Fortune's Lady

by Patricia Gaffney

  “And you wondered what happened that day in Parliament, did you?” he asked finally, pleasantly. “I got your note, by the way. I thought it too dangerous to reply.”

  “Oh, I see.” She didn’t know exactly what he meant, but kept talking. “I did wonder what had happened, yes, after what you’d told me. But I assumed something had gone wrong and you were being cautious, waiting for another time. And then when all those people were arrested and no—assassin was among them, I thought someone must have found out the plan and told the authorities.”

  She swallowed, feeling herself flush. She’d never been a very good liar; it didn’t help to think that her life might depend on being one now. “You don’t have to tell me anything,” she rushed on, “if you think it unwise. I’m not really asking you to—I only came because I had nowhere else to go, and you were kind to me before.”

  “Kind? Is that what you thought it was, kindness? My dear, I’d have sworn we understood each other better than that.” He surrounded her throat with one hand, squeezing the sensitive cords playfully, hurtfully. She held perfectly still and didn’t breathe. He kissed her hard, his lips closed, eyes wide open, still holding her by the throat. “I’m so glad you’ve come,” he whispered. “And I want to tell you all about the plan. I want you to know everything.”

  Why didn’t the words bring any thrill of triumph? She’d always thought his face cruel, and never more so than now. His eyes were glittering with suppressed excitement. She knew with deep certainty that he was going to hurt her, that the price she would pay for his revelations would be very dear. She prayed for courage while he caressed her, murmuring in her ear, “But come upstairs with me first. There’s something I’ve always wanted to do with you. Then I’ll tell you everything. Will you come?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, but hardly any sound came out.

  “And you want to come, don’t you? You want me to touch you. Say it.”

  “I—” She shut her eyes and drew a shallow breath. “I want you to touch me.”

  He kissed her again, smiling his ice-cold smile. Then, with his arm around her shoulders, he led her out of the room.

  “The master told me t’ come see if you needed anything, mum.” The maid stared discreetly at the pale young woman who was sitting at the edge of the bed, buttoning her shift with shaky fingers. She had to repeat herself before the lady looked up and noticed her. “Can I get you anything at all, mum? Some tea?”

  “Some tea,” Cass murmured, but she wasn’t ordering it so much as saying the words out loud to make sense of them.

  “Yes, some nice hot tea. Would you like some?”

  Cass put her hands to her temples and tried to think. “No…my dress,” she said finally, pointing to where it lay on the floor. “It’s—I’ve torn it. Can you—” She couldn’t seem to think of the simplest words.

  “Yes, mum, I can sew it for you.” The maid bent and retrieved the wrinkled gown. She had a sweet face. She kept it poker-straight, but Cass looked away to avoid her eyes. “Will there be anything else, then?”

  “No. Yes—Could I have a pen and some paper?”

  “Why, yes, mum.”

  “Thank you.” Unable to return the maid’s smile, she only watched her curtsy and walk from the room.

  Presently she got up from the bed, stiffly, and crossed to the mirror over the bureau. With a mixture of curiosity and revulsion, she stared at her image. She was as pale as a wax figure, but otherwise she looked much the same as she always looked. Only one bruise showed, a purplish, spreading stain on her throat where he’d pressed his thumb. Her eyes were flat-gray and expressionless; the horror didn’t show, either. She felt a humming, tingling numbness; it began in her blood and beat into her limbs and her brain, a fragile shield, a membrane as thin as an insect’s wing between herself and hysteria.

  She put her hands on the edge of the bureau and straightened her shoulders painfully, closing her eyes to the sight of her own face. If she looked at it any longer, she might drive herself mad. She turned away and stared around the room, taking better note of its overstuffed, almost feminine opulence than she had when he’d first led her into it. There were trunks and boxes everywhere, proof that he was going away. Suddenly her knees were shaking; she had to sit down. She moved aside half a dozen pink pillows and lowered herself onto a purple satin settee. For a moment she rested with her head in her hands, but then she sat up straight. She had to get hold of herself.

  It could have been worse. He hadn’t raped her, after all—though not for lack of trying. It might have been better if he had. Then he wouldn’t have been so angry, wouldn’t have had the leisure to think of so many ways to make her pay for his failure. At least she hadn’t had to pretend to enjoy it. She’d quickly realized that he didn’t want her excited, he wanted her frightened. So that part had been easy.

  Without warning, a sob rose from some deep place inside, and before she could think of controlling it she was weeping without restraint. She’d hated the numbness, but this was even worse. This pain was too intense, as if with each hiccuping cry her heart were being wrenched from her chest. She fell to her side and let the choking, corrosive sobs overwhelm her.

  Gradually she quieted. The peace of exhaustion was a blessing. The realization came slowly that she had not lost her mind; she was not going to lurch into hysteria. She was herself. She had survived.

  And she knew what she knew. There was nothing left now but to tell Quinn. Then it would be over.

  There was a tap at the door and the maid came in again. Cass took the writing materials from her without a word and she curtsied herself out, smiling her friendly smile.

  Wade had a small writing desk set in the wall between the windows. She opened it and sat down. For a moment she considered whether she ought to direct her letter to Quinn or to Riordan. The former, she decided. Apart from the pain and awkwardness of addressing any words at all to Philip, what she had to convey was urgent; a tragedy might occur if she sent her note to him and he ended up dallying in Somerset with Claudia past Friday. She daubed the pen in the inkwell and began to write.

  “Dear Mr. Quinn:

  “The king is to be murdered on Saturday as he rides with his hunting party to Windsor. As the road turns south outside of Eton, four men dressed as monks will offer to bless him. But they will set upon him and try to kill him. I do not know the names of the men; all are ready to give up their lives for their cause. Colin is their leader. He plans to sail for Calais tomorrow night, and believes I am going with him.

  “Our business is finished now. I have your money and you have my information. In a few days I will leave London, as you advised.

  Cassandra Merlin.”

  There, it was done. If she could talk Wade into letting her leave the house on the pretext of some errand, there would be no need to send this letter. But of course she couldn’t leave that to chance; she would try to enlist the maid’s help now, before he returned. She’d seemed kind; it was likely she would take money in exchange for handing a note to a messenger and saying nothing of it to her employer. After that, Cass could worry about getting away from here. The important thing was to get the information to Quinn. What time was it now? Two or three in the afternoon, she thought. She must act quickly. She folded the letter and addressed it.

  There was a soft knock at the door.

  Surely it was the maid. All the same, she put the note inside the front of her shift and stood away from the desk. “Come in.”

  It was Wade.

  He closed the door behind him and strolled toward her, his movements as languid as always. His eyes flickered over her half-clad figure with cold contempt, and in a flash she remembered all the things he’d done to her, the things he’d made her do. Would he try again? With ice-calm certainty she knew that if he did, one of them would be dead when it was over.

  “Feeling better, my love?”

  “No.” She’d told him she felt nauseated before he’d finally given up and left her alone. It wa
sn’t a lie then, and it wasn’t now. He smiled slightly at her response. “Colin, I left the house so quickly, I didn’t bring anything with me, I’d like to go back and get my clothes.”

  “Would you? What for?” His smile widened at her blank look. “You won’t be needing any here. Oh—I told the maid to throw your gown away. You won’t be needing that, either.”

  “You what?”

  He laughed outright. “Close your mouth, Cassandra, you look foolish.”

  “Colin, what are you talking about? Of course I’ll need my clothes.” She felt a prickle of horror, but managed to speak calmly, as if taking his words for a joke.

  “No, not really. Not after tonight. By the way, love, what were you writing?”

  She felt the blood draining from her face. “I wasn’t writing anyth—Oh, you mean the paper the maid brought? I th-thought I might write a note to my aunt, to let her know where I’ve gone.”

  “Your aunt? Oh, that’s not very good,” he admonished, shaking his head with mock sternness. “You should’ve said your cousin, perhaps, or a friend. Much more believable.” He came closer. “Where’s the letter?”

  “Letter? What do you mean?”

  “Let’s see, it’s not on the desk,” he said archly, moving a few articles around, “not anywhere in sight,” scanning the room. He smiled again. “Why, Cass, it must be on you!”

  She backed away, her hands out to hold him off. “Colin, don’t. I have no letter, I swear. You’re frightening me, please—no!”

  He made a grab for her hair and pulled her head back, using his other hand to rip open the front of her chemise. The folded letter fell to the floor. Then he pushed her hard in the chest with the flat of his hand, sending her back against the bedpost with a violent crack. “Sit down on the bed and don’t move,” he snarled.

  She obeyed, trembling, holding the back of her head with one hand and the torn halves of her shift with the other. The truth was dawning on her and a well of terror was opening at her feet.

  He stooped to pick up the note and opened it with a flourish. “ ‘Dear Mr. Quinn,’ ” he began, mocking her in a high, exaggeratedly feminine voice. “ ‘The king is to be murdered on Saturday as he rides with his hunting party to Windsor.’ Oh, very good. Splendid, in fact.” He read the rest to himself. “I like this part—‘In a few days I will leave London, as you advised.’ A nice touch, that. It’s bound to inspire a world of guilt in the poor fellow after you’re dead. Women are so skillful at inducing guilt; I think it’s one of your special gifts.”

  “You knew all along,” she whispered. She was having trouble making her tongue work. She gauged the distance between herself and the door, and despaired.

  “All along,” he agreed cheerfully. “Did you think it was coincidence that I appeared that first night at the Clarion Club? By no means. I did it just to make Riordan squirm.” He grinned at her, enjoying her fear. “Our first meeting in the park was more contrived than you thought, too. You really threw yourself into it, didn’t you, darling? I quite admired you when you fell off your horse.”

  “What are you going to do?” She looked behind him frantically. Would it do any good to start screaming?

  “You mean about you? I’m afraid I’m going to have to punish you. You’ve been so deceitful, Cassandra, completely untrustworthy. I don’t believe you’ve ever told me the whole truth about anything.” He backed up to the wardrobe without taking his eyes from her and pulled down a dressing gown of salmon-colored silk. In one violent motion he ripped out the long cord around the waist and came toward her, twisting it in his hands. He laughed at her expression. “Oh, I’m not going to strangle you, Cass. Not yet. Be a love and hold out your hands. No? You won’t help me?”

  She opened her mouth to scream. She saw the flash of his fisted hand an instant before it smashed against her temple, and she was unconscious before her head hit the mattress behind her.

  She awoke to the sound of her own muffled groan and a sharp throbbing in her skull. Almost worse was the stiffness in her upper arms, which were stretched over her head as she lay face-down on Wade’s bed. She raised her head groggily and saw that her wrists were tied to one of the bedposts at the bottom of the bed. The rest of her was free. She sat up slowly on her elbows, dizzy and nauseated, feeling the blood beat painfully in her temples. She dragged her legs to the side of the bed, dropped them over, and sagged against the bedpost.

  He knew. Her brain was sluggish and unfocused, but a score of unsolved mysteries were answered now. She understood why he’d treated her so roughly that first evening when he’d brought her home to her aunt’s house, and again on other occasions. He’d known he could do anything he wanted, and she would endure it because she had to. It was what she was being paid for. For him it had all been a sadistic game, and it wasn’t over yet.

  He must have known Philip would follow her to Ladymere, too. He’d gotten him drunk on purpose, she realized—though surely he couldn’t have foreseen the bizarre consequences of that. They’d all been Wade’s puppets—Riordan, Quinn, herself. Instead of thwarting an assassin, they’d been aiding him.

  But how had he known? At the Clarion Club when she’d first met Philip—no one but Quinn had known he would impersonate Wade that night for her benefit! She pressed her fists to her aching forehead and tried to think. Did it mean Quinn was a traitor? She couldn’t believe it; it was too preposterous.

  It didn’t matter much, either. Unless she could escape, the King of England would be murdered in two days, and she probably much sooner. Her numbed fingers couldn’t untie a bow, much less the vicious knots Wade had pulled against her wrists. His bedroom was at the center of the house and its windows faced the alley, not the street. Calling for outside help would be futile. But what about inside help? She stood up.

  “Help me! Help! Somebody help me!” She took a deep breath and screamed as loud as she could.

  Within seconds, the door opened and the maid burst in.

  “Help me!” Cass cried breathlessly. “Untie my hands! Wade—” She halted on a gasp, shrinking back against the post as the young, fresh-faced maid raised a poker over her head and waved it threateningly.

  “He says t’ hit you with this if you make a sound! Shut your mouth unless you want me t’ bash in your brains! Do you hear?” Cass nodded, horrified, and the maid lowered the poker. They were both breathing hard and staring wild-eyed at each other. “I’ll do it, too, don’t think I won’t! I’ve done it before!”

  “Please,” Cass tried again, more softly, fear making her lips stiff. “For the love of God, I’m begging you—he’s going to kill me! If you’ll help me, I’ll give you money. I’ve got a thousand pounds, you can have all of it. Only help me—”

  “A thousand pounds?” said Wade from the door. “My, Quinn was more generous than I expected. Too bad you won’t be able to enjoy it. Thank you, Annie, you did very well. Go back into the hall now and wait.”

  The maid actually blushed with pleasure, curtsied to her master, and retreated, carrying her poker.

  Wade came closer to examine the knots around her wrists, and she had to struggle not to cringe away from him. He put his hand inside the gaping folds of her shift and fondled her insultingly. She strained away but couldn’t escape. “What a great cow you are,” he said, his lips curling in an ugly snarl. “I despise you, you know. All of you.”

  And in that moment she understood at last that he meant women. No wonder he’d never pressed her to become his mistress, nor even seriously tried to seduce her. He was incapable of it. The only way he could enjoy her at all was by hurting her. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

  “You’ll be glad to know, Cass, that your note to Quinn has been handed to a messenger, and even now it’s winging its way to his depressing little flat in Lincoln’s Inn. If he’s at home, he should have it within the hour.”

  She stared. “You sent it?”

  “Oh, indeed I did. I read it again, darling, and I really must compliment you on t
hat brave, fatalistic tone. Very effective, I must say.”

  “But why? Why did you send it?”

  “You really can’t guess? I thought you were more astute, I did, indeed.”

  Suddenly she knew. “Because it’s not true,” she breathed. “Oh, my God.”

  He touched the tip of her nose waggishly. “Excellent! Smart girl! No, it’s not true, not a word of it. But it’ll certainly occupy the time and attention of a lot of people while the true plot goes forward. Can you guess who’s really going to die, my love? No? Think. You’ve become such an intellectual lately, surely it’ll come to you. If not our dimwitted monarch, then who? Who’s the Revolution’s worst enemy in England?”

  He watched her expectantly, then threw his head back and laughed. “I believe she’s got it!” he crowed. “I knew you were a clever girl!” He put his hand under her jaw and squeezed it hard, bringing her face close to his. “But there’s one more detail I’ll wager you haven’t guessed. It’s a surprise, and I’ve been saving it for you until this moment.” He stepped back. “Come in now,” he called over his shoulder.

  Her eyes flew to the open door. A moment passed, and Wade began to look annoyed. At last a man appeared in the doorway. Cass had to blink to believe her own vision. “John?” she croaked. “Is it you?”

  It was Walker, Riordan’s secretary. Her shy friend, the man she’d always thought had a crush on her. He looked away, embarrassed perhaps by her near-nakedness, and didn’t speak.

  “Say something, John, don’t be rude,” Wade teased.

  Walker glanced at him, then back at Cass. “I’m…sorry.”

  Her voice was a desperate whisper. “John, are you helping him? Oh God, it’s not possible!”

  He dropped his gaze and stared at the floor between them.

  Wade went to him then and crooked a casual arm over his shoulder. “Now, this I never expected,” he said silkily, his face close to Walker’s. Cass watched them in sick fascination. “You’re sorry for her, aren’t you? I believe you actually like her. Do you want her? There’s time before we have to leave.” Walker colored and tried to move away, but Wade held him still. “It’s all right, my feelings aren’t hurt. I would like to watch, though.” He put his hand behind Walker’s neck and massaged him slowly. His voice dropped intimately. “What do you say?”