Relief pulsed through him at the sound of her teasing tone. She was stronger than most would give her credit for, and he appreciated that about her character.
“Is that a compliment?”
“As close as I’ll hand out today,” she returned.
“I’ll take it as a compliment then. Do you have any questions? I thought the solicitor explained things well enough,” he said, continuing to study her and trying to read if she truly was as well as she claimed.
Catherine hesitated. “Yes, well, I rather dislike the idea of having my estate handled by someone else, but aside from that, it’s as I assumed.”
“That part is the pity,” Quin remarked. “But it is only for the interim.” He didn’t mention the stipulation of marriage; he wasn’t sure if that would bring back the pain of his brother’s loss for her, or if it would bring it to the surface for him as well.
She gave him a wry expression. “Much can happen in the interim.”
“The courts won’t give your cousin complete rein. He’ll be held responsible for his stewardship.” Quin tried to put her suspicions to rest.
“It’s more than just the stewardship. I’ve been managing the estate for several years now. To think of someone else interfering is rather unwelcome.” She shrugged. “You’ll have to excuse my lack of faith in humanity when money is involved.” She paused, wincing. “That wasn’t very fair of me. I apologize,” she added after a moment.
“No, I can understand your sentiment. I share it, even. Don’t apologize.”
“Thank you,” she said softly, “for staying.”
Quin lifted his hand to halt her words. “It was nothing.”
“It was for me, so thank you.” Catherine extended her hand.
Quin smiled and took it, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. The scent of rosewater clung to her skin, and her gloves were impeccably soft and creamy. Odd, he’d never noticed a woman’s gloves before.
He released her hand reluctantly. She wouldn’t appreciate his sympathy. But whatever was stirring in him didn’t feel like sympathy. Maybe it was empathy, or just raw knowledge of the pain she was working through. Regardless, it made him edgy. It made him want to leave and stay at the same time. Choosing the first over the latter, he offered his excuses and a promise to call upon her again in the near future before quitting the room.
During his carriage ride to his lodgings, he made plans.
As a professor, he was used to finding the devil in the details. This was one circumstance that was certainly filled with possible snares, and he didn’t want Catherine surprised by any of them, not if he could be of help. As he rode to his house, he searched his memory for the name of her cousin, recalling every detail he could find. Lord Bircham didn’t have the reputation of a gambler or womanizer; rather, he was known to be eccentric, keeping mostly to his estate in Cambridge. Quin wasn’t sure he would be a bad candidate for overseeing the Greatheart estate. He could think of far worse men, but that didn’t mean Lord Bircham didn’t have secrets, and Quin wasn’t about to let those secrets make Lady Greatheart or Catherine’s lives any more difficult.
They had suffered enough.
And now Catherine was facing that future alone, save for her grandmother’s silent company. Upon arriving at home, he strode directly to his small study. The flickering candlelight leaned as he walked past briskly, casting quavering shadows before stilling once more. The soft scrape of his drawer opening was the only sound in the room as he withdrew a piece of parchment. He scribbled a message on the parchment, the goose-feather quill scraping along the paper with every flick of his wrist as he wrote. Succinctly, he notified his staff in Cambridge that he’d be arriving in a few days’ time. After signing his name, then sealing the folded linen woven paper with bloodred wax and his stamp, he called for his butler.
The butler bowed as he entered the room, and Quin lifted the missive from his position behind the wide desk. “Please have this dispatched to Cambridge.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” His butler took the letter and disappeared into the darkened hallway.
Quin tapped his finger on a closed book upon the desk, the hollow noise punctuating his thoughts. He’d keep his plans with Lady Catherine for the next day, but then he’d inform her that he was departing on the following one—for Cambridge. She was quick to catch on to nuances of conversation and would likely see his intention for traveling there, but he didn’t need to confirm her suspicions. It would do no harm to dig around a bit, make sure that Lord Bircham was exactly who he was reputed to be, and if not, he could weigh his options from there. Catherine couldn’t travel to Cambridge at such a time, not with her grandmother ailing. So it was an easy decision and left him feeling at rest, knowing he had a plan and that it was solid in nature. He doubted even his mother could find fault in it.
Which only served to remind him that he was to report back to his mother, to give her the news of Lady Greatheart. He doubted that would be offensive to Catherine, since she knew the gossip had made the rounds. Regardless, it would be good for his mother to check in on them both in his absence. For all his mother’s faults, lack of compassion wasn’t one of them. She would be a comforting friend at such a time as this.
Mind made up, Quin rose from his desk and scanned the large clock. It was the dinner hour as he made the choice to depart once more, only this time for his family home. Might as well communicate the details now; it would save him the trouble tomorrow, and honestly, he’d been running around London all day. Why deviate now? Maybe then he’d be able to focus on the ledgers he’d failed so miserably to study earlier. With his mind clear, surely it would all make sense.
Life was like that.
Indecision always made life out of focus, but with a sharp decision, a clear direction, everything came into focus. As with the fog burning away from the heat of the sunshine in spring, the world looked new, fresh, solid.
Twelve
There is nothing, it seems to me, so difficult as to escape from than that which is essentially agreeable.
—Catherine the Great
Catherine studied the sky from within Quin’s curricle as they swayed with the rhythm of the finely sprung conveyance.