Fortune's Lady (17 page)

“You admire him, don't you?”

“Very much.”

“Perhaps—perhaps one day he'll know the sort of man you really are, and understand that what you've been doing has only been an act. And then he'll admire you, too.”

A slow smile changed his face. “Ah, Cass.” He reached for her hand. “How very nice you are.” He kissed her fingers, but it wasn't enough. Before she could protest, he kissed her startled lips, tasting them, listening to the shallow sound of her breathing. That wasn't enough either, but things had a way of getting out of hand with Cass. He forced himself to stop while it was still possible.

He stood. Her eyes were huge, their expression either accusing or beseeching, he couldn't tell which. “I have to go, someone's waiting for me.” She nodded. “I'll be back.” She nodded again. “Keep reading,” he ordered gruffly, and walked out.

Cass stared at the closed library door for a long moment, fingertips pressed to her lips. Finally she remembered the unread pages in her lap and Riordan's last command. With a weary sigh, she propped the pamphlet on a pillow in the corner of the window seat and scooted back a few feet; she could see the small print better that way.

The king of England is the king by a fixed rule of
s
uccession,
she read;
he holds his crown in contempt of the Revolution Society, who haven't a single vote for a king among them, individually or collectively.…

Her mind drifted. She found herself recalling every word and gesture and nuance in what had just passed between her and Riordan, beginning at the moment she'd woken up in his arms. She remembered the day she'd told him he must never touch her again; until now—except in public, and then only casually—he'd obliged. What had changed? Was it possible he missed the closeness they'd once shared as much as she did? Had he also found it sweet, and irresistible?

Oh, what an idiot she was. She could hardly believe she was asking herself such stupid questions. Men were different—she'd known that for years. They liked touching for its own sake, and they had a strange and altogether unique way of leaving their emotions out of it. It was women who were cursed with this need to read deep meaning into any casual caress, and she was no different from the silliest of them. That was how hearts got broken. Hers, she vowed grimly, was going to stay intact. She would abandon foolish speculation on Riordan's motives forever. She would be cynical and sophisticated and always assume the worst. It wasn't an approach she'd ever employed with men before, but where Philip Riordan was concerned she suspected such measures were warranted.

She straightened her shoulders, scowling at the blurred pages in front of her, and made a ferocious effort to concentrate on royal authority against the needs of the state. The door opened again. She recognized Riordan's tread but didn't look up.

“I thought you were reading.”

“I am reading.”

“From six feet away?”

She ignored him.
The Revolution has degraded the king, the ministry, the judiciary
—

“Cass!” She jumped. “You need glasses!” He came toward her, his expression that of someone who had just made a shattering scientific discovery.

“No, I don't.”

“Of course! The headaches, the slowness—everything pointed to it. Why didn't I see it earlier?”

“I do not need glasses.”

“The hell you don't. Come on.”

“What are you doing?”

“John! The carriage!” He was bundling her out of the room and down the hall. The secretary met them in the foyer. “On second thought, never mind the carriage. We'll walk. I know just the place. Does she have a cloak or something?”

“Yes, a shawl—”

“Get it! We're in a rush, John.”

Mr. Walker hurried away.

“Riordan!” Cass cried, vexed. “I do not need glasses! I can see perfectly well. I'm looking at you right now, and I see you quite clearly.”

“Don't be idiotic. Here, put this on.” He took the shawl Walker held out and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Come on, we haven't got all day.”

She threw the secretary a look of exasperation and let Riordan usher her outside. “Where are we going? Or would it be too much trouble to tell me?” He was walking swiftly, and since he held her hand she had to step lively to keep up.

“To get glasses. I thought you'd have figured that out, Cass.”

She ground her teeth. “But I don't—”

“What makes you think you don't need glasses? Apart from the fact that you're not blind?”

“Once I mentioned it to Aunt Beth. She said I didn't need them.”

He slowed down enough to look at her. “Oh, Aunt Beth said so!” he exclaimed with sarcastic wonder. “Well, why didn't you tell me sooner?”

She flushed and didn't answer.

“What if you broke your leg and Aunt Beth said you didn't need crutches? Would you drag yourself around on your hands and knees?” When she remained silent, he slowed down still more and put his arm around her shoulders. “Listen, love,” he said kindly. “Ask yourself why your aunt doesn't want you to wear glasses.”

“Why?”

“Well, think about it. We're going to get you some nice ones, but generally speaking spectacles don't enhance a girl's looks. Why would Aunt Beth want you to look your best, even if it meant you were hurting your eyes?”

She looked down. She knew the answer. “So she could marry me off sooner,” she mumbled, embarrassed both by her aunt's pettiness and her own failure to recognize it.

“Precisely. The selfish old bitch.”

“Yes,” Cass agreed fiercely. “Selfish old—”

“Go ahead. Say it.”

“Bitch!” She clapped her hand to her mouth, first in shock and then to muffle the giggles bubbling up irrepressibly.

“Good girl,” said Riordan, proudly.

“Hypermetropia,” Mr. Wopping pronounced, laying down his examining lens. “Your retina's in front of the main focus of your eye. You can't see divergent rays from a near object, my dear. You're farsighted.”

“Oh no,” breathed Cass, twisting her hands. “Is that—will I—”

“Oh, it's not fatal,” the balding, elderly gentleman chuckled. “Pick out the frames you want and I'll make you some convex lenses in a week or two. Here, these three styles are for ladies. Which do you want?”

Cass looked at the three pairs of spectacles on the velvet mat and tried to hide her dismay. She hoped she wasn't a vain person, but—oh, she was going to look so plain! “You say it's only for reading?” she asked hopefully.

“Until you're an old lady,” he assured her. “Then I'll make you some Franklin glasses to wear all the time.”

“Franklin?”

“American fellow, Cass. I'll give you some of his books, and then you'll know all about him.” Riordan laughed, returning from his errand and entering the shop on a rush of warm air. “Are you all set? What was the verdict?”

“Hyperm-metropia,” she said carefully. “I can see far away but not close up.”

“Just what I thought. Where are your glasses?”

“It takes a week or two.”

“What? No, that won't do, we need 'em right away. The end of this week at the latest. Is this all you have, these three? We want something lighter, more feminine. And with her coloring, we want silver frames, not gold, don't you think? Here, Cass, try these.”

She slipped on the pair he handed her and blushed deeply under his scrutiny. “Ugly, yes?” He didn't say anything, only stared at her with a trace of a smile. “Well?”

“I was thinking how enjoyable taking them off would be,” he said softly. She frowned, not understanding. He turned to Mr. Wopping briskly. “The shape of this pair is fine, but we want them in silver frames, and much thinner. And by Friday. Can you manage that?”

The two men argued while Cass stared at herself in a small hand mirror, fascinated. They weren't really ugly, she saw, and they changed the whole aspect of her face in the most remarkable way. She looked older, more serious. She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. She looked
intelligent
! Like a schoolmistress, she thought—like Mademoiselle Dupuis at the school in the Rue de St. Clair! She laughed delightedly, then stopped—that spoiled the whole effect. She went back to the pursed lips and raised brows, turning her head and viewing herself from the side. She heard the shop door open and close.

“It's Philip, isn't it?” said a tall, fruity-voiced matron in an old-fashioned gown of maroon silk. She was peering at Riordan through an ivory-handled lorgnette with a haughtier version of the pursed lips and raised brows Cass had just been practicing.

“Lady Helena,” he greeted her, smiling only faintly as he took the limp hand she held out to him. “How are you? Allow me to introduce Miss Merlin. Cassandra, this is Lady Helena Strong, a long-time friend of my family.”

“How do you do?” said Cass with a polite curtsy.

Instead of responding, Lady Helena stared at her through the lorgnette as if she were some loathsome insect on the wall. The rude perusal went on and on; it became clear that she had no intention of speaking to Cass, but was going to stare for as long as it took to satisfy her ill-mannered curiosity. The absurdity of the situation intrigued Cass. If the woman's impertinence hadn't been so blatant, so outrageous, she wouldn't have done it, but she took off the spectacles she was still wearing. Folding them, she held one edge affectedly between thumb and forefinger, and peered back at her ladyship in a perfect parody of her insolent scrutiny. For heavy, interminable seconds the women stared at each other through their lenses. Cass made up her mind that no matter how long it took, she wouldn't look away first. Riordan's nervous throat-clearing almost undid her, but somehow she kept her face straight.

After a lifetime, Lady Helena lowered her lorgnette. She looked winded. “How do you do?” she got out, sounding as if a fish hook were caught in her cheek.

Cass glanced at Riordan, then looked away before his beet-red face could set her off.

“How's Walter, Lady Helena?” he asked in a strangled voice.

“Splendid! My son is doing splendidly, thank you very much,” she assured him in rather strident tones. “I had a letter from your dear sister, Philip,” she went on hurriedly, as if she couldn't get off the subject of Walter fast enough. “I mean Agatha, of course; Clarice wouldn't write a letter if the world were ending. She says she and the family are coming up to London next month. How many children have they now, Philip? Eleven?”

“Ten,” said Riordan. “One died.” He couldn't believe it when he heard an explosive snort of laughter, quickly muffled, from Cass, who was examining the men's glasses behind him. Even more incredible was his own sudden, uncontrollable guffaw. Lady Helena's pale blue eyes widened in shock. He knew he had to get out of there immediately.

“Always a joy to see you,” he told her ladyship in a high, tight voice, then grabbed Cass by the arm. “Come, my dear, we're late.”

Outside, they had scarcely reached the next shopfront before collapsing against it, shaking with silent laughter. Cass clasped her arms over her stomach and bent double, hooting, tears rolling down her cheeks. “One died!” she choked, clapped her hand to her mouth, and went into another spasm. Passersby were chuckling in sympathy. “I'm sorry,” she moaned, snuffling and still holding her middle. “It's not funny.” But that only set her off again. Riordan was laughing now more at Cass than at the situation. He gave her his handkerchief. She blew her nose and finally managed to get herself under control. She decided that if she tried to apologize now for laughing at his deceased nephew or niece, she would only have a relapse.

They started to walk, holding hands, feeling loose and affectionate. Every once in a while Cass giggled and had to wipe her eyes again. Riordan nodded and spoke to acquaintances along the way, and she nodded with him. She had a lovely, relaxed sense of belonging. Out of curiosity she asked him who Walter was; the mention of him had made Lady Helena nervous, and she wondered why.

“Lord Walter Strong, the Earl of Rotham, and the apple of his mother's eye,” he told her. “A year ago he was a step away from felon's prison for embezzling a hundred thousand pounds from the family shipping company. Whenever Lady Helena waxes too insufferable, I like to ask how he's doing.”

“What happened?”

“It was hushed up. The money was paid back covertly, and no one was the wiser.”

“Then how do you know about it?”

“They needed a great deal of money in a hurry. Walter's not really a bad sort, and I'm an old friend of the family.” He shrugged dismissively, then winked. “And they offered a very attractive rate of interest.”

Cass smiled; she liked the idea of Lady Helena being in Riordan's debt.

She thought about her new glasses. She could hardly wait for them to be finished. What would it be like to read for hours and hours and never have a headache or tired, watering eyes? What if she actually became more intelligent? What would Riordan think if she learned to discuss subjects with him on his own level? Well—no, perhaps not on his level, but at least with a modicum of intelligence, enough not to embarrass herself or—she pulled herself up. She was doing it again. Only this time she'd substituted Riordan for her father. Would she ever learn? Neither of them cared a whit what she thought or felt or accomplished, and it was high time she mastered that simple, painful lesson. She was on her own. At least she had some money now. She'd bought some clothes—and now some glasses—and she'd given Aunt Beth something for her room and board, but the rest she was carefully saving. When her involvement with Colin Wade was finished, Quinn and Riordan expected her to leave the country. The thought was so painful that she shunted it aside. But whether or not she left England, she would have to find a place for herself somewhere. No one would do it for her.