Love and the Single Heiress

the other, and set off to search and secure the house.

Catherine stood in Spencer’s bedchamber, clutching the knife, her ears straining to pick up any foreign sound, her gaze never leaving her son’s face, which was gently illuminated by the oil lamp she’d set on his desk. Her wet clothing stuck to her like an uncomfortable second skin, and she pressed her lips together to keep her teeth from chattering. She wasn’t certain if the shivers racking her were more the result of being chilled or due to the shocking fright of this evening.

Spencer stirred, let out a small sigh, then settled, and Catherine squeezed her eyes shut. She’d thought the danger was over, had been convinced that the shooting in London was a random accident and not related to her connection to the Guide and Charles Brightmore, but clearly she was wrong. Dear God, what had she done? Guilt and self-recriminations wrapped a noose around her neck, strangling her. Andrew could easily have been killed. She could easily have drowned. And God only knows what sort of threat her actions had wrought upon her family.

She kept her silent vigil, heart pounding with every creak of the house, praying for Andrew’s safety. When she finally heard a soft tapping on the door, relief wobbled her knees.

“Catherine, it’s me,” came Andrew’s quiet voice from the corridor.

Holding her lantern aloft, she opened the door, quite certain she’d never been so relieved to see anyone in her entire life. He motioned for her join him in the corridor. After she’d done so, he quietly closed Spencer’s door, then clasped her hand and led her in silence directly to her bedchamber. The instant the door closed behind them and they were ensconced in privacy, he set both their lamps on the marble hearth and drew her into his arms.

Catherine slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest, absorbing his hard, fast heartbeats against her cheek.

“The house is safe,” he said softly, his words warm against her temple. “No intruders. I locked all the doors and windows. I woke Milton, briefed him on what happened, and instructed him to tell the rest of the staff in the morning.” He leaned back and tipped up her chin. “I know who did this, Catherine. I saw him. Recognized him. And I swear to you, I’ll find him.”

“Who is it?”

“A man named Sidney Carmichael.”

Catherine frowned. “He attended my father’s birthday party, as well as the duke’s soiree.”

“Yes. He is-or rather was-one of the potential museum investors. I spoke to him just yesterday in London.” His brow creased with a deep frown. “In spite of the dark, I know it was he. I just don’t understand why he would do this. He hadn’t yet handed over any funds for the museum, so he didn’t stand to lose any money.”

Catherine’s stomach twisted. She wished she didn’t have to tell him, but there was no other way. Drawing a bracing breath, she said, “I’m afraid I know why, Andrew.”

His gaze sharpened, but instead of demanding an immediate explanation, he said, “I’m anxious to hear your thoughts, but first we must get you into dry clothing before you become ill. Turn around.”

For the first time she noted that he’d changed into a fresh linen shirt and breeches. She turned and felt him deftly unfasten the row of buttons down her back. After he helped her slip off her damp gown and underthings, she retrieved a nightrail, robe, and slippers. While he carefully settled her wet garments over the back of a wing chair, and tended the fire which had burned too low, she quickly dressed.

After she’d tightened the robe’s sash around her waist, she walked to the fireplace, taking a moment to allow the flames to chase away the last of her chills. When she was warm, she turned to him. The fire cast the room in a golden, flickering glow, gilding his features in contrasting panes of shadow and light. His eyes were serious and filled with questions as they regarded her, yet he said nothing, patiently waiting for her to speak.

Clasping her fidgety hands at her waist, she said, “I’m not certain how to tell you this, other than to simply say it. You are aware that many people are angered by the Ladies‘ Guide and that there is great interest in the author.”

“Yes.”

“Indeed, threats have been made against Charles Brightmore’s life.”

His eyes narrowed. “Threats against his life? How do you know this?”

“I overheard Lords Markingworth, Whitly, and Carweather speaking at my father’s birthday party. They spoke of wanting to see Charles Brightmore dead, and of an investigator they’d hired to find him. ‘Tis now clear to me that this Mr. Carmichael is the man they hired, and tonight he nearly succeeded in his mission. Again.” She met his gaze. “I am Charles Brightmore, Andrew. I wrote the Guide and published it under a pseudonym.”

Whatever reaction she’d expected, it wasn’t this… unwavering calm. “I must say, you do not look very surprised.”

“I confess I am not, as I had my suspicions. Your verbal slip the other night set my mind wondering. I paid Mr. Bayer a visit this morning before departing London.”

“My publisher?” she asked, stunned. “But surely he did not identify me as Charles Brightmore.”

“No. I knew he would not, nor did I wish to tip my hand by asking him outright. However, when I casually mentioned your name during our conversation, Mr. Bayer turned an interesting shade of pink. And when I mentioned another name, he turned positively red.”

“Another name?”

“Clearly you didn’t write the Guide alone. You couldn’t have, not based on the number of ‘firsts’ we’ve shared. Someone else was involved… your friend Mrs. Ralston would be my guess.”

Dear God. The man was too clever by half-an admirable trait, but in this case also alarming. “Since both you and Mr. Carmichael were able to ferret out Charles Brightmore’s true identity, it’s only a matter of time before someone else finds out and all of London knows.”

“Whether Carmichael was investigating for someone else or on his own, I cannot say, but he isn’t the man hired by Lords Markingworth, Whitly, and Carweather.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I am the man they hired.”

Catherine actually felt the blood drain from her face, and she suddenly recalled why she’d never been fond of surprises. It was because they were so damnably… surprising. If she’d been able, she would have laughed at the irony.

She cleared her throat to locate her voice. “Well, my confession just made your mission a great deal easier.”

His brows rose. “Actually, it places me in a very awkward position. I was very much looking forward to collecting the reward they’d offered me.”

“Reward? How much?”

“Five hundred pounds.”

Catherine’s jaw dropped. “That’s a fortune.”

“Yes, I know.” He dragged his hands down his face and heaved a long sigh. “I had plans for that money.” Before she could ask what sort of plans, he continued, “Of course you need not fear that I will reveal your identity.”

“Thank you. But I fear the point is moot, as Mr. Carmichael clearly also knows.”

Andrew’s jaw tightened. “If he knows about you, it’s likely he also knows about Mrs. Ralston’s involvement.”

Catherine pressed her hands to her cheeks as guilt slapped her. “How could I have forgotten to consider that? Genevieve is in danger as well. We must warn her.”

“I agree. But you’re not leaving here, and I’m not leaving you. Milton can relate tonight’s happenings and warn her and her staff to be on guard. He can take a footman and Fritzborne along for protection.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ll return in a few minutes. Warm yourself by the fire, and-”

“Don’t unlock the door until you return,” she finished with a weak smile.

He returned ten minutes later, and said, “They are on their way to Mrs. Ralston’s cottage.”

Relief lessened a bit of Catherine’s anxiety. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, back to your involvement with the Guide-I take it the book