Chapter Twelve

THE CARRIAGE CATHERINE HAD HIRED rounded the last bend in the lane heading toward Lavenham Hall. Through the trees up ahead, she could just glimpse the huge estate in Dorset where her uncle, Gilbert Lavenham, Duke of Wentworth, reigned supreme.

Beside her on the tufted leather seat, hands folded demurely in her lap, sat the small brown-haired girl Catherine had virtually bought away from the Black Bull Tavern to serve as her traveling companion. She was a thin, frail young woman, delicate in a way Catherine wasn’t.

Gabriella LeClerc was hardly a beauty, but there was a softness around her mouth and an innocence in her wide brown eyes that somehow made her attractive. She had jumped at Catherine’s offer to escape her life at the tavern, been eager to learn, helpful, and decidedly loyal. Already they had formed a friendship of sorts.

“Mon Dieu,” Gabby whispered, her eyes fixed on the three-story structure with its sharply gabled roofs, rows of mullioned windows, dozens of chimneys, and acres of manicured lawns. “Surely, my lady, this is not where we are going?”

Catherine had chosen the girl mostly because she spoke English—a legacy of a British mother who had abandoned her as a child—and as soon as they had left France on the tiring journey home, she had been allowed to speak nothing else.

“That’s Lavenham Hall,” Catherine told her. “I believe I mentioned it.” Catherine had filled the young girl in on who she was and where they were going, but very little else. The subject of her time with the Gypsies—and especially her relationship with Dominic—was just too painful to discuss.

“You mentioned it, my lady. But I could not have imagined…”

“Just remember, Gabby. Say nothing to anyone until my uncle and I have had time to talk.”

“I will say nothing,” Gabby promised, and Catherine knew a knife at the young girl’s throat could not pry out the words.

She smiled at the good fortune that had brought the two of them together. One small ray of sunshine among her dark days of despair. Catherine leaned back against the tufted black leather. Soon she would be shed of the simple traveling clothes she had bought for herself and later for Gabby.

She had taken Dominic’s money—without a shred of conscience after what had passed between them—then carefully and determinedly set out to elude him.

And this time she had succeeded.

The night of her arrival in Marseilles, she had located a Portuguese brig, Menina Belo, bound for Lisbon on the morning tide. From there they had found and boarded another ship, the Pegasus, sailing for England, managed to evade Napoleon’s warships, and made their way home.

The carriage pulled through the massive iron gates, around the circular crushed-granite drive, and up to the wide stone porch with its huge carved lions. A silver and dark green liveried doorman helped Catherine alight, then helped Gabriella, who was staring so hard at their stately surroundings she stumbled and nearly fell.

The massive carved mahogany doors were pulled open even before they reached them, and Catherine stepped into the foyer. Glistening chandeliers reflected the black and white marble floor and the walls were covered in gold watered-silk damask. It might have been gaudy without the exquisite Chinese vases on their carved mahogany stands, and the simple lines of the high-backed chairs with their subtle ivory inlays.

Recognizing several small knickknacks on the ornate hall table that she had played with as a child, Catherine steeled herself against the feelings of homecoming that welled up inside her. Even then, her throat closed up and her fingers trembled until she had to still the movement by smoothing the front of her skirt.

Just then, Soames, the butler, stepped forward, his watery old eyes assessing her dusty traveling clothes.

“May I be of service, madam?” he asked, lifting his nose as if what she had to say had very well better be important or she wasn’t about to get in.

“Yes, Soames. I believe I should like you to fetch my uncle.”

Soames’s narrow slash of a mouth dropped open. He took a step backward, his thin, veined hand fluttering up to his heart. “Lady Catherine,” he squeaked.

“It’s all right, Soames. I assure you I’m not a ghost.”

“B-but where have you been? We all thought you were … that you were dead, milady.”

“As you can see, I’m very much alive—and very glad to be home.” She smiled at him tiredly. “Now … are you recovered enough to fetch Uncle Gil?”

“Why, yes, milady. Of course.”

“Soames, this is Gabriella. I’d appreciate your seeing her settled. We’ve traveled quite far. I’m certain she’s exhausted.”

“Of course.” He showed Catherine into the Tapestry Room, a huge red-walled salon beneath massive hand-sculpted beams, closed the door, then led Gabby upstairs to the servants’ quarters.

Catherine sank down on a ruby-brocade Hepplewhite sofa and tried to calm her pounding heart. She had prepared herself for this moment, known it must come, and still she wished there was some way to avoid it. Instead the double doors opened and a pale-faced, tired-looking version of her uncle walked in. He was a stout man, portly some might say, thick of chest and shoulders, with a shock of silver-gray hair and clear green eyes the same shade as Catherine’s. The duke was a man of average height, yet somehow he always seemed taller.

Catherine forced a smile in his direction, but her uncle made no move. He just stood there staring, looking as though he’d been sure this was some sort of trick and had just discovered it was not.

“Catherine,” he whispered, regaining his composure with his usual alacrity and starting toward her, his arms outstretched. A hard lump rose in Catherine’s throat. In an instant, she was on her feet and flying across the room, melting into his solid embrace, clutching him and crying against his shoulder.

“My dearest Catherine,” he said, and she heard the unshed tears that clogged his throat. “We all believed you dead.”

“Oh, Uncle Gil, so much has happened.” She hugged him fiercely, and he hugged her back. For a long while they just stood there, Catherine secure in the circle of his stout arms, Gil thanking God that she still lived.

“Come,” he gently urged when her crying had ceased. With an arm around her shoulder, he walked her to the sofa and sat down beside her. For minutes that seemed like hours he said nothing, and neither did Catherine.

“I’ve felt so deuced guilty,” he finally said, surprising her. “I kept asking myself if you might still be alive had I done my duty. Instead I let you go off on your own with only your cousin and his wife for supervision. If I had kept you here with me—”

“It wasn’t your fault. How could you have known what would happen? How could anyone have known?”

She went on to tell him about the night of her abduction, how she had been sleeping in her bedchamber after the Mortons’ soiree, how a man had come in through the window, rendered her unconscious, and carried her away.

“There was a young woman’s body discovered in the river,” the duke said. “She was … no longer recognizable, but she appeared to have been about your age. Everyone believed it was you.”

Catherine shook her head at the awful image. “Maybe that was what people were meant to believe.” She told him how she had been sold to a band of Gypsies and taken across the channel to France, how she’d been intended for a Turkish pasha, been traded instead to a Gypsy named Vaclav, and finally ended up with the Pindoros.

“What you must have suffered,” her uncle said, squeezing her hand.

“In the beginning, I didn’t believe I could survive it. In the end, I knew I was strong enough to survive almost anything.”

Her uncle looked grim. “And this band of Gypsies,” he said, “the Pindoros, was it?”

“Yes.”

“They helped you get home?”

This was the part she had dreaded. “There was one among them. A man they called Domini. He looked after me, watched out for me. He would have brought me home, but I—” Catherine glanced away, for a moment unable to go on.

“It’s all right, my dear. You don’t have to tell me any more than you want to. You’re home and safe. Nothing else matters.”

“I want to tell you, Uncle Gil. I have to. It’s going to be hard enough mending things as it is.”

Nearly impossible, Gil thought, but didn’t say so. Right now his beloved niece had returned from the grave, a gift from God he would never be able to repay. When he had walked into the room, he almost hadn’t recognized her, so much had she changed. No more the little girl, this Catherine was a woman—self-assured and strong. She would need that strength to draw on in the difficult days ahead.

“Tell me about this Domini,” he said, gently urging her on.

Catherine smiled faintly. Gil noticed the look that crept into her eyes, a mixture of fondness and pain.

“In most ways, Uncle, he was a fine man.” The memory seemed to warm her. “He was tall—very tall—and his skin was smooth and dark. He was so handsome—the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. Not foppish, mind you. Not like the dandies in London. But handsome in a masculine sort of way. In truth, he was only half Gypsy. I think his father may have been English, though he never really said so. It seems they did not get along.”

“I see.”

“Believe it or not, he was educated—very much so.”

Gil grunted. “An educated Gypsy.”

“Oh yes. And far more intelligent than most of the men I’ve met in England.”

“What did he say when you told him who you were?”

“I didn’t. I had tried that before, you see, and all it got me were beatings and mistreatment.”

Gil’s chest felt tight. Good God, what she must have endured! He thought about the man who had stolen her away from the town house. Why? he silently demanded. Who could have done such a thing? They were questions he had asked a thousand times, but still remained unanswered. He would find out, he vowed again as he had before. And when he did there would be bloody hell to pay.

“Surely if you had told him, the man would have helped you,” Gil said.

“Oh, he did. He bought me away from Vaclav when he would have beat me. He provided for me, taught me things about nature, about the Gypsies. He protected me—even at the risk of his own life.…” She looked away, her eyes drifting to the small fire blazing in the hearth at the end of the room.

“I fell in love with him, Uncle Gil,” she said softly, sounding more like the little girl she had been when she left. “I didn’t want to. I knew I shouldn’t—I did everything in my power not to, but…” Catherine gazed down at her lap and toyed with the folds of her skirt.

“And this man, this Gypsy,” Gil said softly, “did he also love you?”

She shook her head. “No.” She raised her eyes to his. “But it wasn’t his fault. Not really. I was angry at first. I thought he took advantage. Now I believe that in some way he cared for me. And he was honest in his intentions from the start.”

“He told you he didn’t love you?” Gil felt the heat of anger, but firmly tamped it down.

“No. But I knew he had vowed not to marry. And even if he had wanted me, it would never have worked. I’m meant for the life of a countess, not the wandering existence of a Gypsy.”

“That’s my girl,” Gil said with pride, patting her hand. “You’ve always had a head on your shoulders.”

Catherine met his green gaze squarely. “I’m afraid, Uncle Gil, that for one small moment I lost it.” Her cheeks turned scarlet, and the duke inwardly groaned.

He’d known from the moment she began her story, she could not possibly have remained untouched and yet … “Are you telling me, my dear, that this Gypsy … took your innocence?” He’d find the bloody bastard and have him horsewhipped!

“Not exactly. It was more like I gave it to him.” Catherine didn’t look away. Gil searched hard but could find no trace of regret. He sighed, in a way more proud of her than he had been before.

He gently squeezed her hand. “You aren’t the first young woman to stumble on the difficult road to womanhood. Whatever has happened is past. We’ve money and position on our side. We’ll think of something.”

Catherine merely nodded. She’d had plenty of time to think and she had come up with an idea she thought just might work. But she felt bone-weary, and Uncle Gil needed time to get used to her return.

“I hoped we might discuss it at supper,” she said. “I know the servants will be buzzing, but surely we can hold them at bay for a little while longer.”

“Good idea. Leave the servants to me.” His determined expression dared them to open their mouths. “Until then, I suggest you get some rest. Your bedchamber is just as you left it. I hadn’t the heart to remove your things.”

Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. After her father had died, she’d spent a great deal of time at Lavenham Hall. She kept a wardrobe of clothing, which, thanks to Uncle Gil’s sentimentality, meant she would at least have something to wear.

She smiled tiredly. “I’m certain to feel better after a bath and a rest.”

“Of course, my dear. And you mustn’t worry. Somehow things will work out.”

Catherine just nodded. Wasn’t that what Dominic had said? She wondered as she had these long days past exactly where he was and what he was thinking. She wondered if he missed her or if he had already settled on another to warm his bed.

“I’m so glad to be home, Uncle Gil.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I can’t tell you how glad.”

Gil cleared his throat. “Not nearly as thankful as I am to have you.”

With a last brief smile in his direction, Catherine crossed the thick Persian carpet to the door leading out to the hall. Ignoring the odd looks she received from the servants, she wearily climbed the stairs.

*   *   *

Catherine slept longer than she had intended, her dreams troubled by images of Dominic. She was running from him, trying to hide, yet hoping he would find her. She felt torn in two by the thought of separation, yet something pulled her away. She could hear him searching, calling her name, begging her not to go. Then she heard Yana’s laughter, brittle and mocking, branding her a fool.

Then he was there, tall and imposing, pulling her into his arms, holding her, kissing her, molding his mouth to hers, his fine dark hands roaming her bodice. Fiery warmth spread through her.

“Dominic,” she whispered, clutching him against her.

“Don’t leave me,” he said softly, and she knew this time she could not go.

A movement in the room, and Catherine bolted upright in the small daybed at the foot of the huge four-poster. Her heart still pounded fiercely, and it took a moment for her to discern where she was.

“I—I am sorry, my lady. You told me to wake you no later than seven.” Gabby looked regretful, but determined to do as she had been told.

Catherine smiled and worked to slow her speeding heart. The last fleeting vestige of Dominic’s warm embrace faded away and suddenly she felt empty. Dear God how she missed him.

“Thank you, Gabby.”

“Shall I have your bath brought in?”

“Please.” She’d been so tired she had fallen asleep in her chemise. “It’s a luxury I shall never take for granted again.”

Catherine lounged in the warm copper tub until the water began to cool, then stepped into the crisp linen towel Gabby held. A search of the carved mahogany armoire in the corner provided a pale blue watered-silk gown, high-waisted, the bodice not nearly so low as those she had worn in London, but with its small puffed sleeves and delicate seed-pearl trim, fashionable just the same.

Gabby, who had already become a passable coiffeur, twisted Catherine’s hair into a thick, sleek coil at the back of her neck, and she made her way down the wide spiral staircase to the drawing room where Uncle Gil poured her a glass of claret.

In his immaculate dark blue frock coat with its high turnover collar, burgundy striped waistcoat, and pale gray trousers, he seemed much more relaxed and far more in charge of himself than he had just hours ago.

“You look lovely, my dear.” He seated her on a cherrywood sofa not far from the marble-manteled hearth.

Catherine shifted a bit on her chair. Used to the freedom of her Gypsy clothes, she felt a little uncomfortable in garments more confining than any she had worn since she’d left England.

“Thank you, Uncle.” She sighed. “In a way it feels good to be beautifully gowned again, but in another way … It’s difficult to explain, but after the freedom I’ve known, I feel a tiny bit awkward dressed as I am.”

Gil sat down in a wing chair across from her. “Like all things in life, there are advantages and drawbacks to everything. The Gypsy knows possibly the greatest freedom on earth, yet at the same time, he is limited by that very freedom as to what he may achieve. On the other hand, our society is quite rigid in most things, but it is that very structure which helps us define our place in life and achieve our greatest accomplishments.”

Catherine smiled. “Having lived both ways, I believe I know what you mean.” She took a sip of claret and set it aside. “Which brings us to the problem at hand.”

“Yes,” Gil said with an even deeper sigh, “you’ve quite gone outside the bounds of propriety, I’m afraid, even if it wasn’t at all your fault.”

“I’ve had a good deal of time to consider this, Uncle. Are you willing to hear my plan?”

“Since I’ve drawn little more than a blank so far, I’d say I’m more than willing.”

Catherine leaned forward, eager to learn his thoughts on the matter, yet fearful he might uncover a flaw she had somehow overlooked.

“I haven’t yet gotten the details all worked out, but so far it goes something like this: Lady Catherine and her cousin Edmund argued terribly the night of her disappearance. In a fit of pique, Catherine stole away to the solitude of a convent near her home in Devon. She had no idea about the young girl’s body that was found in the Thames, therefore no idea that anyone thought she was dead. She meant to teach her cousin a lesson, but now regrets most heartily all the trouble she has caused.”

Catherine looked at him hopefully. “Of course we’d need Edmund and Amelia’s complete cooperation.”

“That certainly isn’t a problem,” Gil said, still mulling the idea over. “The man was utterly grief-stricken by the whole affair. Blamed himself, you see.”

“Did he? I wonder how stricken he’ll feel when he discovers I’ve returned?”

Gil fixed his gaze on hers and saw her look of suspicion. “I realize he had a good deal to gain, but surely you don’t believe…?”

“I presume his grief was lessened somewhat by his assumption of the Arondale title and fortune.”

“The bloody bastard!” Gil swore, surging to his feet. “He wouldn’t dare!”

Catherine stood up, too. “Cousin Edmund has been like a brother to me since I was a girl. I’m not accusing him of anything—at least not yet.”

The duke took a hefty swig of brandy from the delicate crystal snifter he held in one thick hand and began to pace in front of the fire. “I had considered it, of course, so did others. But the man was so despondent no one gave the notion much credence for more than an instant or two. Why, Edmund could barely hold up through the funeral.”

“Funeral?”

The duke flashed the wisp of a smile. “Quite an occasion it was, you being a countess and all. Cost your cousin a fortune.”

“You mean it cost me a fortune.”

Gil chuckled at that. “Yes, I suppose it did.”

Catherine sat back down, urging Gil to do the same. She picked up her glass and took a sip of claret. “If Edmund isn’t the culprit—and I tend to agree that he is not—then who do you think it was?”

“There are men who do villainy just for sport—that was of course a consideration. Edmund and I thought maybe it had something to do with your involvement in that damnable Friendly Society.”

“The Society for the Betterment of the Poor? But what would that have to do with this?”

“For years those groups have been becoming more and more unpopular. Lately, they’ve come even more heavily under fire.”

Catherine had known that a goodly number of people believed educating the children of the poor would encourage revolution. They were afraid what had happened to the nobility in France might happen again in England.

“But my involvement in the group was so remote. Surely, since I lived as far away as Devon, very few people knew anything about it.”

“Your father made it no secret. He came under attack more than once. And some of the opposition has become quite radical in their views.”

“I suppose it is a possibility.”

“Yes, well, a remote one, but not to be overlooked. I’ve had men looking into the crime for weeks. Nothing’s turned up yet, but I intend to keep after it.”

“Thank you, Uncle. I should like very much to see the matter put to an end.” Catherine sipped her drink. “As to the problem at hand,” she said, “what do you think of my plan?”

“I think it has definite possibilities. When do you intend to give Edmund the good news of your return?”

“I doubt Edmund will qualify giving up his earldom as a bit of good news. I had hoped that you would speak to him, get him over the shock, then gain his cooperation.”

“That you may count on, my dear.” He set his glass aside, reached for hers and set it aside, then both of them stood up. Gil took her arm and looped it through his. “You may also rest assured that the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Devon, to which the Earl of Arondale and the Duke of Wentworth have both contributed heavily throughout the years, will also agree to assist us.”

“Then you think my plan will work?”

He led her into the dining room and pulled out one of twenty high-backed carved walnut chairs. Catherine seated herself, and the duke took a seat at the head of the table not far away. Gold candelabra gleamed against gold-rimmed porcelain plates and the scent of white roses filled the air.

“It’s better than anything I’ve come up with. But even if all goes well, you’ll still risk the cut direct for your supposed foolhardy behavior.”

“I know.”

“Unless, of course, we can recruit several of the more powerful families to our cause.” Gil looked thoughtful. “Sommerset is most certainly in my debt for a favor I granted his eldest son, and Mayfield … I believe he’s a close enough friend we may count on his wholehearted support. Hornbuckle, of course, will side with us—Ozzie’s well liked, though he hasn’t much clout. We’ll convince the women that you’re drowning in guilt for what you have inadvertently done to your poor dear cousin and me, and kindhearts that they are, they’ll probably see you as the injured party. With them and a handful of others on our side, we’ve a chance to succeed.”

Catherine began to breathe easier. Of course, even if her social position was once again secure, there was still the problem of finding her a proper husband—one by whom her lack of innocence would be quietly overlooked.

What kind of a man would that be?

At the prospect of actually marrying someone, Catherine’s stomach tightened. She thought of Dominic, and his handsome face rose up before her almost as if he had entered the room. Where was he? she wondered. Had he gone on to England as he had planned? Or with Catherine no longer urging his return, had he decided to stay in France?

“Are you all right, my dear?” Gil looked at her with a worried frown, and Catherine realized he had been speaking to her for quite some time.

“I’m sorry, Uncle. I guess I’m not precisely back to normal.”

“It’s all right, my child. I quite understand.”

I’m glad someone does, she thought. For the hundredth time since she had left France, Catherine forced thoughts of Dominic aside. Her uncle seemed to understand what was wrong with her. Catherine only wished she did.