Page 83 of Miss Desirable
“Knives only, but I can handle a gun. Napoleon made soldiers of us all.”
You are just a boy. Except that Etienne might well be one-and-twenty, meaning he would have been of age to be conscripted when Napoleon was in power.
“We travel on,” Fournier said. “Our friend has not had time to arrange for an ambush, and he will not want to bring down the authorities. The plan is for us to get the child to Bordeaux, and that is what we shall do.”
That was, in fact, what they did, fourteen nerve-racking, dusty, muddy, interminable hours later. Marie seemed to sense the urgency of the situation and had traveled with only a few, quiet questions or requests to use the necessary.
Fournier’s guests were tucked up in their respective beds at the château, and Fournier was desperately looking forward to a bath when his housekeeper passed him a note.
“From Delacourt, or from your friends in London using Monsieur Delacourt’s pigeons,” she said. “Don’t fall asleep in the tub, monsieur.”
“I fell asleep two days ago. Since then, I have walked, ridden, cursed, and driven in my sleep.” He unfolded the tiny note.
Armbruster has spec license. Make all due haste to return. Casriel.
Fournier cursed in English, which earned him a curious glance from the housekeeper. “Trouble, monsieur?”
The plan was coming undone, and thus a new plan would have to serve. “I sail on the morning tide. I know it’s late, but please send word to the harbor.”
He left the housekeeper gaping at him and managed to get himself undressed and into the tub, where he did, indeed, fall fast asleep.
* * *
“Mama tells me you called upon Lady Castlereagh last week,” Armbruster said. “I would have been happy to escort you, my dear.”
I am not your dear. Catherine offered him her hand and remained seated. “Lady Casriel and Lady Trysting accompanied me. A conversation about England in springtime and Paris in winter could hardly have interested you, my lord.” It had not interested Catherine much either, but that had not been the point of the call, or the half-dozen others Catherine had made.
She had been from home—honestly from home—twice when Armbruster had called. She well knew what he could do, given five minutes of privacy with a lady. She was careful to meet with him out of doors or in public as much as possible, though today he’d ambushed her in the garden.
He took a seat in a wrought-iron chair and pulled it nearer to Catherine’s bench. “You look quite recovered from your… I forget what it was. Megrim? Head cold? Bout of indigestion? I know your game, Catherine.”
In truth, the sight of Fort Armbruster, the sound of his voice, or the scent of his cinnamon shaving soap was enough to make Catherine bilious.
“My game?”
“You have resumed socializing so I have less opportunity to catch you at home. You never cared for the Mayfair whirl, and you don’t care for it now. You are taking evasive maneuvers.”
His tone was polite, but his gaze drifted over Catherine’s person in a less than respectful manner. Not exactly lustful, but possessive. Covetous.
“I socialized,” Catherine said. “I socialized mostly as my mother’s companion, true, but one cannot be a diplomat’s daughter without an appreciation for friendly civilities. Much to my surprise, I find many of Mama’s former acquaintances are delighted to include me in their social circle.”
And that delight seemed genuine, though a few of Mama’s old friends had also dropped some matchmaking hints.
“Your mother could not trust you to go about on your own,” Armbruster said. “If I, the proverbial impecunious younger son, could turn your head, then she knew your judgment was questionable.”
He’d offered that insult with a self-deprecating smile, though the watchfulness of his gaze struck a chord of memory.
“You used to do this in Rome,” Catherine said. “Insult me with such charm that I told myself I’d imagined the slur. I was being too sensitive, too immature. And yet, a man who cared for me would never make a jest at my expense, would he? Is it not the case that your judgment as a gentleman, as my senior by several years, as a guest under my father’s roof from time to time, was the more seriously flawed?”
Armbruster sat back. “I was frustrated in love. Of course I suffered an occasional attack of pique. Fortunately for all concerned, I am older and wiser now, as are you.”
“I am older and wealthier,” Catherine said, giving him the same sort of smile he’d given her. Jovial to appearances, with a sneering undercurrent.
This was what marriage to him would be like, if Catherine condemned herself to that hell. Sniping, insults, innuendo, and games. Intimate warfare. Fournier had been correct that raising Marie amid such animosity would only wound the child—further wound the child.
Catherine marshaled her patience accordingly. “If you press your company on me too enthusiastically, you will be labeled a fortune hunter, my lord. Looked down upon as a grasping younger son with no prospects and less pride. I have been looked down upon my whole adult life, and that fate is harder than you’d think.”
He seemed amused by this olive branch. “You are not home to me half the time when I call. You declined an outing to Gunter’s. You flit about with your Dorning relations willingly enough, but ignore my overtures, though you well know that I am courting you.”
