Fortune's Lady

by Patricia Gaffney

  “What’s wrong?”

  She looked up with a mechanical smile. “Nothing. I was thinking about the glasses. It was so silly of me not to have realized what the problem was. Thank you. It’s the nicest present anyone’s ever given me.”

  “I hope not. Here, try this.” He stopped walking and reached into his coat pocket. “Happy birthday, Cass.”

  She was too stunned to take the package he was holding out to her. “How on earth—? No one knows, how could you—? Aunt Beth, Freddy, they’ve never—”

  “Open it, why don’t you?”

  She continued to stare at him, open-mouthed. People had to walk around them on both sides. He took her elbow and led her from the center of the sidewalk to a quieter spot near the brick facade of a draper’s shop. “Go ahead.”

  She held it in her hands, weighing it. It seemed to be a rather heavy box. “I can’t accept it. It was so kind of you to know it’s my birthday and to—”

  He interrupted with an impatient sound. “Of course you can accept it. It’s not the Crown Jewels, for heaven’s sake. Would you just open it?”

  She did, warily. “Oh! Books!” She laughed with delight and hugged it to herself. “How perfect.”

  “Don’t you want to read what it is?”

  There was a soft light in his eyes and a look on his face she hadn’t seen before. “What? Oh—” She saw that it was a novel in three volumes and read the title with a blush. “Evelina, or a Young Lady’s Entrance into the World.”

  “The title struck me, though I wouldn’t be surprised if Evelina’s entrance into the world was a bit different from yours.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “I shouldn’t wonder. I’ll let you know. You haven’t read it, then?” They started walking again, Cass holding her novel in one hand, Riordan’s arm in the other.

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t have time for that sort of thing these days.”

  She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “It’s not a serious book, then?”

  “God, I hope not. You’ve been reading so many serious books lately, I thought you could do with a little frivolity.”

  Her face cleared. If he didn’t mind her reading something light, why should she? She’d already forgotten that his opinion didn’t matter to her. “That was extremely thoughtful of you. But you must tell me—how did you know today is my birthday?”

  “Doesn’t your family celebrate it, Cass? A present from your aunt or—”

  She burst out laughing, the idea sounded so ridiculous. “No,” she said simply. “So tell me how you knew.”

  “Oliver told me. He must have found out during the investigation he and his men made before approaching you about Wade. They’re pretty thorough.”

  A heavy silence fell. Riordan attributed it to the usual tension that came between them whenever Wade’s name was mentioned, and he was sorry he’d uttered it.

  But Cass’s reticence came from another source this time. “They’re not always that thorough,” she said after a long moment, staring straight ahead.

  “Who aren’t?” He’d forgotten his last words. “Quinn’s people, you mean?”

  “Yes. They…make mistakes. They made one about me.” Why was she saying this? She’d thought she had too much pride ever to say this to him, knowing he wouldn’t believe her anyway. His loyalty was to his old friend, the man who’d saved his life. What could be more natural or inevitable? But now that she’d started, she couldn’t stop. “My life in Paris was full of frivolity and harmless pleasure, but it was not decadent. It wasn’t. I know what you’ve heard—I’ve heard the stories now myself.” She kept staring straight ahead; if she looked at him she would lose her courage. “I never jumped naked into a fountain. I never had an affair with the Comte de Beauvois, nor with Jean-Claude Marisot or Fabien Bichet. In fact, I never had an affair with anyone. I—used to drink quite a lot, and then sometimes men would—”

  “Cass.”

  “What?” She stole a glance at him and her heart withered. He looked embarrassed.

  “Stop it. Please. There’s no need for this.”

  She saw that he couldn’t look at her, either. A slow flush of humiliation spread across her cheeks and a lump settled painfully in her throat. She wanted to let go of his arm—his touch was hateful to her now—but to do so would give too much away. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you believe,” she said without inflection. He didn’t reply. She walked on blindly, speechless and miserable, cursing herself for being such a fool.

  Neither of them spoke again until they arrived at his house. Riordan sent a footman for the carriage and told Cass to come inside to wait. She refused.

  “I can report to you on Mr. Wade here,” she said tightly.

  “All right. Go ahead.”

  “Last night I told him about your meeting with Pitt and the other ministers. He asked if you thought they were leaning toward war with France.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said yes.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “He began talking about going away in August, and who would stay in town and who wouldn’t. He named a few names, all lords and ladies, and then mentioned he’d heard the queen would go to Koblenz. He wondered if the king would accompany her.”

  “Did he? Do you think he wanted you to understand the implications of that question?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve felt sometimes that he was about to take me into his confidence, but so far he hasn’t. The arrangement is still that I’m to provide—mostly to spite you—as much information as I safely can for acquaintances of his who share my father’s revolutionary goals. He’s never admitted to being one of them, much less their leader.”

  Riordan grunted. “Anything else?”

  “We met a man named Thorn. They spoke for a while in private.”

  “Ian Thorn. We know about him; he’s one of them. Anything else?”

  His impatient tone irritated her. “Yes. He said you were a turncoat Whig, a yes-man for the king, bound to the ministry by nothing but material interest. He said you didn’t care a straw for public opinion, and that you stood in contempt of your own constituents, whom you’d bought like a parcel of serfs from the previous borough owner.”

  It came as a huge satisfaction to Cass to see Riordan lose his temper. He didn’t rant or curse; in fact he didn’t say anything at all. But the skin around his lips went very white just before the rest of his face turned a deep shade of purple. His dark-blue eyes glittered with a dangerous light; if she hadn’t known him so well she might have felt frightened for a moment or two. But when he finally spoke, his voice was perfectly calm.

  “Thank you for the report, Cass. When will you see him again?”

  “Tonight.”

  His hand tightened fractionally on her arm as he put her into the waiting carriage. “Tonight. Another peep show, I wonder? How did you enjoy the Wicket Club, by the way?”

  “Rather dull, we both thought,” she said airily. She couldn’t look at him.

  “So I would imagine. Nothing like Paris, I’m sure. Why don’t you try Conrad’s? They have couples there who fornicate right on the stage.”

  She colored and didn’t speak. She detested him. Damn, damn, damn! How did he even know she’d gone to the Wicket Club? Did he have spies? Had he followed her himself? That possibility shook her. What if he’d seen her there, pretending nonchalance while watching a tableau of naked women—“posture girls,” they were called—some bent backwards and balancing wine glasses on their breasts? She and Wade had left early, to her unspeakable relief; he’d said the entertainment was too tame. They’d gone gambling instead, and then he’d taken her home. He hadn’t kissed her. Sometimes she wondered if he even liked her. She wondered if her only appeal to him now was the information she gave him about plans for the upcoming term in the House of Commons or the other tidbits Riordan furnished.

  Riordan still held the door open, scowling up at her. All she wanted was to get away. She flinched w
hen he jumped up on the step and leaned in toward her. “Good-bye, Cass.” His kiss was brusque, a farewell peck she had no trouble resisting. But then it changed. He caught her shoulders and pressed her lightly back against the seat while his lips opened hers and his warm, wet tongue came inside. She went from rigid resistance to helpless longing in the space of time it took him to pull her arms around his neck.

  “We have to find a better place than this damn carriage,” he mumbled against her mouth as he kissed her and kissed her. She was about to agree when the reality of what they were doing finally struck her.

  She drew away, trying to disguise her trembling, knowing it was useless. “I appreciate your help with Burke and all the other books, Mr. Riordan,” she said shakily. “But I’m already so good at kissing, you know, I don’t even need to practice.” She watched his eyes twinkle appreciatively. Then the devil took her. “At least, that’s what Colin says.”

  She’d known that would darken the mood. But she wasn’t prepared for the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach when Riordan’s face went still as a statue’s and he jumped to the pavement as if there was a bad smell in the carriage.

  “Happy birthday, Cass,” he snapped, slamming the door. The carriage started off.

  Halfway to the corner, she remembered. “Thank you for the book!” she shouted with her head out the window.

  But the rumble of a coal cart coming the other way smothered her words and he didn’t hear.

  VII

  “THIS IS WORTHLESS, Philip, utterly worthless. She hasn’t brought us one useful piece of information in all the time she’s been seeing him.”

  “I know it.”

  “We’re giving him a great deal more than we’re getting, in fact, which wasn’t the arrangement I had in mind.”

  “It’s only been a couple of weeks, Oliver.”

  “It’s been over a month.”

  “She has to go slowly. Otherwise he’ll suspect what she’s after.”

  “Granted. But I assume they’re intimate by now, so why haven’t we seen any results? Not even one name?”

  Blank-faced, Riordan unfolded his long legs and levered himself up from the uncomfortable chair which, except for its mate, now occupied by Quinn, was the only seating accommodation the austere cubicle of a room afforded. He went to the window and gazed out at the tiny courtyard two stories below, surrounded by stone buildings identical to this one. Quinn rented this small sitting room in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, along with an even smaller bedroom through a curtain in the wall, and made do with one all-purpose servant. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford better; the tiny, uncluttered apartment suited his monk-like temperament perfectly.

  Riordan turned away from the uneventful vista and leaned against the casement, hands shoved deeply into his pockets. The silence lengthened. He forced the words out, though he had no wish to hear the answer. “How do you know they’re intimate?”

  Quinn sat up straighter. “Do you mean to say they’re not?”

  Relief rushed through him like water from a burst dam. Oliver didn’t know any more than he did—so it was still possible they weren’t! She’d said they weren’t when he’d asked her a few days ago, but he’d thought she was lying. He’d been so foul about it, he wouldn’t have blamed her if she had been. “I don’t know whether they’re intimate or not,” he told Quinn, curling his lip in distaste over the word.

  “Well, for God’s sake, man, find out! She’s being paid too well to drag her feet now. Deal with her, Philip. I won’t tolerate faintheartedness at this stage of the game.”

  Riordan rubbed his top lip with three fingers, then sanded the stubble on his jaw with his palm. He ran both hands through his hair and stared up at the ceiling.

  “Well? You agree with me, don’t you?”

  After a long minute, he shifted his gaze to his friend, “Oliver…”

  “Well?”

  How could he say that the idea of ordering Cass to sleep with Wade was abhorrent to him? Unthinkable? It was what they’d hired her for, he knew, but….His mind grasped at a straw. “Have you heard any rumors about Wade?”

  “Rumors?” frowned Quinn. “What kind?” He rested his pointed elbows on his crossed knees, and Riordan was reminded of a grasshopper.

  “That he’s not quite right where women are concerned. That he doesn’t treat them well.”

  “No, never. Nothing of the kind. Why?”

  “Ah.” He was relieved, of course, but Quinn’s answer eliminated his only legitimate reservation. “It was just some tavern talk I heard.”

  Quinn uncrossed his thin shanks and pressed his folded hands against his lips. “Philip.”

  He winced inwardly, recognizing the stern, schoolmasterish tone even after twenty years; it usually meant a reprimand was coming. “What?” And now he sounded like a sulky schoolboy.

  “Do you have feelings for this girl?” His inflection gave the word an odd, foreign sound, as if he were saying it for the first time, or as if he found it faintly distasteful.

  Riordan went back to staring at the ceiling. What was there to say? He tried to answer truthfully. “She’s young, Oliver, and she’s involved in something that might be dangerous. She’s helping us because her circumstances left her no other choice. I feel responsible for her.”

  “Is that all you feel?”

  He pushed himself away from the window and flopped down again in the hard chair. “Yes,” he said positively, knowing it was a lie. He wanted Cass, but that was none of Oliver’s business. And it had no bearing on their situation, none at all.

  “And your relationship with her remains purely on a professional level?”

  “Absolutely. Purely.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it. Because we’ve set something in motion that can’t be stopped now. It’s too late to replace either one of you. Beyond that, to become involved with someone like this Merlin woman would be ruinous, Philip. Ruinous. Everything you’ve worked for—”

  “Damn it, I know it! I’ve told you there’s nothing between us. Why do you say her name like that? ‘This Merlin woman.’ As if she weren’t quite human.”

  “I have no idea what you mean.”

  He did it with all women, now that Riordan came to think of it. It was peculiar.

  But as if reading his thoughts, Quinn asked next, “By the way, how is Lady Claudia?” His expression betrayed nothing but innocent interest.

  “She’s fine,” he answered shortly.

  “Good, good. A lovely girl. Excellent family.”

  Riordan didn’t respond.

  “I was speaking to Sir Lawrence Trilby about you not long ago, Philip. He’s pleased with what you’ve been doing. Very pleased. I should think his gratitude would be substantial when this is all over.”

  Trilby was one of the king’s deputies and closest advisors, a man of sizeable influence in Whitehall. Riordan grunted. “I wonder what it will take to keep his gratitude afterward,” he said sourly. “Will I be expected to toe the royal line for the rest of my life?”

  “Nonsense,” Quinn scoffed. “Independence of mind is always a welcome quality in a statesman.” He ignored Riordan’s derisive snort. “So you’ll speak to Miss Merlin about Wade soon, will you?”

  Riordan’s face went still. “Yes, I’ll speak to her.”

  “When?”

  He expelled a breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Tonight. We’re going to the opera.”

  ***

  “He’s in the library, miss, if you’ll—”

  “Oh, it’s all right, John, you needn’t show me. I know my way by now.”

  “Of course. Miss Merlin, if I may say so, you’re looking particularly beautiful this evening.”

  “Why, thank you, John. That’s very kind of you.”

  She smiled and he bowed, and then she started down the dim, paneled hallway toward the library. Halfway there, the soft, muted strains of string music reached her ears, growing more distinct with each step. She reached the doorway and
stopped. The room was unlit except for the pearl-gray remnants of dusk glowing palely in the open French doors to the garden, and it was a moment before she made out the figure of Riordan in the gloom. He was standing by the windows in profile, coatless, waistcoat unbuttoned, playing the viola. She held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t stop. There was a scent of roses on the air, faint and sweet; it mingled with the low, lovely notes in a dreamy counterpoint. She watched his face, so serious, his eyes almost closed. His bearing was tall and graceful; twilight illuminated the silver in his hair and made her think of the snow-covered branches of some strong, straight tree. His fingers pressing the strings were supple and sure, his stroking of the bow delicate, even dainty. She thought she’d never seen anyone so beautiful. The knowledge that she loved him came slowly, like the notes of the song, and like the song, made her inexpressibly sad.

  The last bittersweet notes died away. Riordan saw her when he turned to lay down the instrument. She was standing in the doorway, tall, still, elegant. He remembered the first time he’d seen her, far away in a churchyard, beside her father’s muddy grave. He moved toward her.

  “Cass.” Her gray eyes rested on him so gravely. “Is anything wrong?” She shook her head. She was lovely. In the dimness he couldn’t make out what color her dress was, some pastel shade that enhanced the mystery of her dark, lush hair. She wore it pulled back from her face in front, long and free in back—the way she’d worn it the night they’d met. He took her hands and kissed them. “You’re so beautiful.”

  He stroked her palms with his thumbs, and a well of longing opened up in Cass. “So are you.” She was afraid she would weep if he kept touching her, kept looking at her that way.