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Lord Rand might have been more tactful, but misery loves company. Being agitated himself, he felt obliged to vex his companion. Now, as he watched her storm off, he was torn between wanting to follow her to apologise, as he should, and remaining to dash his head against the temple’s stone pillars. Though the latter course of action promised more relief, he decided he had better go after her.
Another moment’s delay and he would have lost track of her. She was moving very quickly. As he hastened down the path they’d come, he saw a flash of white muslin before she turned down another pathway.
That way led to Lord Ventcoeur’s man-made grotto, Max knew. He also knew that if she continued at that pace, she’d stumble and probably fall into the (also man-made) lake. The path was narrow and inclined steeply. It was meant for leisurely exploration, not foot races. Damning her temper and himself for goading it, he hurried along in pursuit.
Because of the turns and angles of the walkway, the heavy plantings and occasional rock outcroppings, she disappeared from view for a few minutes. Then he caught another glimpse of white at the grotto’s entrance. At that moment, his foot slipped on a patch of moss, he lost his balance, and landed on his backside.
Cursing softly, he got up, brushed himself off, and hurried on. He had just turned towards the cave entrance when he heard a disagreeably familiar voice—Lord Browdie’s— crying, “Hold a minute, Cathy. I want a word with you.”
There was a muttering of male voices then Max saw Sir Reginald Aspinwal give a shrug and turn back onto the lower path by the lake’s edge.
Apologies of the sort Lord Rand contemplated cannot be made in the presence of other gentlemen. On the other hand, a gentleman cannot leave an innocent young lady— especially one in an emotional state—alone with a lecherous old sot. And, the viscount was curious what Lord Browdie wanted to talk about. Very likely he had more slander about Max, which would be entertaining. And if there was the least sign of danger to Catherine, Max would be on hand. Perhaps afterwards he would reward the brute with a broken jaw.
By now Sir Reginald was out of sight. Lord Rand took up a position under an enormous rhododendron at the grotto’s entrance. He leaned back against the smooth stone, folded his arms across his chest, and eavesdropped.
In a few minutes he’d unfolded his arms and was clenching his fists.
“Me?” he heard Catherine cry in affronted disbelief. “In a—in such a place? You are mad—or drunk—I do not care which –”
“No, I ain’t—and there’s a peach-colour frock your Aunt Deborah’ll recognise fast enough if I show it to her. Which I can, you know, if you won’t be sensible.”
“I will not stay and listen to this, this—I hardly know what to call it.”
“I wouldn’t run off if I was you, Cathy. Not unless you want the world to know what you been up to.”
Lord Rand made up his mind to hear no more, but to commence immediately upon the breaking of jaws. He was about to turn into the entrance when he caught Miss Pelliston’s surprising response.
“You have my leave, sirrah, to tell anyone you like. Tell them this instant, do.”
Max hesitated. What was she thinking of?
“I should,” Browdie growled. “After the sorry trick you’ve served me. If it wasn’t for your papa—”
“Oh, pray don’t trouble about Papa. Do tell your filthy slander to the world,” Catherine urged. “I should like nothing better than to see you made the laughingstock of London.”
“Ain’t me they’ll be laughing at, Miss Hoity Toity, and laughing’ll be the kindest of it. You won’t be marrying any of your fine beaux, I promise you. Too good for me, are you? Well, you won’t be good enough for anyone else, not even your randy viscount. Not that he’d marry you anyhow when he can get what he wants without.”
“Now I see what this is about, My Lord. You have lost a dowry and a rich piece of property, have you not? And this is how you think to get them back.”
“Your papa promised—”
“Let me make you a promise, sirrah.” Catherine’s voice deepened, became ominous. “Do you so much as breathe a hint of this scurrilous tale and I shall take it up and trumpet it abroad.”
Max heard Browdie’s outraged gasp and smiled. She had called his bluff, the clever Cat. Browdie could not publicly condemn her then turn around and marry her after.
“Yes, I think you understand me,” Catherine went on. “Even you would not wed a woman the world believes is damaged goods. Tell your slander, then. I have always lived a retired life, and if one must remain a spinster, it is best to be a rich one. Perhaps I shall bequeath my great aunt’s property to a charity. Coram’s Foundling Hospital, I think. The children would do better for country air.”
Lord Rand decided that it was high time to make his presence known. Catherine may have vanquished her foe, but that foe was likely infuriated enough at present to drown her. The viscount picked up a stone and skimmed it over the water. Then he sauntered into sight. Without looking towards the entrance, he picked up another flat stone and skimmed it. He was bending to find another when he heard footsteps echoing. Lord Browdie, his face an interesting display of swelling veins and maroon coloration, stomped into the sunlight.
Max feigned surprise and offered an amiable greeting to which the baron muttered some surly response before tramping away. Max turned and strolled into the grotto.
Inside were a few statues of mythological figures connected, aptly enough, with water. These were set in niches carved for that purpose. In one corner a stone nymph was reclining, her hand trailing in a shallow pool. Near her, on a seat carved into the wall, sat Miss Pelliston, her head in her hands.
“Cat,” he said.
Her head went up, but she did not appear surprised to see him. “We were wrong,” she said simply. “He knows everything.”
“Yes. I heard.”
“Oh Lord.” She resumed her posture of despair.
Max moved closer. “What are you so unhappy about? You were brilliant—but I knew you had it in you, Cat. Though I did feel rather a fool, about to dash to your rescue and then finding you quite capable of rescuing yourself.”
“Yes, with a great pack of lies.”
“ Truly, to tell lies is not honourable, but when the truth entails tremendous ruin, to speak dishonourably is pardonable.”
“You need not quote me Sophocles, My Lord. Even the devil can quote scripture to his purpose.”
“Oh, I hadn’t any purpose. Only wanted to show off my formidable knowledge, ma’am.”
“I think you have shown me quite enough of your knowledge for one day,” she answered tartly, apparently beginning to recover her natural waspish spirits.
‘Yes, I know. I came after you to apologise. At the moment that seems anticlimactic. Besides,” he went on, feeling at a loss, “I’m not sure if I am sorry.”
“Why should you be?” she answered angrily. “You had your amusement and didn’t even get slapped for it. I raised no objections. Why should you be sorry?”
He moved nearer still, and knelt so she would not have to crane her neck to look at him.
“Oh, Cat, you’re having an attack of conscience. You let me kiss you, then you told fibs to Browdie, and now you think you’re completely corrupt. Shall I make an honest woman of you? Will you marry me?”
Catherine gazed into his lean, handsome face and wished that the eyes, for this one time at least, truly were windows to the soul. If she could have but one glimpse inside, and if that glimpse could give her some reason to hope...
“Why?” she asked.
