Fortune's Lady (19 page)

“Damn it, I know it! I've told you there's nothing between us. Why do you say her name like that? ‘This Merlin woman.' As if she weren't quite human.”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

He did it with
all
women, now that Riordan came to think of it. It was peculiar.

But as if reading his thoughts, Quinn asked next, “By the way, how is Lady Claudia?” His expression betrayed nothing but innocent interest.

“She's fine,” he answered shortly.

“Good, good. A lovely girl. Excellent family.”

Riordan didn't respond.

“I was speaking to Sir Lawrence Trilby about you not long ago, Philip. He's pleased with what you've been doing. Very pleased. I should think his gratitude would be substantial when this is all over.”

Trilby was one of the king's deputies and closest advisors, a man of sizeable influence in Whitehall. Riordan grunted. “I wonder what it will take to keep his gratitude afterward,” he said sourly. “Will I be expected to toe the royal line for the rest of my life?”

“Nonsense,” Quinn scoffed. “Independence of mind is always a welcome quality in a statesman.” He ignored Riordan's derisive snort. “So you'll speak to Miss Merlin about Wade soon, will you?”

Riordan's face went still. “Yes, I'll speak to her.”

“When?”

He expelled a breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Tonight. We're going to the opera.”

***

“He's in the library, miss, if you'll—”

“Oh, it's all right, John, you needn't show me. I know my way by now.”

“Of course. Miss Merlin, if I may say so, you're looking particularly beautiful this evening.”

“Why, thank you, John. That's very kind of you.”

She smiled and he bowed, and then she started down the dim, paneled hallway toward the library. Halfway there, the soft, muted strains of string music reached her ears, growing more distinct with each step. She reached the doorway and stopped. The room was unlit except for the pearl-gray remnants of dusk glowing palely in the open French doors to the garden, and it was a moment before she made out the figure of Riordan in the gloom. He was standing by the windows in profile, coatless, waistcoat unbuttoned, playing the viola. She held her breath, hoping he wouldn't stop. There was a scent of roses on the air, faint and sweet; it mingled with the low, lovely notes in a dreamy counterpoint. She watched his face, so serious, his eyes almost closed. His bearing was tall and graceful; twilight illuminated the silver in his hair and made her think of the snow-covered branches of some strong, straight tree. His fingers pressing the strings were supple and sure, his stroking of the bow delicate, even dainty. She thought she'd never seen anyone so beautiful. The knowledge that she loved him came slowly, like the notes of the song, and like the song, made her inexpressibly sad.

The last bittersweet notes died away. Riordan saw her when he turned to lay down the instrument. She was standing in the doorway, tall, still, elegant. He remembered the first time he'd seen her, far away in a churchyard, beside her father's muddy grave. He moved toward her.

“Cass.” Her gray eyes rested on him so gravely. “Is anything wrong?” She shook her head. She was lovely. In the dimness he couldn't make out what color her dress was, some pastel shade that enhanced the mystery of her dark, lush hair. She wore it pulled back from her face in front, long and free in back—the way she'd worn it the night they'd met. He took her hands and kissed them. “You're so beautiful.”

He stroked her palms with his thumbs, and a well of longing opened up in Cass. “So are you.” She was afraid she would weep if he kept touching her, kept looking at her that way.

He smiled at her words. It would be so easy to kiss her now. Her mouth was exquisite. Her eyes were shining as if with tears: “Are you all right?” he murmured. He wanted to see her lips move.

She stood perfectly still, scarcely breathing. His white shirt glowed almost violet in the dusk, the lacy sleeves pushed back from his lean, strong wrists. She wet her lips, not knowing where to look. She wanted to tell him—she wanted to say—

“Cass?”

From somewhere she found the strength to pull her hands away. “I'm fine. Fine. You said to come early because you wanted to tell me something.” She felt grateful for the support the doorpost provided; she'd almost done something irrevocable just now, and she was trembling in reaction.

He let his hands fall to his sides. “Did I say that?”

“Yes. You sent a note.”

“Did I?” She nodded. She was staring over his shoulder, not looking at him. He touched her face, unable to help himself. “That's odd,” he whispered. “I can't remember what I wanted to tell you.” It wasn't true. But he could not say the words Quinn wanted him to say. They would not come out of his mouth.

She sighed. She wanted to turn her face and kiss the open palm cupping her cheek. Instead she stepped out of his reach. “Then we'd better go.”

In the dark hallway she was just a dim, shadowy form. The spell should break now, he thought; I can't even see her. But it didn't. “Cass…”

“Your coat—don't forget—I'll wait in the hall.”

He watched her walk away fast, almost running. The sound of her footsteps died away and he thought, Now,
now
the spell is broken.

But it wasn't. He wondered if it ever would be.

Cass's nails bit uncomfortably into Riordan's wrist. “What does he say now?” she whispered tensely.

He pried the rigid fingers away and held her hand firmly. “He says, ‘Eurydice, Eurydice, answer me! It's your faithful husband. Silence of death, vain hope. What suffering, what torment wrings my heart.'?

“Oh!” Tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks. She let the unearthly beauty of the music sweep her away, forgetting everything but the sadness and the pathos. “Now what is he saying?”

“He's going to kill himself. His grief is unspeakable.”

She buried her face in her handkerchief and blew her nose.

“Wait, here's the goddess of Love to talk him out of it. She says, ‘Hold, Orpheus!' She's reviving Eurydice. She lives!”

“Oh! Oh!” cried Cass, overcome, smiling with relief through her tears.

“ ‘My Eurydice,' ” translated Riordan.

“ ‘My Orpheus,' ” guessed Cass, sighing with contentment.

The music swelled as the lovers embraced for the last time, and the curtain fell.

Cass sat back in her seat, drained. “Oh, it was so beautiful, so beautiful. I want to see it again!” He laughed and she smiled back dazedly, her lashes still spiky from crying. “Didn't you like it?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately, though he wasn't sure which he'd enjoyed more, the opera or her reaction to it. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, I suppose. It's hard to come back to reality, though, isn't it? Do I look all right?” She pressed her hands against her hot cheeks.

“You look magnificent.” It was true, he thought; she was one of those rare women whose looks actually improved with weeping.

She smiled tolerantly as he put a gossamer-thin shawl around her shoulders and led her out of the box. His arm felt warm and solid under her hand. The press of people forced them to move closely, intimately, down the brightly lit hall to the stairs; to stay together, they put their arms around each other and took small, shuffling steps toward the exit. “We should have waited,” Cass said loudly, standing on tiptoe to speak into his ear.

He nodded, but he was thinking he preferred it this way, all in all.

Finally they reached the lobby. Using the advantage of his height, Riordan surveyed the milling crowd. Immediately he spotted a familiar chestnut head. Claudia. She saw him at almost the same moment and waved gaily. He waved back, his smile not quite in place.

“Who is it?” asked Cass. They had several friends in common now.

“No one you know.” He would have kept going, but Claudia was gesturing for them to join her and whomever she was with—Marchmaine, it looked like. He didn't have time to sort out his feelings; he only knew this was an introduction he'd hoped never to have to make. Slowly they made their way through the crowd to the waiting couple.

“Lady Claudia Harvellyn, allow me to introduce Miss Cassandra Merlin.”

The name caused a glimmer of recognition, swiftly hidden, to flare in her ladyship's large brown eyes before she smiled graciously and offered her hand. “How do you do, Miss Merlin? And this is Mr. Marchmaine. You know Gregory, don't you, Philip?”

He should have known Claudia would take control and ensure that things went smoothly. As soon as the introductions were over, she began to chat easily and naturally about the evening's entertainment. “The music is lovely, of course, but what I can never understand is why the poor man doesn't just
tell
Eurydice, straight out, that if he looks at her she'll die. Think of all the trouble it would save!” She laughed charmingly. “Such glorious bombast, what sublime histrionics! Don't you think so, Miss Merlin?”

Cass hesitated. “No,” she said with a diffident smile, “I thought it was very moving. I wept,” she confessed.

Claudia raised her perfectly shaped brows in surprise, or perhaps amusement, but maintained her gracious smile.

“Did you, now?” declared Marchmaine, screwing his monacle in tighter to look at her.

Riordan remembered the scene in the eyeglass shop between Cass and Lady Helena, and spoke up hastily. “I confess, I felt a little dampness in the eyes myself. Besides, Claudia, if he simply
tells
her, we'd miss all that lovely music at the end. ‘
Che faro senza Euridice
!' ” he sang robustly, making them all laugh. Claudia's laugh was a little stiff.

Marchmaine excused himself to go find a carriage. Riordan was thinking he ought to invite them to share his, but he had no enthusiasm for prolonging this odd encounter, however well it was going so far. The trio chatted politely and inconsequentially a little longer, then began to stroll toward the front doors.

Claudia inquired of Cass how she was finding her new life in London, conspicuously avoiding any mention of the circumstances that had obliged her to return. Riordan had the uncomfortable impression—for the first time ever—that Claudia's graciousness bordered on condescension. He watched Cass. She was tense, but her answers were open and direct and perfectly correct. A few minutes later Claudia pressed him to say whether he was coming to her house on Tuesday—Grandmother had asked about him in particular—and her insistence in front of Cass surprised him. Was it possible that she was jealous at last? The idea confounded him, but not as much as the realization that the very thing he'd been hoping for didn't bring him nearly the satisfaction he'd expected.

Their carriages arrived simultaneously. Claudia gave him her hand to kiss before the idea even occurred to him, and afterward she held his fingers for much longer than was her habit. With a bemused expression he watched Marchmaine hand her in and the hackney rattle away.

Cass watched his face for a moment longer and then looked away. She waited for him to remember where he was and that his own carriage was standing in readiness before them. He helped her into it absently, and they rode much of the way in silence.

Presently she noticed he was looking at her, and forced herself to say something. “Lady Claudia is very attractive,” she murmured, without enthusiasm.

“Oh, yes.”

“And very intelligent.”

“Very.”

She took a breath. “She's your special friend, isn't she?”

“What makes you say that?” he hedged, frowning.

What, indeed? What had possessed her to bring up a subject that could only cause her pain? “Because of the way you treat her,” she plunged in stoically. “You don't pretend with her, you let her see who you are. And because she's obviously in love with you.”

He laughed somewhat harshly. If Claudia was in love with him, it was for tonight only. “You're mistaken.”

His tone indicated that the subject was closed, and Cass suddenly lost heart in pursuing it. He hadn't denied the woman was his “special friend.” She stared out the window as a crushing feeling of aloneness settled over her. Her unhappiness was entirely self-made, for all the comfort that brought. She was falling in love with a man she could never have, and she had no idea how to stop. She saw with perfect clarity how far above her he was in every way—social position, respectability, education, accomplishments—and now she'd also seen the lady he would someday marry, or at least the sort of woman he would choose. An honest comparison between herself and Claudia Harvellyn made her ache with wretchedness and inadequacy.

If only she could get away! She was frightened of the pain seeing him every day was already bringing. To stop a heartache, one ought to avoid the person who was causing it. But in her case that wasn't possible. Not only had she to endure Riordan's company, she had to bear the agony of pretending in public that they were lovers. It wasn't fair! For as long as she could remember she'd dreamt of falling in love, of giving her heart to a kind, gentle man who would rescue her from her loneliness and treasure her for the rest of her life. Instead she'd chosen the very man most capable of hurting her. Was there something wrong with her? Did she
enjoy
suffering, or was she just a fool?

She swallowed down the lump of misery in her throat and squared her shoulders. She would persevere. She always had. Besides, what else could she do? She had no choice but to continue to save her money and wait for the day when she would be free to start a new life somewhere—alone. Meanwhile, she would protect her heart as best she could.

The carriage stopped. It wasn't until he'd handed her down from it that she realized they were in front of his house, not hers. “I remembered what I wanted to tell you earlier,” he said by way of explanation, and led her inside.