Chapter 13
Thirteen
James carried Catherine through the front door of Ffoulkes Manor into fuss followed by uproar.
First, there was the mess of the mud and the rain dripping off both of them and onto the marble floor.
Next, they encountered Sir Francis’ blustering concern and Mrs. Swinton’s shrieking distress, with both parties talking over each other.
And then there were introductions needing to be made, some of them quite bewildering to James.
It was difficult to take in the presence of René DuBois de Laval, the French Ambassador and the man he had trailed to the modiste’s shop.
And Isabella DuMornay, the courtesan and James’ fellow operative.
And the Marchioness of Painswick, she of the stolen locket and sapphire ring.
James anticipated this particular lady might cause him a good deal of trouble.
He covered his confusion by giving a detailed description of how the axle on his carriage had failed, which resulted in his expedition over the fields of Kent.
All the while, Catherine was explaining she had needed a walk and hadn’t wanted to bother anyone, so she had just slipped out and, consequently, slipped on the grass.
Through this, James continued to hold Catherine in his arms despite Sir Francis and the butler Rowley encouraging him to set her down on a chair in the hall.
“If you’ll just show me to Mrs. Lovelock’s bedchamber,” James said in an undertone to Rowley, who seemed a sensible sort.
“Yes,” said the man James recognized as Roger, the one in the artist’s studio with Sir Francis last night. The lupine man who had some kind of plan for seduction. He had been introduced to James as Mr. Siddons.
Siddons raised his eyebrows and leaned towards Catherine. “I’m sure Cath wants to get out of her wet clothes.”
Catherine’s shudder set up a vibration in James’ chest, and he involuntarily adjusted his grip on her body, holding her more tightly and pulling her closer.
“And I am sure Mrs. Lovelock wants her lady’s maid,” he said, abandoning his mask and glaring at this Siddons fellow who dared to smirk back at him.
James followed Rowley up the stairs, the butler wincing a bit at James’ muddy boots on the marble treads.
At last, James deposited Catherine in a chair by the fire in her bedchamber as her lady’s maid readied a stack of warm linen and asked the butler to send a chambermaid to the room. Rowley and James bowed and exited.
“Lord Daventry, shall I take you to your bedchamber?”
“Yes, certainly. Although all my clothes and my valet are still stuck five miles away.”
“I will have a dressing gown brought to you, my lord, and I will send a carriage to the village directly in order to retrieve your luggage and your valet.”
“And, perhaps, a physician? If Sir Francis has not already made the request. For Mrs. Lovelock’s ankle.”
Rowley bowed and took him to his bedchamber.
James’ mind was in a pother as he stripped off his wet clothing.
He thought it had been bad enough to find out Catherine Lovelock was the CC of the handkerchief and Sir Francis’ intended, but what the devil was Isabella doing here?
And with René DuBois? And the marchioness as well?
Yes, he had always known he would eventually have to face Lady Painswick.
He just preferred it weren’t here, during this house party, when he had so many other irons in the proverbial fire.
Blast. James had really put his foot in it this time. No wonder Mr. Bulverton thought he was only good for seducing marchionesses and retrieving stolen jewelry.
Catherine was warm and dry, wrapped in her own wool dressing gown, and glad to have the small glass of brandy Wright had asked the chambermaid to bring.
“My ankle is just a little swollen, and the poultice is helping it along splendidly. Now. My blue dress. It didn’t get too wrinkled in the trunk, did it?”
“No, Mrs. Lovelock.” Wright held the dress out for Catherine to inspect.
“Good.” Catherine sat back in the chair. Her hair was drying quickly in front of the fire. Not all was lost.
“Did Lord Daventry really carry you for a mile, ma’am?”
“Yes, or more,” Catherine said grimly.
“He doesn’t look like he would be strong enough for that, begging your pardon.”
“He has more muscle than one might imagine,” Catherine said, remembering his lifting her down from the modiste’s platform while keeping her body apart from his.
And his arms holding her up under her skirts last night in the alley and the hard muscle of his chest against her breasts as she had kissed him and the muscle of his shoulders and back as he had knelt in the mud to examine her ankle today.
“Oh, it wouldn’t be my place to imagine anything, ma’am.”
Wright sounded flustered. Catherine looked up and saw her young maid’s face had reddened. So it wasn’t just Catherine. Other women were susceptible to James, as well.
Of course, they were. And he was susceptible to them, too.
Especially to young, beautiful ones like Mademoiselle DuMornay.
Oh, yes, Catherine had felt James start when Isabella had been introduced to him downstairs in the front hall.
His breathing had become more erratic, his heart beating faster through his wet waistcoat.
“Wright, please remember to get Lord Daventry’s greatcoat back to his valet when he arrives.”
“I’ll be sure to clean and press the coat of the marquess, ma’am.”
“He is not the marquess, Wright. He is just James Cavendish, Marquess of Daventry. It’s a courtesy title until his father dies. Then he’ll be the Duke of Middlewich.”
“Yes, ma’am. So many names for one man.”
And so many personae. And how badly she wanted to bed every single one of them.
The banyan the butler Rowley brought James had been made for a stout giant.
Yards of cloth hung off of him and flapped when he moved, like loose sails in a weak wind.
If Enfield were here, he could have done something with a few folds or tucks to make it sit right on James. But Enfield was not yet here.
Meanwhile, James had haphazardly spread his wet garments on various pieces of furniture in the room. His boots sat by the fire, the mud hardening on them. Enfield was sure to make James pay for the difficulty involved in cleaning those boots, one way or another.
Isabella opened the bedchamber door and slipped into the room. Today was the first time James had ever seen Isabella in a dress rather than in an embroidered robe. She looked very respectable. Almost prim.
“Jacques!” she hissed. “Are you mad? What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” he hissed back at her, hauling up handfuls of his banyan so he wouldn’t trip on it as he crossed the carpet to speak to her.
“I was sent by Monsieur Bulverton. You know I have been the courtesan of DuBois many times since he came to London—”
“No, I didn’t know.”
“Well,” Isabella waved her hand airily, “Bulverton thought I should try to get an invitation to this house party. He thinks DuBois is going to press Sir Francis into doing something dangereux. I usually get what I want, as you know, and I convinced DuBois to bring me. He says it’s a good joke to have me at Sir Francis’ house party, some kind of nose-thumbing at the English.
And now I think the marquis actually wants me to seduce Sir Francis—”
“How do Ffoulkes and DuBois know each other, anyway? What the devil is going on?”
Isabella shushed him. “Ffoulkes’ maman was French, you know. DuBois’ sister’s husband’s sister. Do you follow? But I must go. I will see you at the dinner. But when we get back to London, I think you will be in trouble with Monsieur Bulverton, chéri.”
She patted James’ cheek affectionately and went out the door as quickly as she had come in.
Catherine chose to wear one of her older dresses, a wine-colored silk with a saffron band at the hem. Wright arranged her now-dry hair in the Grecian style—gathered at the back of her head in a large knot with a few golden curls pulled down around her face and neck.
Leaning on Wright’s arm, Catherine stepped out of her bedchamber to go down to the dinner.
The ankle still hurt when she put her full weight on the foot, and this created something of a quandary.
It wouldn’t be usual for a lady’s maid to walk down the main staircase with her mistress.
However, if Catherine held to the banister, perhaps she could support herself well enough without Wright’s help.
“Cath?” It was Roger, in his evening clothes. “Might I offer my assistance?”
Without waiting for her consent, he stepped to her left side, smoothly replacing Wright, lacing his own arm with Catherine’s.
Again, she could smell the oil of roses on him.
For some reason, that scent provoked her worst memories, those of pain.
Not the physical pain, although those memories lingered, too, but the devastating pain of refusal and abandonment.
And of knowing herself to have been a weak and ravening creature, driven to do anything Roger demanded.
Catherine couldn’t see Wright. She had retreated somewhere, likely back into the bedchamber.
Bloody blazes. Catherine again had no choice, unless she wanted to make a scene, and that was the last thing she wanted to do. She had already caused quite enough trouble for Sir Francis by going out walking in the rain, unattended, and injuring herself.
She took a step forward, trying to lessen any weight she put on Siddons’ arm.
“Cath,” he said, his voice husky.
She concentrated on the steps she needed to take to get to the top of the stairs.
“It seems like it was only yesterday since last we met.”
Catherine kept her eyes on the carpet. “It was just a few hours ago.”
Siddons laughed. “My dear, always such a literalist. It took me by surprise in our younger days. Such a clever little actress. Such a succubus in the bedchamber. And still such a prosaic chit in the world.”