Chapter 28
Gideon stood before the long mirror in his chamber, tugging the cuffs of his evening coat until the monogrammed links gleamed just so against the black cloth.
The glass threw back a polished image. A man of wealth, bearing, and, most importantly, a man who had buried the filth of Whitechapel beneath satin and starched linen.
But the reflection felt hollow tonight. And Catherine’s silence gnawed at him still.
She could not bring herself to speak the words I wanted to her. The horror was too great. How could any woman accept such a man? Such a past…
She had also not said the words he dreaded.
That he was not Aaron Tarnley. Instead, she had borne the truth of his past like one might cradle a shard of glass, carefully, unwilling to drop it but unwilling to draw it close either.
Since their return from London, her eyes had been watchful, her smile faint, her voice kind yet cautious.
This is true torture. I have known the torture of flesh. The pain of blades and beatings. And I would endure an eternity of those over one second of this… this… not knowing!
He had known fear before. Fear of hunger, of the knife in a stranger’s hand, of waking in the gutter with nothing. This fear was worse. The fear of losing her. Not to death or another man, to truth. His truth.
Yet tonight we must smile, play gracious hosts, and win Isabella Merrick’s future.
Gideon wanted nothing of the sort. He wanted to lock the doors, to banish his guests. But he could not. He had promised to help, and he would remain true to his word. He grimaced at himself in the mirror. For once, there was no sneering voice in his head. No ghost at his shoulder.
I made my confession. I showed my strength and resolution. There can be no criticism.
Except that he had lacked the courage to make the ultimate confession. He had not told Catherine who he really was.
That revelation, if it came out, would surely not be taken well.
Gideon descended to the great hall where Catherine awaited him. He felt that he was heading to the gallows, to the death of this brief way of life that he had… enjoyed?
He tried to tell himself that it had been an interlude, and an unwelcome one. A circumstance forced upon him by the actions of others and his own spur-of-the-moment chivalry. Then he turned a corner of the staircase and saw her.
Catherine was ethereal in a gown of pale blue that softened her features into something transcendent.
Her eyes were liquid, and they drew him into their depths with the inexorable pull of the strongest tide. Her lips glistened, and her cheeks glowed. Those lips were parted slightly, as though she were breathless, and one hand rested lightly on her stomach as though to quell butterflies.
As he reached her, she placed her hand upon his arm, light as a feather.
Gideon longed to close his fingers over hers and anchor her to him. But he did not dare. She seemed as ephemeral and fragile as a soap bubble. Even a word might make her vanish from his life forever.
Even a breath.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered.
“Thank you,” she replied with a smile that made his heart ache.
He drew breath to ask the question that burned him from within, but no words would come.
“Shall we?” she said with a gentle voice and a shimmering smile.
The staff bustled about, preparing trays of crystal and silver.
Gideon was pleased at the emerging effect.
Their efforts were showing Caerleon at its best, a sure way to impress Lord Blackmere.
And if he was impressed with the home of the Duke of Winchester, he must consider who the Duke held in high esteem. Namely, Everdon.
Sally, balancing a burden of glasses upon a polished tray uncertainly, walked past from the door to the servant’s quarters. It was not a task to which she was accustomed; she was Catherine’s lady’s maid after all.
Seeing the Duke and Duchess seemed to destroy what equilibrium she had managed. Sally faltered. The tray slipped, crashing to the floor, shattering into a dozen glittering fragments.
Sally froze, eyes wide with terror. Gideon knew that look. He had seen it in Whitechapel when a debtor missed his payment and braced for the lash. He took one step forward, and she cringed.
Am I a monster? Is that how they see me? Expecting the lash for any mistake, whether physically or verbally?
“Peace, girl,” he said softly.
He crouched beside her and gathered the largest shards with his bare hands.
“Mind your step, Catherine,” he ordered.
Sally’s hands shook as she bent quickly to help. One sliver cut her finger, and bright blood welled up. Without hesitation, Gideon drew a monogrammed linen napkin from his breast pocket and pressed it to the young girl’s wound.
“There,” he murmured, binding the cloth firmly. “Better you ruin this than your hand.”
The maid’s eyes filled with tears, not of pain but of relief. She whispered her thanks.
“Keep pressure on this for a few minutes—it will stop the bleeding. Have McKay… excuse me, Mr. McKay, send someone to sweep up the glass. Do not worry. Glasses are easily replaced. People are not.”
Sally smiled tremulously and left to follow his instructions, pressing against the linen square with her fingers. Gideon nudged the glass towards the wainscotting with his foot, dusting any shards from his hands.
Catherine’s gaze lingered upon him, unreadable, and Gideon turned quickly aside. If she thought him play-acting at kindness, he could not bear to see it in her eyes.
I did not do that to influence you. But because I see how much like my father I have been. And he is the last person I wish to emulate.
They inspected the dining room and the sitting room in which the guests would be accommodated before dinner. Gideon ensured his finest brandy and cigars were on hand in his study for the men after dinner.
It seemed like no time at all before Mr. McKay was announcing the arrival of Lord and Lady Blackmere. Lord Arthur Merrick, Earl of Blackmere, was solid and florid, his lady at his side in severe silks, and Isabella trailing like a blossom caught in a stiff breeze.
Gideon summoned his most charming smile and bowed. “My lord, my lady, welcome to Caerleon. You honor our house.”
Polite pleasantries followed. Gideon played the gracious duke to perfection, pouring wine, ensuring comforts, even drawing Isabella into talk of poetry and Catherine into talk of music.
Yet beneath it all lay the taut string of Catherine’s silence, and every smile felt to him a performance, every word a mask.
At last, Jeremy and Benedict arrived, fresh from their ride, and the party moved into the dining room. Conversation flowed, wine sparkled, laughter rose, and Gideon, ever aware of his duty, kept Jeremy at the forefront. Until Blackmere’s voice, deep and unyielding, broke the merriment.
“I could not, Your Grace, marry off my daughter to an unemployed man,” the earl declared.
He fixed Jeremy with a stare fit to topple armies.
“You left the King’s service. Soldiering is a respectable profession. A service to King and country. You hold no post now. Tell me, what is your ambition?”
Jeremy froze, color draining from his face.
Gideon knew well enough. Jeremy needed no ambition.
His inheritance was ample. He had accepted a commission for the adventure, but upon inheriting his father’s title and estates, that desire had faded.
Life was too comfortable for the discomfort that adventure brought.
But to speak so would be ruinous. A gentleman who idled on his wealth was no husband for Blackmere’s daughter.
Gideon’s fork clattered softly against his plate as he surged to his friend’s rescue.
“Why, Everdon, perhaps you have forgotten,” he said smoothly to Jeremy, “that we have recently embarked upon a new enterprise together. The Lancashire coal mine? A worthy business, supplying England’s industry and warming her homes.”
All eyes turned to him. Gideon pressed on, voice steady, lying brazenly to protect his friend.
“Jeremy’s expertise has been invaluable. He lent not only his fortune but his keen judgment to the venture. I should not have dared it without him.”
Jeremy stared, astonished, then inclined his head with gratitude.
“Modesty prevented me from putting it in… such words,” he stammered.
Lord Merrick’s brows lifted. He leaned back, impressed despite himself. “Coal, you say? A solid trade. England thrives upon it.”
Gideon smiled thinly, though his insides twisted. Another mask, another lie, though not for long. Jeremy would indeed have his partnership, if only to honor the tale Gideon had spun. He would not risk the lie being discovered, tainting him as well as Jeremy.
First Stafford and now Everdon. My reward is becoming diluted. Who will take a piece of it next?
Dinner eased after that. Merrick thawed, Isabella glowed, Catherine’s eyes shone with pride, or so Gideon hoped. He did not quite dare to believe in that hope.
The guests rose from the table. The conversation had flowed to music and accomplishment.
Catherine had volunteered her ability on the pianoforte, though modestly confessed how long it had been since she practised.
She did not tell them that it had been limited to a few stolen moments at Haventon when her Aunt and Uncle were not at home.
Subsequently, after dinner, the guests moved to the music room, on the floor above.
Catherine felt a strange warmth stirring within her chest. Aaron had not merely rescued Jeremy; he had sacrificed a piece of his own pride.
He had tied himself to Jeremy publicly, binding his friend’s name to a venture that she knew meant a lot to Aaron.
Not for advantage, not for applause, but for Jeremy’s honor and Isabella’s happiness.
Earlier, he had shown compassion to Sally, kneeling on the floor to protect the young maid from the sharp glass.
How many Dukes or even Baronets would do such a thing? He showed kindness, compassion… humanity.
Now he gave freely of his reputation, apparently caring nothing for himself. These were not the acts of a hardened criminal, nor a man of cruelty. They were the acts of a man striving, perhaps fumbling, perhaps uncertain—but striving nonetheless for goodness.
In a quiet moment, as the others gathered about the pianoforte, Catherine caught his sleeve.
“That story you told,” she murmured, “about the mine and Jeremy’s involvement…?”
Aaron’s eyes met hers, steady. “It was not entirely true, but it will be as soon as I can speak to my solicitor and Sir Obadiah. I will not risk Jeremy’s reputation on a falsehood. I promised him partnership, and I shall keep that promise.”
Her breath caught. “Even if I were to leave you?”
Something in his face faltered, then hardened. “I think that is what you mean to do.”
She shook her head, her voice soft but firm. “You must not presume to know my mind.”
Surprise lit his eyes. He gazed at her as though she had spoken a miracle.
Catherine turned quickly, cheeks flushed, and sat at the pianoforte.
Her fingers found the keys. She played, hesitantly and carefully at first. A fumbled note brought embarrassed glances from the guests, but Isabella began to sing, and Catherine found it easier once her playing was not the only sound in the room.
Music spilled forth, filling the room with warmth and light. Isabella’s sweet voice entwined with Catherine’s playing. Her parents smiled fondly. Jeremy gazed at Isabella with awe and devotion.
But Catherine felt only Aaron’s eyes upon her.
Heat bloomed in her chest, running to her cheeks, her fingers trembling on the keys.
When at last she dared glance up, his gaze had not wavered.
The Merricks saw it too. Lady Blackmere whispered to her husband, who patted her hand with an approving nod.
For the first time, Catherine felt the glow of being seen as part of a happy marriage. To the world, they were not a fractured pair forced together by the cruelty and addiction to gossip of their society, but husband and wife, bound by music and glances.
And in that glow, Catherine realized something new—she wanted it to be true.
As the Merricks prepared to depart, Bella pressed Catherine’s hand with delight.
“You have done it! Father may yet consent. Jeremy’s seriousness impressed him, and your husband’s tale of business sealed it. He also said that if the Duke can find such a match in you, then his judgment is clearly to be respected. Which reflects positively on his having Jeremy as a friend!”
Catherine grinned, heart buoyant with relief.
All seemed to be falling into place. She looked across the hall to where Aaron was talking with Blackmere, Everdon, and Daleshire.
His gaze slipped to hers over their shoulders, and she felt the contact like a spear to the heart.
He looked handsome, divinely so. No longer the savage prince but instead a regal statesman.
Bella squeezed her hand and then went to her mother, who stood by the door. In the brief moment that Catherine stood alone, Mr. McKay appeared at her side. The butler’s face, usually impassive, now bore lines of deep concern.
“Your Grace,” he said in a low voice, “I am terribly sorry to intrude. May I have a word? A matter of extreme urgency. It concerns… your husband.”
It seemed as though he had struggled to call Aaron anything other than ‘Your Grace’, and Catherine felt a chill run up her spine at the notion that a man so rigid and formal as Mr. McKay would ever call his master by anything other than the proper title.
Something had changed in the loyal retainer.
It made her heart lurch. The glow of the evening dimmed, shadows creeping back in.
“I will come and speak to you after we have said goodbye to the Merricks,” she told him in a low voice.
“Thank you, Your Grace. May I suggest not mentioning it to your husband?”
That confirmed it. Catherine was about to hear something she would not like.