Page 69 of Miss Desirable
“I know only that he is keeping watch. Nevin is most definitely bearing tales in exchange for coin.” Fournier offered his arm, as if they were strolling along at a garden party rather than discussing the mess that was brewing in Catherine’s life.
The new mess. “Servants gossip,” Catherine said. “Nevin knows only of my recent comings and goings. I’m more concerned about my letters.”
“As am I.”
They came to a bench in a small clearing, an oasis of peace and greenery. “Let’s sit, shall we?”
“I am yours to command.”
The words were gallant, but the tone was nearly perfunctory. Catherine took a seat and sorted through conflicting loyalties and unflattering truths.
“I trust you,” she said, “but I don’t want toinvolveyou.”
“Let’s make an agreement, shall we? You trust me a little bit more, and then we will decide together to what further degree to involve me.”
Such sangfroid, and such a subtle rebuke. “I received a note yesterday. Four words: ‘I know your secrets.’ If the person who wrote that note does know my secrets, I am ruined, Marie is ruined, and your choices are to cut your losses now, or be ruined with us. I don’t want you to be ruined, Xavier. I know how hard you’ve worked to establish your business, how careful you’ve been, how many people rely on you. I don’t want to be the reason you are ruined.”
Catherine wiped at her cheek with her glove and tried to recall the last time she’d cried, other than recent occasions with Fournier. Papa’s funeral service, probably. She had not cried for Mama, but she dearly, dearly missed her mother at that moment.
“I was the reason,” Catherine went on, “that my parents took one diplomatic posting after another, the reason they had to be separated as Mama was falling ill. I was the reason we lived quietly once we did return to London. They loved me, but they did not account for how much more stuffy and ridiculous Society would grow as I came of age. I hate that I caused them so much grief, and I refuse to allow you to suffer to the same degree.”
Then there was Marie, an innocent child, as Catherine had once been innocent. Fournier would grasp that particular without Catherine having to spell it out for him.
He paced to the edge of the clearing and then pivoted. “Somebody knows your secrets and seeks to prey upon you because of your past?”
Catherine nodded tiredly. “I expect a blackmail demand to follow shortly, or a marriage proposal. I would rather pay a king’s ransom than contemplate wedlock with the person threatening me, but love for my daughter leaves me little choice.”
Fournier strode back to the bench, and had Catherine not dealt with ranting ambassadors, hysterical attachés, and childbirth, she would have scooted back.
“You know who is doing this,” Fournier said, his calm unnerving. “You know the fine gentleman who is disrespecting your privacy, bribing your servants, and scheming against you. Tell me who he is, and I will kill him.”
“You mean that.”
“I most assuredly do.”
That feeling came again, of being unable to catch her breath, of being slowly suffocated by sadness, rage, and love.
“You cannot kill him, Fournier. I cannot kill him. He is the father of my child.”
Fournier strode away again. Catherine was holding back an ocean of tears, or she—who was intent on sending him out of her life—would have begged him not to leave her.
* * *
Catherine sat alone, to all appearances fairly composed, while she prosed on about being a blight on her parents’ life, expecting blackmail from the father of her child, and hatching some mad scheme to marry the bastard.
“You are intent onprotectingme?” Fournier asked, staring down at her.
“You protect many, Fournier. You took unconscionable risks in wartime to keep your vineyards producing, and that doubtless was all that saved dozens of families from starvation. You look after street urchins. You are the honorary godfather to half the émigrés in London, and when Colonel Goddard was held in such low esteem, you—his competitor—took his part. Jeanette was very clear on that.”
The feelings trying to rob him of speech refused simple labels, though they made him want to both curse and laugh—and to hold Catherine Fairchild close to his heart for all the rest of his days.
“Without honor, a man is nothing. This is an eternal verity whether he is French, English, or even American. I hope I behave as a gentleman at all times.”
“You do,” Catherine said, bowing her head, “and that makes you vulnerable, as I have been vulnerable all of my life. You think you know what it is to be relegated to the margins, Fournier, but you don’t. They will take your business, your good name, your friendships, and all it needs is a few rumors and one cut direct on a fashionable street.”
Catherine wore a veiled toque, so Fournier could not see her expression, though he could hear the Toledo steel in her words.
He sank to the bench beside her and resisted the compulsion to take her hand for fear he would never let it go. “You have given this matter thought.” All the while laughing at Alasdhair MacKay’s jokes and pretending to enjoy an uncomplicated rosé.
