Chapter 11
Eleven
Sir Francis Ffoulkes left his town house near Fitzroy Square on foot. He headed south, towards the river, and James followed. It was the eve before the house party, and Sir Francis had not yet departed for his own manor in Kent. Odd.
Sir Francis turned into a set of tatty buildings, and James was able to see which door he entered. That one. Those high transom windows were likely part of that particular set of rooms. Would James be able to climb up? Yes.
Criminy. He had gotten a smear of soot on his breeches. Enfield would be livid.
From his perch, James was able to look down into the large, open space. It appeared to be an artist’s studio, filled with canvases and easels and rather a lot of mess.
Sir Francis was speaking to a man. And the man looked familiar.
He was the one who had ruined Sir Francis’ joke at the club.
Had he been Sir Francis’ guest that night or had that been where they had met?
No, it was a well-established relationship.
Sir Francis had called the man Roger. Men addressed men by their surnames or titles unless they were the closest of friends.
These two men might even have grown up together.
One of the transom windows was cracked open, and the men’s voices floated up to James.
“—even more desperate than before—” That was Sir Francis.
“Calm down, Francis. I know her. I know her like I know myself. I have a plan that will back her into a corner. In fact, she’ll be so eager to marry you, she’ll go to Scotland with you, and you’ll have her money before Christmas. I will seduce her—”
A pigeon suddenly became very interested in James and came over to peck at his boot.
“—after you discover us, you will offer to rescue her reputation—”
James tried to shoo the pigeon away.
“—she wouldn’t want to embarrass her daughters.
Especially the youngest one, the unmarried one.
I have heard she cares a great deal about propriety and social appearances since her husband died.
And this way, I’ll get something, a chance to revisit the pleasures of the past, and you’ll get something—”
The pigeon fluttered off, and James missed the first part of what Sir Francis said back to the other man. What was that? DuBois? He had missed what Sir Francis had said about DuBois.
James cursed himself. He was less than worthless as a spy.
The two men were leaving. Together. No time to scramble down, he’d have to stay where he was and hope they didn’t look up. There, they were gone. Now to climb down and set off after them.
“Upsidaisy.”
What a dreadful phrase he had adopted. He really must scrub that from his vocabulary.
Oh. Oh, no. A rip in his tailcoat.
Enfield would have his head.
The blue silk dress, along with the special stays and the translucent chemise, arrived at the Lovelock town house. How fortunate the house party had been delayed. Otherwise, Catherine would not have had the dress in time. She should not have been so impatient.
And how wonderful to find she could still take pleasure in simple, harmless things, like a pretty gown. Girlish, innocent things, like her daughter Arabella did.
A decision must be made. Should Wright pack any of Catherine’s lavender dresses?
No. She would go to the house party completely out of mourning.
After all, she had many lovely dresses from before Edward’s death.
Unfortunately, Sir Francis had an eye for fashion, but perhaps he did not know as much about ladies’ styles as he did about gentlemen’s and would not recognize her dresses as being out of date.
The elegant Sir Francis had been so very solicitous to her since last spring.
Respectful letters detailing his intentions.
Requests to dance with her at balls. Tender compliments.
At the very beginning of his courtship, he had even offered to pay a call on Thomas Drake to induce him to marry Harry “by force, if necessary,” when Harry had been seen coming out of Lord Drake’s rooms. Catherine had assured Sir Francis the engagement was already announced. No forcing was necessary.
He had been very kind.
And kindness is what she needed.
Kindness certainly had been what she had needed seventeen years ago. She had not wanted love when she married Edward Lovelock. She had wanted affection from him, devotion from him. Safety. No more fear and no more hurt.
She had not thought of what her own feelings towards him might be in their marriage.
She had initially, selfishly, only thought of what he could give her.
And as she molded herself into the role of Mrs. Edward Lovelock, she discovered there is more than one kind of love.
Despite herself, she fell in love with Edward.
And when he died, she discovered there is no protection from the agony of loss.
Protection from regret, yes. She had had that.
She knew she had been a good wife to a good man.
But his passing had left an emptiness in her heart.
Sir Francis would understand that emptiness. After all, he had lost his wife recently. And, surely, she could come to love Sir Francis, in time. With him, she would find peace once more. The peace that had been destroyed by James.
No. Don’t think on him.
“Mrs. Lovelock?”
Catherine started. “Yes?”
“Begging your pardon, the slippers you want to wear with your new dress, I have just noticed the heel is loose on this one.”
Oh, bother. Catherine inspected the shoe herself. It was a little thing of dark-blue satin, made for her five years ago and stored away since then. Yes, the heel was loose and would likely come off the first time she wore the slipper.
There was nothing for it but to pay a visit to her cobbler.
She was leaving early tomorrow morning, and it was evening now.
She knew Mr. Quinn lived above the shop, but it was not fair to ask Wright to go in her stead and persuade the cobbler to fix the shoe at this late hour.
However, sweet Mr. Quinn would not refuse Catherine.
She told Wright to go downstairs and order the carriage to be made ready.
She snatched a heavy cloak with a large hood from the piles of clothing she had considered taking to the house party and discarded.
She had worn this particular black velvet mantle in the first months after Edward’s death. It was quite warm and would do.
“But, of course, Mrs. Lovelock, if one of your wee shoes has a heel off, I must set it to rights. ’Twill be the work of a moment.”
The gravy stains on the napkin tucked into his waistcoat showed Mr. Quinn had been in the middle of his dinner when Catherine had knocked on his door and called out to the windows above the shop. She would need to compensate the man well for his trouble. Really, she was quite pampered.
Mr. Quinn took out his tools and murmured to himself, “Oh, yes, I remember this pair,” as Catherine gazed out the window of his little shop.
She had not realized how unsavory this neighborhood became after nightfall.
Several of the men walking about were unsteady, red-faced, intoxicated.
A frowsy woman, undoubtedly a whore, was trying to ply her trade on the pavement.
And, across the street, a man walked furtively, staying in shadows, darting from doorway to doorway.
That man was James.
He was the same as he had been at Madame Beauchamp’s. Alert, intent on something. Serious. Utterly irresistible.
And she was drawn to him like she was a compass needle and he was her true north.
Without thinking, Catherine stepped out of the shop. Her coachman and footman were standing by the horses’ heads and conversing in low voices. She didn’t think they saw her as she went around the back of her carriage and crossed the street.
She was very glad of her black cloak now. She pulled it around her shoulders and the hood over her bright hair, hoping she would fade into the encroaching darkness.
She had no idea what she was doing. Pursuing a man through the streets was pure folly. But she needed to be close to James as she had been in the modiste’s shop. Her heart thumped wildly, and a sweet, fierce excitement tinged with desperation coursed through her body.
She followed him for several streets. But near Covent Garden, she lost him.
He disappeared, dissolved, vanished.
She knew these streets. The Theatre-Royal, Drury Lane was close by, behind those other buildings. She turned in a full circle, searching the pavement, but she did not see James.
Suddenly, she felt unsafe. A man in working clothes lurched up to her, and she drew back in fear.
But he was merely heading to the gutter to vomit.
Three other men, dressed as gentlemen, walked past her, and one reached out and touched her cloak.
But he continued on with his friends, laughing at “the whore in mourning.”
She would go to the theater. She would find the doorkeeper Joseph or a stagehand and pay him to go back to Mr. Quinn’s shop and fetch her carriage. This alley would take her through to Longacre Street, the shortest way.
She turned, and a hand reached out and dragged her into the shadows of the alley.
It was him. Beautiful him. Beautiful, dangerous him.
“What are you doing?” he hissed, clenching her wrist.
“I—” She tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong.
“You can have no business here, Mrs. Lovelock. I know you followed me—”
James broke off, holding his head up as if listening. The only sounds Catherine could hear were her own rapid breathing and her frenzied heartbeat.
“Forgive me,” he murmured and leaned his body against hers, pressing her against the brick wall of the alley. Both of his hands were on both her wrists now, his arms enclosing her, trapping her. Her breasts were pressed against his abdomen. He bent his head down.
He kissed her.
His mouth on hers. Oh. Oh.
Jamie.