Page 83 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

“You don’t suppose he saw us?” Kate asked.

Charles had no intention of alarming her with his suspicions. “I don’t expect so,” he said. “But I daresay anything’s possible.”

“When I think of what might have happened if he’d encountered us under the oak tree—”

“Did he give you the impression he had?”

“Not outright, no. Though I did discern a certain calculation in his manner. Then again, he always seems calculating. Especially now I know there’s a mystery afoot.” Kate gave Charles an expectant look. “Have you heard back from Mr. Townsend’s daughter, Abigail?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. I wrote her again before leaving Somersetshire, informing her I’d be in town. I’ll call on her while I’m here. As for Catmull—”

“He’s brought his invalid mother to town with him to attend Lady Chesham’s ball,” Kate said abruptly. “He’s threatened to introduce me to her.”

“Has he.” Charles frowned. Introducing a young lady to one’s mother wasn’t an action most gentlemen would take lightly. He certainly hadn’t. “Are you at all interested in meeting her?”

“I have no interest in anything related to Mr. Catmull,” Kate said. “Exactly the opposite. I can’t stomach the man.” She retrieved her box of chocolate from the seat cushion beside her, carefully re-affixing the beribboned lid. “When will you call on him?”

“In the morning,” Charles said. “With luck, I’ll be able to persuade him to sell the estate to me.”

“And if you’re successful? What then?” She asked the question with seeming unconcern. “Will you remain in London?”

Charles felt a surge of tenderness for her. “You needn’t doubt me, Kate.”

She exhaled a soft breath. “I don’t. It’s just that—”

“It’s I who should be unsure of you, not the other way round.”

Her gaze flashed to his, vaguely disgruntled. “I don’t know why. You could have anyone.”

Charles looked steadily back at her. A smile hitched his mouth. “That’s the trouble, sweetheart. I don’t want just anyone. I want you. Why else do you suppose I’m here?”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Elias Catmull resided in a nondescript townhouse on the southern side of Russell Square, amid the well-to-do lawyers and merchants who populated the neighborhood. Rain flashed over the brick façade, flowing in a continuous river toward the pavement.

Charles was left standing on the topmost step, only his greatcoat and hat to protect him from the elements while a footman conveyed his card to Mr. Catmull.

He wasn’t kept waiting overlong.

The footman returned momentarily. His face was void of expression. “Mr. Catmull is not at home, sir.”

“When might I expect him in?” Charles asked.

He was met with unambiguous silence.

“I see,” Charles said. “Very well.” He didn’t argue with the man. There was little point in doing so. Leaving his card, he exited the house and made his way back out to the street.

So, this was how it was going to be.

Not only was Catmull rejecting Charles’s offer on Satterthwaite Court, he was now refusing to grant Charles an interview.

What in blazes was going on?

Charles was resolved to find out.

Despite the foul weather, the street approaching the British Museum was thick with passing carriages, carts, and wagons. The minute Charles spotted a hackney, he flagged it down.

The cab slowed to a halt in front of him. An elegant carriage behind it, sporting a gilded crest on the door, was briefly obliged to slow as well. Its velvet window curtain twitched and an older lady peeped out. At the sight of Charles, her mouth opened on a gasp. The curtain promptly closed again.