A Grand Design Part 4

Confused, Cate blinked up at him. "My lord?" Even unnerved as she was, she has to look up-ararity for her because of her height. She looked up at so few people.

"Either you do not dance as a matter of principle, or your sets are all bespoken for the evening.

Perhaps you have just this day turned your ankle, or you are in the very final hour of mourning for some distant departed relation. Have no fear, Miss Buchanan. I shall not ask. Nor will I require an explanation should I see you on the floor later. I understand perfectly."

Cate prided herself on her quick mind. This time, however, she was lamentably slow in comprehending his meaning. When she finally did, he was continuing, "I meant only to be civil. But then, my . . . renown has little to do with my being civil, or even civilized, so I will not pretend to be surprised. I will, however, express my hope that you will enjoy the remainder of your evening. Good night, madam."

He took a step backward. Cate, despite her better judgment, felt a sharp tug at her conscience. She knew she was often curt, rarely gracious. But she hoped she was not often entirely without manners, even when the person with whom she was conversing was fiercely disquieting. She was, too, smart enough to know that a deliberate insult to the person putting food on one's table was not among a woman's wiser choices.

"I do not dance, sir," she informed him, quite honestly, "but I thank you for"-he had not asked, she recalled, and before she could ponder that too deeply, continued-"for your good wishes and inquiries. Please, rest a.s.sured the work on your house is progressing well. I think you will be pleased."

Cate had never been one for toadying and wondered if she'd done it up a bit too brown. Well, there was nothing to be done about that now.

Tregaron said nothing for a few moments. Instead, he fixed his gaze on her face. Cate suddenly had a very good idea how a hen, even a scrawny one, felt in the presence of a fox. She felt a faint p.r.i.c.kling that went from her toes to her cheeks, her nerves alight. And just as she began to imagine a balcony, nighttime, soft summer air, and a current of emotion ... he spoke.

"I don't give a d.a.m.n about the house, Miss Buchanan. But then, I imagine, neither do you, really. It's not your concern, after all. So"-he sketched a brief, perhaps mocking bow-"I bid you good evening once again."

In an instant he was gone, striding through the crowd, which moved away from him as he approached, then closed ranks behind his back. As more curious faces turned to Cate, more eyes scanned her from the towering top of her head to the tips of her not-small, well-worn slippers, she pressed herself back into her little corner and wondered if her fiercely thudding heart could be heard by all present.

Cate Buchanan, who prided herself on her iron core and fearless front, was more than a bit unnerved by the Marquess of Tregaron. And she wasn't at all sure just why.

Her instinct now told her that it was time to depart. She would bid the Ladies Leverham and Hythe -both of whom had been all that was welcoming and charming-good night, collect her sister, and leave. It hardly mattered that they had arrived in Lady Leverham's carriage. She and Lucy would walk the few blocks home. It would not be seemly, perhaps, but it would be expedient.

Even as she took a half step away from the wall, Cate knew she would not be going anywhere just yet. Lucy, whom she could just see through a knot of young men, was having a marvelous time. She glowed, she flirted, her silvery laugh ringing out over her admirers. Heads turned; the crowd surrounding her thickened. By all appearances, Lucy Buchanan of Tarbet, daughter of n.o.body-in-particular, possessed of little more than her beautiful self, was on her way to becoming the belle of the ball, if perhaps not the toast of the Town.

Cate would sooner walk through fire than spoil her sister's evening by dragging her away from her brightest moment to date.

She feared Lucy would be disappointed soon enough. Gentlemen, even n.o.blemen, payed attention to a pretty face or clever tongue. They flirted, offered their arms for picturesque strolls, and gave flowers. But they never married girls like Catherine and Lucy Buchanan. Not when their hemispheres were sprinkled with other young ladies whose pretty faces and clever tongues were delightfully accompanied by fortune and status.

Perhaps, Cate thought, if her sister could fall in love with an ordinary fellow, she would avoid the disappointment. But she knew Lucy, and knew Lucy had eyes for but two types of gentlemen-the Byronic poet and the lofty peer. The girl's daily perusal of the Times and the endless gossip pages would have made that evident, even if her regular rhapsodies over the merit of rhyme and entail made her sentiments perfectly obvious.

Every peer, with the exception of Lady Leverham's sweet if distant husband, had his eyes at a level that went right over even Cate's Maypole head. Every poet Cate had ever met had stars in his eyes and dust in his pockets. To be fair, she was fond enough of poets; her beloved father, after all, had been one, but they were a woefully unreliable lot as far as financial stability was concerned.

She was not fond of the peerage at all.

Tregaron, with his granite face and looming figure, was no different. Just because he had set her firm opinions wobbling a bit with his attention, with his perfectly civil words and whiskey-edged, goldmine-deep voice . . .

" Pon my word. Here's a face I hadn't thought to see in Town!"

Cate went still as stone. She did not have to turn, in fact she was loathe to do so, to identify the speaker. She knew that voice. She'd heard it often enough, sometimes soft as silk, sometimes harsh with mockery, sometimes when it had been too dark to see the handsome face that went with it. He was there -on her very first foray into Society. He was there and she shouldn't have come. She'd known that from the beginning, but Lucy . . .

Blood roaring in her ears, she turned slowly. Her limbs protested each inch, but she'd been discovered. He had found her, and there was nothing to do but face the consequences head-on.

There he was-lean, smooth, handsome, and fas.h.i.+onable, and so polished that, had he been a gem, he would have been blinding. Nothing had changed save perhaps the pattern of his cravat knot. He looked exactly the same.

And he was not looking at her at all.

The others were there, too, not ten feet away, grouped around a man Cate did not know, alternately thumping him on the back and peppering him with questions about his time on the Continent. Cate stood, frozen, for countless minutes, desperate to sit down but terrified to so much as twitch lest she be seen.

Then, just as she thought her knees might fail her, a new voice spoke, quietly, just beside her- cultured, pleasant, completely unfamiliar. "I say, Miss Buchanan, as we've not been properly introduced, you will probably think me the most impertinent fellow. But you look as though a bit of quiet wouldn't be unwelcome. With your permission, I will escort you to a private chamber."

She'd been too frozen to even notice someone approaching. The face, when Cate turned to look at it, matched the voice-attractive, friendly, and unfamiliar. She could not allow this man, a man she did not know, to take her away from the party. But, oh, it was so tempting.

"Julius Rome, ma'am. Your servant." He offered his arm. "My brother, he's Hythe, you know, would tell you I'm a trustworthy fellow, if something of a scapegrace. My mother would tell you I'm a veritable prince among men."

Again, against better judgment, but trusting her instincts-and heeding her desperation-Cate took his arm and allowed him to lead her on her jelly-weak legs, skirting the walls and keeping behind whatever blind was available, from the room.

Tregaron watched them until they were out the door, then resumed his conversation with Charles Vaer. He had never much cared for the man, who in middle age had settled into a stout pomposity, but Vaer had approached him in an almost friendly manner. The matter behind the manner, of course, was that Vaer had a daughter who, despite her ample beauty, respectable portion, and unimpeachable reputation, was still very much unmarried. If Vaer, who possessed the subtlety of an inebriated bull, were to be believed, darling Elspeth had been on the verge of understandings with both the Duke of Conovar and the Earl of Hythe-at different times, of course-before her place had been unscrupulously usurped by, respectively, an Irish-born upstart widow and a mannerless Scottish spinster.

Vaer had not been quite so obvious as to list all his daughter's charms to Tregaron as if he were a potential bidder on a horse. The man had not been far off, however. For his own part, Tregaron had not especially cared. He did not know either Conovar's wife or Hythe's. Vaer had pointed out his Elspeth, who was, in fact, lovely and surrounded by only the finest of Society. She very probably possessed a fair number of the attributes with which her fool of a sire credited her. Beyond that, the man's mention of a mannerless Scottish spinster had served quite effectively to turn most of Tregaron's attention right back to Catherine Buchanan.

He'd watched her from the corner of his eye as she did absolutely nothing at all. She'd stayed right where he had left her, wedged between wall and plant, attracting scant attention, but still as conspicuous as an armored Amazon at Almack's. She appeared neither happy nor discontent. She simply was, and Tregaron had been struck and somewhat horrified by how fully she was occupying his mind.

Now, in the wake of certain decidedly odd events, he listened to Vaer drone on while he waited with fast-rising impatience for Rome's return. It had been at least a quarter hour, probably more. When the younger man at last appeared, Tregaron excused himself to Vaer with strained politeness and followed Rome to a corner of the parlor.

"What in G.o.d's name took you so long?" he demanded. "You saw her to a quiet place?"

Rome, rather than taking offense or showing any of the curiosity most men would have, shrugged.

"Not the quiet place I'd intended. I was all set to tuck her up in Sibyl's sitting room, but as soon as I got her into the hall, she scarpered. Barely stayed long enough to offer thanks and ask me to let Alfie Leverham know she was going before she made a dash for the door. She was halfway down Mount Street before I caught her."

It didn't surprise Tregaron to hear Catherine had bounded into the London night. He would have expected as much. In fact, he very nearly smiled at the image of Miss Buchanan striding through Mayfair on her stork-long legs, scattering the neighborhood's bantam residents as she went. "I take it you escorted her home."

Rome did draw himself up slightly then, as if to protest any hint he might not have instantly performed such a task. "I did, of course. Binney Street. Pokey little house, actually . . . Ah, well. She's a curious creature, your Miss Buchanan. Pale as a sheet, the whole time, but she chattered away about the weather as if we were at a sunny luncheon party. Curious, but somehow rather delightful."

Tregaron had noted Rome's use of the term his Miss Buchanan, noted too the delightful, but made no correction. For some reason, he didn't think it a good idea for the younger man to look for Catherine's delightful qualities. If, in fact, she possessed any.

"I don't suppose you'll tell me what sent her haring off into the night," Rome said conversationally.

"I am not certain, myself."

But he had seen her go pale, alarmingly so. And he had taken note of the clutch of gentlemen whose arrival had coincided with her pallor. Gramble, Reynolds, Fremont, and several men he had seen only from the rear. An idle, unappealing bunch, to be sure. He would not ordinarily have expected Catherine to have known any of them, but some instinct told him that she did indeed. Somehow. And had, despite being the least likely damsel in distress he could imagine, been badly in need of rescuing.

He'd imagined what her response would have been had he arrived at her side, ready, if tarnished, lance aloft. She would have said something cool and cutting at the very least, perhaps even trodden on his toes as she stalked off. So he had opted for an alternative, and the pa.s.sing Julius Rome had served his purpose admirably.

"Thank you," he murmured now, grateful. "You're a good man, Rome."

Julius grinned. "Yes, well, there are a few of us left, aren't there?"

Tregaron a.s.sumed an answer was not required. He also a.s.sumed, perhaps with the optimism of idiocy, that there had been a dash of friendly support in the younger man's words. Of course that camaraderie might be nothing more than the result of Rome's natural, childlike optimism. No matter. One ally in London was more than the Marquess of Tregaron had had in eight years.

Chapter 5.

"Honestly, Cate, I cannot believe you did not tell me!"

Lucy swiped her lacy little parasol through the air for emphasis, nearly clipping her sister on the chin. "How could you have said nothing at all on the matter?"

Cate wearily handed a sheaf of ceiling designs, with their recent changes, to the waiting MacGoun, who promptly stomped off. The man was scowling, as usual, but Cate had a very good idea that it was Lucy's presence on the site that had his hackles up on this occasion. While the other workmen seemed to regard Lucy's calls as something akin to a heavenly visitation, the foreman found them a dismal nuisance.

Cate agreed. She loved her sister, but wished the girl would keep herself away from Hanover Square. She prattled, distracted the men to the point that a plasterer had, only minutes before, got his foot stuck in his bucket, and kept Cate from getting much of anything done. And now, on this visit, she was insisting on discussing matters Cate would just as soon not, all involving the Hythe fete of the night before. Thus far, she had prattled about Cate's untimely departure, the glory of the decorations, and the elegance of the attendees, most notably the gentlemen.

"How?" Lucy demanded again when Cate did not respond.

"It never occurred to me," was her nearly truthful reply. It earned her a hearty snort.

"The man is not so old as to be wholly unacceptable, not at all unpleasant to look at, rich as Croesus, and a marquess, and it did not occur to you to mention it to me?" Incredulous, provoked, but not truly angry, Lucy stomped one tiny foot, sending up a formidable cloud of plaster dust.

She fluttered a hand in front of her face. "Oh, why can you never work in clean places!"

That got a wry smile from Cate. "I always try, keeping you in mind, dearest, but I cannot seem to manage it, even for you. And as for Lord Tregaron, you knew perfectly well that he was a marquess and a wealthy one. Our opinions of acceptable ages vary so that I have long since given up trying to understand precisely where you place your limits, and I cannot say I find the man at all pleasant to look at."

That was not entirely true, perhaps, but when one lived among any number of half truths, one learned not to split hairs over one more or less.

She continued, "Beyond that, Lucy, he has a dismal character, and an even worse reputation."

"Mmm. Yes, I know he does"-her sister's eyes actually went a bit starry-"but he has such lovely shoulders. In such a stunning coat. I daresay it cost more than all my wardrobe and yours combined ..."

"Ah, you actually admit the rags with which I adorn myself and hence torture you qualify as a wardrobe, then."

Lucy ignored her. "I found myself wis.h.i.+ng he would ask me to dance last night. How exciting it would have been! Certainly he might have wished it, too, but sadly, did not take the opportunity."

"You were introduced?" Cate demanded, surprised.

"We were not. But Mr. Rome would have seen to it."

"Mr. Rome," Cate murmured, shuddering as she recalled certain events of the previous night, "is very much the perfect gentleman." She was more than grateful to him. Without his a.s.sistance, she might have been forced to face a far less pleasant prospect than Lord Tregaron's company.

"Yes, he is rather sweet, isn't he? He was ever so gallant to you, Catey, seeing you home when you took ill." Lucy had certainly accepted that half truth Cate had given her about her sudden departure from the Hythes'. "What a shame he isn't likely to ascend to the earldom. He might have done as a husband."

"For you or for me?" was Cate's wry query.

She got no answer. Lucy was wandering off, doing an airy circuit of the mostly bare and gutted drawing room. Only the floor remained intact, the intricate parquet waiting to be restored to l.u.s.trous glory. Lucy ran a gloved finger along the top, grimacing at the large smudge left on the pale doeskin. Then she did a pretty pirouette, causing one of the workmen who were stripping the damaged paper from the walls to drop his heavy sc.r.a.per with a clang.

"Pale green," Lucy announced after a full scan of the room. "I would do it all in green. Silk on the walls, I think, brocade on the furniture. Yes, pale green and gilt. And the rest of that"-she waved vaguely at the remaining molding that connected walls to ceiling, searching for a word she'd heard a thousand times and would never, her sister knew, remember-"fungus has to go. It's far too plain."

Cate had every intention of seeing it replaced with something far plainer, a design without a ribbon or curlicue in it. She had also meant to go from the drawing room to the master bedchamber suite, where the ceilings required her perusal. She was changing her mind, however. Lucy's newfound interest in decoration was hardly subtle. The widgeon was envisioning herself elegantly ensconced in the drawing room, no doubt dressed to suit both the pale green-and-gilt decor and her new t.i.tle of marchioness. Cate didn't particularly want to hear her ideas for the boudoir. There was already a profusion of fat plaster cherubs-which were not long for their places.

As she became more familiar with each inch of each room, Cate was having a more difficult time imagining Lord Tregaron living in this house. Too much of it spoke of female taste, and extravagant female taste at that, an extravagance that had been indulged and allowed to swell throughout the entire house. Rather like a storm, it had left its share of detritus behind: pink velvet drapes in the drawing room, gilt on every medallion and cornice, the never-ending supply of unattractive ceilings.

With the exception of the ravaged library, and Cate had not set foot inside that room since the first day, there was no indication that the saturnine marquess had ever inhabited the house at all.

Everywhere she turned, she encountered the ghost of the late Lady Tregaron. The marchioness's personal belongings had been cleared from the house, she'd noted, along with all of the marquess's with the exception of his books. The workmen had taken some furniture and a few bits and pieces to the attics. Cate had no idea if the rest of the removal had taken place recently, or all those years earlier, before the house was closed up and allowed to rot into its sad state. Either way, had Tregaron ever put his stamp on any of the rooms in which he had lived, it had been erased. Lady Tregaron's hand, however, was everywhere, spread thickly from floor to ceiling.

"Catherine!" Lucy's voice cut into Cate's musings.

"Hmm?"

"You have not heard a word I have said, have you?"

"Gilt," Cate said with a sigh. "Fungus."

Lucy snorted again. "I asked if the marquess could be expected to attend the Wardour fete."

"How in heaven's name am I supposed to know that? I am not his secretary, Lucy, nor do I have any insight whatsoever into London's social calendar. I had not even heard of the Wardour fete before now."

With that, she rolled the remainder of the papers she held into a tidy tube, tucked it under her arm, and stalked off toward the rear parlor, where the afternoon's work would center. Lucy, uncowed, skipped prettily to keep pace. Behind them, the sound of pounding hammers, thumping doors, and the cheerful whistling of the workmen combined for a lively symphony.

"Of course you have heard of it, Cate. We are to attend with Lady Leverham, Tuesday-"

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"No," Cate repeated. "You may attend. I will not." Images of the night before flashed through her mind, defying all the morning's effort to keep them at bay and bringing the same flush-to-chill sensation to her cheeks. "As you no longer have need of my presence, and as I have less than no interest in propping up more walls or swilling tepid refreshments, I will be suiting myself and staying home at night."

"But, Catey, the Wardours-"

"Do not know me from a Highland sheep. I am certain, however, they are acquainted with Lady Leverham, which is all the better for you."

"The theater," Lucy persisted.

Yes, Cate thought, she would be sorry to miss perhaps the only chance she would have to see Mr. Kean, Mr. Braham, and Mrs. Porter. To see Pamela and School for Scandal. Macbeth, which she so loved reading, each blood-soaked Scottish scene, but had never once seen performed. "All drivel," she snapped.

"Vauxhall Gardens."

Acrobats and fireworks and music under the stars. "Noisy and crowded, I'm sure."

"My chance to meet the marquess!"

This brought Cate to a quick halt in the rear parlor doorway. "Lucy . . ." Heeding the steady stream of workmen in the hall, Cate motioned her sister into the stripped, plaster-dusted room. "You must not develop an interest in the marquess."

"And why not, pray?"