Fortune's Lady (46 page)

He went past her, down the hall, and out the front door.

A
GARGOYLE FOR A
door knocker. How fitting, thought Cass, reaching up to the hideous, half-human face and letting it fall against the brass plate underneath. The sound was loud and unpleasant. She closed her eyes, waiting, thinking of nothing, and in a moment Wade's butler opened the door.

“Mrs. Riordan, how nice to see you.” He stepped back to let her enter.

“Is Mr. Wade at home, Martin?”

“He is, madam, but he's entertaining visitors at the moment. Business associates, I believe. Would you care to wait in the drawing room? It shouldn't be much longer now.”

His amiable formality allowed her to relax a little; what, after all, could happen to her in such staid, conventional surroundings? She followed Martin into the drawing room, and a moment later he brought her a glass of sherry and some biscuits.

It was eleven o'clock in the morning, but she sipped the sherry gratefully. For courage.

She heard masculine voices raised, coming from the direction of Wade's study. She went to the doorway and listened intently. But she could make out none of the words and dared not go any closer; the study was at the far end of the hall and she would easily be noticed by any passing servant.

As little as she wanted to see him, she wished Wade would come, and knew it was because she was afraid to be alone, afraid to think. She'd done enough of that last night. Her eyes burned from weeping and her head was fuzzy from sleeplessness. There was a physical pain in the center of her chest. She pressed her fist against it for relief, but there was no relief.

She went to the window and gazed out at the dreary day, tracing the trails of raindrops on the glass with her finger.
Philip, Philip
! It was a near-constant chant on the edges of her mind.
Why did you do it
?
How could you hurt me this much?
She put her face in her hands, swallowing to keep the tears back. If only she could hate him! This time her humiliation was total, but the pain she felt was even stronger than the anger. And the worst was not knowing why. What had she ever done to deserve cruelty like this? What contempt he must feel for her! But why,
why
? As excruciating as it would be, she needed to ask him. When this dangerous game with Wade was finally played out, she would return and confront him. Powerless as she was, she would not let him go completely free.

But what was she doing here?
I'm here because I want to be
, she told herself, beginning to pace between the door and the windows. But was it true? What if this was only a childish, self-destructive impulse, a craven attempt to make Philip sorry? She recalled her state of mind at Ladymere all those months ago, when she had longed to do something gloriously heroic so that he would admire her—no, so that he would love her more than he did Claudia. Was that what this was all about? Was it?

No, she didn't think so. She'd been a child then. She was anything but a child now. Wade frightened her, but she was here. If Riordan hadn't forbidden it, she'd have come before now, regardless of the danger. Why? Because she believed in the importance of the job Quinn had hired her to do, and because they'd made a bargain and she needed to keep her word. The fact that Riordan didn't want her now only made things easier. Clearer. Now she had no attachments, no one to hurt, and no one to worry about her. She would “redeem her miserable life,” as Quinn phrased it. She'd grown to revere the institution of the English monarchy as she'd read and listened and learned; she had no wish to be a martyr, but she was willing to take this risk, on her own, to try to preserve it. However murky her other motives might be, this one was true and real.

But was she really going to be able to do it? Or was Quinn's faith in her ability to uncover Wade's plans only a fanatic's delusion? She couldn't think straight, couldn't feel anything but pain; how was she supposed to outwit an assassin? She sipped more sherry and tried to clear her mind. But behind everything, weighing her down like clods of earth on a coffin, was the knowledge that regardless of what words she found the courage to say to Riordan, in a matter of days she would never see him again. That made everything else in her life, including this last-minute try at foiling Wade, seem as cold as dead ashes.

She heard the study door open, and the men's voices came to her clearly. She moved a few steps to see down the hall, but kept away from the door. Besides Wade, she recognized two of the half-dozen gentlemen standing in the foyer: Ian Thorn, whom Riordan already knew to be one of Wade's henchmen, and Mr. Sherwood, the silent, older man she'd met at the house party in Lancashire. So he
was
one of them. She listened carefully, but their conversation was unremarkable; whatever secrets there were to tell had been told already. At that moment the butler said something in Wade's ear and he looked up. Cass was in shadow, but she had the feeling he was staring directly at her. Something in his face caused her to feel the first faint tremor of panic.

The men left—gradually, she thought, as though not wanting to vacate the house in a group. Wade strolled down the hall toward her in his unhurried way. A part of her noted the elegant combination of his plum velvet jacket and dove-gray waistcoat. He stopped at the door and stood for a long moment without speaking. She could think of nothing to say to break the odd silence; the expression on his face was disturbing but indecipherable.

“I'm sorry if my coming here is a bother to you, Colin,” she finally managed, “but I didn't know where else to go. I've left Philip for good. You told me once I could stay with you. I'm hoping you'll let me now.”

He came closer, still without greeting her, watching her in a peculiar, measuring way. “Why did you leave him?” he asked suddenly. “What did he do?”

“He—” It wouldn't do to say he'd broken her heart. “He beat me. When he was drunk. I'm never going back to him.”

Something flashed across his features. He put his hands on her upper arms and kneaded them, bringing her closer. There was a brief, excited flicker in his cinnamon-colored eyes. “How did he do it? With his hands? A strap?”

Appalled, she pulled out of his obsessive grip. “I don't want to talk about it. It was horrible!”

“Of course,” he said quickly, his voice softening, his face assuming the proper attitude of sympathy. “And now you're here, asking to stay with me. But are you quite sure it's what you really want, Cassandra?”

She knew what he was asking. It was the moment she'd been dreading. Up to now it had always been possible to back away, pretend she didn't understand the arrangement and leave before things went too far. But not anymore. Staying with Wade would mean sleeping with him—it would be folly to pretend otherwise. If she was going to do it, it would be because she chose to do it. That was important to her. She couldn't bear to think Riordan's brutality had thrust her into a situation she couldn't control, or that she would be so passive as to allow this thing to happen to her without any exertion of her own will. She made her decision quickly, before her fear could cripple her.

“Yes, Colin, I'm quite sure.”

He smiled with his lips, “Then of course you may stay. I wouldn't want you anywhere else.”

She shuddered involuntarily. There was silence again until she recalled herself enough to say, “But—perhaps it's an awkward time for you?”

“Awkward? In what way?”

“I couldn't help noticing the men you were meeting with just now. I wondered if they might be part of your…organization.” She waited for him to speak, but he didn't. “And then I thought perhaps you were planning something important, since the…thing we spoke of before never…never happened.” Oh, why wouldn't he say something? She feared she was giving herself away while he only watched and waited.

“And you wondered what happened that day in Parliament, did you?” he asked finally, pleasantly. “I got your note, by the way. I thought it too dangerous to reply.”

“Oh, I see.” She didn't know exactly what he meant, but kept talking. “I did wonder what had happened, yes, after what you'd told me. But I assumed something had gone wrong and you were being cautious, waiting for another time. And then when all those people were arrested and no—assassin was among them, I thought someone must have found out the plan and told the authorities.”

She swallowed, feeling herself flush. She'd never been a very good liar; it didn't help to think that her life might depend on being one now. “You don't have to tell me anything,” she rushed on, “if you think it unwise. I'm not really asking you to—I only came because I had nowhere else to go, and you were kind to me before.”

“Kind? Is that what you thought it was, kindness? My dear, I'd have sworn we understood each other better than that.” He surrounded her throat with one hand, squeezing the sensitive cords playfully, hurtfully. She held perfectly still and didn't breathe. He kissed her hard, his lips closed, eyes wide open, still holding her by the throat. “I'm so glad you've come,” he whispered. “And I want to tell you all about the plan. I want you to know everything.”

Why didn't the words bring any thrill of triumph? She'd always thought his face cruel, and never more so than now. His eyes were glittering with suppressed excitement. She knew with deep certainty that he was going to hurt her, that the price she would pay for his revelations would be very dear. She prayed for courage while he caressed her, murmuring in her ear, “But come upstairs with me first. There's something I've always wanted to do with you. Then I'll tell you everything. Will you come?”

“Yes,” she whispered, but hardly any sound came out.

“And you want to come, don't you? You want me to touch you. Say it.”

“I—” She shut her eyes and drew a shallow breath. “I want you to touch me.”

He kissed her again, smiling his ice-cold smile. Then, with his arm around her shoulders, he led her out of the room.

“The master told me t' come see if you needed anything, mum.” The maid stared discreetly at the pale young woman who was sitting at the edge of the bed, buttoning her shift with shaky fingers. She had to repeat herself before the lady looked up and noticed her. “Can I get you anything at all, mum? Some tea?”

“Some tea,” Cass murmured, but she wasn't ordering it so much as saying the words out loud to make sense of them.

“Yes, some nice hot tea. Would you like some?”

Cass put her hands to her temples and tried to think. “No…my dress,” she said finally, pointing to where it lay on the floor. “It's—I've torn it. Can you—” She couldn't seem to think of the simplest words.

“Yes, mum, I can sew it for you.” The maid bent and retrieved the wrinkled gown. She had a sweet face. She kept it poker-straight, but Cass looked away to avoid her eyes. “Will there be anything else, then?”

“No. Yes—Could I have a pen and some paper?”

“Why, yes, mum.”

“Thank you.” Unable to return the maid's smile, she only watched her curtsy and walk from the room.

Presently she got up from the bed, stiffly, and crossed to the mirror over the bureau. With a mixture of curiosity and revulsion, she stared at her image. She was as pale as a wax figure, but otherwise she looked much the same as she always looked. Only one bruise showed, a purplish, spreading stain on her throat where he'd pressed his thumb. Her eyes were flat-gray and expressionless; the horror didn't show, either. She felt a humming, tingling numbness; it began in her blood and beat into her limbs and her brain, a fragile shield, a membrane as thin as an insect's wing between herself and hysteria.

She put her hands on the edge of the bureau and straightened her shoulders painfully, closing her eyes to the sight of her own face. If she looked at it any longer, she might drive herself mad. She turned away and stared around the room, taking better note of its overstuffed, almost feminine opulence than she had when he'd first led her into it. There were trunks and boxes everywhere, proof that he was going away. Suddenly her knees were shaking; she had to sit down. She moved aside half a dozen pink pillows and lowered herself onto a purple satin settee. For a moment she rested with her head in her hands, but then she sat up straight. She had to get hold of herself.

It could have been worse. He hadn't raped her, after all—though not for lack of trying. It might have been better if he had. Then he wouldn't have been so angry, wouldn't have had the leisure to think of so many ways to make her pay for his failure. At least she hadn't had to pretend to enjoy it. She'd quickly realized that he didn't want her excited, he wanted her frightened. So that part had been easy.

Without warning, a sob rose from some deep place inside, and before she could think of controlling it she was weeping without restraint. She'd hated the numbness, but this was even worse. This pain was too intense, as if with each hiccuping cry her heart were being wrenched from her chest. She fell to her side and let the choking, corrosive sobs overwhelm her.

Gradually she quieted. The peace of exhaustion was a blessing. The realization came slowly that she had not lost her mind; she was not going to lurch into hysteria. She was herself. She had survived.

And she knew what she knew. There was nothing left now but to tell Quinn. Then it would be over.

There was a tap at the door and the maid came in again. Cass took the writing materials from her without a word and she curtsied herself out, smiling her friendly smile.

Wade had a small writing desk set in the wall between the windows. She opened it and sat down. For a moment she considered whether she ought to direct her letter to Quinn or to Riordan. The former, she decided. Apart from the pain and awkwardness of addressing any words at all to Philip, what she had to convey was urgent; a tragedy might occur if she sent her note to him and he ended up dallying in Somerset with Claudia past Friday. She daubed the pen in the inkwell and began to write.