Seduced by a Stranger (16 page)

The following morning, Catherine breakfasted alone. She was not certain how she felt about that, for she both missed Gabriel’s unique brand of conversation and felt relieved not to have to face him in the aftermath of the kiss they had shared.

Last night, they had both taken their masks off, but she had been far more naked than he. The thought was unsettling.

A part of her felt certain he absented himself today out of consideration for her, that he offered her a respite from the raw emotions his presence stirred. The larger part of her felt certain that the sole reason she ate alone was because he had business elsewhere, for he had never struck her as an overly empathetic individual. In all likelihood, contemplation of her emotions and her comfort had never entered his mind.

With her meal complete, she rose and took her book to the small yellow sitting room at the front of the house. The light there was wonderful for reading and she was quite enthralled with Dr. Frankenstein’s story now, anxious to see where it would take him. And her. In a way, she felt as though she accompanied him on his journey, as though she was the one questing for dangerous knowledge.

The story engrossed and provided a respite from her thoughts. She was restless, tired, for her night had passed in tossing and turning and battling haunting memories. But the fresh light of day had brought renewed determination to bury all the things that had no place in her life now, to lock them away in the box she assigned them, and to build distance between herself and Gabriel St. Aubyn.

That was the only safe option. To let him burrow beneath her defenses was a mistake she would undoubtedly pay for. She felt certain of that.

For a time, she read, immersing herself in the story. Her heart bled for Justine, accused of a murder she did not commit. And though she abhorred his weakness, she understood Victor’s hesitance to reveal the reasons Justine could not have killed William, for that would have seen Victor judged insane. There were things in this book that made her shudder, made her feel like weeping, not only for the characters within, but for the parallels to her own secrets.

Had Gabriel known when he gave her this book that the story would reach inside her and pluck at old wounds? Did it do the same for him? Or was it mere entertainment he sought when he read this?

She would know those answers only if she delved into his thoughts. She doubted he would allow such intrusion. Not by her. Not by anyone. And she was not certain if she even wanted to know what tragedies had shaped him, what secrets he held. That could only serve to make her more confused. Better to hold him at a distance, to learn nothing of his secrets and share none of her own. She had already given him far too many glimpses of her private truths.

At length, she rose and crossed to the window, the one that gave her a clear view of the grounds and the distant woods, and a part of the long, graveled drive. Sweeping aside the yellow velvet curtain, she stared out at the world beyond the glass. The sky was overcast, heavy with charcoal-limned clouds, but at brief intervals a bright shaft of sunlight would break through to dance across the grass and trees, then disappear once more.

She heard the sound of hoofbeats before the horse came into view, for her position allowed a glimpse of only the far end of the long drive. She waited, and after a moment, she saw Gabriel, mounted on his great black beast, cantering away from the house.

As she watched, his path crossed that of a carriage that turned into the drive and came toward the abbey. He did not stop, nor did the carriage; they simply passed on the drive, each continuing on their way.

Curiosity stirred. She wondered who came to Cairncroft that they did not warrant even a brief greeting from the master.

She turned from the window and hurried out of the sitting room, returning to the breakfast room where the window offered a clear view of the section of the drive that was nearer the house. She was just in time to see the gleaming black coach rock to a halt and the door swing open.

A man, tall and broad, stepped down, his face turned away from her. What little she might have seen of his features was obscured by the brim of his hat. A black greatcoat billowed about him as he moved away from the coach, and Catherine felt a stirring of familiarity. Something in the way he walked…his height…something…

He stopped, his posture relaxed, then he turned fully toward her. The face was one she knew well now. Beautiful. Severe.

With a gasp, Catherine shrank into the shadows.

The man was St. Aubyn.

But how? She had seen him only moments past, riding away from the abbey on his great black beast, garbed in tan cord breeches and a dark brown, square-cut riding coat. It was impossible that he could be this man, newly emerged from the carriage, standing on the drive in black greatcoat and hat.

Yet here he was.

Determined to get to the root of this, Catherine lifted her skirt and rushed from the room, tearing along the long, dim hallway in a most unladylike fashion. She was breathing rapidly, her pulse racing as she skidded to a stop on the narrow set of stairs that led to the main entry hall. She paused some five risers from the bottom.

The front door was open, held that way by Mrs. Bell, and through the portal stepped the man she had seen through the window.

For a moment, her head spun at the impossibility of what she saw. Gabriel, standing in a place he could not possibly be. How? How had she seen him only moments past riding away from Cairncroft, even crossing the path of the carriage, only to have him emerge from within it? What manner of illusion was this?

Mrs. Bell smiled in greeting, even offering her hand, which the newcomer closed in his own black-gloved one and gave a quick squeeze. The oddity of that greeting struck Catherine, as did the bright smile he flashed.

An open, happy smile.

White teeth and crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

It was then she realized the newcomer could not possibly be Gabriel, who never smiled like that and certainly never interacted with the housekeeper in such an easy, friendly manner. No, more than friendly.
Affectionate
.

She saw the differences now. The height and build were similar, the color of his hair, even the angle of his jaw and the slant of his cheeks. But this man had a slight bump at the bridge of his nose, and as he took his hat from his head, she saw that his hair, while thick and honey-hued, was far shorter than Gabriel’s and a shade or two darker. Then he turned his face toward her and any doubt she might have harbored evaporated entirely, for his eyes were a clear and vivid green, while Gabriel’s were amber gold.

His gaze raked her in a leisurely assessment, his mouth curving in a far different sort of smile than the one he had offered Mrs. Bell, and Catherine understood from that perusal quite a bit about him. This man knew women and liked them very much. He was not the aloof, cold creature that Gabriel was.

Which made him far less intriguing.

“Are you his brother?” Catherine asked, not bothering with niceties, certain he would not be surprised by the question. But
she
was surprised, for in all her time here at Cairncroft, and in all the years she and Madeline had corresponded, she had never heard mention that Gabriel had a brother. Not a word. Not a whisper.

Mrs. Bell gasped and pressed her hand to her mouth, as though the query was horrific in some manner. Catherine might have ignored that reaction except the stranger’s eyes narrowed and his expression closed in clear indication that her question crossed some unseen boundary.

“No,” he replied, recovering his aplomb so quickly Catherine almost believed she had imagined the telltale signs of caginess. He offered a perfectly executed bow with a flourish. “I am Mr. Sebastian St. Aubyn, the black sheep cousin, the wastrel, the wanderer”—he winked, and added audaciously—“come home for a visit. Haven’t I, Mrs. Bell?” He turned to the housekeeper, and to Catherine’s utter amazement Mrs. Bell fluttered her lashes like a girl.

Catherine introduced herself, and with the formalities taken care of, she asked, “Where were you wandering, Mr. St. Aubyn?”

“Egypt,” he said with a grin, then addressed the housekeeper. “Mrs. Bell, can you offer a starving man some sustenance? In the blue parlor? You know I favor the size and comfort of the chairs in there.” He cocked his head to the side. “And Miss Weston, can you offer this lonely soul some company? I shall regale you with stories of my travels and I promise you
will
be entertained.”

He shed his greatcoat and offered her his arm.

“I should be delighted to join you,” Catherine murmured, curious about more than his travels. She thought he might be persuaded to answer some questions about Gabriel and Madeline and the pall that hung over the abbey. And if not persuaded, tricked.

Taking his arm, she accompanied him to the blue parlor. She could see why he liked it; the size was cozy rather than imposing, the chairs comfortable, the windows opening to a small, walled garden that was pretty if slightly wild.

At first they exchanged small pleasantries. Catherine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as they discussed the weather at some length. If she had required any further proof that this man was not Gabriel, the turn of their conversation would have provided it beyond a shadow of a doubt.

A maid brought tea and cakes, along with a cold pheasant pie and some fruit.

Sebastian St. Aubyn polished off a healthy portion as they conversed. She noticed that he did not ask after Madeline or Gabriel, and she wondered why, but did not ask. Good manners prevented it, but more than that, she felt that such a line of inquiry would give too much away and perhaps put him on his guard. Better to see where he led the discourse and glean what information she could before formulating her questions and coaxing free what answers she might.

When he was done with his meal, Catherine poured more tea, and said, “Mr. St. Aubyn, I will hold you to your word now. Do tell me about Egypt and your travels.”

“There are too many St. Aubyns in this house,” he observed. “You must call me Sebastian. I know it is presumptuous on such short acquaintance”—he held up one hand to forestall any argument—“but confusion will otherwise ensue.” His lashes lowered and he cast her a sidelong glance. “Besides, I should very much like to hear my name from your lips.”

Practiced. Glib. His sultry tone and inappropriate words marked him for a rake. Or perhaps, for a man who wished to be perceived as one.

“Then you must call me Catherine, and we shall both be presumptuous. Now tell me about Egypt.”

“Egypt is hot,” he said with a laugh, “and full of sand.”

“Is it? Only sand? No green river delta? No farms? No cities?” She sipped her tea. “No pyramids or tombs?”

He sent her a sharp look. “You are well read, Catherine. Is it Egypt that fascinates you, or geography in general?”

“I like to read.”

His brows rose. “Books on geography rather than the latest penny dreadful?”

“Books on geography and science and philosophy. Even agriculture.”

“I suspect there is an interesting reason for that…” His voice trailed away into a pregnant pause, and when she made no reply, he leaned back and held both palms forward as he said, “A lady deserves her secrets. I shall not press.” But his tone suggested he wanted to do just that.

Pressed or not, the reason for her eclectic self-education was one she would never reveal. There had been months when the books she had read had been her sole link to her sanity, and she had been so grateful for them. They had carried her away from the home that had become her prison.

But she said none of that. Instead, she asked, “Are you recently returned from your travels?”

“Not so recent, but recent enough.”

Well, there was an answer that was none at all. Perhaps he was more like his cousin than she had thought.

“Have you come from London today? You must have traveled through the night to be here at such an early hour.”

“Not from London, no.”

“Then you have been staying in the area? With friends?”

“Something of the sort.”

He leaned back in his chair and turned his head fully toward her at the exact moment the sun slid behind a cloud. The light in the room dimmed, casting his features in shadow. The set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the dark cloth of his square-cut coat and waistcoat…they reminded her of similar shadows painting the man she had seen lurking at the edge of the woods, the one she had mistaken for Gabriel time and again.

Was it Sebastian who prowled and skulked? Did he watch the abbey? For what purpose?

Given the evasive nature of his replies to her questions, she could not discount the possibility. Despite his open, easy manner—or perhaps because of it—there certainly was no reason for her to trust him.

The clouds shifted and the sun broke free once more, shining through the glass panes to refract in a rainbow of color, dispelling the shadows but not the weight of her distrust.

“You chose a lovely day for travel,” Catherine observed. “I arrived under the pall of a rainstorm that had me wondering if the coach would become an ark and float away.”

“Ah, the incomparable smell of a damp, rotting hired carriage. I know it well,” he replied with a small smile.

How had he surmised that she had arrived in a hired carriage? She had never said it.

An accurate guess, or something else? The possibility that Sebastian had been in the area for some time, that he was, in fact, the watcher in the woods—spying on the abbey, spying on
her
—could not be ignored.

In that moment, she was made certain of two things. First, Sebastian’s easy, charming manner concealed a different character entirely. Everything was evasion and mild flirtation, but his true nature swam beneath the surface, possibly a dark and dangerous thing. It seemed that Gabriel was not the only St. Aubyn to present a false face. She found she preferred his cool mask to Sebastian’s mummery.