Fortune's Lady (21 page)

He put down the glass and picked up his viola; he'd dropped it in the windowseat last night after he'd seen Cass standing in the doorway, watching him. He plucked the strings absently with his thumb, remembering. She'd wanted to tell him something. What? He'd had something to tell her, too, but couldn't force the words out. She would go to Wade over his dead body, he vowed, his hand surrounding the delicate neck of the instrument in a suddenly violent grip.

What would Oliver say if he knew he'd not only neglected to pass on the message about Wade, but had actually asked Cass to live with him? He shuddered inwardly, shrinking from a vivid mental picture of Quinn's wrath. But worse than his wrath would be his disappointment. Nothing pierced him more deeply than Quinn's disapproval. The power he held over him was very strong and very real, and it had been that way since he was nine years old. On top of that, he owed Oliver an enormous debt, and part of it involved handing Cass over to Wade.

He stood up, watching the sky lighten through the branches of the locust tree. The choice wasn't difficult. He wouldn't do it, not even for Quinn. The consequences of the choice didn't matter. Cass was his.

Two days later, he knocked loudly at the door to Number 47 Ely Place.

“Well, if it ain't Mr. Riordan. Good afternoon ter you,” grinned Clara, dropping her version of a curtsy. “Come up, why don't yer? The young miss ain't home, but you could speak to 'er ladyship instead, if yer like.”

“Where is she? Miss Merlin, I mean,” asked Riordan, following the maid up the unlit staircase. The place was gloomy and damp and depressing, and he felt his usual frustrated annoyance at the thought of Cass living here.

“Mayhap yer'd best ask 'er ladyship about that,” Clara advised after a pause, rolling her eyes mysteriously. She said no more until she had led him into the small, overcrowded sitting room where Lady Sinclair was seated at her desk, writing a letter. “Here's Mr. Riordan, merlady,” she announced briefly, and retired.

They regarded each other across the width of the room with mutual dislike—he because of the way she treated Cass, she because her attempt to seduce him one night while he waited for her niece had been a humiliating failure.

“I understand Cass isn't at home,” Riordan said coldly, forgoing a greeting. “Would you be good enough to tell me when you expect her back?”

Lady Sinclair laughed lightly and leaned an elbow on the back of her chair so that her breasts were more prominently displayed beneath her amber silk gown. “I'm sure I couldn't say, Mr. Riordan. I long ago gave up trying to keep track of my niece's whereabouts.”

“Yes, I know,” he agreed stonily. “I sent her a message. She was to meet me this morning in Green Park.”

“Green Park! How
outré.
”

“Do you know if she got my note?” he persisted, determined to keep his temper.

“I think it highly unlikely.” She tapped her teeth with the tip of her pen. “Indeed, highly unlikely.”

“And why would that be?”

“Why would that be? Because she wasn't here this morning.”

His fists clenched at his sides. “Where was she?”

“This morning? At what time?”

He counted to ten. “At the time she would otherwise have been here to receive my message,” he enunciated slowly.

“Ah! Well, I expect that would have been sometime around eleven. Now, let me see. If they stopped overnight, and I'm not at all sure they did, they might possibly have reached Stratford-upon-Avon by eleven this morning, I should think. He'd hired a post-chaise, though, and I believe they drive them straight through the night nowadays. Isn't it marvelous? Now, if that were the case, I expect they'll have nearly reached Manchester by now. But it's difficult to say, isn't it? It all depends—”

“Wade!” His face was livid and his voice shook. He took two steps toward her and Lady Sinclair's satisfied smile wavered. “It was Wade, wasn't it?”

“Why”—she laughed falsely—“I can see there's no use trying to keep a secret from you! Indeed, Mr. Wade came for her yesterday morning, very early. She was taken quite by surprise—or so she
said
,” she amended with a little malicious sneer. “They spoke privately for a few minutes, and the next thing I knew she was packing a bag and bidding me a fond adieu.”

“And you let her go?” He held his hands behind his back to prevent himself from shaking her.

Her ladyship shook her head sorrowfully. “In all honesty, sir, Cassandra has always been a wild, ungovernable child. And unfortunately, where men are concerned, completely lacking in discretion.”

“If that's true, it's because she had an excellent teacher,” he snarled. “Where are they bound for?”

She rose from her chair with an admirable imitation of affronted dignity. “I refuse to be insulted in my own home. Please leave.”

She let out a little shriek when he sprang at her and pressed her back down in the chair. “I asked you where they were going. If you don't tell me, I'll break your arm.”

She believed him. “Lancaster. He has a house there.” She spat the words out, her eyes glittering with hatred. “Now get out. If you ever come back, I'll have you arrested.”

He released her shoulders and smiled pleasantly. “You can't. I'm immune from prosecution for anything except treason.” He bowed formally and went to the door. He thought he could hear Clara scuttling away on the other side. With his hand on the knob, he turned back. He regarded Lady Sinclair's tightly corseted figure, her reddish-blonde hair, the generous expanse of white bosom. She reminded him of a Rubens nude, fleshy and voluptuous, alluring, corrupt. “I'm going to find Cass and bring her back to London,” he told her. “After that, madam, if it's in my power, I promise you you'll never see her again.” He waited, but she didn't speak, and he closed the door in her spiteful face.

“W
ILL THAT BE ALL, MISS?”

“Yes, Ellen, thanks.”

“Have a good night's sleep, then, miss. I'm sure you can use it.”

Cass smiled at the pretty lady's maid and watched her go. She was more efficient and infinitely more polished than her maid at home, but somehow she missed Clara—missed her humor, which wasn't always intentional, and her blunt way of speaking. And Clara would have enjoyed the long, raucous journey much more than Cass had. She'd hinted as much to Wade on the morning he'd proposed this outlandish outing. But he'd derided her tentative scruple that a chaperone might be desirable, saying there would be so many people crowded into his hired post-chaise that they could all chaperone each other—which rather missed the point, she'd thought—and that when they arrived at Ladymere she could have as many maids as she wanted.

She settled back in the comfortable overstuffed armchair and took a bite of biscuit. She pushed her bare feet closer to the small fire Ellen had made in the grate to drive out the dampness. It had rained the whole last day of the journey, dousing the mood of the travelers along with the roads. But spirits had revived this evening among the six ladies and gentlemen riding in her coach when they'd won the impromptu race, arriving at Wade's palatial Lancashire estate well ahead of the other two chaises they'd set out with from London. There was a rumor that one had gotten stuck in the mud at Stoke-on-Trent, and the fate of the third was still a mystery. The charm of riding for thirty-six hours without stopping except for meals and tolls was lost on Cass; for her the best part of the journey was this moment. She was finally alone, finally comfortable, and finally able to think.

She hoped she'd done the right thing in coming on this wild ride. There had been no time to consult Riordan or Quinn about it; she'd had to rely on her instincts. But this was what she was being paid for, she reasoned, to learn as much as she could about the private life of Colin Wade. And she could hardly refuse an opportunity to discover if some of the guests this weekend were not only friends of his but members of his secret organization of assassins as well.

She looked around at the large, comfortable bedroom, expensively decorated in blue and yellow and lime green. As Wade's special friend, she'd been given the best guest room, and yet all the rooms she'd seen on her brief and incomplete tour this evening had been large and grand and opulently furnished. It made her wonder about the conflict between Wade's style of life and his supposed revolutionary goals. He was nearly as rich as Riordan, whose wealth he ridiculed. How did he rationalize the contradiction? Like Riordan, he too was playing a role, living a life of luxury and even decadence while hiding his true ideals. She suspected that, unlike Riordan, he relished the decadence, and his ideals allowed him to embrace violence and political murder. If he ever took her into his confidence, she supposed she could ask him how he justified the difference between his way of life and his principles, but until then she could only speculate.

It was very late, and she was exhausted. She took a final sip of tea and stood up, stretching. The bed looked lovely. She blew out the candle, pulled back the soft counterpane, and crept between the sheets. Presently she could make out the shapes of tree branches cast on the ceiling by the moonlight. Where was Riordan right now? she wondered on a tired sigh. It wasn't a new thought—she'd wondered it a dozen times over the course of the journey. Had he gotten her note yet from Aunt Beth? And if he had, would he care that she'd gone off with Wade? Probably not.

It had been four days since she'd seen him—the longest they'd been apart in over a month. He probably welcomed the separation; it would give him more time to be with Claudia. Were they together now? Perhaps they were dancing, or walking arm-in-arm in a moonlit garden. Or listening to music together. Yes, that was more likely—they were both musical. In her mind's eye she saw Claudia's glossy chestnut hair, her calm, superior smile and perfect poise. “Such glorious bombast, what sublime histrionics!” she remembered her saying in her oh-so-refined accent. If Cass lived to be a hundred, she knew she would never achieve that airy, effortless sophistication. With a groan, she turned on her side and drew up her knees.

It was all very well to say she'd come here to spy on Wade, but she knew in her heart that the true reason had been to get out of London, away from Riordan. She felt again, as she often had in the last four days, the scathing humiliation of his last abandonment—made all the more awful by the awareness of how close she'd come that night to giving in to him. God, how she'd wanted him! She hadn't known it was possible to want a man that way. No one had ever told her. Had her parents loved each other like that? She hoped so. Then a thought struck: was it possible Aunt Beth felt this same helpless, uncontrollable yearning for each of her lovers? Was it? No. A sure instinct told her that couldn't be true, that what she felt for Riordan was completely unlike her aunt's furtive, short-lived encounters with men.

And yet she didn't feel particularly loving or passionate at the moment. She felt angry and hurt and jealous, and she hoped whatever fatal disease Claudia's father had was contagious.

She rolled into a tighter ball, realizing what she'd just wished.
I'm sorry
,
I'm sorry
,
I'm sorry
, she chanted to her hazy, somewhat superstitious version of God,
I didn't mean it
! Oh, she was such a child. When was she going to grow up? She'd had some idea that wearing glasses and reading lots of books would turn her into an adult, but evidently it was going to take more than that. She had an urge to do something brave and wonderful so that Riordan would love her. That was even more childish, she knew, but the fantasy was too compelling to relinquish. She wanted to do something glorious and tragic, like—like dying for her principles. She saw herself walking toward the guillotine, her head held high, shoulders thrust back bravely. Rather than betray him, she was going to sacrifice herself for Riordan. The taunting crowd would fall silent, awed by her courage. And he would be standing somewhere among them, watching her, overcome with his terrible grief and fear. At the last minute he would shout out his love for her and she would be saved. Somehow. After that they would be together forever, and he would adore her. She fell asleep imagining herself riding before him on a white stallion, his arms around her, both of them staring straight ahead into the future ….

She slept late the next day, but so did the rest of the household. A maid brought her tea and toast in bed, and later she had a bath. She was dressed and seated before the dressing table mirror, letting Ellen style her hair, when a knock came at the door.

“Colin, good morning—or good afternoon, I should say. Come in. It's all right; Ellen's doing my hair.” It occurred to her that she had Aunt Beth to thank for one thing, at least—teaching her the proper, or improper, way to greet a man in her boudoir. She was relieved when he didn't send the maid away, but leaned against one of the bedposts and watched her in the mirror. He looked immaculate in a bottle-green coat and buff breeches.

“Good morning, my dear. There's no need to ask if you slept well; I can see it in your face. You look radiant. Ah, how I envy the resilience of youth.”

She made a face. “Oh, indeed, you're such an
old man
, it's a wonder you didn't expire along the journey! Give me another minute and I'll help you down the stairs.”

He laughed appreciatively and reached into his waistcoat pocket. “Here,” he said, placing a small box in front of her on the table, “this is for you. Open it.”

She did, with a pleased smile, while Ellen stood back respectfully and waited. “Why, it's—it's—” She had no idea what it was. It looked like a piece of wood.

He laughed again, amused at her confusion. He leaned over and spoke softly in her ear. “I'll tell you what it is later, perhaps tonight. There are so many things we have to talk about, Cassandra.” He put his lips against her cheek and then straightened. “Now, hurry down, my love. There's a light meal in the dining room, and then we're all going shooting.”