“If he’s being matched with someone, whatever you do, you have to do it quickly,” Hattie remarked, eyeing the smoothed halves of the telegram.
“Be honest with me,” Catriona said, looking at Hattie, then at Annabelle. “Is a month enough to know? Can one month make you want to change your life?”
Annabelle’s green eyes were soft with compassion. “My dear,” she said, “a single moment is enough—if it’s a moment that you have been waiting for all along.”
Goose bumps spread up her spine. She jumped to her feet. “I have to go,” she said. “To Beirut.”
They talked over one another—How would she travel: by boat. When: as soon as possible. With whom? She couldn’t go to the Levant alone; they needed a man to escort her.
“Your father!” Hattie cried.
Catriona shook her head. “No, he would never understand the urgency, not unless I . . .” Told him about my scandalous weeks in London and broke his heart and made him look at Elias askance for the rest of our lives . . . If there was to be a rest of their lives. She might well be too late.
“I should love to accompany you,” Hattie said, “but I don’t dare, not in my condition.”
“You mustn’t,” Catriona said quickly, and to Annabelle, “and neither would I ever expect you to leave Jamie for goodness knows how long.”
Her stomach roiled with nerves. She would arrive too late.
“Ha,” said Annabelle with a rare, triumphant smirk. “I know someone.”
Hattie and Catriona leaned toward her as one. “Who?”
Annabelle’s eyes narrowed. “Someone who owes you.” She flicked the artfully twisted coil of her hair back over her shoulder. “Let’s pay a visit to my brother-in-law, shall we.”
Minutes later, on the ground floor, three hands knocked frantically on the door to Peregrin’s lodgings.
“What if he isn’t in?” Hattie whispered, still rapping away.
“We’ll find him,” Annabelle said with scary cheer.
“Hold it,” came a muffled voice from inside the beleaguered flat.
Catriona’s nerves buzzed at the sound of the door bolt sliding back.
Peregrin appeared, tall and lanky, his blond hair obviously combed with five fingers and his jacket slightly askew as though he had put it on in haste. He looked back and forth between them, baffled.
“Ladies. What an unexpected pleasure. Sister.” He dipped his head to Annabelle.
His unruffled drawl was a constant; not even when Catriona had first discovered him in his hideout in St. John’s wine cellar had his voice betrayed his distress. How charmingly he had asked for her assistance, whether she would please not rat him out, and oh, whether she’d be inclined to smuggle some bread and cheese his way? For weeks, she had kept his secret and supplied him with oil for his lamp and nourishing meals from the college kitchen.
“Lady Catriona requires an escort,” Annabelle informed the young lord. “After due consideration, we agreed you are the most suitable gentleman available.”
His brows flew up. “Am I?” he asked. “Available? Where are we going?”
“You are going to Beirut,” said Annabelle. “Tomorrow.”
“Erm—”
“Actually,” Catriona said, “I would stay in Beirut, and you would go to a place in the northern mountains, called Ehden.”
Peregrin leaned a little closer and gave a discreet sniff.
“We’re not intoxicated,” Annabelle said calmly.
He drew back. “Very well,” he muttered, “but—why? Why me?”
“Because you have experience with traveling in the east, and because you owe Lady Catriona,” Annabelle said with a small smile. “A Devereux settles his debts.”
Peregrin cleared his throat. “Right. Who else is part of this merry excursion?”
“It’s just the two of you.”
His hazel eyes widened. “Are you certain you haven’t ingested something, accidentally, perhaps—”
“You will have to exercise discretion at all times,” Annabelle said as if he hadn’t spoken. “For the duration of the journey, I recommend you travel under a false name and pretend to be husband and wife.”
Catriona went stiff. She didn’t want to pretend any such thing with anyone other than Elias, nor run the risk of a scandal with another man. Peregrin seemed equally unimpressed; a rare frown furrowed his brow. It sobered her fast; his cooperation was crucial for this madcap undertaking.
“Please,” she said quietly. “My happiness depends upon it.”
She’d beg if need be.
He did not let it come to that; Peregrin’s expression soon became resigned. He pulled his cravat away from his throat with his thumb.
“Very well,” he muttered. “Wife.” And, under his breath: “Montgomery will kill me.”
Chapter 38
Sebastian Devereux, nineteenth Duke of Montgomery, was presiding over his morning correspondence when a hectic knock on his study door disturbed his peace.
His valet entered with a wary look in his eyes.
“Ramsey,” said Sebastian, and put down his fountain pen. “What is it.”
“Your Grace, you have a visitor.”
“I’m not expecting anyone.”
“It’s Mr. Leighton, Your Grace,” Ramsey said. “He’s quite adamant that you receive him. Bonville is having trouble containing him.”
“Containing him?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Leighton. He had no direct connection to the textile merchant. His only lingering impression of the man was that he always spat a little when he spoke.
“Admit him.”
Five minutes later, Leighton marched in, his chest puffed out and his eyes ablaze beneath bushy brows.
“I want them back,” he said, and thrust a finger at Sebastian. Both Bonville and Ramsey hovered at the study door. Sebastian waved them away while boring his cool gaze into Leighton’s. The man’s advance on the ducal desk slowed. With a jerky movement, he took off his hat.
“Your Grace.” It scraped out with reluctance.
“Mr. Leighton.” Sebastian watched him over steepled fingers. “There appears to be an urgency. What can I do for you.”
Leighton’s fingertips crushed the crimp of his hat. “I demand the return of my bulls.”
Sebastian was genuinely baffled. “I don’t recall having any dealings with your cattle.”
Leighton threw up his hands. “Not livestock,” he cried, looking like an enraged bovine himself with his flaring nostrils. “Sculptures. Phoenician ones. Big, antique marbles,” he added while windmilling his arms in a circle to indicate just how big they were.
“Right,” Sebastian said blandly. It was a possibility that Leighton was not in good health.
“I am bewildered, Your Grace, that a gentleman in your position would act like . . . like an outlaw.”
“I understand that you have lost your marbles,” Sebastian drawled, “and I gather you suspect me of having a hand in their disappearance. A rather bold proposition, sir.”
Leighton glared quietly, but his back teeth were grinding.
Sebastian rose and went to the nearby drinks cabinet. “Have a drink.”
“Absolutely not,” Leighton huffed, and, upon catching the warning glint in Sebastian’s eyes, he said: “A brandy, thank you.”