Clandestine Passion (The Lovelocks of London Book 2)

Catherine had heard nothing from James.

Yesterday had been the opening of the Exhibition. No note came. And he himself did not come to her. He must have failed to get the painting and had been reluctant to tell her. She thought she should send someone—maybe Wright—to the Exhibition and have her report back if the painting was there and what people were saying about it. And about her.

And then at midnight, as she sat in the dark morning room, writing letters by candlelight, adding things to her lists, making plans for her future and for Arabella’s future, she finally realized why she might not have heard from James.

“You stupid bloody fool!”

She had told him to steal the painting for her. She had told James, her Jamie, to commit a crime for her. Was she mad? Anything could have happened. He could have been arrested and been put in gaol. Or he could have had violence used against him, he could have been stabbed or shot. She had been so stupidly selfish.

She rang for Chelsom. She went and got a pair of boots and put them on and fretted. Chelsom came within five minutes, disheveled but dressed.

“Chelsom, I have to find the Duke of Middlewich. I am worried that he may be arrested or injured. I want you to go to Tothill Fields gaol and look for him. If he’s there, find out the bond and pay it. If he’s not there, you must start going to hospitals and looking for injured men.”

“Why Tothill Fields and not Newgate, Mrs. Lovelock?”

She went to the front door and opened it. “Because Somerset House is in Westminster, not the City, Chelsom. Can’t you think?”

She ran down her own front steps and into the dark streets. It was only a few streets from her home to the Cavendish family town house. She banged on the door. After a great deal of time, a footman came.

No, the duke was not at home.

Catherine attempted to calm herself. She knew that she appeared wild and the hour was late. Did the footman know if the duke was at his rooms near the Burlington Arcade?

Enfield appeared at the door, in a nightshirt.

“Mrs. Lovelock.” He shouldered the footman out of the way.

“Enfield.” She wrung her hands. “Enfield, the duke, where is he? Why are you not with him?”

Enfield leaned forward and said quietly, “He sent me away, Mrs. Lovelock. He did not say why, but I think he was waiting for you. He’s in his rooms.”

“He’s there? He’s safe?”

Enfield laughed. “He was five hours ago when I brought him his dinner.”

Catherine stood on her booted toes and kissed Enfield’s cheek. “Thank you, Enfield, thank you.”

And she dashed down the steps and away, south, to Piccadilly, to the Burlington Arcade.

The windows of his rooms were dark. The door to the building was open and when she reached the door to James’ rooms, she found that door ajar as well. Perhaps Enfield was right and he really had been waiting for her, leaving the door open like this.

But why should he have expected her? When he had sent her no word? Was she to be a mind reader?

She took a deep breath, reminding herself that only minutes ago she had been crazed with fear over his safety. He was safe, that was all that mattered. He was safe.

And then she entered his rooms and realized he was not safe. Not at all. There was some light leaking into the drawing room through the little hall to the bedchamber. In the time since she had entered the building, someone had lit a candle or a lamp in his bedchamber.

She recognized Roger’s voice immediately. She could hear him say that if he fired the pistol, it would be murder.

Roger was here. And he had a pistol.

The drawing room itself was dark. She stumbled on something. She stopped moving, but the voices in the other room continued. She got down on the floor and felt around. There. She had tripped over something long. It had a handle. It was a sword, a fencing sword.

It must belong to James. She had not known that he fenced. In so many ways, she knew very little about him.

Carefully, quietly, she took the foil from its sheath. She touched the blade very lightly. It was sharp. The tip was not blunted.

The light was stronger now, coming through the little hallway into the drawing room and she could see a naked James, holding a lamp and the painting and there was a smash and the floor was on fire and there was the very loud sound of a shot and James was lying in the flames on the floor.