Page 7 of Courting Catherine
“I want to know what the hell he’s doing here.”
“Catherine, really!” Coco tsk-tsked. “Your manners, one of my very few failures. Come, Mr. St. James—or may I call you Trenton?—you must be a bit frazzled after the drive. You did say you were driving? Why don’t we just go in and sit in the parlor?” She was easing him along as she spoke. “Marvelous weather for a drive, isn’t it?”
“Hold it.” C.C. moved quickly and planted herself in their path. “Hold it. Hold it. You’re not tucking him up in the parlor with tea and small talk. I want to know why you invited him here.”
“C.C.” Coco gave a long-suffering sigh. “Business is more pleasant and more successful on all sides when it’s conducted in person, and in a relaxed atmosphere. Wouldn’t you agree, Trenton?”
“Yes.” He was surprised that he had to hold back a grin. “Yes, I would.”
“There.”
“Not another step.” C.C. flung out both hands. “We haven’t agreed to sell.”
“Of course not,” Coco said patiently. “That’s why Trenton is here. So we can discuss all the options and possibilities. You really should go up and wash before tea, C.C. You’ve engine grease or whatever on your face.”
With the heel of her hand, C.C. rubbed at it. “Why wasn’t I told he was coming?”
Coco blinked and tried to leave her eyes slightly unfocused. “Told? Why, of course you were told. I would hardly have invited company without telling all of you.”
Face mutinous, C.C. held her ground. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Now, C.C., I...” Coco pursed her lips, knowing—since she’d practiced in the mirror—that it made her look befuddled. “I didn’t? Are you certain? I would have sworn I told you and the girls the minute I got Mr. St. James’s acceptance.”
“No,” C.C. said flatly.
“Oh, my.” Coco lifted her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, how awful, really. I must apologize. What a dreadful mix-up. And all my fault. C.C., I do beg your pardon. After all, this is your house, yours and your sisters’. I would never presume on your good nature and your hospitality by...”
Before Coco had trailed off again, the guilt was working away. “It’s your house as much as ours, Aunt Coco. You know that. It’s not as if you have to ask permission to invite anyone you like. It’s simply that I think we should have—”
“No, no, it’s inexcusable.” Coco had blinked enough to have her eyes glistening nicely. “Really it was. I just don’t know what to say. I feel terrible about the whole thing. I was only trying to help, you see, but—”
“It’s nothing to worry about.” C.C. reached out for her aunt’s hand. “Nothing at all. It was just a little confusing at first. Look, why don’t I make the tea, and you can sit with—him.”
“That’s so sweet of you, dear.”
C.C. muttered something unintelligible as she walked down the hall.
“Congratulations,” Trent murmured, sending Coco an amused glance. “That was one of the smoothest shuffles I’ve ever witnessed.”
Coco beamed and tucked her arm through his. “Thank you. Now, why don’t we go in and have that chat?” She steered him to a wing chair by the fireplace, knowing that the springs in the sofa were only a memory. “I must apologize for C.C. She has a very quick temper but a wonderful heart.”
Trent inclined his head. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“Well, you’re here and that’s what matters.” Pleased with herself, Coco sat across from him. “I know you’ll find The Towers, and its history, fascinating.”
He smiled, thinking he’d already found its occupants a fascination.
“My grandfather,” she said, gesturing to a portrait of a dour-faced thin-lipped man above the ornate cherrywood mantel. “He built this house in 1904.”
Trent glanced up at the disapproving eyes and lowered brows. “He looks... formidable,” he said politely.
Coco gave a gay laugh. “Oh, indeed. And ruthless in his prime, so I’m told. I only remember Fergus Calhoun as a doddering old man who argued with shadows. They finally put him away in 1945 after he tried to shoot the butler for serving bad port. He was quite insane—Grandfather,” she explained. “Not the butler.”
“I... see.”
“He lived another twelve years in the asylum, which put him well into his eighties. The Calhouns either have long lives or die tragically young.” She crossed her long, sturdy legs. “I knew your father.”
“My father?”
