Fortune's Lady

by Patricia Gaffney

  When George didn’t speak, she answered. “We happened to be talking about Mr. Quinn,” she said lightly. “Your brother was…reminiscing about old times.”

  “Ah,” smiled Riordan. “Old times. Those giddy, halcyon days of our youth, eh, George? Nothing but warm memories for me; how about you?”

  The viscount returned his brother’s look of sardonic amusement in kind, and at last Cass caught a subtle, fleeting resemblance between them. “I’ll talk to you another time, Philip,” George said abruptly. “I’ve got to go.”

  “So soon?” Riordan’s regret didn’t sound very convincing. He and Cass followed George out of the drawing room, down the hall to the front door. The two men shook hands; and this time when George kissed Cass, it was on the cheek.

  The door closed behind him. Riordan turned Cass in his arms and tried to steal another kiss. But with George gone, she felt safe again. No, she thought, “safe” was too strong a word; she felt comfortable now. Sidestepping Riordan neatly, she started up the stairs.

  He watched her go with a decidedly wistful look. “George didn’t do anything, did he, Cass?” he thought to ask when she was halfway up the steps. “You know what I mean.”

  She knew what he meant. “No, of course not. He just talks.”

  “What did he talk about?”

  She turned back with an arch smile, her hand on the railing. “You, mostly. I learned some interesting things about you today, Mr. Riordan.”

  “Did you? Don’t believe half of ’em.”

  “If I believed half of them, I’d run screaming in fright from the house this very minute.”

  “If you knew what was in my mind this very minute, you might do it anyway.”

  “Really? Is it so very terrifying, then?”

  “Depends on how you look at it.” He took a step toward her. “Shall I tell you what it is?”

  She walked up a step; backwards. “I think not.”

  He came closer. “Sure?”

  She went back another step. “Positive.”

  “I think you’d find it interesting.” He was moving quickly now.

  “Doubtless, but—Philip, no!” He made a run for her and she bolted away up the stairs, shrieking with panicky laughter.

  He stopped three-quarters of the way up the staircase and listened to the sound of her running footsteps in the hall, the slamming of her door. He sagged against the handrail, chuckling softly. But soon his smile faded, turned into a scowl. This couldn’t go on much longer. Where, oh where the bloody hell was Walker?

  Riordan pressed down too hard on his pen and suddenly the paper under his hand blossomed with bright splotches of black ink. He muttered a curse and threw the quill across his desk. It was stupid to worry, a waste of time and energy, and he had half a dozen more important things to do. True, all true, and yet he couldn’t get past this futile, obsessive awareness that right now, at this moment, Cass was with Wade.

  He’d argued against it, done everything but tell her not to go, sheepishly conscious all the while that he was being unreasonable. Oliver had been the reasonable one, pointing out in his pedantic way that they would be meeting in a public street, Clara in tow, with one of his nameless, faceless agents observing them all the time. He’d known he hadn’t a logical leg to stand on, but the idea of Wade going anywhere near his wife made his blood boil. Still, he couldn’t contradict Quinn when he’d argued that not only was this the first time Wade had ever written to ask for a meeting with Cass—since their marriage it had always been she who initiated their tête-à-têtes—but that time was growing short. Only four days remained before the king was formally to open the new Parliament, and if they were ever to learn Wade’s plan the time was now.

  Goddamn bloody logical, incontrovertible arguments. But what if the son of a bitch touched her? What if he drew her into some secluded spot on the street and put his hands on her?

  He stood up from his desk—he’d long since given up pretending he was writing a paper on the need to reduce Civil List revenues—and prowled around his library restlessly. He knew he was being an idiot, letting outlandish possibilities eat away at him, behaving like some half-mad old woman, but he couldn’t help it. There was something wrong with Wade, and he didn’t want Cass near him. And he didn’t care if the security of the whole bloody English constitutional monarchy depended on it.

  He gave the globe in its stand a fierce swipe and sent it spinning, letting the rotating sphere brush against his palm until it wobbled to a stop. When he lifted his hand, he saw beneath it the boot-shaped representation of Italy. Italy. He wanted to go there again, with Cass this time. As wasted and dissolute as his Continental tour had been seven years ago, he’d truly loved Italy. But not until now had he known anyone he wanted to share it with.

  He sat down heavily on the edge of his desk and thought of all the clothes in the wardrobe upstairs that he’d bought for her and she wouldn’t wear. He wanted to see her in them. Clothes he’d picked out because he’d thought they complemented her fragile coloring. Clothes she wouldn’t touch, because she didn’t believe they were married.

  Bloody hell! Where was she? She’d left at ten o’clock this morning and it was almost noon now. Plenty of time for that bleeding pastel fop to tell her whatever he had to tell her. He didn’t even care what he had to tell her; all he wanted was his wife back. It seemed incredible to him, as he swung one foot loudly and damagingly against the delicate rosewood desk leg, that he’d never told Cass he loved her. He would tell her today, if she would ever get herself the hell home.

  And where was Walker? Eight days he’d been gone now, the longest, most frustrating eight days Riordan had ever lived through, a purgatory he wouldn’t wish on anyone. And the worst of it was, he feared he was through waiting. If Walker didn’t come today, he doubted he could continue the erotic game he’d begun a week ago with Cass—touching incessantly, playing at seduction, deliberately arousing her while not allowing himself to succumb. It was knowing he wouldn’t have to force her, would hardly even have to persuade, that made it so hard. He wanted to respect her scruples, yet he knew they were built on sand. She was his wife. He only hoped he had the strength to keep from shouting it in her face before he started kissing her and pulling off her clothes.

  He heard sounds from the front of the house and stood up. After a moment there were footsteps in the hall. Hers. And then she was there.

  He took one look at her face and went to her, reaching for her cold hands. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

  “Hurt me? No, of course not.” She looked at him in surprise. “Oh, but Philip, what he said—I can still hardly believe it!”

  “Come here and tell me.” He led her over to the windowseat and sat down beside her, keeping her hands. “Tell me.”

  She told. On the fifth of November the king was to be murdered. Shot down by men from the Strangers’ Gallery—she didn’t know who or how many, but Wade wasn’t to be among them—while he addressed both Houses of Parliament in the Lords’ Chamber.

  “I wish you could’ve seen his face! I think he’s mad, Philip. He said there’ll be anarchy afterward, blood in the streets. The government will topple, and at last I’ll have my revenge on you and all the others like you.” She shivered, then colored slightly. “I—had told him before that you’re—arrogant and insufferable.”

  He grinned and raised his brows. “Did you, love?”

  “Yes, I thought it would make him more sympathetic. More willing to tell me things. I told him you said hanging was exactly what my father deserved.”

  “Poor Cass. That was a good lie,” he murmured softly, touching her cheek with fleeting fingers. Then he turned brisk. “I’ll have to let Oliver know immediately. But first, tell me again everything he said, as exactly as you can remember it. And everything you said to him.”

  She complied, thoughtfully and carefully, and when she finished he went to his desk to compose his message to Quinn. She left him and went upstairs. It was the middle of th
e day, but she ordered a bath anyway. Being with Wade had made her feel dirty.

  It was while she was seated at her dressing table afterward, putting her own hair up—Clara had the afternoon off—that she heard a perfunctory knock, saw the door open and Riordan stride toward her. He was grinning broadly, his eyes were dancing, and he looked as if he’d swallowed a canary.

  “What?” she asked, smiling back involuntarily. “What is it?”

  “He’s here.”

  “Who?” But then she knew. “Walker!”

  “Walker. I told him to get something to eat and we’d meet him in the library.” He rested his hands on her shoulders and grinned down at her in the mirror. “Hurry, Cass. Aren’t you ready yet?”

  “Stop leering at me.” Her heart was pounding in her chest and she could see that she was flushing. “No, I’m not quite ready.” Her fingers trembled, and it took twice as long as usual to pin her hair up in the loose chignon she was wearing these days. At last she stood up and faced him. “Now I’m ready.” She smiled a slow smile. “I’ve been ready for a long time,” she murmured huskily, leering a little herself and deliberately letting her breasts brush his arm as she sidled past him. Two could play this game.

  He growled low and made a grab for her hand, all but pulling her out of the room. Neither spoke or looked at the other as they moved down the hall and then the staircase, but they had never been more aware of each other, and never so much of the same mind.

  Walker was there ahead of them. Cass went to him and gave him her hand, noticing how worn out he looked. “Such a long trip you’ve had,” she told him quietly. “Thank you, John.”

  He ducked his head and murmured something unintelligible, not looking at her. It wasn’t like him to be so uncomfortable with her. Her heart stopped and she felt a chilly flutter of premonition.

  “Did they feed you?” asked Riordan, clapping him on the back heartily, oblivious to undertones. “Let me fetch you a drink. Brandy? Claret?”

  “No, nothing, thank you. I don’t care for anything at all.” The secretary ran a hand through his fair, disheveled hair and shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  Cass found a chair and sat down, clutching her knees with white-knuckled fingers.

  “Well, tell us the news!” Riordan rubbed his palms together, gleefully expectant, coming to stand beside Cass. She looked up at him strangely, he thought, not returning his smile. He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze and then put his hands in his pockets, legs spread, waiting for the good news.

  “Sir, I’m terribly sorry,” Walker mumbled almost inaudibly.

  “Sorry? What about?”

  “I’m afraid they have no record of the marriage.”

  “What? That’s impossible.”

  Cass’s eyes closed. She went chalk-white and sank against the back of her chair. I knew it, she thought numbly; I knew it.

  “No, sir, they don’t. And in addition, the toll-keeper said he wasn’t there on the twenty-eighth, not—not in the town at all. He recollected in particular that he was in Annan that day, burying his mother.”

  “That’s a God damn lie!” Riordan exploded, moving toward him menacingly.

  Walker cringed but held his ground. “I went through the records, sir, all they had. There were no nuptuals between Riordan and Merlin on the twenty-eighth, or any other day, and I went back as far as June and as recently as September.” His shoulders hunched in desperation. “It just wasn’t there. It wasn’t.”

  There was a long, exquisitely painful silence. Cass broke it. “Thank you, John, for all your trouble.” Her voice sounded unnaturally high, almost disembodied. Somehow she got to her feet. “Why don’t you go home now? You must be very tired.”

  Walker looked at his employer. He was staring into space, confounded, floored, incapable of speaking. After another lengthy pause, the secretary turned and walked out of the room.

  Cass knew only one thing, that she could not bear a confrontation. The pain was less severe already. It was as if all of her had burned up in a flash fire, and nothing was left but ashes. The important thing was to hold on to this numbness. She skirted around the still form of Riordan and moved toward the door without a sound.

  “Wait!”

  She stopped.

  “This is insane, Cass. I can’t understand what’s happening. Look at me.” She did. The sight of her face made him want to bellow out his fury and bewilderment and smash his fists against the walls. “Cass,” he whispered. “I’m in love with you.”

  Tears overflowed immediately, flooding her cheeks. She swallowed over and over. Finally she got it out. “Then you should have married me.”

  She turned to flee and he lunged for her, grabbing her arm. “Damn you!” he shouted, baring his teeth, his fingers biting into her flesh. “Why can’t you trust me?” He shook her hard. “Why?”

  She couldn’t answer, could hear nothing but her brain’s fevered admonishment, Get away, get away! She wrenched out of his grip and flung away from him. He stared after her through the empty door, listening to the final sound of her footsteps on the stairs.

  Then he had an idea.

  XV

  CASS TOOK A LAST LOOK around the room. His room, which she would never share with him now. The few belongings she was taking were packed in a small bandbox lying open on the bed. The clothes he’d bought her still hung in the wardrobe; books and writing materials he’d given her lay in a neat stack on the bureau. She would take none of them. So there was nothing else. She went to the box and closed it.

  But with her hand on the handle, she paused. There was one other thing. Not to take, but to leave. She reached up to untie the thin blue ribbon at the back of her neck, and slid the ring off it into her palm. He’d said she needn’t wear it but she had, secretly, next to her heart. Her eyes went helplessly to the inscription—“You and no other.” Her throat tightened. She’d thought it impossible that she could cry a single new tear, and yet here came more.

  She moved to the bureau and set the ring down with a clink of finality. Raising her head, she saw a watery reflection of herself in the glass: a pale young woman with grieving eyes. What a cunning disguise the body made for the soul, she mused; no one looking at her in a casual way could tell that inside there was almost nothing left, only empty, echoing space. Before the swollen ache in her chest could paralyze her, she went to the bed, picked up her box, and walked out of the room.

  Riordan’s valet was coming toward her in the hall. “Is Mr. Riordan still here, Beal?”

  “No, madam, he went out about an hour ago and hasn’t come back.”

  “Oh, I see. Thank you.” She had to turn away before he could see the fresh gush of tears—whether of relief or regret she wasn’t sure. But no, this was better; it was. Nothing needed to be said between them now, and if she saw him again she would undoubtedly cry in front of him. This way she could take a snippet of dignity with her.

  She’d taken two steps down the staircase when the front door opened and Riordan entered. She froze. He was whistling. He stood in the foyer, stripping off his gloves, looking energetic and purposeful. And whistling. What was left of her heart broke in half. He looked up and saw her then, so there was nothing to do but come down the rest of the way.

  “Hello, Cass.” He noticed her box. “Going somewhere?”

  “Yes. I’m going away.”

  He saw her red-rimmed eyes and turned grave. “Are you? Where?”

  “I’m not sure.” Her voice gave her away, she knew; it was thick from weeping.

  “Have you any money?”

  She focused her solemn gray gaze on him and said nothing.

  “No, of course not,” he said, half-smiling. “I tore it up. I apologize for that.”

  She drew herself up, a spark of anger beginning to flicker beneath the ashes. “I’m going to ask Mr. Quinn for an advance,” she said stiffly, “on the money he’s promised to pay me when Wade is caught.”

  “Oh, don’t do that. Come in the library, I�
�ll give you some money.” He started down the hall. “Come!” he called over his shoulder.

  She stood stock-still. Hurt and confusion and fury battled inside her. Confusion prevailed. She put her box down and followed him.

  He was pulling notes out of the back of a drawer in his desk. “This is all I’ve got in the house at the moment.” He counted it quickly. “About three hundred pounds. I’ll owe you the rest, all right?”

  She swallowed and nodded, putting out her hand.

  “But there’s a condition.”

  She snatched her hand back. This was more like it. “What condition?”

  “You must give me two hours of your time.”

  She flushed scarlet and backed away.

  “Oh, no, you misunderstand, I didn’t mean—” He paused to laugh. “But what an enchanting idea,” he murmured on an intimate note, causing new color to stain her cheeks. “I meant, two hours outside the house. In full view of the public eye, both of us conducting ourselves with perfect propriety. Well, me, anyway; I can’t speak for you, can I?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about you and me taking a walk, Cass. I want to show you something. Will you come?”

  She frowned with suspicion. “A walk?”

  “A walk.”

  “And then you’ll give me the money, and…let me go?”

  “Yes, if it’s what you want.”

  “It’s what I want.” She paused again. For the life of her, she couldn’t think of anything she had to lose. “Very well. I’ll go with you.”

  “Good!”

  By the time they’d crossed Oxford Street and Piccadilly, passed the Queen’s Palace, and skirted the southern edge of St. James’s Park, Cass had a fair idea where they were heading. But why in the world he wanted to take her to Westminster, and presumably to the particular House of Parliament there in which he spent his working days, she couldn’t guess. And she refused to ask. He spoke little, to match her mood, but he wasn’t at all gloomy; she sensed, in fact, a definite cheerfulness bubbling beneath his quiet surface. He swung a walking stick between his fingers with unmistakable jauntiness, while calling out lighthearted greetings to his acquaintances along the way. In the blackness of Cass’s mind, it seemed the cause of his high spirits could be but one thing: her imminent departure. She sank deeper into her private misery and spoke not a word.