Fortune's Lady

by Patricia Gaffney

  “Nothing. Nothing happened.”

  She sat up. He put his hands behind his head and blinked up at her. For the first time she saw the grimness around his mouth and eyes. “Tell me,” she said quietly.

  He drew a tired breath. “Everything went smoothly. The Members of both houses were assembled in the Lords’ Chamber, waiting for the king’s entrance. The Strangers’ Gallery was full, you couldn’t have wedged in another soul. The guards had instructed everyone to give up any arms they might be carrying before they entered the gallery, and they’d even collected a sword or two. But most people denied having anything.”

  “And then?”

  “At the moment the king would have come in, the gallery was surrounded and everyone in it was ordered into the lobby. There was a lot of confusion, but no one got out. Then each man was searched. It took most of the afternoon.”

  “And?”

  “And there wasn’t a weapon among them. Not a pistol, not a penknife, not a hatpin. Nothing.”

  “Oh, no.” She sat back on her heels. The implication began to dawn on her. “Oh, this is awful. This means—”

  “We’re back where we started.” He tried a smile to lighten the bleakness of his tone, but it wasn’t successful.

  Cass put her hand inside his unbuttoned waistcoat and stroked his ribs in sympathy. After a while she said, “I wonder what will happen now. Will Quinn want you to keep playing your part?” He shook his head slowly, meaning he didn’t know. “He’ll want me to see Wade, though,” she guessed. “We can be sure of that.”

  “Doubtless, but you won’t do it. You’ll write him a note, expressing surprise that no attempt was made on the king’s life today and wondering what he plans next. But I meant what I said this morning, Cass—you’ve seen Wade for the last time.”

  The news didn’t sadden her. They listened to a cart clatter down the sodden cobblestones in front of the house and watched the light in the window fade from gray to umber. A little later she sank down beside him and took him in her arms.

  Charles Willoughby paused with his hand on the knob of his front door. “I don’t know why you two have to go so soon, you’re breaking up the whole party. Are you sure you can’t stay?”

  “Yes, do,” echoed his wife. “It’s not so very late.”

  Cass and Riordan smiled at each other and then at their hosts. Before either could reply, William Leffing-Stoke—who bore the unfortunate but inevitable nickname of Laughingstock—spoke up for them. “You forget, Charles, they’re newlyweds. Nine o’clock is late to them, unless they’re at home alone.” Everyone laughed. The party spilled out onto the Willoughbys’ front porch: Charles and his wife Jennie, Riordan and Cass, Leffing-Stoke, Horace and Jane Thibault, Nigel Drumm, and Michael Cramer. The men were all members of Riordan’s committee, and tonight they were celebrating the extraordinary success of his speech this afternoon in the House, introducing their reform bill.

  Riordan stood behind Cass with his arms around her, not bothering to dispute his friend’s explanation for their early departure. The night was unusually mild and the conversation dragged on, as conversation will at leave-taking time. Finally the men began to shake hands, the women to embrace. Cass had met Jennie Willoughby several times before and liked her enormously. She was older, thirty or so, but she was high-spirited, irreverent, and unfailingly kind. Even more, she seemed to have a genuine interest in taking Cass under her more experienced wing and helping her down the complicated, pitfall-strewn path to becoming a good parliamentary wife. Jennie was her first real woman friend since leaving Paris, and Cass treasured her for it.

  “I’m having a tea next week, Cassie, probably Thursday. Can you come? Jane’s coming,” Jennie said, laying a hand on her other friend’s arm. “I’ll make sure to invite a few women you don’t know, so you can meet some new people.”

  “You’re so kind,” Cass said sincerely, squeezing her hand. “I’d love to come.”

  Later, as they walked home arm-in-arm, she told Riordan about the invitation, marveling at how kind people were.

  “And why shouldn’t they be kind to you?” he demanded.

  “Oh…you know.”

  “Because of your father?”

  “That, and my reputation, the way we married, Wade—everything. My life’s a scandal, Philip!”

  “It might have been once, but not anymore. From now on you and I are going to be so respectable, we’ll bore ’em all to tears.”

  She leaned against him as they walked along, her head on his shoulder. “That ought to sound boring to me, but it doesn’t. Not in the least.”

  “Nor to me.”

  She smiled, and didn’t have to look up to know that he was smiling, too. “Philip, I’m so proud of you tonight, I’m bursting. If only I could have been in the House!” He’d downplayed the possibility of any danger, but still hadn’t allowed her to come to hear his speech. “Will you give it all over again when we get home, just to me?”

  He threw his head back and laughed, imagining it. “If only my audience were half as sympathetic as you, love.”

  “Charles Willoughby said they were that sympathetic. He said you could have heard a feather fall after you started speaking.”

  “A gross exaggeration,” he demurred modestly.

  “And Mr. Drumm said they interrupted to shout, ‘Hear him! Hear him!’ at least half a dozen times.”

  He grinned down at her. “They did. I must admit, it was very cheering.”

  “Now even if Mr. Quinn wants you to resume your old role, I should think after today it would be impossible. No one will believe it anymore.”

  “I’m not sure of that. I was very good at playing the rogue, you know; quite a natural talent.”

  “Yes, but you’re even better at this. Oh, Philip, I’m so excited for you!”

  He laughed and hugged her, lifting her off the ground.

  It was almost ten when they got home—not because it was a long walk but because they stopped so many times under streetlamps to kiss.

  Walker was lurking in the hall, waiting for them.

  “Good lord, John, would you go home? Do you know what time it is?”

  The secretary smiled. “I’ll go in a little while, if you don’t mind; I’ve been doing some work on the rebuttal for the end of the week. Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Quinn is waiting to see you. He’s been here at least an hour. In the drawing room.”

  Cass stood still. So, he was here. The burden of her troublesome secret was about to be lifted. She was glad, but concern for Riordan swiftly overshadowed the relief. How hurt he was going to be! He sent her an apologetic smile and began to tell her he’d join her upstairs soon, but she cut him off by hugging him hard, heedless that Walker stood nearby, and kissing him full on the lips. Then she lifted her skirts and ran upstairs.

  Bemused but smiling, Riordan went down the hall to the drawing room.

  “I hear things went well for you today,” Quinn began, once they were seated at opposite ends of the sofa. A servant had kindled a new fire in the fireplace and replenished the visitor’s glass of barley water before bowing himself out and leaving the two men alone.

  “Very well, we think. The bill has a good chance of passage. Of course, Burke hasn’t sunk his teeth into it yet.”

  “And do you really imagine your eloquence is any match for Edmund Burke?”

  Riordan raised his brows. “Not my eloquence, perhaps. But I think I’ve got justice on my side, not to mention logic.”

  The older man’s laugh was tinged with scorn. “I’ve never known the House to be swayed overmuch by those two commodities.”

  “You’re cynical.”

  “Perhaps. But don’t get your hopes up, Philip. Reform is a long, slow process; it can’t be accomplished overnight by ambitious youths.”

  “Youths?” He smiled faintly. Oliver seemed to be trying to be disagreeable. “Why don’t we stop beating around the bush? We’re not talking about reform, we’r
e talking about me. More precisely, what you want from me.”

  Quinn set his glass down. “You promised me two years, Philip. It’s only been one.”

  Thank God, they were finally going to talk about it. “It’s been fourteen, almost fifteen months,” he corrected. He eyed Quinn steadily. “Oliver, I can’t give you the rest.”

  “Can’t?”

  “Very well—won’t. Everything’s different now. I’m very sorry.”

  Quinn’s face was unreadable. “You’ve changed, Philip.”

  “God, I hope so.”

  He didn’t return Riordan’s wry smile. “This is because you’re married, isn’t it?”

  “Cass is part of it. A big part.” It was surprisingly easy to admit it. “But the rest has to do with finally knowing what I want to do with my life, how I can best serve the country. And it’s not by pretending to be drunk and reporting to you the unguarded conversations I overhear. Christ, Oliver, I’m almost thirty years old! I can make a better contribution in other ways, I’m sure of it. Can’t you see that?”

  “You’re very full of yourself tonight, aren’t you? Flushed with success from one well-received speech—”

  “It’s a bit more than that,” he interrupted coolly.

  Quinn stood up. His limbs were rigid, his pale face gone pink. Riordan realized all at once that he was furious. “Perhaps, but I wonder what all the reforms in the world will avail us,” he almost shouted, “if the forces of chaos prevail and our sovereign is murdered!” He made a visible effort to keep his voice down.

  “Damn it, Philip, I need you. And I need your wife. Can’t you understand that? Wade outsmarted us! We’ve got to find out what he’s thinking now, what his plans are. It’s absolutely vital!”

  “Are you seriously suggesting I let Cass see him again?”

  “She has to, she’s the only—”

  “It’s out of the question! No!” He was on his feet, too. “Wade knows he was betrayed—”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t know it was she. Probably a dozen people knew of the plan.”

  “What if you’re wrong? What if he told no one but her, to test her? And now you’re suggesting I send her back to him? I won’t do it. That’s final, Oliver, it’s my last word.”

  There was a knock at the door. “Yes!” called Riordan angrily, thinking it was another servant, but it was Walker.

  “Sorry, sir, but a messenger just brought this. He’s waiting for a reply.”

  “At this hour?” He took the envelope Walker held out. An eerie feeling of déjà vu came over him as he read his own name in the well-known handwriting of Lady Claudia Harvellyn. He opened it and read.

  “Chawton Hall, Somerset

  “8 November 1792

  “My dearest Philip,

  “Forgive me. If there were anyone else I would not trouble you, but there’s no one. My father is dead. Not his heart—a coach accident, yesterday. Grandmother is gravely injured, expected to die soon. I am hurt, but well enough to write this. Oh, my friend, can you come?”

  The next part was scratched out, but under the ink he could read, “Forgive me, if there were anyone else”—She must have realized she’d written that already. It was signed simply “Claudia.”

  He looked up. “My God.”

  Quinn said, “What is it?”

  “It’s Claudia. A coach accident in Somerset. Her family’s dead—dying. She’s hurt.”

  “I’m so terribly sorry, Philip.”

  He went to the small writing desk in an alcove, opened it, and penned a hasty note. He took it to Walker, saying, “Give this to the messenger, and give him some money.”

  Walker went out.

  “Are you going to her?” asked Quinn.

  “I have to.” He paced between the fireplace and the door, thinking out loud. “The budget debate will take up the next three days. This is Monday. Burke and the others won’t begin the rebuttal on our bill until Friday at the earliest. I can be back by then. I’ll leave early in the morning.” He stopped speaking and stared off into space, thinking about Lord Winston Harvellyn and Lady Alice, his mother. Kind, gracious people, the English aristocracy’s finest. He would miss them both very much.

  “What will you tell your wife?”

  “What do you mean? I’ll tell her—” He halted, remembering, and colored a little. “You mean, because it’s Claudia.”

  “Well, yes. I should think that might be a bit touchy. None of my business, of course.” There was a pause. “Why don’t you tell her you’re going to Cornwall to visit your father? If it’s awkward about Claudia, I mean. He’s ill, isn’t he?”

  “Yes…not seriously, I don’t think.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Damn it, Oliver. I don’t want to lie to her.”

  “Ah,” said Quinn. “Well, then.”

  “On the other hand…” He hesitated. “Oh hell, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  “Whatever you think best, of course. Well.” Quinn came toward him, his arm outstretched. “It’s late, I must go.” They shook hands.

  “Oliver, if you feel I’ve let you down, I deeply regret it,” Riordan said quietly. “I know what I promised, and I think you know how much your respect means to me. But I honestly believe I can do more for the country—and the monarchy—in this new life than I could ever have hoped to in the old.”

  Quinn’s manner was unexpectedly sanguine. “No doubt you’re right. It’ll take some readjustment on my part, that’s all. I’m getting old; such things take longer nowadays.”

  “Nonsense, you’ll never be old.” Riordan patted his friend’s shoulder warmly, the closest either of them ever came to physical affection with each other.

  At the door, Quinn said, as if on an impulse, “Would you like me to look in on Cassandra while you’re gone? To make sure she’s all right?”

  Riordan was surprised, and deeply touched. “I’d like that very much. Thank you, Oliver. You know, I want so much for you and Cass to be friends.”

  Quinn didn’t speak. He only smiled.

  Upstairs, Riordan pushed open the bedroom door and went in. The bed was turned down; Cass’s dress lay across a chair, her shoes and stockings on the floor beside it. Soft voices came from the dressing room. He went to the open door and stood, unnoticed, watching Clara brush his wife’s hair. She was in her nightgown and wrapper. She saw him then, and for a long moment they gazed at each other’s reflections in the glass.

  Clara glanced between them. She raised knowing eyebrows, put the brush down, and went out without a word.

  Cass examined his face anxiously. Something was on his mind, but he didn’t seem distraught or upset. Had Quinn not told him after all? “Is he gone?” she asked tentatively.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you…quarrel?”

  “No, no.” He picked up the brush and began to stroke her sleek, silky hair, watching her eyes close. After a while he abandoned the brush and used his hands, lifting the heavy mass from the back of her neck and letting it tumble through his fingers, a rich, inky black. A feast for his senses. He rested his hands on her shoulders, caressing her collarbone.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “Yes, actually. It’s…” He looked into her grave, concerned face. She was so precious to him. He thought of the time when they were fighting, when he thought he’d lost her. He took a breath. “It’s my father.”

  “Your father?”

  “He’s more ill than I thought. I’ve just received word.” He could hardly get the words out. Now he wished he’d told her the truth. Too late.

  “Oh, Philip. I’m so sorry.” She turned around and embraced him.

  He held her head against his chest. “I have to go to Cornwall tomorrow.”

  “It’s that bad? Shall I come with you?”

  He swallowed and closed his eyes. “No. Thank you. I’ll go on horseback and return on Friday.”

  “Friday? Oh, the debate.”

  “I don’t really think he’s in any danger, Cass. Pleas
e don’t worry, will you? I’ll just…see him and come right back.”

  She squeezed him tightly. “I’ll miss you.”

  He buried his face in her hair, holding her, then brought her to her feet. “I’ll miss you,” he said fiercely. He opened her robe and pushed it back over her shoulders, watching in the mirror behind her as it fluttered to the floor. Then he took handfuls of her nightgown and slowly raised it over her knees, her thighs, her buttocks.

  Cass watched his eyes turn opaque, still focused on her reflection. She put her hands on his face and pulled his mouth down. “Show me how much you’ll miss me.”

  He did.

  Cass leaned back against the carriage seat and closed her eyes, pleasantly exhausted after an afternoon of shopping and socializing. She’d joined the subscription library in Mayfair as well, and the haughty matrons who frequented it had welcomed her like visiting royalty. She’d felt almost, but not quite, like a fraud. She was a nice person, after all, and she was getting smarter all the time. If they liked her now solely because she was Mrs. Philip Riordan, that didn’t mean that someday they wouldn’t like her for herself. Armed with patience and a healthy measure of indifference, she had the leisure to wait for as long as it took.

  Her hand went out to one of the wrapped parcels at her side. Her extravagance still shocked her. But she’d wanted something splendid to give Philip when he returned. It was a cloak of fine downy wool, black, lined with gray fox. Conservative but elegant, the shopkeeper assured her, and she knew it suited him perfectly. She could hardly wait to give it to him.

  Two whole days before he returned! What would she do with herself? At first, as extraordinary as it seemed, she hadn’t missed him at all; indeed, she’d very nearly welcomed his leaving. Since that day in the Members’ Chapel when he’d asked her to marry him again, she’d existed in a state of near-total happiness, and the longer it went on the more it frightened her. Sustained joy like this wasn’t natural, or so her experience had taught her. Riordan’s absence would restore some needed balance, she reasoned, and return her to a more normal state of mind. She needed time to think, to put into perspective the events of the last few weeks, so that by the time he returned she might have discovered a way to extend the term of this precious, but surely temporary, euphoria.