Chasing Cassandra

by Kleypas, Lisa

  “—and you wear those tight dresses with your breasts pushed up beneath your chin. You advertise your assets, and then complain when I give you what you were asking for.”

  Unable to bear any more, Cassandra fumbled for the doorknob. The door swung open gently, and she took a deep, desperate gasp of air as she left the room.

  Lord Lambert fell into step beside her. Out of the periphery of her vision, she saw that he’d offered his arm. She didn’t take it. The thought of touching him made her ill.

  As they headed back to the public rooms, she spoke without looking at him, her voice trembling only slightly. “You’re mad if you think I’d want anything to do with you after this.”

  By the time they reappeared, Kathleen was discreetly searching for them. At first she looked relieved to see Cassandra. As they drew closer, however, she saw the signs of strain in Cassandra’s expression, and her face turned carefully blank. “Dear,” Kathleen said lightly, “there’s a sunrise landscape I’m thinking of bidding on—I must have your opinion.” Kathleen glanced at Lord Lambert as she added, “My lord, I’m afraid I have to reclaim my charge, or people will say my chaperoning skills are woefully lax.”

  He smiled. “I yield her to your care.”

  Kathleen linked arms with Cassandra as they walked away. “What happened?” she asked softly. “Did you have a quarrel?”

  “Yes,” Cassandra replied with difficulty. “I want to leave early. Not early enough to cause gossip, but as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll come up with an excuse.”

  “And … don’t let him come near me.”

  Kathleen’s voice was excessively calm, while her hand came to press tightly over Cassandra’s. “He won’t.”

  They made their way to Lady Delaval, the evening’s hostess, and Kathleen relayed regretfully they would have to leave early, as the baby had colic and she wanted to go home to him.

  Cassandra was only distantly aware of the murmured conversation around her. She felt dazed, a little off balance, the way she did when she’d gotten out of bed before she’d quite awakened. Her mind combed ceaselessly through everything Lord Lambert had said and done.

  … everyone knows what you want … you advertise your assets …

  Those words had made her feel even worse than the groping, if that were possible. Did other men look at her that way? Was that what they thought? She wanted to shrink and hide somewhere. Her temples throbbed as if there were too much blood in her head. Her breast ached in the places he’d gripped and pinched.

  Now Kathleen was talking to Devon, asking him to send for the carriage.

  He didn’t bother with a pleasant social mask. His face went taut, his blue eyes narrowing. “Is there something I should know right now?” he asked softly, looking from his wife’s face to Cassandra’s.

  Cassandra responded with a quick little shake of her head. Above all, she couldn’t risk making a scene. If Devon knew how Lord Lambert had insulted her … and Lambert was in the vicinity … the results might be disastrous.

  Devon gave her a hard stare, obviously not happy about departing without knowing exactly what had happened. To her relief, however, he relented. “You’ll tell me on the way home?”

  “Yes, Cousin Devon.”

  Once they were bundled in the carriage and headed back to Ravenel House, Cassandra was able to breathe more easily. Kathleen sat beside her, holding her hand.

  Devon, who occupied the seat opposite them, regarded Cassandra with a frown. “Let’s have it,” he said brusquely.

  Cassandra told them everything that had happened, including how Lambert had groped her. Although it was humiliating to recount the details, she felt they needed to understand exactly how offensive and insulting he’d been. As they listened carefully, Devon’s expression went from thunderstruck to furious, while Kathleen’s face turned white and set.

  “It was my fault for not objecting more strongly at the beginning,” Cassandra said miserably. “And this dress—it’s too tight—not ladylike enough, and—”

  “God help me.” Although Devon’s voice was quiet, it had the intensity of a shout. “You caused none of what he did. Nothing you said or did, nothing you wore.”

  “Do you think I would let you go out wearing something inappropriate?” Kathleen asked curtly. “You happen to be well-endowed—which is a blessing, not a crime. I’d like to go back and horsewhip that bastard for suggesting this was somehow your fault.”

  Unused to hearing such language from Kathleen, Cassandra stared at her in round-eyed amazement.

  “Make no mistake,” Kathleen continued heatedly, “this is a taste of how he would treat you after the wedding. Except it would be a thousand times worse, because as his wife, you would be at his mercy. Men like that never take responsibility—they lash out, and then say someone else provoked them into doing it. ‘See what you made me do.’ But the choice is always theirs. They hurt and frighten others to make themselves feel powerful.”

  Kathleen might have continued, but Devon leaned forward to settle his hand gently on her knee. Not to check or interrupt her, but because he seemed to feel the need to touch her. His eyes were warm, dark blue as he stared at his wife. An entire conversation transpired in their shared gaze.

  Cassandra knew they were both thinking about her brother, Theo … Kathleen’s first husband … who’d had a violent temper, and had often lashed out verbally and physically at the people around him.

  “I was subjected to the Ravenel temper often during childhood,” Cassandra said quietly. “My father and brother even seemed proud of it at times … the way it made people nervous. I think they wanted to be thought of as powerful.”

  Devon looked sardonic. “Powerful men don’t lose their tempers. They stay calm while others are shouting and blowing up.” He sat back in his seat, inhaled deeply, and let out a long breath. “Thanks to my wife’s influence, I’ve learned not to yield to my temper quite so easily as I did in the past.”

  Kathleen regarded him tenderly. “The effort and the credit for self-improvement are all yours, my lord. But even at your worst, you’d never have dreamed of treating a woman the way Lord Lambert did tonight.”

  Cassandra lifted her gaze to Devon’s. “Cousin, what’s to be done now?”

  “I’d like to start by beating him to a pulp,” Devon said darkly.

  “Oh, please don’t—” she began.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’s what I’d like to do, not what I’m going to do. I’ll corner him tomorrow and make it clear that from now on, he’s to avoid you at all cost. No visits to the house, no flowers, no interaction of any kind. Lambert won’t dare bother you again.”

  Cassandra grimaced and laid her head on Kathleen’s shoulder. “The Season’s not even under way and it’s going to be ghastly. I can tell.”

  Kathleen’s small hand came up to smooth her hair. “It’s better to have learned about Lord Lambert’s true character now rather than later,” she murmured. “But I’m so very sorry it turned out this way.”

  “Lady Berwick will be devastated,” Cassandra said with a wan chuckle. “She had such high hopes for the match.”

  “But not you?” came the soft question.

  Cassandra shook her head slightly. “Whenever I tried to imagine a future with Lord Lambert, I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I can’t even work up the will to hate him now. I think he’s horrid, but … he’s not important enough to hate.”

  Chapter 13

  “SIR,” BARNABY SAID OMINOUSLY, having come to the threshold of Tom’s office unannounced, “they’re back.”

  Tom’s gaze didn’t stray from the pages of masonry and bridging estimates in front of him. “Who’s back?” he asked absently.

  “The chats.”

  Blinking, Tom lifted his head. “What?”

  “Bazzle’s chats,” Barnaby clarified, looking grim.

  “Is Bazzle here with them, or did they decide to drop by on their own?”

  His assistant was too d
istraught to find humor in the situation. “I told Bazzle he couldn’t come in. He’s waiting outside.”

  Tom let out an exasperated sigh and stood. “I’ll handle it, Barnaby.”

  “If I may point out, sir,” Barnaby dared to say, “the only way to be rid of the chats is to get rid of Bazzle.”

  Tom shot him a sharp glance. “Any child, rich or poor, can be afflicted with lice.”

  “Yes, but … do we have to have one in the office?”

  Tom ignored the question and went downstairs with irritation needling all through him.

  This had to stop. He couldn’t stand interruptions, vermin, or children, and Bazzle was all three combined. At this moment, other men of his position were attending to their business, as he should be doing. He would give the boy a few coins and tell him not to come back. Bazzle wasn’t his concern. The boy would be no better or worse off than thousands of other little ruffians who roamed the streets.

  As Tom passed through the marble entrance foyer, he saw a workman on a tall ladder, festooning ledges and window sashes with swags of greenery tied up in red bows.

  “What’s that for?” Tom demanded.

  The workman glanced down at him with a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Severin. I’m putting up Christmas decorations.”

  “Who told you to do that?”

  “The building manager, sir.”

  “It’s still bloody November,” Tom protested.

  “Winterborne’s just unveiled their holiday window displays.”

  “I see,” Tom muttered. Rhys Winterborne, with his unflagging appetite for profit, was singlehandedly starting the Christmas shopping season earlier than ever before. Which meant Tom would have to endure a full month of holiday festivities, with no possible escape. Every house and building would be choking with evergreens and silver gilt decorations, every doorway hung with a mistletoe kissing-bunch. There would be stacks of Christmas cards in the post, and pages of Christmas advertisements cluttering the newspapers, and endless performances of Messiah. Packs of carolers would roam the streets and assault innocent pedestrians with off-tune warbling in exchange for spare pennies.

  It wasn’t that Tom hated Christmas. Usually he tolerated it with good grace … but this year he couldn’t have felt less like celebrating.

  “Should I stop hanging the evergreens, Mr. Severin?” the workman asked.

  Tom pasted a shallow smile on his face. “No, Meagles. Go about your work.”

  “You remembered my name,” the workman exclaimed, pleased.

  Tom was tempted to reply, You’re not special: I remember everyone’s name, but he managed to restrain himself.

  The bitter wind cut down to the bone as he stepped outside. It was the kind of cold that shortened the space between each breath, and made the lungs feel brittle enough to shatter.

  He saw Bazzle’s small, knobbly form huddled on the side of the stone steps, with a broom laid across his knee. The boy was clad in garments that could have been pulled straight from the ragman’s bin, his head topped with a threadbare cap. As he sat facing away from Tom, he reached up to scratch the back of his neck and head in an all-too-familiar gesture.

  What a small, inconsequential wisp of humanity, clinging to the very edge of survival. If Bazzle suddenly vanished from the face of the earth, few people would care or even notice. Tom was damned if he knew why the fate of this boy should matter to him.

  But it did.

  Damn it.

  Slowly he made his way to Bazzle’s side and sat on the steps beside him.

  The boy started and turned to glance at him. There was something different about Bazzle’s gaze today, the pupils like the dark centers of broken windows. As the wind whipped across the stairs, he vibrated with chills.

  “Where are your new clothes?” Tom asked.

  “Uncle Batty said they was too lardy-dardy for me.”

  “He sold them,” Tom said flatly.

  “Yes, sir,” the child said through chattering teeth.

  Before Tom could air his opinion of the thieving bastard, a frozen gust caused the boy to steel himself against a wracking shudder.

  Reluctantly Tom took off his suit coat, made of superfine black wool and lined with silk, delivered just last week from his tailor at Strickland and Sons. It was cut in the latest style, single-breasted with no seam at the waist, and deep fixed cuffs on the sleeves. Naturally, he would have worn this new coat today instead of an older one. Suppressing a sigh, he settled the luxurious garment over the boy’s dirty frame.

  Bazzle made a little sound of surprise as the warm cocoon of wool and silk surrounded him. He clutched the coat around himself and drew his knees up inside it.

  “Bazzle,” Tom said, feeling as if every word were being pried out of him with steel tweezers, “would you like to come work for me?”

  “Already do, sir.”

  “At my house. As a hall boy, or apprentice footman. Or they might need you at the stables or gardens. The point is, you would live there.”

  “With you?”

  “I wouldn’t say with me. But yes, in my house.”

  The boy thought it over. “Who would sweep your office?”

  “I suppose you could come here with me in the mornings, if you like. In fact, it will annoy Barnaby so much, I’ll have to insist on it.” At the boy’s silence, he prompted, “Well?”

  Bazzle was unaccountably slow to respond.

  “I didn’t expect you to jump for joy, Bazzle, but you could at least try to look pleased.”

  The child gave him a profoundly troubled glance. “Uncle Batty won’t like it.”

  “Take me to him,” Tom said readily. “I’ll talk to him.” As a matter of fact, he was damned eager for the chance to tear a few strips out of Uncle Batty’s hide.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Severin … a toff like ye … they’d cut yer liver an’ lights out.”

  A bemused smile touched Tom’s lips. He’d spent most of his childhood in slums and train yards, fending for himself, constantly exposed to every manner of vice and filth humanity was capable of. Fighting to defend himself, fighting for food, for work … for everything. Long before Tom had been able to grow a proper beard, he’d been as seasoned and hard-bitten as any adult man in London. But of course, this boy had no way of knowing any of that.

  “Bazzle,” he said, looking down at him steadily, “there’s no need to worry on that account. I know how to handle myself in worse places than St. Giles. I can protect you as well.”

  The boy continued to frown, and gnawed distractedly on the lapel of the wool coat. “No need asking Batty noffing about noffing. ’E’s not me uncle.”

  “What kind of arrangement do you have with him? He takes your earnings in exchange for room and board? Well, you can work exclusively for me now. The accommodations are better, you’ll have enough to eat, and you can keep the money you make. What do you say to that?”

  Bazzle’s rheumy eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You ain’t after breeching me? I ain’t a sod.”

  “My tastes don’t run to children,” Tom said acidly. “Of either gender. I prefer women.” One in particular.

  “No buggerin’?” the boy persisted, just to be sure.

  “No, Bazzle, you’re in no danger of being buggered. I have no interest in buggering you, now or in the future. The amount of buggery at my house will be zero. Have I managed to make that clear?”

  There was a flicker of amusement in the boy’s eyes, and he began to look more like his usual self. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” Tom said briskly, standing and dusting off the back of his trousers. “I’ll fetch my overcoat, and we’ll call on Dr. Gibson. I’m sure she’ll be overjoyed by yet another surprise visit from us.’”

  Bazzle’s face fell. “Another shower baff?” he asked in dread. “Like before?”

  Tom grinned. “You’d better accustom yourself to soap and water, Bazzle. There’s going to be a great deal of it in your future.”

  AFTER BAZZLE HAD been washed, delouse
d, and outfitted in new clothes and shoes … again … Tom took the boy to his house at Hyde Park Square. He’d bought the white stucco-fronted mansion four years earlier, with most of the furnishings intact. It was four stories in height, with a dormered mansard roof, and private gardens he rarely visited. He’d kept on most of the staff, who had reluctantly adjusted to serving a common-born master. To Tom’s amusement, his servants seemed to feel they’d experienced a come-down in the world, as their previous master had been a baron from North Yorkshire.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Dankworth, was cold-natured, efficient, and remarkably impersonal, which had made her Tom’s favorite of all the servants. Mrs. Dankworth rarely bothered him, and she never seemed taken aback by anything, even when Tom invited guests without forewarning. She hadn’t even turned a hair on the occasion when one of his acquaintances from an industrial science laboratory had conducted a chemical experiment in the parlor and ruined the carpet.

  For the first time in four years, however, Mrs. Dankworth seemed flustered—no, dumbfounded—when Tom presented her with Bazzle and requested that she “do something with him.”

  “He’ll need a job here for the afternoons,” Tom had told her. “He’ll also need a place to sleep and someone to explain his duties and the house rules. And teach him how to brush his teeth properly.”

  The short, stocky woman stared at Bazzle as if she’d never seen a boy before. “Mr. Severin,” she’d said to Tom, “there’s no one here to look after a child.”

  “He doesn’t need looking after,” Tom had assured her. “Bazzle is self-sufficient. Just make sure he’s fed and watered regularly.”

  “How long will he be staying?” the housekeeper asked apprehensively.

  “Indefinitely.” Tom had departed without ceremony, and returned to his office for a late-day meeting with two members of the Metropolitan Board of Works. After the meeting, he ignored the urge to go back home and see how Bazzle was faring. Instead, he decided to have dinner at his club.

  At Jenner’s, something interesting was always happening. The atmosphere of the legendary club was opulent but soothing, never too noisy, never too quiet. Every detail, from the expensive liquor served in cut-crystal glasses, to the plush Chesterfield chairs and sofas, had been chosen to make the club members feel indulged and privileged. To gain membership, a man was required to submit character references from existing members, provide financial records and credit balances, and put his name on a waiting list for years. An opening occurred only when a member died, and anyone fortunate enough to be offered the next place in line knew better than to quibble about the exorbitant annual fee.