Chapter Twenty-Four
Catherine woke from the catnap she had fallen into against her father’s shoulder on the couch facing Sir Bertie. There was a new presence in the room—the magistrate. She stood up, swaying a bit on her feet.
Her father introduced her to his lordship. “Harold, may I present my daughter, Lady Catherine, and her rescuer, Sir Herbert Backman? Catherine, Sir Herbert, this is Lord Stanfield. It so happens we were at Oxford together.”
The old man smiled, a network of lines emerging from the corners of his eyes.
“It is a pleasure to meet both of you. I know you will be glad to hear that the culprit is locked up. But there is a claim he is making that I can hardly credit.”
Catherine guessed. “He was hired by someone. A gentleman who is the head of a smuggling ring in Dorset.”
“Yes. That is his story. But I am afraid that the name of the gentleman may come as quite a shock to you. I think you had better sit down.”
She obeyed, her eyes never leaving his.
“Come, Harold,” said the marquess. “We can do without the theatrics.”
“You had better be seated yourself, George.”
“Well?” demanded Catherine. “Who is it?”
The magistrate seated himself across from her, next to Sir Bertie. “The blackguard claims he has been working for Lord Robert.”
“Our Lord Robert?” Catherine asked.
“I am afraid so.”
Gripping her hands in her lap, Catherine felt the blood leave her head. “No! I cannot believe it! He must be lying.”
Her eyes flew to her father’s, then to Sir Bertie’s. “I cannot credit that my own brother would try to have me murdered.”
Her father took her icy hands in his, looking his full age as he said, “He has been racketing around with the Prince’s set and has huge gambling debts. I have refused to pay them.”
“But why would he try to kill me?” she demanded. “I do not understand.”
Sir Bertie spoke up, “No doubt at first he wished only to scare you. He was not certain you knew his identity. But he got careless. He grew certain that you had seen him at the Fotheringills’ ball and that you would put it all together.”
Her father gave a huge sigh. “Vanity. His whole world revolves around the Regent and his set. Perhaps they would have overlooked his smuggling, but they wouldn’t overlook his subsequent attacks on his own sister. And so he had to finish the job, get rid of the evidence.”
“Does this mean . . .“ Catherine struggled with her words. “Does this mean he will be hanged?”
“If he is convicted,” said the magistrate. “The man who shot at you tonight will certainly be convicted.”
“Excuse me,” she said, standing. She was unsteady on her feet, but she had to get out of the room. “I am afraid I cannot bear to hear any more.”
* * *
The knowledge of Robert’s guilt and the fact that he had tried to kill her devastated Catherine to such an extent that she was unable to leave her room for several days. She wept, she paced, she stood sightlessly looking out her window. The days ran into one another. She slept during the days and was wakeful at night. Her father spent hours with her, his own heart broken over the behavior of his heir.
“Who will inherit Westbury Castle now, Papa?” she finally asked him.
“It will go to your cousin, your late Uncle Phillip’s son.”
“Desmond?”
“Yes. But you will always have a home in Dorset. Fortuneswell House is not part of the entail.”
His face looked gray, and his eyes were deeply shadowed. She went to him and laid her head upon his chest. “Papa, I am so sorry.”
He embraced her. “Let us not talk of vipers and bosoms. Let us go to Somerset and remove ourselves from all of this. Sir Bertie will testify at the trial in the House of Lords. We need not be here. I long to get out of London.”
“Yes. Let us go to the castle. I can be ready to leave as soon as may be. Shall we leave tonight? That way no one can see the crest on our carriage.”
“I think that would be best.”
After her father left the room, Catherine called Parker, and they began to pack her portmanteaux. It relieved her to be able to do something constructive.
That afternoon, she received a missive from Sir Bertie. She opened it with dread. He would never want to ally himself with such a house as hers. The scandal would attach to him, as well. This had been a great, unacknowledged part of her misery.
Wellingham House
London
My dear Lady Catherine,
Your father has written me to say that you are leaving for Somerset. I think this is a wise move and am very glad you will not be in town for the trial. I am certain that my testimony will be more than adequate.
You have been in my thoughts constantly. I cannot even imagine how betrayed you must feel. I hope it will help you to know that you are, as ever, first in my thoughts. You are not tainted at all in my estimation by your brother’s actions. I am only immensely relieved that he was not successful in his plans.
To lose you in such a way would have been more than I could have borne. You are very dear to me, as I am certain you realize. I hope this knowledge will ever stay with you.
Yours always,
Sir B.
Catherine was stunned by Sir Bertie’s letter. She was first in his thoughts? She was dear to him? She had not lost his association by her misbegotten brother’s behavior?
A healing balm poured into her heart. Surely all could once again be well if she had maintained his regard. She had not even dared to wish that such could be the case during her days of misery. And it was during those days that she had realized how very much she had stood to lose in the favor of such a man.
Her personal clouds parted.
“Parker, that will be enough for now,” she said. “We both need a respite. Will you be so good as to come back in an hour? Thank you.”
Going into her private sitting room, she curled up on the daybed and cast her mind back to all the time she had spent with Sir Bertie.
First, there was their unusual meeting, then her confrontation of him at the Oaks, where he had been staying in Portesham. What had she thought of him then? Had she really believed he had been her shooter?
Not really. Rather, she had wanted to see him again, though she would never have admitted it to herself. He had intrigued her from the start with his curiously soft gray eyes that did not seem to fit with the severity of his countenance.
Then, their time together in London when they had had the day at the museum. Now it shone in her memory as a perfect day. He had wit and character, showing himself to be interested in other pursuits than cards and horses. He had made it a special day for her from beginning to end. She had been intrigued by him—more so than any other man with whom she was acquainted.
She had been daring enough to hold his hand. How delicious that had been to have that private moment in the midst of the crowd!
And then there had been those delightful letters when she was in Somerset. They were a window into the heart of a warm and caring man.
That is when I truly fell for him.
Their dance at her ball had been heavenly. It had fulfilled a secret dream of hers to be held in his arms, knowing that he had come all the way from Oxfordshire to dance with her.
But following that he had left abruptly for his home, and she had not known why. He had postponed coming to London for the Season, and she had been miserable. Once he had come, however, it was just in time to rescue her from the rabble in the East End. Looking back, she thought he must have constructed some scenario in his mind concerning William. He must have compared himself to her former fiancé and judged himself to be wanting in her eyes.
There was the sweet interval where he cared for her until her odious brother had turned up. Robert had been excessively rude, probably because his plans had failed. From that time forward, things had been strained, but he had saved her life again at the opera. And now this wonderful letter.
Going to her desk, she sharpened her quill and began to write.
Westbury House
London
Dearest Sir Bertie,
Your letter arrived just before we are to leave for Somerset. It was very welcome. You cannot possibly imagine how welcome. I had not dared to think that your regard for me could possibly withstand the scandal surrounding my brother’s horrible deeds.
Thank you for agreeing to testify at his trial. I do not think I could have ever held up my head again were I compelled to testify. How foolish I have been. Of course, it was Robert’s voice I heard that day in the cave. I did not recognize the voice at the time, but something about his turn of phrase was familiar; of course I could not put him in that context. Never did I imagine that someone as careful of his reputation and his good name as my brother would engage in smuggling! Never mind murder!
I hope you will consider coming to Westbury Castle following the trial. Not only are my father and I greatly indebted to you, we are anxious for your company.
With warmest regards,
Lady C.