Chapter 12
Twelve
James marched back and forth in front of the blacksmith’s forge, his boots squelching in the mud. He and Enfield and the coachman and footman and the horses and the carriage itself were all stuck in a Kentish village, five miles from Ffoulkes Manor. Something to do with the spindle.
Blast.
Well, he would rather it was the spindle than one of the horses. And he should be grateful he had a reason to get out of London after his encounter with Catherine Lovelock, the woman who hated him almost as much as he lusted for her.
But he needed still further escape, further distraction. From himself. From his failings. He was restless. As always, he longed to do something.
The blacksmith had demanded payment in advance once he had heard his lordship was headed for Ffoulkes Manor. Curious. But James had brought plentiful coins for wagers on cards, so there was no problem there. The blacksmith quickly pocketed the coins as if he thought they would be taken away again.
The blacksmith and James’ coachman were working together now, dismantling the front wheel spindle. The footman had wandered off to the public house to look at the local girls. The horses had been stabled. Enfield was sitting and reading a small book.
“We’re only five miles from Ffoulkes Manor, you say?” James called out to the blacksmith.
The man looked up. “Well, three miles by how the crow flies.” And he pointed a broad finger to the east.
Three miles. He could be there in an hour.
“I’m going to walk.”
Enfield looked at the sky. “It could start raining again any time, my lord.”
“What’s a little water? A day in a coach makes me so cramped and skittish. Let me stretch my legs so I can feel human again.”
“Let you, my lord?” Enfield said with a grave face. “I would never interfere with anything you wished to do.”
“Yes,” James said and put on his hat. “Let’s maintain that fiction.”
He walked for almost ten minutes before it began raining again.
It had been a rather rough tramp already.
This crow of the blacksmith’s flies over some pretty uneven ground, James thought.
He found himself sloshing through puddles, staggering up and sliding down hills.
However, the plentiful stiles helped since he didn’t have to vault any of the fences or walls or hedgerows.
After twenty minutes more walking, the downpour lessened to mizzling.
A fog rolled in. He saw a small figure in a red tartan coat ahead.
Some poor child caught in the rain. He couldn’t tell from behind if it was a girl or boy.
Oh, yes, he had mistaken a cloak for a coat, it must be a girl. Well, he mustn’t startle her.
He was coming up on her rather quickly since she was walking very slowly.
“Ho, there!” he called out.
Rain fell as Catherine’s carriage came to a stop in front of Ffoulkes Manor. Her lady’s maid Wright laid hands on the umbrella she had brought for just such a likelihood, but one of Sir Francis Ffoulkes’ footmen was ready with his own umbrella as he helped Catherine from the carriage.
Under his butler’s umbrella, a weary-looking Sir Francis stood in front of the doors to his house. He held out his hands to her as she mounted the steps.
“Mrs. Lovelock, you are most welcome.”
Catherine put her gloved hands in his, and he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.
She was surprised and warmed by the gesture.
Sir Francis was normally so proper. To kiss her in front of his butler and his footmen promised Sir Francis would be more at ease in Kent.
This was a very good start to her visit.
Sir Francis folded her arm under his and drew her into the house, away from the rain.
“I am most anxious for you to see the estate. It’s not at its best today because of the weather, but I am assured by those expert in the matter that the next several days should be fine.
And, now, something warm to drink? Some tea or chocolate?
It will give your maid time to arrange your things in your bedchamber. ”
Catherine nodded and gazed at the grand front hall with a high, arched ceiling decorated with a cherub-laced fresco and underfoot, a dark and light marble chessboard pattern.
“Beautiful,” she murmured.
Sir Francis leaned down. “Not as beautiful as you, my dear.”
Better and better.
He took her into a large drawing room, filled with upholstered furniture and hung with velvet curtains.
A couple—he, in his forties with silvered temples, and she, red-haired and in her twenties—approached for an introduction.
Mr. and Mrs. Swinton were well-traveled and sophisticated and apparently mad for whist. Did Mrs. Lovelock play cards?
Not much? They hoped they could persuade her because with a lively party, it could be so diverting.
The Marquess and Marchioness of Painswick. Yes, she had met them before. How lovely to see you again, my lord, my lady. And the Marquis DuBois de Laval, the ambassador from France. A hobbling gait even with the use of a walking stick. She curtsied.
The marquis bent low over her hand.
“Enchanté. I am most delighted to meet you, Madame Lovelock. You are as lovely as Sir Francis promised.”
There was something in his voice. Deep and mellifluous.
Familiar. She started and narrowed her eyes.
Had he been one of the passersby outside the alley last night?
She dreaded even to begin to dredge up that recent memory, given how enraged and humiliated she had been—no, no, it had not been him, but she felt like she had heard his voice recently.
A beautiful young woman, Mademoiselle Isabella DuMornay. Smooth olive skin and almond-shaped dark eyes, dark hair. And what was she wearing? Oh, yes, it was definitely a Madame Beauchamp gown in amethyst-purple. Lovely.
A man in the far corner of the room played the pianoforte, his face hidden by the music in front of him. He was quite good, some showy flourishes as he finished the piece. The others applauded, and Catherine joined in the clapping, ready to meet this talented friend of Sir Francis.
The man rose from the pianoforte bench and walked towards her. She recognized his strut before she saw his face. The man who had twisted her, made her beg, made her do things— She could not think on that.
She was still an actress. She stuffed her horror behind a smile that would show him how amused she was by this coincidence.
“Cath!” he called out as he came forward. There was some wear in Roger Siddons’ face, some lines around his eyes and forehead and by his mouth. But the same thin lips. Same aquiline nose. Same dark eyes and sharp cheekbones.
And the same wrenching pain in her midsection. But only pain. Not desire. No, at least she was spared that. The lust demon was consumed by the unobtainable James, distracted by its pretty new toy, far away in London, out of reach.
Siddons bowed. She inclined her head slightly. Sir Francis was at her side.
“I’m so glad to see old friends meeting again,” Sir Francis said heartily, smiling.
Catherine turned her own smile up at him and then at Siddons. “Mr. Siddons.” She kept her hands at her sides, relaxed and still.
“Cath and I knew each other in our youth, didn’t we? Before she went off and married that banker. Lawdy, you landed in a vat of trifle there, didn’t you? And never a word again to your friends once you left us.”
Catherine continued to smile.
Sir Francis frowned. “I think Mrs. Lovelock prefers to be called Mrs. Lovelock, Mr. Siddons.”
“Oh, yes, of course, my apologies, Mrs. Lovelock.” Roger stuck his tongue out at her and winked.
Several large trays were brought into the drawing room, and Catherine was able to break away and have a small cup of chocolate handed to her by the butler.
It was hot, creamy. Both sweet and bitter.
Bracing. She gulped down her cup as quickly as she could without being unseemly and replaced it on its saucer.
“Sir Francis, thank you for the refreshment. I think I will go to my room and make sure all is well . . . with my trunks.”
“Of course, my dear. I know ladies cannot be comfortable until they are sure all their precious things are in place. I’ll have Rowley show you to your bedchamber.”
On her way out of the drawing room with the butler, she was stopped by Siddons. He did not touch her, but he leaned close and said, “It does me good to see you, Cath.”
She could smell the oil of roses on him.
She almost broke in that moment.
The room to which she was taken was an elegant one, with an extensive view of the grounds. Wright was already deep in the trunks, clucking and unfolding tissue-wrapped gowns, lost in her own world.
Agitated, Catherine walked to the window and looked out. It had stopped raining.
“Have you unpacked my other cloak yet, Wright? And the boots I brought in case I went along for the shooting?”
“No, Mrs. Lovelock, but I will.” Wright looked at Catherine’s face for the first time. “Pardon, are you quite well? You’re so pale.”
“I must get out of here, Wright. Outside and away. Alone. Can you get me the cloak and the boots?”
Wright did as her mistress asked and put the red tartan cloak around her shoulders.
“Mrs. Lovelock, I have never seen you— Is there anything that might help?”
“A walk, Wright.” Catherine laced one boot while Wright did the other. “Now, show me the servants’ entrance.”
Catherine walked far away from the house before she picked up her skirts, wet and heavy at the hem, and tried to run.
But the grasses clung to her and pulled her down so she could not run.
Instead, she had to content herself with walking as quickly as she could and pulling in great gasping lungfuls of air.
She would not cry.
Roger Siddons couldn’t hurt her. She was strong. Stronger than she had ever been when she was with him. And even if he could hurt her, she wouldn’t show him that. She still had her stagecraft. She could pretend anything.