In the Garden of Seduction (4 page)

Standing abruptly, he knocked aside the
leather chair he was sitting on. His face had turned a bright pink,
now with anger. He brought a large fist down on his desk with such
force, the two other people in the room jumped.

“No one can tell me she’s not my daughter!”
her father bellowed. “My blood may not flow in her veins, but she
is my child as surely as there is a God in the heavens.” He looked
wildly at Mr. Peters. “Do you think you are going to come in here
and take her away from me? She’s all I have left.”

“None of this proves Mama was not my mother,
does it, Papa?” Cassandra whispered over a terrible knot blocking
her throat.

Righting his chair, her father sat down
heavily and stared, eyes unfocused. He looked at her then and a sad
smile eased his haunted expression.

“I’m sorry, lass,” he said, his voice
rumbling with feeling. Leaning over, he opened the bottom drawer of
his desk and pulled out a small wooden chest with a carved lid. He
placed it on the ink blotter in front of him and slowly pushed the
box toward her.

“Your mother gave this to me a few days
before her death. I swear, until then I didn’t know the truth.
Louise knew she was dying…” He stopped, visibly grappling with
emotion then cleared his throat. “She didn’t think it was right to
rob you of your heritage by taking this information to her
grave.”

Cassandra hesitated briefly before reaching
for the chest with shaking hands. Sitting down, she placed the
container on her lap but did not immediately lift the lid. She felt
as if she held Pandora’s mythical box and, once opened, her life
would be irrevocably changed.

She shifted her gaze to Mr. Peters where he
stood alone. Cassandra saw the regret on his face, and she could
almost pity him his embarrassment.

Almost…

“Who are you, Mr. Peters?” she asked in a
quiet voice.

The detective blinked. “Well, I…that is to
say, I’m employed with an agency hired by your grandfather nearly
twenty-five years ago to find you. Of course, I wasn’t there
then—I’m much too young. But I’ve been working on this case for six
years.”

“Six years—that’s a long time on one case,”
she said thoughtfully.

“There have been others, but we were ready
to give up on this one. However, Lord Whittingham is a powerful man
and we did not want to disappoint him.”

Cassandra glanced at her father, who watched
her pensively, then resumed her conversation with the detective.
“Suppose, Mr. Peters, just suppose I accept everything you have to
say. What do you or, more accurately, Lord Whittingham hope to gain
by disclosing this information now? I mean, it is long past the
time it will alter anything.”

The young man looked surprised. “Miss,
James, I thought it was obvious. You are the only child of the
earl’s only child. And unfortunately, his son is deceased. You are
Lord Whittingham’s sole descendant. He wants you to take your
rightful place in your natural family.”

“Impossible,” Cassandra said. “If that is
why you are here, it would be best if you left at this time.”

Mr. Peters sighed. “We are prepared for your
refusal, Miss James,” he said. “If you do not go home freely and, I
might add, immediately, Lord Whittingham will bring charges against
Mr. James accusing him of kidnapping.”

Cassandra was robbed of speech. She looked
frantically at her father again, but his expression told her he had
already been informed of this possibility.

“My father said he knew nothing about my
birth!”

“When did your mother die, Miss James?”

“Just before my fifteenth birthday.”
Cassandra answered slowly, unsure where the detective was headed
with this line of questioning.

“Then by his own admission, your father did
learn of your origins at that time. For close to ten years he’s
kept quiet even as your natural family continued to search for
you.” Mr. Peters paused as if driving home his point. “There will
be little sympathy for his motives, pure as they may seem to
you.”

Cassandra closed her eyes, appalled by the
sheer inevitability of her situation. Of course, they would know to
choose her one great weakness, she thought. She loved her father.
She would protect him.

“Do I have Lord Whittingham’s word, if I do
as he asks, he will not press charges?” How could she sound so calm
when her heart was breaking?

“Miss James, your grandfather is very
relieved that you have been found. He says the matter will end here
if you come home.”

Cassandra looked directly at the young man
through scornful eyes, her voice taking on a biting quality. “Do
not fool yourself, Mr. Peters. I am home and nothing your employer
can do will ever change that fact. When do I have to leave?”

“You have a week to prepare. Lord
Whittingham has made all the arrangements, and I will escort you to
his estate.”

Cassandra nodded, aware that the courage she
was displaying would soon desert her. She could not sit here and
continue to talk in a rational, controlled manner as if her world
were not falling apart. Her ordered life had been tossed into the
air like so many pebbles, only to fall in an unknown pattern at her
feet.

She stood.

The little wooden chest, forgotten on her
lap, tumbled to the floor, though a metal clasp kept the contents
from spilling. For several moments no one moved. She shared a look
with her father then bent down and picked up the box.

“Mr. Peters,” Cassandra said as she
straightened and transferred her gaze to the detective, “you have
earned your pay this day.”

“Beg pardon?” He appeared ill at ease.

“There’s always the temptation to slay the
messenger. I realize you are only doing your duty.”

“Thank you,” the detective murmured.

“Papa, I will let you see our guest out. I
think I need to be alone for awhile.” She stopped at the library
door and spoke to the detective once more. “I will be ready one
week from today, Mr. Peters.”

She found her way upstairs but instinct must
have taken her there, for she couldn’t remember making the journey.
Cassandra paused at the threshold to her bedchamber, feeling as if
she were seeing it for the first time.

The suite was richly appointed, a tribute to
an adored child, from the drapes that graced the mullioned windows
to the outrageously expensive Persian carpeting on the floor. Done
in varying shades of blue with ivory, it suited her taste
perfectly.

Nothing was too good for her. Quintin James
had pampered Cassandra all her life, giving her everything she had
ever wanted and more, much more. He indulged her, allowing her to
do as she pleased, for her happiness made him happy.

To think, this morning she had been upset
because a young lord had had the temerity to trifle with her. If
this was God’s way of giving her perspective, then she had to admit
He had brought his message home most forcefully.

Cassandra stepped through the doorway and
walked to the bed. She placed the chest on the counterpane then ran
her fingers over the carved top. A numbness had settled over her
though she felt thankful for the respite from emotions gone out of
control. Her curiosity was dead at the moment—she really didn’t
want to know. Regrettably, it seemed she had no choice. Drawing in
a deep, unsteady breath she opened the lid.

Inconceivable how several scraps of yellowed
paper could change one’s life forever. There were pages filled with
disjointed sentences, written in an uneducated hand by her mother
Louise in the form of a confession. Those pages comprised the bulk
of what was in the box, along with a copy of the Whittingham’s
wedding certificate obtained in Gretna Green. Louise Smith had
indeed started her life as Louise Biddle. And she had worked in the
household of Trevor Lamberton’s young widow. Louise changed her
name so she could not be traced after she disappeared with the
couple’s newborn daughter. Marriage to Quintin James had hidden her
completely. Poor Louise had been guilt-ridden from the part she had
played in Cassandra’s abduction, and she had spent most of her
adult life dreading detection.

A young Mary Lamberton, overcome with grief
at the death of her new husband, had begged her servant to care for
the baby. She had no family of her own and no one to whom she could
turn for help. Mary hated Trevor’s father Earl Whittingham and
adamantly insisted the man should not be allowed near her child.
Tragically, she had died a few days after giving birth.

Cassandra could not help wondering what had
caused the terrible aversion Mary felt for her father-in-law.
Whether fear or spite motivated Trevor’s wife, it was hard to
judge. But Cassandra suspected it would be wise to remember Mary’s
distrust when she had to deal with Lord Whittingham herself.

Only two other items lay hidden at the
bottom of the chest, a lace monogrammed handkerchief grown gray
with age and a gold locket. The handkerchief was embroidered with
Mary Lamberton’s initials, and Cassandra ran her fingers over the
raised stitches trying through touch to absorb something of the
woman who had sewn them.

However, not until she reached for the
locket did an appalling sense of what had happened today finally
take hold of her. She snapped the locket open.

Two fine miniatures stared out at her, one a
man, the other a pretty woman. Until that moment, she had been
rather detached as she examined the contents of the box as though
what was in it would not drastically change her life. But the sight
of the couple with the promise of a bright future shining on their
young, expectant faces filled her with uncertainty.

The woman, dark-haired with large brown
eyes, had a sweet, timid smile, and though Cassandra liked the
looks of her, she couldn’t detect a relationship.
But the
man!
Her heart rose in her chest, for he wore a male version of
her own features. There was no doubt he was her father, despite his
complexion being fairer and freckled and his hair more orange than
red. A jaunty grin indicated a devilish nature and, though she
suspected he had been a trial while he lived, she identified with
the personality emanating from the tiny painting. She swallowed
over a sudden ache in her throat.

Here was something she had been missing all
her life, and she’d never had a clue. Intuition should have warned
her but it hadn’t. She’d been happy, blithely so, and never, given
a hundred alternatives, would she have guessed what today held in
store. Cassandra wanted to toss herself into the middle of her
four-poster bed and weep until she could not produce another tear.
Can’t do that, she thought stubbornly, for tears were a weakness
she rarely indulged in.

Instead, she planned to undress, lay her
exhausted body down and try to recapture some of the rest that had
been lost to her the night before. Perhaps when she awoke she would
find all of this had been a bad dream—a very bad dream.

It was, however, many hours before she
slept.

*****

Cassandra bolted upright in the bed. How
long had she been asleep? The room was bathed in darkness, so it
must be night. Strange, no one had come to wake her.

Awareness came slowly as she stared at the
vague outlines of her furniture. And then a sudden memory of the
day’s events caused her to moan aloud. Oh Lord, why couldn’t she
have been left to her slumber?

Her head ached and she felt parched. She lay
back against the pillow and closed her eyes, for the throbbing in
her temples made her feel queasy. She swallowed, her throat muscles
protesting the effort to make them work despite her thirst.

Perhaps a glass of warm milk would do the
trick. She knew she must be desperate to consider such a remedy,
but in the order of things she found most distasteful, warm milk
had taken a tumble down the list.

The house was eerily quiet and, more than
the milk, she wanted to leave the solitude of her room and make
certain the world outside was still spinning. Where was
everyone?

Cassandra pushed back the covers and reached
for the silk wrapper on the end of her bed. She put it on, stepping
into the deserted corridor. As she walked down the passage, she
felt a heightened sense of her surroundings—the pictures on the
wall, the carpet under foot.

She arrived at the head of the staircase
with its carved teak banister and ran her hand along the railing,
soaking in the texture and the warmth of the polished wood. Her
gaze moved downward to the foyer, as big as a small room. A
chandelier fashioned from Austrian crystal hung from the vaulted
ceiling, casting refracted light onto the Italian marble of the
entry. She lived in opulence and she doubted there were many who
lived better. So what was the advantage of her sudden promotion to
the nobility?

Besides, Cassandra accepted her position in
society, was comfortable with it. She was privileged among those of
her class and that had always been enough. Only once had she felt
her lack of status, and an egotistical marquess had been the
reason. A sly thought made her pause, and a sudden smile curved her
lips. Wouldn’t Lord Sutherfield be surprised?

As she began her descent, she remembered
other times she had made her way down this regal staircase. Often
an attractive young man had been at the base of those steps,
watching her with admiration in his eyes. It would be an untruth to
say she had not thoroughly enjoyed those moments.

Cassandra had received more than her share
of offers. But she had not been tempted to take that final step
because she’d never been quite certain how much those offers had to
do with her and how much they had to do with her father’s wealth.
Papa had been cautious as well.

She thought of her father’s ravaged face
when she had left him hours before, and she felt a stab of remorse.
She ought to be angry with him for letting this happen as it had,
but in reality he was as much a victim as she.