

Even when she refused to write about the places she was supposed to have visited, no one raised awkward questions. A. W. Euman was known to write about serious subjects and her holiday with the widow, so she said, was too frivolous for words.

She thought long and hard before she wrote her first piece for
The Journal.
After much soul-searching, she decided that she couldn’t allow Marcus’s feelings to sway her. She wrote about her own father, but she wrote for Penn, and everything she wrote came straight from her heart. She knew Helen and Samantha would read her column, and she tried to give them a ray of hope.

On her second week back, she met Marcus, as if by chance, when she was out riding on the heath. In one comprehensive glance, he took in Vixen, the sidesaddle, and her pursed lips.

“Oh, my poor Cat,” he said, and they both laughed.

He’d been to see his solicitors, he told her. Dissolving their marriage was turning out to be more complex than they’d thought. Messrs. Brown and Armitage were exploring every alternative, and when he had something more to tell her, he would come to her again.

She watched him ride away till he disappeared from view, and she still went on staring for a long time after.

Though she rarely left Hampstead now, the Lowries persuaded her to accompany them to the theater one night. Emily thought she looked poorly and needed to be taken out of herself. Amy was in her box, as beautiful as ever, but it seemed to Catherine that her court of admirers had dwindled. This was explained by Emily, who pointed out another box. Julia Bryce’s star was on the rise, judging by the crush of gentlemen with her, and as her star rose, the star of her rival waned.

Emily whispered, “That’s how it is in the
demimonde.
There’s room for only one queen. You know, I can’t help feeling sorry for Mrs. Spencer.”

Catherine nodded. Then the curtain went up, and the play began.

During the intermission, she came face-to-face with Amy in the hallways. To Catherine’s disappointment, Amy looked right through her. Not by one look or word did she acknowledge her in any way.

The following morning, however, she received a hand-delivered letter. She recognized Amy’s writing, and her heart was pounding when she sat down at her desk and tore it open. It was a long letter, begging for her forgiveness for all the wrong Amy had ever done her. Then Amy made her confession. She had done the Earl of Wrotham a great wrong, she said, and she wished to make amends.

Catherine read on, knowing exactly what Amy was going to say, and as she read, she felt angry and weepy by
turns. If only she had known this before she’d met Marcus; if only she’d never found Amy in the stable; if only she’d trusted her heart and confronted Marcus with Amy’s lies. And if only there was a way to turn the clock back.

Amy’s letter answered one thing that had been puzzling her. She was sure this confession was the result of
El Grande’s
influence. He was a priest, or as close as made little difference. He’d obviously taken Amy under his wing. That must be why he’d been out walking with her.

Amy ended her letter by saying that she was leaving London to spend the winter months in Italy, and though she would never acknowledge Catherine publicly, she wished her to know that she would always love her.

That night, Catherine donned her partisan’s clothes and went out on the heath with Vixen.

It was Emily who brought her the latest gossip about Marcus.

“What about the Earl of Wrotham?” asked Catherine, trying to appear casual.

She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with air. Earlier that morning they had gone to church, and afterwards they had decided to go for a walk on the heath.

“For the first time, his whole family has joined him in town—all except the youngest, who has gone off to university. Everyone is talking about it.”

“Why?”

“Well, of course you know that the dowager Lady Wrotham’s father was a butcher—and she’s never been received all these years!”

“He was a tailor,” said Catherine.

“Whatever. Don’t interrupt, Catherine. The thing is, the earl has spread the word that where he goes, she goes.” Emily clapped her hands. “And it’s worked. They’re seen everywhere.”

Catherine wanted to throw her bonnet in the air. She flicked a glance at Emily, then looked away. “What do they say about Wrotham’s wife?”

“Oh, she’s gone home to visit some sick relative or other. Naturally, there’s a great deal of speculation.”

“Oh, naturally,” replied Catherine dryly.

They had come to one of the natural ponds on the heath, and they stopped for a moment to catch their breath and watch the ducks. There were plenty of pedestrians taking the air, and a few riders exercising their horses.

Catherine raised a hand to rub the back of her neck, and suddenly paused. Pivoting, she scanned the faces of the people behind her.

“What is it?” asked Emily.

Catherine said slowly, “I had the strangest feeling, as though someone were watching me. This isn’t the first time I’ve had this feeling lately.”

Emily turned her head to look over her shoulder. “I don’t see anyone.” She looked at Catherine, cleared her throat, and said, “Catherine, I’ve found the perfect man for you.”

“There is no such person as the perfect man.”

Emily ignored the cynicism. “He’s just moved into the area and has rented the Smythes’ place in Church Row. You’ll meet him when next you come for dinner. He’s to be the guest of honor. His name is Nigel Dearing.”

Catherine came to an abrupt halt. “I like the single life.”

Emily walked on past her. “That’s because you don’t know any other.”

And to that, Catherine could find no reply.

As she undressed for bed, she thought about what Emily had told her about Marcus’s family. That he had taken her advice touched her deeply. Perhaps, in time, he would soften even more. Perhaps he would come to forgive her for all the lies she’d told him.