Fortune's Lady

by Patricia Gaffney

  And yet he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind all afternoon. Even while Oliver had lectured him on the evils of giving way to his fleshly impulses, he’d thought of her, of her face just before the carriage door slammed. She was precisely the kind of woman he wanted to avoid, and yet she had some quality—apart from the obvious—that drew him, a sort of fragile, battered dignity he didn’t want to see injured. Wanted, in fact, to protect. Which was absurd; from all he’d heard, there was precious little left to protect. And anyway, she seemed perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She was young, that was all, and at his and Quinn’s urging she was about to begin playing a very serious game. It was natural for him to feel a little responsible for her.

  He thought of the way she’d looked in his library that afternoon, sitting bolt upright and fighting for control while Oliver’s thoughtlessly callous words echoed in the room. He realized now that he’d wanted to go to her, to console her. What would she have done if he had? Flinched, or at least stared reproachfully back at him out of those extraordinary gray eyes. But what might have happened if Quinn hadn’t interrupted them in the carriage at the moment he had? He imagined himself pulling the coach door closed, insuring their privacy. She would let him touch her, he knew it, but he would ask her first before taking each pleasure. May I touch you here, Cass? Ah, sweet, let me kiss you there.…He’d pull the pins from her hair and feel its slippery coolness, watch it fall down around her shoulders and create that stunning contrast of black hair and white, white skin. Then he’d brush her swollen lips with his fingertips, and she would sigh his name as she had last night. She would say yes to everything he wanted, and when he kissed her, she’d—

  “I said Grandmother’s going to bed, Philip. Did you want to tell her good night?”

  Riordan shot to his feet with guilty haste and cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. A pleasure as always, Lady Alice.” He took the dry, shriveled hand and kissed it. Inwardly he was wondering how long he’d been sitting there, unaware that the music had stopped and people were talking to him.

  “I’m a bit tired; I believe I’ll go up myself,” Lord Winston decided, reaching for the cane he kept by his side. “Come again soon, Philip. I always like talking to you. Next time, remind me to give you that monograph on penal reform, will you?”

  “I will. Good night, sir.” They shook hands, and Lord Winston followed his mother slowly out of the drawing room. In the hall, the butler would meet him and help him upstairs to his room. Riordan reflected, not for the first time, that it was fortunate the elder Harvellyns got out into the world so infrequently; otherwise they would be sure to become acquainted with the precise nature of his reputation and feel compelled to restrict Claudia’s contact with him. As it was, they only knew him as a young, wealthy, and well-connected M.P. who had thus far shown no bothersome inclination to break with the Whigs, and thus he was a welcome visitor in their home.

  “That reminds me. I have a book for you, too, Philip. It’s here in my sewing basket, I think. I’ve been meaning to return it for ages.”

  “Give it to me later. I want to talk to you, Claudia.”

  She looked up, and her face became serious. “You look tired. I noticed it earlier. You seemed so distracted.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  She walked to where he was standing and reached a hand up to touch his cheek. The unusual endearment surprised him. Never one to pass up an opportunity, he seized her hand and kissed it, then held it while he spoke. “I wanted to tell you before you heard it from some damned gossip. I’m going to be—linked, as they say, with a woman. A woman with a rather unsavory reputation. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, poor Philip, not again. What a bother for you.” She smiled sympathetically.

  Her total absence of jealousy provoked him. “Yes, well, this time our supposed liaison will probably have to be a bit more blatant.” He realized with a touch of shame that he was trying to raise at least a hint of jealousy from her.

  “I suppose she’s very beautiful.”

  He smiled. “Ugly as a hedgehog.”

  “That’s what you said about the French opera singer Mr. Quinn thought was a spy.”

  “But she was ugly.”

  “Philip, I saw her.”

  “Oh.” He kissed her hand again. “You really don’t care, do you? There isn’t a particle of jealousy in your hard shell of a heart.”

  Claudia narrowed her eyes in thought. “No,” she agreed after a moment, “I don’t suppose there is. Well, it wouldn’t make much sense, would it? I don’t suppose you could help yourself if you were attracted to another woman. And it would be foolish of me to worry about it before it’s even happened.”

  “Your logic is as unassailable as always, my darling. And you are just as exasperating.”

  “Silly.” She removed her hand. “It’s late. Let me give you your book, and then you’ll have to go.”

  He sighed in defeat. She went to her sewing basket and rummaged through it until she found a small volume bound in red leather. He recognized it, and smiled. His English copy of the Social Contract. “What did you think?” he asked, superfluously; Claudia always told, asked or not, what she thought of books.

  “Stimulating, but more on an emotional than an intellectual level.”

  “Coming from you, that’s the kiss of death.”

  “The first sentence sets the tone,” she went on, ignoring him. “ ‘Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.’ I deplore that kind of sensationalism. And I can’t agree with his premise that man in his natural state is gentle and even timid. I’m much more inclined to believe, with Hobbes, that men are by nature selfish and amoral. Which renders the concept of a social contract absurd. The revolution in France is certainly proof that the mob can’t be trusted to govern itself.”

  She continued to speak while Riordan listened carefully, nodding when he agreed, frowning when he didn’t. After a while he lost track of the words, though, and began to concentrate on the way her lips moved. She had a nice mouth. She’d let him kiss her on a few occasions, but he knew he couldn’t push his luck. She never told him to stop; she just froze, and then it was like embracing a snowball.

  “To believe that,” she was saying, “one would have to agree with Rousseau that man consults his reason before listening to his inclinations, and what could be further from the truth? One can’t—Philip, you’re not even listening. I knew you were tired. Now you must go home. Shall I tell Robert to bring the carriage round?” She’d taken his arm and was leading him down the hall to the front door.

  “Sorry, I was thinking of something else. No, it’s too late, don’t bother Robert. I’ll walk.”

  They argued for a minute before she gave in. “Shall I see you on Thursday? It’s the Chiltons’ card party.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “No, I suppose you’ll be engaged with your new protégée” she said archly. “What’s her name? Just so that if I hear of you in connection with yet another lady, I shall have something to feel jealous about.”

  “I’ll look forward to that,” he smiled tiredly. “Her name’s Cassandra Merlin.”

  “Merlin? Wasn’t that the name of the man who was hanged?”

  “Yes, and this girl’s his daughter. But don’t ask me anything else, Claudia. I’m likely to tell you, and then Oliver will have my head.”

  “Very well, I won’t. But you do know that nothing you tell me ever goes any farther don’t you, Philip?”

  “Of course I know it.” He touched her hand. He considered kissing her, but decided it wasn’t worth risking that look of grave surprise she always turned on him afterward. “Good night, my dear.” And he opened the door and went out.

  ***

  Cass sat on the edge of the bed, pressing her fingers hard against both temples. All men are born free and equal. No man has a natural authority over his fellows. To renounce liberty is…She pushed the heel of her hand against her throbbing forehead and gritted her teeth. To re
nounce liberty is to renounce being a man.

  She fell back on the bed with a groan and stared dismally at the ceiling. Fifty pages, the blasted book had, with two columns per page, and print so tiny a flea would need glasses to read it. How galling it was going to be to admit to Riordan that she’d only finished half of it.

  What would Papa say if he knew she was reading Rousseau? she wondered. Why, he’d be proud, and surprised, and—she caught herself up with a familiar start. It was going to be a hard habit to break. All her life she’d imagined what her father’s reaction would be to whatever she might be doing or thinking; she’d done it so often it had become automatic, as unconscious as a reflex. Every decision she’d made had been based on his imaginary approval or disapproval, at first with things she’d done to please him, later with things she’d done to shock him—anything for a morsel of his attention. And of course the irony was that he’d never cared, and he couldn’t care now. Then as now, she had no one to live for but herself. The insight was new, if not the condition, and it occurred to her she had no idea how to begin.

  There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” she called, sitting up.

  It was Aunt Beth. She didn’t immediately speak, but stood in the doorway for a moment with an enigmatic expression on her rice-powdered countenance. “You’re a deep one,” she announced finally, folding her arms.

  “Pardon me?” Cass made her voice innocent, but felt her face begin to flush.

  “ ‘I’ll leave the taking of lovers to you,’ ” she mimicked with an unpleasant smirk. “God, what a hypocrite you are.”

  Cass came off the bed abruptly and went to the mirror. “Do I take it my visitor’s arrived, Aunt?” she said stiffly, smoothing her skirts and tugging at her bodice.

  “Philip Riordan.” Lady Sinclair shook her head, unable to keep a trace of admiration from her tone. “I believe I may have underestimated you, Cassandra. May I ask how long you’ve known him?”

  “Not long.” She chided herself for not having thought of a story by now to account for her acquaintance with the Honorable Mr. Riordan. She saw she looked pale and drawn in the glass, and pinched her cheeks for color. “We met in church,” she lied smoothly, not particularly caring what her aunt believed. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Wait just a minute, Cass. I think it’s my duty to warn you, on the slim chance you weren’t already aware of it, that Philip Riordan is not a gentleman. His reputation is deplorable, in fact.”

  That almost made her laugh. It was on the tip of her tongue to inquire who was being a hypocrite now. “Then we’re a perfect match, aren’t we?” she said instead. Aunt Beth’s eyes narrowed. Not caring to continue the conversation, Cass went past her quickly and down the stairs.

  She could hear masculine voices in the sitting room. She stood in the doorway for a moment before he noticed her, he was saying something to Freddy to make her cousin shake with laughter, but he broke off when he saw her. She greeted him self-consciously, relieved when Freddy interrupted her stilted little speech with a stream of genial chatter. Where were they off to? A stroll in St. James’s Park, eh? Well, they certainly had the day for it. Oh, say, he’d heard Vauxhall wasn’t at all fashionable anymore, that Ranelagh was the thing; what did Philip think? And by the way, who made his shirts? Cass stood quietly while Riordan responded to the rambling interrogation with surprising good grace. Then it was time to go, and he was guiding her out the door with a light and perfectly proper hand on her elbow, and handing her into a closed carriage with all the respect a gentleman might show to his elderly aunt.

  She was sure he would revert to his usual tormenting self once they were alone, but to her relief he did not. He settled himself beside her at a polite distance and sent her a bland smile, devoid of connotation. “I’m glad to see you looking better than you did a few minutes ago, Cass,” he said with genuine-seeming concern. “You haven’t been ill, have you?”

  “Thank you, no, I’m perfectly well.” It was almost true; her headache was nearly gone and it was a beautiful afternoon. “It’s fortunate the rain stopped this morning,” she added, hoping she didn’t sound as inane as she was feeling.

  “Yes, indeed,” he agreed, and went on to make a number of mundane observations of his own, until gradually Cass began to relax and even enjoy herself. For reasons of his own it seemed he was going to be on his best behavior, she realized with gratitude, and she made up her mind to respond in kind. She was conscious of a tiny feeling of disappointment, but attributed it to nerves and foolishness. Their last meeting had been so turbulent, at least for her, that she’d hardly been able to think of anything else in the last twenty-four hours. She’d lost the wager, proving spectacularly that her performance at the Clarion had had nothing to do with acting. She’d known it all along; the only thing standing between her and total humiliation was her hope that he hadn’t known it, and now that was gone. That he’d thought her the kind of woman who would go home with a man she’d known for an hour had shamed her dreadfully. As long as it was Wade he thought she’d have gone with, she’d been able to bear it, but now he knew otherwise. It was he, Philip Riordan, she couldn’t resist.

  That he seemed today to have forgotten all about the incident filled her with confusion. She’d expected him to make smug, victorious references to her capitulation in the carriage, but his behavior was impeccable. Through her bewilderment and regret, she saw clearly enough that his reaction was healthier, and surely much wiser. She determined she would emulate him.

  The neighborhood they were passing through reminded her of one in Paris where she’d gone to school as a girl; she told him so, and he began asking questions about what it had been like to grow up in France. She was hesitant at first, and kept her answers brief and factual. Yes, she’d always gone to boarding schools, even though Aunt Beth lived in the city. No, Freddy had never bullied her; if anything, she’d bullied him. Lonely? Oh, no. Not really. Well, at times, perhaps; but after all, what child isn’t? Then, gradually, as the questions continued and she began to accept the possibility that he might really be as interested as he seemed in the answers, her reserve melted and she found herself telling him things she’d only told friends before—and a few things she’d never told anyone.

  “What was your father like?” he asked, resting one arm on top of the seat between them. “Or does it bother you to talk about him?”

  “I miss him, of course, but I don’t mind talking about him. I loved him very much, although I didn’t see him often. He was handsome and intense and exciting. I used to daydream about him all the time when I was a child.”

  “What would you dream about?”

  “Oh, that he’d come and take me away from this or that boarding school, and then we’d live together in our old house in Surrey.”

  “You were six when your mother died?”

  “Six, yes. He kept me with him for about a year afterward, but then I think he started to drink too much and—things. So he sent me to Paris to live with Aunt Beth.”

  “Ah, the charming Lady Sinclair. We met. Tell me, does she always flirt with your suitors?”

  “Yes, always,” she admitted candidly. “That is, when she’s not accusing me of flirting with hers!”

  He laughed. “So your father was the knight in shining armor who was one day going to rescue his princess?”

  “So I thought. He even called me that, his ‘princess.’ But I was a perceptive child; at around fifteen or sixteen I realized that was never going to happen. I also realized neither my father nor my aunt wanted me around very much.”

  “Why not, do you think?”

  His tone was matter-of-fact, his face and manner empty of pity, prompting her to answer with the simple truth. “I never understood why,” she confessed softly, pleating a fold of skirt between her fingers. “I’d spent a lifetime trying to be a good girl, pliant and obedient, the kind of child they seemed to want. But it never worked, never made them love me. So I stopped trying.” She gave a little Gal
lic shrug and smiled to leaven the words. “And then I found a group of friends who liked me, and finally I was happy.”

  A large, changing group of friends, she thought to herself, who seemed always to be just on the other side of respectability—the couple whose baby was born seven months after the wedding, the young men whose only means of support appeared to be gambling, the ladies who went off on dubious escapades unchaperoned and were rumored to allow their beaus unconscionable liberties. It was a crowd best termed “fast,” but not truly wild, and very far from decadent. They were light-hearted and tolerant, and had welcomed her into their number at a time when she’d badly needed companionship. None had become a close friend, yet at that moment she missed them all.

  “Are you happy now, Cass?” Riordan asked gently.

  “Perfectly.” Her answer was automatic, but the question shook her; it demonstrated how unguarded she’d grown with her confidences. “And what about you, Mr. Riordan? How does it happen that a rich, respectable M.P. is playing the part of a rake?” she countered, knowing full well her diversionary tactic was transparent.

  He stared at her a moment, then answered in the same light tone. “Oh, Oliver saved my life once, in a manner of speaking. When I entered Parliament, he asked me to repay him in this way. It’s only for two years, and it’s almost half over.”

  “Mr. Quinn saved your life?” He nodded, but seemed unwilling to elaborate. “You must find it very tiring at times, the decadent life; very boring. At least I should find it so.”