Fortune's Lady

by Patricia Gaffney

  But she hadn’t found a way, and now all she wanted was for him to come home. What seemed unnatural now was living without him. She didn’t want to ponder the miracle of their reconciliation anymore; she wanted to see him.

  Two more days! How would she occupy her time? Jennie Willoughby had invited her to a card party tomorrow night, and that would be pleasant, of course. And she could always read, and work on her new article. She was tentatively calling it “Women and Revolution.” This one would definitely be under her pseudonym; even Philip didn’t know she was writing it.

  She recalled a conversation with him one night last week as they lay in bed, reading. She’d interrupted him, as was her habit when something puzzled her or caught her fancy. And as was his unfailing habit, he’d put his book down and given her his complete attention.

  “Philip, it says here that all men are created equal; no man has a natural authority over his fellow man…so on and so on and so on—” her finger skipped down the page—“conventions form the basis of authority among men; to renounce liberty is to renounce being a man; man consults his reason before listening to his inclinations…and so on and so forth. Darling, I was just wondering. Why is it that in all these political books I’ve been reading, they never, ever utter the word women? Never. Why?”

  He’d frowned, considering it. A moment passed. Finally he answered. “It’s included.” And he turned a page and went back to his book.

  She looked at him in silence. “Oh,” she said, and after another minute went back to hers, not quite satisfied.

  The carriage was slowing down, entering the solid, unpretentious respectability of Portman Square. She quite liked her new house, with its elegant stone facade, the gracefully arched entranceway.

  A man was ascending the shallow front steps to the door. She didn’t have to see his face to recognize him; she knew too well that gaunt body, the jerky, loose-limbed movements. It was Quinn.

  Tripp helped her down and took her packages while Quinn waited for her on the top step. She went toward him steadily, head high, nothing in her look or manner betraying her deep unwillingness to see him. “Mr. Quinn,” she greeted him, but didn’t extend her hand. “Will you come in? Philip’s out of town, but—”

  “Yes, I know. It’s you I’ve come to see.”

  The words gave her a quick chill, but she moved past him calmly enough and gave her coat to a servant in the foyer. Quinn wore none, not even a hat, though the day was freezing. She decided against taking him into the library; she wanted the formality of the drawing room for this meeting. She suspected neither of them wanted tea, but she ordered it anyway, then asked him to have a seat. She remained standing. He’d come to see her, he’d said, but evidently he wasn’t going to speak first. He was watching her, his pale, other-worldly face expressionless, waiting for her to begin.

  “Did you receive my note?” she asked finally. “I sent it to you more than a week ago.”

  “I got it.”

  There was a pause. So he was going to make it as difficult as possible. “Why haven’t you told Philip, then?” she blurted out.

  “Told him what?”

  “The truth!” Her anger hit the surface with unexpected force, taking her by surprise. She heard the note of fury in her tone and took several deep breaths to calm herself. She would accomplish nothing by screaming at him.

  “Mr. Quinn,” she began again. “The last time you and I spoke alone, you told me something about my husband I now know to have been…not the truth. The best possible interpretation I can put on it is that you made a mistake. That seems incredible, but I shrink from the only other explanation that comes to mind—that you deliberately lied to me so that I would leave Philip and go to Wade.”

  Quinn crossed his long shanks and leaned back. “I still want you to go to Wade.”

  She stared. “But do you deny that you lied?”

  “Yes, I deny it,” he answered readily.

  “But—we’re to be married! Married again, I should say!”

  “Do you think so?” He clasped one bony knee in both hands. “I wouldn’t count on it. In betting parlance, that would not be a sure thing.” He reached into his jacket pocket. “This is, however.”

  “What is it?” She looked with distaste at the envelope he put on the sofa beside him.

  “Money. The other thousand pounds you were promised after the assignment was completed. I’m willing to give it to you now if you’ll return to Wade.”

  Cass couldn’t quite summon a laugh, though one certainly seemed called for now. “You must be completely out of your mind. Philip would kill me if I saw Wade, for one thing, and for—”

  “Tell me, Cassandra, are you afraid of Wade?”

  “I—” She paused, uncertain of the answer. “It doesn’t matter whether I am or not, I’m not going to see him. My God, I can’t believe you would offer me money! Philip is my husband, and he—”

  “And you have no need of money, that being the case,” he finished with a snide smile.

  The anger came bubbling up again, and this time it wouldn’t be suppressed. “I’m through protecting you!” she cried. “I intend to tell Philip everything I know about you as soon as he comes home. I don’t care anymore about your so-called friendship, and I suspect you’ve never cared about it either. I think you used me, and you’ve used my husband, and you’d use anyone in the world if you thought they could help you get what you want! Did you steal our marriage certificate, Mr. Quinn? Did you bribe the tollkeeper to say he hadn’t married us?”

  She went closer, unafraid, her eyes flashing fire. “Philip never tried to kill anyone, did he? Admit it! You told him that so he’d feel obligated to you and do what you asked. You’re a vicious manipulator. You took a boy’s innocent adulation and used it for your own ends. You tried to make Philip believe he was a violent, alcoholic lout who would try to kill a man in a drunken rage and then turn on his best friend. How did you really get that scar, I wonder? I’ll wager Philip had nothing to do with it!”

  She was shaking with emotion, on the verge of weeping. There was a tap at the door and she turned away to hide her face. The maid put the tea tray down, curtsied, and went away. When Cass turned back, Quinn was calmly pouring tea.

  “Sugar?” When she didn’t respond, he dropped in a teaspoonful, shrugging, then poured himself a cup. He took a few audible sips before setting the cup down and looking at her.

  “I’ve never liked you, Miss Merlin,” he said matter-of-factly, “and I’ve done a rather poor job of pretending I did. But what I told you about Philip was the simple truth: he did not marry you. I’ll go a step further. If he ever marries you, I’ll add another thousand pounds to your fee.”

  “I want you to leave now.” She could barely contain herself.

  “I’m not ready to leave.” He stood up and came toward her. She saw the dislike in his eyes, undisguised at last, and resisted taking a step backward. “Listen to me, girl. Wade is a dangerous man, but he means you no harm. You have to go back to him and find out what he intends. Listen to me!” He grabbed her arm when she started to move away and held it in a hard, painful grip. “Time is running out. He’s booked passage on a boat to France in two days. Whatever is to happen will be soon, and we must stop it. Is that clear to you?” He took her by the shoulders and shook her, peering into her eyes with feverish intensity. “This is more important than your jealousies and stupid quarrels! This is the King of England! Do you—”

  “Stop it! Let me go!” She shoved him off violently and stumbled to the door. “If you don’t leave this minute, I’ll call the servants and have you thrown out. I mean it.” She was trembling, breathing hard, her knees shaking.

  His manner changed. He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, I was too harsh. Forgive me for frightening you.”

  “I’m not frightened. I want you to go.”

  “In a moment. I want to leave you with one more thought.” He picked up the envelope and brought it to her, forcing it into her hand,
squeezing her fingers around it. “Philip told you he was going to visit his poor, ailing father, didn’t he?” he asked, his face close to hers. She could smell the peculiar essence of his breath. “He didn’t. He lied to you again. He went to see Claudia Harvellyn, in Somerset. Her country estate at Wellington.”

  “Liar.” She tried to pull away, but couldn’t.

  “He’s in love with her. He always has been. The baser side of his character conceived a physical passion for you, Cassandra, and he—”

  “Let me go!”

  “He pretended to marry you so he could have you. He’s almost through with you now, but not quite. I know this because he told me.”

  “Bastard!”

  “Since you don’t believe me, I suggest you ask the servants. Ask Tripp where he took him in the carriage yesterday—to meet the coach going to Wellington, not Launceton. Ask John Walker where his employer went. Ask Beal—”

  With a final jerk, she wrenched her hand out of his paralyzing grip and fell back against the door. Unable to speak, she pulled it open and stood aside, holding onto the knob for support.

  Quinn’s face was full of contempt. He pulled something else from his pocket. “Here’s the letter he wrote her. Never mind how I got it.” Cass shrank back as if from a poisonous reptile. “You don’t want it? I’ll tell you what it says. ‘My dearest Claudia. I will be with you as soon as I possibly can, tomorrow afternoon at the latest. All my love, Philip.’ It’s dated Monday night. You still don’t want it? I’ll put it here on the table.”

  “Get out,” she tried to say, but the words were inaudible.

  “Find out what Wade intends, Miss Merlin. It’s all you can do now to redeem your miserable life. Send word either to me or to Philip as soon as you learn anything. Then take the money and get out of London.”

  He went past her, down the hall, and out the front door.

  XVII

  A GARGOYLE FOR A door knocker. How fitting, thought Cass, reaching up to the hideous, half-human face and letting it fall against the brass plate underneath. The sound was loud and unpleasant. She closed her eyes, waiting, thinking of nothing, and in a moment Wade’s butler opened the door.

  “Mrs. Riordan, how nice to see you.” He stepped back to let her enter.

  “Is Mr. Wade at home, Martin?”

  “He is, madam, but he’s entertaining visitors at the moment. Business associates, I believe. Would you care to wait in the drawing room? It shouldn’t be much longer now.”

  His amiable formality allowed her to relax a little; what, after all, could happen to her in such staid, conventional surroundings? She followed Martin into the drawing room, and a moment later he brought her a glass of sherry and some biscuits.

  It was eleven o’clock in the morning, but she sipped the sherry gratefully. For courage.

  She heard masculine voices raised, coming from the direction of Wade’s study. She went to the doorway and listened intently. But she could make out none of the words and dared not go any closer; the study was at the far end of the hall and she would easily be noticed by any passing servant.

  As little as she wanted to see him, she wished Wade would come, and knew it was because she was afraid to be alone, afraid to think. She’d done enough of that last night. Her eyes burned from weeping and her head was fuzzy from sleeplessness. There was a physical pain in the center of her chest. She pressed her fist against it for relief, but there was no relief.

  She went to the window and gazed out at the dreary day, tracing the trails of raindrops on the glass with her finger. Philip, Philip! It was a near-constant chant on the edges of her mind. Why did you do it? How could you hurt me this much? She put her face in her hands, swallowing to keep the tears back. If only she could hate him! This time her humiliation was total, but the pain she felt was even stronger than the anger. And the worst was not knowing why. What had she ever done to deserve cruelty like this? What contempt he must feel for her! But why, why? As excruciating as it would be, she needed to ask him. When this dangerous game with Wade was finally played out, she would return and confront him. Powerless as she was, she would not let him go completely free.

  But what was she doing here? I’m here because I want to be, she told herself, beginning to pace between the door and the windows. But was it true? What if this was only a childish, self-destructive impulse, a craven attempt to make Philip sorry? She recalled her state of mind at Ladymere all those months ago, when she had longed to do something gloriously heroic so that he would admire her—no, so that he would love her more than he did Claudia. Was that what this was all about? Was it?

  No, she didn’t think so. She’d been a child then. She was anything but a child now. Wade frightened her, but she was here. If Riordan hadn’t forbidden it, she’d have come before now, regardless of the danger. Why? Because she believed in the importance of the job Quinn had hired her to do, and because they’d made a bargain and she needed to keep her word. The fact that Riordan didn’t want her now only made things easier. Clearer. Now she had no attachments, no one to hurt, and no one to worry about her. She would “redeem her miserable life,” as Quinn phrased it. She’d grown to revere the institution of the English monarchy as she’d read and listened and learned; she had no wish to be a martyr, but she was willing to take this risk, on her own, to try to preserve it. However murky her other motives might be, this one was true and real.

  But was she really going to be able to do it? Or was Quinn’s faith in her ability to uncover Wade’s plans only a fanatic’s delusion? She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t feel anything but pain; how was she supposed to outwit an assassin? She sipped more sherry and tried to clear her mind. But behind everything, weighing her down like clods of earth on a coffin, was the knowledge that regardless of what words she found the courage to say to Riordan, in a matter of days she would never see him again. That made everything else in her life, including this last-minute try at foiling Wade, seem as cold as dead ashes.

  She heard the study door open, and the men’s voices came to her clearly. She moved a few steps to see down the hall, but kept away from the door. Besides Wade, she recognized two of the half-dozen gentlemen standing in the foyer: Ian Thorn, whom Riordan already knew to be one of Wade’s henchmen, and Mr. Sherwood, the silent, older man she’d met at the house party in Lancashire. So he was one of them. She listened carefully, but their conversation was unremarkable; whatever secrets there were to tell had been told already. At that moment the butler said something in Wade’s ear and he looked up. Cass was in shadow, but she had the feeling he was staring directly at her. Something in his face caused her to feel the first faint tremor of panic.

  The men left—gradually, she thought, as though not wanting to vacate the house in a group. Wade strolled down the hall toward her in his unhurried way. A part of her noted the elegant combination of his plum velvet jacket and dove-gray waistcoat. He stopped at the door and stood for a long moment without speaking. She could think of nothing to say to break the odd silence; the expression on his face was disturbing but indecipherable.

  “I’m sorry if my coming here is a bother to you, Colin,” she finally managed, “but I didn’t know where else to go. I’ve left Philip for good. You told me once I could stay with you. I’m hoping you’ll let me now.”

  He came closer, still without greeting her, watching her in a peculiar, measuring way. “Why did you leave him?” he asked suddenly. “What did he do?”

  “He—” It wouldn’t do to say he’d broken her heart. “He beat me. When he was drunk. I’m never going back to him.”

  Something flashed across his features. He put his hands on her upper arms and kneaded them, bringing her closer. There was a brief, excited flicker in his cinnamon-colored eyes. “How did he do it? With his hands? A strap?”

  Appalled, she pulled out of his obsessive grip. “I don’t want to talk about it. It was horrible!”

  “Of course,” he said quickly, his voice softening, his face assuming the proper a
ttitude of sympathy. “And now you’re here, asking to stay with me. But are you quite sure it’s what you really want, Cassandra?”

  She knew what he was asking. It was the moment she’d been dreading. Up to now it had always been possible to back away, pretend she didn’t understand the arrangement and leave before things went too far. But not anymore. Staying with Wade would mean sleeping with him—it would be folly to pretend otherwise. If she was going to do it, it would be because she chose to do it. That was important to her. She couldn’t bear to think Riordan’s brutality had thrust her into a situation she couldn’t control, or that she would be so passive as to allow this thing to happen to her without any exertion of her own will. She made her decision quickly, before her fear could cripple her.

  “Yes, Colin, I’m quite sure.”

  He smiled with his lips, “Then of course you may stay. I wouldn’t want you anywhere else.”

  She shuddered involuntarily. There was silence again until she recalled herself enough to say, “But—perhaps it’s an awkward time for you?”

  “Awkward? In what way?”

  “I couldn’t help noticing the men you were meeting with just now. I wondered if they might be part of your…organization.” She waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. “And then I thought perhaps you were planning something important, since the…thing we spoke of before never…never happened.” Oh, why wouldn’t he say something? She feared she was giving herself away while he only watched and waited.