Fortune's Lady (4 page)

Clara gave an unladylike snort. “A witch on a broomstick would look like a flamin' beauty next ter that one. Aye, yer look fine, but peaked as usual. Didn't eat yer tea, I see.”

Ignoring this, Cass shook out her skirts, straightened her spine, and moved toward the bedroom door.

“Figured out what he looks like,” Clara tossed after her.

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help pausing with her hand on the knob. “What, Clara?” she asked, with exaggerated patience.

“A mouse wearin' breeches.”

“That's very unkind.” But she had to turn away to hide a trace of a smile. It was also unoriginal—the same thought had already occurred to her days ago. She opened the door and went out.

Unkind, unoriginal—but true, she couldn't help thinking as she met Edward Frane in the sitting room and gave him the tips of her fingers in greeting.

“I vow, Miss Merlin, you look more beautiful today than ever. It seems misfortune becomes you,” he told her, his tiny dark eyes gleaming with excitement.

She murmured something appreciative, astonished by his tactlessness, then went back to staring with a kind of veiled chagrin at the man she was contemplating marrying. Mr. Frane's chief, though not his sole, physical defect was that his swarthy, mole-flecked face was too small for the rest of him—which would not have been so daunting if only his body had been larger. He looked more like an ill-formed child than a man, although she knew him to be forty if he was a day. She was ready, even eager, to overlook this as well as his myriad other shortcomings if only he would show her some compensating fineness in his character—superior intelligence, a playful wit, spiritual depth. But up to now Mr. Frane had been content to keep his nobler qualities to himself.

She offered him a chair but he declined, and she was too keyed up herself to sit down. She stood by the window, debating whether to ring and ask Clara for tea, or swallow her medicine now and let him have his say. She could see from his agitated manner that he wanted to tell her something, and she was dreadfully afraid she knew what it was.

“I've brought you a gift,” he announced importantly, reaching into his inside coat pocket and removing a thin, tissue-wrapped object some four inches square.

Instantly she guessed what it was. Years of finishing school training enabled her to smile courteously with her hand extended when it would have felt more natural, and infinitely more satisfying, to clutch at her hair and cry “Oh
God
!” “Why, it's a playing card,” she declared after she'd unwrapped it. “My, isn't it pretty?”

He laughed indulgently. “Not just
any
playing card, my dear girl. It's over a hundred years old. Flemish, you know. Notice the real gold leaf on the sides. And best of all”—he rubbed his hands together with suppressed glee—“the middle pip is asymmetrical!”

Cassandra's lips quivered, but she hummed politely. She was so very tired of Mr. Frane's antique playing cards—a life-long hobby and, apart from herself, apparently his only interest. But his gift told her he meant business; although he'd shown her dozens of cards during their brief acquaintance, never until now had he favored her with one for her very own. What did he see in her? she wondered desperately. They hardly knew each other. She'd never encouraged him, had had to struggle to be civil to him. Perhaps if she knew what it was about her that drew him, she might like him better.

“A rare card for a rare lady,” he was saying in his fatuous way, coming closer and taking her hand in both of his. It was a liberty she hadn't allowed him before now, and his heightened color testified to his appreciation of it. They were much the same height, she noticed distractedly; for that matter they were much the same weight. It was shallow of her, she knew, but somehow she'd always thought her husband would be bigger than she was. She gazed back into his bright brown eyes, trying to imagine waking up beside him each morning, day after day, year after year, for the rest of her life. Her spirit cringed. How vain of her, how frivolous—and yet she couldn't, really she just couldn't—

“My dear,” he cried, holding tighter as she started to draw her hand away, “what a difficult time you've had! I thought of you all day yesterday. I felt such helplessness, such sympathy.”

But not enough to attend my father's funeral, she thought, and had to press her lips together to keep from saying it out loud.

“But for now, enough of sadness—you and I must speak of other things. I'm sorry to intrude on your grief in this way, but I assure you my purpose is to ease your mind, not burden it.”

“You're very kind.” She tugged again to release her hand, now slippery with his sweat, but his grip didn't slacken. “Won't you—sit down?” she tried again.

“Have you given any thought to what you'll do now?” he asked, oblivious. “You must forgive me for this unseemly haste, but I have reason to know that your father's death has occasioned a need for some changes in your life in the very near future. I pray I don't flatter myself when I venture to hope those changes might include me.”

His breath smelled like cheese. Beyond that, it irritated her to think that his “reason to know” anything at all about her must surely have come from Aunt Beth. The thought of the two of them discussing her in any way whatsoever annoyed her out of all proportion. “Mr. Frane—” she began.

But he was working himself up to it and there was no stopping him. “You must know the high regard in which I hold you, Miss Merlin,” he said feelingly, “you couldn't possibly not know. Although we haven't known each other long, I feel a very deep, very strong attachment to you. I know I'm not much of a man for words, but—I think you're splendid! And I can provide for you handsomely, I do assure you, for I'm quite a wealthy man.”

She stiffened her arm; endeavoring to maintain the gap of space she'd put between them and which he was doing his best to close. “Oh, Mr. Frane—”

“And generous as well, if you've not already noticed. No woman has ever had cause to complain of Edward Frane's openhandedness, you can be certain of that.”

“I'm sure. It's just—”

“You'd have everything you've ever wanted— beautiful clothes, jewelry, even your own carriage. And you could live anywhere you liked in all of London. But of course, my house is in Aldersgate, so you'd want to be in that general vicinity for the sake of convenience.”

Cass blinked. “What?”

“As for availability and all that sort of thing, we can work out the details later, but I tell you I'm prepared to be flexible. My only absolute requirement is Sundays—you would have to be at my disposal on Sundays. It's my day off.”

Fighting a strong temptation to laugh—not at him but at herself—Cass used her left hand to pry the fingers of her right out of his wet, spidery grasp and took a step back. “You're asking me to be your mistress,” she said, enunciating carefully.

“You'd never regret it, I promise you. Cassandra —Miss Merlin—do say yes. I'd give you everything you ever wanted, I swear it. My dear, you're so lovely—” He reached for her and she took another hasty step back.

“You won't marry me?”

“Marry you!” He was astounded. His eyes widened to the size of sixpences. “My dear girl—”

“Why not?”

“Why not! Well!” At least he had the grace to blush. “It's nothing against you personally, but it—it's just not possible.”

“Why isn't it?”

“You must know I
couldn't.
It would be—”

“It would be what? Tell me!” Why was she tormenting him? She knew the answer as well as he. In truth, she wanted to see him squirm.

“It's out of the question. You—you're—No, no, it's impossible. Besides, my father's a clergyman.”

“Your—” Her jaw dropped. “You're saying he'd be upset if you married me, but not if you only— fornicated with me?” This time she did laugh, though without a particle of humor. “What sort of clergyman is he, Mr. Frane?” His small face went a mottled shade of red, but before he could answer she pointed to the door. “I want you to leave now, sir. You are not welcome in this house.”

“Here, now! Here, now, there's no need to take that tone! We're adults. We can discuss this calmly, I hope. I'm asking very little of you, Miss Merlin. Discretion, really, that's all I'm asking of you, in return for quite a comfortable living. And what else can you do? Be realistic, I implore you. Who else would ask you? There's no one but me and you know it!”

Only the realization that he was speaking the truth kept her from losing her temper completely. “I told you to go,” she got out through stiff lips. “If you don't leave this minute, I'll have you thrown out.” By whom, she wondered, Clara? Perhaps between them—

“Look here, you can't talk to me that way!” he cried, angry himself now. But he took a defensive step back. “Who do you think you are? I came here to offer you a decent living with a generous allowance—”

“Decent!”

“—which is a damn sight more than any other man would do for you now. I know all about you, girl, so this lily-white act is a waste of time with me.”

“How dare you!”

“Your aunt can't keep you! Now that they've hung your old man, you'll be lucky to find work in a bawdy-house!”

She advanced on him furiously. “Get out! You
toad
!”

He retreated, thin legs churning, until he was half in, half out the door. He called her a short, ugly name, one she'd never heard before. She seized an umbrella from the stand by the door. But all she had now was her dignity, and she chose not to squander it on a rat. Instead of pummeling him, she tore his antique Flemish five of hearts into pieces, threw them at him, and slammed the door in his face.

C
ASSANDRA STARED DOWN
at the soft, fluid folds of her pretty, white muslin gown and worried that it wasn't suitable. She'd seen none like it in the three weeks she'd been here, though in Paris the new Grecian style was swiftly becoming the
dernier cri.
She guessed it was a bit provocative, worn without stays or a “false rump.” The old style of dress had enclosed women in a kind of fortress. Now, she reflected, there was nothing to prevent a girl from giving way to any passing caprice. Or as her friend Angelique put it, “It doesn't show afterwards.”

She shrugged at her reflection. Provocative or not, it was the only white dress she owned, and Mr. Quinn wanted white.

She went to the bureau and pulled out a red and blue scarf. Should she wear it? The tricolor was worn with such patriotic fervor in France these days—would it send the traitorous Mr. Wade the correct signal? Impulsively, she tied it around her waist as a sash.

She stepped back to see herself. She'd rejected the classical headdress she usually wore with the gown; instead she'd pulled her hair back rather severely from her forehead, secured it in back with pins, and let it fall freely past her shoulders in its usual curly, often unruly, mass. Surely
that
wouldn't be thought provocative. She couldn't see her lower half in the mirror over the bureau and so could only guess at the effect of her thin-soled buskins laced over the ankles. It occurred to her she'd seen none of them in London, either. Apparently the passion for dressing up as a Greek goddess hadn't taken hold of Englishwomen yet. She made a wry face in the mirror. Perhaps she would set the style.

She went back to the high bureau and folded her arms across the top. Was there something in her face that others could see and she could not? She studied her large gray eyes in the mirror, the black lashes and arched brows. Her nose was straight, her lips seemed all right. She smiled, then grinned. Straight teeth, none missing. Black hair, clean if not always tidy. Her skin was healthy, not blotched; men, and less often women, had even complimented her on it.

She could see nothing extraordinary. She had to wonder about the adequacy of Mr. Quinn's intelligence-gathering if his information regarding her so-called decadent style of life in Paris was no more reliable than her aunt's. Oughtn't spies to be able to ferret out the truth, not settle for gossip? Why was everyone so ready to believe the worst—Aunt Beth, Mr. Quinn, Edward Frane?

She watched a slow flush color her cheeks at the thought of Mr. Frane and ground her teeth in fury. That—
bastard
! The unfamiliar curse gave her a thrill of satisfaction. She said it aloud, enjoying the coarse syllables. But it was exactly what he was and she wasn't sorry for saying it. Since yesterday she'd been regretting she hadn't beaten him with the umbrella after all. But anger at this point was a useless luxury she couldn't afford to indulge. With characteristic resolution, she put it aside.

Her hand went to Mr. Quinn's letter on the bureau and she automatically unfolded it. His handwriting was small, obsessively neat, somehow depressing.

“Dear Miss Merlin,” she read again. “Your decision, though difficult, is the right one. I doubt you will regret it in the end, although it must seem frightening now. You say you will accept the money only as a loan. That, of course, is up to you; but as far as I'm concerned it's yours, all of it, to use at your discretion. As for where you will live afterward, I would only urge you not to make a hasty decision now, as things may look quite different when our project is finished. In any case, the offer remains open.

“And now to business. Our quarry is a man named Colin Wade. He is the third son of the Earl of Stainesbury; he possesses no title, but receives an allowance from his father which permits him to enjoy a life of considerable luxury. His wife is unwell and usually resides at their country home in Bath. They are childless.

“I will tell you more about him in time, but for now I think it best that you make his acquaintance without preconceptions.