The College of Heralds was still confused as to whether he was the fifth, sixth or seventh earl. He settled for seventh. Out of courtesy the College would probably say that each of the sons had a few seconds’ glory as the earl. Gerald would have returned it to any one of them in a heartbeat.
The butler, Watson, sailed through the door and presented a salver with a collection of cards. Gerald waved to the pile on the table. “Could you take those and put them all in my study, please?”
He would do this right if the effort killed him. Which it probably would. That meant chivying his sisters to attend all those balls and getting them to the mantua-makers’ for new gowns.
Watson harrumphed. “There’s a lady to see you, my lord.”
Gerald dragged his watch out of his pocket and flicked open the lid. “It’s early for Lady Elizabeth. Very well. Has she brought her usual entourage?”
“The lady is alone.”
Gerald went on alert. Ladies like Lady Elizabeth Askew did not visit gentlemen alone. She would find it hard to shake off her myriad attendants, and if she’d done so, she’d have something in mind. Gerald could only think of one thing Lady Elizabeth could want from him alone, one thing that might make her lose her maids and chaperones. He went cold, as a chill wind blew over his soul.
He was making this sacrifice purely for his sisters. Lady Elizabeth was gracious, well-connected and wealthy. Everything an earl could wish for in a wife. But not this earl. Her presence acted like a draught of cold water.
“The lady is not your betrothed, sir,” Watson said, oozing unctuousness. “She is a Mrs. Cathcart.”
Gerald frowned and turned to his sisters. Dorcas, sitting at the head of the table, frowned. “You promised to leave your women in the background, Gerald.”
“She’s not one of my women,” he said, then closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “You’re not supposed to know about those. You’re ladies.”
His sisters laughed. At least he was good for something, he thought morosely as he got to his feet. “What kind of woman is she, Cathcart?” Perhaps she was a maid, coming for an interview, in which case Damaris could see her. If she was a woman of the night, with the effrontery to hunt him down, then he should not see her at all.
“A respectable woman, sir, but not one of your rank.”
Well, no, not if she was a mere Mrs. But then, it wasn’t the title, it was the family. Elizabeth had told him that over and over again for the last three months, ever since he’d agreed to marry her. Or had she agreed to marry him? He was never quite sure. He’d gone into the salon at her father’s house a single man, and come out betrothed.
“Tell her to go away.” He could do without another hysterical female. Or any female at all, come to that.
He had no choice, as matters turned out. After a pregnant three minutes, the door to the breakfast parlor was flung open and a young woman strode in, with Watson at her heels. She wore a plain straw hat and clothes he would designate as modest. Her gown was a dark green wool, her hoop small, and her dark hair free of powder. She reminded him of his sisters, with her practical stance and her lack of deference. No man’s mistress dressed like that. Intrigued, Gerald settled back to watch. The air positively crackled with energy. He hadn’t felt this interested in anything for a long time.
Watson seized her arm. “I will get rid of the female, my lord.”
Mrs. Cathcart boldly met his gaze, her head flung back. Their gazes met, clashed and sparked, her dark eyes fiery with emotion.
Something important had just happened, but he couldn’t have said what it was. She reached into a part of him he didn’t know existed, and asked him a silent question he couldn’t define.
“I will not be dismissed like an inopportune maid,” she said indignantly. The single feather in her straw hat quivered. “If we meet only this once, I will have my say. My lord,” she added, as if belatedly recalling his title.
Damaris’s low purr of approval hummed through the room. “Madam, do sit down. May we know your name?”
Gerald didn’t have three sisters for no reason. If he allowed this young woman to sit and share their breakfast, his sisters would make a firm ally. Whatever this woman had done, his sisters would support her, merely for the pleasure of seeing him squirm.
“Come with me.” He strode to the door to the sound of his sisters’ laughter. “But stay close, Watson.”
That only made the triplet’s merriment increase. “He needs a chaperone!” Dorcas commented.