Page 87 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

Yesterday Charles had told her that he’d traveled to London specifically for her, but it seemed, when it came to the point, he hadn’t time for her at all.

She wasn’t worthwhile. She wasn’t interesting enough or engaging enough. If she were, he’d be here now. Never mind that he hated polite society. That he’d never wanted to come to town in the first place. Kate’s attendance should be sufficient to command his presence.

But it wasn’t, apparently.

Her mother’s warning during their ride together at Beasley echoed in Kate’s mind. “A gentleman who cares, who’s truly worth your effort, will make an effort of his own. He’ll seek you out. He’ll endeavor to win you.”

Quiet settled over the theatre once again as the gaslight dimmed and the stage curtain rose. The play resumed, depicting more ghosts, more gaiety, and even the sumptuous Christmas dinner of Bob Cratchit, complete with roast goose, smoking potatoes, and a plum pudding. But Kate was no longer distracted by it. She was too vexed.

No, not vexed.

She was hurt.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“My sister Elizabeth tells me we should despise the French,” Lady Darly said, “but Anton came so highly recommended. He makes the most decadent soufflés, you must agree.”

Charles lowered his fork to his plate. He regarded the viscountess from across the heavy mahogany dining table. The candles had burned low during their meal—an hourlong parade of rich courses cooked to perfection by the Darlys’ new French chef.

Lady Darly had chattered through the whole of it.

“Dinner was excellent, ma’am,” he said.

Her ladyship gave him an anxious smile. She was a small, brown-haired woman, rapidly approaching fifty. A lady who compensated for the drabness of her narrow features by adorning herself in the richest silks, the largest jewels, and the most elaborately plaited coiffure Charles had seen in a decade.

They were alone in the crimson and gold dining room in Eaton Place. Lady Darly had dismissed the two liveried footmen after they’d served the final course. She’d been nervy ever since, fidgeting with her tableware, toying with her food, and fairly jumping out of her skin at the slightest sound.

“I’m pleased you enjoyed it,” she said. “Would that my husband could have joined us. Alas, Darly and the children won’t return from the country until next week. I shall have to tell him how greatly you take after your father. He won’t credit it. The resemblance is uncanny.”

She wasn’t the first to comment on it. Charles had spent the whole of his life being compared to his father, just as Hannah had often been favorably compared to their mother.

“Indeed,” she added with a tittering laugh, “when I saw you from my carriage window this morning on the way to the British Museum, I thought you were your father. What a shock it was!”

“As you’ve said.” Charles folded his napkin to lay beside his plate. He’d hoped she’d broach the subject of her anonymous letter herself and that he’d be spared the necessity of confronting her. But so far, Lady Darly had been either unable or unwilling to come to the point. His patience was waning. “Your note mentioned that something’s been troubling you?”

“Oh. That.” Her smile vanished. “Yes. It has, rather.” She fingered the stem of her wineglass. “It’s been bothering me since the autumn. I knew I must write to you, for I wouldn’t dream of approaching your mother or father on the subject. After all these years, such news would scarcely be welcome. Not from me of all people. What they might think! But I can’t hold my tongue any longer.”

Charles waited in silence.

Lady Darly inhaled a steadying breath. The dwindling candlelight flickered across her face, twinkling in the diamonds that circled her neck and the ruby-encrusted brooch that adorned her upswept hair. “It’s about that estate of your mother’s. The one in Devonshire.”

“Satterthwaite Court,” Charles said. He’d gathered as much.

“It was entailed on my father, Edgar Townsend.” A shadow passed over Lady Darly’s brow as if the recollection was an unpleasant one. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Or perhaps not. Your parents mightn’t have mentioned his name. They weren’t terribly fond of him.”

“I understand they had reason.”

“Undeniably. He used your mother very ill. It was her own good fortune she eloped with your father. Regrettably, my own father’s fortunes were destroyed as a result. The Duke of Moreland saw to that. He blamed my father for the humiliation he’d suffered at your mother’s hands. Within a year, Moreland had crushed all of father’s business ventures. No one dared risk investing with him anymore. They stopped coming to the house for his advice. In time, we lost the house altogether. Elizabeth was obliged to marry a wealthy businessman to save us from ruin.”

“Mr. Catmull, presumably.”

Lady Darly nodded bleakly. “A boorish fellow. He was aged and not much to her taste. I wed Lord Darly but a year later—a happier union. Had we married earlier, I could have saved my sister from sacrificing herself. Elizabeth has never forgiven me.” She raised her glass to her lips, finishing the remainder of her wine. “But that’s all in the past. It’s the house that concerns me now.”

Charles studied her face. “Is that why you sent that letter to me in Somersetshire?”

Her countenance paled. She returned her empty wineglass to the table. “You knew it was me?”

“I recognized your handwriting on the note you sent to Grillon’s. What I don’t understand is what you meant, or why you felt it necessary to conceal your identity.”