A Grand Design Part 8

"Have you been here all day, Cate?"

There was a long pause, then she nodded. "Yes."

"For G.o.d's sake, why?"

"I ... ah, I wanted to watch the walls come down. It seemed a most . . . diverting exercise ..."

"Rubbish." Tregaron saw her flinch. "You were here to make certain nothing disastrous happened. Yes, I believe I am finally beginning to understand the situation."

He couldn't decide whether she actually paled, or if it was merely the play of light on her plaster-dusted face. He went on, "You know a great deal about your uncles' work. In fact, I expect you do a bit of it. Well, of the supervising, anyway. Yes, Cate, I have come to the conclusion that your uncles are very fine architects indeed, but rather poor organizers. Hardly surprising, really. The ones who can do the brilliant designs often falter at the more practical aspects."

He gave her an approving nod. "You see to the simpler matters, do you not? I imagine my appearance here today threw everything out of balance."

Later, when thinking on the matter, he would have to conclude that it had been no more than his imagination. In the moment, however, he was convinced Cate turned into an entirely different woman right before his eyes. Her rigid spine, rather than making her appear more the flagpole than ever, gave her a fully regal posture. Above her lifted chin, the light caught the bold angles of her cheekbones and glinted in her coppery hair, a bronze bust of some mythic warrior queen. And when those wide lips parted, Tregaron half expected a flow of imperious Latin to spring forth.

"So I a.s.sume we are not to expect you at the house tomorrow, my lord?"

Not Latin, but imperious enough, and more than clear. "No," he replied, knowing-and not bothering to dispel the conviction-that he was the trespa.s.ser at that moment, the visitor in the house. "Not tomorrow."

She nodded. "Good night, then, my lord. You will lock up behind yourself?" With that, she spun on her heel and hastened from the room. Her footsteps sounded first in the hall and then on the uncarpeted stairs.

It belatedly occurred to Tregaron that he had neither heard not seen anyone else in the house. He stalked through the open rooms to the front windows and peered down into the street. Cate had just descended the last stair and was hurrying away from the house, her long stride carrying her quickly away through Mayfair. Quite alone.

Tregaron shook his head and grunted, wondering where the woman drew the line for proper deportment-if she drew it. He was just about to quit the window when he saw Cate skid to a halt. What he saw then made his fist clench painfully over the hard, carved head of his walking stick.

Chapter 7.

"'Pon my word. Here's a face I hadn't thought to 1 see again!"

Cate heard a rus.h.i.+ng, like fast-moving water, in her ears, and for an endless moment actually thought she might swoon. But she was not a swooner, had never succ.u.mbed to the vapors in her life. The moment pa.s.sed.

Willing her jaw not to tremble, she fixed her gaze on the middle of the three men in front of her. "Nor I yours, Lord Fremont," she managed through stiff lips. She nodded coldly at the other two. "Mr. Gramble. Mr. St. Clair-Wright."

Fremont, as she'd noted at the Hythes', had not changed. He was still very handsome, as long as one did not look too closely into the pale green eyes. His blond hair was still abundant and deliberately touseled, his tall frame draped in the most fas.h.i.+onable clothing someone else's money could purchase.

Taking in the plush silk waistcoat, glossy pantaloons, and perfectly tailored superfine coat, Cate wondered who was footing the baron's bills these days. When they'd met, it had been Lady Maybole.

"Ah, fie on my memory," he was drawling now. "I'd remembered the fire, Catey, but fully forgotten the ice."

His companions chuckled. Cate stiffened, but held her tongue. She hoped her gaze was icy indeed as it swept over two of the other men who had made those last weeks at the Maybole estate so memorable-and so very hard.

Lucius Gramble had not weathered the three years as smoothly as Fremont. He possessed the money his friend did not, but had never possessed any of the appeal, no matter how deceptive Fremont's appeal might be. Even under the foolishly top-heavy hat, Cate could see that Gramble's receding brown hair had thinned further, bringing his unprepossessing features-close-set eyes, small, soft mouth-into prominence. And while the fact that Fremont padded both shoulders and thighs was known only to a select few, Gramble could never hide his use of cotton batting and horsehair.

Cate had disliked him on sight. He had known that, and never forgotten.

Edgar St. Clair-Wright was, in retrospect, the best of the bunch. Not that that was saying much. While the others had ultimately been deliberately, cleverly cruel, he had simply been lazy, selfish, and stupid. Where other young ladies had seen the dark eyes beneath the shock of midnight hair as slumbrous and poetic, Cate had eventually seen the sort of dull disinterest one usually found in cows and overfed hounds.

Several men were missing from the unwelcome little tableau: Freddie Fortescue, Charles Reynolds, Beau Graham. Cate a.s.sumed they could not be so very far away. Fremont's set always moved together. Together, in Scotland, they had appeared das.h.i.+ng, dramatic, blessed with the sort of heavy-lidded ennui that seemed never to fail to challenge the female heart. Apart, Cate realized now, they were as appealing and interesting as a heap of coal.

Ah, the clarity of hindsight. . . the ever-frank inner voice taunted her. How much of your ownstupidity can you ignore, Catherine?

"You're looking . . . much the same," Gramble announced, his rodent eyes skimming from the tip of the formidable half boots she wore when working to the top of her dusty, disorderly head. His companions chuckled, no doubt remembering how easily she had once taken veiled insults as

compliments. "You certainly haven't lost your . . . er . . . impressive stature."

Holding herself stiffly, she murmured, "Not everyone is fortunate in the pa.s.sage of time, Mr.

Gramble. It leaves some persons with rather less than what they once possessed."

His quick, then quickly stilled reach toward his hairline was some balm to her pride, weak and several years late though it might be. When St. Clair-Wright bluntly offered, "Don't recall you being quite such a Long Meg," she refrained from commenting that he'd favored much higher heels on his shoes when they'd last met. Mocking the short and pinheaded had never been a choice activity of hers.

Nothing had kept the lot of them from making a mockery of one naive young woman. "I do not recall much at all of you, sir," she lied, and felt slightly better for it.

Then she gasped as one of Fremont's gloved hands suddenly shot out to circle her wrist. Had she been prepared, she could have resisted. But off-balance as she already was, it took only the slightest tug for him to have her standing nearly up against his chest. To anyone watching, she would appear willing, even eager. He was a master at that, at the illusion of affection while his eyes glittered and his hands squeezed too hard.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten me, Catey." He actually sounded amused. "Not after we were such . . . good friends. Why, I do not think I could bear it if you did not have the same memories I have of our time together."

Not for the first time, Cate wondered if there were no end to his callousness. Apparently it was not enough that he'd bruised her, made a fool of her, very nearly ruined her. He needed her to remember the humiliation of it all, beginning to sad, sorry end.

She knew why. He had spent those weeks amusing himself by pursuing her, a woman who had not instantly fallen at his feet, eventually capturing her attention and at least a piece of her heart with his pretty words and discreet embraces. When it had all gone wrong, when she'd learned how he'd toyed with her to entertain himself and his wretched friends, she had struck back, albeit weakly. She'd ignored him in those final days, refused to acknowledge him at all. And that was something Lord Fremont could not abide. Now he was going to make her hurt again. She wondered just how far he would go.

"I am afraid I haven't time to stand and reminisce," she managed between clenched teeth, trying to pull her arm free. "I am too late as it is. Good-bye, sir."

He did not release her. Instead, he rubbed his thumb in an intimate little circle over the inside of her wrist. His hands were gloved. Hers were bare. She suppressed the unpleasant shudder and stood firm, face deliberately blank. One of his pale brows lifted, and he smiled. Cate did not think it was in admiration.

"So cold, Catey. And so formal. Don't you remember- you used to call me Raphael so sweetly."

So she had. Raphael, her golden angel. How soft if had sounded on his lips when he had begged her to use it, to be so familiar as to use his Christian name. Of course she had.

His name, as she had learned much later, was Gerard.

"Good-bye," she repeated, not bothering to call him anything at all, and tugged harder with her arm.

"Tsk, Catey. You insult me. As it appears you are alone, you must allow me to escort you home.

What sort of gentleman would I be to do otherwise?"

His companions, to whom the question had glibly been addressed, grinned and replied, "No gentleman at all," and "None, sir!"

"Come now, my dear. Do not deprive me of the opportunity to play the gallant. And to have a bit of a coze. You will tell me what you are doing here in Town; we will relive our halcyon days."

Cate would sooner lead a pack of slavering wolves to her door than this trio. However, despite whatever horsehair was packed discreetly into Fremont's coat, his grip was impressively strong. It tightened now. Cate's mind whirled, searching for any escape.

"As it happens, Fremont, the lady is not alone."

No one had heard Tregaron's approach. But there he was, tall and austere in the late afternoon light. Even the dusting of plaster he wore could not dull the aura of power and, yes, danger that he wore as other men wore greatcoats, layer upon complicated layer making up a dramatic whole.

Only minutes before, though it seemed a lifetime, he had made her feel as insignificant as the lowest drudge. Now, suddenly she was Andromeda, facing the sea serpent, and Perseus was about to unchain her from her rock. Then again, she thought somewhat giddily, not certain if she had imagined the peculiar, undefinable flash in his amber eyes, there was something of the leviathan in him, the dragon . . .

"Gentlemen," came his clipped greeting. "Cousin."

Cousin? Cate's jaw dropped at St. Clair-Wright's mumbled, "Tregaron." She would have found a blood connection between Prinny and the Emperor of China less surprising.

"I had heard you were in Town," Edgar muttered, his gaze fixed on his cousin's boots. "I was certain the reports were mistaken."

"Yes, well, such is the problem of relying upon gossip for news of close family members," was the cool reply. "One can never be certain what is true." Then, to Cate, the marquess said, "Forgive me for lagging, Miss Buchanan. Gryffydd seems to have gotten it into his head that there is vermin about. Shall we continue on our way now?"

He stepped forward, elbow crooked. Of course she could not take his arm until Fremont released hers. He would know that. And his eyes were fixed on the other man's face. The challenge there was so subtle that most would have missed it. But Cate knew that Fremont, for all his unfortunate characteristics, was not stupid. What she didn't know was whether he was possessed of more cowardice or arrogant bravado.

His response didn't give her an answer. He did let go. Cate rubbed her wrist with her other hand to restore feeling in it. Fremont inclined his fair head in Tregaron's direction. "I was not aware our Catherine was in your . . . company, sir. One must always be concerned for the ladies in this Town. There are so many villainous characters about. And altogether too often, one cannot detect them from their respectable counterparts."

"Amazing, is it not?" Tregaron drawled. "London used to be such a comfortable place to be a villain. No one ever mistook one for a gentleman."

His elbow brushed against Cate's. It wasn't much of a nudge, certainly not on a par with his dog's habitual herding prods, but it got Cate moving. Chin up, jaw set, she took his arm. It was warm and so very solid beneath her hand. "I am ready, my lord."

"Splendid. Gentlemen." With the briefest of nods and a short whistle to bring his dog to heel, Tregaron led her away toward Oxford Street. She didn't look back at the trio, not even when Fremont's voice called out loudly, "Do not despair, sweet Cate. We shall have ample time to relive our days together in Scotland!"

The entire encounter could not have lasted above five minutes. To Cate, it seemed to have gone on for years.

Tregaron seemed to know his direction. He was certainly heading toward Binney Street. He said nothing as they went, and Cate was grateful for it. She should thank him for the rescue, she knew. She could offer him an explanation for the scene from which he had effectively rescued her.

She didn't dare try. If she so much as opened her mouth, she knew the floodgates would open. The tears that were only just pooling in her eyes would turn to a torrent. And G.o.d only knew what revelations she would pour out with them. No, better to stay silent and let this odd, inscrutable man see her safe. See her safely home, that was.

A sennight later, Tregaron could not comprehend how so much time had pa.s.sed since he'd last seen Cate. He had watched as she'd let herself into the tiny house in Binney Street, heard her m.u.f.fled thanks and good night-painfully polite, or simply pained-and a.s.sumed they would meet again soon, if not the very next day.

He hadn't intended to stop by his own house the following day, but he had. And the day after and the day after that. There had been no sign of Cate on either occasion, although he'd thought he heard the lighter tread of feminine feet on the bare wooden floor at one point. No willowy female form had appeared.

The Buchanan brothers had been absent, too. Off checking on the status of gla.s.s, marble, and tile, the twitchy Gordie had informed him. MacGoun, the sour foreman, had offered tours, explanations of the day's work, but there had been no real welcome, certainly no invitation for Tregaron to take off his coat, roll up his sleeves, and pitch in. Of course there hadn't been. He was the house's owner, after all, a marquess. The afternoon of pounding at the walls with a hammer had been a matter of madness, of being caught up in the enthusiasm of the moment and the Buchanans. So Tregaron declined MacGoun's offers and took himself off to do things better suited to a peer of the realm.

He'd been fitted for the last, excessive waistcoat. He'd found a boxing club that readily welcomed him, though he was discovering that none but a few witless young cubs and the proprietor himself hurried forward to spar against him. He had attended a sale at Tattersall's with Charles Vaer, shared a companionable bottle or two with Julius Rome, and attended a fete at Lady Holland's with his suddenly socially inclined grandmother, who had promptly disappeared into a corner with Henry Brougham for a mutual lambasting of the Government Gazettes-leaving her grandson to the fish-eyed gazes of half the guests and the slightly drunken and amorous attentions of one attractive if a bit gla.s.sy-eyed widow.

He'd declined her not particularly subtle suggestion that they explore their host's upper chambers. He had never been one for hurried gropings in unfamiliar houses. Beyond that, the top of the eager Mrs. Langston's head barely reached his top waistcoat b.u.t.ton. Hurried gropings tended to be on the rough side, and he had no desire to send his partner home in any sort of damaged state. Tiny women, he believed, were rather more trouble than delight in general.

So he'd seen his tiny grandmother, rarely a delight but beloved nonetheless, home, returned to his rooms and, as seemed the way of things since he had returned, shared a plate of fine cheese with his dog and had half a bottle of finer Madeira for himself.

He was looking forward to the same now. He wasn't quite sure why he had accepted the Hythes' offer of a seat in their theater box. Boredom, perhaps, appreciation for their welcome, and the knowledge that if he was to find himself a wife before the typical pairings of the Season thinned the field, he'd better increase his efforts. Thus far, he hadn't been overly impressed with any of the young ladies he had encountered. True, he had attended few entertainments. True, he supposed Elspeth Vaer would do in a pinch, perhaps even better than that should he actually get to know her. He could make an effort to get to know as many eligibles as possible. The trickle of invitations was constant if not overwhelming. Yes, he decided, he would simply pay more attention to important matters.

Beside him, he heard Sibyl Hythe sigh. Apparently she was finding the production of Sheridan's The Rivals as uninspiring as he. Even the marvelous performance of Margaret Porter as the determinedly, misguidedly n.o.ble Lydia Languish could not rescue a lackl.u.s.ter production. And it was only the third act of five.

It was a familiar if convoluted plot involving concealed ident.i.ties and the search for love. The women were easily fooled; the men not what they seemed. Rather like life, Tregaron decided, except he had far more experience in the realm of foolish men and deceptive women.

He and his beautiful young bride had certainly fit the bill. And had continued to do so during the three ill-fated years of their marriage.

"What I wish to know," Lady Hythe murmured to no one in particular, "is why it always takes so much effort to discover that one's perfect mate is right in front of one's nose."

On her far side, her husband chuckled. Then shushed her. She shushed him back. Below, Lydia Languish nearly rapped her perfect mate, disguised of course, in the nose with her fan.

"Well?" Lady Hythe demanded. Clearly she was past bored. Tregaron sympathized.

"Keeps things interesting," her brother-in-law offered. He had been reading the day's turf report for the past half hour. Tregaron was impressed. Rome had even brought his own candle for the purpose, and had thus far managed not to spill so much as a drop of tallow on either his paper or his knees.

"Keeps one in a constant state of near apoplexy," was the tartly whispered retort.

"You survived, Sibby. Old Tarquin found you soon enough."

Old Tarquin grunted. His wife muttered, "Indeed. It only took him fifteen years."

Tregaron saw the earl take the countess's hand and lift it, gently, to rest over his heart.

Interesting. In all the years he had been acquainted with Hythe, Tregaron would never have thought the man to possess a single romantic thought. Of course, he hadn't known the earl very well, but still . . . Romance held so little place in their world. He'd learned that in a most painful manner.

But that was neither here nor there. He was older, wiser, and determined to do far better. Hythe had managed well. For all her pert irreverence, Sibyl Hythe was a delightful creature. Pretty, clever, warm, she complemented her husband's reserved austerity. Were it not for the high-spirited spark that never seemed to leave her eyes, Tregaron might have thought her a fine model for his own search. He was not, however, in the market for high-spirited.

"Dull as dirt, if you ask me."

His head snapped around. "I beg your pardon?"

"This whole blasted evening. All of this." Rome waved a languid hand over the audience and yawned. "I cannot think what possessed me to come tonight. A wise man would close himself up in Watier's till dawn every night except Tuesday."

"Dare I ask what a wise man does on Tuesdays?"

Rome gestured at his sister-in-law and grinned. "Best not, for courtesy's sake. We'll trot over to Covent Garden Tuesday next and I'll show you."