“Wait a moment.” Miss Honore gave him a pleading glance. “I have taken too long to say what I wish to say, like Mr. Richardson does in his novels. Lady Whittaker gave me one to read, and it was dreadfully dull. But about Cassandra . . .” She worried her lower lip, deepening its already natural pink.
Full and ripe like Cassandra’s.
He compressed his own lips and rose. “I am not ready to receive callers, Miss Honore, and I believe some have arrived. Shall we continue this later?”
“One more moment.” She grasped his right arm and followed him toward his wing of the house. “You see, I was thinking you should pretend you do not wish to wed her. I mean, it does seem like it might be true after she called you a swine.”
Especially when he deserved it.
“I cannot pretend what I do not feel, Miss Honore. Now, if you please . . .”
Someone began to pound the knocker with more vigor than necessary.
“I think we should make her jealous,” Miss Honore announced.
“We?” That stopped Whittaker in his tracks. He halted with his hand outstretched toward the door handle and stared down at the lovely young lady clinging to his arm. “Are you saying you and me?”
She stuck out her lower lip in a pout so exaggerated it had to be pretense. “I should be put off by your shock, my lord. Why ever not me? I have a fine dowry. I am passably pretty—”
“You are beautiful, and you know it too well, I think.”
“And Cassandra thinks she is ugly.”
“Which is why she needs her spectacles.” His heart twisted, and he extricated his arm from Miss Honore’s hold. “Perhaps that would work. Cassandra loves nothing more than a challenge. But it won’t work if she doesn’t want matters to change between us.”
“But I think they would change if she thinks someone else—oh, that knocker.”
It had pounded again. Whittaker feared he would have to answer, but a parlor maid in a neat chintz gown and frilled cap all but ran from the servants’ door tucked beneath the great staircase and raced for the front door.
“It will have the opposite effect, I am certain.” Whittaker opened the portal to his wing. “And even if it were worth the risk, I will not, as I believe you imply, set sister against sister, even to win Cassandra back.”
“But if we could find—Lady Whittaker.” Miss Honore stepped back to allow Mama to bustle through the opening.
“Geoffrey, do go don a coat if you are going to be down here,” she said. “You look positively undressed.”
“I believe I will stay in my room while you entertain guests. The notion of donning a coat does not appeal to me.”
“But they will be here for days,” Mama protested.
The front door opened to allow the entrance of a blast of frosty wind, on which was borne two children, a pale young man, and a lady with hair the color of garnets beneath the brim of her yellow straw hat. She flashed Whittaker a brilliant smile from a lush mouth and a glance from eyes that appeared dark in the shadowing brim and poorly lit hall. Beside him, Miss Honore caught her breath, then giggled.
Whittaker’s jaw hardened and he gazed down at his mother. “Who are these people?”
“Your cousins, my dear.” She flicked a glare at the lady. “I am afraid I do not know who she is.” Which did not stop her from gliding forward, holding out her hands to the newcomers. “Welcome to Whittaker Hall. You must excuse his lordship. He suffered an accident the other night, and one of our other guests is unwell. Nothing serious that you must fear catching, but we have been a bit at sixes and sevens.”
“And it will not stop,” Miss Honore murmured.
Whittaker wondered if he might be safer going back to spying for Crawford. Between Miss Honore’s preposterous plan to flirt with him to make Cassandra jealous, his wish to return to Cassandra’s side and at the least apologize for his unkind remark earlier, and his head, which had decided to throb and swim, he thought life amidst the odorous sheep suddenly sounded peaceful, calm, undemanding.
He could at least retreat to his room until he could arrange a chaperone for another visit to Cassandra.
For the second time, he opened the door to the family wing.
“So you must forgive his state of dishabille,” Mama was saying. “Do be polite, Geoffrey, and bid good day to your guests.”
But they were not his guests. He should have listened when Mama explained about why his young cousins had come to call. No, to stay for a visit.
Slowly he removed his hand from the latch and strode forward with as much vigor as he could manage, though his arm added an ache to his head’s difficulties, and the nearest chair looked far more inviting to him than the red-haired beauty poised with one gloved hand resting on the shoulder of the younger of the two boys. A gloved hand above which shimmered a bracelet heavy with small but brilliant sapphires.
Beautiful and possessed of fine jewels she could afford to wear while traveling.
“This is your cousin Laurence,” Mama said, indicating the elder boy, a pasty, gangly youth of about twelve years. “And this is William.” The younger boy bowed, then opened his mouth and started to speak, but the female’s hand visibly tightened and he shut his lips again. “Their tutor, Mr. Caldwell, and—” Mama faced the young female. “I am sorry that I do not know you.”
“I am Regina Irving.” The woman—definitely not a girl—spoke in a low, throaty voice. “Cousin to the boys on their mother’s side. She has decided to stay and help nurse Mr. Giles and sent me along to help with the boys, as I have been living with them since my own parents returned to India last year.”
“Oh, of course.” Mama’s smile grew natural, bright, and her eyes sparkled. “You are most, most welcome.”
Of course she was. Even Whittaker now knew who this female was, the unmarried daughter of his uncle’s brother-in-law, who had made a fortune with the East India Company. Unmarried and the only child of a wealthy man. No wonder Mama grew happy when she learned the lady’s identity. If matters did not work themselves out between him and Cassandra, he could make a suit for Miss Irving, though she was at the least five and twenty. Between Miss Honore’s and Mama’s schemes, he would never manage to restore his betrothal to Cassandra.
And then Major Crawford sauntered into the Hall behind the newcomers, a scarlet-coated reminder of Whittaker’s other obligations to spare the family honor.
13
For the second time in an hour, Cassandra tugged at the bell rope. For the second time, no one responded. While the sound of children’s voices rang across the barren garden and light faded from the sky, she awaited someone to help her dress and bring her supper. Yet not even Honore returned to their rooms. Heavy doors and thick stone walls masked any noise from the rest of the house. Short-staffed or not, guests or not, someone should have come.
Someone should have come if something were not terribly wrong. Suddenly she found herself on her feet and at the bedchamber door without giving a thought to her cane. Then she realized she could not go out to the great hall or to the family wing in her dressing gown. They might have guests.
Of course. They did have guests. Those two boys in the garden must be the offspring of some callers who had distracted everyone from remembering Cassandra. That was all. Nothing was wrong with Whittaker.
Relief left her weak and leaning against the wall for support. She could think about her empty stomach now. If she wanted food, she would have to find it herself.
Unable to dress unaided, she drew a shawl on over her dressing gown for a bit more modesty and headed for the orangery. An orange or two would do for the moment, and if she set the pot of tea left for her close to the fire, she could heat it. Someone would come eventually, Honore if no one else. Still, leaving her alone for so long after such vigilance over the past few days seemed rather peculiar.
Her soft slippers whispering on the flagstones, she descended the steps to the orangery door and lifted the latch. The door swung inward without a sound, the hin
ges well-oiled. The sharp tang of lemon and orange and the freshness of wet earth greeted her nose.
And the rumble of male voices greeted her ears.
They sounded like two dogs growling at one another, the volume low, the words indistinct, but the feelings clear. These were two men not in the least happy with one another, perhaps ready to snap and lash out. She should return to her room, but the scent of the oranges increased her hunger. She eased the door open farther and edged her head around the frame to see if perhaps she could reach one of the trees, snatch an orange, and retreat without the men noticing her presence.
No such good fortune. The instant she stepped into the glasshouse, she caught the flash of a red coat and the glint of brazier light on pale hair, as Major Crawford stood with his back to her. Facing her, looking straight at her, his uninjured arm bent a bit at the elbow with the hand fisted against his upper thigh, was her erstwhile fiancé.
“I am not mistaken,” Whittaker told the major in a low, hard voice so as not to be overheard by the boys and their tutor on the other end of the orangery. “One of your men shot me.”
“An accident, I assure you.” Major Crawford kept his voice low also, but his stance was relaxed, one shoulder propped against a decorative screen. “The fellow didn’t recognize you until it was too late, I’m afraid. He has been reprimanded, I assure you of that too.”
“And I still have a hole in my arm and a concussion in my head,” Whittaker shot back. “I will not risk this again. Do you understand what I am saying? I will not be your emissary with the Luddites any longer. I would be unmasked right now if one of them instead of one of my loyal men had found me lying on the road. As it is, my weavers wonder why I was dressed like one of the laborers. It cannot continue, and I have responsibilities here at home.”
“All seems to run quite smoothly from my perspective.” Crawford smiled. “And I have been here to notice.”
“We have more guests now. And I need to oversee repairs at the mill.”
And watch over Cassandra. He had left her on her own, and she got herself ill and one of her wounds had gone septic again. Miss Honore and Mama could never control Cassandra’s willfulness, and now with the distraction of Miss Regina Irving—the considerable distraction—the household was going to be in an uproar.
“My uncle has sent my cousins here so he can have some peace and quiet to recover from some illness,” Whittaker continued, “and—never you mind my family business. You can find someone else to blackmail into performing your dirty work.”
“But is that not the difficulty, my lord?” Crawford asked. “Your family business?”
A shout rang through the orangery, one of the cousins, a family responsibility Whittaker felt unprepared to manage at the moment. Later, with his own sons . . .
“Preserving her ladyship’s reputation,” Crawford added, “so your family isn’t socially ruined and you can marry an heiress.”
Whittaker sighed. “I do not wish to marry an heiress.”
“Not even Miss Irving?”
“Not even Miss Irving.”
Miss Honore had whisked her off to an upper-floor bedchamber to refresh herself, and Whittaker had not seen the beauty for hours. But a man did not forget looks like hers. She smoldered like a fire about to burst into a conflagration. Cassandra would not stand up well to the heiress in looks or dowry, yet he held not a hint of interest for Miss Irving and spoke with sincerity. Cassandra would care nothing about a scandal involving his mother. Discretion was not one of her qualities.
Nor his, to his shame.
The major’s lips tightened at the corners. “But neither would you wish to see her ladyship’s name dragged through the mud over a scandal thirty years old.”
“It was not a scandal then; it will not be one now.”
“You did not think that three weeks ago.”
Nor did he think it now. Whittaker knew Society too well to believe that so much as a whisper that his elder brother may not have been the legitimate earl, even for the short time he had carried the title, would make Mama a pariah amongst her friends. It could damage business for the mills, as many believed taint spread through the blood and would believe her younger son of too passionate a nature for their delicate daughters.
He pictured Cassandra’s pretty lips mouthing the word swine because of his pain-spawned reminder of her own passionate nature, and curled his hand into a fist against his thigh. “I need another week at the least. How can I explain my absence?”
“You will.” Crawford shrugged. “You’ll have to. If you don’t, you’ll get a worse blow over your head the next time, probably with some blacksmith’s hammer that will turn your skull into a crumpet.”
“Charming description.” Whittaker’s fist tightened. “Now if you will excuse me, I have guests.”
“Not until you give me a date when you will return. Your mills were spared the other night, but another one was destroyed last night.”
“Whose?” Whittaker felt the blow as though it had been his looms destroyed.
“Featherstone’s.”
“He is a decent fellow. I am sorry to hear that.”
“It could have been prevented if you were working with us.”
“I could have been working with you if one of your men had not shot me.”
“It won’t happen again. England needs you, Whittaker, and you are the only person young enough whom we can . . . compel to help.”
“There will be an end to this, Crawford. I will not—”
A rush of air signaled the opening door, and he stopped, expecting either Miss Honore or Miss Irving, but not the two of them. The new arrival was not talking, as would be the case if both ladies arrived in tandem.
A solitary lady stood half behind the door, peering around it like a rabbit poking its nose out of its warren to sniff for danger. Her gaze met his, and she took a step backward, catching the wide sleeve of her robe on the door latch. It clanged like a gong, and her pallid face turned the color of Mama’s summer roses.
Crawford spun around, his hand dropping to where his sword would hang when he was on duty. “Miss Bainbridge. Good—good evening.”
“Who is she?” Laurence’s booted feet thudded up one of the aisles between the trees.
William thudded right behind him. “Cousin Whittaker, why is there a half-dressed lady in here?”
“I am not half—I mean, I will not be . . . I thought the orangery would be empty.” Cassandra spun around, lost her balance, and caught herself on the door frame.
“Allow me, Miss Bainbridge.” Crawford strode forward.
“What is wrong with her?” William persisted.
Indeed, what was wrong? Or more accurately, how badly was she injured? Whittaker knew Cassandra was using a cane to walk more than a few feet, but he thought it weakness. Now he realized her legs might be damaged worse than he’d thought.
The realization held him immobile, silent, until Major Crawford reached out as though intending to curve his hand around her arm. Whittaker all but charged forward and shouldered the officer aside—with his bad arm, unfortunately, shooting pain from elbow to shoulder—and curved his arm around her waist.
“You should not be out of your sickroom, Miss Bainbridge.” He spoke a little too loudly for the sake of his cousins. “If you wanted oranges, you should have rung for them.”
“I did, but no one answered. Now if you please, I can return to my room alone.” She grasped his hand as though to remove it from her waist with as much force as necessary.
A waist too narrow and a hip bone too lacking in flesh, apparent with only a layer of velvet and cambric between his fingers and her flesh, instead of stays that changed the natural form of a lady. He stepped behind her to shield her from the other man’s view and murmured, “Do not make a scene, Cassandra. I am taking you back to your room.”
“Perhaps you should be discovering why your household is so poorly run.”
“Not poor management. Too few staff and too
many people in it to take care of.”
She flinched and her hand dropped. She said nothing as he led her from the orangery door and back toward her room. She need not have spoken. He had gained no points with her in whatever game of wills they played. She did not want his reminders of the state of his finances. He suspected he had lost ground by obliging her to leave the room as he had.
She did not move away from the support of his arm, though. Not because she wanted to be close to him, he suspected—because she needed it. Her steps felt uneven.
“Does your ankle pain you?” he could not stop himself from asking.
“I do not discuss my ankles with men, my lord.”
He almost laughed at her frosty haughtiness.
“Cassandra, do not be a widgeon. I am not a stranger.”
“We would be better off if you were.” She braced her hand on the wall and stared at the door to her bedchamber. “Thank you for your assistance. When there is some available, I would like some supper.”
“I will bring it to you myself, if necessary.” He raised his hand, aching to brush her hair back, touch her cheek, tilt her face toward his. He reached past her and opened her door. “Good evening, Miss Bainbridge.”
“Good evening, my lord.” She entered her room without so much as a glance at him. “Thank you.”
He leaned against the wall and watched her enter her chamber. The ache to touch her felt like a pinch compared to the pounding emptiness of loss deep inside him. She might fear the amputation of her leg; he felt as though she had already excised his heart, mangled it, and then tried to hand it back. More than her shame over their behavior had driven her away from him. She knew God forgave one with a repentant heart. They had discussed that in the summer.
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