Authors: Mary Balogh
“Why did you never let me know?” he asked her. “I would have—” He did not complete the thought.
“I was his lawful wife, Wes,” she said. “And you were a boy. There was nothing you could have done.”
“And you killed him?” he said. “Not with an axe, but you
did
kill him? Was it self-defense—when he was beating you?”
“It does not matter,” she said. “There were no witnesses who will ever talk, and so there will never be proof. He deserved to die, and he died. No one deserves to be punished for killing him. Leave it.”
“It
does
matter,” he said. “It matters to me. Just to know. It makes no difference to anything, though. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I hope you will believe that and forgive me. I have been thinking only of myself, but you are my sister, and I love you. You were my mother too when I was a child. I never felt alone and unloved even when Papa was out gambling for days on end. Let me—Let me at least
be
here for you, Cassie. Late enough, admittedly, but not
too
late, I hope.”
She rested her head against the back of the chair.
“There is nothing really to forgive,” she said. “We all do selfish, despicable things from time to time, Wes, but they do not have to define us if we have a conscience strong enough to stop us from
becoming
selfish and despicable. I did
not
kill Nigel. But I am not saying who did, not to you or to anyone else. Ever. And so I will always be the prime suspect even though his death was ruled an accident. Most people will always believe I killed him. I can live with that.”
He nodded.
“The lady in the park,” she said. “Are you still courting her?”
“She was a shrew,” he said, and pulled a face.
“Oh.” She smiled at him. “You had a fortunate escape, then.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Come and sit down,” she said. “It is giving me a stiff neck to keep looking up at you.”
He sat in the chair beside hers, and she held out her hand to him. He took it in his own and squeezed tightly. Heavy rain was beating against the window. It sounded almost cozy.
“Wes,” she said, “do you know any good lawyers?”
16
S
TEPHEN
had suffered another night of disturbed sleep. He really ought not to have interfered in business that was absolutely none of his concern. He ought not to have called upon Wesley Young, and he certainly ought not to have questioned the maid even so far as to ask what had happened to the dog.
It was not in his nature to interfere in other people’s business.
He half hoped he would not see Cassandra again. He wanted his old, placid life back.
Had it really been
placid
?
Was he that dull a dog—at the grand age of twenty-five?
He only half hoped never to see her again, though. The other half of himself leapt with what felt very like gladness when he did.
He was walking down Oxford Street with his sister Vanessa, since when he had called on her earlier she had complained of being in the mopes because the children were still sleeping and Elliott was out of town for a couple of days and would probably be home only just in time to dress for the evening’s ball, for which she desperately needed a length of lace to replace a torn frill on the gown she wanted to wear.
The errand had already been accomplished when Vanessa exclaimed
with pleasure and Stephen, following her gaze, saw Cassandra approaching on the arm of her brother.
That was when half of some part of his being—his heart?—leapt with gladness. She was looking elegant and lovely in a pale pink walking dress and the straw bonnet she had worn to the picnic. She appeared flushed and rather happy.
Stephen swept off his hat and bowed to her.
“Ma’am?” he said. “Young? A lovely afternoon, is it not?”
Young, seeing him, looked suddenly embarrassed.
“Indeed it is,” Cassandra said. “How do you do, your grace, my lord?”
“I am extremely well,” Vanessa said. “Sir Wesley Young, is it not? I believe we have met before.”
“We have, your grace,” he said, inclining his head to her. “Lady Paget is my sister.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” Vanessa said, smiling warmly. “I did not realize you had relatives in town, Lady Paget. I am so glad you do. Are you planning to attend Lady Compton-Haig’s ball this evening?”
“I believe I will,” Cassandra said. “I have had an invitation.”
She had accepted it, then. Stephen had not known if he hoped she had or if he would have preferred it if she had not. Now he knew. He was glad she was to be there.
Was the happy glow on her face a result of her brother’s being with her? If it was, then Stephen no longer regretted having interfered.
“Perhaps, Lady Paget,” he said, “you would be so good as to reserve the opening set for me?”
She opened her mouth to reply.
“I am afraid, Merton,” Young said stiffly, “that is
my
set.”
“Then another later in the evening,” Stephen said.
A smile played about her lips. Perhaps she was thinking that she had come a long way in a week.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said in her velvet voice. “It would be a pleasure.”
Sir Wesley Young clearly had no wish to prolong the encounter. With another half-bow he bade them both a good afternoon and continued on his way along the street with Cassandra on his arm.
“I do believe,” Vanessa said as they resumed their own course in the opposite direction, “that Lady Paget could wear a sack and still look more beautiful than anyone else in London. It is most provoking, Stephen.”
“You are quite lovely enough to turn heads, Nessie,” he said, grinning at her.
She had always been the plainest of his sisters—and the most vivacious. She had always seemed beautiful to him.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “It
did
seem as though I was fishing for a compliment, did it not? And I got it. How very gallant of you. It is time I went home, Stephen, if you do not mind terribly. What if Elliott has come home and I am not there?”
“Would he have a fit of the vapors?” he asked.
She laughed and twirled her parasol.
“Probably not,” she said. “But
I
might if I discovered I had missed ten minutes or more of his company.”
He maneuvered her about a noisy group of people coming in the opposite direction without looking where they were going.
“
How
long have you been married?” he asked her.
She merely laughed.
“Stephen,” she said a little later, “do you like her?”
“Lady Paget?” he said. “Yes, I do.”
“No, but I mean,” she said, “do you
like
her?”
“Yes,” he said again. “I do, Nessie.”
“Oh,” she said.
There was no interpreting that single syllable and he did not ask for an explanation. Neither did he ponder the answer he had given to her questions. All he had admitted to, after all, was liking
Cassandra. Or
liking
her, rather. Was there a difference in the meaning of the word, depending upon whether one spoke it with emphasis or not?
He shook his head with exasperation.
Enough of this.
Enough
!
Sir Wesley Young had been inclined to scold his sister when he learned that she had put up no fight whatsoever to retain her valuables or to claim what was rightfully hers when the present Paget turned her out of his home. With a little effort she could have been a wealthy woman now instead of being destitute.
He did
not
scold, however. He had been almost twenty-two years old when Paget died, and he had gone down to Carmel for the funeral. He had felt the rumblings of unpleasantness brewing while he was still there, but he had left before any open accusations had started to fly, assuring Cassie before he went that he loved her and always would, that she could come to him at any time for support and protection.
And then, as rumors of just how nasty the situation had become reached him in London, he had developed very cold feet. He had feared being caught up in his sister’s ruin. He had stopped writing to her.
He could not make the excuse that he had been only a boy, for the love of God. He had been a
man
.
And then, the final act of cruelty and cowardice, which would give him sleepless nights and troubled days for a long time to come, he believed, he had tried to prevent her from coming to London. He had lied about that walking tour of the Scottish Highlands. And when she had come anyway, and when he had come face-to-face with her in the park, he had
turned his head away and ordered the hired coachman to drive on
.
Oh, yes, there would be well-deserved nightmares over that one.
All he could do now, though, since the past could not be changed, was make amends as best he could and hope that at some time within the next fifty years or so he would be able to forgive himself. So he had asked around yesterday and this morning to discover the very best lawyer for Cassie’s type of case, and he had made an appointment and taken her there this afternoon.
It all seemed very promising. Indeed, the lawyer was astonished that Lady Paget had even thought it might be difficult to recover her jewels, which were her own personal property, and to be granted what was her due according to her marriage contract and her husband’s will. He was quite happy to take a modest retainer—which Wesley insisted upon paying—in the firm conviction that the matter would be settled within a couple of weeks or a month at the longest.
They had been walking home along Oxford Street when they had come face-to-face with Merton. Wesley was not pleased about it. Merton had been his conscience yesterday, or at least the prompter of his conscience, and Wesley did not feel particularly kindly disposed toward him. His conscience ought not to have needed prompting from any outside source.
However, the meeting did not last long, and Wesley returned his sister to the house on Portman Street, where Miss Haytor was eager to talk to her about the visit to some museum she had made with an old friend of hers—Mr. Golding, actually, who had been the only private tutor Wesley had ever had, though he had not stayed long and Wesley scarcely remembered him.
He went home to relax for a while before dining and getting ready for the evening’s ball. But his man informed him that yet again there was someone downstairs in the visitors’ parlor, wanting a word with him.
Wesley did not recognize the visitor, though the man got to his
feet when he entered the room and came toward him, one hand extended. He was a strong, athletic-looking man with light brown hair and a deeply bronzed face.
“Young?” he said. “William Belmont.”
Ah, yes, of course. He was the present Paget’s brother, one of Cassie’s stepsons. Wesley had met him at Cassie’s wedding and again during one of his visits to Carmel a number of years ago. He had gone to America after that, had he not?
“I am pleased to see you again,” Wesley said, shaking his hand.
“My ship from Canada docked a couple of weeks ago,” Belmont told him, “and I went immediately to Carmel to find everything much changed. Where is your sister, Young? She is here in London somewhere, is she not?”
Wesley was instantly wary.
“It would be best to leave her alone,” he said. “She did
no
t kill your father. No conclusive evidence could ever be found against her and she was never charged with anything because there was nothing to charge her
with
. She is trying to make a new life, and I am here to see to it that she has a chance to do just that and that no one bothers her.”
It ought to have been true too, from the moment of her arrival in town. It was true now, however. Anyone who wanted to get to Cassie was going to have to go through
him
. And even though he was not particularly happy at the breadth of Belmont’s shoulders, he was not going to be deterred.
But Belmont merely made a dismissive gesture with one hand.
“Of course she did not kill my father,” he said. “I was
there
, for the love of God. I have not come to stir up any trouble for her, Young. I have come to find Mary. Is she still with Cassandra?”
“Mary?” Wesley looked blankly at him.
“She left Carmel with Cassandra,” Belmont said. “I assume she is still with her. And Belinda. I
hope
they are.”
Wesley still looked blank. Miss Haytor’s name was Alice, not Mary. “Mary,” Belmont said impatiently. “My
wife
.”
Cassandra felt very different dressing for this evening’s ball than she had felt last week dressing for Lady Sheringford’s. She had received an invitation to this one, and she had an escort—in addition to an engagement to dance the opening set and one other.
She looked forward to dancing with Stephen tonight with far more eagerness than she ought to be feeling.
She checked her hair in the mirror to make sure it was firmly enough pinned up that it would not fall down as soon as she started to dance.
That
would be something of a disaster! She had become far too dependent during the past ten years upon the services of a lady’s maid.
She drew on her long gloves and smoothed them out until they were no longer even slightly twisted.
The lawyer had thought she had an excellent case. He thought he could get her all that was owed her in a fortnight, though Cassandra would be perfectly happy with a month. She would be able to pay Stephen back and forget that she had ever done anything as sordid as offer herself to him as a mistress.
Though she did not regret the two nights she had spent with him. Or the picnic.
The picnic, she knew, would always be one of her most treasured memories.
He was going to be hard to forget.
But he had restored some of her faith in men. Not all were unreliable and untrustworthy and downright nasty.
She would remember him as her golden angel. She took up her ivory fan and opened it to make sure it was in perfect working condition.
During his outing with Alice this afternoon, Mr. Golding had invited her to join him in Kent for a couple of days at the end of the week to celebrate his father’s seventieth birthday with the rest of his family. It was surely a significant invitation.