Page 90 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

Christine consulted her card. “Mr. Whitely.”

“And you, Kate?” Aunt Jane asked.

Kate didn’t need to consult her dance card. “My next dance is free.”

“If that is so,” Mr. Catmull said, emerging from the milling crowd, “I shall count myself the most fortunate of men.”

Kate’s stomach sank.

“Lady Mattingly.” Mr. Catmull bowed to Aunt Jane. “With your permission?”

“If Lady Katherine doesn’t object,” Aunt Jane said.

Kate had no way of doing so. The rules of ballroom etiquette didn’t allow for refusing a gentleman’s invitation. Not if a lady was at liberty. “Very well.” She dutifully marked his name down on her dance card.

“And the waltz,” he added silkily. “If I may be so bold.”

Kate snapped her card shut. “My waltz is spoken for, sir.”

“There are two this evening, my lady,” he said.

“Both reserved,” she replied.

His eyes glittered in a rare display of irritation. It wasn’t like him to respond to Kate’s rebuffs. He usually met them with a deaf ear and a benign expression.

But not this evening.

Along with his thinning hair and the shadows cast by the opulently gilded chandelier overhead, the odd glint of anger in his eyes gave his cadaverous face the impression of a death’s head.

“Pity. We shall have to make up for it.” He extended his hand to her. “If you will?”

The orchestra struck up a spirited melody, well-suited for a livelier quadrille.

Kate set her hand in Mr. Catmull’s, allowing him to lead her out onto the floor. They joined with three other couples, making the necessary formation for the dance.

Mr. Catmull fixed her with an unnerving stare as he led her into the first turn.

Kate wasn’t troubled by it. Despite his sinister manner, he posed no danger to her, so long as they were in a public place. She danced with him just as she’d dance with any other London acquaintance, an inscrutable smile on her face that bespoke neither friendliness nor outright dislike.

“Valentine’s Day is an auspicious day,” he said when they came together once again after separating.

“Is it?” she asked politely.

“A day for lovers,” he said.

Kate suppressed a snort of contempt. She wouldn’t give Mr. Catmull the satisfaction of inspiring any particular emotion. “A day for shopkeepers,” she said. “And for pranksters. There were more vinegar valentines sent today, I’d wager, than ones professing noble sentiments.”

“And yet,” he said, “many impetuous acts performed today will be attributed to cupid’s dart.”

Kate was glad when they separated again. Christine had warned her about Mr. Catmull contemplating a proposal. Kate was beginning to think her friend had been right. Why else would a gentleman speak of such things to a lady?

But when Mr. Catmull reunited with her, taking her hands for the final turn, his attention was no longer focused entirely on Kate. He was looking toward the doors of the ballroom, a gleam in his eye.

Kate followed his gaze. A slim older lady stood at the entrance. She wore an exquisitely cut amethyst satin gown, the effect of which was somewhat spoiled by the dated silk matron’s cap on her head and the slight hunch in her spine. She had the same wispy hair and close-set eyes of Mr. Catmull—eyes that immediately found Kate from across the room.

Mrs. Catmull, undoubtedly. It could be no other.

The instant the music came to a close, Mr. Catmull’s gloved hand curved around Kate’s bare upper arm with inexorable force.