lint from his coat.
“You aren’t here to discuss how I’ve become accustomed to the life of quality. You didn’t bring the papers with you, so you are not here to have me sign them.”
“If you are ready to review the lease, I can get the paperwork now.” Jonathan started to rise. He wondered why he had not put the facts together before he had arrived at Meriweather Hall. He should have guessed when Meriweather arranged to lease a house on a fashionable square in London that he intended to fire off his cousin into Society.
“Not now.” He motioned for Jonathan to sit again. “What is bothering you, Bradby?”
“Your cousin.”
“I usually would say you must be more specific, but I have eyes, and I have noticed how often yours are on my cousin Catherine.” He buttoned up his dark blue waistcoat. “Not that I can blame you, for she is charming and lovely. I assume you find her that and more.”
Jonathan considered his words with care. He knew the power of words from his law work. “Odd that you should say that after what I witnessed.”
“Witnessed? Speak plainly, man!”
“I saw you holding her hand.”
“Me? I never—” His eyes widened. “Of course. In the small parlor the other day. She asked my advice and was distressed by what I told her. What you saw was familial affection. Nothing more.” He turned from the mirror and grinned. “Do you have another type of affection for my younger cousin?”
“I barely know her, and she barely knows me.”
“She appears to know more about you than you suspect.”
That shook Jonathan. He had been certain that his secret was so well hidden that nobody would perceive it. His friends had not, because they thoroughly believed the lie that he was a brave hero. How had he betrayed the truth to Cat?
“If I may, can I ask what she sought your advice about?” he asked.
Meriweather gave his cravat a final twist before he answered. “You.”
“Me?”
“She was bothered by your darker side, which she had not encountered before that morning on the shore.”
Jonathan was brought up short. He had not guessed that Cat had been so distressed by his anger at himself.
“And there may be more,” Meriweather said as he considered his cravat. “She may have been troubled by your attempt to rescue that child.”
“What?” He came to his feet. “You cannot believe she would ever allow a child to be endangered.”
Meriweather faced him. Raising his hands, he motioned for Jonathan to sit again. As soon as Jonathan had complied, Meriweather said, “You mistake my meaning. It is not your actions that would have upset her. Just the fact that both you and the child were in danger in the sea.” He went to where his brightly polished boots waited by a stool. “I have heard enough in the past couple of months to know that she was involved with a young man before the war. His name was Roland something-or-other. He joined the navy and died in battle.” He sat and tugged on a boot, grimacing. “I probably should say no more.”
“Probably not.”
Meriweather stood to stamp his heel down in the tight boot. “Or maybe you should know. Help me here.”
Jonathan stepped forward to grasp the top of the boot so his friend could force his foot into it.
“Not with the boot!” Meriweather stamped away, his foot partially in the boot. “Help me with deciding if I should tell you or not. Rip me! I can’t even make the simplest decision.” He sat and slumped in a nearby chair. “Will I ever stop doubting myself?”
“You are asking me for more help than I can give.” His heart ached for his friend, and he knew of only one solution. “If you take this problem to God, He will help you.”
“Don’t you think I have already done that? Every night and every morn, I pray for God to show me His mercy and help me rediscover how to make even the simplest decision.” Meriweather waved his hands to halt Jonathan’s reply. “I know what you are about to say, because it is what I would say if our situations were reversed. God’s time is different from man’s. We must be patient.”
“That is what I would say,” he replied, though he thought of how often he was impatient for the chance to prove that God had been right to let him survive the battlefield.
Meriweather finally jammed his foot all the way into his boot. Resting his elbows on his knees, he looked up at Jonathan. “I thank God that one of us came through war relatively unscathed.”
Jonathan gulped so loudly he was surprised his friend did not react. He should tell Meriweather the truth that haunted him. He could not. He turned on his heel and walked out. He was halfway down the stairs before he realized Meriweather had not told him about the young man who had touched Cat’s heart. It served Jonathan right not to hear the truth when he could not speak it himself.
* * *
The breakfast-parlor was empty when Catherine entered it. Two days had passed since she had sought her cousin’s advice, and that afternoon had splintered with anger. Despite Mr. Bradby’s determination to speak immediately to her cousin, she had seen no sign of any mending of the differences between them.
Not that she had seen either of them often. Her fitting sessions with Mme. Dupont were aimed at providing her with the best designs possible for her sojourn in London, but most of the gowns the modiste suggested were, in Catherine’s opinion, silly. Yesterday she had told Mme. Dupont that she had some ideas of her own and would bring them to the session today. She suspected the seamstress agreed only to placate her. Mme. Dupont was due for a surprise when she saw the patterns Catherine had completed late last night after spending the evening scanning magazines from London. La Belle Assemblée, Ackerman’s Repository and The Lady’s Magazine had given her ideas, and she had added her own touches for clothing that would be both useful and beautiful. She focused on one gown, which she could wear to the British Museum for her visit to the Elgin Marbles. It must be a shell pink, because that was the color she had imagined wearing when she and Roland went to visit the ancient carvings. He always told her that she looked her best when she wore pink.
Before she showed the designs to Mme. Dupont, she wanted Sophia’s opinion. She had hoped Sophia would be at breakfast when she arrived.
Catherine put her sketchbook on a chair at the table and then went to the sideboard where steaming servers held eggs, oatmeal, muffins and more than a dozen other choices. Taking a plate, she spooned some eggs onto it, and then selected sausages that smelled of apple cider and black pepper.
At the sound of boot heels behind her, she looked over her shoulder. Her smile wavered when Mr. Bradby entered the breakfast-parlor. He wore a bright blue coat and a yellow waistcoat over black breeches. When he moved past a window, his ginger hair caught fire.
He walked to the table. If he espied her sketchbook, he was sure to ask her about it. She did not want to admit to her love of art and chance that he would think of it as a waste of time, as one young man had coldly described her work when he had called at Meriweather Hall. Also there were articles about the Elgin Marbles, clipped from newspapers, pasted into the back of the book. If he saw those, he was sure to be curious why she was intrigued with the ancient Greek sculptures. She wanted to avoid speaking of the promise she had made to Roland until she had fulfilled it. Maybe she should pull out the pages with her sketches for Mme. Dupont before she showed them to Sophia.
But for now... She gave a moment’s thought to rushing to the chair where she had left her drawings, then halted herself. Acting so out of hand could draw his attention to her sketchbook.
“Good morning,” Catherine said, hoping her voice sounded carefree. “Either we are very early or very late.”
“The former.” He met her eyes steadily. The rage she