Page 62 of Miss Desirable
Not precisely. Catherine’s first objective was Marie’s safety and happiness, but thereafter… Who was to say that mother, child, and suitor could not all have happiness, in time?
“I am desolated to leave you,” Fournier said, taking her hand in his, “but our discussion offers me reason to rejoice. What time shall I come for you tomorrow?”
“Dorcas’s invitation stated that supper would be at eight, so come by at seven.” That would leave them thirty minutes to inventory Catherine’s wines, or to send the coach wandering London’s streets.
Or to simply converse over a glass of wine. Catherine had altered her menus to admit of more than an occasional glass of Cahors.
“Very well, until tomorrow at seven.” Fournier bowed over her hand.
“You could come in for a cup of tea.”
“If I come in for a cup of tea, I will find an excuse to make love with you between your library bookshelves or on the sofa in your personal sitting room. My business requires that I deny myself those pleasures, and you have correspondence requiring your attention. We must have some dignity, Catherine.”
She brushed her hand over his lapel. “Must we?”
He groaned and muttered something in French. “Until tomorrow evening. Dream of me.”
She blew him a kiss, he laughed, and they parted with a smile.
We could live in France. That was a solution of sorts, though not ideal. Through trusts and clever lawyering, the Fairchild fortune would one day become Marie’s. That meant involving London solicitors, while at the same time keeping the facts of Marie’s parentage secret.
The French were fanatical about public records, though for an illegitimate child, not even the mother’s name appeared on the birth documents. Though what mattered documents when human memory lasted at least long enough to make matters difficult for a girl of irregular origins?
Catherine was still pondering possibilities as she sat down to the stack of correspondence she’d been neglecting for the past fortnight. Dealing with notes of condolence while falling in love had seemed hypocritical, but the replies could not be put off forever.
She made good headway, inspired by thoughts of tomorrow night’s supper with the MacKays, until only a few notes remained to be dealt with. The next epistle sported no black band and had no return address.
That meant the sender had paid the postage, a common courtesy with a letter of condolence. Catherine slit the seal and prepared to read more kindly platitudes.
I know your secrets.
She dropped the note onto the blotter as if the very paper could poison her. Her first instinct was to burn the message, but she was a diplomat’s daughter, and Papa had received many anonymous threats. She instead made herself study the note.
The script was elegant, not a drunken scrawl. Black ink. The paper was merely folded foolscap, the seal off-center in the wax blob, as if somebody wanted to obscure the specifics of the design—a flower of some sort—and the wax was not the standard red, but rather more of a burgundy.
The scent of the wax was cinnamon, suggesting wealth—or a clerk who worked in a spice house. Spies came from all walks of life, and someone had apparently been spying on Catherine in Rome, or France.
She was still staring at the note when Harry brought in the tea tray.
“That stack can be mailed,” Catherine said, gesturing to the replies she’d penned. “Harry, do you pick up the mail, or does Nevin?”
“Nevin, usually, when he’s walking the dog.”
“Please have Nevin meet me in the garden.”
Harry’s increasingly smooth demeanor faltered. “In the garden, miss?”
“He won’t be comfortable abovestairs if he’s been at his labors.” More to the point, Catherine wanted privacy for the discussion she was to have with her lazy stable lad. She was no longer assured of that privacy even in her own home.
“I will tell Nevin to await you in the garden, but, miss, you have a caller.”
The tray had been arranged for two, now that Catherine bothered to notice. Harry passed over a card. Plain black ink. Elegant script.
“Show him in, and leave the door open. I will see this guest to the door myself, but you will please remain within calling distance while I endure Lord Fortescue’s visit.”
* * *
Catherine was looking damnably well, but then, why shouldn’t she be in the very pink? According to Armbruster’s spy, in the past fortnight she’d been out to Richmond to visit the Dornings twice, to the British Museum twice, and to Gunter’s twice. She’d called upon Jeanette Goddard Dorning and on Lady Della Dorning, all in the company of the rubbishing French wine nabob.
