James carried Catherine through the front entrance 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, there was Sir Francis’ blustering concern and Mrs. Swinton’s shrieking distress over Catherine’s ankle, both of them talking over each other.
And then there were introductions that needed to be made, some of them quite surprising to James. He had a hard time taking in that René Dubois, the French Ambassador and the man he had trailed to the modiste’s shop was here. And Isabella DuMornay, the courtesan and James’ fellow operative. And the Marchioness of Painswick, she of the stolen locket and sapphire ring. James anticipated that this particular lady might cause him a good deal of trouble over the days to come.
James covered his confusion by giving a detailed description of how the axle on his carriage had failed which resulted in his walking over the fields without his carriage. All the while, Catherine explained that she had needed a walk and she hadn’t wanted to bother anyone, so she had just slipped out and consequently, slipped on the grass.
And 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 where Mrs. Lovelock’s bedchamber is,” James said in an undertone to the butler Rowley, who seemed a sensible sort.
“Yes,” said the man that 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 toward Catherine. “Yes, I’m sure Cath wants to get out of her wet clothes.”
James felt Catherine shudder and involuntarily he adjusted his grip on her body, holding her more tightly and pulling her closer to him.
“And I am sure Mrs. Lovelock wants her lady’s maid,” James said, staring at this Siddons who smirked back at him. James followed the butler Rowley up the stairs, Rowley wincing a bit at James’ muddy boots on the marble treads.
James deposited Catherine at last in a chair by the fire in her bedchamber, with Wright readying a stack of warm towels and asking the butler to send a chambermaid to the room immediately. Rowley and James bowed and left the room.
“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 robe brought to you, my lord, and I will send a carriage to the village directly to retrieve your luggage and your valet.”
“And perhaps, a doctor? If Sir Francis has not already asked that one be sent for. For Mrs. Lovelock’s ankle.”
Rowley bowed deeply and took James to his bedchamber.
Once alone, James’ mind raced as he stripped off his wet clothing. He thought it had been bad enough to find out that 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 that 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.
Blazes. James had really put his foot in it this time. No wonder Mr. Bulverton thought the only thing he was good for was seducing marchionesses and retrieving stolen jewelry.
Catherine was warm and dry, wrapped in her own wool dressing gown, and glad to have the small snifter of brandy Wright had asked the chambermaid to bring.
“My ankle is just a little swollen, Wright. It should be fine by tomorrow. The poultice is helping it along splendidly. Now. The blue silk dress. It didn’t get too wrinkled in the trunk, did it?”
“No, Mrs. Lovelock.” And Wright held the dress out for Catherine to inspect.
“Good,” Catherine said and sat back in the chair. She had toweled her hair well and it 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, ma’am.”
“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 that she had felt as he had knelt in the mud to examine her ankle today.
“Oh, it wouldn’t be my place to imagine anything, ma’am,” said Wright, sounding flustered. Catherine looked up and noticed her young maid’s face had reddened. So, it wasn’t just her. Other women were susceptible to James as well.
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 startle when Isabella had been introduced to him down in the hall. His breathing had become more erratic, his heart beating faster through his wet waistcoat.
“Do 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.”
“Wright, he is not the marquess. 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.”
“Yes,” Catherine said.
And so many personas. And how badly she wanted to bed every single one of them.
James paced in his room, wearing a rather too large banyan that the butler Rowley had brought him. If Enfield were here, James knew that his valet would have done something with a few folds or tucks to make it sit right on James. But Enfield would soon be here with the luggage. Meanwhile, James had haphazardly spread his wet clothing` on various pieces of furniture in the room. His boots sat by the fire, the mud hardening on them. Enfield was going to make him pay for those boots and the difficulty involved in cleaning them, one way or another.
Isabella quietly entered James’ bedchamber without knocking.
“Jacques!” she hissed. “Are you mad? What are you doing here?”
James crossed the room quickly to her. He realized suddenly that today was the first time he had ever seen Isabella in a dress, rather than a robe in her room at the brothel. She looked very respectable this way. Quite lovely, in fact.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed back at her.
“I was sent by Monsieur Bulverton. You know I have been the courtesan of the Marquis Dubois many times since he came to London—”
“No, I didn’t actually.”
“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. Well, I usually get what I want, as you know. I convinced Dubois to bring me. He says it’s funny to bring me to 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. I must go. I will see you at dinner. But when we get back to London, I think you will be in trouble with Monsieur Bulverton, chérie.” She patted his cheek and slipped out the door as quickly as she had slipped in.
Catherine’s dry hair had been arranged by Wright in the Grecian style, gathered at the back of her head in a large knot with a few wispy golden curls pulled down around her face and neck. She had decided to wear one of her older dresses, a wine-colored one. She stepped out of her bedchamber, leaning on Wright’s arm. The ankle still hurt when she put her full weight on it.
Here was a bit of a quandary. It wouldn’t be usual for a lady’s maid to walk down the main staircase with her mistress. Perhaps if Catherine held to the banister, however, she could support herself well enough without Wright’s assistance.
“Cath?”
It was Roger. In evening clothes.
“Perhaps I might offer my assistance?” And without waiting for her consent, he stepped to her left side, smoothly replacing Wright, lacing his own arm into hers. Again, she could smell the oil of roses on him. For some reason, that scent provoked her worst memories. Memories of the pain. Not the physical pain, although those memories lingered, 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.
Wright had retreated somewhere. Perhaps back into the bedchamber. Catherine couldn’t see her.
Catherine had no choice, unless she wanted to make some kind of scene. And that was the last thing she wanted to do, feeling she had already caused quite enough fuss for Sir Francis by going out walking in the rain, unattended, and spraining her ankle. 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 just 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.”
She colored. She knew she did. She could feel the blush spreading from her face to her bosom.
“Oh, Catherine. How sweet. I’ve made you pink.”
They had finally reached the top of the stairs.
Catherine wrenched her arm away and pushed past Siddons to grasp the banister with her left hand, “I am perfectly capable of descending the stairs on my own.”
Siddons held his hands up. “As you wish, Mrs. Lovelock.”
She started down. One, two, three, four, five, six stairs. She had difficulty putting enough weight on the banister because of her short height. But it was preferable to leaning on Roger.
He followed, just a step behind her.
“I must thank you. The view is quite a bit better from here.”
She stopped and turned. He stood on the step above her, looking down at her bosom. How glad she was that she had held the daring blue silk dress in reserve.
“It is of interest to me how unwanted attentions can be so perilous,” Catherine began, gratified that her voice remained steady and her tone neutral.
Siddons stepped down two steps, so that he was a step below her, and put his arm around her waist. “You are in peril of being ravished, you mean? Or you are in peril of surrendering to your lust?” His hand slid down from her waist and over a buttock and squeezed.
“Or she is in peril of taking a tumble down these steps, what?” A lazy laughs.
It was James, coming down the stairs behind them. Siddons removed his hand hastily from Catherine’s bottom. And then James had somehow gotten between Catherine and the banister and had taken her left arm.
With her body between these two men—these two troublesome men—Catherine could so easily sense in this moment how each affected her. How her body was repelled by Roger and drawn to James. Even now, when James was at his most foppish and almost certainly intoxicated, she only wanted to press herself to him, feel his arms around her. And yes, kiss him again as she had in the alley last night. Kiss his mouth and more.
“Upsidaisy there, now a step down. Lovely, and another one? No, don’t put your full weight on the foot, just lean more on me here. And what did the doctor say, Mrs. Lovelock?”
Doctor? “I have seen no doctor, Lord Daventry, but I assure you it is just a sprain. It’s my weak ankle, you see.”
James frowned, serious for a moment. “There isn’t a single weak thing about you, Mrs. Lovelock.”
She took another step down and James chortled. The fop was back.
“Splendid, what? And then another step down. Isn’t she doing splendidly, Mr. Siddons? A word or two of advice, sir—for an ankle, an arm under an arm is far more assistance than a hand on an arse.”
Catherine did not turn to look at Siddons but she heard him grunt as he passed them, storming down the stairs, his tailcoat flapping.
“Oooh, temper, temper. Mr. Siddons seems the explosive type, doesn’t he? All that rage cannot be good for one.”
Catherine took another step down. “He is a man that does not like to be thwarted.”
“It seems to me that he is exactly the kind of man that does like it. Nothing like a little thwarting to get the blood going, eh?”
She remembered now how aroused Roger had become when she raged at him. How he had desired the provocation and then desired her body afterward. And how resistance only inflamed him further.
Then she remembered her own violence last night. When she had hit James. How startled and chastened he had been. She looked at him now, but he was looking down at the stairs and watching her feet. Catherine cleared her throat.
“Mr. Siddons is constitutionally less capable of dealing with frustration than other men.”
“You have frustrated him, then?”
“Once upon a time.”
James smirked. “You know what they say? The shorter the fuse . . . the shorter the fuse.”
She had to stop this. Catherine pulled her arm away and turned on the tread to face him.
“I don’t know what your game is, Lord Daventry. But if you think your lewd remarks are a pleasant escape from Mr. Siddons’ lewd remarks, you are mistaken. And if you think that I need rescuing from a man I know perfectly well how to handle, you are mistaken there as well.”
James chuckled. “It seems to me that the lady needs frequent rescuing—on the streets of London last night and in the fields of Kent earlier today. And now on the stairs of Ffoulkes Manor.”
“I would remind you, Lord Daventry, that two weeks ago, at Madame Beauchamp’s,” James whipped his head around at that, scanning the staircase and the great hall, seemingly worried that someone might hear, “you were the one in need of rescuing. And the only rescue that I needed last night was from my loss of sense. Because, as I was about to say to Mr. Siddons before you interrupted, the peril of unwanted attentions is that it makes the unwanted one look a fool.”
Catherine walked down three steps and turned.
“And since you mentioned it, I’ll have you know that the fuse? Was. Not. That. Short.” And with that, Catherine walked down the rest of the stairs on her own. She could not stomp, as she wished to, but she thought she at least did not limp too horribly.
James grinned until she disappeared into the drawing room. And then his grin faded as a despairing confusion swept over him. What had she meant? Was he the fool, or was she? Did she know how much he thought of her? And in such a yearning, hopeless way? Or could she be the fool who thought her feelings were unreciprocated? Could he hope for that? Could she want him?
That kiss she had given him in the alleyway. That unprecedented and remarkable kiss.
And who was this Mr. Roger Siddons to place his hands on her? Catherine knew him, she had said so. And her remark about Mr. Siddons’ fuse and its length—no, he could not think on that. It implied an intimacy between the two that he could not bear to consider in this moment. But the effrontery of the contemptible man!
Then he remembered how last night he himself had placed his hands in that exact same place on Catherine’s body as Roger Siddons had, but under her dress. How he had taken an advantage and pressed it, even as he had pressed his cock against her. He, himself, was every bit as disgusting as Siddons. He had lost control last night and had only barely pulled himself back. He had been a debauched marquess, ready to take his pleasure where he wanted. He must heed Mr. Bulverton’s warning.
And why had the doctor not come? True, Catherine could walk, but the pain might be more than she conveyed. Had he or had he not told the butler Rowley to fetch a doctor?
The Swintons came down the stairs and he joined their chat about the weather and the next day’s shooting and tonight’s cards. They descended and went into the drawing room together.
The butler Rowley stood at a table to the side, pouring small glasses of Madeira for a footman to offer. James went to him directly and spoke in a low voice, not wishing to embarrass the butler or his host.
“Rowley, why did no doctor come to attend on Mrs. Lovelock?”
Rowley looked nervous. “Ah . . . one could not be found.”
James was astonished. Could not have someone gone to the next town, not two more miles up the road? A doctor could surely have been found there. Could not the blacksmith at the village have been prevailed upon to come, at the very least?
Rowley stammered out his reply. No, Lord Daventry. It was most unfortunate. Certainly, yes, tomorrow someone might be sent to find another doctor in the next town. But perhaps the lady might be recovered by then? Just as my lord wishes.
James suddenly realized he had been quite stern with Rowley so he winked and staggered a bit and took a glass of Madeira and joined the other guests. He observed Isabella laughing at a comment from the Marquis Dubois, throwing her dark head back and exposing her long throat, drawing admiring glances from all the men present, even Sir Francis. How really well she cleaned up, James thought. Not that she had ever been dirty, but in a proper dress and her hair done correctly, she very much looked a lady. An exotic lady from the Continent. No one would ever guess either of her professions. Or that she had been born and raised in East London. He could learn a lot from Isabella about subterfuge.
