Dangerous to Hold (4 page)

The door was opened by the same august-looking footman in silver livery who had turned her away twice before. From the floor above came the sounds of a riotous party. This time, she didn’t bandy words. She thrust her pistol under the footman’s nose and had the satisfaction of seeing the supercilious look wiped from his face. As he fell back, she entered the house and kicked the door closed behind her. So far so good.

“Kindly inform Mrs. Spencer that she has a visitor,” she said. “No. Don’t raise your arms. I mean you no harm. But if Mrs. Spencer refuses to see me, you may tell her that I shall discharge this pistol and bring the house down about her ears, not to mention the militia. I warn you, I shall scream rape if she refuses to see me. Frankly, I don’t think her guests would care for the scandal that would ensue. Tell her I said so.”

From the top of the stairs came a woman’s voice. “John, who is it?” Amy’s voice.

Catherine indicated a door that was just off the entrance hall. “You may tell Mrs. Spencer that I shall be in there,” she said. Without waiting to see what the footman would do, she pushed through the door.

The room was lit by two candles strategically placed on either end of the marble mantelpiece. Catherine stood with her back to the light so that she would have a clear view of her sister when she entered the room. And she had no doubt that this time Amy would agree to see her. It was one thing to turn her away when the house was empty, but quite another when she had a house full of blue-blooded gentlemen who might well be hauled off to be interrogated by magistrates. That kind of scandal would be hard to live down, even for London’s most notorious courtesan.

She didn’t have long to wait. The door opened on a cloud of perfume, and Amy stood there before her. Beautiful wasn’t the word to describe her. She was stunning. A profusion of tiny black ringlets framed her face; diamonds glittered at her throat; her eyes were huge and dark. The transparent gauze dress was molded to creamy white breasts and long limbs, concealing nothing. Salome down to the last veil.

Her voice spoiled the effect. It was cold and ugly. “How dare you utter threats and push your way into my house.”

Catherine forced herself to speak calmly. “I dare because I want to speak with my sister.”

“Your sister?” Amy’s nostrils flared. “As I remember, you told me in Lisbon that you never wanted to see me again. So what in hell’s name are you doing here, Cat?”

It had been a long, long time since anyone had called her Cat. Her throat thickened and she said hoarsely, “I was angry in Lisbon. Shocked. I blamed you for Papa’s death. I said things I shouldn’t have said, things I regretted almost at once. But it was too late. I couldn’t find you. I don’t blame you for what you’ve become. I blame the men who prey on you. I’m sorry for Lisbon, Amy. I’m so sorry.”

Amy showed her teeth. “You may take your pathetic apology and get the hell out of my house. Who do you
think you are to pity me? Look around you, Cat. I own this house. I earned it with my own money, yes, and every stick of furniture in it.”

“Amy …”

“Your sister is dead. That’s what you told me in Lisbon. And that’s the truth. The Amy you knew doesn’t exist.”

“I can’t believe that it has come to this. Now that I’ve found you, won’t you at least give me a chance?”

Amy took a few steps around the room, stopped and asked abruptly, “What is it you want from me?”

Catherine knew that what she really wanted she was unlikely to get. Amy would never go back to the house in Hampstead, not after living in this luxury. But there must be something else she could do besides prostitute her body for money.

As Catherine groped to put her thoughts into words, Amy exhaled a long exasperated breath. “If you think you can persuade me to give up all this,”—she gestured comprehensively with one hand—”you can think again. I have my own box at the opera, yes, and my own carriage. I give parties and receptions and mix with fashionable society. My gowns are made up by the most exclusive modiste in London. These are real diamonds you see at my throat. Need I say more?”

For the first time, Catherine spoke with asperity. “The only fashionable society you mix with are rakes and roués, yet even these degenerates would not dream of introducing you to their sisters for fear you might contaminate them. And this house, for all its elegance, is still notorious. You are almost thirty-three years old. How long do you think you can continue like this?”

“Rakes and roués?” Amy laughed. “What would you know about rakes and roués? Go home, Cat, where you belong. You were right when you said you had no sister. Neither do I. It’s as if she never existed.”

In answer to this, Catherine set down her muff with the pistol still in it, and opened her reticule. She kept her eyes on her sister as sovereigns spilled through her fingers and onto the carpeted floor. “You sent me these, didn’t you? Why, Amy? Why did you send me money?”

For a moment, Army seemed to be debating with herself, then shrugging, she replied, “I saw you from an upstairs window when you came here two days ago. You looked shabby. I thought you could use the money. I’m sure Father didn’t leave you well off.”

“You see?” Catherine said eagerly. “You’re not as hard as you pretend to be. We are sisters, Amy. That means something.”

“Oh, for mercy’s sake, just take the money and go before someone finds you here.”

“I don’t want your money. I want us to be friends again.”

“Friends!”
The word echoed off the walls. Amy lowered her voice. “You were always the clever one, Cat, but you never did possess a shred of common sense. I see nothing has changed. Go home. Forget about me. I don’t want to see you here again.”

“Then write to me. Answer my letters.”

“What would be the point? Anything I might have to say to you has already been said”

Before Catherine could reply to this, voices were heard on the stairs calling for Amy, men’s voices.

“I must go,” said Amy, “and so must you. Don’t show your face here again.” She moved quickly to the door, hesitated, then swept out without a backward glance.

When the door closed, Catherine’s shoulders slumped. Deep down, she’d known she was going to be turned away, but it still hurt. But what hurt most was that she really didn’t recognize her sister in the hard, mercenary creature she had just spoken to. She didn’t feel like crying. She wanted to lash out and hurt the men who were responsible for what her sister had become. Amy hadn’t always been like this. She’d been a romantic, dreamy sort of girl until she’d fallen in with the wrong crowd. And Aunt Bea hadn’t helped. And neither had she when she’d said all those unforgivable things in Lisbon.

She picked up her muff and reticule, but left the sovereigns where they had fallen. The same footman who had opened the front door to her saw her out, or rather, saw her off the premises. He’d been warned not to take
any chances, or so Catherine deduced from his clawlike grip on her elbow. She had hardly stepped out of the house when the door closed behind her with a resounding slam.

She stared at that closed door in boiling resentment. For two pins, she’d write a series of articles on the notorious courtesans of London. Jaw clenched, she marched down the steps just as three men in black silk capes descended from a hackney.
Gentlemen
, she thought with a sneer and wanted to spit on them. It was evident that they were bound for Amy’s house. Caution was forgotten as she angrily pushed past them. The first one gave way with a muffled exclamation. The second was not so polite. He caught her by the waist and swung her in a circle.

“Whoa,” he said. “Why all the haste? The party is this way, darling. You’re going the wrong way.” His breath smelled strongly of spirits, and Catherine’s head went down.

“Marcus, let her be,” said the third man, “She’s not one of Amy’s friends. Anyone can see she’s a respectable lady.”

“If she’s a respectable lady,” said Marcus, “why is she coming from Amy’s house?”

His two companions laughed and mounted the stairs. One used his cane to rap on the door.

“Look up, darling,” said Marcus. “I want to see what you’re hiding beneath the brim of your bonnet. I promise I won’t bite you.”

Catherine didn’t move. She stood there silent and stiff-backed, resisting as he cupped her chin, forcing her head up.

He was tall and lean, and gave the impression of an athlete honed for action. His looks were Irish, dark hair, vivid blue eyes, and a mouth that looked as if it smiled a lot. It was not smiling now.

It was a face she recognized, a face she had hoped never to see again. She was staring at Marcus Lytton, the Earl of Wrotham.

Her husband.

The door opened, and light streamed out, illuminating Catherine’s face. “Are you coming, Marcus?” There
was no answer, and the two gentlemen on the steps passed inside the house.

The hands on Catherine’s waist tightened cruelly. “Catalina!” he said, snarling the word. “Catalina! My God, it
is
you!”

Catherine fought her way clear of his arms and backed away from him. She was frightened, more frightened than she had ever been in her life, and her breasts rose and fell with each labored breath. If ever a man was bent on murder, that man was towering over her. As he lunged, she took a quick step to the side and whipped her pistol out of her muff.

“Stand back!” Her voice wobbled as much as the pistol in her hand, and she made a supreme effort to steady both. She had never, in her worst nightmares, imagined that this day would ever come. He was supposed to be in Paris. They moved in different circles. Three years had passed since she had last seen him. He couldn’t remember her clearly.
He couldn’t.
Too many women had passed in and out of his life since then.

“Stand back!” she repeated when it looked as if he would come at her again. When he slowly raised his hands she rushed on, “I don’t know who you think I am, but you are mistaken. I never saw you before tonight. I don’t know you.”

Doubt and uncertainty shadowed his eyes. “You’re English,” he said.

“Of course I’m English. What did you expect?”

“My wife was Spanish.”

“Catalina was your wife?”

He nodded.

“I’m not your wife.”

“So it would seem.” He made a slight movement that managed to convey regret, then lowered his arms. “I beg your pardon. I hope I didn’t frighten you, but of course, I must have done. I apologize most sincerely. Now that
I’ve had a better look at you, I see that you’re not Catalina, though you are very like her.”

His words relieved her worst fears, and she lowered the pistol. When she saw that several curious spectators had stopped to watch, including the driver of the hackney, she thrust the pistol inside her muff. She was still trembling, still trying to even her breathing. The temptation to take to her heels was almost overpowering. It would be the worst thing she could do. She must appear natural.

“Apology accepted,” she said. “No harm done,” and with a nod and a smile, she turned to go on her way. She had not taken one step when she was seized from behind and a strong masculine hand gagged her, cutting off her scream of alarm. His other arm clamped her muff to her body, making it impossible for her to get to her pistol. Kicking, writhing, she was lifted off her feet and hauled toward the hackney.

“My wife,” Marcus told the captivated bystanders, “hopes to elope with Lord Berkeley. And I would let her, if it were not for our six children at home.”

Catherine bit down on his thumb and he grunted. When he released her mouth, she cried out, appealing to their audience, “It’s a lie! I don’t know this man.”

There was a menacing murmur from the crowd which Marcus silenced with his next words. “Ours was an arranged marriage. She married me for my wealth and title. Now, she has come to regret it.” Then, in a different tone, for Catherine’s ears only, “Is that not so, my dear wife?”

Catherine knew she was losing the sympathy of the people who could help her, and she cried out desperately. “Fetch the Watch and we’ll soon see who is telling the truth. I’m not his wife, I tell you.”

Her words had the desired effect. Someone called out, “Let ’er be, guv’nor, till we fetches the Watch.”

Marcus ignored the warning. He had the coach door open and was hoisting her inside when the crowd surged forward, sending them both sprawling to their knees. Marcus was their target, and Catherine lost no time in
scrambling free. Once on her feet, she took off like a hare.

She glanced back once and saw that the crowd was dispersing. There was no sign of Marcus and that only increased her panic. She turned into a tavern, hovered just inside the entrance, and when a waiter came forward, waved him away and made for the back door.

The mews of Pall Mall were as different from the front as night from day. There were a few lanterns lit, but their light hardly made an impression on the velvety darkness. She struck out toward the lights of the main thoroughfare, but she had not gone far along that dark lane before she was wishing she had remained in the tavern. Walls seemed to close in on her, and at every small sound, her heart stopped beating. She tried to hurry and went stumbling through muddy potholes and heaps of manure that had been cleared out of stables for the scavengers to collect in the morning. She felt in her coat pocket, retrieved her handkerchief, and held it to her nose.