Page 93 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

He was a smaller man than Charles had envisioned. One of the slight, wiry sorts who often proved the most dangerous to those they viewed as being less powerful—women in particular.

“Catmull,” Charles said. “While I don’t object to your proposal in theory, I must insist you release my fiancée’s arm.”

Catmull gave a derisive snort. “Your fiancée? Don’t make me laugh. I know full well that you’re already married.”

Charles looked at Catmull intently. “So, you did see me at Satterthwaite Court. I suppose that was your gig outside Peartree’s lodge? And your rifle shot that missed?”

Kate’s eyes widened. She stared at Catmull in equal parts astonishment and disgust. “You shot at him?”

Catmull grudgingly released Kate. “A warning shot. If I’d wanted to kill you, Heywood, you wouldn’t be standing here now.”

“That good at pistols, are you? I’m pleased to hear it.” Charles cast a hard glance at the red imprints of Catmull’s fingers on Kate’s arm. “I needn’t feel guilty about meeting you at dawn.”

Kate immediately moved between them. “There’s no need for that,” she said hastily.

“Accept a challenge from a Heywood? You must think me stupid. It’s brains I have, not brawn. It’s how I’ve won this. The house. The girl. Everything. And what are you left with? No family estate. No beautiful heiress. Only a bit of Navy prize money and a dowdy wife, more suited to the muck than a London drawing room.”

Kate stiffened. “Not that dowdy,” she said in rising indignation. “I’ll have you know the riding habit I wore that day was made new last season, and by one of the best tailors in London.”

Catmull gaped. “That was you?”

“And I am more at home in the muck of the countryside, thank you,” she continued hotly. “Something you’d have already realized if you’d taken the trouble to know me at all.”

“The two of you…” Catmull looked between them. “When? How?”

“We’ve had a secret engagement of longstanding.” Kate flashed a meaningful look at Charles. “Isn’t that so?”

Charles’s mouth quirked. “Quite right. A deeply secret engagement.”

“If it is indeed a secret,” Catmull said, “then it’s not too late for a change of plans.”

“Why on earth would I contemplate changing my mind?” Kate asked, affronted.

“Not you,” Catmull answered. “Him.” He faced Charles, a calculating gleam returning to his eyes. “You still want the house, don’t you?”

Charles’s attention sharpened to a knife’s edge. “You would sell me Satterthwaite Court?”

“Only if you walk away,” Catmull said. “Go now, forget whatever promises you’ve made her, and it’s yours.”

“You must imagine I hold my promises very cheaply.”

“I know what I would do,” Catmull said. “I would think of my mother. You must think of yours. Consider what it would mean to her to have her family home back in her possession.”

Anger coiled in Charles’s belly. A sense of injustice so great he could have easily forgotten his self-restraint and given Catmull the beating he so richly deserved. “It should have already been in her possession. It was her grandfather who broke the entail, with your grandfather’s agreement.”

Catmull froze. “Who told you that?”

“His grandfather?” Kate queried. “Who—”

“Edgar Townsend,” Charles said.

Kate gasped. “No!”

Charles held Catmull’s gaze. “It’s the truth, isn’t it? And a matter of judicial record, if one knows to look for it.”

“What of it?” Catmull said. “Whoever broke the entail, it changes nothing.”

“No,” Charles admitted. “It wouldn’t. Not unless Sir Charles had left a second will.”