Miss Fellingham's Rebellion (29 page)

“Of course,” she said. “And even if he doesn’t cheat, you shall make it look as if he has.”

Deverill nodded thoughtfully, and Catherine waited anxiously for him to speak. It was one thing to grasp quickly what was being asked of him; it was quite another to agree. He knew Finchly to be a villain and could not condone his treatment of poor Evelyn, but that did not mean he would agree to behave in a manner that was potentially dishonorable. If Finchly didn’t cheat, then perhaps the marquess could not consent to making it look as if he had.

After a long moment, he turned to Catherine. “You thought of this plan?”

Catherine nodded and examined his handsome face, trying to find some indication of how he truly felt about her, but he gave away nothing. His green eyes, usually so expressive, were oddly flat, and he wore an expression of polite curiosity. “We must trade our silence for his silence,” she explained. “It’s the only way to make sure the sordid tale does not get out.”

“It’s a good plan, Miss Fellingham,” he said quietly. “I did not realize you could be so diabolical.”

The second the word was out of his mouth, Catherine felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair, for he did indeed know just how diabolical she could be. She had told him so herself only the night before. “I…I don’t…I didn’t…” she stammered, not sure if she was trying to defend herself or apologize. Then she ordered herself to gather her wits and murmured a polite thank you, as if he had offered her a compliment.

If Deverill noticed anything strange in her behavior, he did not refine upon it. Indeed, Catherine was despondent to note that his behavior was everything that was correct, proper and aloof. Arabella was wrong. He felt nothing for her, not even disgust. He consented to help with mild indifference, as if agreeing to wear a fawn-colored waistcoat instead of a taupe-colored one.

Despite his coolness, Catherine smiled warmly at him, grateful for his assistance. He didn’t have to be effusive with her as long as he saved Evelyn. “I thank you, my lord, on behalf of my whole family.”

“Very good,” Arabella said approvingly. “Now, Deverill, the details. We must decide when, where and who.”

“The who is easy enough. I will invite Bainbridge, Martindale and Halsey to play,” Deverill said, casually rattling off a list of the beau monde’s most sought-after Corinthians. “They’re all good men with impeccable reputations. Finchly knows that they’re not given to idle gossip and should he become the subject of talk, society would be inclined to believe them over him.”

“Excellent choices.” Arabella nodded approvingly. “I understand that Halsey has just returned from the Continent. You’ll do it tonight, of course, before Lord Raines’s ball. At your club, I presume?”

“No,” he answered consideringly. “I would rather not dirty my own pen. I have a gambling hell in mind that would serve us much better. For one thing, Finchly is a regular and I should be able to find him there easily enough. And for another, the owner, Marlowe, owes me a favor. I helped his establishment avoid a rather embarrassing situation recently.”

At this oblique reference to their earlier escapade, Deverill kept his eyes trained on the peeress and didn’t so much as glance in Catherine’s direction, another indication, she felt, of his indifference toward her.

“Splendid!” Arabella said. “I knew you were just the man for this problem. Now what about—” she broke off as the doors to the drawing room opened to admit her butler. “Yes, Perth?”

“A missive marked urgent has arrived for milady,” he said, holding out a white slip of paper.

Lady CourtlandCourtland apologized to her guests whilst retrieving the note from the hand of her servant. After a quickly perusal, she said, “You’re going to have to excuse me. There’s a matter I have to take care of. I shall return presently. Catherine, isn’t there something you wanted to discuss with the marquess?” With these distressing words, which she had
promised
not to utter, she left the two of them alone.

Not entirely surprised by her ladyship’s betrayal, Catherine stared down at her own clasped fingers and wondered if she had the nerve to look up at him.

“Yes, Miss Fellingham?” he prompted.

At his polite tone, she raised her head and saw him looking at her with curiosity. There was no affection in either his look or tone, and she knew again that Arabella was wrong. He didn’t love her. It seemed to her right now that he barely even liked her. “Her ladyship overstated the case. I imagine she knows how grateful I am for your help and assumed I wanted another opportunity to thank you for the service you do my family. We are extremely grateful.”

“I assure you, Miss Fellingham, as a gentleman, I am honor bound to help your sister out of this distressing circumstance,” he explained, making it clear to her that his willingness to help had nothing to do with his affection for her. “I do not doubt that marriage to Finchly would be intolerable to anyone, no matter how delicate her sensibilities.”

Catherine nodded and returned her attention to her clasped hands, thinking of Arabella’s departing words and the declaration she expected of her.

Would she say it?
Could
she say it? The very idea seemed preposterous and yet something inside her wouldn’t let the matter rest. Arabella’s insistence that Deverill loved her had wormed its way into her heart, creating an unbearable burden of hope, and Catherine knew a declaration was the only sure way to put an end to it once and for all.

The very thought of making a confession terrified her to the point where she could barely breathe, for it would be the single biggest risk she’d ever taken in her life, and Miss Catherine Fellingham was not the sort of girl who took risks. She recalled all those years she sat in her father’s study, reading books and newspapers and journals, happy to be left alone and yet, she could admit now, not quite happy. She’d told herself she was choosing independence and freedom from frivolity, but in truth she was merely hiding from all the things that scared her and intimidated her and made her feel like she was half the person she thought she was.

Six years later, she was older and wiser and more alone than ever.

Catherine closed her eyes, counted to ten and took deep, measured breaths in an attempt to calm herself down. She could do this. All she had to do was open her mouth and speak three measly words. It was daunting, yes, but surely Miss Catherine Fellingham had some small amount of courage.

“Lord Deverill,” she said, clutching the teacup, for she had to do something with her hands or they would curl into tight fists, “over the last few days we seem to have had a series of misunderstandings and I just wanted to say that I…that I—” But here she faltered and despite her best intentions the words wouldn’t come out. She tried again. “I just wanted to say that I…um…I—”

Seeing her struggle, Deverill interrupted her. “Miss Fellingham, the hour grows late, and I am sure that your mother must be wondering where you are. No doubt you didn’t mean to be gone for so long. Your sister will be anxious to learn of the good news. Not to mention that you’ve kept the coachman waiting.”

Catherine listened with a growing sense of devastation as he rattled off this list of reasons why she should leave. He knew, she thought. He knew exactly what she was trying to say and was sparing her the humiliation. Absurd misses like her must fall in love with him all the time.

Feeling an unexpected well of loneliness, she took a deep breath and said, “You are right, my lord. How inconsiderate of me not to have thought of my sister sooner.” Suddenly she wanted nothing else than to be out of his presence and back in the safety of her father’s study. She put the teacup down, rose to her feet and smiled with all the civility she could muster. “Please make my apologies to Lady Courtland.”

Deverill stood and bowed over her hand. “Of course.”

Catherine nodded and walked to the door. She had her hand on the knob when she turned around to look at him one last time. “Goodbye, Julian,” she said softly, the finality of it weighing heavy on her heart. After tonight, she would make sure she never dealt with him again.

Something of her distress must have conveyed itself to him for he suddenly he was at her side and holding her arm. “Miss Fellingham…Catherine…my dear, we must talk,” he stammered, losing some of his detached air.

Catherine didn’t know what lay behind his change of heart, but she did know that she couldn’t bear any more. Looking at him—so dear, so handsome—she realized that she would never marry. How foolish to think she could find another man she loved as well as him. That would never happen, and she knew now that she would follow the plan outlined to Lady Courtland: invest on the ’Change, set up her own establishment, maybe host a few small parties and be happy in her independence. If any good had come out of the Deverill affair, it was the realization that she could hold her own socially, and if she chose not to go among the
ton
it was because she didn’t want to, not because it had rejected her that first season.

“There’s no need,” Catherine said, determined to avoid further conversation. Her moment of boldness had passed to be replaced by the same old Catherine everyone knew—shy, awkward, dumb. It was still early in the afternoon, but she felt as though she had been awake for days. She was exhausted and overwrought and fearful that she might fall off her feet if forced to stand on them for much longer. No, she could not bear any more. “Please do me the consideration of letting me return home. As you have pointed out, my sister will be worried.”

Deverill dropped her arm and stepped back. “By all means, go. I didn’t mean to add to your distress.”

His said this last piece with a trace of bitterness, and Catherine wondered at the cause. Surely she hadn’t done anything to put his nose out of joint. After all,
she
wasn’t the one who had toyed with
his
feelings. “Of course not,” she said, more gently than she had meant to. “And I thank you again for the service you do my family. I assure you, we’ll not soon forget it.”

“I’m relying on that,” he murmured so quietly she wasn’t quite sure whether she’d heard him correctly.

“Yes, well…” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Until later, then.”

“I trust you will be at Lord Raines’s ball?”

“In all likelihood.”

“Then I can assure you of the happy conclusion of this affair at that time. Perhaps you will save me a waltz?” he asked, the familiar teasing glint returning to his eyes.

Unable to stand the way that familiar look made her feel, she nodded abruptly—which was not, she told herself, agreement to his request—and left the room. No, she would not be saving a waltz for the charming Lord Deverill, nor would she wait for his arrival at Lord Raines’s ball to learn of her sister’s fate. She would go the gambling hell and witness the scene for herself. She wanted to be there when Deverill wiped that smug smile from Finchly’s face. With her hopes of requited love dashed, there was very little satisfaction left to her and she would not be deprived of what small amount remained. She would be there to demonstrate to the awful cad that she had some small amount of power after all.

Despite her misgivings, Catherine knew she would need Freddy’s help, so upon arriving home, she asked Caruthers if her brother was in.

“Yes, miss,” he said, relieving her of her reticule and pelisse, “I believe he’s in the study.”

Catherine nodded at this unexpected development and proceeded to her father’s study, wondering as she went what in the world Freddy was doing there, for he never had any use for books. She found him behind the large oak desk, a candle next to him and a quill in his hand.

He looked up when she entered. “Ah, there you are, Cathy, I was just wondering which you would prefer—my pocket watch or my signet ring,” he asked, as he put down the pen and rubbed her eyes. “Don’t worry. I have you down for my books. Not a remarkable collection, of course, but my tutors at Oxford will make me read literature occasionally and I have a fair number of Greek classics. They’re a particular favorite of yours, are they not?”

The sight of Freddy behind a desk looking studious was so shocking to Catherine that his words barely registered. “What are you doing?” she asked, rather than express her preference, which was for the signet ring. Freddy’s pocket watch kept deplorable time.

“I am making out my last will and testament, of course,” he said as if stating the obvious. Then he yawned and stretched his arms over his head. “Been doing it for hours.”

Catherine sat down in a leather chair across from Freddy and picked up the parchment. She read silently for several minutes before breaking out into gales of laughter.

Affronted, Freddy grabbed the document from her. “I don’t see what’s so funny. A fellow’s will is serious business.”

“Of course,” she said, trying to give the matter the respect her brother clearly felt it deserved. “But I don’t understand why you’re giving Mama your snuff box.”

The question made him blush slightly, and he answered stiffly, “It is only a memento. A token, really, to comfort her in her grief.”

Catherine, duplicating her brother’s solemnity, considered him for a moment. “All right, Freddy, what’s the game? Why are you making out your will? I hadn’t realized your demise was imminent.”

He sat up straighter in the tall wingback chair, and Catherine noticed for the first time how much he looked like their father. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you everything,” he announced in a voice that was unusually calm and mature. Then he added, a little defensively, “It is men’s business and should be left to men. Why don’t you get ready for Lord Raines’s ball? And see to it that Evelyn gets dressed as well.”