Checkmate, My Lord (8 page)

“Aye, ma’am.”

Catherine kicked Gypsy into motion, her mind a constant stream of
ifs
,
buts
,
hows
, and
whens
. She must set aside this issue of Lord Somerton’s list of agents for the next couple hours and focus on Meghan McCarthy. The girl’s situation needed her full attention.

But her good intentions ground to a halt the moment her gaze swept westward. On a low rise separating their two properties, the earl sat astride a monstrous black horse. Apprehension stiffened her spine. She peered down the lane and was relieved to find it empty.

However, her perceptive mare sensed her rider’s anxiety and became agitated, forcing Catherine’s attention away. Once she had regained control of Gypsy, she squinted up at the hill. Nothing but undulating grass met her gaze.

A breeze whipped by, ruffling Gypsy’s mane and chilling Catherine’s heated flesh.

She shivered.

August 12

“Mama, I have to
go
.”

Sophie’s indelicate comment took a moment to penetrate the dark layer of Catherine’s thoughts. She had not been able to focus on anything since her disturbing discussion with Cochran yesterday and Lord Somerton’s unexpected—although brief—appearance at Winter’s Hollow. As a result, her talk with Meghan McCarthy had the same dismal results as previous attempts they’d made to discover her lover’s identity.

“Mama?” Sophie squirmed at her side.

“Five more minutes, dear.”

“
You
shall
love
your
neighbor
as
yourself,”
the vicar quoted. “Jesus went on to say that we should love one another as he loves us.”

Catherine’s brows rose, and she wondered if Mr. Foster’s sermon had anything to do with Lord Somerton’s return or Mr. Blake’s mismanagement.

Sophie crowded into Catherine’s side and tugged at her sleeve. “Mama, I can’t wait.”

Catherine caught the note of panic in her daughter’s voice. She glanced down and saw Sophie’s big blue eyes round with alarm. She sighed and started collecting their personal belongings. In her severest voice, she whispered a warning in her daughter’s ear. “You will follow me from the church like a civilized young lady. Is that understood?”

Her six-year-old nodded and scooted to the edge of her seat. “Yes, Mama.”

They marched toward the open entrance door, and Catherine smiled apologetically to the other parishioners as they passed. When she neared the last pew, the Earl of Somerton’s penetrating gaze caught hers. He neither smiled nor nodded, simply followed her approach with gray eyes that glowed with a moonlit iridescence.

Her determined stride faltered, and an embarrassing staccato of anticipation vibrated through her veins, warming her skin. He was dressed in his London finery, and the earl’s tailored coat and dazzling white neckcloth stood out in stark contrast to the more loose-fitting and somber-colored garments of most of Showbury’s denizens. Why Lord Somerton chose to sit on a hard wooden pew in the back of the church when his family’s cushioned seat sat empty at the front, Catherine didn’t know.

She would have to mull over his lordship’s seating arrangements another time. Because at that precise moment, her daughter’s small hand pressed against Catherine’s lower back, propelling her forward in a frantic attempt to get outside. Catherine’s toe stubbed against the doorsill, causing her to stumble down the two front steps. In a drunken dance of cartwheeling arms and churning feet, Catherine somehow regained her footing at the last minute and skidded to an undignified halt.

For several disbelieving seconds, Catherine heard nothing except the thundering of her heart. She pulled in a calming breath and tapped her hand against her chest in a feeble attempt to soothe her nerves. Even though she had saved her backside, the same could not be said of her pride.

“Sorry, Mama,” Sophie yelled over her shoulder. Her little feet tore across the churchyard until she reached the privy, the door slamming shut behind her.

If Catherine didn’t know her daughter any better, she would be tempted to thrash the little vixen for breaking her promise. Her temper did not last long, though. It never did when it came to her wild child. Although rash at times, Sophie had a heart that was sweet and pure, especially when compared to other children her age. Rather than pull the legs off a grasshopper, Sophie would rather place the creature in Castle Dragonthorpe, replete with turrets, drawbridge, and a straw bed.

“Are you injured, madam?”

Catherine closed her eyes against Lord Somerton’s soft inquiry, her reluctant smile disappearing in an instant. It had been too much to hope that he would have turned a blind eye to her ignoble exit. Given his obvious desire to be quit of her presence the previous day, Catherine was rather surprised by his current solicitude. With reluctance, she turned to greet him, her gaze going first to the church’s entrance before settling on his handsome face.

“Do not fret, Mrs. Ashcroft,” Lord Somerton said. “No one else observed your near mishap.”

The news should have cheered her, it really should. But all she could think about was that
he
had observed her. “That is good to know, my lord. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

“You didn’t.” He glanced back at the church. “In fact, you saved me from Mr. Foster’s well-intended but rather pointed sermon.”

His comment confirmed what she had already suspected. “You think the vicar was trying to mend the rift of Mr. Blake’s neglect?”

The right side of the earl’s mouth curled into a self-deprecating smile. “Without a doubt.”

She considered asking him to expound, but his expression hardened before her eyes.

“Your daughter’s hasty departure has proven fortuitous, however.”

A shot of chagrin heated Catherine’s cheeks. “My daughter is lively—”

“There’s no need to explain,” he said. “I’m sure neither one of us has forgotten what it was like to sit through church at such a restless age.”

His understanding acted as a balm, and the pressure around Catherine’s chest relented. So few days passed by that didn’t challenge her belief in her ability to raise her daughter without the anchoring presence of a husband. Was she being too strict about Sophie’s studies? Not strict enough? Was she giving her enough guidance? Too much? The questions revolved around her mind in limitless patterns, often painful, and generally without answers.

“Indeed, I have not, sir.” Catherine regarded the privy, wondering what was taking her daughter so long. Had she missed Sophie’s exit? She scanned the area for a mop of blond and red curls.

With most of Showbury attending Mr. Foster’s peacemaking sermon, the road and footpaths were deserted. Even the shops were closed up tight, the anomalies being Mr. Littleton, the general store owner, and Mr. Baggert, the butcher. Both men claimed to have their own connection to God, and didn’t need to sit through the vicar’s ramblings to know right from wrong. At times, Catherine agreed with them. And other times, she simply needed to hear Mr. Foster’s reassuring words.

Her search produced no little girl and the privy door remained closed.

Catherine’s stomach quivered with a familiar uneasiness. Ever since Cochran’s revelations about double spies and coded messages, she had experienced a strange compulsion to glance over her shoulder at odd moments. She also had difficulty letting Sophie out of her sight for any length of time—much to her daughter’s dismay.

Over the last year, she had often prayed for deliverance from her boring, well-ordered life. Had she known a perilous game of espionage would be the answer to her request, she would have kept her yearnings to herself. Her gaze bore into the privy’s weather-worn door. Sophie was safe, she told herself. The girl’s needs were simply taking longer than normal.

“Mrs. Ashcroft?” Lord Somerton prodded.

Startled from her introspection, she shot a quick glance at the earl. “Yes, my lord?”

“Is something wrong?” He looked toward the small outbuilding, where her daughter was taking her merry-sweet time.

She forced a nervous laugh. “I’m sure everything’s fine, sir. I fear my daughter might be delaying a tongue-lashing.”

“I found this on one of the church steps.” He held out a carved image of a destrier, a knight’s warhorse. “Does it belong to your daughter?”

“Yes, thank you.” She made to reach for it, but a movement on the opposite side of the street snagged her attention. Between the millinery and butcher shops, half-hidden by the building’s shadow, stood a man. A short man with a skeletal build eating something tucked inside wrapping used by Mr. Baggert.

Bile bubbled up inside her throat. There were few things that came out of the butcher’s shop that could be eaten right from the package. However, at that moment, Catherine could not think of a single one of them.

When the stranger noticed her scrutiny, he stopped chewing. His gaze locked with hers for a tension-filled moment. Then he began the slow mastication of whatever he had tucked inside the butcher’s wrapping.

The pressure in her chest returned.

“Do you know him?” the earl asked, his fingertips touching the center of her back, a featherlight connection from which she drew much-needed strength.

Catherine moved toward the small outbuilding sheltering her daughter. The disgusting little man was far too close, and Catherine couldn’t stop the niggling suspicion that something was wrong. “I’ve never seen him before,” she said over her shoulder. “Please excuse me. I must check on my daughter.”

“Mrs. Ashcroft, allow me to assist.”

She hastened across the churchyard, the earl’s voice growing more distant. She couldn’t respond, nor could she motion for him to follow. Something propelled her forward with an inexplicable drive to put her body between that of her daughter’s and the terrible little man.

Please
be
in
the
privy, please be in the privy. I swear if you’re not I’m going to lash your behind.

The fact she had never laid a disciplining hand on her daughter was immaterial. Simply making the threat gave her overactive mind something to center on besides the horrifying images that it kept dredging up.

“Sophie,” she called from a carriage length away.

No answer.

“Sophie—”

A large hand clamped around her elbow. She whirled about, her reticule arcing out to bash her assailant’s head.

Lord Somerton blocked her swing with his forearm. “Easy,” he said in a calm, not-the-least-bit-perturbed voice.

“My lord, release me.” She pulled at her arm, her gaze returning to the small outbuilding. She felt mild embarrassment for her overreaction, but she didn’t have time to beg his forgiveness. “Something’s amiss with my daughter.”

“Stay here.” He marched ahead of her and tested the door. Locked. “Miss Sophie.” His voice held authority, a note many would not dare ignore.

Catherine, never one to take orders where her daughter was concerned, joined him at the privy’s entrance, garnering her a sharp look. Why hadn’t Sophie answered his call? Why hadn’t she opened the door? She glanced at his profile, taking some solace in his presence, especially after noting the determined set to his masculine features.

“Allow me, my lord.” She made to yank on the bolted door.

He caught her hand, and his thumb smoothed over the backs of her fingers. “A moment, Mrs. Ashcroft.”

He knocked again, louder this time. “Miss Sophie, this is your neighbor, Lord Somerton, and I’m here with your mother. If you do not come out in five seconds, I’ll be forced to kick down the door.”

Nothing but an unearthly silence met his warning.

“Five. Four…”

“Sophie dear, please come out,” Catherine pleaded. Each number tightened the fist clutching her heart. “I’m not hurt or upset, so you needn’t hide in there.”

“Two. One.” The earl grabbed the latch. “I’m coming in, Miss Sophie.”

“No!” shrieked a strangled voice from within.

Catherine shared a quick look with the earl. “Sophie, are you well?”

“No,” her daughter cried. Muffled sobs penetrated the privy’s oak-planked door.

“Ask if she’s injured,” the earl quietly demanded.

“Sweetheart, are you injured?”

“No.” Her voice sounded small, defeated.

The oppressive tension diminished to a trickle of apprehension. Catherine heard the earl release a breath.

He stepped back several feet. “Perhaps she needs her mother.”

Catherine nodded. “Unlatch the door, dear.”

She heard the telltale slide of wood against wood. A moment later, Catherine slid through the small opening, holding her breath against the stench of a well-used facility. It took a second or two for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. When they did, she found her daughter backed into a corner, her face wet with tears. “What’s wrong?” She worried she already knew why her daughter refused to leave.

Her normally brave little girl bit her bottom lip and cast her gaze to the floor.

Catherine moved closer, wanting to get out of this stinking building that was the size of a broom closet, but knew she must first coax her daughter into confiding in her. She bent at the knees until they stood face-to-face, and Catherine knew immediately why her daughter had refused to leave.

Tears stung the backs of her eyes. “Sweetheart, did you have an accident?”

A small nod. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

Catherine cradled her daughter’s small chin and forced her head around until their watery gazes met. “No need to apologize, pumpkin. You tried to tell me.”

“How am I to leave here without all my friends knowing what I’ve done?”

“Let me worry about that.” Catherine rose. “Stay here a moment.”

Sophie grasped Catherine’s sleeve. “Mama, don’t leave me.”

“Have I ever broken a promise to you?”

“No.”

Catherine kissed her daughter’s forehead. “I promise to return in two minutes.”

Her daughter swallowed, glancing between the door and the pit sitting in the middle of the building. “Two minutes?”

“Two minutes.” Catherine stepped outside and drew in a cleansing breath. She was surprised to find Lord Somerton hadn’t moved.

“How does she fare?” he asked in a low voice.

“She had an accident, my lord.” She matched his quiet tone. “With such fine weather, we walked to church today, so I must request use of Mr. Foster’s carriage.”

“There’s no need.” He motioned to someone behind her. “Mine’s waiting.”

She peered over her shoulder and found his driver steering a well-matched team of horses. “Oh, no, my lord, we couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Catherine lowered her voice. “She might soil your seats.”

“No need to worry.” He threw open the carriage door. To the coachman, he said, “Miggs, hand me one of the carriage blankets, then lay out another on the bench.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Without another word, the earl accepted the proffered item and strode into the privy, eliciting a startled shriek from within. Everything happened so fast that Catherine barely had time to widen her eyes before the earl marched back outside with a blanket-covered bundle in his arms.