Fortune's Lady (13 page)

“I shall remember to be impressed.”

“He's partial to pastel colors in his dress, which is always immaculate. The other night at Walbridge's he had on a pink waistcoat. Pink!” He shook his head in wonder. “Women swoon over him for some reason, but he holds them at a distance, picking and choosing like a rajah. I'd say the best way to attract his notice is to flatter him.”

“And his wife? What's she like?”

“She used to live in Lancashire on his estate, but now she stays in Bath. The official line is that she's an invalid, but the rumor is she's as mad as a March hare.”

“Good heavens.” She walked along, trying to absorb it all. “From the way you describe him, he doesn't sound like the kind of man who would bother himself about revolutions and anarchy and assassination.”

“No, I agree. But then, they say Guy Fawkes was thought a very cheery, temperate sort of fellow by all who knew him. Anarchists don't always look like slavering madmen, unfortunately.”

Cass murmured in agreement, wondering who Guy Fawkes was.

They stopped to watch the pelicans in the canal. He took her hand without thinking. “Wade's a very secretive man and not much is known of his private life. He has dozens of acquaintances but no close friends. The political side of his life is not public knowledge; what we know of it has only come from slow and painstaking intelligence work. He lived in Paris for a few years before his marriage, and we think that's where he fell in with a radical element. It probably began innocently enough—young hotheads talking revolution in fashionable cafes—but now it's quite serious. He really does want to overthrow the English monarchy, and he learned his anarchic principles from the Paris revolutionaries in the '80s.”

“Why do you think he betrayed my father and his friends to the government?”

“Is that what Quinn told you?”

Cass whirled on him. “Do you mean to say it's not true?”

He held up his hands placatingly. “I didn't say that. In fact, it probably is true. It's only that no one's been able to prove it. Your father and his cronies refused to implicate Wade when they were arrested, even after they were told he'd sacrificed them. I'm a little surprised Oliver said it, that's all. I know he can be a bit single-minded, but at heart he's an honorable man. Cass? What's wrong?”

She'd gone a sickly shade of gray. After Riordan said “refused,” a horrible, unspeakable thought occurred to her and she went deaf to everything else. She felt frozen inside and wanted to stay that way, but forced herself to speak. Knowing the truth would be better than fearing it the rest of her life.

“Will you tell me something honestly?” she said in a low, shaky voice.

He watched her stricken face in perplexity. “Yes, if I can. Cass, for God's sake, what is it?”

She swallowed hard and drew a painful breath. “Was my father beaten when he was in prison?”

He swore under his breath and reached for her. She tried to pull away, but he held her arms firmly. “Listen to me, love.”

“He was, wasn't he?” To her dismay, tears began to streak down her face in a helpless flood. She let him lead her away from the path to a private place by a little copse of trees; when he pulled her into his arms, she felt too devastated to resist. “Oh God,” she sobbed against his shirt. “I thought he didn't want to see me because he didn't care for me. My God, my God.”

He let her cry. Her words were so thick with grief, he could hardly understand her. She's so young, he thought as he held her and stroked her back in slow, soothing circles. Her hair tickled his lips as he crooned meaningless comfort against it, and her slim hands pressing against his chest reminded him of another time she'd done that. He wasn't aroused, but every part of him that touched her was acutely aware of her womanliness.

“I'm all right now,” she whispered, pushing back.

She wasn't; he gave her his handkerchief and held on. “Listen to me, sweet. I don't know it for certain; it's possible he wasn't. But—”

“Don't say anything else. Please.” She thrust him away and turned around.

He stared bleakly at her back, struggling for the right words. “I never met your father, Cass, and I won't pretend to admire him for what he did. But I know he believed in the course he chose and obeyed the rules he made for himself. No one could deny that what he did took courage. And dying for one's principles isn't such a tragic way to go, is it?”

After a long moment she turned back. Her face was ravaged from weeping, but she held her chin high and her voice was steady. “No, it's not a tragic way to die. Perhaps it's an enviable one. I beg your pardon for behaving as I did. It was naive of me not to have seen the truth before now. My excuse is that I didn't want to see it. I'm ready now if you'd like to go on our way.”

It took all his willpower not to reach out for her again. But she thought all he felt was pity, and he didn't want to make her feel shame now on top of her grief. So he clasped his hands behind his back and stepped aside, bowing as she preceded him back to the path.

He began to speak of ordinary things—the loveliness of the late afternoon, the blight that seemed to be ruining all the dogwood trees this year—and after a little while he was rewarded by a ghost of a smile and a few quiet words in return. Emboldened, he told her a joke. It was a long, complicated, and very silly joke, and when she laughed at the end he suspected it was as much at him as at the point of the story. But the sound of her laughter warmed him like sunlight on a frozen pond, and at that moment he'd have stood on his head for a chance to hear it again.

“Philip! Philip Riordan!”

“Oh, bloody hell,” he cursed under his breath. Cass stiffened and he casually slid his arm around her, pulling her against him. “You're about to have the pleasure of meeting a few of the people I'm obliged to call friends,” he muttered grimly. The call came again; he stopped and turned around. Two couples were bearing down on them. “Hullo, Wally, Tom,” he called in a voice that made Cass look up at him in surprise.

“I knew you'd heard me, you old sod,” complained one of the gentlemen when he reached them. The fast walk seemed to have winded him; he wiped his corpulent face with a scented handkerchief and breathed through his mouth. “Ain't you going to introduce us to your charming friend, Philip?”

“No.”

“Ha! Then I'll do it myself.” He bowed to Cass as deeply as his paunch would allow. “Your humble servant, madam, Wallace Digby-Holmes. And this is Tom Seymour, a scurvy youth not worth your notice. And these three ladies are our friends.”

“Two,” corrected Tom. “These
two
ladies.”

“Damn me, that's what I said. This one's Gracie—wasn't it? And this one's Jane; I'm sure it was Jane. Now, where were you two bound for? We'll go with you. Or if you've got to run off, Philip, I'll be happy to see the lady home myself. It's Miss Merlin, ain't it? I vow, you Commons fellows don't care a damn for manners anymore—begging your pardon, ma'am.” He tipped an imaginary hat.

“Oh, bugger off, Wally,” Riordan snarled, slurring his words a little.

“Tut tut! A trifle foxed, eh? I say, you wouldn't have a drop on you at the present moment, would you? Eh? God's truth, you're a good man!” He accepted the silver flask Riordan removed from his pocket, took a long pull, and handed it to Tom. The two ladies giggled and tsked. They were coarse-featured and colorfully dressed; Cass thought that if they weren't whores she was a parrot's pinafore.

“We won't keep you,” Riordan muttered with a scowl, taking his flask back and swaying slightly.

“Whoa, what's your blinkin' hurry? The lady looks like she wants to go with us instead of you, Philip. I've a sixth sense about these things, y'see,” he winked at Cass, tapping his forehead and moving closer.

Tom had an idea. “Why don't we let
her
decide?”

Wally grinned and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Faith, why not? Eh, Philip?” Riordan continued to glare and sway. “Well, Missy, who's it to be? This drunken, bloody-minded lout you're attached to around the middle, or a couple of light-hearted, free-spending, good-looking bounders such as ourselves?”

The ladies were snickering again behind their hands; Cass had an urge to join them. “I believe I'll stay with the lout,” she said demurely. While Wally and Tom roared their disappointment, she stole a glance at Riordan's face. He was still scowling down at her, but there was a decidedly humorous quirk at the side of his mouth.

“Women,” Wally grumbled. “If it wasn't for— oops, beg pardon. Faith, we're off, then. Are you coming to Flaherty's tonight, Philip? If you do, I'll show you my new pistols. Come on, Tom. Hullo— June, ain't it? Take my arm, there's a good girl. Joan, you say? Well, make up your mind, woman.…” His words trailed off as the gay foursome moved away down the path.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Cass started to laugh. She'd found Riordan's friends harmless and amusing, although she could see how they might soon grow tiresome; in fact, albeit older, they reminded her a good deal of some of her old set in Paris.

Riordan smiled down at her, savoring the rare sound of her laughter and hoping she'd keep holding his arm like that. She didn't. Something in his eyes must have given him away, because her laughter died in her throat and she stepped away self-consciously. “We'd better go. It's almost dark.”

It wasn't, but the sun was setting and their hour was up; Tripp would be waiting. He nodded sedately and they moved together toward the southern end of the park.

The carriage was there, waiting. Riding back to Holborn, Cass was astonished to hear that Wally was in fact Viscount Digby-Holmes, Lord Thomas Seymour was a baron, and they both sat in the House of Lords. “Good heavens!” she marveled. “That's shocking.”

“Isn't it? Almost as scandalous as my being in the Commons. It's horrible accidents like these that give revolution a good name, Cass. Which reminds me—what did you think of the Rousseau?”

Her heart sank. She'd hoped he'd forgotten. “I adored it,” she said on a note of finality. “That's Westminster Hall, isn't it? Aren't your chambers or whatever they're called inside?”

“Why, you lazy cow, you haven't read it.”

“I have!” she cried indignantly.“ ‘
L'homme est ne libre, et partout il est dans les fers.
' There, you see?”

“I see you've read the first sentence,” he said, laughing.

“No, much more!”

“Indeed. And what did you make of it?”

“How do you mean?”

“What did you think?”

“About which particular part?”

He sighed patiently. “In general.”

“I liked it, truly I did. But I didn't finish it,” she confessed, shame-faced.

“Never mind. What do you think about the idea of a republic?”

She thought. “Well…I think people should have the right to have good leaders. If the leaders are incompetent or insane or evil or dangerous, then we ought to be able to expel them and elect new ones. And I think a king ought to rule because we've chosen him, not because God ordained him.”

“Spoken like a true revolutionary.”

“Certainly not!” she denied, shocked.

“What's your opinion of man in his natural state?”

“I beg your pardon?” Did he mean a naked man?

“In a state of nature, before society corrupts him, is he a simple, unaggressive sort of fellow or a greedy, amoral beast?”

It was a question she'd never considered. “I suppose it depends on his circumstances,” she said slowly. “If he were warm enough and had plenty to eat, he'd probably be gentle and loving. But if his very existence was a constant struggle, I should think he'd be violent, even cruel.” Her face cleared. “Is that right?”

Riordan laughed. “There's no right answer, Cass; it's all theory.”

Then what good is it? she wanted to ask, but held her tongue.

He continued to worry her with questions about the origins of society and the social contract; after she realized that he wasn't going to make fun of her, she was able to concentrate on the notion and make connections that had never occurred to her before. He didn't patronize her, but listened carefully, interrupting to add an occasional thought of his own or to prod her out of a blind alley. It was a completely new experience for Cass—a conversation not about a person or a thing but about an idea—and she was amazed to discover that she enjoyed it immensely. When she looked out the window and saw her own house, she had no idea how long the carriage had been standing there.

“Goodness, I'd better go in.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

But neither of them moved. She watched him under cover of the gathering dusk, and thought that for all his able acting he really didn't look dissolute, unlike his friends in the park. His face wasn't puffy but taut, the lines of his jaw clean and hard. And his body was too muscular, his shoulders too straight. He had no belly at all and his thighs were so hard.…She swallowed and found her mouth had gone dry. “Well, I'd better go,” she repeated.

“Cass, wait.” He handed her something white. “This is for you.”

“What is it?” Then she saw. Inside the envelope were ten hundred-pound notes. Her fingers tightened around them and her skin felt suddenly cold. She couldn't look at him. “It's a loan,” she heard herself saying. “Did Quinn tell you it's a loan?”

“A loan? No, he didn't mention that.”

The polite, uninflected tone of his voice told her more clearly than words that he didn't believe her. Anger flared quickly—at him, and at herself for wanting him to. It was a business transaction, wasn't it, loan or not? Payment for services rendered, Mr. Quinn had called it. And after it was all over, they expected her to leave England. Then why did she feel such hot, prickly humiliation as she sat holding the envelope, massaging its thick, weighty contents through the crisp paper? With a jerky motion she shoved it into her purse and pushed forward to the edge of the seat. “When will I be meeting Mr. Wade?” she asked tightly, staring straight ahead.