“Do you know where she went? After she left you?”
Martha met Catherine’s eye. For a moment, they looked at one another, the air growing heavy with the weight of the question.
“I haven’t seen her since she left me and I haven’t received any letters.” Her voice had gone slightly faint and papery. The words seemed to cost her effort and, for the first time, Catherine felt rather than saw her illness. “I have often wondered where she went, what became of her. A woman like that—so remarkable, so unusual, so accomplished, to come to nothing? It has always bothered me.”
She shook her head once more. “She made me swear that I would tell no one where she had gone, but I am not sure if I would still be protecting her now to keep it secret.”
“Please, Martha. Tell me.”
Martha sighed once more. “When she left me, she went back to Edington.”
Catherine’s heart gave a deep spasm of pain. If Mary had told Martha the truth, then she and John were headed in the right direction. The only problem was that if Mary had ever made it to Edington, Catherine had never heard about it. Possibly, Mary had seen her father, but, if she had, he had never told Catherine. She certainly hadn’t seen Mary herself.
“When she came to me,” Martha continued, “she was distraught. The duke—she loved him, and he her, but everything had gone wrong.” The old woman sighed. “She was devastated. And at leaving you and your father, too. She cried for days. After a while, she got a bit stronger and, by the time she left, she was quite determined.”
Love.She had never considered it. Her aunt hadlovedthe duke? And yet she needed to focus on what was important. Love or not, she needed to know when she had left Lulworth.
“How long was she with you, Martha?”
Martha considered.
“Not a short time. Although it is hard for me to remember exactly. She came in the late spring, around planting time, and when she left there was snow on the ground. Half a twelvemonth, I suppose.”
“Thank you, Martha.”
And, just like that, the old woman had fallen back to sleep.
Catherine released her hand and then to her surprise, realized that tears were streaming down her cheeks. She wiped away the tears with her palms, embarrassed that she hadn’t even noticed her own crying.
Chapter Thirteen
As he waitedin the hall for Catherine, John contemplated the deal he had made with her.
He had promised not to kiss her.
He should be relieved, he knew. This outcome was exactly what he had told himself he wanted that very morning. There would be no more illicit near-tumbles or captivating orgasms or dangerous kisses with Catherine Forster in wayside inns or deserted villages.
It was for the best, of course. Now, they could focus on their mission. And he wouldn’t have to be haunted by what he knew and she didn’t: that he had been the one who had found his father and Mary Forster that day, that he had been the agent of destruction that had unleashed the scandal onto their world.
For all of those reasons, he should be glad.
And yet he did not feel glad.
It pained him that she had asked him not to kiss her. Clearly, their previous encounters had hardly left her yearning for more.
Not like him.
He felt more drawn to Catherine than ever.
She was fiercer than he could have ever imagined. The sight of her taking a spade to the head of that highwayman had left him nearly as stunned as the victim himself.
And then she had revealed why she wanted the money. To help Lady Wethersby and the little baronet, to give them back the life they had lost. He had imagined that, in desiring ten thousand pounds, she had mostly compiled schemes to benefit herself, give her a future with a husband and a family, but instead she wanted to help those who had taken her in when she was a child. He should have known.
The events of the morning had impressed upon him that he wasn’t worthy of her. Yes, they could never be together because of their families—it made their attraction, whatever existed between them, impossible. But even if all of that disappeared, he saw now that he could never deserve her. He had spent his adulthood carousing and sulking and feeling sorry for himself, while she had suffered without any outlet and little solace. Everything else aside, she deserved better than him, he thought darkly.
As he schooled himself on the wisdom of this thought, the woman herself stepped out of Martha’s room and into the hallway.
Instantly, John saw that the conversation with Martha had upset her. He couldn’t be sure but it looked like she had been crying.
