In Isabella’s room at the brothel, the evening after his encounter with Catherine, James reported the cryptic conversation that he had overheard at Madame Beauchamp’s to Mr. Bulverton. Mr. Bulverton rubbed his chin and said, “Yes.”
Mr. Bulverton said no more than that, a reticence which frustrated James. But neither did Mr. Bulverton scold James for risking exposure by sneaking into the modiste’s shop. Could that mean that James had Mr. Bulverton’s implied permission to expand the scope of his investigations? James thought it meant he did.
James did not think it relevant to report Catherine’s presence at Madame Beauchamp’s. If Mr. Bulverton was going to hold out on James, James could hold back some information as well. And somehow that time—those few minutes with Catherine in that room, with her as a half-naked and fearless goddess—seemed far too intimate to share with anyone.
She gazed up at him through her golden curls and shrugged her loose chemise off one milky-white shoulder so that a breast was almost entirely exposed. Only the areola and nipple were still hidden to him. With just a slight tug of the silk on his part, the whole breast would pop into view and he would be able to cup and kiss and suckle that breast. And he knew that breast now. He had seen it.
He reached out and teased a finger along the top of the chemise.
“My lord?”
James blinked his eyes several times and rolled over. He was alone in his bed in his London rooms, late-morning light coming through a window. There was no chemise, no breast, no shoulder, no head of golden hair.
The goddess had infiltrated his dreams. A distraction he damn well didn’t need.
“My lord, your parents are departing the town house at noon, and you asked that I wake you at eleven.” Enfield’s tone was disapproving. He must be vexed that James had only slept for a few hours. He so often said that young men, especially his lordship, needed more sleep. Enfield clattered the breakfast things noisily to convey even more clearly his censure.
James sat up on the edge of the bed. He felt remarkably well despite the lack of sleep. Of course, it would have looked like Lord Daventry had tippled heavily last night, as usual. Been drunk as a lord. And why not? He was a lord. But he had been as sober as a judge.
Last night, James had finally obtained an invitation from Sir Francis Ffoulkes to join his house party at his estate. Having noted how much Sir Francis loved to win at cards, James had managed to lose dozens of pounds to Ffoulkes at the club. Then he had hinted that he would love to indulge in some real high-stakes card games, but sadly the club had placed limits on bets among their members. But at a house party? Why, he had been known to lose a hundred pounds at a time on private wagers.
And he loved Kent. Wasn’t that where Ffoulkes Manor was situated? Kent was so . . . bracing.
James had successfully reined in any of the lewd jokes that he had in stock. Sir Francis certainly wouldn’t be interested in having the mysterious Miss “CC” and future Lady Ffoulkes exposed to James’ usual filthy stories. James had racked his brain and invented a whole line of donkey jokes including the gem, “Where do you find a donkey with no legs? Answer: Right where you left him.”
Sir Francis had loved the donkey jokes. He had laughed and laughed and, in that moment, James realized that he had chosen a donkey as his subject because Sir Francis’ laughter sounded like the braying of a donkey.
And finally, the invitation had come.
“There’s some very good shooting, you know, and the ladies do like to go see the seaside, but I think that there could be nothing more diverting than some cards in the evening. What do you think, Lord Daventry?”
Lord Daventry thought it all sounded absolutely ripping, Sir Francis, without a doubt. He would love to join the house party, what?
He had done it on his own. He had not told Bulverton. He had not asked permission.
He had his own priorities now. He needed to get away from London. Away from any place where he might see Catherine Lovelock. And he needed to dig in and do something. Otherwise, why was he wasting his life in pretense?
There must be some reason Bulverton was always so interested in Ffoulkes. And it might have to do with Dubois. Some connection to the French Embassy. And Dubois was involved in something that had maids being paid to steal letters. And a widower. Sir Francis was a widower. He was rich, but did he have a brother worth twenty million francs?
Let Bulverton keep mum. James was going to uncover whatever secrets there were, himself.
After some quick grooming by Enfield, James made a rather undignified dash up Bond Street to see his parents off on their journey back to Middlewich.
Three carriages, all sporting the duchy’s coat of arms, waited in front of the town house. Two were for luggage and his father’s valet and his mother’s lady’s maid. His parents were in the front hall, dressed for the journey.
“Late,” his father pronounced and blew his nose as James came into the house.
James kissed his mother on the cheek. “I’ll see you at Christmas, Mother.” His mother allowed the kiss but shuddered and turned from him without a word and went out the door.
“I expect to see some amendment of purpose in you when next we meet, James,” the duke said. “Otherwise, you might get a feel of my riding crop. I am not too old to thrash you.”
James bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”
His father leaned heavily on his valet as he went down the front steps. He needed the valet and two footmen to assist him into the carriage. The duke was unlikely ever to wield a riding crop again. As James stood on the top step to wave farewell to his parents, he tried to look penitent rather than pitying. His father did not want his pity. He wanted his fear.
James had been frightened of his father for most of his boyhood. His brother William, however, had always stood up to the duke and his rages. And the duke had loved William for it.
James himself had worshiped William. William was better than James at everything—riding, dancing, sport of all kind. He taught James to box and to swim. Of course, William was seven years older than James and it was only natural that he should excel over his younger brother, but James did not realize that as a boy. He only knew that William was the epitome of English manhood. His brother would be the Duke of Middlewich and there could be no man more deserving of that noble title.
James also knew he was a disappointment of some kind to his parents, even then, but he wasn’t sure why. He thought all boys got whipped by their fathers for trifles. All boys except perfect ones like William and his friend Thomas, the future Earl Drake.
At the age of fifteen, the Battle of Trafalgar. Lord Nelson. Those stirring words, “England expects that every man would do his duty.” Every man. Including James. He became consumed with thoughts of joining the Royal Navy, the empire’s glorious fleet. He knew that he must sign on to a boat. Become a midshipman. Rise up the ranks. Captain his own ship so that he might too, one day, protect “this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.”
Prepared with a plan of how he might cover himself (and consequently the family) in glory, he had approached his father in his private study. Naif that he was, he had fully expected that the duke would buy him a commission and support his son’s dream of heroism in the vein of Admiral Horatio Nelson.
But it was not to be. His father had looked up from his newspaper and thundered, “The navy? Are you mad? With William as ill as he is?”
William had been abed for two months. William’s valet Enfield had brought him back to Middlewich from London. James had only seen William for a moment when he had arrived, being taken out of the carriage, mumbling incoherently. Large suppurating sores and ulcers covered his face.
An illness brought on by too much dissolution, his frightened mother had whispered to James.
His father summoned doctors from London. They brought with them vials of quicksilver for application to the skin and for William to inhale. Ostensibly, to cure him of this pox. Or to kill him with the cure.
James had foolishly not realized the situation was so dire. In his father’s study that day, James saw that if William died, his hopes for a life in the navy would be completely dashed. He would no longer be a second son. He would immediately become Marquess of Daventry and heir to the dukedom and would be kept out of harm’s way. No heroism for him. No fighting in skirmishes or taking battle stations or evading capture. He would marry a woman chosen by his parents and make more Dukes of Middlewich. He would wait for his father to die so that he could sit in the House of Lords. He would be sentenced to a life of endless ho-hummery.
James went to the chapel inside the castle, knelt, and prayed for William’s life. He loved William and wanted him to live, but he also knew that he was making largely a selfish prayer. “Please, God, please don’t let William die. I’ll take all my thrashings from Father, I won’t snivel, but please don’t let William die so that I can join the navy and beat Napoleon.”
William died a fortnight later.
The day after James’ parents left London, Her Majesty Queen Charlotte, consort of King George III, mother of the Prince Regent, died at Kew Palace with her son at her side. It was unlikely that her husband, ill with insanity, was conscious of her demise.
James hoped that the locket he had retrieved from the Marchioness of Painswick had given the queen some measure of comfort in her waning days. There had been a small miniature of a blond youth and some Germanic script engraved on the inside of the locket. James did not read German, but he suspected that the locket had been a treasure from the queen’s girlhood. Perhaps a gift from some childhood love whom she had had to abandon when she had left her home country and her family to marry England’s king at the age of seventeen.
Out of respect for the death of the queen and the period of national mourning, Sir Francis delayed his house party for a week.
Catherine was incensed by the news.
She needed to flee London. She must be away from any place where she might see James.
And she felt it was imperative that she not accept Sir Francis’ proposal until she saw his house, the place where she would eventually be mistress. See him as he was at home, that was the tell of a man. And surely, on his own land and in his own house, he would be more himself. And she would be more comfortable with him. She would feel the safety and peace she longed for. Whatever it was that was nagging at her, keeping her from accepting him, would be quashed.
She desperately wanted the question of her marriage to Sir Francis Ffoulkes answered once and for all. She was so unsettled. More than unsettled. She was wild. She stalked around the rooms of her house like a feral animal, consumed by . . . what?
Ravening, heart-ripping desire. Of the kind she had resolved never to allow again.
And she was lonely. So. Very. Lonely.
She took up a pen and wrote long letters to all three of her daughters, saving the complicated and often baffling Harry for last.
I hope that your first months of marriage have provided that which you wished for when you entered this union, her letter ran. Your letters are full of the theory of natural numbers—which you know I cannot understand—but have little mention of your husband, although I am glad to hear that you have a marvelous physician in Dr. Alasdair Andrews. But does the Earl Drake treat you well beyond engaging this doctor to attend on you? You know I had strong reservations when you decided to marry Thomas Drake, and I still do. Please write and assure me that you have found matrimony to your liking.
Catherine thought of adding to the letter, Because it is a state I am considering reentering, but did not.
