Chapter 5
“Grandmama, please. Papa can barely find his own feet. Dragging him upstairs is an impossibility!”
Cathy was a very tall woman, only two inches shy of six feet, but she was slender, while her father was tall and sturdy, with a bit of a belly. Her shoulder ached from taking the bulk of that weight.
The hallway felt a mile long, and every step felt like an insult to her dignity. Her mother had been a noblewoman. Her father was the sinking sand she fell into. Now, she had to deal with that same weight. She had to adjust her grip from time to time so that he would not fall to his death.
Harleigh Quinten felt like a dead weight drenched in the cloying scent of port. He had also started snoring. The wet rasp was what was left in the silence of the corridor. This was not how Cathy wanted to spend her night.
On his other side, her grandmother helped by merely prodding his arm with the silver head of her cane. The baroness did not look like she wanted to touch her son-in-law at all. Her lips were pressed thin together with aristocratic revulsion.
“Useless,” she hissed. “Your father is especially useless. I still cannot believe why I gave my daughter consent to marry this man. He cannot even maintain his dignity at dinner. Alas, she would not listen to reason!”
They did manage to reach Harleigh’s chambers.
This time, with joint effort, they performed a coordinated heave and deposited him onto his bed.
He groaned and rolled onto his side, but did not wake up.
Something that looked like drool trickled down his cheek, and Cathy had to stop herself from shuddering.
His boots dangled off the edge of the bed.
She hoped that he would be fully awake for the wedding the following day.
“Look at your father, Cathy. This is what your future may become if you do not find a good husband, or if you live alone.” Cathy reacted to that.
Why would being alone result in this? “Find a wealthy husband as soon as possible. That Lord Eldridge seemed to be interested. He is a fine young man. You must marry as soon as you are still able. Our situation is most precarious.”
Cathy straightened her dress, still gasping from the effort of almost single-handedly hauling her father to bed.
From the corner of her eye, she spied her grandfather’s cat, Napoleon, a large ginger tom who had seen better years.
His tail twitched even though he wore his usual bored expression, perhaps because he had joined in to listen to the argument.
His milky-eyed stare was somehow judgmental.
After locking eyes with Cathy, he yawned, revealing slightly yellow teeth.
“Who would you have me wed, then, Grandmama? Lord Eldridge wanted to spend the evening conversing about hunting dogs. You know how I feel about hunting. Yet another believes a woman’s brain is merely there to assist with decorating ideas. Almost like a parasol or a purse.”
It was then that Napoleon darted away, perhaps bored with where the conversation was going.
“When you choose someone to wed, you are not expected to agree about everything. You are not entering a debating society, young lady!” her grandmama scolded.
“Be that as it may, Grandmama, I want a partner for life. Not a master,” Cathy replied, her voice rising in pitch. “Most men want someone who will obey them without question and without speaking her mind. Most of them are rakes and scoundrels.”
“Have you seen Napoleon?” Lord Marlow had stepped into the room, his ear trumpet at the ready. “I swear that furry beast had entered Harleigh’s room. Napoleon! Where are you, puss?”
“Norman, we are talking about Cathy’s future here. We have no time to look for your cat!” Lady Marlow yelled directly into her husband’s trumpet. “Your granddaughter is afraid that all the men of the ton are rakes, and I am afraid she will never marry.”
“The cakes?” Norman blinked, looking confused. He turned to Cathy and said, “I agree, my dear girl. The cakes tasted like sawdust. They should have hired a better baker.”
Lady Marlow let out an exasperated sigh and turned her attention back to her granddaughter.
“Cathy, have your expensive governesses taught you anything at all? Reformed rakes make the best husbands. I suppose the emphasis is on the word reformed. They know when to settle, and when they do, they are truly settled. They also have the necessary... experience.”
Experience? Cathy felt the chill of genuine horror down her spine.
She was startled at how her grandmother spoke of carnal matters in front of her.
It almost felt like a betrayal. What did she think would tempt her eldest granddaughter to marry?
Certainly not that. To hear Lady Marlow even suggest that a man’s history with drink and women was a proper recommendation for marriage shook the foundations of her beliefs.
However, a traitorous memory of the Duke’s anatomy in her hand could not help but make its way to the surface.
“Napoleon!” Norman shouted, hopping into the hallway. “Can you fetch him for me, Cathy? I think he just ran toward the library.”
“I told you to leave that blasted cat at home, Norman.” Lady Marlow regarded her granddaughter thoughtfully and said, “Help your grandfather find that dastardly feline. I am going to see what Madeline is doing.”
Cathy sighed heavily. She could feel the weight of her family’s expectations pressing down on her.
“Fine. I will look for Napoleon in the library.”
“Napoleon?”
The library was already dim and cool, the fire dying in the hearth.
There was also something more that she could not figure out.
The Longroves’ library felt like a cathedral of shadows.
Cathy did not mind it. The smell of leather and books was already calming her down.
She scanned the floor for a flash of ginger.
“Napoleon?” she whispered.
Nobody was there as far as she could tell, but she always whispered in libraries, or tried her best to.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, Miss Quinten, but I have not seen any emperors in the library as of late.”
Cathy jumped. One hand flew to her throat while the other extended to defend herself.
The shadow that loomed behind the high-backed chair showed itself in the light.
It was none other than the Duke, with his cravat loose and a glass of whiskey in his hand.
The dim light highlighted the sharp angles of his face.
In the semidarkness, his eyes glittered.
“Your Grace,” she breathed, managing it even though her heart was racing. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same,” Tristan replied, his head tilting to one side. That frustratingly charming smirk showed on his face. “Are you here to study for the next challenge, or have you been following me around?”
“I am looking for my grandpapa’s cat,” she snapped. “Since you are too busy thinking about yourself and your drink, I shall leave you here.”
Cathy turned on her heel, stomping her feet for good measure. When she reached the heavy oak door, she expected a little resistance, but not like this. No. She pulled again. It did not budge.
She frowned but pulled harder. The handle turned to one side, but the door was still stuck. She rattled it, sweating a little.
“I... it cannot be. The door is stuck!”
Tristan set his glass down on a table and walked toward her. He moved slowly and deliberately, as he always did.
“Move aside.”
Cathy hated being ordered, but she quickly moved aside. The Duke gripped the handle and pulled. The door did not move at all. He pulled again, his muscles bunching beneath his shirt. Then, he pulled even harder.
“It is locked,” he muttered, looking dazed. “Somebody locked it from the outside.”
Cathy stepped back, suspicion forming in her head. She remembered her grandfather’s timely search for his cat. Then, her grandmother agreed with him that the cat must have gone to the library. How would they know that? How would they agree with each other so quickly?
“Oh no,” she moaned. “They would not.”
“Who would not?” Tristan asked, finally stepping away from the door.
“My grandpapa and grandmama,” she whispered, her face burning with shame and fury. “I have a suspicion that they are behind this. But why would they do this? Could it be that they are trying to compromise us?”
“Yes, your grandfather played it well, too,” Tristan chuckled bitterly. “He said that Brandon was here when I looked for him. Perhaps they are looking to trap us into marriage. Still, they should have chosen a better man for you. I am marrying Miss Longrove tomorrow.”
“Why are you here, then? Why are you not in the parlor, playing games with her?” she challenged. “I hear people want to spend a lot of time together when they are in love.”
“Oh, do not get me wrong; I do not love her, Miss Quinten. She is simply the perfect candidate. She is quiet and poised. The perfect duchess if ever there was one. She knows how to talk to the right people, and knows when not to speak.”
That sounded like an insult to her, and her anger spread in several directions: toward her own dear family members and this rake who spoke of perfect duchesses, as if he had not caused enough scandal in the ton.
“Well, you two make a lovely pair!” Cathy exclaimed sarcastically. “I want it to be clear that I had nothing to do with this awful plan. Even if you were free to marry, I would never marry you, even if you were the last man on earth.”
“How can you be so sure of that?” Tristan demanded, coming closer. She shuddered at his proximity, but was afraid that it might not be because of revulsion. He had managed to turn them around in this little dance, and her back was against the locked door. “You have not even tried.”
“I... I do not understand,” she stammered, trying to avoid his gaze but failing.