Rescued By A Wicked Baron (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 3

  He knew all too well of the way the gambling halls could seize a man and squeeze him until he had nothing left. His own father had felt the allure of such places. On his death, he had left Patrick with sizeable debts to repay.

  He realized Simon was trying to catch his eye. “Forgive me, Ramshay,” he said, somewhat sheepishly. “That was insensitive of me. I wasn’t thinking…”

  Patrick waved it away. Though he had told almost no one about his father’s debts, Edmund and Simon knew it all. Knew the financial strain the late Baron of Ramshay had inflicted on his son. A sympathetic ear, Patrick had come to realize, was one of the most valuable things a person could hope for. A sympathetic ear made even the direst of situations a little more manageable.

  He hoped Catherine Barnet had found herself a sympathetic ear.

  He was startled out of his thoughts by the speaker bursting into song.

  Edmund gave a throaty laugh. “Didn’t realize this place had turned into a music hall.”

  Patrick listened with vague detachment as Edmund and Simon launched into plans for their upcoming hunting trip. He tried to toss scraps into the conversation.

  “Monday, yes. That’s quite suitable…”

  But nothing could push Catherine from his mind.

  As they stood to leave an hour later, he gripped Edmund’s arm, pulling him aside.

  “Your cousin,” he said, trying for aloofness. “Do you think perhaps I might call on her some time? To see how she’s faring?”

  Edmund gave him a crooked smile, then clapped him on the shoulder. “Just to see how she’s faring?”

  Patrick smiled sheepishly. He knew his feelings for Catherine Barnet were no secret. Despite his jovial side, he had never been brimming with self-confidence. He’d been sure any attempt to court Miss Barnet would have been met with derision by her family, by Catherine herself. Instead, emboldened with liquor, he’d made one final attempt at capturing her affections by bursting into a serenade at Edmund’s New Year’s Eve celebrations three years ago. Catherine had given a polite smile and walked away. Edmund had never let him forget it.

  “Of all your cringeworthy endeavors, Ramshay,” he had said. “This was by far your most ridiculous.”

  Patrick pushed on. “To see how she’s faring, yes. I understand what she’s going through, after all. I thought perhaps it might help her to speak to someone who—”

  “I know you mean well,” Edmund interrupted. “But Catherine… well, she’s troubled. I barely see her, and when I do, she’s just doesn’t seem up to receiving visitors. I don’t think a gentleman caller is what she needs right now.”

  Patrick tried not to look too crestfallen. And he tried not to feel too frustrated by his friend’s overprotectiveness. If Catherine was feeling wretched enough to confine herself to her rooms, then perhaps a sympathetic ear was exactly what she needed.

  Still, he knew Edmund was just doing what he believed was best for his cousin. And he also knew he could not expect Edmund to believe his intentions toward Catherine were chaste… His New Year’s escapade had made sure of that.

  “Perhaps you might tell her I asked after her?” he ventured.

  Edmund nodded, flashing him a smile. “Of course.”

  Patrick gave a nod of thanks. But he couldn’t help feeling as though Edmund had no intention of doing so.

  Chapter 4

  Catherine ventured out to the breakfast table to a rousing Good Morning from Aunt Cornelia. Aunt Cornelia flapped her jeweled hand at the kitchen maid, gesturing for Catherine’s teacup to be filled, for bread rolls to be provided, for her plate to be piled high with eggs and bacon.

  Catherine had been at Aunt Cornelia’s for more than a week and this was just the second time she had tackled the gauntlet of the breakfast table. Tucked away in her bedroom, she had felt sure, was the best place for her to be. Tucked away in her bedroom, she could avoid unwanted conversation. And she hoped Aunt Cornelia and Edmund might manage to forget, at least for a while, that they had the sister of a felon cowering beneath their roof.

  But today, Catherine had felt brave enough to take her breakfast with her aunt and cousin. The idea of being comfortable in society again was preposterous, but perhaps she might at least rediscover how to be comfortable among her own family.

  Aunt Cornelia sipped her tea and said with far too much excitement, “I’m so glad you’ve decided to join us, Catherine my dear. You’re just in time for church.”

  Church. I’d forgotten about church…

  Locked away in her little fortress of solitude, Catherine had done her best to forget the rest of the world. But yes, it was indeed Sunday, and she didn’t dare imagine how it would look if the sister of the thieving Viscount of Bolmont did not even bother to show her face at church.

  “Of course, Aunt,” she said flatly.

  “Good.” Aunt Cornelia’s tea cup clinked loudly against the saucer. “Perhaps we might take tea afterwards. The pleasure gardens in Vauxhall are quite lovely at this time of year.”

  Catherine didn’t reply at once. Slipping silently into a pew at church was one thing, gallivanting about the pleasure gardens with Aunt Cornelia was quite another.

  “Perhaps,” she managed, ignoring her aunt’s theatrical sigh of disappointment.

  “Perhaps Catherine does not wish to take afternoon tea today,” Edmund told his mother. “This has been a trying few weeks for her. Perhaps church will be quite enough.”

  Aunt Cornelia sipped her tea, looking suitably chastened. Edmund flashed his cousin a knowing smile from across the other side of the table and Catherine felt utterly grateful.

  * * *

  An hour later, their cab came to a halt outside the gates of Saint Matthew’s. A crowd was milling about in the churchyard. Fans were flapping and hands were waving. Catherine could hear thin peals of laughter even from inside the coach. Many of the faces in the churchyard she recognized. The sight of them made her stomach clench.

  She kept her head down as she climbed from the coach and slipped from the gates. It felt as though every pair of eyes were on her. She made her way hurriedly through the churchyard. Murmured voices seemed to follow her.

  They’re talking about me, I know it.

  She tried to shake the thought away.

  Stop that. You’re being foolish.

  But was she? A viscount being flung into Newgate to share a cell with hardened criminals was nothing if not a sensation. She felt quite sure the ton hadn’t stopped talking about her family since the news of Robert’s arrest had worked its way into their ranks.

  The back of her neck prickling, she hurried inside the church and sat beside Aunt Cornelia and her lady’s maid. It was quieter inside. The incessant chatter in the churchyard stopped at the doors of the sanctuary. If people were talking about her, Catherine could no longer hear them. She closed her eyes, relishing the stillness.

  When she looked up again, she realized they had lost track of Edmund. She shot a fleeting glance over her shoulder, trying to locate her cousin. Through the open door, she could see him chatting and laughing with two other young men.

  Catherine recognized her cousin’s friends, Lord Ramshay and Lord Ayton, young men Edmund knew from university. She had met them several times, both at celebrations at her cousin’s house and events during her first season. She had danced with them both back in the days when attending a ball didn’t fill her with dread and self-loathing.

  Catherine felt suddenly fiercely jealous of her cousin. Robert was part of his family too, yet Edmund showed no sign of being bothered by the scandal. He was strong and personable, carried himself like the viscount he was. Catherine felt quite sure no one would dare whisper behind their hands as Edmund passed. Even if they did, the words would simply bounce off him as though he were dressed in impenetrable armor. Catherine wished she could make herself feel the same. She’d done her best to arm herself against the onslaught too, but every whisper felt as though it were running her through.

  It wasn’t
just Edmund’s unflappability she was jealous of, she realized. She was jealous of his friends.

  How might this ordeal be different if I had people I could talk to about it the way Edmund shares everything with his university friends?

  She had acquaintances of course, daughters of other noblemen, young ladies she had met at balls or soirees or tea parties. As girls, they had spoken freely of their lives, regaling each other with tales of their travels, or moaning about the injustices of hawk-eyed governesses. But as they had grown older, Catherine had come to realize her friendships were far more fragile than she had believed. A young lady was expected to keep up the façade of perfection, even in front of those she had grown up with. There was little place for honesty, for candidness. Little place to admit it if one’s life was falling apart. The last time Catherine had seen her friends, the conversation had been stilted, revolving around dress colors and Elizabeth’s intoxicating new lime perfume. Catherine could barely imagine the looks of horror that would have appeared on their faces if she were to try and converse with them about her brother’s underworld connections.

  On the edge of her vision, she saw Edmund and his friends make their way into the church and slide into a pew on the opposite side of the aisle. Catherine shot them a glance. As she did so, her eyes met Lord Ramshay’s. He flashed her a smile. At being caught watching the men, Catherine felt a bolt of embarrassment shoot through her. She hurriedly looked away.

  * * *

  Patrick couldn’t concentrate. What was the vicar droning on about? Forgiveness again, was it? Hadn’t they been through this last Sunday? He rubbed his shorn chin and nodded, in a vain attempt to look as though he had some idea what was going on.

  Then, as though his eyes had a mind of their own, he cast another glance in the direction of Miss Catherine Barnet.

  Stop it. Stop looking. Someone will notice.

  He had not been expecting to see her. Edmund’s reports had led him to believe she was ensconced in her room back at Featherstone Manor.

  At the sight of her walking past him into the church, his heart had given a ridiculous leap. He had done his best not to let his face betray his emotions, or the wild surge of desire he was fighting. He felt quite sure a bolt of lightning with his name on it was about to come tearing through the roof of the church.

  “Oh,” he’d said to Edmund before service had started, with as much nonchalance as he could muster. “I see your cousin is feeling well enough to attend the service today.”

  The nonchalance hadn’t fooled Edmund for a second. He’d fixed Patrick with a warning look. A look that clearly said: Stay Away.

  People were speaking about her, Patrick could tell. Ladies shot furtive glances in her direction and whispered behind their hands. There were smirks and sighs and pitying eyes. Patrick simmered with anger on Catherine’s behalf.

  She and her aunt were sitting together on one of the pews, their lady’s maids beside them. Catherine kept her eyes down, her hands knotted tightly in her lap.

  This was not how he remembered her. When he had first met Catherine Barnet at the Duke of Redbridge’s ball, she had been shy, but utterly, intoxicatingly warm. As she had grown more comfortable throughout the night, she had begun to laugh, begun to chatter, begun to greet everyone she passed with sharp, sparkling eyes. Each time she had smiled, her face had positively glowed. Patrick had left longing to see more of her. But he had made a fool of himself on the dance floor that night. Had made even more of a fool of himself at New Year’s Eve a few weeks later.

  But even if he had swept her off her feet on the dance floor that night, what was he but a lowly baron? A viscount’s daughter could do far better.

  As he glanced across the aisle at her—to hell with it, there was no point pretending he was interested in anything the vicar had say—he saw little of that vivacious young lady in pink he had met the night of the ball. Instead, Catherine seemed to have retreated into her shell, building an invisible wall around herself against the whispers and the gossip.

  Patrick felt a burning need to speak to her. He had been where she was. He had walked through crowds to whispers and gossip.

  “His father left him horrible debts.”

  “Gambling, they say.”

  “I heard it was far worse than that.”

  It had taken Patrick months before he was able to walk through those whispering crowds with his head held high.

  Catherine needed to know that such a thing was possible.

  After what felt like days, the service drew to a close. Patrick leapt from the pew and followed her out of the church, before Edmund could stop him.

  People were milling in the churchyard, chattering to each other. It was a sea of top hats and feathered bonnets. Catherine was hovering alone by one of the gravestones which rose like crooked teeth from the earth.

  For a moment, Patrick felt like an intruder. He considered walking away. But, unable to hold the words back, he blurted: “Good morning, Miss Barnet.”

  She started, reminding Patrick of a scared kitten. His voice had been stupidly loud, he realized.

  But the corner of her lips turned up, gifting him a faint smile. “Lord Ramshay. Good morning.”

  Up close, she was just as beautiful as Patrick remembered. Her hair was pinned neatly at her neck, stray strands escaping out the side of her bonnet. The dark strands danced around her cheeks, stark against her pale skin. A sprinkling of freckles were scattered across her nose. Just standing close to her made his heart quicken and made his insides heat.

  But there was something undeniably different about her. He could sense sorrow in the depths of her piercing blue eyes. She pulled her gaze from Patrick’s, her shoulders hunching. She looked as though she were trying to vanish into the earth.

  He felt a fierce urge to hold her. He wanted to assure her everything would be all right. Assure her that, no matter what her brother had done, she was still a good person, still worthy.

  Hell, she was more than worthy.

  The sight of her had reignited the desire in him that had sparked three years ago at the Christmas ball. That desire he’d felt when he’d first felt her hand in his as they’d danced across the Duke of Redbridge’s ballroom.

  His mouth felt dry. “You’re well I hope?”

  He cursed himself.

  ‘You’re well I hope?’ What a damnably foolish thing to say…

  He knew well her life had been utterly upturned by the actions of her scoundrel brother. And yet it seemed somehow wrong to mention such atrocities.

  Catherine nodded. “I’m well, yes.” After a moment, she added, “As well as can be expected, at least.”

  And Patrick caught sight of something in her eyes he had felt himself many times. Shame, self-loathing.

  What is the point in dancing around the issue? Miss Barnet knows her brother’s arrest is no secret.

  “I’m sorry to hear about Lord Bolmont,” Patrick told her gently. “I’m sure things have not been easy for you.”

  Catherine’s dark eyebrows arched for a moment. She seemed surprised that someone had dared say such a thing to her face, as opposed to whispering behind their hands as she passed. Then she clasped her hands together and fixed her eyes on the gravestones in front of her. “No,” she said softly. “It hasn’t been easy. But I’m sure I—”

  “Catherine?”

  They both turned to see Edmund striding toward them.

  Patrick sighed inwardly.

  Edmund stood close to Catherine, pressing a broad hand to her shoulder. “Is this young scoundrel causing you trouble?” His tone was joking, but Patrick caught the hint of threat beneath Edmund’s good-naturedness.

  “Not at all, Edmund,” she said. “Lord Ramshay was simply wishing me a good morning. Nothing more dreadful than that.” Catherine looked pointedly at her cousin and Patrick saw a faint flicker of the spirited young lady he remembered.

  What a fine thing to see her still hiding in there somewhere.

  He smiled.


  Edmund glanced between the two of them. He looked slightly irritated. Patrick was glad of it.

  “Mother is waiting for you, Catherine,” he said after a moment. “She’s adamant you go with her to the pleasure gardens for tea.”

  “Ah. The pleasure gardens.” Catherine’s face fell, and again she was that fragile mouse Patrick had seen cowering in the pews. “I think I’d rather not. A church service has been quite enough excitement for me for one day.”

  Patrick could tell she was trying to make a joke of it, but the sadness in her eyes betrayed her.

  He swallowed heavily, feeling a dull ache in his chest.