Page 9 of Miss Desirable
The question was clever. Answering in the negative implied that Catherine had intended to poison somebody else.
“Your imagination is prodigious, monsieur. Will you take a message back to the Dornings for me?”
“Does the butler watch you so closely you cannot even write to your own siblings?”
The ache grew sharp. “I do notknowthe Dornings. I would rather trust to your good offices than try to put words on paper. Please thank Sycamore for his concern and convey to him that I will be grateful to receive condolence calls a few weeks hence.”
Fournier considered her from his end of the sofa, while Catherine remained at the escritoire. “I will tell Dorning that you are exhausted, that you have no allies worth the name, that after years of polite society’s ill-treatment, you have been besieged in your very home by judgment and disrespect. I will tell him he is a failure as a brother and a gentleman, and I will ensure his wife hears my words. Jeanette Dorning is half French, and she will not tolerate these excesses of English delicacy.”
Fournier meant well, but then, Mama had meant well when she’d gone walking with the late Earl of Casriel, to hear her tell it.
And Fournier’s good intentions could end in a disaster to equal the one Mama had caused.
“The highest praise my father—Lord Fairchild—gave me was, ‘You’ll do, Catherine. You’ll do.’ He was fond of me, and I of him, though I did not realize it until his most recent return from Paris. Papa had seen enough of the world to doubt the myth of English superiority, and his love for Mama and me was real.”
“But?”
“But he was an old-school aristocrat nonetheless. When after years of marriage, he still had no heir, he all but encouraged Mama to stray. The problem is the title.”
Fournier made a circular motion with his wrist.
“The baronies are the oldest titles,” Catherine went on, relieved to have somebody to explain this to. “So old that they can sometimes be preserved through the female line, depending on how the letters patent were written and what plagues had passed through lately. Papa needed any child, any child at all, to prevent the title from reverting to the crown. Polite society was kept in ignorance of that fact.” As Catherine had been kept in ignorance.
“And the significance of this?”
“Polite society was also not informed that I was my uncle Erasmus’s heir. I did not know, and I suspect my parents did not either. I am thus wealthy, and my offspring will claim a title, despite my illegitimacy. This is rather more than the gossips are willing to forgive.”
Fournier’s brows drew down. “I am technically acomte. Should I expect my butler to take me into immediate dislike when I disclose that fact?”
“Why don’t you disclose it?”
“Because I am no great believer in privileges that attach through an accident of birth. Mind you, I keep my radical leanings quiet when I’m trying to convince the lordlings to purchase my claret.”
“And I try not to annoy the very Society to whom I am a walking affront.”
Catherine was being more honest about her situation than she’d intended to be, and she sensed her guest was appeased by her explanations. She’d explained much, though certainly not all.
Fournier rose. “Have you considered changing societies? Many a Frenchman has found a good life here among the English. The same can be said in reverse.”
Did he include himself among those contented Frenchmen? “I have journeyed extensively on the Continent with my parents,” Catherine said. “I may travel again, though one is to serve out one’s mourning at home.” When that chore had been tended to, traveling on the Continent might be a possibility.
“Go to France,” Fournier said, his gaze bleak. “You can live well for a song in the provinces, and aristos are all the rage again. I am certain I could find you a château to rent where the butler would not judge you for decisions your parents made before you were born.”
“He would judge me for being English.”
“Not as much as you might think. Most of my countrymen grew sick to death of Bonaparte’s bellicose version of liberty and his imperial variety of equality. Will you write to the Dornings?”
“I want to.”
Fournier came around to the desk and offered his hand. Catherine took it, because she thought his intention was to bow his farewell. Instead, he drew her to her feet and away from the window.
After taking tea, neither he nor Catherine had donned gloves, and the warmth of his grip was a shock. A pleasant, comforting shock.
“You are managing as you always have,” he said, “on your own, but you fail to see that solitary maneuvers are no longer the best approach to the battle. If you cannot approach your family just yet, then allow me to serve as an ally. Even a house of mourning must keep its wine cellar stocked. Send to me if there is need, or if you are simply in want of company. Order some pear cordial. I have no use for your money and no regard for an English title.”
You can trust me. He did not speak the words, which was kind of him, but he did hold Catherine’s hand between both of his, enveloping her in the warmth of his touch.
“Say yes, Catherine,” he went on, still holding her hand. “Say, ‘Yes, Fournier, I will send for you, because I know you will make a pest of yourself if I do not.’”
