Fortune's Lady (2 page)

“You mean his fortune's been confiscated by the Crown and you haven't enough money to keep me.” She kept her voice light and suppressed the little jolt of anger that spurted through her.

Aunt Beth laughed her silvery laugh. “Ah, Cass. Always the little realist. But the truth is, Freddy's inheritance is not large, and it's imperative that he marry well. In order to do so, he must turn himself out as best he can and be seen in only the best places. That will be expensive.” She laid a hand on Cass's arm; the younger woman was surprised, but not moved, by the uncharacteristic familiarity. “I, of course, want nothing for myself. The happiness of my children means everything to me, and I couldn't love you more if you were my own daughter.”

Cass reflected that this was probably quite true, and that it didn't reflect well on her aunt's maternal instinct.

“Now,” Lady Sinclair went on, “although Mr. Frane, I would venture to say, is not a
handsome
man—”

“Ha!” It came out without volition—her first genuine laugh in days.

Her aunt narrowed her eyes in irritation. “No, not a handsome man, perhaps, but a gentleman, and more to the point, a gentleman in possession of above three thousand pounds a year. I have this on excellent authority. You tell me you don't want to marry him; naturally I would never force you to do so. But let's look at the alternatives. If you're not to be a wife, Cass, then perhaps you could be … oh, let me see … a governess?” She arched her brow in a questioning glance. Cassandra stared back stonily. “Hmm? No? No, I didn't think so, either. You were a charming child, but not really what one would call bookish, alas.”

Cass didn't return the falsely kind smile, but she was honest enough to admit the accuracy of the assessment. In truth, it was a wonder she could read and write, she thought moodily as she stared into the fireplace. Studying had always given her a headache. And with no one who cared enough to compel her to attend to her studies, it had been the easiest thing in the world to shirk them. Then too, the schools to which her aunt had sent her valued dancing and deportment far above mathematics or spelling or geography. Thus she knew nothing whatever about history or politics, but she could draw, paint, and sing, play the harpsichord and the guitar, sew and embroider, pour tea and move about a room like a duchess. And once her “formal” education had ceased, a new set of instructors had taught her how to flirt, that most useful of social skills, as well as to ride and fence, sing bawdy songs, and drink young men under the table. But about this aspect of her education, presumably, her aunt was ignorant.

She thought of her cousin's invitation tonight. It hurt to think that he or anyone else believed her flighty or callous or stupid enough to behave after her father's death with such insensitivity, and yet she couldn't really blame Freddy for doing so. For the last two or three years she'd immersed herself in a circle of acquaintance whose credo was that the purpose of life is to experience sensual pleasure; and although there were moments when her existence among them had seemed hollow, when the shallowness of their pastimes had made her want to scream with frustration, she'd never once tried to extricate herself. They were, after all, the only friends she had. And it had amused and secretly pleased her that among them she'd been considered almost a bluestocking.

She dragged her attention back to her aunt, who was explaining with brittle, insincere sympathy why it would be impossible for Cass to become a lady-in-waiting in a respectable household. “I'm afraid genteel people won't want to employ the daughter of a man who's just been executed for trying to assassinate the king. The scandal is too fresh now, at any rate; and for all we know, it may never wear off. Society is more rigid here than in Paris, Cassandra. And speaking of that, I was chatting last week with Mrs. Rutherford, whose mother-in-law is Lady Helen Spencer, and whose great-nephew by marriage is a viscount, and she mentioned to me—in confidence, and in a spirit of genuine caring, I assure you—that there were certain—
rumors
that seem to have followed you from Paris.”

“Followed
me
?” Cass winced, hoping her aunt had missed the inference of her emphasis. Lady Sinclair's love affairs, which were numerous and always conducted with discretion, were not a subject that had ever been broached between them.

“I'm afraid so,” she confirmed, unheeding. “Oh, you needn't tell me your behavior was always perfectly innocent! As your guardian, I've tried to make certain that not the slightest hint of impropriety ever attached to your name.”

At this Cassandra had to look away, it was so absurd. For twelve years Lady Sinclair had made a staunch practice of ignoring her niece as thoroughly as she possibly could.

“But as you'll learn as you get older, once a scandal like this starts there's almost nothing that can stop it, no matter how false or unfair it may be.”

“What
scandal?”

“Well, my dear, there's talk of an improper liaison between you and the Comte de Beauvois, for one thing.”

Cass put her head back against the sofa and closed her eyes.

“And then there was that unfortunate episode of the fountain in the Tuileries.”

Her eyes opened and she stared incredulously. “Can you possibly be serious?”

“I am in deadly earnest. What may have been youthful high spirits or a tiny, indiscreet moment in Paris will not be viewed in such a liberal light over here. Especially when you're already laboring under the handicap of your father's notoriety. The unpalatable truth is that, apart from marriage, there really are no respectable alternatives for you.”

You mean for
you,
Cass thought with helpless, ice-cold anger, carefully unclenching her hands. That's what this “little talk” was about, after all. Cass's continued presence in her household was a social embarrassment Lady Sinclair couldn't endure, especially now that there was no longer any financial incentive to mitigate the shame. The blatant hypocrisy galled her, made her want to shout denunciations into Aunt Beth's haughty face. Instead she closed her eyes and said nothing.

She heard the watchman pass in the street below. “Past eleven o'clock, a fine night, and all's well!”

Her head had started to ache; she massaged her temples tiredly, watching the quick, nervous tapping of her aunt's toe beneath the hem of her skirt. So more was coming.

“Of course, if you truly despise Mr. Frane and are determined not to have him…” Aunt Beth cleared her throat. “We're women, we can discuss these things freely, I hope. It would be silly to pretend another choice doesn't exist, that of becoming a man's…less legitimate companion and receiving, in return, sufficient remuneration to allow one to live a comfortable if not sumptuous—”

“A mistress, you mean, Aunt? A courtesan?”

She laughed lightly. “Some might call it that.”

Cass shook her head, smiling faintly. She spoke without thinking. “I'll leave the taking of lovers to you.”

The vicious slap across her cheek stunned her, but not as much as the look of pure hate that flashed in her aunt's eyes and was gone almost instantly. Then they were both apologizing profusely and with every evidence of heartfelt sincerity, but in that split second Cass was able to confirm what she'd long suspected—her aunt despised her. A deep weariness settled over her with the knowledge; she could not even bring herself to feel resentment. She had a swift and unwelcome insight that Lady Sinclair's dislike was rooted in jealousy, and that it had started when men began to pay more attention to her niece than to her. With an odd sort of detachment she contemplated her aunt's smooth white skin and voluptuous figure, the reddish-blonde hair that was still luxuriant but now enhanced by art. Her beauty was fading as a vague but unmistakable look of willfulness encroached on the once delicate features. Her tragedy, Cass saw clearly, was that her only identity was her beauty—a quality necessarily fated to abandon her.

The two women were standing, holding each other's hands.

“I only want what's best for you, Cassandra, truly I do. What will make you happy.”

“I know, Aunt Beth.” She was too tired to contest this transparent piece of humbuggery.

“If I didn't think marrying Edward Frane would make you happy, I'd never urge you to do it. He'll come again tomorrow, I've no doubt, and what you tell him will be your own decision. Will you see him?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And will you think about what we've said tonight?”

“I'm sure I'll think of little else!”

“Good girl.” She gave her a quick embrace and kissed her forehead.

On her way upstairs to bed, Cass reflected that Aunt Beth's tolerance of her presence seemed to rise as the time neared for her to leave. In fact, if one overlooked the little matter of a slap in the face, she'd lavished more physical affection on her niece tonight than she had in years.

“Is my aunt up yet, Clara?”

“Yes, miss, up an' out, makin' 'er mornin' calls. An' Sir Freddy's still abed, so you can have a nice, quiet sit-down here with yer tea.”

Cass smiled appreciatively. Clara drove Aunt Beth wild, but she found the little maid quite charming—perhaps for that reason. “I'm expecting a visitor, Clara, probably this morning. Bring him right up and take him into the sitting room.”

“Yes, miss. That'll be that Mr. Frane, I expect?” Her thick brows lifted and her mouth pulled to the side in an expression of disapproval.

Cassandra raised her own brows back. “I expect it will, not that it's any business of yours. Now go away so I can read the paper.”

Clara sniffed and left the room.

Cass took a sip of tea and tried to concentrate on the
Daily Advertizer.
She'd slept badly again and her head was throbbing dully. The room was cold, though it was already high summer.

Still, Cass wouldn't have traded all the mild June days of Paris for a single damp, foggy English morning. The years in France had always seemed like a banishment, but now they were over and she was home. Her childhood in Surrey, before her mother died, had been the happiest six years of her life. Later, when loneliness was her closest companion and she'd given up trying to understand what she'd done to deserve such an abandonment, it had seemed as if happiness might still be possible if she could only be in England again. What she'd never foreseen was that the public trial and execution of her father would be the occasion of her homecoming.

She stood up and took her tea to the window. It still hurt that he hadn't let her visit him in Newgate in the final weeks, no matter how she pleaded with him in her letters. It seemed he was pushing her out of what remained of his life, as he had kept her out of the past twelve years. She wrote to him every day, pages and pages filled with love and sadness and terror. He never wrote back. Anger and a sense of injustice wrestled with her fear as the long days dragged past, days so full of anguish she couldn't even remember them now except as a blur of suffering.

Then, on the very last day, a note had come. The sight of the familiar scrawl had wrung her heart.

“My dear Cassandra,

“So. The gamble did not pay off, and now I must forfeit everything to satisfy the wager. Forgive this conceit, my dear, but gaming metaphors come easily to me nowadays. They say a man dies the way he's lived. I shall try to take to the scaffold what's passed for forty-four years as a sort of reckless bravery, though there are many who would call it cheap bravado. But it no longer matters what it was.

“I wish I were leaving you in better hands than Elizabeth's, but that's only one of my innumerable regrets. She's a vain and selfish woman, and yet she has a knowledge of the world which may prove useful to you. Heed her advice sparingly. Try to be happy. Forgive me for leaving you with nothing, not even memories. All that consoles me now is that I did truly believe in the Revolution. I die for the one honest act of my life.

“I trust your threat to attend the hanging was only that—a threat. Don't come, Cassie. If I believed in the immortal soul, I would tell you ours will one day be together—but alas, I never could. Good-bye, my beautiful child.”

“Well, fer the lord's sake, she's startin' in again. Here, now, dry 'em up, yer caller's in the sittin' room. There, there, it ain't so bad.”

Cassandra stared down at the filthy handkerchief Clara had thrust into her hand. Through the tears, she couldn't help laughing. “I'll use my own, thanks,” she snuffled, wiping her eyes.

“Suit yerself, Miss Priss. An' by the way, it ain't Mr. Frane a'tall, it's a bloke named Quinn.”

“Quinn?” frowned Cass.

“Quinn. Said as how he wanted ter speak with you about yer father. Yer want me ter bring in some food? Biscuits er wine, like?”

“That would be nice, Clara. Then go away, and no listening at the door.”

“Hmpf,” answered the maid, flouncing off.

A man was peering at the framed portraits of Cassandra's parents on the fireplace mantel. He straightened at her quiet “Mr. Quinn?” and turned to greet her. They studied each other during this formality, and Cass saw a tall, thin man of about forty-five, with lank black hair combed straight back from a high forehead. He struck her as a mixture of schoolmaster and priest, with glowing black eyes that seemed to see everything. His face was bony and intelligent, the face of an ascetic, or a fanatic. He had a high, reedy tenor voice and a bulbous Adam's apple that bobbed when he spoke. There was nothing foolish or laughable about him, though; if he were a schoolmaster, there would be no tricks played while his back was turned.

“You're younger than I thought,” he said.

“I'm—”

“No, not younger.” He raised a finger as if testing the wind. “Fresher. May I sit down?”