Fortune's Lady

by Patricia Gaffney

  But no—he was beside her again. “Listen to me, bitch,” he snarled, “I don’t need your forgiveness. I’m your executioner. I’m ending your life because you committed crimes against the Revolution.” Suddenly his voice lightened. “You’ve given me an idea, though. I had planned to leave your corpse right here, but now I think I’ll dump it on Riordan’s doorstep.” He smiled at her choked-off gasp, then laughed. “Best would be in his bed, where you’ve spent so many happy hours of late, but I haven’t time now for the kind of ingenuity that would require. If only you’d come a few days earlier, darling, John could have helped me arrange it.”

  “Please,” she whispered, “for the love of God—”

  “Shut up! Yes, the bed would’ve been ideal, but the doorstep will do perfectly well. He’ll find your carcass there tomorrow morning when he returns from visiting his lady friend in Somerset.”

  Through clenched teeth, her low moan of desolation filled the silence between them. She only stopped when, past a blur of tears, she saw him go behind her again. Now, she thought. It’s now. She took one last breath. Oh, dear God—

  From over her head came a loud but muffled noise. Of what? The walls and ceiling were so thick, it was impossible to tell. Could it have been a shot? Fresh sweat broke out all over her. The possibility of rescue multiplied her terror a hundredfold. Now there was scuffling, perhaps running footsteps. Wade came around her slowly, listening as intently as she; in each hand he held a cocked pistol.

  “No one can get in the house,” he said aloud, although to himself. “It’s impossible.”

  But the footsteps were louder now. Cass’s bloodshot eyes strained on the cellar door at the top of the curving stone steps twenty feet away. All at once a heavy crash sounded as the door slammed open against the plastered wall. Wade went down on one knee and took aim with both pistols.

  But the first man on the stairs was John Walker. His hands were behind his back. Quinn had one arm around his neck and the barrel of a gun in his mouth.

  Wade lowered his arms. He jumped up suddenly and darted back to Cass’s wine cask, raising his booted foot high and resting it on the rim. She felt the cask wobble under her and closed her eyes. When she opened them, Riordan was coming down the steps behind Quinn.

  He halted when he saw her and went dead white. Her heart stopped beating. She could see her own shock and horror reflected in his eyes. He leaned against the wall at the bottom of the steps, never taking his eyes from her, a pistol in his hand, and a chaotic mixture of hope and new terror pulsed through her.

  “Don’t come any closer or I’ll kick this cask out from under her! Back off!”

  “Move away from her, Wade,” Quinn shouted back, “or I’ll shoot this man!” He was fifteen feet from Wade. He’d taken the gun out of Walker’s mouth and put it to his temple.

  For eternity, no one moved or spoke. Riordan stood as if paralyzed, watching the indecision in Wade’s face, the pistols pointed at him and Quinn, the boot on the edge of the cask.

  “Drop your guns, both of you, or she’s dead!” Wade yelled again. He flexed his knee a fraction and the cask wobbled a second time. Cass couldn’t control a gasp of panic.

  But that horror paled when she saw Riordan toss away his pistol and walk slowly toward her, arms at his sides.

  “Philip, no!” she tried to shout, but it came out an incoherent croak.

  “Get away from her, Wade,” he said softly, moving steadily.

  She screamed when Wade’s gun fired. But instead of Riordan, it was Walker who crumpled to the floor, leaving Quinn standing alone. Wade was wild-eyed, his remaining pistol moving back and forth between the two men on their feet in front of him, his foot still poised on the rim of the cask.

  Cass saw it in Riordan’s eyes the second before he made his move, and groaned low in her throat in abject terror. With a hoarse shout, he sprang. Wade’s gun hand whipped around toward him and there was another explosion.

  Riordan dropped to his knees, holding his bloody shirtfront.

  Cass screamed again, but the sound turned into a grotesque gurgle as Wade shoved hard at the cask and she toppled off into darkness. The roaring in her ears was so loud, she didn’t hear the firing of the final shot. Before the rising blood blackened her vision, she saw Riordan pitch forward, one hand clutching his chest, the other stretched out to her, his face contorted in agony. Her last thought was that it was no consolation at all to know they were dying together.

  XIX

  SHE WASN’T DEAD. Unless she was in hell, she couldn’t hurt this badly and be dead. Her head felt as if an explosion had gone off inside, leaving nothing in its aching shell but worthless debris. There was shooting pain down the length of her spine whenever she moved any limb. Her hands and feet were numb, her stomach persistently nauseated. Worst of all was her throat. It was sheer agony to swallow, and speaking was out of the question. It was as if she’d been strangled, as if someone had tied a—

  She opened her eyes wide; only the pain in her back prevented her from sitting straight up. She remembered.

  Part of it, anyway. The very last part, as the blackness in her head had thickened and she’d thought she had ceased to exist. But unless she was mistaken, above her head was Colin Wade’s ceiling, and she was lying in his bed. Had everything been a dream? The tears spilling down her cheeks when she tried to swallow told her it had not. And then a new version of the blackness descended, and she slipped back under it.

  The next time she surfaced, someone was holding a cup to her lips and trying to make her drink. Unthinkable. Somehow she made her arms work enough to bat the cup and the woman’s hands away—she thought it was a woman—before it was time to sleep again.

  Blackness and pain. Light and pain. Blackness again, with its constant companion. Now it was food they were torturing her with. She wanted to cry out her fury and frustration, but making even a tiny sound was excruciating. Please, please, leave me alone! she pleaded silently, using all her feeble strength to fight them off and finally achieving success, of a sort. The blackness returned.

  But now a dream was trying to penetrate it, trying to pull away the kindly shroud that curtained her from reality. Her silent screams were futile; she could not wake up. Time after time she had to relive the agony in Philip’s face as the bullet struck him and blood spread out across his chest like a blossoming poppy. She was drowning in her tears, breaking apart inside from unbearable pain, but the dream wouldn’t stop.

  And then a miracle. Someone was shaking her by the shoulders, speaking shrilly in her ear, and at last the awful image receded and she swam up into the light.

  “Miss Merlin. Miss Merlin!” Two round blue eyes peered down at her anxiously. “Are you awake now? I’m Dora; Mr. Quinn hired me to look after you. Are you awake?”

  Cass nodded, and was surprised when the movement caused only a flickering spike of pain down her spine.

  “Then let me run and get Mr. Quinn before he leaves—he was just here to see you, but you were sleeping.”

  The woman named Dora scurried away, out of the line of her vision; vaguely she heard her diminishing footsteps along the hall and then on the stairs. She was going to get Quinn. Cass’s mind tried to absorb what that meant while she waited, gazing vacantly around the room. She lifted her hands and looked at them. Her wrists were chafed from being tied, but there was hardly any discomfort now when she moved her arms. She tried her legs, bending her knees tentatively. A shooting pain, nothing more. She wasn’t paralyzed.

  But it was difficult to care. She was alive and Philip was dead, and she wanted it to be the other way around.

  Did she have to stay awake for Quinn? She was too exhausted even to cry, and she was unspeakably grateful for this fatigue that was keeping anguish at bay. But there he was, gliding toward her silently across the carpet. He looked tired. He was dressed all in black. She wished she could sit up; lying flat on her back in front of him made her feel helpless. But she had no strength to move.

  He dr
ew up a chair and sat down close to the bed. “Thank God you’re awake. We’ve been very worried about you, Cassandra,” he said in grave, priestly tones.

  She wondered who “we” might be, but asked instead, “What day is it?” Her voice came out a whisper, like a dry wind blowing across dead leaves.

  “Sunday.”

  Sunday. She found it faintly interesting that she’d been sleeping for three days.

  There might have been a long pause before he spoke, or there might not; she couldn’t tell. “You’re a very lucky lady, you know. Two things saved your life—the rope was already pulled so tight, there wasn’t enough slack to snap the bone in your neck, and your body weight was insufficient to cause you to strangle before I could get to you, lift you, and cut the rope.”

  She blinked at him feebly. “You saved my life?”

  He raised his brows and his lips pulled apart in what she imagined he intended for a smile.

  “Then I’m grateful.” With an effort, she stretched her hand toward him; but he either didn’t see it or pretended not to, and she let it fall to the coverlet, empty. “Is Colin dead?” she asked presently.

  “Yes. Walker, too—by Wade’s hand.” His face grew even more solemn. “I sincerely thought you would be in no danger, Cassandra, and I apologize most sincerely for my error. But thanks to you, the king is no longer in any peril, and we—”

  “It wasn’t the king he was planning to kill,” she whispered, on the brink of exhaustion. If only he would go away. “Walker was going to shoot Edmund Burke in Parliament. On Friday. The letter I sent you about the king was a trick. He told me afterward it was to be Burke.”

  Quinn’s black eyes were huge. He sat back in his chair and stared at her, his mouth open, his arms hanging down at his sides. “Burke!” he managed to say finally. “Yes. Yes, it makes sense. Good lord. Walker was going to do it? He’d have been cut to ribbons, but of course, by then it would’ve been too late. Good lord,” he said again. He leaned toward her, his eyes gleaming with intensity. “Cassandra, you saved Burke’s life!”

  She shrugged and looked away.

  “I still can’t believe it! I can’t wait to tell Philip—he’ll be even more grateful to you than if you’d saved the king,” he chuckled, rubbing his hands. Quite frankly, Philip hasn’t much affection for the monarch.” His smile faded. “My dear, are you ill? You’re so pale, shall I—”

  “He’s alive?” she choked out, straining toward him, her face bloodless and drawn. “Philip is alive?”

  Quinn looked disconcerted. “Yes, of course he’s alive.” He seized her arms and tried to ease her back down to the pillow. “Good heavens, I thought you knew! He was wounded badly, but he’s recovering.” He paused. “Claudia’s taking care of him in her home and he’s improving every day—oh, my dear. I beg your pardon.” He lapsed into silence.

  Cass covered her face with her hands to muffle a sob of joy, while her heart broke into a hundred new pieces. He’s alive! She thanked God over and over, but couldn’t stop the tears that spilled past her fingers and made a hellish burning in her throat. In her fevered brain she heard a low, cultured voice reading to him, saw slim white hands soothing him. She pressed her palms to her heart, but the pain was intolerable. But he’s alive! she sang to herself, and it brightened the edges of her darkness.

  Quinn spoke quietly. “He wanted me to tell you how grateful he is, how much he appreciates all you’ve done. He asked me to tell you good-bye. And to give you this.”

  She reached out blindly for the envelope he was holding toward her. A glance inside told her it was money. Her hand dropped to her side and her eyes closed. She swallowed down fresh tears. “I’m so tired,” she rasped hoarsely. “Please—”

  “Yes, of course. Forgive me.” He got to his feet. “Dora’s here to look after you; she’ll get you anything you need. Your belongings are here, Philip had them—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “The doctor will be in again in a day or two. He says you need rest, but he expects you to recover fully in about a week. You were very, very lucky, my dear, although I daresay it doesn’t seem that way now. But the spirit will revive as the body heals, I promise you.”

  She tried to smile, but couldn’t manage it. For a second she thought he was going to touch her, pat her arm or squeeze her hand reassuringly; but in the end he only made a formal little bow and left the room.

  Three days later, he returned. He was gratified to see her looking so much better, he said; did she feel well enough to travel? She told him she did, as an ice-cold wave seemed to break over her heart and she anticipated his next words. Would she like him to book passage for her on a ship leaving in four days for America?

  A long moment passed. And then she said yes.

  This time he did touch her, a fleeting brush of his fingertips on her shoulder. She’d never known him to be so gentle. “Leave everything to me,” he said quietly. “I’ll take care of all the arrangements. You can leave directly from here. Dora will do your packing for you. All you have to do is concentrate on getting strong.”

  She lay still for a little longer after he left, then reached for the bell-rope at the bedside. In a moment Dora came in.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “I’d like a proper bath today,” she said in her hoarse croak. “Will you press my high-necked green gown with the white petticoats? And after that I’ll need you to help me with my hair.”

  “Yes, miss,” said Dora, round-eyed. “Are you sure you should be getting up so soon, miss?”

  “Very sure,” Cass said grimly, throwing back the covers.

  The butler answered her knock almost immediately.

  “Is Mr. Riordan here?”

  His brows lifted a fraction in swiftly veiled surprise. “No, madam.”

  “Is—may I speak to Lady Claudia, then?”

  “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Miss Merlin.”

  “If you will wait here for one moment.”

  It seemed less than a moment before he was back, begging her to follow him and leading her down an elegantly appointed hallway to an even more elegant drawing room. Claudia’s home was everything she’d known it would be, she noted with a sinking feeling. But Philip wasn’t here, and that at least was a mercy. She cursed her own cowardice.

  It was a moment before she saw Claudia, stretched out on the sofa before the massive marble fireplace, wearing a dressing gown, a blanket covering her lower body. A bandaged foot protruded from the bottom of the blanket and rested on a satin pillow. She was still beautiful, but undeniably ill; whatever angry or unpleasant words Cass might have said to her died on her lips unspoken.

  If Cass was surprised to see her in this condition, Claudia was looking at her as if she were a ghost. Swallowing her nervousness, she walked straight over to her. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said huskily, “but I didn’t know you were ill. I only wanted to ask you a question.”

  Claudia still stared. Finally she recovered enough to cry, “Philip said you were dead!”

  Cass flinched as if she’d struck her. Tears threatened, but scathing anger saved her from that humiliation. “It seems he exaggerated,” she bit out. “Where is he? Is he here?”

  “Here! No, of course not. He’s at home.”

  So, he was well enough to take care of himself now. She wasn’t sure if she was glad or sorry. “I see. Then I won’t trouble you any longer.”

  “Cas—Mrs. Riordan, are you all right?”

  “I’m not Mrs. Riordan,” she snapped. He hadn’t even told her that, so she was innocent of Philip’s treachery. Her feelings toward Claudia ought to have softened, but they didn’t. “I’m perfectly well, thank you. Good afternoon.” And she left Lady Claudia as she’d found her, staring at her with her mouth open.

  It felt strange to knock at the door she was accustomed to walking freely in and out of. She waited, resisting the need to lean against the doorpost; only an hour out of bed, and already she was exhausted. A man she’d never seen befor
e opened the door. Walker’s replacement? “I’d like to see Mr. Riordan,” she told him.

  “I’m sorry, miss, but he’s not receiving visitors; Mr. Riordan is ill.”

  “I’m aware that he’s ill,” she said tightly. “I want to see him anyway.”

  “I’m sorry, that’s impossible.”

  The man was big enough to fill the doorway, and he was not going to let her in. Frustration made her grind her teeth. “I have no card, but if you take my name up, I think he will see me.” She thought no such thing; in fact, there was an excellent chance he would refuse to see her. But she knew she had to try.

  “Very well, miss,” the man conceded impassively. “Whom shall I say?”

  She told him her name, detecting no flicker of recognition in his face.

  “Very good. Would you care to wait in the hall?”

  “How kind,” she murmured, struggling to keep sarcasm out of her tone. She went inside, and immediately sank down on the armchair in the foyer while the butler, or whatever he was, ascended the staircase and passed out of sight. She rested her head on the back of the chair and closed her eyes as fatigue swamped her. She almost hoped he wouldn’t see her. She lacked the physical and emotional strength for a confrontation now. Oh, Quinn was right, she should have gone directly away, not subjected herself to this! It couldn’t possibly be anything but painful. But Riordan didn’t deserve such passive self-exile from her. That he was telling people his “wife” was dead proved he expected her to accept her banishment docilely, but she was not going to disappear so conveniently for him. Not quite yet.

  She heard loud, quick footsteps coming along the upstairs hallway. In a moment she recognized Beal, Riordan’s valet, coming down the steps, wearing the same expression on his face she’d recently seen on Claudia’s.

  “Mrs. Riordan!” he exclaimed, staring, shocked. “We thought you were dead!”