Supper with family connections was the next step away from mourning. Catherine did not exactly dread the prospect—she was quite fond of Dorcas MacKay—but neither did she look forward to it.
What to wear, what jewelry to choose, how late to stay… Mama had developed unerring instincts for how to dress for a part. Catherine had learned from her, though Mama’s lessons had not encompassed the transition from first to second mourning.
“You have a caller, miss,” Harry said, nearly startling Catherine out of her chair. Harry held out the salver, and Catherine was assailed by ambivalence. Caesar, sitting at her feet, also looked to Harry with a question in his doggy eyes.
She wanted to see Xavier Fournier again—she wanted to kiss him again, speak with him, hear his voice, see him, and more, truth be told—and she did not. He was temptation and consolation and deliciously wicked longings tied up with a lacy violet bow.
That ambivalence was not to be her most pressing challenge, apparently. The ink on the card was plain black rather than imperial purple, and the name was not Fournier’s.
“I can tell him you are not at home, miss.”
“I’m in mourning, Harry. Where else would I be? He’ll just call again tomorrow if I dodge him today.” Lord Fortescue Armbruster was nothing if not persistent when pursuing a goal.
“Shall I bring up a tray?”
“You shall. We’ll show him every courtesy, and then he can congratulate himself on having looked in on the bereaved.”
If that was his lordship’s aim. Catherine had initially dismissed Lord Fortescue Armbruster as just another spoiled younger son drifting about the Mediterranean coasts in the manner of the peripatetic Lord Byron. Fortescue, by contrast, saw himself as a master of the subtle game, the bored sophisticate drifting from diversion to diversion, dropping philosophical asides and flirtatious smiles by turns. Whatever he truly was, Catherine had ceased to be a diplomat’s foolish daughter.
She chose a wing chair, did not check her appearance in any handy mirror, and schooled her features to the pleasant civility Mama had taught her to summon at will.
“Catherine.” His lordship stopped just inside the door, a mannerism Catherine detested. To an observer, Lord Fort would appear to be tactfully waiting to be acknowledged. In fact, he was doubtless assessing her, the décor, the dog, the housekeeping, and the most advantageous manner in which to complete his entrance.
And, should Catherine be so hen-witted as to again fall for his theatrics, he was allowing her a moment to delight in his manly beauty and rush into his welcoming embrace.
Caesar glanced from Fort to Catherine, then yawned hugely.
Lord Fort approached her, both hands held out. “How are you bearing up?”
She gave him one hand, rose, and dipped a curtsey. Let the bearing-up begin. “My lord, good day. You are among the first to offer condolences.”
He kept hold of her hand, another of his favored bits of farce. “I am so sorry for your loss, my dear. I’m sure you miss your mother very much. Shall we sit? You do look a trifle pale.”
Once upon a stupid time, Fort’s earnest blue eyes, his gentle grip, his manner of standing just two inches too close, would have imbued his platitudes with a sense of genuine sentiment and intimacy. An old and cherished friend, coming to offer support at a difficult time.
“I am not your dear, Fort. But let’s not quibble over trifles.” Catherine took her wing chair, lest he attempt to sit beside her. How well she recalled the quivering excitement of mere proximity to the man who’d captured her heart, the illicit thrill of his arm bumping hers, his hand brushing her waist.
She had been so innocent, and so eager, and he had played her so well—then.
She offered him a relaxed smile. “How is your dear mother? Her entertainments are always a highlight of the Season.” Not that the marchioness had ever invited Mama, much less Catherine, to those entertainments.
His lordship came down on the end of the sofa nearest Catherine’s chair. “Mama is concerned for you, and I am to report to her immediately. Here you are, alone in the world, bereaved, your ties to Society few because your dear Papa dragged you over half the known world. You must know I’d worry.”
The wretched varlet managed to sound sincere. “You can see I’m well, and I’m well looked after. If I have few ties to the polite world, that will mean fewer demands on my time as I adjust to my loss.”
God bless Harry for all eternity, for he chose then to bring in the tea tray and set it on the low table. “Anything else, miss?”
“No, thank you, Harry, but don’t go far in case Caesar needs some air.”
Harry bowed, and to his credit, he spared Lord Fort not so much as a glance. “Very good, miss.”
“You’ve become a lover of canines?” Fort extended a gloved hand for Caesar to sniff.
The dog settled to the carpet and put his chin on his paws.
“Caesar and I are keeping each other company for the nonce. His owners are traveling, and I have always wanted a dog. Papa’s changes of post precluded that joy, so I’m especially glad to have the loan of Caesar now.”
Catherine busied herself with the tea tray, adding the smallest lump of sugar to a cup of steaming China black and passing it over.
“You recall how I like my tea.” His lordship’s tone held approval and affection.
Catherine recalled the days when she’d lived for his next approving, affectionate word. She also recalled that Fortescue Armbruster snored. He’d made love with all the restraint of a hog going at the slop bucket, and he’d laughed at her assumption that she and he would be married.
Laughed. She passed him his tea without allowing their fingers to touch. “Keeping track of a guest’s tea preferences hardly requires thought. Shortbread?”
“Please.”
She held out the tray, and he—predictably—chose a slice, dipped it into his tea, and bit off the end while holding her gaze. He’d probably practiced that maneuver in the mirror while at public school.
What in the name of Drury Lane’s worst farces had she ever seen in him? The question brought a backward joy, because it acknowledged both her foolishness and the fact that, of all men, Fort Armbruster would never again command her attention.
Catherine poured herself half a cup, a trick her mother had taught her. Fort would get around to some other earnest declarations before he’d finished his tea, and then he’d sidle up to the real purpose for his call.
Mama had said in Rome that Lord Fort had gambling debts and ran with a bad crowd. He’d likely been sent abroad in an effort to treat both maladies, but to no avail. He had not called when Papa had died, and his gracious concern today surely presaged some scheme that would benefit him.
“You can be honest with me, Catherine,” he said, putting down his tea cup. “How are you getting on? One hears rumors, but rumors are often the opposite of the truth.”
“What have you heard?”
“Fantastic allegations. That you have become secretly engaged to a Russian prince. That you inherited a fabulous sum from an uncle in the fur trade. That you are rolled up and will soon be in service. Tell an old friend how you’re managing and whether there’s anything I can do to help.”
Two lies—three including that bit about being an old friend—and one truth. Uncle had been in the fur trade. How like Fort Armbruster.
“I will be comfortable and have no plans to marry any Russians. What of yourself? Is this the year your mother will see you marched up the church aisle?”
He winced. If such a thing could be done manfully, he doubtless aspired to do it thus. “Must you be so dismissive? What we had was special, Catherine, but at the time… I was an idiot. I was in disgrace with my family. I did you a favor by allowing you to keep your freedom, and matters turned out for the best after all.”
Caesar rose to sitting, such that his head came up under Catherine’s hand. She stroked soft fur, pulled gently on a velvety ear, and ignored the temptation to commit murder.
Fortescue Armbruster had allowed her the freedom to be ruined, allowed her to risk sending her family into disgrace for all time, and—would the cost never cease rising?—allowed trysting with him to blight her days far into the future.
“You were an idiot,” she said. “We can agree on that much.”
“I’m still an idiot,” he replied, his smile crooked. “You are wroth with me, and I understand that. You suffered terribly for daring some pleasure, but can’t we put the past to rest, Catherine?”
She had not dared pleasure. She’d been lured, step by step, from the path of safety. She’d been seduced, as ignorant, lonely girls had been seduced by arrogant cads from time out of mind. Catherine would likely never have seen the situation clearly, except that she had confessed the whole sorry tale to Mama, who had become incandescent with rage.
At Lord Fort and at herself.
Mama, I miss you. The sentiment came so quickly and forcefully that Catherine wanted to order Armbruster from the house and demand that he never inflict himself on her again.
But no. Fort Armbruster had a long memory for slights, and to him, a former lover turning up difficult would be a slight.
“The past has a way of coming back to life,” Catherine said. “Mama often said that half of diplomacy was recalling which secrets to forget and which to hint at and when.”
“Was Lady Fairchild a spy? One doesn’t mean to be insulting, but that’s a shrewd remark.”
“I would not have known what Mama got up to when she wasn’t hosting Papa’s entertainments, or waiting for him to return from some overseas assignment. The whole diplomatic corps struck me as a keen and noticing group.”
Too keen, too noticing.
“Do you miss those elegant parties? The clever conversation?” His lordship’s unspoken question was, Do you miss me?
Catherine did not. Hadn’t for years. “I met many interesting people abroad, but no, I do not miss the sense of rootlessness. The forming of attachments just as one is expected to leave for a new posting. The same adjustment with languages, with customs, with fashions. My parents had the knack for it, while I just wanted a dog.”
And she’d got Fort Armbruster’s flirtation and fumbling instead. A sorry bargain.
“Should I bring you a puppy, Catherine?”
Xavier Fournier already had, a splendid puppy with great big teeth. “No need. If Caesar and I suit, I can find myself a replacement when his owners reclaim him. I do appreciate your call, Fort, but you must not let me keep you.”
Condolence calls were to be kept short. Besides, Catherine needed to decide what to wear to the MacKays’ dinner. Bettis would argue with her about her hair, then spend an eternity doing her hair however Bettis pleased anyway.
“You always were more prone to solitude than other girls,” he said, finishing his shortbread. “I will call again, Catherine, even though you might not find the delight in my presence you once did. That’s normal, given our past, but now is precisely when a friendly face, somebody who truly knows you, can be a boon. Mama is still trying to marry me off, and it would not hurt your cachet to be seen on my arm.”
Merciful God. “You would escort me?”
“I’ve always been fond of you, beyond fond, but I did not feel I could offer for you honorably all those years ago. I was under the impression you understood the limitations upon me as a younger son on the outs with his family and his creditors.” He affected a look of guarded woundedness, as if Catherine was to doubt the facts of her own history simply because they offended his vanity.
He had laughed at her fondest dream. Hugged her and patted her shoulder.
“And now, my lord?”
If he professed undying love now that Catherine was wealthy, she would be hard put not to go off into whoops. Even for Fort, that would be doing it a bit too brown.
“I thought you could use a friend. Not all of Society will be happy that your sorrow has been leavened with good fortune.”
“Very few know of that good fortune.”
“And those few have not kept their mouths shut, my dear. If you ever have need of my good offices, you have only to ask.”
Just a few years ago, he’d been a stripling sent away in disgrace, but time had been kind to Fortescue. An uncle had left him a competence, he’d learned some discretion, and his older brother’s marriage remained childless.
For a flickering instant, Catherine considered humoring Lord Fort. I could do worse. Perhaps taking a titled husband—this particular titled husband—would ensure her past remained a well-buried secret. Marriage to Armbruster would also ensure that Catherine’s husband would never be able to deceive her with professions of tender sentiment.
Perhaps Fort had grown up.
And perhaps pigs would take to the skies over Hyde Park. This was Lord Fort, despoiler of innocents and bounder of the first water.
He rose and drew Catherine to her feet. “I know your opinion of me is not what it once was, Catherine, but I am your friend, and you matter to me. I was a foolish young man, and I behaved abominably, but I can do better now. If you are ever in difficulties, no matter how insubstantial, you must apply to me. I know how to be discreet, and I do have connections.”
He bowed correctly and only then pulled his gloves from his pocket and slipped them on.
The air of genuine remorse and newfound good intentions was convincing, but then, Fort excelled at making the appearances convincing. Still, Catherine could put the moment to some use.
“Were you discreet all those years ago, my lord?”
Blond brows drew together. “I hope I was. I know the situation became delicate, but I did not bear tales. I did not, as the saying goes, kiss and tell.”
“But you did drink to excess frequently, carouse at length with other ex-patriots, and perhaps lament our situation in a sympathetic ear or two?”
He’d run with a crowd of similarly disgraced young blades, not all of them British, not all of them gentlemen by birth. The risk to Catherine’s reputation had nagged at her for years.
“I would never bandy a lady’s name about in a disrespectful context, Catherine. I was young and sorely troubled by what developed between us, but I hope I kept my wits about me.”
A fine declaration that amounted to an admission: Fort had no idea to whom he might have spilled the particulars of his affair with Catherine.
“Why?” he asked, peering down at her. “Has somebody said something untoward?”
“Somebody is always saying something untoward about me or within my hearing. That has nothing to do with our liaison.”
“Your eyes,” he said, raising a hand as if to touch Catherine’s cheek, then letting it fall back to his side. “Bewitching eyes. I see them in my dreams.”
“My eyes,” Catherine said. “Which announce to all of Society that my mother was indiscreet. As I was indiscreet.” A tame word for committing the worst possible folly in the varied annals of foolish young ladies.
“Drop a few words of Russian into your conversation, imply that you long to return to Saint Petersburg. The gossips will find something to notice about you besides your eyes—your fine figure, your witty conversation, your keen grasp of history—and they will do so in tones of respect and envy. Trust me on this. I know what I’m about.”
He twinkled at her, bowed again, and saw himself out.
Caesar leaned against Catherine’s legs and sighed.
“Tiresome,” she said, stroking his head. “But for now, a task completed. I don’t hate him. I hope I don’t.” But she had. For years, she had hated Fort Armbruster, and with good reason.
If she’d had the least inkling to whom he’d disclosed the details of their liaison, Catherine might have pressed him further. At the time, he’d murmured a few regrets, then shown the blithe unconcern of the strutting peacock.
Perhaps to him the whole situation hadn’t even merited gossiping about, while Catherine’s life had been shattered.
She was arguing with Bettis over how to style her hair—an argument she would win this time—when it occurred to her why Lord Fort’s call had caused such a lingering sense of unease.
The twinkle in his eye. He was a good actor—not as good as he imagined himself to be—but good. That twinkle, though, that hint of delight, had been genuine, and Fort Armbruster should not have been delighted with any aspect of a simple condolence call on an old friend.
He’d be back, and he’d not rest until Catherine had allowed him to at least drive her in the park. She would refuse, and he would pester, and she would refuse him, again and again. She was not a sheltered girl, and this was not Rome, and she was done with charming men intent on their selfish games.
She would refuse until he did what he’d done with all too much alacrity in Rome: walk away from her and leave her to get on with her life as best she could.
Catherine Fairchild’s attempted purchase of a case of Cahors would not leave Fournier’s mind. While moving through the series of stretches that started his every day, walking London’s streets, tending to his ledgers, and consulting with his customers, that humble claret bothered him like a sour aftertaste.
For a beefsteak dinner, she’d said. Was that the truth? A near truth? A young lady in mourning did not typically have gentlemen to dinner, and beefsteak was upper-class masculine fare.
Catherine was simply not a Cahors sort of lady. The wine was lovely in itself—forthright, robust, earthy—but not a fine lady’s preferred libation.
Fournier regarded his reflection in the cheval mirror. “You are looking for an excuse to be stupid again. She does not want you for that. She said as much.”
His reflection, an elegant fellow with a taste for understated lace and overstated embroidery, silently mocked him. For MacKay’s supper, Fournier had chosen his favorite waistcoat, burgundy satin done all over in peacock hues with flowers and birds. His cravat pin was amethyst, a tribute to Miss Fairchild’s eyes.
Had he not aspired to take the lady home at the end of the evening—an unlikely turn of affairs, given the proprieties—he would have walked to MacKay’s house. Walking London’s streets was not the same as wandering his vineyards by the hour, but it was exertion.
The gathering turned out to be small indeed. MacKay and his wife had invited only Miss Fairchild, Fournier, and the Goddards. The meal was surprisingly convivial, with conversation leaping nimbly from French to English. Ann Goddard, compact, dark-haired, and passionate about her cooking—quizzed Fournier at length regarding wine pairings. Mrs. MacKay, a prominent preacher’s daughter, wanted to know the state of religious affairs in France, about which Fournier could tell her little.
All the while, Catherine smiled graciously and offered only the occasional contribution to the discussion. When she did speak in French, Fournier realized that in his native language, Catherine had a slight Italian accent. He stored that detail away as he might have saved a letter from an old flame—or a new flame.
When Colonel Goddard professed a need to at least look in on The Coventry Club before the hour grew too late, Mrs. Goddard and Mrs. MacKay decided that for Fournier to take Catherine home would be the only sensible thing. The distance was short, and Fournier had brought his coach, after all.
Goddard and MacKay did not so much as glance at Fournier when he assented to this arguably dodgy arrangement, though Catherine spared him a small smile.
After five minutes of farewells that included having his hand shaken by the gentlemen and his cheek kissed by both wives, Fournier handed Catherine up, exchanged a few words with his coachman, and climbed in after her.
He took the place next to her and set his hat beside her bonnet on the opposite bench with a sense of relief. “We were managed,” he said. “I confess I hoped we would be.”
“As did I. They were very kind, and the evening was enjoyable.”
Fournier wanted to remove his gloves, remove Catherine’s gloves, and take her hand. “Something preoccupies you.” He purposely did not use the English word worry, because Catherine would bristle at such presumption.
“I’m adjusting to a resumption of socializing. I was my mother’s companion after Papa died. What few invitations we accepted, Mama and I faced as a team. She had friends, from her embassy days, even from her time in Canada, but those friends had families, while Mama had only me.”
Catherine leaned her head back against the cushions, and the coach lamps cast the planes and hollows of her face in shadows.
“Sorrow is keenly skilled at the art of the ambush,” Fournier said. “Watching a family in the park, watching a damned cat with her kittens, your heart breaks without warning. Then you want to smash something fragile, because the whole day must be reconstructed to fortify you against a single bad moment.”
“Another bad moment, but tonight was pleasant nonetheless. These people are not my family, but they are connected to my family, and that will be noted.”
Fournier had noted that connection without noticing it. “Do you hate your father?”
“Papa? He was nothing but kind. Whyever…” Catherine fell silent, and her posture shifted, becoming less proper, more weary. “You mean the late Earl of Casriel. Mama had a miniature of him made for me. The current earl looks very like him. He stood up with me once—Grey did, when we were newly returned to London.”
Had the present earl done that on purpose? To avoid rudeness before a crowd? To be decent to his half-sister? Why had he done it only the once? Had Catherine ever met her true father?
“You never danced with any of your other brothers?”
“Ash, at a house party. He was newly married, and we were both somewhat at sea, but there was trouble afoot, and I was a potential ally. I quite like his wife. Lady Della is fiercely devoted to him, and he to her, though more quietly.”
Such longing imbued that observation. Such wistfulness.
“You never made your bow at court?” Odd for a diplomat’s daughter. Very odd.
Fournier again had the urge to take her hand, and he again ignored it.