Dangerous to Hold (36 page)

Amy looked at him without comprehension, then her face crumpled, and she sank into her chair. “I never
meant to hurt anyone,” she said. “Oh, God, what have I done?”

Marcus stayed for half an hour, not because he wanted to, but because Amy was nearly distraught. She apologized to him over and over again, and couldn’t stop weeping. He began to regret he’d given in to the impulse to enter her house. He’d never known Amy to lose her composure, and he was sure there was a lot more to her distress than his angry outburst. He did learn from her, however, that she had written to Cat, exonerating him entirely of her false accusation.

Somewhat mollified, he waited until Amy had got a grip on herself before he took his leave.

He was on the front steps when the door that had just been closed on him opened and Amy stepped out. She was slightly breathless, and the brightness in her eyes did not come from tears.

In a low, vibrating tone, she said; “What is my sister to you, Lord Wrotham? And how do you come to know that Catherine
is
my sister?”

“Because I’m married to her,” he said savagely, and began to descend the stairs.

He hadn’t reached the bottom when there was a deafening explosion, and something ripped by him and plowed into the door lintel. Amy screamed, and passersby scurried to take cover as horses plunged and reared up.

“Murder,” someone shouted, adding to the panic on Pall Mall.

Marcus grabbed Amy by the arm, hustled her inside the house, and slammed the door closed. A few swift paces took him to the window of one of the downstairs rooms. He inched back the curtain and peered out. On the street, pandemonium reigned. No one seemed to know where the shot had come from or who had been the target. People were shouting for the Watch, and coachmen were trying to bring their horses under control.

He heard a sound and turned. Amy had sagged against the door for support, and her face was parchment-white.
Her voice shook so badly, he could hardly make out her words.

“Who would want to kill me, Marcus?”

“That shot wasn’t meant for you. It was meant for me.” Then he shouted, “Foley!”

The footman looked as shaken as his mistress when he answered Marcus’s summons.

Marcus was already on the move. “Lock all the doors and don’t open them to anyone but me, do you understand?”

“Marcus, you’re not going to leave me!” Amy cried out.

When he looked into her panic-stricken face, he softened his tone. “You’ll be safe here, Amy. Foley will look after you until I return.”

“But where are you going?”

“I’m going to see Major Carruthers,” he said, mystifying her. He turned and headed for the back door.

Major Carruthers was an early riser, and he was fully dressed when Marcus finally tracked him down. He ate his breakfast in silence as Marcus told him about the latest attack. Marcus had declined breakfast, but he’d accepted coffee.

“Let me see if I have this right,” said Carruthers. “You were at Lady Tarrington’s ball, then you went out to Hampstead to talk to Catherine, and finally ended the evening with Mrs. Spencer.”

“What of it?” demanded Marcus, not liking something in the major’s tone of voice.

“Only this. I wonder why your attacker chose that particular moment to shoot you. Why not when you left the ball, or when you were in Hampstead?”

“If he’d followed me from the ball, he wouldn’t have had the opportunity until I left Hampstead, and there were no lights outside my house. I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. But Pall Mall is well lit. I was a sitting duck, and it would be easy to slip away in the panic he’d created.”

“Or Mrs. Spencer might have been the target.”

“You don’t really believe that!”

Carruthers stared at Marcus for a moment then shook his head. “No, I don’t really believe that. As I see it, there are two ways of explaining this. The first harks back to the time you and your comrades were in
El Grande’s
hideout.”

“You believe the rumor that’s going around? You think this is a vendetta?”

“It’s still a possibility in view of this new attack.” He looked up at Marcus. “I’m sure you’ve thought of the other explanation for the attack on you—and the incident with Catherine on the tower stairs.”

Marcus said flatly, “I don’t believe my heir would do such a thing.”

“No? Then let me ask you this. Before Catherine slipped on those stairs, did anyone think she might be pregnant with the future heir?”

Marcus was on the point of dismissing this when he suddenly remembered a conversation at the dinner table at Wrotham. They had used the excuse about Catherine’s hip injury so she wouldn’t have to go riding. But no one had believed them. Helen had exclaimed,
You’re with child!
which was what they’d all been thinking.

Seeing that look on Marcus’s face, Carruthers said, “I thought as much.”

The silence that followed was broken by Marcus when he burst out, “We can’t go on this way. We have to put an end to this business once and for all.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea. You’re the expert. You tell me.”

Carruthers answered, “Short of shipping off to the colonies with Catherine and making a new start there, I haven’t the faintest idea either.”

“Why Catherine? She should be safe enough as long as no one knows she was Catalina.”

“I don’t think we can take anything for granted any more.”

Marcus jumped to his feet. “Thank you, Major,” he said. “At least we agree on one thing. I’m going to keep
Catherine out of harm’s way even if I have to gag and tie her down until our murderer is caught.” He strode to the door. “But take my word for it—my brother is not behind this.” Even as he said the words, he wondered if he believed them.

Later that morning, Catherine came downstairs to find Marcus waiting for her in her study. She could tell just by looking at him that he hadn’t had much sleep the night before. Though Mrs. McNally had told her that Lord Wrotham had something urgent to discuss with her, she’d interpreted that to mean that he wished to haul her over the coals for running away from him while he was still asleep. Now, as he came forward to greet her, she knew it was more serious than that.

“What is it, Marcus? Why do you look so grim?” He shut the study door before turning to answer her. “I don’t mean to frighten you,” he said. He waited for her to sit down, then he took the chair opposite. “It’s Amy. A few hours ago, someone shot at us. No, she’s not hurt, but she’s shaken.” Briefly he described what had happened.

She stared at him in blind horror. “It’s starting up again. My God, there’s no end to it. But why Amy? Why would anyone want to hurt Amy? It must have been meant for you, Marcus.”

Marcus agreed with her, but he’d decided that the best way to keep Catherine out of danger was to play up the danger to Amy. “We can’t be sure of anything. Perhaps the murderer knows Amy is your sister, I don’t know. What I do know is that she was badly scared and I want you to look after her while I try to get to the bottom of things.”

“Of course I’ll look after her, if she’ll let me.” A thought suddenly struck her. “But
why
did you go to my sister? Did you suspect something? Did she?”

There was a moment of silence, then he said, “I was
returning to Lady Tarrington’s ball this morning and happened to pass Amy’s house. On impulse, I decided to pay a call on her.”

“You were going to a ball at four o’clock in the morning? After … after we’d been together?”

“Actually, it was closer to five. We don’t keep early hours in the city, Cat.”

He was challenging her, but she decided not to take the bait. There was more to worry about here than her petty jealousies. “What does Amy think?”

Evidently, she’d passed some test, for Marcus flashed her a grin. “Amy thinks it could be one of her rivals, or someone with a grudge against her.”

“That doesn’t seem likely.”

“No.”

She jumped to her feet and went to the window that overlooked the heath. Everything looked so peaceful and untroubled, while inside her head it felt as though a shell had exploded. There was no coherence. Everything was in fragments.

She turned to look at him. “Amy can’t stay any longer in her house in Pall Mall. She must come here to me.”

“If the murderer knows Amy is your sister, this is the first place he’ll look for her. You and Amy must go somewhere else.”

“What about you? What are you going to do, Marcus?”

“What I should have done a long time ago. I’m going to find out exactly what’s going on.”

“You’re going to set a trap for the murderer. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“I have to try something. We can’t just wait for him to strike. He’ll succeed sooner or later.”

She studied his face. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to use your Spanish sketches and notes as bait.”

When she started to protest, he interrupted her. “I’m putting my bet on the Rifleman. You and I know there’s no sketch of him—but he doesn’t know that, does he?
You’ll have to help me, Cat. I need you to write an article for
The Journal
about
El Grande’s
base.”

“What kind of article?”

“First I want you to get ready to spend a week in the country. I’ll tell you everything when we are in the carriage. I’ve already told the McNallys that you are visiting a sick friend in Richmond.”

“What friend?”

“The Widow Wallace.”

“But where are we really going?”

“We’re going to pick up Amy, and then we’re going to my grandmother’s dower house in Chelsea, which has been empty for some time.”

“Does Major Carruthers know about this?”

“No,” he replied emphatically. “I don’t want his agents swarming all over the place. I want our murderer to feel very safe. I don’t want him to suspect a thing.”

“If there’s going to be trouble, I want to be with you. Marcus, I was once a partisan. I know how to use a pistol.”

“That’s why I want you with Amy. I don’t want you to let her out of your sight.”

He wasn’t giving her a chance to think. “But … but what have you told Amy?”

“I’ve told her everything.”

“Everything?” she asked, appalled. “You’ve told her about Spain? About us? About Catalina? About our forced marriage?”

“I’ve told her everything. Now, where are those sketches and notes?”

She walked to the false bookcase, depressed the lever and swung the door open.

“Very ingenious,” said Marcus, and began to gather up portfolios and journals.

If Marcus hadn’t been racing against the clock, he would have stayed longer with Catherine and Amy after he brought them to the dower house. They were sisters and that was about all they had in common, that and an odd kind of loyalty that transcended their differences. He
wished there was something he could do or say to smooth over the awkwardness, but he didn’t have that luxury at the moment.

He got over the awkwardness of his own situation by pretending it didn’t exist. He spoke to Catherine as if she were his wife, and he addressed Amy as if she were his sister.

He’d told Amy a lot more than he’d told Cat. Amy was the bait to keep Catherine immobilized while he tracked down his prey. He’d known that Cat would do anything for her sister.

It took him an hour or two to arrange for suitable servants to staff the house. Next he went to
The Journal
offices, just off Soho Square. Though he and Gunn were reserved to begin with, Marcus warmed considerably when he learned that Gunn had just become engaged to Viscount Stranmere’s widow.

It took a little longer for Gunn to warm up to him, but when Marcus promised him that
The Journal
, and only
The Journal
, would carry what might turn out to be the story of the decade, Gunn lost some of his reserve too.

“You’re setting a trap?”

“It’s the only way.”

“But how does Catherine come into this?”

“That will all come out, and your paper will be the one to carry the story. Will you do it?”

Melrose Gunn stared at Marcus for a long moment, then a slow grin broke over his face. “I’d do anything for Catherine,” he said.

Marcus’s brows shot up, then he, too, grinned. “Then that’s settled.”

He was almost out the door when Gunn called after him, “Good luck, and be careful.”

Marcus knew he would find Peter Farrel at White’s, his club in St. James’s. When they were settled in comfortable upholstered chairs in the reading room, enjoying a quiet glass of Madeira, Marcus came to the point.

“Peter, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“What is it?”

The sleepy-eyed look that always gave Farrel the appearance of a gentle giant had disappeared. Instead, a pair of flinty gray eyes was trained unwaveringly on Marcus. Marcus smiled. This was the real Peter Farrel, the veteran of the Spanish Campaign.

Marcus said, “It’s about my brother, Penniston.”

“What about him?”

Marcus cocked his head. “What do you think of him?”

“To be frank, I thought at first we had a lot in common. He’s an expert on horses and he’s a keen hunter.”