Cathy Maxwell Read online

  Harry’s voice trailed off as he realized Neal wasn’t alone. His gaze sharpened on Thea as if he sensed he should know who she was and couldn’t quite place her.

  The women around Harry were all smiling. The ones Neal recognized were married. Harry preferred married women. He said there were fewer complications.

  Of course, Harry liked all women. He wasn’t choosy. It was the difference between the two men. Neal fought the curse by being circumspect. Harry fought it by enjoying every pair of legs in skirts who crossed his path. In that way, he claimed, he would not and could not form a lasting attachment to any one of them.

  “Who is this?” Harry asked, his tone taking on interest as he walked right up to Thea. Both Jonny and Christopher drew in their breath at the realization that one of their heroes was right there in front of them.

  A bit annoyed, Neal said, “Mrs. Martin, this is my brother, Colonel Harry Chattan.”

  “Colonel,” she said.

  “Mrs. Martin?” one of Harry’s companions said. “You seem so familiar. Have we met before? I am Lady Amberton.” She was in her early forties but still had her looks. They said her husband turned a blind eye to her dalliances, and it was obvious that Harry had been plying her and her three companions with good wine. Their cheeks were rosy from it, and their manners more easy and forward.

  Harry seemed fine. Of course, Harry could drink a cask of wine and still look unaffected. Many times Neal wished Harry did not have his prodigious predilection for ales, wines and spirits. Or a taste for other, more debilitating vices as well.

  Of course there were other things Neal would change about his brother. Harry could be elegantly surly and brutally selfish when he had a mind to be. He was quick-witted, arrogant, and Neal thought him far more intelligent than himself. There were times they rubbed along well, and times they rubbed each other raw.

  “I don’t believe so,” Thea answered. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lady.”

  “We have met,” Lady Amberton persisted. “Your name is so familiar.”

  Thea smiled and kept moving toward the dining room while reaching down to bring her sons with her. Neal was happy to go with her. He murmured polite good-byes and lengthened his stride to catch up to Thea.

  He could feel Harry staring after him.

  “Are Lady Amberton and all those ladies with your brother?” Thea asked as the majordomo escorted them to Neal’s customary table. “She is known to be a tigress.”

  “Then Harry shall enjoy her.”

  He didn’t have to explain more because Thea’s attention shifted to settling her sons and ensuring they understood having polite manners. “Jonathan, you take this seat on my right. Christopher, sit here on my left. Napkins in laps.”

  Neal took the liberty of ordering for all of them. “Tonight’s poulet,” he told the majordomo, who would handle the matter for him. He always did.

  But Thea had not forgotten the thread of the conversation. “And what of yourself, my lord? Do you prefer tigresses?”

  His gaze met hers. There was challenge in her voice, a hardness, as if she was waiting for him to disappoint her, as if she expected him to. Was this cynicism a result of her marriage? “I am more circumspect,” he said. “Harry accuses me of being too rigid, but I believe I’m the wiser—”

  Before he could finish, a new member joined their party.

  “I know who she is,” Harry declared as if Neal had been hiding Thea’s identity. He nabbed a chair from another table, mumbling a lame apology to the table’s occupants and pulling it up to sit at Neal’s. He crossed both his arms, stretching his long legs out as was his custom.

  “She’s a matchmaker.” Harry said the last word as if it left a bad taste. “Don’t do this, Neal. Let it end with us. Let us finish it.”

  Neal understood exactly what his brother was suggesting. And then he glanced at Jonathan, whose wide eyes relayed how overjoyed he was at his bounty of having the dashing Horse Guard right there at the table. Neal could remember being that young and involved in every moment of his life. Every day had been an adventure . . . but it wasn’t any longer. Life had become rote, tasteless, unbearable.

  Even with meals prepared by a French chef. And horses and houses and, and, and . . .

  He hated all the “and’s.”

  Neal wanted something more than possessions and money. He couldn’t help himself. Life had to have more meaning.

  He looked over to his brother. “I can’t,” he told Harry. “I won’t.”

  Chapter Four

  Thea looked at the two men seated on opposite sides of the table from each other. Colonel Chattan had placed himself right between her and Jonathan. Her poor son was ready to expire of hero worship, and her other son wished he could climb right across her lap, something she prevented by placing a warning hand on his leg.

  The Chattans were both big-boned, handsome men. The family resemblance was obvious in the dark hair and the intelligent eyes—but there was a great difference between them. Even angry, the colonel appeared more carefree than his brother. There were laugh lines around his mouth and eyes.

  Then again, appearances could be deceiving. She noticed the colonel sat with his right leg outstretched. He obviously favored it, even going so far as to reach down and massage a muscle on the outside of his thigh.

  And there was no humor in the accusatory stare he slid in Thea’s direction.

  She attempted to avoid his glare by focusing on her sons.

  The waiter broke the moment by appearing with plates of food. He asked Colonel Chattan if he wished to join them for dinner. The response was a curt hand motion waving him away.

  Lord Lyon made a great pretense of ignoring his brother’s foul mood. He tasted his chicken and pronounced it delightful. He then looked over at Jonathan’s plate. “You must taste your chicken, Master Jonathan. And you, Master Christopher. Delicious.”

  The boys were too taken with having the colonel at the table to be interested in food.

  Christopher leaned toward Neal. “Is his horse Ajax outside?” he asked in a whisper that could be heard by the whole table.

  “Of course he’s outside,” Jonathan informed Christopher, as if annoyed by the naivete. “He can’t bring him in here, can he?”

  “What does his horse eat?” Christopher wanted to know, ignoring his brother and addressing himself once again to Neal.

  “I don’t know,” Neal whispered back. “Let’s ask him.” He raised his voice. “Harry, what are you feeding old Ajax nowadays?”

  Christopher was delighted to have a conspirator. “Yes, what do you feed him, sir?” he echoed, and even Jonathan turned to listen, as if the answer was very important.

  Colonel Chattan found himself caught between two young hero worshippers and his argument with Lyon. The colonel was angry, but he wasn’t a churlish man, and Lyon must have known that. Slowly, the colonel unbent a bit of his temper to answer Christopher’s question. “The best hay money can buy.”

  Jonathan quickly jumped in with questions of his own about the life of a Horse Guard: Where do they sleep? Had the colonel been to war? Did Ajax go? Did he have as many horses as Lord Lyon?

  Thea’s mind raced with questions as well. Colonel Chattan was obviously displeased that his brother was contemplating marriage, and that didn’t make sense. A man of Lord Lyon’s rank and position should marry. It was an obligation . . . unless Colonel Chattan wished to be his heir?

  She studied the officer from beneath her lashes. “Don’t do this, Neal. Let it end with us. Let us finish it.” Those were his words. His demands had been more of a plea. An urgent one.

  “You young lads haven’t been eating,” Lyon observed. His good humor had never flagged. “I was hoping Harry would give us a tour of the Horse Guard stables, but we can’t go until you’ve finished your suppers, right, Harry?”

  A tour of the stables had obviously not been among the colonel’s plans for the evening. He narrowed his gaze at his brother, but when h
e saw the eagerness on the boys’ faces, some of his surliness evaporated. “Yes, I’d be happy to escort you on a tour.”

  That was all he had to say for them to start shoveling food in their mouths with incredible haste.

  Neal’s amused gaze went to Thea. He was enjoying her boys. In fact, the more time he spent with him, the lighter, and more likable, he became.

  She was surprised. As she remembered, his parents hadn’t particularly doted on their children. For that reason, Neal had told her he was very close to his brother and sister—or had been. That summer they had met, Harry had been shipped off to pursue the regimental life, and his sister, Margaret, had often escaped the quiet house to stay with a friend on the other side of the parish.

  That had left Neal alone with a mother who’d rarely spoken to him and a father who had escaped the house for London as quickly as possible and rarely returned. Neal had told her back then that his father thought more of his ledgers and investments than he did his children. She wondered if that had ever changed.

  Neal reached across the table and topped off her glass of wine. “That rule applies to mothers as well,” he chided. “You need to do less worrying, Mrs. Martin, and more eating.”

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. “How do you know I was worrying?”

  His answer was an enigmatic smile. It said louder than words that he thought he knew her.

  He was wrong. She’d changed. She wasn’t that girl he remembered.

  “Please, Mother,” Jonathan said. “Eat your peas.”

  “Those are usually my words to you,” she answered.

  “Yes, well, it is good advice,” Jonathan replied with perfect seriousness, and Colonel Chattan laughed. He’d been won over.

  “I have to like horse-mad lads,” he said. He stood, again favoring the right leg. “I’ll go ahead and meet you there.”

  “Are you going to ride Ajax, sir?” Jonathan wanted to know.

  “Of course I am.” There was a beat of silence, and then the colonel said, “Would you two like to ride over with me? We’ll meet your mother at the stables.”

  Nothing could have pleased the boys more. Christopher’s eyes were so wide with his sudden good fortune that he couldn’t speak. Jonathan did it for him. “Please, Mother, may we go?”

  This would be a special treat that her sons would talk about forever. Thea couldn’t say no. “Listen to what the colonel says. Behave yourselves.”

  “We’ll follow any orders he gives us,” Jonathan promised. Christopher had already climbed off his chair. He reached up and took the colonel’s hand.

  The sternness in Colonel Chattan’s face softened. “You’ll be good soldiers,” he said and held out his other hand for Jonathan as he asked Lyon, “You will be coming directly?”

  “Of course,” his lordship answered.

  “Don’t tarry” was the colonel’s last word before he led the boys out of the dining room, Christopher already barraging him with questions—and Jonathan walking so proudly that it almost hurt Thea’s heart to see him.

  Her oldest was growing up. He wouldn’t be her little boy much longer. She didn’t know if she could ever part with either of them. Whenever the world grew too dark and too lonely, they gave her the courage to keep going.

  “It is very kind of the colonel to do this,” she said.

  Neal laughed. “How could he not? They’ve been staring at him as if he were Hercules and St. George combined. Their excitement is contagious.”

  Thea turned to Neal. “What happened to your brother’s leg?”

  “You noticed. Most people don’t, and he works very hard to keep it that way.” He pushed his fork pensively and then said, “Cannon fire. At Salamanca. He should have come home. The treatment here would have been better, but Harry’s a military man through and through. He attempted to stay on and fight with his men, but he can’t ride like he used to, and eventually Wellington moved him to his staff. Finally, Harry had no choice but to return home. He had always defined himself as a horseman. He could do anything on a horse, including riding upside down if he’d a mind to. Now he rides, but after a period of time, his leg gives him great pain.”

  There was something more he wasn’t telling her. She sensed it. Their childhood friendship had been such that she could read him easily.

  “Your brother is not pleased that you wish to marry,” she observed, setting aside her napkin.

  Neal shrugged. “It is not his life.”

  “Why is he so set against you marrying?”

  Green eyes assessed her. “The curse,” he answered, as if daring her to walk off again.

  Thea looked around the room. There were other diners. Some were well-heeled travelers who enjoyed the meal with their families; some were bachelors here for their evening meals; others were out to enjoy the chef’s excellent poulet.

  She faced Neal. “I don’t believe in curses. I don’t believe in bad luck or fate or anything other than what we control ourselves.”

  “Not even such a thing as the hand of God?” he challenged.

  “I’ve noticed the reasoning behind ‘the hand of God’ is often people making their own bad choices. It’s all just life. We want to take credit for our successes but quickly point the finger at superstition or fate when something goes wrong.”

  He now looked around the room and appeared to notice how crowded the dining room had become. “Let us discuss this in the coach.” He rose from the table and she came up with him. He took her arm and guided her out of the room. They didn’t say anything while gathering their coats and hats and waiting for Bonner to bring the horses around, but once inside the coach, Neal didn’t waste time.

  “I appreciate Harry taking the boys, because it gives us a moment for plain-speaking,” he said.

  “Are you afraid they will be frightened of the curse?” She let her doubt show.

  “Thea, you don’t have to believe, just accept what I know is true. There is more to this world than what we can touch and see.”

  Thea settled back into her corner of the coach. “I believe in more than what I can touch and see. But I don’t believe in fairies and kelpies either. We set our own course, my lord. Mayhap your family believes there is a curse because of a lot of bad luck—”

  “Yes, hundreds of years’ worth,” he answered, his tone stiff.

  “Or perhaps it is just the vagaries of life.” She leaned forward. “I don’t mean to scoff, Neal, but what sort of curse is this that would expect you to marry someone you don’t like? It is not logical.”

  He waved away her objection with a curt motion. “It’s not that I want to marry a woman I truly don’t like,” he said. “But she must be someone I will never love.”

  “Because?” Thea pressed.

  “Because once I fall in love, I will die.”

  It took a moment for Thea to digest exactly what he’d said. And she still didn’t understand. “Immediately, Neal? Or will you be allowed a few years of wedded bliss?”

  “I thought you claimed not to scoff, Thea.”

  “I was being rude,” she admitted. “Sorry,” she tossed out, without any conviction.

  “It does sound fantastic, and the truth is more so. My family has been cursed for generations by a Scottish witch. Apparently, my ancestor had handfasted with her daughter. Then he betrayed her by running away and marrying an Englishwoman from a wealthy family. The daughter was distraught and took her own life. So the witch cursed us.”

  The shadows of the evening were growing long. Thea sat in the swaying coach wondering if he actually believed this nonsense. “Well, one should be wary of a witch’s spawn.” His brows came together and she reminded him, “I explained I am a skeptic. So what makes you believe it is true?”

  “The first Chattan,” Neal said, “the one who jilted the daughter died within months after his marriage. They said he was very pleased with his new wife. He’d fallen in love with her—and the curse took him.”

  “When was this?” Thea asked. “What year?”


  “It was in 1632. The witch’s name was Fenella. The daughter was called Rose.”

  “Fenella? That is a witchy-sounding name, but, Neal, people died of all sorts of things back then, and at relatively young ages.”

  “His wife was carrying a child, a son,” Neal continued. “He grew into manhood, married, and died once he married, also for love. Death claimed him after a year of marriage.”

  “And was his wife carrying a son?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that son grew into manhood and married and died?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so on and so forth?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he reiterated, his tone growing testy.

  “So your family has a history of dying at a young age,” Thea concluded. “That does not mean there is a curse. However,” she quickly added, “I have read stories about nonsense like curses that claim the strength of the curse is in how deeply one believes. Perhaps you should stop giving this curse any power over your own life.”

  He made an exasperated sound. “Do you not think that one in a long line of my ancestors has not considered the same? Of course we have. We’ve tried all manner of tricks to defeat this curse. My great-grandfather consulted witches and shamans and all sorts of mystics and religious men of every caste and creed to break the curse.”

  “What happened?”

  “He fell in love with one of the witches and was dead in three months.” Neal leaned toward her. “The only way we’ve found to hold the curse at bay is to marry out of obligation, something not unheard of for our class. But whatever we do, we can’t allow ourselves any warm feelings toward our spouse.”

  “Which explains why your mother was such a cold woman,” she said with interest.

  “And explains even more why my father stayed away and did absolutely nothing to lighten the situation. He did not want to like her, and it worked. He is the first man in generations who has sired more than one child.”

  “Do your brother and sister carry this curse?”