With Noah away in London and Beatrice trapped in her bedchamber, Catherine found it nearly impossible not to turn on her heels and return to her home in the country. She was bored and devastatingly homesick. She had found that bullying Beatrice helped take her mind off of her desire to return home, but with Beatrice locked away in her room lately, Catherine could find no adequate distraction from her homesickness.
And she desperately needed a distraction, for she couldn't leave for the country; not now, when she hadn't accomplished her mission for coming here in the first place. She couldn't leave without getting rid of Beatrice. It was why she had come; to rid her son of the woman who threatened to ruin him.
A small frown pulled on the edges of her brows. She knew women like Beatrice, opportunists who would do anything—everything—to climb the social ladder. Her own husband had been a fool for a woman like that once, and his foolery had produced a bastard. What was worse than his betrayal of their marriage was his plan to divorce her and elope with his mistress. She had found the letter on his desk in his study, a simple note that ripped her heart out of her chest and crushed it: "Forgive me, but I love her."
Devastated, she had replaced the note on his desk. Straightening her spine, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and returned to her bedchamber. She didn't dare cry—she couldn't. How could she cry for a man who had ruthlessly desecrated their marriage, a man who chose to abandon her and their son for a mistress?
She fought her emotions all evening until the next morning. When she woke up, her husband was at the breakfast table. He had returned, and the note had disappeared.
Confused, Catherine never worked up the courage to confront him about his planned desertion. She had instead acted like she never saw the note.
Still, she hadn't rested until she found out the reason for his return; he discovered his mistress was a whore who had been entertaining multiple gentlemen. Hurt by her betrayal, he abandoned her and his bastard son.
Her husband might have returned to her, but their marriage had never been the same after that.
Even now, she loathed him for what he did, and it didn't matter that he was dead. It was impossible not to want to spare her son the pain that came with having an unfaithful spouse, and Lady Atkins' questionable character was not news to all of London. Catherine only wondered how Noah had been stupid enough to fall for a woman like that.
Catherine did not trust Beatrice; how could she? A woman who possibly killed her husband to get to his fortune could never be trusted, and Catherine was determined to stay in Camden until she had succeeded in helping Noah see the truth about his wife's nature.
Reaching for the bell, she rang for a maid.
"Yes, my lady?" A young brunette entered the room and curtsied.
"Fetch my coat and scarf, will you? And have the footman ready the carriage. I shall like to go out." She would take a drive to the tea parlor, where she would spend the rest of her evening. Perhaps then it might distract her from her barely deniable desire to return to the country.
The maid frowned. "I beg your pardon, my lady, but I don't suppose any of the parlors are open this time of the year."
"Then I shall simply enjoy a drive through town," she said.
"But—" The maid opened her mouth to protest, but she silenced her with a wave of her hand.
"Hurry now."
"Of course, my lady."
It was several minutes before the maid returned with Catherine's scarf and coat. She made her way out the front door, wrapping her arms around herself as the icy air bit into her flesh. It was snowing and while going for a drive in the snow was a terrible idea; she was desperate for the distraction.
She decided, as she crossed the front porch to the carriage, that if she got too cold in the carriage, she would stop by and pay an old acquaintance a visit. It was poor manners to visit anyone unannounced, but she didn't care—and hoped her host wouldn't as well.
Taking the hand offered to her by the footman, she wrinkled her nose at the smell of alcohol as she climbed into the carriage and turned fully to the footman.
"Have you been drinking?" She frowned.
Fear and guilt flashed in his eyes as he shook his head violently.
"You smell like it," she noted.
"Only a glass, my lady," he said, and she thought the last two words sounded a little slurred.
"Perhaps someone else must drive me to my destination." Her frown deepened as she made to climb down the carriage.
"Oh no, my lady!" He stepped forward, blocking her path. "My Lord already took the other two footmen with him to London."
"Then how am I supposed to get to where I'm going?"
"I'll take you."
"Not like that, you won't!"
"I swear on my mother's grave I'm sober. I've had a cup or two, but I swear I'm not drunk. Please, my lady!"
Catherine was not convinced, for he reeked of alcohol. She turned from him to the massive gray building before her, where Beatrice lay trapped in one of those chambers. There was no doubt in her mind that if she spent another second confined within those walls, she would be scrambling for the country in less than an hour. And she couldn't let that happen.
"Very well." Gathering her skirt and shoving it fully into the carriage, she leaned back against the cushion. "Drive slowly."
*
One more day, Beatrice mused, visibly sickened by Noah's absence. One more day and she would have him here with her again. One more day, and she wouldn't be forced to remain confined in her room like a prisoner to escape Catherine's unpleasant presence.
It wasn't fair that Beatrice was forced to resort to hiding from her mother-in-law, but she found confinement to be the only suitable form of escape from Catherine, who was obviously determined to frustrate Beatrice throughout her stay in Camden.
She placed the book she had been reading to pass the time in Noah's absence aside and rose to her feet, hungry. Crossing the room to her bedside, she pulled the bellpull, informing the maids she was ready for her dinner to be brought up to her room. She wondered what they were having for dinner, for while she had prepared a menu earlier, there was no doubt in her mind Catherine had changed the menu again.
The maid arrived at her room several minutes later with two covered platters, placing them on the table in the center of the room. Beatrice settled on a seat as the maid opened the platter.
She gasped.
"Are you alright, my lady?" The maid hurried to her side.
Beatrice shook her head. "It's just... Well, who prepared this menu?"
"You did, my lady." The maid's words confirmed what Beatrice already knew, stunning her to silence for several seconds. "Perhaps you might like something else?"
She shook her head once more. "And The dowager Lady Camden? She agrees with the menu?"
"I'm uncertain, my lady. She's been away all afternoon."
Beatrice turned from the platter of roasted turkey and potatoes to the maid. "Away?"
She bobbed her head, a lock of gold coming loose of the bond behind her head. "Yes, my lady."
"And has she returned?"
"No, my lady."
Beatrice frowned. Catherine's absence explained the menu, but it certainly did not explain where it was she went and why she wasn't back yet.
A sense of unease washed over Beatrice. "Do you know where she went? Did she say when she would be back?"
"Only that she was going for a ride, my lady."
"It's snowing, certainly no weather for a drive," she remarked. Unless, of course, Catherine meant to get away from her for a while. The feeling of dislike was certainly mutual.
"She insisted, my lady."
"Of course she did." Beatrice knew the maids would never have convinced Catherine to give up her excursion in the snow—not even Beatrice would have convinced her otherwise.
Sighing, she nodded. "Very well, you're dismissed."
She finished her dinner in silence and rang for the maid when it was time to get ready for bed.
"Has Lady Camden returned?" she asked, as the maid pulled her hair into a French braid behind.
"No, my lady," she said, and Beatrice stiffened.
"It's been hours. Surely she understands the indecency of her actions! Perhaps she has returned and you are unaware."
"No, my lady. She has neither returned, nor has Joseph, the footman who drove the carriage. And surely my lady would have sent for her dinner upon her return."
Rising to her feet then, Beatrice turned fully to the maid. "Perhaps something has gone wrong, do you think?" she asked, her heart sinking.
"Perhaps. But we must hope for the best."
Shaking her head, Beatrice pulled off her nightdress. She hurried over to the bed, where her evening dress laid on the edge. Picking it up, she carried it with her to the maid. "Here, help me get ready. I must go in search of them."
*
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