In the Garden of Seduction (3 page)

The top of her head came just to his nose,
and he could imagine placing his hand under her chin and lifting
that face to his so he might taste her lips. The very thought
caused him to groan inwardly.

He had better get his baser self under
control, he thought, because she was beyond his reach. Odd that
should be because he was her social superior in every way. However,
she had made it very clear that that did not grant him any special
rights.

Simon shook his head in exasperation. All
this confusion because a hot-tempered redhead with a pair of
remarkable blue eyes had taken him to task for his lack of good
manners. But she had left Mrs. Witherspoon’s earlier tonight
because of him. And he simply could not forget the hurt in that
shimmering gaze as she had turned to look at him across a noisy
room before disappearing through the front door.

Some things were not meant to be, and no
amount of wishing could change that fact. At nearly thirty-four
years, he had obligations. To pursue this girl would be very wrong
as he could offer her nothing honorable. Therein lay the
difficulty, for he felt certain she would settle for nothing
less.

Simon shrugged his shoulders as if with the
gesture he could brush off the entire evening. He straightened
himself and headed down the dimly lit walk swinging his cane,
forcing a whistle through stiff lips to enhance the carefree
effect.

*****

Cassandra tossed fitfully in the four-poster
bed, frustrated with her failure to sleep. She threw the coverlet
back and sat up. She had been at this for hours, and if rest were a
possibility it would have happened by now.

She brought her feet to the floor and slid
them into a pair of well-worn slippers before standing and moving
to the window. Climbing onto the window seat, she wrapped her arms
around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. She leaned her
forehead against the cool pane of glass and idly watched the early
comings and the late goings of the few individuals who were now on
the street.

Near dawn, just a hint of pink tinged the
horizon where the sun would soon make an appearance. If Cassandra
had not been beset by a tangle of unwelcome emotions, she would
have enjoyed the early morning peace. Instead, she was grappling
with insecurity and, as the pampered daughter of a very wealthy
man, the feeling was as unexpected as it was unpleasant.

Not once in all her young life had she
questioned her position in society. Her father was a merchant and
she was a member of the middle class—not a bad place to be. Of
course, they did not have the privileges accorded the aristocracy,
but when one had acquired as much wealth as Mr. Quintin James that
became a moot point. Money had a power all its own.

But money had no power over prejudice. Last
night she had been made to feel her lack of social standing in a
very hurtful way. She knew Lord Sutherfield would never have been
as forward with someone from his own social class.

She could still feel his eyes as they had
roamed without subtly over her figure—not to mention his hands in
Mrs. Witherspoon’s Chinese parlor. She felt certain he was the
culprit. What had bothered her most of all, though, was her
response to his impudence. His clear appreciation of her charms had
caused her blood to race in a distressingly inappropriate
manner.

Why had she reacted that way? It was hardly
a compliment for a gentleman to be so open about his intentions,
although she suspected Lord Sutherfield seldom encountered
resistance to his overtures. Cassandra wondered if she had
surprised him as much as he had surprised her.

In all fairness, he was a fine example of
the male of the species. Tall, he towered over her and she was not
petite. With a powerful and well-proportioned physique, he had
broad shoulders and muscular legs.

That would have been enough to catch the
attention of most women but his angular face was equally handsome.
High cheekbones and a strong nose enhanced a sensuous mouth,
wearing just a trace of sophisticated conceit.

His hair was very dark and perhaps just a
bit overlong, but it was his penetrating eyes that made her feel
breathless. They were black, black as coal, and oh my he knew how
to use them. Even now she could feel the excitement swirling in her
lower belly when she recalled the warmth of his regard.

This above all things was why she was
unhappy with herself. Her outrage should not be warring with her
vanity. However, she would rather accept that vanity was the
culprit than what she had begun to fear might be the real
reason.

She shivered as an odd, restless feeling
settled over her. The time had come for her to wed. At twenty-four,
judged by even the most generous standards, she was firmly on the
shelf. That had never troubled her before because a young woman who
came with a dowry the size of Cassandra’s did not have the same
timetable as other less fortunate females.

Still, last night had brought to mind the
uncomfortable knowledge that there just might be another reason for
taking the matrimonial step. Again, she thought of how Lord
Sutherfield had looked at her, his smoky eyes proposing that which
she had not yet contemplated, and again an erotic thrill passed
through her.

So by Cassandra’s reckoning, she had one
more reason to be offended with the marquess. Not only had he
insulted her with his aggressive behavior, he had awakened in her a
yearning she did not wish to acknowledge.

The street below had begun to fill in
earnest with the coming light, pedestrians bustling to and fro,
each intent on whatever urgent mission called him. Carriages were
lining up, likewise, proof positive the day had now begun. Time to
start her day as well. She wandered over to the dressing table and
sat down.

Completing her ablutions, she quickly donned
a lilac morning gown. She had no intention of languishing in her
room feeling sorry for herself. That gave her time to think, and
she had enough of thinking for the moment. Rather than indulge in
self-pity, she went downstairs to break her fast.

Cassandra entered the dining room and
greeted her father. “Good morning, Papa. How are you this fine
day?” She leaned down where he sat at the table and pecked him on
the cheek then moved to the sideboard.

Quintin James smiled expansively at his only
child. “I’m doing much better now that I have some congenial
company with whom to share my morning meal. Since you were out so
late, I did not expect you to be up just yet.”

Cassandra returned his smile as she settled
into her seat.

Her father was a bear of a man with a round
jolly face reflecting an amiable disposition, and she loved him
dearly. But beneath that pleasant, relaxed exterior beat the heart
of a capitalist. A brilliant businessman, his wealth was not
happenstance.

“Papa, you know I never lie abed. Besides,”
she dropped her gaze to her plate, “I was not so late.”

“I see.” Her father sat back in his chair
and she could feel his probing eyes as he watched her. “All goes
well with you?” he asked in a gentle voice.

“Yes, Papa. I just didn’t sleep well.”

At least that was the truth. She could not
risk telling him a falsehood. She had learned long ago he would
know.

“Did you meet Ethan Plimpton?”

Relieved he had decided not to pursue his
earlier question, she nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I did. I
enjoyed talking to Mr. Plimpton. Naturally, I only had a few
moments with him. Everyone was vying for his attention.”

“Of course,” her father murmured, his tone
noncommittal. “He has some radical ideas. I’m not sure I agree with
him in all ways.”

“That is the point, Papa—to make one think.
Disagreement is part of the process.”

He laughed good-naturedly. “Have I raised a
blue stocking here?” He did not sound as though he minded.

“I am my father’s daughter,” she shot
back.

“Touche, my dear, touche.”

They proceeded to enjoy their meal in
companionable silence until the ringing of the door chime captured
their attention.

“Do we have company already? It’s too early
to entertain. Have you bewitched some fool again, Cassie?” Mr.
James teased her. “I can’t let you out of the house without a pack
of young puppies following you home.”

“No, no, Papa, I swear.” But for just a
moment her thoughts touched on Lord Sutherfield.

The butler appeared in the doorway.
“Sir?”

“I heard, Jennings,” Quintin said, a
resigned note entering his voice. “I don’t suppose we can put the
caller off until I have completed my meal?”

“He said it is important, sir. Indicated he
would wait if necessary. Said he
must
speak with you.”

The old man’s eyebrows shot upward. “Who is
it? Did he give you his card?”

Jennings handed over the calling card.

Cassandra’s father studied the small piece
of paper, a furrow slowly creasing his forehead. He glanced up and
across at his daughter, yet the expression on his face was so
strange she could not interpret it.

“Do we know a Mr. Jonathan Peters? Says here
he’s a detective,” he said.

She did not answer instead staring at him in
bewilderment.

He pushed his chair back and stood from the
table. “It’s probably nothing,” he said, though he seemed
distracted. “I’ll see the man now.”

“Papa?” she ventured, suddenly uneasy, but
he had already entered the hall.

Cassandra did not leave the dining room,
remaining where she sat to wait for her father’s return. Much
later, her untouched meal grown cold and unappetizing, Jennings
scurried back into the room.

“Miss, your father asked that you join him
in the library at once.”

The butler, obviously worried and refusing
to look at her, did nothing to stem Cassandra’s rising fear.

“Jennings, what is the matter?”

He met her eyes then. “I swear I don’t know,
miss, but the master is in a terrible rage.”

“Is the caller still here?” She swallowed
convulsively as a lump of apprehension formed like a stone in her
stomach.

“Yes, miss.”

“I see. Then I had best go at once.”

Cassandra’s words sounded a great deal
braver than she felt. She had no idea why she was so frightened,
but the portentous atmosphere that had crept uninvited into her
home was palpable.

She arrived in the hall outside the library
and paused to smooth her skirt. The action had the added effect of
removing the nervous moisture that had collected on her palms.
After a moment’s hesitation, she tapped on the door.

Her father’s muffled voice bade her enter.
Again, Cassandra stopped before she could force her reluctant
fingers to the knob. She gave it a quick turn, the latch releasing,
and pushed the door open. She took a deep breath and stepped over
the threshold.

*****

Cassandra moved to the center of the
library, misgiving causing her undigested breakfast to churn. To
one side of the room stood a man she had never met. Jonathan
Peters, she assumed. She watched the man for a moment before
shifting her attention to her father, who sat behind his desk.

“Papa, you sent for me?”

“Mr. James,” the detective interrupted, his
expression uncomfortable, “if you would like to speak to your
daughter privately, I can wait outside.”

“That won’t be necessary,” her father said.
His voice sounded unsteady, and he had turned an ashen color,
appearing almost ill. “Tell your story, Mr. Peters.”

She looked at Jonathan Peters, a smallish
man with nondescript features and coloring. What could such a dull
little person have to say that could reduce her robust,
self-confident parent to tears?

Mr. Peters was clearly nervous. “Miss James,
the news I bring is not necessarily bad. A whole new way of life is
waiting for you, with opportunities that money alone cannot buy. I
hope you will consider what I have to say in that light.”

Cassandra merely stared at him and so he
pressed on.

“Twenty-four years ago, in the winter of
1785, a baby was born to a young woman by the name of Mary
Lamberton. Several months before the birth, Mary had wed Trevor
Lamberton in Gretna Green against the wishes of his father Earl
Whittingham. The couple ran away rather than contend with the
earl’s wrath. They came to London and lived quietly. At least, Mary
lived quietly.

“Trevor did not settle down as a married man
ought. He was in one scrape after the other, and weeks before his
daughter was born he lost his life in a racing accident. Mary was a
widow when she gave birth.

“From what we can determine, Mary developed
milk fever and died within days of her confinement. On her deathbed
she entrusted the future of her baby with her personal servant,
Louise Biddle. After that, Louise and the child disappeared.”

“Interesting story, Mr. Peters,” Cassandra
said, her stomach now beginning to tighten with alarm, “but what
does that have to do with us?”

“We believe that servant is the woman who
raised you,” Mr. Peters stated, “and you are that missing
child.”

“That’s impossible! My mother’s name was
Louise, yes, but her maiden name was Smith. Tell him, Papa, tell
him they’ve made a mistake.”

Her father, not only silent but utterly
still while Mr. Peters told his story, could hardly meet her gaze
as he said, “I met Louise Smith in 1787. She was applying for a
housekeeping position I had advertised in the daily. Pretty young
thing she was,” he whispered, glancing at Cassandra briefly before
dropping his gaze again. “At that time she was struggling to
support herself and her small daughter—”

“Papa, no!” Cassandra cried.

He continued as if she had not spoken. “I
had just begun to find success in business, and a wife seemed like
the next logical step. And I was no longer a young man, you see.
Louise wasn’t much more than a girl herself, but I fell in love
with her and her sweet baby.” He looked directly at Cassandra then,
his manner almost defiant.