Page 16 of Ladies in Hating
And, though she cursed herself for a fool, Cat wanted to know how it had happened.
“I suppose,” Yorke said slowly, “that is for her to say.” He gave a brief shake of his head. “But as you can see, you have nothing to fear from her.”
“I’m not sure thatfearis precisely—”
But Yorke rolled right over her objections, as he always did when he felt Cat insufficiently pragmatic in terms of her finances. “As I told you when we discussed the matter last week, Jean Laventille will offer you a considerably higher percentage on the sales of your books than that dragon Vanhoven. Ignore this rival of yours and focus on what really matters.”
Though she was still unsettled, Cat’s lips quirked despite herself. “Money, you mean?”
Yorke smiled back at her, ever so slightly vulpine. “Indeed.”
She had to admit, there was something refreshing about Yorke’s blunt avarice. She chewed upon her lower lip and then made herself stop. “I suppose I shall consider it.”
“Good.” He leaned back again and regarded her. “Tell me, Catriona. How is it that you came to be acquainted with Lady Georgiana Cleeve in the first place?”
She had not expected the question, somehow. “I knew her many years ago, back when we lived in Wiltshire. We—” She hesitated, just a breath, then went on. “My father was the Cleeve family butler.”
“Is that so? I had not realized it.”
Her chin came up in defiant reflex, but she forced the emotion—and her chin—back down. She did not need her defensiveness, not here. Yorke knew of her origins. He knew that she and Jem were the children of a man who had been in service. Despite society’sstrictures, which said that their low birth made them innately unsuitable for intellectual projects, Yorke did not hold their father’s profession against them.
She knew that he did not. But part of her still wanted to prove her worth. Had not stopped trying to do so, over and over again, for years now. “Yes. But we left Woodcote Hall a decade ago.”
“Woodcote Hall,” he said musingly, “in Wiltshire. I know the name. Near Renwick House, is it not?”
Cat paused, startled. “Why—yes. How do you know of Renwick House?”
“As it turns out, I have some dealings with its owner.”
Her brows shot up. Renwick House was infamous in southern Wiltshire, a reputedly haunted manor that had been built by Nathaniel Renwick for his wife in the middle of the eighteenth century. It was a strange and unsettling place, made all the more so by the fact that all the next generation of Renwicks had died childless, and the estate had passed to an anonymous heir who had left it to rot.
Cat had encountered the manor from time to time in her childhood and adolescence. She could still picture it in her mind’s eye: its immense scale, its eerie soaring spires twisted against the sky. It had played a foundational role, she’d always thought, in the development of her Gothic imagination.
“I thought its landlord was unknown to the general public,” she said.
“He is.” Yorke looked a trifle smug. “I am not the general public.”
She snorted. “Of course not.”
“You might be interested to know that the house opens to visitors soon.”
“Does it?” She sat forward. “It was never open to visitors before! Part of its allure, I always thought. Has it passed to a new owner?”
“I’m sure I cannot say.” At her aggrieved look, he relented. “But if you should like to visit the manor for the purposes of research, I suspect I could prevail upon its custodian to permit you.”
“Oh, would you?” Her heart leapt. What a setting for a novel! What depths of detail she could draw from the eerie estate!
And what a coup it would be over Lady Georgiana.
She attempted to quash the ungracious thought and looked back at Yorke. “When can I leave? I can pack my things and—oh.” She sat back in the chair. “Oh hell. Never mind.”
Yorke’s face betrayed the barest hint of his amusement. “Forget something?”
She ground her teeth. “The pie shop. It’s two days on the mail coach out to that part of Wiltshire, and two more days back, plus three or four days to stay on the grounds and—”
It wouldn’t work. She couldn’t leave the pie shop for so long. Mrs. Quincy would have her head.
“If you transfer your contracts to Mr. Laventille,” Yorke said with studied casualness, “your profits will exceed what you make at the pie shop. Considerably.”
