Chapter 20
Twenty
Catherine could usually manage to sleep sitting up in a carriage.
But not this one. She was jounced and tossed about as many smaller people were apt to be when inside a poorly sprung carriage.
She wondered why Sir Francis had not sat next to her so she might use his shoulder as a cushion and his weight to keep her in place.
However, Sir Francis preferred not to have her touching him. He liked to have her at a distance and to look at her. As he was doing now, seated across from her.
“My dearest Catherine.”
“May I call you Francis?”
He paused. “Certainly.”
“Francis,” she said, testing the name. Perhaps Sir Francis was better. Nonsense, she could not go around putting Sir in front of her husband’s name all the time. Could she?
“We will have many plans to make upon our return,” Sir Francis said.
“Yes.” Perhaps a wedding trip in the new year. She could send Arabella to Wales, to Mary.
“There is the matter of your house and my houses. I shall sell yours immediately. Yes, in Mayfair, I would expect a good price. I will keep my town house, which is more modest than yours, but I imagine we will be spending a good deal of our time in Kent.”
Catherine felt dazed. “I’m sorry, Sir Francis, but you can’t sell the house in Mayfair.”
He smiled and reached across and patted her hand. “Of course I can, and in fact, I have already found a buyer.”
“The buyer will have to discuss the sale of the house with my daughters. They will own the house, jointly.”
“Your daughters? But it’s your house.”
“It is my house presently, but once I marry you, it will become Arabella’s and Harry’s and Mary’s.”
He pulled his hand away from hers. “What do you mean, once you marry me?”
A chill began to gnaw at Catherine’s chest. “My husband’s will was most unusual. Upon my remarriage, all that he left me reverts to his children.”
“All? All the money, too? The shares in the bank?”
“He wanted me safe from fortune-hunters, you see—”
“Are you calling me a fortune-hunter?”
“Of course not. Who could? Everyone knows how you made your own wealth provisioning the navy. You’re a man of commerce as well as a baronet. That is why I have always felt so sure of you.”
“So sure of me that you bedded another man last night?”
“I told you, and I thought you believed me. Lord Daventry and I did nothing wrong in your house.”
“What about in other houses, other places, mmm?”
She would not lie to her future husband and say she had been blameless.
“Once we are married, you will have my utmost fidelity,” she said carefully.
He choked out a laugh. “But not your money.” He rapped on the roof of the coach. “Stop at the next coaching inn.”
The coachman acknowledged the order, and the carriage swayed onward.
There was silence between them. Finally, Catherine spoke. She would force Sir Francis to say what she already knew.
“Why will we stop?”
“We’re not going to Gretna Green. You’re getting out. I can’t marry a penniless whore.”
James stopped to change his horse at Duddenhoe End. As at all previous stops, he asked, “Has a carriage come through with a coat of arms on the door—a red shield with a black falcon on it? Yes, a man and a woman. The woman, small with golden hair?”
“Aye,” said the ostler. “Will you be having this white horse here, my lord?”
James knelt and felt the horse’s knee. Warm.
“You’ve mistaken me for a fool who can’t spot a lame horse.
You must have a better mount available. I need speed, and I’m willing to pay for it.
Handsomely. How long ago did the carriage with the falcon come through?
And did they leave by the northern road? ”
“About two hours ago, my lord. And nay.”
“Which road did they take? Which road, man?”
“The carriage turned around and went back the way it came.”
“Turned around?”
“Aye.”
James slumped onto a bench. That carriage he had passed going the other direction about an hour ago. Had he looked at it carefully? No, he had been so caught up in overtaking a carriage headed north, he had not bothered to check any of the carriages heading in the opposite direction.
Imbecile.
But perhaps that meant Catherine had changed her mind.
“And the lady, the one with the golden hair? Did she look upset?”
“Aye, she did but less so once the gentleman left.”
“The gentleman left her here?”
“He did.”
“Where is she?”
“Inn.”
James tossed him a coin.
“Will you be taking the bay then, my lord?” the ostler called after him.
Catherine sat in front of the fire in her room, wrapped in her tartan cloak.
Tomorrow, she would send word to Wright at Ffoulkes Manor to pack everything and take her carriage and coachman and footman back to London.
And she would find a coach here to take her back to London, as well.
Or she could head west and be with her stepdaughter Harry at Sommerleigh.
Or keep going north, towards the Dalrymple estate in Derbyshire and be with Arabella until Christmas.
There was a knock at the door.
“Mrs. Lovelock?”
He was here. Why must she alway encounter him when she was at a disadvantage? Half-naked in a dressmaker’s. Frightened on the streets of London. Injured and wet in the fields of Kent. And, now, abandoned in Duddenhoe End.
The trollop no one will have unless they can also have her dead husband’s money.
“Mrs. Lovelock? It’s Lord Daventry.”
She didn’t want to answer the door. She wanted to throw herself out the window and run away.
She wanted to shrivel up and die. But those were not feasible courses of action for Catherine Lovelock.
Catherine Lovelock had to face things. Like Kate Cooksey would have.
As Edward Lovelock would have expected her to.
“Catherine?”
Go away, Jamie. There’s nothing for you in this room but ruination.
“Please,” he said through the door.
The assured yet respectful please made her rise from her chair by the fire. That quiet word with no hint of supplication in it, no demand. Only expectation. How could she turn away a man who said that word in that way?
She went to the door and opened it. His hat crushed in one hand, tousled brown-golden curls, his gray eyes anxious. Now she was glad she had opened the door even though the alarums in her head became very loud. She didn’t want him anxious.
“Lord Daventry,” she said and bobbed. She could feel the ache between her legs as she pressed her thighs together to make her curtsy to him.
“I was passing. And I heard you were here.”
“From whom?”
“Uh, the ostler, if you must know.”
“Please come in, Lord Daventry.”
“Are you sure? Perhaps we might go to the tavern or take a walk.”
“Do as you wish, my lord. I am staying here.”
She walked away from the door, leaving the decision in his hands. She cared nothing for scandal. She had already been caught in bed with him.
And her limp was gone. Her ankle had been cured by time. Or by the desire to no longer appear damaged, weak, or pitiful in front of him.
“Thank you.” The jingle of some coins. “Your discretion will be rewarded.” He must be speaking to the innkeeper.
She heard the door close.