In the Garden of Seduction (17 page)

“I don’t recall you mentioning that,” her
grandfather ventured doubtfully.

“He was a little beggar boy. I didn’t think
it was important.” She allowed a hint of the disapproval she felt
to color her answer.

“She’s a liar,” Mr. Bailey interrupted,
slurring. He continued to dance on wobbly legs while jabbing a
wavering finger in Cassandra’s direction. “She knows where my
Timothy is, and I want her to tell where she’s hiding ‘im.” He spat
on the ground.

“You are drunk, Mr. Bailey,” the earl said,
his attitude turning glacial. “Therefore, I’m willing to grant you
some latitude. I also assume you are troubled by your son’s
disappearance, or you would not be acting in such an insolent
manner. On the other hand,” he warned, “I’m losing my patience. I
will not tolerate you coming onto my property and treating those
who live here with disrespect.”

“But—” Mr. Bailey began.

Grandfather impatiently raised his hand to
stop the drunken speech. “Mr. Bailey, you are one of my tenets, are
you not?”

The threat in the question was far from
subtle.

Mr. Bailey’s coloring changed to an alarming
shade of purple while spittle formed on his loose lips. “You
wouldn’t turn out a man wif a wife and family, would you, milord?”
he whined.

“I wasn’t suggesting any such thing,” the
earl said, his tone now superior. “Go home, Mr. Bailey. If we learn
of your son’s whereabouts, we’ll let you know.”

The man looked as though he wanted to argue
but he did not. Her grandfather’s expression would have frightened
even the most fearless individual, and George Bailey had to rely on
the false courage he received from a bottle. In his confused state
he could never match wits with the earl.

Timothy’s father staggered from the yard,
muttering oaths to himself and casting dark looks at those
assembled on the drive. As he rounded the bend, he reached into his
back pocket, extracting a flask. He threw back his head and took a
deep swig then continued on his way.

Cassandra waited until Mr. Bailey
disappeared from sight before starting down the steps.

“Cassandra,” her grandfather’s voice stopped
her.

She paused, steeling herself for a
confrontation and then turned to look at him with what she hoped
was a guiltless face. “Sir?”

“Avoid that man. He could be dangerous.”

Again he scrutinized her so pointedly she
felt her heart begin to thud nervously. “Yes, of course,” was all
she could manage.

He walked into the house without another
word.

Cassandra checked to see if Fenn was still
on the drive. He was. He met her eyes with something akin to panic.
She tripped down the steps toward the coachman.

“Fenn, I’m glad you are still here.”

“Yes, miss,” he said in a mournful
voice.

“Now, now, it can’t be as bad as all that.
Actually, it was much better than I hoped it would be. I feared my
grandfather was about to force the truth from us. My knees were
like water.”

Mr. Fennigan’s shoulders drooped. “I don’t
like lying to his lordship. It’s not only my hide I’m worried
about. It don’t seem right somehow.”

Cassandra looked at him doubtfully. “Then I
suppose you’re not going to be pleased when I ask you to do me
another favor.

“Ah…miss, I don’t know,” the coachman said,
and he backed away from her. “We’re in a fix, that’s for certain.
We haven’t been caught, but I’d be willing to wager a month’s pay
we will be. Let’s not make it any worse than it already is.”

“You saw Mr. Bailey. What kind of father is
that?”

He shrugged, his attitude fatalistic. “What
can you do when all’s said and done? It is his son.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

He continued to stare at her, plainly
unwilling to bend.

“Please, I want you to warn Lord Sutherfield
and Mr. Stiles that Timothy’s father came here. They need to be
aware in case Mr. Bailey discovers where his son is staying.”

“I could do that,” Fenn said. “But I’m not
going to lie if Lord Whittingham asks me directly.”

“I know you are an honest man, Mr. Fennigan,
and I wouldn’t ask you to do anything else.”

That seemed to mollify him, and he
nodded.

Cassandra reached over and touched his arm.
“And, Fenn, one more thing.” She laughed when his face fell. “No,
no, it’s nothing that will cause you more trouble. I would
appreciate it if you would bring me a report on Timothy’s progress.
I’ve been worried.”

Mr. Fennigan nodded again. “That I can do,
miss. I’ve been worrying about the lad myself.”

Cassandra smiled at the well-meaning
servant. For the first time she actually believed it was possible
to develop a rapport with some of these people. And that was a
welcome thought, for until this moment she had been afraid to admit
how lonely she felt.

*****

“Lord Sutherfield, hate to bother you, but
the little bugger—I mean the little fellow will not cooperate. I
had to threaten him with coming for you and he called my bluff. I
couldn’t let him get away with that, now could I, my lord?”

Simon, pulling at his lip to hide a grin,
shook his head at the exasperated footman. “Absolutely not, Peters.
You did right. Come on,” he said as he unfolded his body from his
chair and put down the book he was reading. “Let’s see if we can
make our young person see reason.”

A wet sight greeted him a few moments later
in Harry’s green guest room. A hip bath occupied the middle of the
chamber floor, although most of the fragrant water had already been
splashed onto the expensive Persian carpet.

Next to the tub stood a dripping Timothy
Bailey. The boy shook himself like a drowned puppy, sending large
droplets of moisture cascading away from his frail body. This
explained why Peters looked as though he had been swimming in his
uniform.

“I tell you, it ain’t natural,” Timothy
howled his outrage.

“What isn’t natural?” the marquess
asked.

“To put me whole self in water. Why, I could
drown or get a chill. Even me da didn’t make me do that.”

“You can’t be clean if you do not bathe,
Tim,” Simon said reasonably.

“I don’t care.”

“I do. Civilized people do not go about
smelling like animals. I’m sorry to make you do something you are
dead set against, but you are going to have to trust me that it
will do you no harm. I want you to be a man and climb back into the
bath.”

“Do I have to?” The poor child looked as
though his very best friend had turned on him.

Simon merely nodded.

Timothy sent the marquess an accusing stare
through great sorrowful eyes. “I’ll do it but I don’t have to like
it.”

“You are correct—that is not a requirement,”
Simon said as he made his way to the door. “And, Tim, keep that
plaster on your arm out of the water. Won’t do it any good if you
get it wet.” He stopped to talk to the footman, but he made sure
his voice carried across the room. “Peters, I believe the lad will
not cause you further difficulties.”

He stepped into the corridor, uncertain
whether he had lied to Peters or not.

*****

“Life has become rather dull lately,” Simon
ventured later that evening. Harry and he had finished a fine
repast and were enjoying a bottle of Harry’s best brandy.

“Has it? I thought we’d had quite a bit of
excitement with the arrival of young Timothy a few days ago. What
are you proposing we do to enliven things?” Harry’s attitude was
good-natured as he sipped his drink.

“A dinner party—possibly some music and
dancing. We could invite a few of the local gentry.”

Harry set his glass to the table. “I thought
you didn’t like country parties.”

“Maybe I was somewhat hasty. Some things
become more tempting when compared to a little inactivity.” Simon
gave his companion a bland look.

“I don’t suppose you would like me to place
Lord Whittingham and his house guests at the top of the list?”

“I think their presence would ensure the
success of your party.” The marquess was determined not to admit he
had any ulterior motives. “After all, they are the only nobility in
the neighborhood aside from you and me.”

“I have no title.”

Simon laughed. “You are the fourth son of a
baron. Your bloodlines are not paltry.”

“I’ve always felt guilty about that,” Harry
admitted.

“In what way?”

“My eldest brother has the title, but with
it comes tremendous responsibility. You more than anyone should
know what I mean. I, on the other hand, have abundant wealth and am
still able to do in life exactly as I please. I can marry whom I
want when I want. I am a lucky man.”

The marquess listened to his friend with
dawning respect and perhaps a little envy. Must be nice to have
one’s future decided in such a neat and orderly fashion, he
thought. Simon had believed his own life was the way he wanted it
as well. Lately, he’d begun to wonder.

*****

Cassandra frowned at herself in the mirror.
Her eyes were like enormous blue-green holes in her strained face.
She did not need help from her rouge pot, for nerves had sent the
color high in her cheeks. Tonight would be a test, and she did not
know if she was up to the challenge.

Seven days before Fenn had kept his promise
to warn Lord Sutherfield and Mr. Stiles about Mr. Bailey. The
coachman had returned with the news that Timothy was doing nicely.
He’d returned with something else—an invitation to a dinner party
given by Mr. Stiles. Not everyone in the Whittingham household was
pleased by the coming event.

Grandfather was reluctant to attend the
party because he had reservations about the marquess. However, he
felt obligated as he was well acquainted with and liked Stiles’
father, Baron Camberdale. He did not want to cause offense by
refusing.

Naturally, Penelope was ecstatic by the
opportunity to socialize since she did not tolerate boredom well.
She had complained much to Cassandra’s amusement that her uncle’s
neighbors were dull and uninspired. As for Roger, he had become
morose of late and had no opinion on the matter.

Now the evening of the party had arrived,
and Cassandra was experiencing a mixture of emotions. Only one was
she able to identify.
Fright.
She had thought about feigning
an illness rather than submit herself to the torture of an evening
in the company of Lord Sutherfield, sweet torture though it might
be. But that was cowardly. Hopefully, the presence of a large group
of people would prevent her from having to share any intimate
moments with the marquess.

Having made the decision to brave it out,
Cassandra also resolved to do it looking her best. From her
wardrobe she pulled the one dress she had saved for a special
occasion. Her maid Annie helped her into the high-waisted, bottle
green gown made of satin with an overskirt of gauze. The neckline
dipped somewhat lower than she preferred, but it made her feel
sophisticated. No pastel colors or girlish frocks for her, she
decided. Her coloring needed drama.

Cassandra’s hair was piled high, the final
touch a strand of pearls and turquoise beads threaded through the
auburn curls. Quintin James had imported the necklace from Turkey
for her twenty-first birthday, and it was one of her most prized
possessions.

At last she was ready. She twirled in front
of cheval glass, and the long skirt belled out around her. The
candlelight glinted off the nearly transparent gauze over the shiny
satin, and the dress shimmered delightfully. She felt like an
exotic bird she had once seen in a painting.

“You look beautiful, miss,” Annie said.

Cassandra smiled at the abigail. It had
taken some time but she and Annie were beginning to come to an
understanding.

“Thank you. Wish me luck. I think I will
need it tonight.”

“Not you, miss. You will outshine every lady
at the party,” Annie said as Cassandra whisked from the room.

She came downstairs after everyone else.
Grandfather and her cousins were sipping champagne and sharing
small talk in the parlor. They turned to greet her as she entered
the room, and Cassandra suspected she looked well for even Roger’s
eyes darkened with appreciation. She knew it for a certainty when
Penelope began to pout.

“You have more courage than I, cousin.”
There was a sniping quality in the young lady’s words.

“Do I?”

“That dress is very immodest, don’t you
think,” Penelope ventured primly, her stare fixed on Cassandra’s
exposed bosom.

“Enough of this,” the earl broke in.
“Cassandra looks lovely. She’s of an age to carry it off. You,
Penelope, need a few more years, but your time will come.”

That little speech left Cassandra wondering
whether she should be pleased or insulted. Her grandfather had
defended her and that was nice, but he had relegated her to the
role of spinster. Nothing like a little unfettered truth to bring
one’s ego into check, she mused, smiling inwardly. She joined her
family as they moved into the main hall to put on their wraps.

When they arrived at the home of Mr. Stiles,
every window in the mansion shone with welcome. A dozen carriages
lined the drive. The din of a large crowd could be heard coming
from inside, mixed with the lilting sounds of a stringed orchestra.
Cassandra tensed with expectancy at the promise of an entertaining
evening. Perhaps she too had been suffering from boredom.

They were ushered into the hall by the
butler, and Harry Stiles rushed forward, greeting them warmly.

“Lord Whittingham, what a pleasure it is to
have you and your family join our little gathering this evening.
Come in, come in.”

Introductions were made quickly around the
large parlor, for she had already met most all the other guests. As
she said her hellos, Cassandra realized that she felt comfortable
with her grandfather’s neighbors.