Page 92 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

Mrs. Catmull’s disapproving moue curled into something resembling a sneer. “The groundwork has been laid all around your feet, girl, and you didn’t have the wit to see it.”

“Oh, I’ve seen it,” Kate said. “I’ve marked every effort of your son’s from the beginning. But what that signifies now—”

“He’s caught you, madam,” Mrs. Catmull replied. “It has all led up to this moment. Elias? I leave you to it. I shall return presently with the others.” Sweeping up her skirts, she exited the room, with a spryer step than when she’d entered it.

Kate turned on Mr. Catmull. “Others? What others?”

“Witnesses,” he said. “Once you’re discovered alone here with me—”

Kate moved to stride away in the middle of his speech, but Mr. Catmull caught her arm, bringing her to a stumbling halt. She twisted in his grasp. “Let go of me, you ridiculous man!”

“You needn’t make such a show of refusing me.” His fingers dug into her flesh. “I know of your family’s history. Your mother’s wildness. Your father’s secret shame. Is it any wonder no other gentleman has made you an offer? But I have no such scruples, my lady.”

“For once you speak the plain truth, sir,” she said. “You have no scruples at all.”

“What choice will you have after tonight is over but to wed me within the month?”

“You’re threatening to ruin me? Is that it?” Kate mustered a scornful laugh. “I beg you would try, sir, and see what happens.”

“Oh, I don’t propose to ruin you in fact. Only in the court of public opinion. When my mother returns and her band of society biddies find us here alone, your good name won’t be worth a ha’penny. But all will be forgiven when we announce our engagement, which we’ll do tonight, with Lady Mattingly’s blessing.”

“You’re mad,” Kate said. “And anyway,” she added, provoked into falsehood, “you’re too late to effect your plan, for I’m already engaged.”

Mr. Catmull’s face betrayed a flash of surprise.

Ha! Kate thought. That was something he hadn’t reckoned for.

But as fast as the shock appeared in his eyes, it was gone, replaced by a veil of contempt. “A worthy effort, my lady, but I know better than that. You’re entirely free to accept my proposals. And you will accept them.” He hauled her closer. “Or else,” he continued relentlessly, “by this time tomorrow, the whole of London will know I’ve had you.”

“By this time tomorrow,” Kate said, raising her knee as her brother had taught her, “you’ll be in Westminster Infirmary, regretting you were ever born.”

A gentleman cleared his throat.

Mr. Catmull’s head jerked to the door of the conservatory.

Kate followed his gaze. Her heart performed a disconcerting somersault.

Charles Heywood leaned against the doorframe, his tall, commanding figure half shadowed in the waning moonlight. “You were about to propose to my betrothed, I believe,” he said to Mr. Catmull. “Pray don’t let me stop you.”

* * *

Charles had arrived at the ball not five minutes earlier in company with Sir Lawrence and Gilbert Trumble. It hadn’t taken him long to ascertain Kate’s whereabouts.

It had taken him even less time to grasp Catmull’s plan.

Finding him alone with Kate in the conservatory, holding her arm in a ruthless grip as he threatened to ruin her, made Charles’s blood run cold with fury.

His first instinct was to do as he always did—to plunge straight into the fray. He wanted to haul the man up by his neckcloth and pummel him within an inch of his life. It scarcely mattered that they were at a ball, or that there was a lady present, or that the beating would likely do more to bring Kate’s name into infamy than the mere fact of her being alone with Catmull in the first place.

But no.

Kate hadn’t needed a man’s help. That much was evident in the instant before Charles launched into action. Indeed, unless he was mistaken, she was a hair’s breadth away from delivering a punishing knee to the man’s groin.

He thought at once of her rambunctious family. Of her three older brothers—especially the youngest of them, with his rough spirit of play and questionable sense of decorum.

The next time he saw Jack Beresford, Charles resolved to buy the man a drink.

“Heywood,” Catmull said. “We meet at last.”