Fortune's Lady

by Patricia Gaffney

  “Would you, Cass?”

  She bristled slightly. “Yes, I would.”

  “But not if there were a fountain around; then I expect your spirits would lighten considerably.”

  She flushed. “Do you always believe what you hear?” she demanded heatedly, scowling at his ill-concealed relish. “If so, you’re no better than Mr. Quinn. I’d have thought you of all people would be more careful in what you took for the truth about others, being such an innocent target of gossip yourself.”

  “Touché! But it’s only recently that I’ve been ‘innocent,’ you know. My reputation for depravity was richly deserved for a very long time.”

  “I’m not in the least surprised,” she retorted, turning away from him to look out the window. She should have known he couldn’t remain civil for long. Yet he intrigued her. She wanted to know more about his family, his syphilitic father and promiscuous mother. And his relationship with Quinn, and how it had come about that the older man had saved his life.

  “We’re in Pall Mall, Cass. Would you like to get out and walk from here?” She agreed with a cool nod, and he called for his driver to stop. “Take the carriage round to the south entrance, Tripp, and wait for us there,” he told him when they’d alighted. “About an hour, I should think.”

  The carriage started off and he offered Cass a polite arm, evidently ready to resume his good manners. She thought again that they moved well together, comfortably, more like an established couple than the chary, on-guard strangers they were. They might even have collaborated on their dress today, so perfectly did her gray-blue muslin frock complement his waistcoat of lavender silk. They chatted easily and naturally about everyday things. He pointed out one of his clubs to her, a hoary-looking edifice fairly reeking with privilege, as well as a number of other well-known gentlemen’s establishments lining the street. When they came to the park, he told her they would quite likely be meeting friends of his, and that when they did he might put his arm around her waist or a familiar hand on her shoulder. “Merely to foster the illusion of tendresse between us, Cass. I didn’t want to take you by surprise.”

  She searched his face for a sign of facetiousness, but he kept it poker-straight. “I’ll do my best not to shrink away in tell-tale horror,” she returned in the same manner. After that they walked along the Mall in silence, thinking their private thoughts.

  “It occurs to me we might even meet Colin Wade,” Riordan said suddenly. “If that happens, I’ll nod to him and we’ll keep walking. I’m not ready for you to meet him yet.”

  Cass didn’t think she was ready, either. “You’re acquainted with him, then?”

  “Acquainted, yes. Not friends.”

  “What’s he like? Mr. Quinn told me very little.”

  “Wade? Blond and beautiful, or so the ladies tell me. You can almost picture him in a toga, wearing sandals. He affects slow, languid movements, and he likes to put his thumbs and forefingers together in a saintly way when he talks.” He demonstrated, causing her to laugh at his conspicuously unsuccessful attempt to look effete. “Since the gesture is always unrelated to the point he’s making, it’s safe to say he only uses it to draw attention to his hands—which are, of course, long and white and beautiful. It’s very effective.”

  “I shall remember to be impressed.”

  “He’s partial to pastel colors in his dress, which is always immaculate. The other night at Walbridge’s he had on a pink waistcoat. Pink!” He shook his head in wonder. “Women swoon over him for some reason, but he holds them at a distance, picking and choosing like a rajah. I’d say the best way to attract his notice is to flatter him.”

  “And his wife? What’s she like?”

  “She used to live in Lancashire on his estate, but now she stays in Bath. The official line is that she’s an invalid, but the rumor is she’s as mad as a March hare.”

  “Good heavens.” She walked along, trying to absorb it all. “From the way you describe him, he doesn’t sound like the kind of man who would bother himself about revolutions and anarchy and assassination.”

  “No, I agree. But then, they say Guy Fawkes was thought a very cheery, temperate sort of fellow by all who knew him. Anarchists don’t always look like slavering madmen, unfortunately.”

  Cass murmured in agreement, wondering who Guy Fawkes was.

  They stopped to watch the pelicans in the canal. He took her hand without thinking. “Wade’s a very secretive man and not much is known of his private life. He has dozens of acquaintances but no close friends. The political side of his life is not public knowledge; what we know of it has only come from slow and painstaking intelligence work. He lived in Paris for a few years before his marriage, and we think that’s where he fell in with a radical element. It probably began innocently enough—young hotheads talking revolution in fashionable cafes—but now it’s quite serious. He really does want to overthrow the English monarchy, and he learned his anarchic principles from the Paris revolutionaries in the ’80s.”

  “Why do you think he betrayed my father and his friends to the government?”

  “Is that what Quinn told you?”

  Cass whirled on him. “Do you mean to say it’s not true?”

  He held up his hands placatingly. “I didn’t say that. In fact, it probably is true. It’s only that no one’s been able to prove it. Your father and his cronies refused to implicate Wade when they were arrested, even after they were told he’d sacrificed them. I’m a little surprised Oliver said it, that’s all. I know he can be a bit single-minded, but at heart he’s an honorable man. Cass? What’s wrong?”

  She’d gone a sickly shade of gray. After Riordan said “refused,” a horrible, unspeakable thought occurred to her and she went deaf to everything else. She felt frozen inside and wanted to stay that way, but forced herself to speak. Knowing the truth would be better than fearing it the rest of her life.

  “Will you tell me something honestly?” she said in a low, shaky voice.

  He watched her stricken face in perplexity. “Yes, if I can. Cass, for God’s sake, what is it?”

  She swallowed hard and drew a painful breath. “Was my father beaten when he was in prison?”

  He swore under his breath and reached for her. She tried to pull away, but he held her arms firmly. “Listen to me, love.”

  “He was, wasn’t he?” To her dismay, tears began to streak down her face in a helpless flood. She let him lead her away from the path to a private place by a little copse of trees; when he pulled her into his arms, she felt too devastated to resist. “Oh God,” she sobbed against his shirt. “I thought he didn’t want to see me because he didn’t care for me. My God, my God.”

  He let her cry. Her words were so thick with grief, he could hardly understand her. She’s so young, he thought as he held her and stroked her back in slow, soothing circles. Her hair tickled his lips as he crooned meaningless comfort against it, and her slim hands pressing against his chest reminded him of another time she’d done that. He wasn’t aroused, but every part of him that touched her was acutely aware of her womanliness.

  “I’m all right now,” she whispered, pushing back.

  She wasn’t; he gave her his handkerchief and held on. “Listen to me, sweet. I don’t know it for certain; it’s possible he wasn’t. But—”

  “Don’t say anything else. Please.” She thrust him away and turned around.

  He stared bleakly at her back, struggling for the right words. “I never met your father, Cass, and I won’t pretend to admire him for what he did. But I know he believed in the course he chose and obeyed the rules he made for himself. No one could deny that what he did took courage. And dying for one’s principles isn’t such a tragic way to go, is it?”

  After a long moment she turned back. Her face was ravaged from weeping, but she held her chin high and her voice was steady. “No, it’s not a tragic way to die. Perhaps it’s an enviable one. I beg your pardon for behaving as I did. It was naive of me not to have seen the truth b
efore now. My excuse is that I didn’t want to see it. I’m ready now if you’d like to go on our way.”

  It took all his willpower not to reach out for her again. But she thought all he felt was pity, and he didn’t want to make her feel shame now on top of her grief. So he clasped his hands behind his back and stepped aside, bowing as she preceded him back to the path.

  He began to speak of ordinary things—the loveliness of the late afternoon, the blight that seemed to be ruining all the dogwood trees this year—and after a little while he was rewarded by a ghost of a smile and a few quiet words in return. Emboldened, he told her a joke. It was a long, complicated, and very silly joke, and when she laughed at the end he suspected it was as much at him as at the point of the story. But the sound of her laughter warmed him like sunlight on a frozen pond, and at that moment he’d have stood on his head for a chance to hear it again.

  “Philip! Philip Riordan!”

  “Oh, bloody hell,” he cursed under his breath. Cass stiffened and he casually slid his arm around her, pulling her against him. “You’re about to have the pleasure of meeting a few of the people I’m obliged to call friends,” he muttered grimly. The call came again; he stopped and turned around. Two couples were bearing down on them. “Hullo, Wally, Tom,” he called in a voice that made Cass look up at him in surprise.

  “I knew you’d heard me, you old sod,” complained one of the gentlemen when he reached them. The fast walk seemed to have winded him; he wiped his corpulent face with a scented handkerchief and breathed through his mouth. “Ain’t you going to introduce us to your charming friend, Philip?”

  “No.”

  “Ha! Then I’ll do it myself.” He bowed to Cass as deeply as his paunch would allow. “Your humble servant, madam, Wallace Digby-Holmes. And this is Tom Seymour, a scurvy youth not worth your notice. And these three ladies are our friends.”

  “Two,” corrected Tom. “These two ladies.”

  “Damn me, that’s what I said. This one’s Gracie—wasn’t it? And this one’s Jane; I’m sure it was Jane. Now, where were you two bound for? We’ll go with you. Or if you’ve got to run off, Philip, I’ll be happy to see the lady home myself. It’s Miss Merlin, ain’t it? I vow, you Commons fellows don’t care a damn for manners anymore—begging your pardon, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat.

  “Oh, bugger off, Wally,” Riordan snarled, slurring his words a little.

  “Tut tut! A trifle foxed, eh? I say, you wouldn’t have a drop on you at the present moment, would you? Eh? God’s truth, you’re a good man!” He accepted the silver flask Riordan removed from his pocket, took a long pull, and handed it to Tom. The two ladies giggled and tsked. They were coarse-featured and colorfully dressed; Cass thought that if they weren’t whores she was a parrot’s pinafore.

  “We won’t keep you,” Riordan muttered with a scowl, taking his flask back and swaying slightly.

  “Whoa, what’s your blinkin’ hurry? The lady looks like she wants to go with us instead of you, Philip. I’ve a sixth sense about these things, y’see,” he winked at Cass, tapping his forehead and moving closer.

  Tom had an idea. “Why don’t we let her decide?”

  Wally grinned and clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Faith, why not? Eh, Philip?” Riordan continued to glare and sway. “Well, Missy, who’s it to be? This drunken, bloody-minded lout you’re attached to around the middle, or a couple of light-hearted, free-spending, good-looking bounders such as ourselves?”

  The ladies were snickering again behind their hands; Cass had an urge to join them. “I believe I’ll stay with the lout,” she said demurely. While Wally and Tom roared their disappointment, she stole a glance at Riordan’s face. He was still scowling down at her, but there was a decidedly humorous quirk at the side of his mouth.

  “Women,” Wally grumbled. “If it wasn’t for— oops, beg pardon. Faith, we’re off, then. Are you coming to Flaherty’s tonight, Philip? If you do, I’ll show you my new pistols. Come on, Tom. Hullo— June, ain’t it? Take my arm, there’s a good girl. Joan, you say? Well, make up your mind, woman.…” His words trailed off as the gay foursome moved away down the path.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Cass started to laugh. She’d found Riordan’s friends harmless and amusing, although she could see how they might soon grow tiresome; in fact, albeit older, they reminded her a good deal of some of her old set in Paris.

  Riordan smiled down at her, savoring the rare sound of her laughter and hoping she’d keep holding his arm like that. She didn’t. Something in his eyes must have given him away, because her laughter died in her throat and she stepped away self-consciously. “We’d better go. It’s almost dark.”

  It wasn’t, but the sun was setting and their hour was up; Tripp would be waiting. He nodded sedately and they moved together toward the southern end of the park.

  The carriage was there, waiting. Riding back to Holborn, Cass was astonished to hear that Wally was in fact Viscount Digby-Holmes, Lord Thomas Seymour was a baron, and they both sat in the House of Lords. “Good heavens!” she marveled. “That’s shocking.”

  “Isn’t it? Almost as scandalous as my being in the Commons. It’s horrible accidents like these that give revolution a good name, Cass. Which reminds me—what did you think of the Rousseau?”

  Her heart sank. She’d hoped he’d forgotten. “I adored it,” she said on a note of finality. “That’s Westminster Hall, isn’t it? Aren’t your chambers or whatever they’re called inside?”

  “Why, you lazy cow, you haven’t read it.”

  “I have!” she cried indignantly.“ ‘L’homme est ne libre, et partout il est dans les fers.’ There, you see?”

  “I see you’ve read the first sentence,” he said, laughing.

  “No, much more!”

  “Indeed. And what did you make of it?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “What did you think?”

  “About which particular part?”

  He sighed patiently. “In general.”

  “I liked it, truly I did. But I didn’t finish it,” she confessed, shame-faced.

  “Never mind. What do you think about the idea of a republic?”

  She thought. “Well…I think people should have the right to have good leaders. If the leaders are incompetent or insane or evil or dangerous, then we ought to be able to expel them and elect new ones. And I think a king ought to rule because we’ve chosen him, not because God ordained him.”

  “Spoken like a true revolutionary.”

  “Certainly not!” she denied, shocked.

  “What’s your opinion of man in his natural state?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Did he mean a naked man?

  “In a state of nature, before society corrupts him, is he a simple, unaggressive sort of fellow or a greedy, amoral beast?”

  It was a question she’d never considered. “I suppose it depends on his circumstances,” she said slowly. “If he were warm enough and had plenty to eat, he’d probably be gentle and loving. But if his very existence was a constant struggle, I should think he’d be violent, even cruel.” Her face cleared. “Is that right?”

  Riordan laughed. “There’s no right answer, Cass; it’s all theory.”

  Then what good is it? she wanted to ask, but held her tongue.

  He continued to worry her with questions about the origins of society and the social contract; after she realized that he wasn’t going to make fun of her, she was able to concentrate on the notion and make connections that had never occurred to her before. He didn’t patronize her, but listened carefully, interrupting to add an occasional thought of his own or to prod her out of a blind alley. It was a completely new experience for Cass—a conversation not about a person or a thing but about an idea—and she was amazed to discover that she enjoyed it immensely. When she looked out the window and saw her own house, she had no idea how long the carriage had been standing there.

  “Goodness, I’d better go in.”


  “Yes, I suppose.”

  But neither of them moved. She watched him under cover of the gathering dusk, and thought that for all his able acting he really didn’t look dissolute, unlike his friends in the park. His face wasn’t puffy but taut, the lines of his jaw clean and hard. And his body was too muscular, his shoulders too straight. He had no belly at all and his thighs were so hard.…She swallowed and found her mouth had gone dry. “Well, I’d better go,” she repeated.

  “Cass, wait.” He handed her something white. “This is for you.”

  “What is it?” Then she saw. Inside the envelope were ten hundred-pound notes. Her fingers tightened around them and her skin felt suddenly cold. She couldn’t look at him. “It’s a loan,” she heard herself saying. “Did Quinn tell you it’s a loan?”

  “A loan? No, he didn’t mention that.”

  The polite, uninflected tone of his voice told her more clearly than words that he didn’t believe her. Anger flared quickly—at him, and at herself for wanting him to. It was a business transaction, wasn’t it, loan or not? Payment for services rendered, Mr. Quinn had called it. And after it was all over, they expected her to leave England. Then why did she feel such hot, prickly humiliation as she sat holding the envelope, massaging its thick, weighty contents through the crisp paper? With a jerky motion she shoved it into her purse and pushed forward to the edge of the seat. “When will I be meeting Mr. Wade?” she asked tightly, staring straight ahead.

  “Soon.”

  “Good. I want to start earning my fee as quickly as possible. Let me out now, please.”

  “I’ll come again tomorrow.”

  “Fine. Please let me out.”

  Still she wouldn’t look at him. He waited a moment longer, understanding only partly what had her so upset, then threw open the door and jumped to the pavement. He took her hand to help her down; she pulled away immediately and walked alone to her door. He thought she’d wait for him, let him open it for her, but before he could reach her she had disappeared inside.

  V

  CASS LEANED FORWARD and patted her horse between the ears, wishing Riordan would talk to her. She glanced at him, astride the fine bay stallion beside her, and wondered what he was thinking. It was impossible to tell from his blank, closed profile. Actually, neither of them had had much to say this morning, or last night either, which was unusual. They had walked, ridden, dined, gambled and danced every day and nearly every evening for almost a week—but most of all they’d talked. Cass hadn’t even known there were so many subjects two people could discuss. She had opinions now—not deep ones, but respectable and reasonably well-founded—on issues such as whether a Member of Parliament ought to vote as his conscience advised or his constituents demanded, and whether people had a moral responsibility to overthrow a despot. And the astonishing thing was that her new opinions weren’t just mirror images of Riordan’s, but her very own. She wasn’t even sure what his real beliefs were because his way of discussing them was to take the opposite of whatever view she took, argue until she either won or gave up, then take the other side and begin all over again. He never made her feel stupid, even when she stumbled into ridiculous faux pas that revealed how truly ignorant she was. He’d even paid her a compliment of sorts when he’d wondered once how she could be so bright, yet have had such a disgracefully poor education. She’d basked in the glow of that dubious praise for days. She still had difficulty with Rousseau and the other books he lent her to read, but had learned that if he summarized them for her she could grasp the fundamentals easily and accurately. She felt proud and exhilarated; for the first time learning was an enjoyable rather than a painful experience.