I want everyone to see there's nothing wrong with her. Dancing with a handsome
young man will help with that.”
“Why do you care?” he asked.
She gave him a disapproving look that condemned his sarcasm, but
answered, nonetheless. “She's my friend.”
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “How old is this woman?”
Julia threw up her hands in a gesture that recalled her less than genteel upbringing. “Don't look at me like that,” she exclaimed.
The child across the street glanced sharply at them.
Julia lowered her voice. “Katerina is not a dowager. She's nineteen, I believe,
and quite pretty. Please, son, can't you do this one thing for me? Just meet her?”
I suppose I cannot refuse. Once Mother digs her heels in, there's no moving her.
Since she's decided I need to meet her friend, she will not let me hear the end ofit until I do. Better to get it over with quickly. “Oh, all right then,” he agreed sourly. “I suppose you can perform the introductions tonight. I'll meet her, but if
she's some kind of pariah…”
“Oh no,” his mother said quickly, making another of her famously
unrestrained gestures, “just a bit shy, a bit of a wallflower. Nothing more.”
“Katerina what?”
“Valentino,” Julia replied. Her eyes bored into him, but he had no
recollection of any such name.
“Italian?” Christopher asked, feigning interest.
“Her parents came from Italy,” she explained. “Katerina, as far as I know, has lived in England her whole life. She looks rather Italian, but her manners and
speech are very English.”
“I see,” Christopher replied. Inwardly he still recoiled at the thought of this
obvious manipulation. “Fine. Tonight, at the ball, I'll allow you to introduce us,
but that's all. Any further actions I take will be decided by me.”
“I understand, son.”
Christopher stalked back inside, slamming the heavy oak door.
Once he withdrew, Julia sagged with relief as she climbed into the waiting hansom cab. If he meets Katerina, it will be a start. Something has to be done to help the poor girl I'm willing to give all my resources—even my firstborn son—to accomplish it. I only pray it will be enough.
CHAPTER 2
“Bennett, glad you could make it.” James Cary commented,
extending a glass of brandy. His hazel eyes twinkled with their
usual naughty gleam and his curly, sand-colored hair stood on end with his habitual habit of running fingers through it.
“Of course, of course, Cary. What did you expect? My mother wanted to talk
to me.” Christopher rolled his eyes, gratefully accepting the glass. He sank onto
a high-backed sofa of carved wood with blue velvet upholstery; the best seat in
the brick row house provided to Cary as vicar of a small, working-class
neighborhood chapel.
A threadbare blue and black oriental rug on the floor and a mahogany table
