Miss Fellingham's Rebellion (30 page)

“Get ready now? Why, it’s not even lunch— Evelyn!” she exclaimed as the scene in the study suddenly became clear. “Do you know about this business with Finchly?”

Freddy’s flush deepened as he realized Catherine knew about it, too. “Yes. Pearson heard they were engaged from his brother Morgan, who heard it from Micklesby, who heard it from Barthes, who heard it from Finchly, who told him to expect an announcement soon. Of course, I told Pearson it was a bag of moonshine, but then Evelyn told me it was true and promptly turned into a watering pot. My coat is still wet!” he said with disgust, almost as if this were the greater offense. “I intend to call him out, of course. His behavior is despicable, to prey on an innocent young lady like that. I don’t care if it does ruin the family. He won’t get away with it.”

Catherine thought this was a fine speech, and it warmed her heart to see him passionate about something other than the state of his cravat. At the same time, the thought of Freddy with a pistol aimed at another human being was terrifying. “You mustn’t call him out. It won’t do any good. You will be dead, and he will still tell everyone the truth about Mama. The only advantage as far as I can see is that there will be one less Fellingham alive to blush,” she said, dampingly. “But do not despair. I’m working on a solution, and a happy resolution is within our grasp.”

Freddy narrowed his eyes, suspicious of her intent. “I won’t be fobbed off with a fairy story while you go out and challenge him to a duel yourself.”

Although Catherine had considered that very thing, hearing her brother say it out loud made it sound ridiculous and she laughed at the absurdity. “No fairy stories, I promise. Indeed, I’ve arranged with Lady Courtland for Finchly to be caught cheating at cards. Once he is caught, we will trade our silence for his. It happens tonight and was the very reason I sought you out this afternoon. I would like to attend the event, and I would be grateful if you would accompany me.”

“Cheating at cards, eh?” he said consideringly. “That is an inventive plan, as there have certainly been rumors about Finchly’s infernal luck. He never loses, you know. You say Lady Courtland arranged it? You brought our sister’s predicament to her attention?”

Catherine nodded. “I believe it’s only fair that she extricate us from this mess, as she is the one who got us into it.”

Freddy could not cavil at this logic, for it was true enough. Their mother had more hair than sense and would always follow the dictates of her much more clever friend. “You are right. I should be there. It is the Fellingham honor that’s at stake. Thank you for telling me,” he said, folding up his last will and testament and slipping it in the top drawer of the desk.

It was obvious he had no intention of taking Catherine along, and his sister let him enjoy that misconception for a few moments before disabusing him. “Very good. And where are you going?”

He seemed not to immediately grasp her point, for he opened his mouth to speak and his jaw flapped several times before he realized he didn’t have the answer to that question. “You are not coming,” he said, his voice tight with resolution. “In the absence of our father, I’m the man of the house and it’s my responsibility to see this matter through.”

At this, Catherine smiled. “Our father is not absent. He’s down the hall in the drawing room.”

Annoyed, he said, “I meant figuratively absent, not literally.”

“It won’t wash, Freddy,” she said, although, in truth, she had a little sympathy for his situation. “Finchly is wholly repugnant and I simply must be there when Deverill wipes—”

“Deverill!” Freddy said in surprise. “He has a hand in this?”

“Yes. He’s arranging the game,” she explained. “He will invite some of his friends who are known to be entirely trustworthy to witness Finchly’s humiliation.”

“Well, you certainly can’t come if Deverill is there. I don’t want him cuffing me on the ear and calling me a coxcomb again,” he said, the indignity still fresh. “Besides, I promised him that I wouldn’t take you to another hell.”

“Who is Deverill to tell you what to do?” she asked, knowing full well the fascination her brother had with the older, more accomplished peer. “You are the man of this family. You even have a last will and testament. You’re not so easily intimidated.”

“Cut line, Cathy,” he said, much offended by her tact. “A gentleman has to keep his promises. It’s a matter of honor.”

“Very well, then,” she said, realizing it was futile and returning to her original strategy. “I trust you and your honor will represent the family well at whichever gaming hell you wind up at. I only hope it’s the right one.”

He paused for a long moment, no doubt trying to figure out a solution to the conundrum that didn’t include threatening to tell on her to their mother. Like breaking promises, tattling didn’t fall under the purview of proper gentlemanly behavior. “Fine,” he said petulantly.

“And you’ll lend me breeches?” she asked.

Freddy heaved such an oppressed-sounding sigh his sister could easily imagine him scratching her name out of his will. “Yes. But this time we have to do a better job with the cravat. I can’t go around with a fellow wearing such an abysmally tied knot. Embarrassed me last time.”

Not minding the criticism, Catherine gave him a big kiss on the cheek and a wholehearted thank you before going to Evelyn’s room to assure her sister that she had everything well in hand.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Even in the
hack, Catherine refused to tell Freddy where they were going.

“We’re on our way. What harm can it do now?” He looked out the window and observed the passing streets, trying to figure out their route.

“Well, after I tell you, you could bind my wrists, order the driver to stop, hand me over to your confederates in the hack that has been following us since we left the house and force me to dance at Lord Raines’s ball while you go on by yourself,” she said with what she thought was apparent logic.

Freddy’s eyes opened wide, and he stuck his head out the window to see who was behind them.

Catherine smiled. “Nobody is following us, you coxcomb.”

“But you just said—”

“I made it up,” she said brightly. “I was just outlining the possibilities as I see them.”

Her brother stared at her. “When did this happen?”

“What?” She looked down at her clothes expecting something to be horribly wrong, but her black breeches were clean, her white shirt was pressed and her cravat tied in a semirespectable fashion. The wig on her head was heavy and it itched, but by all accounts, it was straight and properly centered.

“This—your personality,” he explained with a loose hand gesture. “You used to be so placid. Now you are given to odd fits.”

Not sure how one responded to such a comment, she simply said, “Oh.”

“Maybe it’s Deverill. You females get all queer over men like Deverill. Of course, you never have before. It’s usually chits like Evelyn who lose their heads,” he said and then laughed.

At the mention of Deverill, her cheeks began to flush and she was grateful for the gloom of the carriage, which hid her face. “What is funny?” she asked, wondering if he was laughing at her. Had she been acting that queer over Deverill?

“Just imagining Mama’s face when she finds out about this evening,” he explained. “You’ll have a devil of a time convincing her that Deverill isn’t about to make an offer.”

Catherine knew he spoke the truth, but she also knew their mother was so stubborn and impervious to reality that the only thing that would eventually convince her was time. In a week, when Deverill had stopped dancing attendance on her, she would begin to grasp the truth. In a few months, she would be unable to deny it.

“I think it’s best for all parties concerned if we don’t tell Mama about this night’s work,” she said, thinking more of Evelyn than herself.

Freddy assured her she wouldn’t hear it from him. “It’s Lady Courtland you should be concerned about. She and Mama are bosom friends. They tell each other everything.”

Catherine acknowledged the truth of the statement and hoped she could prevail on Lady Courtland to keep this adventure to herself. As grateful as she was for her help, she cringed at the thought of having another conversation with her ladyship, as none of their previous ones had turned out the way she’d wanted. No doubt, she had dropped many encouraging hints in her mother’s ear, assuring Lady Fellingham and herself—mistakenly, of course—that her scheme was going exactly according to plan. Catherine was so lost in these thoughts that she hadn’t noticed that the hack had stopped until Freddy said, “Damnation!”

She jumped in her seat. “What is amiss?”

“You’ve taken me to my own hell,” he said accusingly. “Of all the curst— Of course this is it. It’s the only one you know. I should’ve figured it out.”

Catherine leaned forward and patted him on the knee. “Don’t tease yourself about it. If I hadn’t come with you, I would have come in the hack following you.”

Freddy sighed resignedly and climbed down to the street. Then he politely offered her a hand.

“No, silly. Gentlemen don’t help gentlemen down from their carriages,” she said, reminding him of her disguise, although she couldn’t imagine how he could forget. It was as plain as the whiskers on her face—the glued-on whiskers that tickled her nose and made her want to sneeze. “Do you really think this is necessary?” she asked of the added camouflage.

“Yes, I don’t want Deverill recognizing you and giving me another tongue lashing,” he said. “Now remember, act masculine.”

Catherine found this direction vague, but she nodded affirmatively and followed her brother inside. Although it was still early in the evening, the gambling hell was more crowded than it had been last time. She marveled about this to Freddy.

“Well, of course it is. Think what day it is.” At her baffled look, he added, “The beginning of the quarter. People are always flush at the beginning of the quarter.”

This explanation sounded reasonable to Catherine, and she fleetingly wished her father would take the same sensible approach: play when you’re flush and stop when you aren’t.

Upon entering the establishment, they found an unoccupied corner by the faro table and Freddy surveyed the room. “Are you sure this is the place?” he asked. “I don’t see Deverill or Finchly.”

“I’m sure this is the place.” She craned her head to look above the crowd, but she was a few inches shorter than her brother and had an imperfect view. “Perhaps we are early. Oh, there’s—” Without warning, she turned toward the wall and started examining her shoes. “Is he gone?”

“Who?” asked Freddy, mystified by her strange behavior.

“Marlowe,” she said softly. “The proprietor of this fine establishment. The man who wanted to throw me out last time because his dealer was cheating and that was somehow my fault.”

“Oh, him.” He raised his head and looked around. “Must be gone. I don’t see him. Oh, wait a minute. There’s Deverill.”

“Where?” she asked, her head swiveling as she tried to stand on tippy-toes to get a better view. But she was wearing Freddy’s shoes, which were several sizes too big, and she immediately lost her balance. She flailed for a moment, then pressed her hand against the wall to steady herself.

“I said, act masculine,” Freddy growled, aghast at her antics. “Deverill is over there, by that door. No, he just went through it.”

Stable now, Catherine followed his gaze. There were three doors. “Which one?”

“The one that the large man with the scar over his right eye so enormous that I can see it clearly from twenty paces is standing in front of,” Freddy said in disgust. “That door, of course.”

Catherine examined the gentleman in question, his scar as huge as Freddy described, and considered their options, which were limited to only two: going through the door and not going through the door. She knew which route she would take, of course, but first she would have to convince her brother to distract the guard.

“Distract
him
?” he said, appalled by the part he was to play in the plan. “You mean, let the large, frightening man beat me to a bloody pulp so you can stroll right in? I don’t think so.”

“Think of it logically,” she said. “One of us has to get into the room and I’m the better choice, for if it’s a small group, Finchly will surely recognize you as soon as you enter. Otherwise, I would distract the guard and let you sneak by.”

“You’d do it?” he asked, even more appalled by the alternate plan. “That would be a huge success with Deverill. I’d rather confront the oversized, scar-faced Cyclops than Deverill any day.”

“Oh, Freddy, you’re a sweetheart. Go on then, get over there.” She gave him a little push. “I suggest you wobble uncertainly as if foxed and then spill a drink on him. That is always a reliable method for getting someone’s attention, though do be careful not to get any bruises. You know how Mama finds them frightfully unbred.”

“Wait a minute. I’m still thinking about this.” He raised a hand to his chin. “How come I’d be recognized by Finchly in a minute and you wouldn’t?”

“Because I’m incognito,” she said.

“Deverill easily saw through that last time.”

“Ah, but thanks to you, I’ve got this very clever mustache this time,” she said, screwing up her face in emphasis. “Furthermore, Deverill cited the fact that I was with you as the reason he was able to deduce my presence. Neither he nor Finchly will be privy to that vital piece of information.”