Chapter 24 #3
Staggered as much by the flat dispassion of the announcement as by its content, Cathcart waited for his godson to say more.
When nothing was forthcoming, he disciplined his composure and said, “Not being privileged with that information, she’s attempted to produce for you a girl.
One can’t be sure what she has in mind. A notion, perhaps, that through it she might somehow win back your esteem. ”
“Damn,” Devon said succinctly. “What girl?”
“To wit, a well-bred American maiden.”
Devon eased one lean shoulder against the mantel. “I wasn’t aware she knew any.”
Cathcart wasted no time trying to figure out whether Devon was referring to Americans or virtuous girls. “She doesn’t. The young girl in question is one Rand Morgan has an interest in.”
“I can assure you,” Devon said, giving his godfather a hard look, “that Rand Morgan isn’t interested in young girls.”
A man of profoundly conservative instincts, Lord Cathcart had worked hard, particularly in the last several years, to keep himself from becoming a prig.
Still, there were certain things he would never be able to hear with equanimity, and among them were references to Morgan’s broad-based decadence.
Morgan’s morals were no matter of indifference to Cathcart, and could never become so as long as his son remained one of the pirate captain’s most famous disciples.
Cathcart flushed, glancing at Merry, who was beginning to look disorientedly around the room.
To Devon he said, “Does the name Wilding mean anything to you?”
The younger man thought a moment before he said, “James Wilding—Assistant Secretary of the United States Treasury. His son is a young firebrand of some renown; the only brain, they say, on Armstrong’s staff.
He gives British Intelligence fits. But, then, they’re stupid.
I recall the name coming up once in conversation with Morgan.
He never told me he had a connection with them. ”
“The connection was with the firebrand’s mother, from the days before she married Mr. Wilding.
The lady was British and has evidently been dead for some time.
How Morgan knew her, or when, I don’t know, but he had formed enough of an attachment to have placed someone in the household staff to watch over the motherless Wilding daughter, a tar from the original crew of the Black Joke named Cork; a rascal, so Morgan told your grandmother, but reliable in his way. ”
Merry, on the couch, had grown deathly white, her eyes wilting gentians.
Thin, waving strands of her hair were glinting captives on her damp brow.
This was too cruel. Lord Cathcart made himself the promise that as soon as he was done telling Devon about this particularly unpleasant business, he was going to insist that she be sent to bed.
Or at least try to insist. If there was one thing Devon was not, it was malleable.
Cathcart went on, “Your grandmother corresponded with the Wilding girl’s aunt in America at Morgan’s request. Morgan seems not to have ever told your grandmother in so many words he intended one day to bring Miss Wilding to England, and yet that was somehow the impression she was left with.
In consequence, she got it into her head to bring the girl to visit her—”
“The devil she did! In the midst of a war?”
“I’m afraid so. She seems to have been taken with the idea of having a disposable bride awaiting you who was of such little social consequence that she might be rejected if you didn’t find her to be…” He seemed not to be able to find a way to express it.
“Sufficiently nubile?” Devon offered in a silky tone. “Poor Miss Wilding.”
“Poor Miss Wilding indeed,” Cathcart agreed grimly.
“Your grandmother had few choices as to how to bring the young lady to England. She penned a letter to Miss Wilding’s aunt that included a half promise to arrange an advantageous marriage for the young girl and gave the letter into Michael Granville’s keeping with the instructions to deliver it himself and bring the two women back with him on the neutral ship. ”
“And you let that happen? With Granville behind me in succession to the title?” There was icy incredulity in Devon’s eyes.
“You know I would not have,” Cathcart shot back angrily.
“But Letitia made sure I heard nothing of it until after Granville sailed. Wires were pulled at the highest levels. Your grandmother stands as close to the Queen as ever she did; I don’t need to remind you how the royal family feels on the subject of your marriage. ”
“No,” agreed Devon, pushing himself away from the mantel and setting down his untouched brandy on the side table with a loud clack. “You don’t. From your expression I take it that Granville killed the girl?”
“So I fear,” Cathcart said, regret searing his voice.
“There’s no proof of anything, but the girl disappeared from the Guinevere perhaps even before she was out of port.
The girl’s aunt is here now—staying with your mother—and it was the aunt’s belief at first that the girl ran away to be with her father; since then we’ve learned that the girl did not arrive at her father’s home, and the father claims the aunt had no authority to remove her from the country and demands that she be restored to him immediately.
It’s become an issue at the peace talks, because the Americans are understandably skeptical about Whitehall’s claim that we don’t know where she is. …”
Devon was no longer listening. He had turned to stare at Merry.
She was looking back at him, handfuls of the blanket clenched like knots beneath her fingers.
Her sleepy lips were parted, and in her wide-open eyes was an expression of utter wonderment.
Slower than they to understand what had happened, Cathcart found Devon’s features difficult to read, though Merry, apparently, was having no trouble.
She murmured something, an inarticulate flutter in her throat; and bolted toward the door.