Spencer looked toward the ceiling. “Yes. And they’re all intent upon courting my mother.”
“It cannot be considered courting if I do not respond,” Lady Catherine said in a firm voice. “Their interest will cease once they realize I am not interested.”
Andrew cleared his throat. “Based on these”-he waved his hand, encompassing the trio of floral arrangements visible-“they have not yet realized that.”
“Lord Bedingfield now knows,” Spencer said. “I told him myself when he called upon you yesterday afternoon.”
“What on earth did you say to him?” Lady Catherine asked.
“I said, ‘My mother is not interested in you.’ ”
A noise that sounded distinctly like a poorly smothered laugh emitted from Lady Catherine, followed by a cough. Andrew bit back a smile of his own. Spencer was indeed a good lad.
“And what did Lord Bedingfield say?” Catherine asked.
Spencer hesitated, then shrugged. “Just something about children being seen and not heard.”
Milton cleared his throat. “Actually, his lordship said something extremely unpleasant which does not bear repeating, at which time I instructed him to leave before I set the dogs upon him.”
Andrew’s jaw clenched at the realization that Lord Bedingfield had clearly said something unkind to Spencer.
“We don’t have any dogs,” Lady Catherine said.
“I did not feel it was necessary to point that out to his lordship, my lady.”
Although there was hurt in his eyes, a smile flirted around the edges of Spencer’s mouth. “Where upon Lord Bedingfield departed, only to trip as he crossed the threshold-”
“-My foot somehow got in his way,” Milton said with a stoic expression. “Most unfortunate.”
“I’d never before seen the shade of red he turned,” Spencer said, his grin now full. “Can’t imagine how angry he would have been if he’d known we don’t actually have any dogs.”
“Yes, I fear his lordship won’t be coming back,” Milton said with a perfectly straight face. “A thousand apologies for my clumsiness, Lady Catherine.”
“I shall endeavor, somehow, to find forgiveness in my heart,” she replied in an equally serious voice. She then turned and shot her son a huge wink.
Well, that was one suitor gone, Andrew thought with an inward grim smile. Unfortunately, there were still quite a few more who needed to go.
While her coachman remained with the carriage, Catherine entered Ralston cottage’s modest foyer.
“Good afternoon, Baxter,” she greeted Genevieve’s imposing butler, tilting back her head to meet his obsidian gaze. “Is Mrs. Ralston at home?”
“The mistress is always at home for you, Lady Catherine,” Baxter announced in his deep, gravelly voice. Relieved, Catherine surrendered her velvet bonnet and cashmere shawl to Baxter’s ham-sized hands.
No matter how many times she saw him, Baxter’s sheer height and breadth never ceased to amaze Catherine. He stood at least six inches over six feet, and his impressive muscles strained the confines of his formal black attire. His proportions, combined with his bald head, not to mention the tiny gold hoops adorning his earlobes, or the fact that he tended to answer questions with a monosyllabic growl, lent him a most intimidating air. Certainly no one encountering Baxter would ever suspect that he loved flowers, clucked over Genevieve’s brood of cats like a mother hen, and baked the most delicious scones Catherine had ever tasted. He guarded Genevieve and her menagerie as if they were the crown jewels, and referred to Genevieve as “the one wot saved me.”
Catherine knew they’d known each other in Genevieve’s “former” life-the one she’d lived before settling in Little Longstone, and she was thankful Genevieve had a strong friend to help her. And protect her. Baxter’s hands alone looked as if they could pulverize rock, and, according to Genevieve, they had on more than one occasion. Catherine prayed they would not need to know such violence again.
Baxter escorted her to the drawing room, then retreated. Five minutes later, Genevieve entered the room, her beautiful face alight with pleasure. A pastel green muslin gown adorned her lush figure, and her pale blond hair was arranged in the simple chignon she favored, a style that highlighted her pansy blue eyes and full lips. At two-and-thirty, Genevieve’s complexion remained creamy, and even the faint lines etched around her eyes and on her forehead could not detract from her beauty.
“What a lovely surprise,” she said, crossing the blue-and-cream Axminster rug with her slow, measured steps. “I thought you’d be too weary after your journey to visit today.”
As was her custom, Genevieve blew her a kiss in greeting, touching her lips to her gloved fingertips. Catherine returned the gesture, her heart pinching with sympathy for her friend at her misshapen hands that even the heavy gloves could not hide. In all the years they’d been friends, Catherine had never seen her friend’s hands bare.
“I had to come,” Catherine said. “There is something we must discuss.”
Genevieve gave her a sharp-eyed look. “What happened to your lip?”
“That is part of what we need to discuss. Come, let us sit.”
Once they were seated on an overstuffed brocade settee, Catherine told her friend about the shooting.
“Dear God, Catherine,” Genevieve said, her eyes filled with concern. “What a horrifying ordeal. How do you feel now?”
“A little achy and sore, but much improved. The wound was superficial.”
“How fortunate. For all of us.” Her expression grew fierce. “Hopefully the scoundrel who did this will be apprehended. When I think about what might have happened with a stray shot… you, or anyone else at the party, could have been seriously injured. Or killed.” A delicate shudder shook her frame. “An absolutely horrifying accident. I’m so relieved you weren’t seriously hurt.”
“As am I. But…”Catherine drew a deep breath. “Actually, I’m not convinced that it was an accident.” She quickly told Genevieve about the conversation she’d overheard just prior to the shooting, concluding with, “I’m praying it was indeed just a random incident, but I’m frightened. Afraid that it might have been specifically directed at me. That someone, perhaps this investigator, has discovered my connection to Charles Brightmore. And if that is so…”
“Then I would be in danger as well,” Genevieve said slowly, her expression turning to one of deep sorrow and regret. “Oh, Catherine. I am so sorry that your involvement with me, with my book, has placed you in this untenable situation. This must be stopped. Immediately. I shall travel to London tomorrow to speak with our publisher and instruct Mr. Bayer to reveal that I am Charles Brightmore.”
“You shall do nothing of the kind,” Catherine said firmly. “That would only serve to place you in more imminent danger and destroy your reputation.”
“My dear, do you think that matters when compared to your life? I can always leave and resettle elsewhere. You have Spencer to think about.”
“You will not leave here,” Catherine insisted. “You need the warm waters for your hands and joints as much as Spencer does.”
“There are other warm springs in England. In Italy.” She looked down at her hands and her lips tightened.
“I’ve cursed these crippled hands so many times. They cost me my livelihood. The man I love…”A humorless laugh pushed past her lips. “After all, who wants a mistress with hands like these? No man wants to be touched with such ugliness. But never have I cursed them more than I do now. If I were physically capable to write, to hold a pen, I never would have enlisted your aid to author that cursed book.”
“Please do not say that. I wanted to help you. Writing the book, listening to your dictation, being involved, gave my life a sense of purpose that had been lacking for years. You think you took something from me, but just the opposite is true. You’ve given me more than I can ever repay.”