the elegant white-and-gold hallway, Caterina paused only long enough to glance at the table where a beaver hat, a pair of pale leather gloves and a silverbanded riding whip lay where the butler had placed them. A row of calling-cards marked the exact centre of the silver tray, and the reflection in the ormolu mirror above received not even a cursory acknowledgement in passing. From the upper landing came the slam of doors, a woman’s faintly commanding voice, the sirenwail of infants, nurses cooing and strains of a distant lullaby. Wincing at the cacophany, Caterina just failed to hide the grimace before she opened the study door.
Not usually minding her interruptions, her father stopped his conversation abruptly, sensing the arrival of a minor whirlwind. ‘Ah, there you are,’ he said, turning to face her. ‘You received my message?’ Middle-aged and lean with the look of a harassed greyhound, Stephen Chester did his best to smile, though it did not come naturally to him.
‘No, Father. There appears to be a breakdown in the system somewhere. I received no message about the phaeton, either.’
‘So you’ve seen it. Well, Sir Chase has ridden over from Mortlake to explain the situation. I don’t believe you’ve met. Sir Chase Boston. My eldest daughter, sir.’
There was a movement behind her and, to her discomfort, Caterina realised that her father’s guest had been lurking behind the door, watching her without being noticed. Well, perhaps not exactly lurking, but one could not help thinking that he had positioned himself there on purpose.
Like her father, Caterina was tall and there were relatively few men who came near to dwarfing her so that she had to lift her chin to see their faces. This man was not only tall, but broad and deep-chested, too, which she did not think was due to padding. She had heard of him; everyone in society had heard of Sir Chase Boston’s on-off affaires, his nonsensical wagers, which he always seemed to win, his amazing exploits in the hunting field and his phenomenal driving skills. There was little, apparently, that this man had not attempted at some time. Except marriage.
She had expected to put a more ravaged face to a man with such an intemperate reputation—deep creases, muddy complexion, that kind of thing. What she saw instead was a pair of very intense hazel eyes that held hers with an alarming frankness, a well-groomed craggy face with a firm dimpled chin, and thick black hair raked back untidily off a broad forehead and curling down the front of his ears.
Yes, she thought, even his looks were excessive, though his dress was correct in every detail, spotless and well fitting. Looking down at the toes of his shining black-and-tan top-boots, she felt herself blushing like a schoolgirl, having seen in his eyes something more than mere politeness. The bow of her head was accompanied by the tiniest curtsy. ‘Sir Chase,’ she said, ‘may I ask how you come to be returning my aunt’s phaeton in such a condition?’ Her eyes, golden-brown and very angry, were not having the effect upon him that she had intended.
‘I won it,’ he said. ‘The horses, too. From your brother.’ His voice was deep, as one might have expected from such a well-built man.
‘My aunt’s dapple-greys? Harry took those?’
‘A good colour. Goes well with the brown.’
She suspected he was not talking about the phaeton and pair. ‘Father,’ she said, stripping off her gloves, ‘will you tell me what’s going on, please? Aunt Amelie lent them to me, you know, and—’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Chester, ‘and young Harry’s returned to Liverpool on the early mail this morning without saying a word about this ridiculous wager. It appears that Sir Chase and he had a race round Richmond Park last night and Harry lost. Hadn’t you better sit down, my dear?’
‘Harry lost with property that was not his to lose. I see,’ snapped Caterina. ‘No, I don’t see. Sir Chase, if you knew it was not my brother’s, why did you—?’
‘I didn’t,’ interrupted their guest, pushing himself off the wall and going to stand by his host’s side from where he could see her better. ‘He led me to believe it was his when he made the bet. And I won. He was obliged to leave the phaeton at Mortlake. When I looked, I found this tucked into a corner of the seat.’ His hand delved into his waistcoat pocket as he spoke, then pulled out a very delicate lace-edged handkerchief, which he handed to Caterina. ‘The initials A.C. in the corner suggested the young man’s aunt, the former Lady Amelie Chester, now Lady Elyot. And in case she particularly wants the phaeton back, I have offered your father the chance to redeem it. I dare say it’s worth about two hundred or so. One of the great Felton’s, I believe. Five years old, one owner, patent cylinder axle-trees, and the horses…well…they’re worth—’
‘And my brother walked back from Mortlake, did he? Or did you offer him a lift?’
His eyes sparked with scorn. ‘Your brother owes me money, Miss Chester. I don’t offer lifts to people in my debt. Do you?’
‘The point is, my dear,’ said Caterina’s troubled father, ‘that Sir Chase has every right to expect his winnings to be paid promptly. It’s extraordinarily decent of him to return the phaeton and horses, but a wager is a wager, and—’
‘And it would be even more extraordinarily decent if Sir Chase were to draw a line under this silly nonsense and write his loss down to experience, wouldn’t it, Father? After all, I don’t suppose Sir Chase is lacking horses, or phaetons, is he? Harry is twenty, not yet earning, and tends to be a little irresponsible at times.’ Her heart beat a rhythm into her throat, and she could not quite define the singular hostility she felt towards this man. Was it simply his claims? His uncompromising directness? Was it his attitude towards her father? Or to her? Was it that she had heard of his many and varied love affairs?
‘Your brother’s lack of funds, Miss Chester, is his own problem, not mine,’ Sir Chase said. ‘If he makes a wager, he should have the resources to back it without embarrassing anyone else. His irresponsibility is farcical, but when I win a wager I tend not to draw lines under the debt until it’s paid. Nor do I pretend that I’ve lost. I’m not a charitable institution, and it’s time young Mr Chester learned a thing or two about honour.’
‘I would have thought, sir,’ said Caterina, ‘that in a case of this kind, a phaeton and pair, for heaven’s sake, you might have waived the inattention to honour. I realise that my brother is at fault for gambling with something he doesn’t own, but surely—’ She stopped, suddenly aware that there was something yet to be spoken of.
Stephen Chester had never been good at concealing his thoughts, and now his long face registered real alarm, with a hasty doleful glance at Sir Chase that spoke volumes and a twist of his mouth before he spoke. ‘Er…ahem! It’s not…oh, my goodness!’ He sighed, casting a longing glance at the two glasses of brandy, just poured.
‘Father, what is it? There’s something else, isn’t there?’
He nodded, abjectly. ‘Harry owes money, too,’ he whispered. ‘Sir Chase was just about to tell me as you came in, but I really don’t think you should be hearing this, my dear. I didn’t know all this when I sent a message for you to come. Perhaps you should—’
‘How much?’ Caterina said, flatly. ‘Come, Father. Sit down here and tell me about it. You cannot keep this to yourself.’
‘I don’t know how much,’ he said, weakly. ‘Sir Chase?’
‘He owes me twenty thousand, sir.’
Mr Chester’s head sunk slowly into his hands, but Caterina stared with her lips parted. She thought
