"He died for his country as much as if he had died in battle," Anne said softly. "At least it was quick. Now he will never grow old. Colin would not have liked aging."
That was true, but little comfort. Colin had been a long way from old age. On the verge of tears again, Catherine sat up and groped for the handkerchief in her reticule.
Anne frowned. "I'm surprised that the news of his death hasn't reached England. Did it just happen?"
Catherine's mouth twisted. "The authorities feared that if his death became widely known, public opinion would be roused against France. As you know, the moderate treaty that came out of last summer's conference was hard won. The British ambassador personally informed me that a public scandal over the murder of a heroic army officer might endanger the peace."
"So Colin's death has been hushed up."
"I wasn't exactly forbidden to speak of it, but there were several earnest requests that I be discreet. Scarcely anyone knows outside of the officers of the regiment."
"I suppose that makes sense. We certainly don't need another war." There was a long silence as each of them remembered the high price of battle. Shaking her head against the thought, Anne asked, "Are you planning to take a house in London, or would you prefer a quiet place like Bath?"
"Neither," Catherine said grimly. "I must find work. I knew that Colin was bad about money, but I didn't realize how serious things were until after his death. My dowry, the income he inherited from his father—everything is gone. Not only that, but he left a mountain of debts. Thankfully, most of his creditors are officers in the regiment. I don't think any of them will try to send Amy and me to debtors' prison."
Shaken, Anne said, "I had no idea." After a long silence, she said, "No, that's not true. I'd almost forgotten that he owed Charles a hundred pounds. We'd given up hope of seeing it."
"Oh, no!" Catherine stared at her friend in dismay. "You, too? I should never have come here."
"Don't be ridiculous. Colin's irresponsibility has nothing to do with you and Amy. Besides, Colin risked his life to save Charles. That's worth infinitely more than a hundred quid."
Comforted by the reminder, Catherine said, "Colin had his failings, but lack of courage wasn't one of them."
"He was a good soldier. But what is this nonsense about looking for work? You shouldn't have to do that." Anne hesitated before adding, "I know it's too soon to be saying this, but you're a beautiful, charming woman. You'll marry again. Any eligible officers in the regiment would marry you in a minute."
In fact, several of them had offered before Catherine had left France. Trying to keep the revulsion from her voice, Catherine said, "I will never remarry."
"I don't wish to speak ill of the dead, but... well, Colin was not always an ideal husband," Anne said quietly. "Not all men are like him."
Catherine appreciated her friend's delicacy in not mentioning Colin's affairs, but the issues were far deeper than that. In fact, in his careless way, Colin had been a more tolerable husband than most men would be. But the subject was not one that could be discussed with anyone, ever.
"I will never remarry," she repeated. "Since I have no relatives who can help, that means working for wages. I can be a housekeeper or a nurse companion for an invalid. I'll do anything as long as I can keep Amy with me."
"I suppose you're right," Anne said reluctantly. "And if you change your mind, there will be no shortage of men eager to cherish you for the rest of your life."
Not wanting to discuss the subject further, Catherine glanced around the cramped drawing room. "You had said we could stay here if we ever came to London, but the house is not large. Is there really room? Be honest—I can make other arrangements."
"Don't even think of leaving. We'll be a bit crowded, but there's a nice, sunny little bedroom that you and Amy can share. Charles's mother is a darling—he got his easy disposition from her. She'll be delighted to provide a home for the woman who nursed her only son after Waterloo."
"How are things with you? Has Charles found a position?"
Anne's face tightened. "Not yet. There are not enough jobs, and too many other former officers looking for similar positions. A pity that neither Charles nor I have influential relatives, but he will find something in time."
"How does Charles feel?"
"It's hard on him, of course. He's adjusted to the loss of his arm, but he's used to being busy. Being in this small house with not enough to do, and no good prospects..." Anne turned her palm upward. "He never complains, of course."
Catherine smiled ruefully. "We're in a fine fix, aren't we?"
She had first used the phrase on the Peninsula one night when the baggage mules had escaped, the children were sick with measles, and the mud hut she and Anne were sharing had dissolved in a rainstorm. Ever since then, the words had made them laugh and count their blessings.
Anne's expression eased. "Things will get better—they always do. We won't starve, we have a roof over our heads, and I won't ever have to see another blasted baggage mule in my life!"
Her words triggered a storm of giggles as they traded frightful memories of the Peninsula. Afterward, Catherine felt better. Things would, indeed, improve. All she needed was a decent job and her daughter. Surely that wasn't too much to ask.
Anne leaned back on the sofa. "Lord Michael Kenyon is in town for the Season. I've seen discreet references to him in the society columns. He's staying with Lord and Lady Strathmore and doing the social rounds."
"Really? Then he must be fully recovered. I'm glad." Catherine concentrated on straightening her twisted gloves. "His family certainly has influence. Have you considered going to him? I'm sure he would be happy to help Charles find a position."
"The thought has occurred to me," Anne admitted. "But it would seem dreadfully forward. He's the son of a duke, while Charles and I are the offspring of a barrister and a vicar."
"Michael wouldn't care about that."
"If worse comes to worst, I'd go to him, but we're not that hard up yet." Anne gave her an oblique glance. "Will you let him know you are in town? You and he were such good friends."
An overpowering desire to see Michael lanced through Catherine. To have him hold her comfortingly as he had the night her robe had caught fire. To see the warmth in his eyes, and hear the laughter in his voice...
She looked down and saw that she had crumpled her gloves again. "No, I shan't call on him. It would be hard not to feel like a supplicant."
"He would be happy to help. After all, you did save his life, and he's a generous man."
"No!" Realizing how sharp her tone was, Catherine said more moderately, "Like you, I would call on him in extreme need—I won't let Amy suffer because I have too much pride to beg. But I don't want to presume on a passing wartime friendship."
Particularly not with the man she loved. Would his offer of aid extend to proposing marriage so he could take care of her and Amy? It might. They were friends, he found her attractive, and he felt a strong sense of obligation. The combination might very well elicit an offer if his heart was not engaged elsewhere.
Her lips tightened. She had not thought twice about turning down the other proposals she had received, but with Michael, she might be tempted to accept. And that would be disastrous for both of them.
* * *
Catherine found it harder than she had expected to secure work. There were few positions and many applicants.
She went to every respectable employment agency in London and answered advertisements in the newspaper. Having a child disqualified her from some positions, lack of experience from others. Several agencies flatly refused to consider a female who was "a lady," claiming it would make clients uncomfortable to have a servant who was better born than themselves. Apparently they did not realize that even ladies must eat.
Several times she was interviewed by women who looked her up and down, then dismissed her without asking questions. A kindly agency owner explained that few women would want a housekeeper who was be
autiful. As Catherine trudged home through Hyde Park one day, she cursed the face that had caused her so many problems. What men considered beauty had been a blight on her life. The only offer of employment she had received had been from a man whose lascivious stares had made it clear what her duties would include.
With a sigh, she decided to stroll around the Serpentine. Looking at the ducks put her in a better mood. Though it was depressing to be turned down for work so often, her situation was not dire. In Paris she had sold the pearls left by her mother. She'd felt a pang, but the money gave her a little security now. Anne and Charles and his mother had been wonderful, and Amy, with the versatility of the young, was perfectly happy to be with her friends. Something would turn up in time.
It was nearing the fashionable hour, so she studied the elegant people riding and driving through the park. She was smiling to herself over the costume of a truly ridiculous dandy when suddenly she saw Lord Michael Kenyon driving toward her in a curricle. Her heart began pounding and her hands clenched spasmodically.
Because the day was fine, he was hatless, and the sun caught russet highlights in his windblown hair. He looked wonderful, with so much vitality that it was hard to remember how weak he had been when they had parted in Brussels. He had written to her from Wales to assure her of his safe arrival and complete recovery, but it was good to see the proof.
He would not notice her in the afternoon crowd. It was all she could do not to wave and call out. She would love to talk with him, but in her present state, she might be unable to conceal her feelings.
She was glad for her restraint when she noticed the young woman sitting beside him in the curricle. The girl was pretty and very appealing, with a slim figure and shining brown hair visible beneath her fashionable hat. Her delicate face showed warmth and wit, and character as well.
Michael glanced at his passenger and made a laughing remark. She joined in and briefly laid her gloved hand on his arm in a gesture of quiet intimacy.
Catherine swallowed hard and slipped into a group of nursemaids and children. The references to Michael in the society columns had hinted that he was looking for a wife. One paper had suggested that an "interesting announcement" was expected soon. From the looks of Michael and his companion, the issue was already settled, if not yet officially announced.
She took one last hungry look as the curricle passed. If she had not known him, that austerely planed face might seem intimidating. As it was, he was simply Michael, whose kindness and understanding had touched hidden places in her heart.
Wearily she made her way from the park. Now that she was a widow, she would be shamelessly throwing herself at Michael—if she were a normal woman. But she wasn't.
She thought of the ruined kaleidoscope buried among her possessions at Anne's house. In Brussels Michael had told her to throw it away. Instead she had kept the twisted silver tube, cherishing it as a memento of what had been between them even though it was useless at the task for which it had been designed. But it was no more useless than she had been as a wife.
She quickened her pace. Another marriage was unthinkable. That being the case, she should be happy that Michael seemed to have found a partner worthy of him. He deserved that.
If she worked at it long enough, perhaps she really would be so generous.
* * *
When she reached the Mowbrys' house, Catherine was still debating whether or not to mention that she had seen Michael in the park. She decided against it. Though Anne and Charles would be interested, Catherine would not be able to sound suitably casual.
When she entered the front door, Anne called from the drawing room, "Catherine, is that you? There's a letter for you on the table."
She opened it incuriously, assuming it was another discouraging missive from an employment agency.
It wasn't. In brief, formal terms, the letter stated that if Catherine Penrose Melbourne would call on Mr. Edmund Harwell, solicitor, she would learn something to her advantage.
She reread the note three times, the hair at her nape prickling. It might be nothing. Yet she could not escape the feeling that her luck was about to change.
Chapter 17
Michael was starting his second cup of coffee when his host and hostess joined him in the breakfast room. He did not look at Lucien and Kit too closely. Luce's arm was around his wife's waist, and their expressions had a lazy contentment that made it obvious what they had been doing before they rose from their bed.
Her glossy brown hair loose over her shoulders, Kit gave his arm a friendly pat as she passed on her way to pouring coffee for her husband and herself. "Good morning, Michael. Did you enjoy Margot's party last night?"
He glanced up from the newspaper. "Very much. The fact that it was all friends, with scarcely an eligible female in sight, meant I could relax. A pleasant change after being hunted like a fox by every ambitious mother and daughter in London."
Lucien laughed. "You're giving the hounds a good run. But there was at least one unmarried female there—Maxima Collins, the American girl who is staying with Rafe and Margot. You seemed to enjoy talking with her."
"She may be unmarried, but she is definitely not eligible. Robin Andreville acted like a cat in a catmint patch when he was around her, and she didn't seem to mind one bit." Michael thought about the young lady in question with a trace of regret. Her wit and directness made her the most attractive girl he'd met all spring. "Even if Miss Collins were available, she's too short for me. We would both have sore necks all the time."
"True," Lucien agreed. "You'd do better with someone of Kit's height." To demonstrate the convenience, he tilted his wife's chin up to give her a light kiss.
Michael smiled at the raillery, but he couldn't suppress a twinge of sadness. All his old friends had married, even Rafe, the confirmed bachelor.
For a moment, Catherine's image glowed in his mind. He forced it away. God knew he was trying his best to forget her. He had come to London with the idea of undertaking the search for a mate that had been delayed by Napoleon's escape from Elba. He had danced with countless females, called on the more promising ones, taken a few for a ride or drive. There were none he could imagine living with for the rest of his life.
He had thought the search for a wife would be easy if he didn't insist on love, but he couldn't even find a decent companion. He found far more pleasure in talking with Kit or Margot, Rafe's delightful wife.
He was turning a page when a footman entered. "Lord Michael, a messenger from Ashburton House brought this for you."
Michael's face went blank as he accepted the letter and tore it open. The message inside was brief and to the point.
Lucien asked, "Trouble?"
"It's from my brother." Michael rose to his feet, pushing his chair back brusquely. "Benfield says that the most noble Duke of Ashburton has had a heart seizure and is about to shuffle off this mortal coil. My presence is commanded."
Lucien regarded him gravely. "You don't have to go."
"No, but deathbed vigils are the done thing," Michael said cynically. "Who knows? Perhaps my father will have a last-minute change of attitude. Apologies, repentance, eleventh-hour reconciliations. Could be quite amusing."
Neither Lucien nor Kit were deceived by his brittle humor, but they made no comments. There really was nothing to be said.
The truly depressing thing, Michael realized as he prepared to leave, was that in his heart, he could not prevent himself from hoping that his ironic words would come true.
* * *
Edmund Harwell rose as his clerk ushered Catherine into the office. He was a thin, neat man with shrewd eyes. "Mrs. Melbourne?" Then he blinked, disconcerted. "Island eyes."
Catherine gave him a quizzical glance. "I beg your pardon?"
"Please, take a seat. My first task was going to be verification that your maiden name was Catherine Penrose and you are the only child of William and Elizabeth Penrose." He smiled faintly. "However, the proof of your bloodlines is in your eyes. I'
ve never seen that shade of blue-green except on people from the island."
"What island?"
"The Isle of Skoal, off Cornwall."
"Everyone there has aqua eyes?"
"About half do. Locally they are called island eyes." Harwell hesitated, as if gathering his thoughts. "How much do you know about your parents' background?"
She shrugged. "Very little. They were from somewhere in the West Country. They married against their families' wishes and were disowned as a result. They never spoke of the past, so that's all I know." Yet suddenly, as clear as a church bell, she could hear her mother's voice referring to "the island." Curiosity aroused, she asked, "My parents were from Skoal?"
"Your mother was the daughter of a smallholder and your father was the younger son of the twenty-seventh Laird of Skoal. The laird, Torquil Penrose, asked me to communicate with you."
Her brows rose. "After all these years, this grandfather is suddenly interested in me?"
"Very much so."
Catherine's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
The solicitor said obliquely, "Are you familiar with Skoal?"
Catherine searched her memory. Though she had heard of the place, her knowledge was minimal. "It's a feudal domain like Sark in the Channel Isles, isn't it?"
"Precisely. Though nominally English, Skoal has its own laws, its own customs, its own citizens' assembly. There is a strong Viking influence, and a goodly dash of Celt as well. The laird is technically a British baron with a seat in the House of Lords, but on Skoal he is the sovereign of a tiny kingdom. Your grandfather has ruled the island for almost fifty years. Now his health is failing and he is concerned for the future."
Beginning to understand why she was summoned, Catherine said, "My father was the younger son. What of other children?"
"Therein likes the problem. There were only the two boys. Your father is dead, and the elder, Harald, and his son recently died in a sailing accident. That leaves you and your daughter as the laird's only legitimate descendants."