This struck Catherine as an excellent idea. She followed Poppy from the room, while Harry and Leo continued to glare at each other.

“I’m going to marry her,” Leo said.

Harry’s face went blank. “You despise each other.”

“We’ve come to an understanding.”

“Has she accepted you?”

“Not yet. She wants to discuss it with you first.”

“Thank God. Because I’ll tell her that it’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

Leo arched a brow. “You doubt I could protect her?”

“I doubt you could keep from murdering each other! I doubt she could ever be happy in such volatile circumstances. I doubt … no, I won’t bother listing all my concerns, it would take too bloody long.” Harry’s eyes were ice-cold. “The answer is no, Ramsay. I’ll do what is necessary to take care of Cat. You can return to Hampshire.”

“I’m afraid it won’t be that easy to get rid of me,” Leo said. “Perhaps you didn’t notice that I haven’t asked for your permission. There is no choice. Certain things have happened that can’t be undone. Do you understand?”

He saw from Harry’s expression that only a few fragile constraints stood between him and certain death.

“You seduced her deliberately,” Harry managed to say.

“Would you be happier if I claimed it was an accident?”

“The only thing that would make me happy is to weight you with rocks and toss you into the Thames.”

“I understand. I even sympathize. I can’t imagine what it would be like to face a man who’s compromised your sister, how difficult it would be to keep from murdering him on the spot. Oh, but wait…” Leo tapped a forefinger thoughtfully on his chin. “I can imagine. Because I went through it two bloody months ago.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “That wasn’t the same. Your sister was still a virgin when I married her.”

Leo gave him an unrepentant glance. “When I compromise a woman, I do it properly.”

“That does it,” Harry muttered, leaping for his throat.

They crashed to the floor, rolling and grappling. Although Harry managed to slam Leo’s head on the floor, the thick carpet absorbed most of the impact. Harry sought a chokehold, but Leo ducked his chin and wrenched free. They rolled twice, exchanging blows, aiming for the throat, the kidneys, the solar plexus, in the kind of fight that usually took place in East End slum alleys.

“You won’t win this one, Rutledge,” Leo panted as they broke apart and lurched to their feet. “I’m not one of your prick-me-dainty fencing partners.” He dodged a hard right and took a jab of his own. “I’ve fought my way in and out of every gaming hell and tavern in London—” He faked a jab with his left and followed with a swift right hook, making a satisfying impact with Harry’s jaw. “And aside from all that, I live with Merripen, who has a left uppercut like a kick from a mule—”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Harry threw a counterpunch and stepped back before Leo could retaliate.

“It’s called communication. You ought to try it sometime.” Exasperated, Leo dropped his guard and stood there undefended. “Especially with your sister. Have you ever bothered to listen to her? Damn it, man, she came to London hoping for some kind of brotherly counsel or consolation, and the first thing you do is send her from the room.”

Harry’s fists lowered. He pinned Leo with a damning glare, but when he spoke, his voice was heavy with self-condemnation. “I’ve failed her for years. Do you think I’m unaware of all that I could have done for her but didn’t? I’ll do anything possible to atone. But damn you, Ramsay … the last thing she needed in this situation was for her innocence to be taken when she couldn’t defend herself.”

“It’s exactly what she needed.”

Harry shook his head in disbelief. “Damn you.” He scrubbed a hand through his black hair, and gave a peculiar strangled laugh. “I hate arguing with a Hathaway. You all say something lunatic as if it’s perfectly logical. Is it too early for brandy?”

“Not at all. I’m feeling far too sober for this conversation.”

Harry went to a sideboard and pulled out two glasses. “While I pour,” he said, “you can explain why being deflowered by you was so bloody beneficial to my sister.”

Shrugging out of his coat, Leo draped it over the back of his chair and sat. “Marks has been isolated and alone for much too long—”

“She hasn’t been alone, she’s been living with the Hathaways.”

“Even so, she’s stayed at the edges of the family with her nose pressed against the window, like some Dickensian orphan. A false name, drab clothes, dyed hair … she’s concealed her identity for so long that she hardly knows who she is. But the real Catherine emerges when she’s with me. We’ve gotten beneath each other’s guards. We speak the same language, if you take my meaning.” Leo paused, staring into the glowing swirl of his brandy. “Marks is a contradictory woman, and yet the more I know her, the more the contradictions make sense. She’s spent too long in the shadows. No matter how she tries to convince herself otherwise, she wants to belong somewhere, with someone. And yes, she wants a man in her bed. Me in particular.” Taking the brandy that Harry handed to him, Leo tossed back a swallow. “She’ll thrive with me. Not because I’m a stellar example of virtuous manhood, nor have I ever claimed to be. But I’m right for her. I’m not cowed by her sharp tongue, and she can’t outmaneuver me. And she knows it.”

Harry sat nearby and drank his own brandy. He watched Leo pensively, on one level trying to assess his sincerity, on another judging his veracity. “What would you get from this arrangement?” he asked quietly. “As I understand, you need to marry and sire a child rather soon. If Cat doesn’t succeeded in bearing a son, the Hathaways will lose Ramsay House.”

“We’ve survived many things far worse than losing a bloody house. I’ll marry Marks and take the risk.”

“Perhaps you’re testing the waters,” Harry said, his face expressionless. “Trying to determine if she’s fertile before you marry her.”

Instantly offended, Leo forced himself to remember that he was dealing with the legitimate concern of a brother for a sister. “I don’t give a damn if she’s fertile or not,” he said evenly. “If it will settle your concerns, we’ll wait however long it will take to make the copyhold clause irrelevant. I want her regardless.”

“And what about what Cat wants?”

“That’s up to her. As for dealing with Latimer—I’ve already made him aware that I have leverage against him. I’ll use it if he starts to make trouble. But the best protection I can offer her is my name.” Finishing his brandy, Leo set the empty snifter aside. “What do you know of this grandmother and aunt?”

“The old crone died not long ago. The aunt, Althea Hutchins, runs the place now. I sent my assistant Valentine to take inventory of the situation, and he returned looking somewhat sickened. Apparently in a bid to revive business, Mrs. Hutchins turned it into a whipping brothel, where any number of depravities are catered to. The unfortunate women who work there are usually too well worn to be employed at other brothels.” Harry finished his brandy. “It seems the aunt is ailing, most likely from some untreated bawdy-house disease.”

Leo looked at him alertly. “Have you told Marks?”

“No, she’s never asked. I don’t believe she wants to know.”

“She’s afraid,” Leo said quietly.

“Of what?”

“Of what nearly became of her. Of things Althea said to her.”

“Such as?”

Leo shook his head. “She told me in confidence.” He smiled faintly at Harry’s obvious annoyance. “You’ve known her for years, Rutledge—what in God’s name did you talk about when you were together? Taxes? The weather?” He stood and picked up his coat. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to arrange for a room.”

Harry frowned. “Here?”

“Yes, where else?”

“What about the terrace you usually lease?”

“Closed away for the summer. But even if it weren’t, I’d still stay here.” Leo smiled slightly. “Consider it yet another chance to experience the joys of a close family.”

“It was a far greater joy when the family stayed in bloody Hampshire,” Harry said as Leo left the apartment.

Chapter Twenty-two

“Harry was right about something,” Poppy told Catherine as they walked through the gardens at the back of the hotel.

In contrast to the modern preference for the romantic appearance in gardening—unstructured, with beds of blossoms that appeared to have sprung up spontaneously, and paths laid out in meandering curves—the Rutledge gardens were orderly and grand. Disciplined hedges formed walls that guided one through a careful arrangement of fountains, statuary, parterres, and elaborate flower beds.

“It is definitely time,” Poppy continued, “for Harry to introduce you to people as his sister. And for you to be known by your real name. What is it, by the way?”

“Catherine Wigens.”

Poppy considered that. “I’m sure it’s only because I’ve always known you as Miss Marks … but I like Marks better.”

“So do I. Catherine Wigens was a frightened girl in difficult circumstances. I’ve been much happier as Catherine Marks.”

“Happier?” Poppy asked gently. “Or merely less frightened?”

Catherine smiled. “I’ve learned quite a lot about happiness over the past few years. I found peace at school, although I was too quiet and private to make friends there. It wasn’t until I came to work for the Hathaways that I saw the day-to-day interactions of people who love each other. And then in the past year, I’ve finally experienced moments of true joy. The feeling that at least for the moment, everything is as it should be, and there’s nothing else one could ask for.”

Poppy sent her a smiling glance. “Moments such as…?”

They entered the rose garden, filled with a profusion of blossoms, the air heavy with sun-warmed perfume.

“Evenings in the parlor, when the family was together and Win was reading. Going on walks with Beatrix. Or that rainy day in Hampshire when we all had a picnic on the veranda. Or—” She broke off, shaken by the realization of what she had been about to say.

“Or?” Poppy prompted, pausing to examine a large and resplendent rose, inhaling its scent. Her astute gaze darted to Catherine’s face.

It was difficult to express her most personal thoughts, but Catherine forced herself to admit the uncomfortable truth. “After Lord Ramsay hurt his shoulder at the old manor ruins … he was in bed with fever the next day … and I sat with him for hours. We talked while I did the mending, and I read Balzac to him.”

Poppy smiled. “Leo must have loved that. He adores French literature.”

“He told me about the time he spent in France. He said the French have a marvelous way of uncomplicating things.”

“Yes, he needed that very much. When Leo went to France with Win, he was a wreck of a man. You wouldn’t have known him. We didn’t know whom to fear for more, Win with her weak lungs, or Leo, who was bent on destroying himself.”

“But they came back well,” Catherine said.

“Yes, both of them were finally well. But different.”

“Because of France?”

“That, and also the struggles they’d been through. Win told me that one isn’t improved by being at the top of the mountain, one is improved by the climb.”

Catherine smiled as she thought of Win, whose patient fortitude had carried her through years of illness. “That sounds exactly like her,” she said. “Perceptive. And strong.”

“Leo is like that too,” Poppy said. “It’s only that he’s far more irreverent.”

“And cynical,” Catherine said.

“Yes, cynical … but also playful. Perhaps it’s an odd combination of qualities, but there’s my brother.”

Catherine’s smile lingered. There were so many images of Leo in her mind … patiently rescuing a hedgehog that had fallen into a fencepost hole … working on a set of plans for a new tenant house, his face severe with concentration … lying wounded on his bed, his eyes glazed with pain as he murmured, I’m too much for you to manage.

No, she had replied, you’re not.

“Catherine,” Poppy said hesitantly, “the fact that Leo came to London with you … I wonder if … that is, I hope … is there a betrothal in the making?”

“He has offered for me,” Catherine admitted, “but I—”

“Has he?” Poppy astonished her with an enthusiastic embrace. “Oh, it’s too good to be true! Please say you’ll accept him.”

“I’m afraid the situation isn’t that simple,” Catherine said ruefully, drawing back. “There is much to consider, Poppy.”

Poppy’s exuberance faded quickly, an anxious pucker appearing between her brows. “You don’t love him? But in time you will, I’m sure of it. There is so much about him worth—”

“It’s not a question of love,” Catherine said with a slight grimace.

“Marriage isn’t a question of love?”

“No, it is, of course, but I meant to say that love cannot overcome certain difficulties.”

“Then you do love him?” Poppy asked hopefully.

Catherine turned deep red. “There are many qualities I esteem in Lord Ramsay.”

“And he makes you happy, you said so.”

“Well, on that one day, I’ll admit—”

“‘A moment of true joy,’ was how you put it.”

“Heavens, Poppy, I feel as if I’m being interrogated.”

Poppy grinned. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I want this match so very much. For Leo’s sake, and yours, and for the family.”

Harry’s dry voice came from behind them. “It appears we’re at cross-purposes, my love.” The women turned as he approached them. Harry regarded his wife warmly, but there was an air of preoccupation about him. “The tea and sandwiches are waiting,” he said. “And the brawl is over. Shall we go back to the apartments?”




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