Or perhaps it was simply because the old gent had believed so fervently that Luke belonged here, and for some reason that Luke failed to grasp, he didn’t want to disappoint him.
“You tried to have him killed?” Marcus Langdon asked as he paced in front of the fireplace.
“It seemed the most efficient way to achieve my ends.”
“But as I explained, I wanted to go through the courts. I want everything legal.”
“That could take years.”
“I want there to be no doubt that I am the true Earl of Claybourne.”
“There’s no doubt now. All of London knows he’s an imposter.”
Marcus despised the calm voice, the absolute absence of emotion.
“I don’t want to be party to this—”
“It’s far too late to have misgivings now.”
Marcus shook his head.
“Why do you have such qualms? He murdered your father.”
“That was never proven.”
“He’s never denied it.”
“Quite honestly, he doesn’t seem like a killer.”
Dark laughter echoed through the room. “But then, neither do I.”
Marcus had always thought of hatred as a heated emotion, but looking into the dark eyes of the person standing opposite him, he realized it was cold, very cold—and very, very dangerous.
Chapter 10
Not tonight.
—C
Catherine studied the missive that had been delivered earlier in the evening. Then she compared it to the one she should have burned. It was incomprehensible that they were written by the same hand. The latest was more scribble than anything else, looking like something her father in his infirmity would have written.
Not something that the bold, strong, and daring Lord Claybourne would write.
Unexpected dread filled her. He’d been fighting the ruffians long before she’d stepped out of the coach. He’d disappeared into shadows, only to reemerge. She’d assumed he was unscathed, but her assumption could be wrong. He could have been wounded. Seriously. And it would be just like him to worry over her wound and allow his own to go untended—to strive to be so amazingly brave and sacrificing.
This very moment, he could be fighting an infection, shivering with a fever, writhing in pain.
His handwriting certainly indicated that something was amiss. And his missive was so blunt, so curt. After all they’d shared, she was owed an explanation. One way or another, she intended to get it—on her schedule not his.
She waited until later, until most decent people wouldn’t be about. Then she called for the carriage. Just as she had the first night she’d visited Claybourne, she had the driver drop her off at St. James’s Park.
“No need to wait,” she said.
“My lady—”
“I’ll be fine.” And then she walked away before he could argue further.
She slipped through alleyways, hid behind trees, and made her way cautiously to the servants’ door. She knocked briskly.
A plump woman who wore her apron over her nightgown opened the door. The cook, no doubt, always ready to prepare a meal at a moment’s notice.
“I need to see his lordship,” Catherine said.
“He’s not receiving guests.”
“Is he home?”
The woman hesitated.
“It’s important that I see him.” Catherine brushed past the woman, ignoring her protests.
“Mr. Fitzsimmons! Mr. Fitzsimmons!” the cook screeched.
Catherine would never tolerate such caterwauling in her household. Claybourne needed a wife, and before the thought had reached its end, she remembered that his acquisition of a wife was uppermost in his mind. Otherwise, they’d not now be in partnership.
The butler walked into the kitchen, his eyes widening in surprise when he spotted Catherine.
“I need to see Claybourne,” Catherine announced without preamble.
“He’s abed, madam.”
“Is he ill?”
“I do not discuss my lordship’s business.”
“I must see him. It’s a matter of life and death. I daresay, you’ll be sacked if he learns I was here and was not taken to him immediately.”
He studied her for a long moment as though he might have the audacity to argue, then he bowed slightly. “If you’ll be so good as to come with me.”
She followed him out of the kitchen and into the hallway.
“Madam—”
“No one knows I’m here,” she interrupted, certain that he had plans to distract her from her purpose. Also very much aware by the way he addressed her that he hadn’t a clue to her proper station in society, which was to her advantage.
He sighed as though she were a burden too great to bear. As he escorted her up the stairs, Catherine thought to ask, “He is alone, isn’t he?”