My dearest brother,
I hope my letter finds you well—
I hope it finds you at all, she thought wearily.
—and enjoying your travels.
However, I have desperate need of you at home.
Her hand was shaking when she again dipped into the inkwell. She had Sterling’s traveling schedule, but she had no idea if he was following it diligently. Still she didn’t see that she had much choice except to try to get in touch with him. But then the doubts surfaced.
How could she even consider asking of her brother what she’d asked of Claybourne? He didn’t possess Claybourne’s dark soul. Her brother was kind and generous. She loved him dearly—except for the fact that being several years older he seemed to be of the opinion that his was the only one of any importance. That attitude had no doubt led to the row with her father, bless him.
How might her request change Sterling? Would it turn him into a man like Claybourne?
Did she want to be responsible for turning an angel into a devil? But she was so worried that the next time Avendale took his fists to Winnie he’d kill her.
Claybourne was right. She should see to the matter herself. But oh, dear Lord, where would she find the strength? And how would she do it? A pistol? A knife? Poison?
How many times would she need to shoot him or stab him? She’d never even seen a dead person—at least not so she’d remember. Her mother had died giving birth to a babe who didn’t survive. Catherine had been a child at the time. Her mother had simply appeared to be sleeping. Was all death as peaceful?
Catherine was startled from her morose thoughts by a light tapping at her door. Her maid, Jenny, peered inside. “My lady, a missive has been delivered.”
Catherine’s heart fairly stopped beating. Was it from Winnie? Had the worst finally happened? Or was it from her brother? Was he on his way home at last? Were her prayers to be answered?
“Bring it here quickly.” Her trembling worsened as she reached for the letter. It bore no seal. Just a glob of wax to hold it closed. How strange. She slipped her silver letter opener beneath the wax, parting it from the parchment. Then she unfolded the letter.
We need to meet.
Midnight.
Your garden.
—C
C? Who the devil—
She nearly gasped.
Claybourne?
She quickly folded up the letter and looked at Jenny. “Who brought this?”
“A young lad.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Only that it concerned an urgent matter and should be delivered to you straightaway. Is everything all right, my lady?”
Catherine cleared her throat. “Yes, all is well. I’m feeling a bit restless tonight. I shall take a stroll later, around midnight, after which you may help me prepare for bed.”
“Yes, my lady.” Jenny curtsied and left the room.
Catherine unfolded and reread the missive. Oh, dear Lord, she’d called at the devil’s door and now he was calling at hers. This did not bode well, this did not bode well at all.
She refolded the letter and slipped it inside a book. Then she got up and began pacing.
What should she wear for this midnight encounter? A cloak, perhaps, something to hide her from watchful eyes. Although with the meeting being held in her garden, the only watchful eyes would be those of her servants, and she’d simply forbid them from going in the garden at that time.
