Checkmate, My Lord Read online

  They had felt wrong, all the same.

  Her first opportunity to observe him would be in two days, when they discussed Jeffrey’s correspondence. A thrill of anticipation brightened her mood.

  She reined in Gypsy outside her much smaller barn. Her toes had barely touched the ground before a small body plowed into her skirts and long, thin arms encircled her waist. “Mama, you’re home!”

  Catherine laughed, as she always did when around her precocious daughter. She twisted around to smooth her hand over Sophie’s soft red-blond curls. “What’s all this? Surely I was not gone long enough to warrant such an enthusiastic welcome.”

  Big, sorrowful blue eyes peered up at her. “You were gone foreeever. I thought that mean Mr. Blake gobbled you up.”

  In her nine and twenty years, Catherine had few things she could boast about, her daughter being the one exception. Sophie amazed her each and every day with her infectious laugh, insatiable curiosity, and uncanny ability to recall the smallest of details.

  She pried open her daughter’s clasped hands and found one held a wooden warrior brandishing a sword. From her earliest days, Sophie had been fascinated with anything that had to do with knights, castles, war, and horses. Catherine suspected part of her interest had to do with her desire to hold her father’s attention.

  Every time Jeffrey had visited, he and Sophie would add a new figure, weapon, animal, or piece of furniture to her miniature castle. In recent years, it had been left to Catherine to continue their tradition of bringing Castle Dragonthorpe to life. She knew the experience was not the same for Sophie, but her sweet daughter had been careful not to show it.

  “Don’t be silly, young lady,” Catherine said. “If anyone was going to do the gobbling, it was I.” She emphasized her pronouncement by tickling her daughter’s middle, underarms, and neck.

  The girl’s laughter echoed through the stableyard. The joyous sound delighted Catherine’s aching heart.

  “Stop, Mama! Stop.” Another wave of uncontrollable giggles followed.

  A boy emerged from the barn, and Sophie’s laughter broke off, replaced by a sunbeam smile. “Teddy, we’re going to the lake. Want to come?”

  He glanced at Catherine and then into the stables. “Can’t, Miss Sophie. I’ve chores to finish.”

  Her daughter’s face fell. “Can’t they wait until later?”

  “No, Miss Sophie,” he said. “I’m still trying to catch up from this morning. Mama wasn’t feeling well and—” He swallowed hard. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  When her daughter started to protest, Catherine set a hand on the girl’s narrow shoulder. “Teddy, sounds like your mother could use a big bowl of Cook’s chicken soup. I’ll drop some off later this afternoon.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He shuffled his feet. “She’ll take to Cook’s soup much better than what Papa and I have been fixing.” His gaze shifted to Sophie, then back to Catherine. “Should I see to Gypsy now?”

  Catherine nodded. “Thank you, Teddy.”

  He tugged on the mare’s reins. “Come on, girl. I’ve a nice big carrot waiting for you.” Gypsy’s ears perked up, and she followed him inside with a bit more prance to her step.

  Sophie sighed and leaned into Catherine’s hip. “He never wants to play with me.”

  Catherine kissed the top of her daughter’s head and nudged her toward the house. “We’ve talked about this.”

  “I know,” she said in a beleaguered voice. “He’s working to help his family. But boys need to play, too.”

  Smiling, Catherine said, “Yes, they do. Let me see if Carson can spare Teddy for a few hours tomorrow.”

  Her daughter spun around, her hands clasped together in a prayer-like fashion. “Truly, Mama?”

  Catherine tapped her daughter’s nose. “I’m making no promises. Carson has the final say.”

  Sophie jumped. “Oh, thank you, thank you.”

  Catherine laughed. She hoped her daughter would always be this easy to please. “You’re welcome. Now let’s collect our poles and see if we can catch some fish for dinner.”

  Hand in hand, they set off. “Can I go with you to see Teddy’s mama? She’s always nice to me at church.”

  “Of course, dear,” Catherine said. “But I want you to wait in the gig until I know what’s ailing Mrs. Taylor. I don’t want you getting sick.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be fine, pumpkin. There’s no need to worry about me.”

  Her daughter nodded, having no reason to doubt Catherine’s word. “Grandmama said I must ‘temper my enthusiasm’ on Saturday. Does that mean I can’t have fun on my birthday?”

  Catherine knew her mother was being cautious about appearances. Society observed a strict set of customs when it came to mourning one’s father and grandfather. However, Catherine would be damned if she allowed Jeffrey’s absence—even in death—to cast a black cloud over another of her daughter’s birthdays.

  “Normally, I would agree with your grandmother,” Catherine said. “But I have taken special care to invite only our closest friends and relatives.” She tweaked one of her daughter’s curls. “We can laugh until our bellies hurt.”

  Sophie eyes twinkled. “And dance until our feet fall off.”

  Catherine laughed. “And sing until the dogs howl.”

  “And eat sweets until we cast up our accounts.”

  “What are you two going on about?” a new voice demanded.

  Swiping the tears from her cheeks, Catherine smiled at the newcomer. “Good afternoon, Mother.” The same height as her daughter, Evelyn Shaw commanded attention wherever she went. Her slender beauty, keen wit, and approachable nature made her a much sought after companion in any social gathering. However, few would recognize her mother in all her current disheveled and dirt-dusted glory.

  Sophie bolted forward. “Grandmama, we’re going to have such a grand time on Saturday.”

  The older woman transferred her basket of cut flowers to her opposite arm and hugged her granddaughter to her middle. “From the sound of it, the festivities have already begun.” She peered up at Catherine. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  Catherine winked at her daughter. “What is a party without laughter?”

  Giggling, Sophie asked, “Will you dance with us, Grandmama?”

  “Certainly not.” Grandmama looked aghast. “I will be much too busy using my fan to beat back all the young men who will be vying for your attention.”

  “Young men? I do not want to dance with men.”

  “Then I’ll turn my fan onto the grubby boys who will no doubt be scampering about.”

  Frowning, Sophie asked, “Who will be left to dance with me?”

  “Don’t you have any female friends?”

  Sophie chortled. “No, Grandmama. You can’t be serious.”

  “Indeed, I am, young lady.”

  “But I’ll be seven.”

  “So you will.”

  Sophie rounded on Catherine. “Mama, tell her I’m much too old to pair up with girls.”

  Turning her hands up in a helpless gesture, Catherine said, “Sorry, sweetheart. I have yet to sway your grandmama to my side once she has her mind set.”

  Sophie glanced at her grandmama and then back to Catherine. Her eyes narrowed, suspicion making her scowl. “Grandmama, is this another one of your inducements?”

  Her grandmama sniffed. “You make the notion sound positively criminal.”

  Shifting her weight to one foot, Sophie propped her little hands on her hips. “What must I do for you not to scare off my dance partners?”

  “The rose bushes could use a bit of snipping.”

  Sophie started to protest until she saw her grandmama’s eyebrow arch. “Perhaps, you would rather weed the herb garden?”

  Her daughter’s curls jounced with a viole
nt shake of her head. “No, ma’am. I love snipping off dead things.”

  “It’s settled then.” Catherine placed her hands on Sophie’s shoulders and kissed the back of her head. “Run along and locate our fishing gear. I have something I need to discuss with your grandmama.”

  With her shoulders bent forward and her head hanging low, Sophie trudged up the path as if she towed a great load.

  “I shall see you at seven tomorrow morning, young lady.”

  Sophie’s mouth dropped open, but she quickly closed it again. Instead of protesting, she made for the garden gate and released her frustration with a solid stomp of her foot and a low growl from her throat.

  As soon as she was out of hearing range, Evelyn Shaw chuckled. “Such a little spitfire. Not unlike you at that age.”

  Catherine stared at the garden’s arched entrance long after her daughter had disappeared around the corner. “She will not be pleasant company at the lake now, thanks to you.”

  “Nonsense,” her mother said. “One bite from a fish and her sunny disposition will resurface. You know as well as I do that Sophie does not sulk for long.”

  “True.” Catherine’s response ended on a long sigh.

  “What’s wrong, daughter?” Warm fingers closed over Catherine’s arm.

  The simple touch replenished Catherine’s faltering courage and, at the same time, splayed open her terrified heart. “Lord Somerton has returned.”

  Her mother’s hold tightened. “Did you speak with him?”

  “Yes. He came upon me at Bellamere while I was admonishing Mr. Blake about the bridge repair.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He threw the steward out of his study.”

  “No.” Her mother’s eyes rounded. “You jest.”

  “Not at all,” Catherine said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Blake finds himself searching for employment elsewhere. Quite soon, in fact.”

  “I do like a decisive man,” her mother said. “Months of turmoil resolved in a single afternoon. Makes you wonder why wars are fought.”

  “Greed causes wars, Mother. Not broken bridges.”

  “Enough about that now.” Her mother waved the subject away as one would a pesky insect. “Did he say anything about Ashcroft’s letters?”

  “No,” Catherine said. “He did ask to call on me after Sunday services, though.”

  “Why not tomorrow?”

  Catherine recalled his haggard features, even more pronounced than when she had seen him in London. “He has much to attend to at Bellamere.”

  “Indeed,” her mother said. “Given his current coil, I suspect Lord Somerton will want to confirm the contents of your husband’s letters. Probably wants to make sure Ashcroft did not implicate him in any way.”

  “Implicate him in what?”

  “I have no notion,” her mother said. “This situation has grown so complicated that I wouldn’t be surprised if a French spy were to appear before this was all over.”

  “Oh, Mother,” Catherine said. “Do not let that active mind of yours run amok. As much as I hate to consider this, I suspect Jeffrey attached himself to the wrong woman and Mr. Cochran and Lord Somerton are somehow involved.”

  “I must say I like my theory better,” her mother said. “Yours is just so… common.”

  “Indeed, it is.”

  They stared at the garden gate, both steeped in their own musings, then Catherine shattered the silence. “I am thinking of offering Lord Somerton my help.”

  “Help with what, dear?”

  Swallowing back her apprehension, Catherine said, “He’s been away for a long while. It will take him days to meet with the tenants, hear their grievances, locate the appropriate craftsmen, and monitor their work. All while he searches for a new steward.”

  “Don’t you have a list of what needs to be done?”

  “Yes,” Catherine said. “I gave what I had to him, but I’m sure he will wish to visit each site.”

  “What are you thinking, daughter? Why this?”

  Catherine braced herself. “Working with the earl on the repairs will give me an opportunity to observe his activities.”

  Her mother’s lips thinned into a firm line. “I do not understand what this Mr. Cochran thinks you will see. It’s not likely that his lordship will reveal anything of value. One does not carry on about one’s treasonous exploits in front of a neighbor.”

  “You are no doubt right.” Catherine found herself unable to confess that she had another reason for spending time in the earl’s presence. “However, according to Mr. Cochran, Lord Somerton knew more about Jeffrey’s death than he let on during our conversation. Perhaps I will see or hear something of relevance.”

  “I can’t be comfortable with this situation,” her mother said. “Lord Somerton is no fool.”

  “Nor am I,” Catherine said. “I will remain vigilant.”

  “Promise me, you will cease this charade the moment you detect danger.”

  “Promise.” Catherine kissed her mother’s forehead, then sighed. “Even in death, my husband keeps us in a constant state of anticipation. Always waiting for some sign of him—a letter, a gift, a visit. Why did I not put an end to this half-life three years ago after he missed Sophie’s fourth birthday?”

  “What would you have done, Catherine?” her mother asked. “Gone to London and dragged your husband home?”

  “Why not? It’s what a husband would have done to a wife in similar circumstances.”

  “I can think of two reasons.” She anchored the basket around both her forearms. “One, if you had managed to force your husband home—and that’s a rather large if—society would have labeled you a termagant and your husband a gelding.”

  “Mother, I don’t think—”

  “And two, any man who must be led home by his ear would not have made a happy addition to this household.” Her lips pursed. “I daresay if you had not been moved to stick a knitting needle in his eye, I would have.”

  Catherine’s lips twitched. Wouldn’t the infamous Isaac Cruikshank have had a jolly time drawing a continuity scene with Catherine dragging her husband home by his oversized ears in one drawing and her mother chasing after her wayward son-in-law with a sharp, gleaming knitting needle in another? She could even see the title of the caricature: The Gelding.

  The humorous Cruikshank scene faded to the back of her mind and an image of her daughter’s hopeful, yet guarded expression surfaced. An expression she had seen so many times over the years, one that diminished into disappointment and then resignation.

  “A daughter should know the security and strength of her father.”

  “Yes,” her mother said. “But so few do when competing with the ton’s entertainments or the Crown’s business.”

  Catherine’s throat clenched at the note of regret tingeing her mother’s voice. For years, she had resented her mother’s passive attitude toward her father’s long absences while an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Not until she found herself standing in her mother’s shoes had she been able to put aside old resentments—and exchange them for new ones.

  “Sophie will survive the void left behind by her father,” her mother said. “She will come out of it stronger, more self-reliant, and more considerate of others’ feelings.” She paused, her determined gaze boring into Catherine’s. “As you did.”

  Catherine lifted the older woman’s hands to her mouth and kissed the backs of each. “As we did, Mother.”

  Her mother’s fingers squeezed Catherine’s. “Yes. As we did.”

  They stayed that way for several seconds until her mother pulled away, wiping moisture from her cheeks. “We cannot let this business with Lord Somerton and Mr. Cochran carry on too long. Not only is it dangerous, you and Sophie must move on with your lives. No more wallowing around in this senseless guilt.”

/>   “Mother, I—”

  Voices from within the garden interrupted Catherine’s rebuttal. A young girl’s high-pitched voice intermingled with a man’s low baritone. Before long, Sophie and their manservant, Edward, passed beneath the arch, toting rods, creel baskets, and a container full of worms.

  “I’m ready, Mama.” Sophie ran the short distance, her creel sliding off her shoulder. She displayed none of her earlier ill humors.

  Catherine ignored her mother’s gloating look. “Here, let me help you with that, dear.” She lifted the long strap supporting the creel and hooked it around her daughter’s neck, so that it rested diagonally across her small body. Made for adults, the basket still bounced low against the girl’s knee. “Is that better?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sophie said. “Now I won’t have to worry about losing my fish.”

  Catherine gestured to the rods Edward held. “I’ll take those.”

  “You sure, ma’am? I can carry them down to the lake so you don’t soil your fine dress.”

  She glanced down at her black merino riding habit. “Thank you, Edward. You’re right, of course.” To Sophie, she said, “Run along to the lake while I change into something more appropriate.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Her small frame nearly vibrated with its need to run free.

  “Listen to Edward,” Catherine warned. “Do not go into the water and be careful with the hook.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Her acknowledgment came faster this time, more impatient.

  “Don’t you worry none about us, ma’am,” Edward said. “I’ll take good care of Miss Sophie until you arrive.”

  “I know you will, Edward. I’ll see you both in a little while.”

  “Come, Miss Sophie,” the manservant said. “Have you ever played Ducks and Drakes?”

  “No,” Sophie said, beaming. “But I’m sure I’d like to.”

  “Oh, you’ll love this game,” he said. “You take a nice flat rock, you see, and throw it across the lake’s surface…”

  While the two gabbled on about the best angle for skipping rocks, Catherine strode to the house, with her mother at her side. “He’s always so patient with her.”