Page 74 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

“I promise,” Hannah said. “And don’t forget—” She whispered something in Kate’s ear.

Kate laughed and whispered something back. Whatever it was brought a swift smile to Hannah’s lips.

“I promise,” Hannah said. “Goodbye until then.” She waved to the rest of the Beresfords. “Goodbye!”

James, Viscount St. Clare, stood at the top of the steps, apart from his brothers and sister. He inclined his head to Hannah.

Hannah managed a shy smile in return before climbing into the waiting carriage.

Kate extended her hand to Charles. “You’ll think about what I said?”

Charles took it. It was such a small, delicate little hand. One might easily imagine that its owner was small and delicate as well.

But people underestimated Lady Katherine Beresford at their peril.

She was no fragile flower. She was, as he’d told her in the moments before kissing her, rather magnificent.

“I will,” he said.

Indeed, he already had. He’d spent most of last night lying awake thinking about following her to London. That is, in the few moments he wasn’t dwelling on the blood-simmering details of that unexpected, and surprisingly scorching, kiss.

But he’d made Kate no promises then. And he made her no promises now.

He’d believed himself to have come home a changed man, no longer susceptible to the siren song of adventure. He realized as he climbed into the carriage with his sister, that that wasn’t the case at all. Romantic adventure still had the power to lure him. Only this time, it wasn’t in the guise of a dangerous voyage or a noble fight on some distant shore. It was in the form of a woman.

Lady Katherine Beresford wasn’t the quiet, demure, biddable young lady he’d envisioned for himself during his last year at sea. She wasn’t what he was supposed to want. But, by God, he wanted her all the same. The mere thought of her returning to the marriage mart—dancing with someone else—kissing someone else—made Charles want to put his fist through a wall.

She was made to be his.

Once he’d accepted that fact, the decision to chase after her came easily enough.

It was a decision that was solidified later that afternoon when he and his sister arrived back at Heywood House. There, he was met by a letter from Mr. Inch in Taunton. Charles waited until he was alone in his room to open it.

Dear Lieutenant Heywood,

Per your instructions, I investigated the legality of Mr. Elias Catmull’s ownership of Satterthwaite Court in Devonshire and have determined that his title is in good order. Having done so, I tendered your offer on the property to Mr. Catmull through his attorney, Mr. Arbogast in Tiverton without delay. I regret to inform you that your offer has been summarily rejected. I took the liberty of inquiring as to whether Mr. Catmull might be amenable to a larger sum and was told, in no uncertain terms, that Mr. Catmull has no desire to sell the property to you.

If you wish to discuss the matter further, you will find me at my office through the first of February, after which I will be leaving for my annual holiday in Scotland. Until such time, I am at your disposal.

Yours, etc.,

Jeremiah Inch, solicitor

Charles lowered the letter, utterly perplexed. Catmull had rejected his offer? And he was refusing to consider a larger offer? It made no sense.

Were it any other property, Charles might have been willing to let the matter go. But this was Satterthwaite Court. If it was for sale, he was determined to have it. No mysterious, capricious owner was going to dissuade him. Certainly not a man who had spent the last year relentlessly chasing after Kate.

A snake, she’d called him.

Charles would rather anything than be bested by the man.

The next morning, he saddled a horse and rode into Taunton. Mr. Inch’s office was in the high street. A relatively young solicitor, he’d got his start in London as a clerk to Mr. Ombersley, the aged solicitor employed by Charles’s grandfather, the Earl of Gordon. When Inch had set up his office in Taunton over a decade ago, it had been only natural for the Heywoods to employ him.

He was a good attorney, as far as Charles was aware. Not as savvy, perhaps, as Ombersley, but sufficient enough for estate matters and minor contract disputes.

“Lieutenant Heywood,” he said, welcoming Charles into the warmth of his small office. “I might have known you wouldn’t let the grass grow under your boots.”

He was a hearty man, with thick muttonchop whiskers and a pronounced double chin.