In the Garden of Seduction (14 page)

The servant was moved, and that brought her
own emotions to the fore. Over and over she swallowed, hoping to
stem the flood of tears that threatened to overcome her. She sighed
as Fenn regained his seat, and the carriage with its new passenger
once again rolled toward home.

“There’s blood on the front of your dress,”
Penelope said at last, breaking the stony silence. “Really, this is
a most unpleasant development.”

“Penelope,” Cassandra said, “I’m going to
assume you are a better person than you sometimes appear. In the
meantime I would rather we did not have speech.”

That effectively ended all further
communication. Just as well, Cassandra thought, for she was so
disgusted with those two selfish people, she knew it would be
impossible to be civil.

The child moved restlessly. His little chin
rested on his chest so only the top of his head was visible. She
believed he was sleeping as his breathing had evened, only an
occasional shuddering breath betraying his earlier tears.

She did see some blood, although she didn’t
know where it came from. Cassandra hoped his arm was the worst of
his injuries. Every lurch of the carriage created by every dip and
bump in the road made her cringe with sympathy for her small
charge. Thankfully, they were almost home.

*****

Relief flooded Cassandra a short while later
as the vehicle pulled onto her grandfather’s drive. Curious
servants surrounded the landaulet within moments of their arrival,
and an argument ensued over the identity of the child.

“What is this disturbance?”

Cassandra heard her grandfather before she
saw him. His voice rose above the commotion, and the servants fell
away from the carriage, allowing him to approach.

“Oh, Uncle, I’m so glad you are here,”
Penelope cried. “Isn’t this awful? We tried to tell Cassandra, but
she would not listen.”

Roger nodded. “Yes, indeed.”

“What is awful?” the old man barked. He
looked at his granddaughter and then the child. “Cassandra?”

“We found this little boy by the side of the
road. He was hurt…” She faltered when his features deepened into a
fierce scowl.

“Why did you bring him here?”

She blinked. “What should I have done?”

“Though this may sound cruel, you should not
have taken it upon yourself to save the boy. I would have sent
someone to see to him.”

“But something might have happened to him in
the meantime.” Cassandra could hardly believe he meant what he
said.

Her grandfather’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll not
speak of it in front of the servants.” He turned to those who still
lingered on the drive. “Does anyone know this child?”

A groom at the back of the gathering raised
his hand.

“Yes, Patrick?”

“Me and Joe here, we been talking.” Patrick
motioned to the footman standing at his side. “We’re fairly certain
that’s Mr. Bailey’s youngest son.”

“Mr. Bailey?” the earl asked.

“George Bailey—one of your tenants,
milord—an ol’ sot, he is. Got more children than he can count and
he’s beat ‘em all. Beat his wife, too.”

Cassandra listened with growing dismay. She
wondered suddenly if the boy knew what was being said. She looked
down. Eyes, round and terrified, stared back at her. Two enormous
tears collected on his lids and slipped down his dirty cheeks,
leaving salty trails.

“I know Bailey.” Grandfather sounded
regretful. “There’s nothing for it, we’ll have to take the lad
home. Let his father see to him. This is not our affair.”

“No,” Cassandra said, shaking her head. “No,
we mustn’t do that. We’ll be sending him back to the abuse.”

“Get out of the carriage, Cassandra,”
Grandfather demanded.

She did not move, watching as Roger first
climbed down from the landaulet and then helped Penelope descend.
She brought her gaze to the earl.

“At least let me see him home. I feel
responsible.” She forced the words through stiff lips, for she
hated pleading with him.

Although he was displeased, she also sensed
his unease with the situation. He examined her for so long her
heart began to thud uncomfortably. He turned to Fenn.

“Perhaps Mr. Bailey should see that we are
aware of what has happened. My granddaughter’s presence should
drive home that point.” He stepped back from the carriage. “Do not
be long. It will be dark soon.”

Cassandra and the coachman rode the short
distance from the house to the main road without speaking. The only
sound breaking the silence was the wheels of the carriage crunching
over the pebble and dirt-covered drive. They came to the turn in
the lane and she called out, requesting that Fenn stop the
carriage.

“Do you know where Mr. Stiles lives?”

The coachman twisted on his seat to look at
her. “Yes,” he said after a short pause.

“That’s where I want you to take me.”

“Miss, you’re going to get us in the worst
kind of trouble. I can’t disobey my master.”

“Fenn, if we take this child back to his
father his very life might be in danger.”

“I have a wife and children. I can’t risk
losing my employment.”

Cassandra sympathized with the coachman as
he fought with his conscience. “It won’t come to that, Fenn,” she
said. “I’ll take responsibility in the event our little detour
comes to light. My grandfather can be a hard man but he’s fair. If
you are let go, my father Quintin James will find you a position. I
will not let you suffer for my disobedience.”

The coachman’s shoulders slumped, and a
resigned look entered his eyes. He turned forward on the bench and
snapped the reins, sending the horses in the opposite direction
from Mr. Bailey’s impoverished abode.

*****

Simon heard the door chime through the haze
of a very agreeable dream. His eyes came open and he glanced across
the library at Harry. His friend sat straight in his chair, eyes
blinking as though he also had just awakened.

“Did I fall asleep?” Harry asked in a raspy
voice. “What is the hour?”

“Nearly dinner time by the looks of it,”
Simon said. “Rides at dawn and port at noon are enough to take the
stuffing out of men with tougher constitutions than we have. I
suggest we take it easy on ourselves from now on.”

Harry chuckled. “I must be a boring host if
I’m putting my guests to sleep in the middle of a deep discussion.
What were we talking about, anyway?”

“Haven’t a clue,” Simon responded. He looked
up as the butler came into the library.

“Sir,” the servant said, “a Mr. Fennigan
from the Whittingham estate has asked to speak with you.”

Harry glanced at Simon and shrugged his
shoulders before heaving himself from his chair. He crossed the
room and disappeared through the library door.

Simon stood and stretched. The rural life
ate away at his energy, and he ought to be depressed. Oddly, he
didn’t care. This respite had been extremely pleasant. The only
thing bothering him was not seeing Miss James.

The library faced the drive, and the
marquess walked to the window. Curious, he pulled back the drape.
Outside on the walk Harry was talking to a mammoth individual,
while someone waited in a carriage. Simon squinted into the fading
light.

By Jove!
is that Miss James in the
carriage?

The last vestiges of sleep vanished, leaving
behind an intense excitement. He had spent days wondering how to
contrive a meeting with her, and here she sat on Harry’s drive,
gift-wrapped in a handsome landaulet.

He straightened his vest and ran his fingers
through his tousled hair. This was the very opening he had been
waiting for. He moved from the library to the hall, heels echoing
off the marble floor as he strode through the entry and out the
front entrance.

When he reached the porch, the white-faced
expression Miss James turned on him made his mouth go dry. She
waved him over to the carriage.

The marquess walked in her direction. “Miss
James, are you all right?”

Harry stopped him. “Simon, this is Mr.
Fennigan. He is employed by my neighbor Lord Whittingham. Miss
James and Mr. Fennigan have brought us a little boy they believe
has been beaten by his father. Lord Whittingham wants the child
returned to his family, but Miss James feels this will put the lad
in further danger. She has asked us to help.”

“I really cannot do as my grandfather has
ordered me. You do understand, don’t you?” She sounded emotional,
looking at him with imploring blue eyes brimming with tears.

He was surprised. His fight with Miss James
two weeks earlier had led him to believe she would not be friendly.
The drama now unfolding could not have come at a better time. This
was a perfect opportunity for Simon to redeem himself. If she
wanted him to help this little boy then he could think of nothing
he wanted more. He walked to the carriage.

“And whom do we have here?” he asked with
tender understanding. She raised her gaze to his, and he could see
the gratitude lurking there.

“The son of one of my grandfather’s tenants.
Will you call a doctor for him?” she asked. “I think his arm is
broken.”

His eyebrows shot upward. “That is serious.
What kind of father would do that?” Simon reached toward the child,
gingerly removing him from the carriage.

“Be careful,” she cautioned.

Simon, the boy now firmly in his grasp,
turned to his host. “We will see he receives the best of care,
won’t we, Harry?”

Harry nodded at Miss James. “Don’t worry,
dear lady. We will see to the little fellow.”

“You do not know how that eases my mind.”
Her voice was thick with tears as she fought the urge to cry. The
appearance of most women did not improve with a ravaged face.

She was breathtaking.

A sudden protective desire, utterly alien,
seized Simon. “Go home, Miss James,” he said gently. “You’ve done
what you can tonight.”

She reached out and touched his arm. “Thank
you, my lord,” she whispered.

Simon waited until the carriage pulled away
then carried the boy up the steps.

Inside, Harry stopped him. “There could be
trouble, Simon, if the father decides to come for him. We have no
legal right to interfere.”

“I know.” He brought his attention to the
child in his arms. “Can you stand, young man?”

“Yes milord,” came the thready reply.

“There’s a good lad.” Simon set the boy
down. “Let’s have a look at you. Have you a name?”

“Timothy, milord.”

“Well, Timothy,” Simon said briskly, “we’re
going to take care of you. What say?”

A strained smile creased the child’s ashen
features. “Aye, milord.”

Then he crumpled to the floor,
unconscious.

*****

Cassandra awoke to blackness. The clock on
the mantle chimed the half hour and she squinted at it across the
gloom. Thirty minutes past three o’clock. Perfect timing. She threw
back the coverlet and climbed out of bed.

She dressed quickly in an old cotton gown.
Grabbing a brush, a half dozen rapid stokes brought her hair into
order, and a ribbon at the nape of her neck bound the curls
neatly.

At the door she placed her hand on the knob,
turning it slowly. Cassandra held her breath, waiting for the latch
to release. The pent-up air whooshed from her mouth when she heard
the distinctive click. She eased the door open and stepped into the
hall.

It took only minutes to creep down the
stairs and through the kitchen to the exit at the rear of the
house, but it seemed an eternity.

The night breeze greeted Cassandra as she
slipped outside. She dashed across the yard to the stables. Here
she encountered her first obstacle.

Placing a halter on her mare was not
difficult, but she had never saddled a horse. If she woke the groom
for help, that would end her outing immediately. Traveling bareback
was an option, however, then she must ride astride. She shrugged.
If she had come this far, why not add the sin of an unladylike
ride?

She led the horse from the stables to the
back pasture, praying no one would detect her departure. Every tiny
noise seemed to thunder in her ears, and she didn’t relax until she
had walked several dozen yards from the house.

Though the field was dark, the moon was a
great shimmering ball low in the sky, and it lighted her way. A
rock loomed out of the early morning shadows. Could she use it to
climb on her horse? Her foot was still a tender reminder of her
recent clumsiness.

It was a struggle. Cassandra stepped on the
rock and threw her body belly down over the back of the horse. The
dratted animal did not help matters by insisting on dancing from
side to side. Fighting into a sitting position, her legs hugging
the mare’s body, she straightened, winded but pleased.

“There now,” she said to her mount. “You
thought to stop me, didn’t you?”

Cassandra grasped the reins and turned the
horse in the direction of Mr. Stiles’ residence. She sent the mare
into a gallop, swiftly crossing the open fields. There was
something liberating about riding astride without a saddle. Perhaps
something wicked, too, but she didn’t care. She could feel the
sleek strength of the horse beneath her, and for a few ecstatic
moments she felt one with the animal.

A short while later she approached Mr.
Stiles’ manor home from the front drive. Until now it had not
occurred to her how she was to accomplish her mission. If she rang
the bell, she would wake the occupants. Perhaps if she went around
to the kitchen. It was after four o’clock in the morning. Servants
were often beginning to stir by that time.

All she wanted was to know how the little
boy fared. Leaving him in the care of the marquess had been
traumatic. Cassandra had felt a traitor, the boy’s mournful eyes
haunting her dreams.