Morgan nodded once, unrepentant. “People are far more persuadable when under duress.”
“Remind me never to be on your bad side.” Catherine smirked, entertained by her friend’s methods. “Blackmail is always helpful to have in one’s arsenal. Don’t you agree?” she asked. “If we can find out what motivated her, we can always reverse it.”
“I like the way you think.” Morgan nodded approvingly.
“You two are dangerous together,” Joan observed, but her tone was amused.
“You might have to be quick on your feet once you find the motive,” Morgan warned.
“I’ve been known to have a quick wit.” Catherine bit her lip. It wasn’t one of her finer qualities when provoked. But she was determined to end this. “Tomorrow, then.” She nodded, picking up her teacup.
“Morning,” Morgan added.
Catherine grinned over her cup. “Lovely. The sooner the better.”
The rest of the evening went by slowly. Dinner was served in a small dining room where Catherine could easily picture Quin sitting with the paper to the side of his plate, silence his happy companion. So much about the house reminded her of him; it was as painful as it was comforting. She missed him acutely, as if half of her heart was tethered to London.
After dinner, they had all agreed to seek their rooms earlier than usual. The previous day of travel had been taxing, and Catherine hadn’t quite recovered yet. After she said her good nights, she slipped down the corridor. The flickering candlelight illuminated the hallway, and Catherine twisted the brass knob to open the door to the room she’d been given. It was a guest room, cozy and welcoming, but she wondered just where Quin’s rooms were located—and how long it would be till she found out for herself.
A warm and cheery fire danced in the hearth as she settled in the bed. As her head touched the pillow, she drew the coverlet over herself.
Sleep finally found her, and soon it was morning.
Expectation made her shake off her sleep quickly, and with eagerness she dressed for the day. Upon arriving downstairs, Catherine found Joan and Morgan already at the breakfast table.
They had decided on a midmorning visit, and as the time finally arrived, Catherine found her heart pounding not only with anticipation but also with anger. She had no affection for Mrs. Burke; the lady had done nothing but make Catherine’s life difficult. As the carriage rolled down the streets of Cambridge, taking a smaller side street before halting before a home similar to Quin’s, Catherine resolved to see this through to whatever end.
They alighted from the carriage, and Morgan and Joan led the way to the large wooden door, using the wide brass knocker to announce their presence. An older butler answered the door, his gray eyes narrowing slightly as he asked for Morgan’s card. Before the butler could turn down the hall with the offered rectangle bearing Morgan’s title, a familiar voice spoke. “Let them in, Jarrod. I’m expecting them.”
Mrs. Burke appeared behind the butler. “Come in.” She met Catherine’s wary gaze with a disinterested one of her own and then led them to a parlor.
The butler took stock of them but apparently decided there was no threat and disappeared down the hall in the opposite direction.
Catherine noted the simple furnishings placed about the house. When her grandmother said Mrs. Burke had married a tradesman, she’d assumed he had been wealthy. Even Lord Bircham had said her fortune was great.
But that was perhaps a misunderstanding.
“Tea?” Mrs. Burke offered as they entered a long, narrow parlor with sparse furnishings. The rug lying under the small table that would likely hold the tea service was faded. Clearly once colorful, the age of the rug left it dull and lifeless. The furniture was clean, but the polish was faded as if it had been wiped off with the dust from so many years of use. The windows were small and framed by drapes that had seen better days, all drawing a picture that Catherine hadn’t been expecting.
“Tea, Mary,” Mrs. Burke barked at the young maid waiting in the room. The servant nodded and disappeared out into the hall to do her mistress’s bidding. Catherine shared a glance with Joan, who widened her eyes slightly in return.
“Please, sit.” Mrs. Burke selected a wing-backed chair and gestured them toward the sofa, its green stripes nearly gray with age. Catherine took a seat beside Joan, and Morgan chose a wooden chair across from them.
“Mrs. Burke, thank you for seeing us,” Morgan started, his voice genial.
Mrs. Burke huffed slightly, her eyes taking on an irritated expression. “You need to know, your threats yesterday are not why you are here, Lord Penderdale,” she said in an almost haughty tone.
“Oh?” he asked, his expression and tone unconcerned. In fact, Catherine thought he almost sounded amused and jovial, as if this type of situation brought him delight.
She gave a shudder. This certainly was not her idea of a pleasant morning.
“No. I expected you’d come here eventually. It took longer than I anticipated,” Mrs. Burke replied testily.
Morgan shrugged and leaned back in his chair, completely at ease. “Then I apologize for our tardiness. Clearly you have something on your mind?”
Catherine’s eyes darted from Mrs. Burke to Morgan and back, studying each expression and nuance.
Mrs. Burke narrowed her eyes at Morgan, as if to scold his insolent behavior, and turned her attention to Catherine. “You will marry Lord Bircham.”