Fortune's Lady (45 page)

Clara glanced between them. She raised knowing eyebrows, put the brush down, and went out without a word.

Cass examined his face anxiously. Something was on his mind, but he didn't seem distraught or upset. Had Quinn not told him after all? “Is he gone?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes.”

“Did you…quarrel?”

“No, no.” He picked up the brush and began to stroke her sleek, silky hair, watching her eyes close. After a while he abandoned the brush and used his hands, lifting the heavy mass from the back of her neck and letting it tumble through his fingers, a rich, inky black. A feast for his senses. He rested his hands on her shoulders, caressing her collarbone.

“Is anything wrong?”

“Yes, actually. It's…” He looked into her grave, concerned face. She was so precious to him. He thought of the time when they were fighting, when he thought he'd lost her. He took a breath. “It's my father.”

“Your father?”

“He's more ill than I thought. I've just received word.” He could hardly get the words out. Now he wished he'd told her the truth. Too late.

“Oh, Philip. I'm so sorry.” She turned around and embraced him.

He held her head against his chest. “I have to go to Cornwall tomorrow.”

“It's that bad? Shall I come with you?”

He swallowed and closed his eyes. “No. Thank you. I'll go on horseback and return on Friday.”

“Friday? Oh, the debate.”

“I don't really think he's in any danger, Cass. Please don't worry, will you? I'll just…see him and come right back.”

She squeezed him tightly. “I'll miss you.”

He buried his face in her hair, holding her, then brought her to her feet. “I'll miss you,” he said fiercely. He opened her robe and pushed it back over her shoulders, watching in the mirror behind her as it fluttered to the floor. Then he took handfuls of her nightgown and slowly raised it over her knees, her thighs, her buttocks.

Cass watched his eyes turn opaque, still focused on her reflection. She put her hands on his face and pulled his mouth down. “Show me how much you'll miss me.”

He did.

Cass leaned back against the carriage seat and closed her eyes, pleasantly exhausted after an afternoon of shopping and socializing. She'd joined the subscription library in Mayfair as well, and the haughty matrons who frequented it had welcomed her like visiting royalty. She'd felt almost, but not quite, like a fraud. She
was
a nice person, after all, and she was getting smarter all the time. If they liked her now solely because she was Mrs. Philip Riordan, that didn't mean that someday they wouldn't like her for herself. Armed with patience and a healthy measure of indifference, she had the leisure to wait for as long as it took.

Her hand went out to one of the wrapped parcels at her side. Her extravagance still shocked her. But she'd wanted something splendid to give Philip when he returned. It was a cloak of fine downy wool, black, lined with gray fox. Conservative but elegant, the shopkeeper assured her, and she knew it suited him perfectly. She could hardly wait to give it to him.

Two whole days before he returned! What would she do with herself? At first, as extraordinary as it seemed, she hadn't missed him at all; indeed, she'd very nearly welcomed his leaving. Since that day in the Members' Chapel when he'd asked her to marry him again, she'd existed in a state of near-total happiness, and the longer it went on the more it frightened her. Sustained joy like this wasn't natural, or so her experience had taught her. Riordan's absence would restore some needed balance, she reasoned, and return her to a more normal state of mind. She needed time to think, to put into perspective the events of the last few weeks, so that by the time he returned she might have discovered a way to extend the term of this precious, but surely temporary, euphoria.

But she hadn't found a way, and now all she wanted was for him to come home. What seemed unnatural now was living without him. She didn't want to ponder the miracle of their reconciliation anymore; she wanted to
see
him.

Two more days! How would she occupy her time? Jennie Willoughby had invited her to a card party tomorrow night, and that would be pleasant, of course. And she could always read, and work on her new article. She was tentatively calling it “Women and Revolution.” This one would definitely be under her pseudonym; even Philip didn't know she was writing it.

She recalled a conversation with him one night last week as they lay in bed, reading. She'd interrupted him, as was her habit when something puzzled her or caught her fancy. And as was
his
unfailing habit, he'd put his book down and given her his complete attention.

“Philip, it says here that all men are created equal; no man has a natural authority over his fellow man…so on and so on and so on—” her finger skipped down the page—“conventions form the basis of authority among men; to renounce liberty is to renounce being a
man; man
consults his reason before listening to his inclinations…and so on and so forth. Darling, I was just wondering. Why is it that in all these political books I've been reading, they never, ever utter the word
women
?
Never.
Why?”

He'd frowned, considering it. A moment passed. Finally he answered. “It's included.” And he turned a page and went back to his book.

She looked at him in silence. “Oh,” she said, and after another minute went back to hers, not quite satisfied.

The carriage was slowing down, entering the solid, unpretentious respectability of Portman Square. She quite liked her new house, with its elegant stone facade, the gracefully arched entranceway.

A man was ascending the shallow front steps to the door. She didn't have to see his face to recognize him; she knew too well that gaunt body, the jerky, loose-limbed movements. It was Quinn.

Tripp helped her down and took her packages while Quinn waited for her on the top step. She went toward him steadily, head high, nothing in her look or manner betraying her deep unwillingness to see him. “Mr. Quinn,” she greeted him, but didn't extend her hand. “Will you come in? Philip's out of town, but—”

“Yes, I know. It's you I've come to see.”

The words gave her a quick chill, but she moved past him calmly enough and gave her coat to a servant in the foyer. Quinn wore none, not even a hat, though the day was freezing. She decided against taking him into the library; she wanted the formality of the drawing room for this meeting. She suspected neither of them wanted tea, but she ordered it anyway, then asked him to have a seat. She remained standing. He'd come to see her, he'd said, but evidently he wasn't going to speak first. He was watching her, his pale, other-worldly face expressionless, waiting for her to begin.

“Did you receive my note?” she asked finally. “I sent it to you more than a week ago.”

“I got it.”

There was a pause. So he was going to make it as difficult as possible. “Why haven't you told Philip, then?” she blurted out.

“Told him what?”

“The truth!” Her anger hit the surface with unexpected force, taking her by surprise. She heard the note of fury in her tone and took several deep breaths to calm herself. She would accomplish nothing by screaming at him.

“Mr. Quinn,” she began again. “The last time you and I spoke alone, you told me something about my husband I now know to have been…not the truth. The best possible interpretation I can put on it is that you made a mistake. That seems incredible, but I shrink from the only other explanation that comes to mind—that you deliberately lied to me so that I would leave Philip and go to Wade.”

Quinn crossed his long shanks and leaned back. “I still want you to go to Wade.”

She stared. “But do you deny that you lied?”

“Yes, I deny it,” he answered readily.

“But—we're to be
married
! Married
again,
I should say!”

“Do you think so?” He clasped one bony knee in both hands. “I wouldn't count on it. In betting parlance, that would not be a sure thing.” He reached into his jacket pocket. “This is, however.”

“What is it?” She looked with distaste at the envelope he put on the sofa beside him.

“Money. The other thousand pounds you were promised after the assignment was completed. I'm willing to give it to you now if you'll return to Wade.”

Cass couldn't quite summon a laugh, though one certainly seemed called for now. “You must be completely out of your mind. Philip would kill me if I saw Wade, for one thing, and for—”

“Tell me, Cassandra, are
you
afraid of Wade?”

“I—” She paused, uncertain of the answer. “It doesn't matter whether I am or not, I'm not going to see him. My God, I can't believe you would offer me money! Philip is my
husband
, and he—”

“And you have no need of money, that being the case,” he finished with a snide smile.

The anger came bubbling up again, and this time it wouldn't be suppressed. “I'm through protecting you!” she cried. “I intend to tell Philip everything I know about you as soon as he comes home. I don't care anymore about your so-called friendship, and I suspect you've never cared about it either. I think you used me, and you've used my husband, and you'd use anyone in the world if you thought they could help you get what you want! Did you steal our marriage certificate, Mr. Quinn? Did you bribe the tollkeeper to say he hadn't married us?”

She went closer, unafraid, her eyes flashing fire. “Philip never tried to kill anyone, did he? Admit it! You told him that so he'd feel obligated to you and do what you asked. You're a vicious manipulator. You took a boy's innocent adulation and used it for your own ends. You tried to make Philip believe he was a violent, alcoholic lout who would try to kill a man in a drunken rage and then turn on his best friend. How did you really get that scar, I wonder? I'll wager Philip had nothing to do with it!”

She was shaking with emotion, on the verge of weeping. There was a tap at the door and she turned away to hide her face. The maid put the tea tray down, curtsied, and went away. When Cass turned back, Quinn was calmly pouring tea.

“Sugar?” When she didn't respond, he dropped in a teaspoonful, shrugging, then poured himself a cup. He took a few audible sips before setting the cup down and looking at her.

“I've never liked you, Miss Merlin,” he said matter-of-factly, “and I've done a rather poor job of pretending I did. But what I told you about Philip was the simple truth: he did not marry you. I'll go a step further. If he
ever
marries you, I'll add another thousand pounds to your fee.”

“I want you to leave now.” She could barely contain herself.

“I'm not ready to leave.” He stood up and came toward her. She saw the dislike in his eyes, undisguised at last, and resisted taking a step backward. “Listen to me, girl. Wade is a dangerous man, but he means you no harm. You have to go back to him and find out what he intends. Listen to me!” He grabbed her arm when she started to move away and held it in a hard, painful grip. “Time is running out. He's booked passage on a boat to France in two days. Whatever is to happen will be soon, and
we must stop it.
Is that clear to you?” He took her by the shoulders and shook her, peering into her eyes with feverish intensity. “This is more important than your jealousies and stupid quarrels! This is the King of England! Do you—”

“Stop it! Let me go!” She shoved him off violently and stumbled to the door. “If you don't leave this minute, I'll call the servants and have you thrown out. I mean it.” She was trembling, breathing hard, her knees shaking.

His manner changed. He lowered his voice. “I'm sorry, I was too harsh. Forgive me for frightening you.”

“I'm not frightened. I want you to go.”

“In a moment. I want to leave you with one more thought.” He picked up the envelope and brought it to her, forcing it into her hand, squeezing her fingers around it. “Philip told you he was going to visit his poor, ailing father, didn't he?” he asked, his face close to hers. She could smell the peculiar essence of his breath. “He didn't. He lied to you again. He went to see Claudia Harvellyn, in Somerset. Her country estate at Wellington.”

“Liar.” She tried to pull away, but couldn't.

“He's in love with her. He always has been. The baser side of his character conceived a physical passion for you, Cassandra, and he—”

“Let me
go
!”

“He pretended to marry you so he could have you. He's almost through with you now, but not quite. I know this because he told me.”

“Bastard!”

“Since you don't believe me, I suggest you ask the servants. Ask Tripp where he took him in the carriage yesterday—to meet the coach going to Wellington, not Launceton. Ask John Walker where his employer went. Ask Beal—”

With a final jerk, she wrenched her hand out of his paralyzing grip and fell back against the door. Unable to speak, she pulled it open and stood aside, holding onto the knob for support.

Quinn's face was full of contempt. He pulled something else from his pocket. “Here's the letter he wrote her. Never mind how I got it.” Cass shrank back as if from a poisonous reptile. “You don't want it? I'll tell you what it says. ‘My dearest Claudia. I will be with you as soon as I possibly can, tomorrow afternoon at the latest. All my love, Philip.' It's dated Monday night. You still don't want it? I'll put it here on the table.”

“Get out,” she tried to say, but the words were inaudible.

“Find out what Wade intends, Miss Merlin. It's all you can do now to redeem your miserable life. Send word either to me or to Philip as soon as you learn anything. Then take the money and get out of London.”