Chapter Twelve
“Good morning, uncle.”
“Hm.” The cup of coffee on a path toward Wycomb’s lips did not pause, nor did he raise his gaze from the newspaper open before him. The slight angling of his head, however, told her he knew exactly where in the room she stood.
Cat had not expected him to do anything out of the ordinary. The noise low in his throat that did acknowledge her arrival was all she usually expected in the way of a “good morning.”
She could not say she particularly cared if he greeted her. She didn’t on any other morning. Yet this morning she was conscious of the suddenly dangerous strength and breadth of his shoulders in the elegant coat, of the way his eyes flicked toward door and window—even the movements of the footman in the corner of the room warranted a second glance from Wycomb.
Had he always done so? Cat rolled her shoulders to ease the tension in them and turned toward the sideboard and its waiting eggs and sausages and scones. Perhaps her uncle had always been observant of his surroundings and she had simply never noticed because she had never looked.
She was looking now.
Stabbing a thick, round sausage with her fork and transferring it to her plate, Cat tried to ignore the roil of fear building inside her. She fought to keep her hands steady as she chose a scone from the sideboard. Perhaps Wycomb was watching her even now, noticing that her breath was shallow and her hands fumbled with the serving forks. Perhaps he was thinking how best to force her to marry, what incentive would drive her in that direction. But when she turned, his gaze was on the newspaper. He did not glance at her as she moved toward the table and took a seat a few chairs away. It was as though she did not exist.
Cat decided that was acceptable, though her fear had not lessened. He could stare at his newspaper while she ate. She had much to occupy her mind. Ball gowns, a trip to the milliner’s shop, the roofs of the tenants. Jones. Calming her racing heart. But her attention was still focused on the man to her right, sitting at the head of the breakfast table. Each shift in the lines of his face as he absorbed the articles, the rustle of paper as he turned the page.
Then his teacup rattled as he dropped it into the saucer, porcelain clinking against porcelain. His gaze focused on the newspaper as though nothing else existed, brows angled in concentration. He did not lean forward, did not betray by the slightest additional body movement that something in the newspaper meant a great deal to him.
But Cat knew.
Her fork paused in its ascent to her lips, breakfast forgotten, as she studied Wycomb. He never reacted quickly. Never.
When he dropped the newspaper beside his plate, Cat quickly shoveled cold eggs into her mouth so she would not be caught staring. He stood, but she did not look up or make eye contact lest he notice her.
“Brown,” he called to the butler, striding to the door and through it without a glance behind him. “Send for the unmarked carriage.”
Cat willed her bottom to remain in the chair and her feet to stay planted on the thick rug beneath the table. She most definitely did not want to be noticed. Cutting carefully into her blood sausage and setting the bite into her mouth, she ignored the surge of anticipation thrumming through her veins. She chewed slowly, listening to the silence in the breakfast room and the clatter in the front hall.
Wycomb had not left the house yet, as she could hear him speaking to Brown. She could not take the newspaper at least until then, and she could not allow the footman standing in the corner of the breakfast room to see her rush to the newspaper, either. Trying not to exhibit any of the impatience bubbling up in her, Cat slathered jam on her scone and ate that as well. It was dry as dust in her mouth, though she knew cook’s scones were the best in England.
She could practically hear the newspaper calling her name and fancied the footman could as well. But she ignored it until her plate was empty and the front door had closed behind Wycomb. Then she slowly and carefully stood, pretending today was like every other day. She started to stroll from the room, moving around the table to the door.
Pausing at Wycomb’s chair as though a headline from the open paper had caught her eye seemed natural, as did taking the newspaper as if absorbed in the article and wandering from the room. She might have done it any other day of her life, Cat thought, quite satisfied with her performance. Climbing the stairs to her room, she tried equally as hard not to run and give the paper more importance than she should.
Then she was alone in her room, the paper spread over the pale-blue coverlet of her bed. Smoothing her hand over the page Wycomb had been reading, she studied the various notices listed there. Births, deaths, travel news, markets, advertisements for goods and the prices of corn. She could not determine what part of it had caught it his eye.
But something had.
Carefully tearing the paper so that she kept only the page Wycomb had noticed, she set the rest in the fire burning low in the grate. She did not want anyone to know she had torn out that particular page, as she did not know if anyone in the household would report such items to Wycomb. After folding the remaining page, she fisted it and watched the fire lick at the paper on the hearth. Flames rimmed the edges, growing brighter as they worked their way to the center. Then there was nothing but ash floating in and around the flames.
She would have to decide what to do.