by Mia Marlowe
Consuming. Fiery. Desperate. Those were closer to the mark.
Even though Lady Easton was too well-bred to say anything, Cassandra suspected she knew enough about the peculiarities of those in the duke’s Order to comprehend the nature of her relationship with Garret. But Lady Easton offered no censure. Other members of the ton would not be so forgiving. Cassandra and Garret were both in residence at the duke’s town house. They had traveled together to her parent’s home in Wiltshire and now to his uncle’s house in Brighton. Even with Lady Easton’s chaperonage, if the announcement of a betrothal wasn’t forthcoming, tongues would likely begin to wag.
Cassandra enjoyed public approval now, but if the whispers began, her reputation would soon be in tatters. Even with the Duke of Camden’s patronage, the invitations to respectable functions would cease. Decent ladies would deliver cuts direct to her, crossing the street rather than meet and acknowledge her.
Garret, however, would still be welcomed in any parlor in the land.
The injustice stung, but there was no help for it. The world was thus. The sad truth was that a woman’s safety lay in the protection of a good man. It was no wonder debutantes launched themselves on the Marriage Mart with the fury of a troop of green soldiers charging an enemy hill.
Fire mage or not, Cassandra needed a husband.
Garret had confessed his love for her, but he hadn’t offered to marry her, despite having plenty of opportunity. Evidently, he was satisfied with the status quo.
Cassandra was not. She hadn’t given up on her dream of some semblance of a normal life. A love without conditions, a love that promised to remain constant in the face of an inconstant world, was still the deepest desire of her heart. Surely, a fire mage and a thought Sender could marry without upsetting the equilibrium of the universe.
It must be Garret or nothing. She certainly couldn’t expect an ordinary man to understand and tolerate her unique needs as a fire mage. Where would she begin explaining her situation to anyone else?
“Oh, and dearest, kindly remember not to upset me, or you might find the parlor drapes ablaze.”
Rather than risk exposing herself to a non-Extraordinaire, she could simply take her cue from Vesta, choosing her own patrons and using them to provide not only financial support, but physical relief from the pressures of her gift.
But how loveless and empty that prospect sounded. Cassie wanted someone to spend her life with, someone to witness her triumphs and rejoice with her. Someone to muddle through her failures and love her in any case.
“That color is ever so becoming on you, miss,” Lady Easton’s maid interrupted Cassandra’s musings. Nellie put the finishing touch on her upswept coiffure by slipping a bejeweled pin into her hair.
“Thank you.” Cassie considered her reflection. What a difference a few weeks had made in her life. She was still the fresh-faced debutante she’d been at the beginning of the Season, but her eyes had a knowing look now. She was much older on the inside. Some of her growth had been positive. She was over her calf-love for Roderick. She was much more sure of herself and what she wanted now. But she was contemplating the death of her dream.
And that never looked good on anyone.
…
“I understand the pianist is something of a savant,” Garret said as he and Cassandra strolled toward the Pavilion arm in arm. “Mr. Clive said he’d never seen my uncle so excited about a musician before.”
“Is the earl a devotee of the arts?”
Garret shrugged. “I wouldn’t have said so. He’s never been excited about anything except trying to sire a son so that I wouldn’t inherit.”
The sharp tang of the sea wafted up from the shore. Cassie wished they were headed for the pebbled beach to watch the sunset, but that would be an intimate walk, a stroll for lovers. It would surely cause more comment than a jaunt across the well-traveled paths of the Prince Regent’s pleasure park to a recital. “Why did your father and uncle quarrel?”
“It was over my mother. They both wanted her, but she chose my father instead of the earl. Even with the weight of the title behind him, Stanstead couldn’t have her and it vexed his soul. He and my father never reconciled, not even when they met over her grave.”
“How did your mother die?”
“Birthing me. Yet another reason for my uncle to hate me.”
It occurred to her that since Garret was his uncle’s heir, his father must be gone now, too. “Have you any other relations?”
“Other than my uncle and his three daughters, who also, by the way, have nothing good to say about me, there are none living.” He covered the hand she’d slipped into the crook of his elbow with his. “But since we rarely associate with each other, I cannot say I’ve felt the lack.”
“Your cousins probably fear that you will cut them off once their father passes.” It happened often when a gentleman of title and wealth had no direct heir to succeed him. The heir was under no legal obligation to provide for the family of the former holder of the title.
“I’m not so obsessed with wealth that I’d keep what my uncle hands on to me all for myself. But since my cousins habitually ignore my existence, I cannot allay their fears on that score. They’ll find out for themselves when the time comes. If it comes.” Garret chuckled. “Even though my uncle is well past his three score and ten, he’s tougher than a boiled owl. Don’t let this indisposition fool you. He’s likely to outlive me, just for spite.”
Garret’s relatives bewildered Cassandra. She was blessed with a broad extended family, aunts and uncles and cousins by the bushel. They’d made themselves welcome at her father’s house before and after Sir Cornelius had returned from India with riches to exceed their wildest dreams. Her father was openhanded with his wealth and provided liberally for his siblings’ and their broods.
None of them could move in the rarified air of the ton in which Cassandra found herself now, but she treasured her boisterous, hopelessly common family, nonetheless. Even if things went horribly wrong and she was shunned by Polite Society, she would not be without people who cared about her.
Despite his protest to the contrary, Cassandra sensed that Garret felt his aloneness in the world deeply.
She would become his family, if he’d only say the words. Frustration sizzled through her but she tamped it down. A coerced proposal from the man would be worth less than nothing. She forced her attention back to the problems at hand.
“So you haven’t seen your uncle at all since we arrived?”
“No. Mr. Clive said his lordship was still too unwell and he would not receive me. Of course, the result might have been the same had he been hale and hearty.”
The dense trees in the park opened onto a broad lawn and the Pavilion came into view. It was as garish and fantastic as Cassandra had heard, well deserving of the nickname “Folly.” “Has a doctor been called?”
“Yes, but bleeding has not improved his condition. The earl began feeling weak after visiting the Pavilion a few days ago and he has deteriorated since then.”
“Do you suppose he came into contact with the ASP somehow?”
“That was my thought exactly,” Garret said. “I wish I could ask the old fellow where he was, what he did while he was in the Pavilion. All we know for certain is that he attended a concert.”
“We spoke of a piano in jest as a possibility, but perhaps we should reconsider it as a repository of psychic energy,” Cassandra said.
“My, my. ‘A repository of psychic energy.’ Spoken like an Order of the M.U.S.E. expert. The duke must be so proud.”
She bristled at his dismissive tone. “Yes, it’s true I’ve been studying a bit. Something you might try on occasion.”
“You’re right,” he said, suddenly serious. “I wish I’d started in earnest on the mental exercises sooner. Before my dream…”
She glanced at him. As much as it bothered her when he teased her for taking an interest in her new supernatural world, she was more comfortable when he was maki
ng light of things. A prickle of apprehension danced on her spine. She’d been the subject of his evil dream, but he still wouldn’t tell her the substance of the nightmare.
“I wonder if music itself might be used as a psychic weapon, striking down the hearers as they listen,” she mused.
“Doubtful. If that were the case, everyone who attended the previous recital would have fallen sick. Most psychically charged relics require close contact for their malevolent power to be exercised.” He grinned at her. “You see? I too have studied a little.”
“I stand corrected.”
“And besides, if my uncle felt the music was responsible for his illness, he might have insisted I go hear this pianist, but he certainly wouldn’t subject you or Lady Easton to it.”
They entered one of the Pavilion’s doorways located under a portico and were ushered into a high-ceilinged room that was a mishmash of Baroque and Turkish style. It was set up for the recital with a Broadmore Grand positioned on a dais under a bank of high Palladian windows at the far end of the long space. Some of the attendees had taken their seats already, but others were gathered in little knots of conversation scattered around the room.
Cassandra spotted Lady Waldgren near a large potted fern. Her trademark plumed turban dipped and nodded as she spoke animatedly with the little coterie she’d assembled around her. As unpleasant as the old gossip was, she could at least be relied upon to be a fount of information. Plus, since Cassandra had earned the Duke of Camden’s patronage, she’d also been given Lady Waldgren’s seal of approval. Cassandra was sure a hearty welcome awaited her in that corner.
“What do you say?” Garret said. “Shall we split up in order to cover more ground and meet near the front of the room?”
“Capital suggestion. Kindly save a seat for me.” Cassandra left him to join Lady Waldgren’s group.
The old woman’s heavily made-up face crinkled into a horse-toothed smile when she saw Cassie approaching.
“Ah, Miss Darkin, my, but you are in your looks this evening. Quite fetching, isn’t she? And don’t I always say so?” Lady Waldgren’s fan fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings as she looked to her hangers-on for agreement. “Is that Mr. Sterling I saw you with a moment ago?”
“Yes, Lady Easton and I decided to accompany him on his visit to his uncle, Lord Stanstead.” She had to do something to turn the conversation away from herself. “We were thrilled to hear of the concert this evening. What can you tell me about the artist?”
“Oh, you don’t know of Paschal? A monumental talent, yes, indeed. He’s simply taken the Continent by storm. Rome, Barcelona, Paris, even those dour-faced Germans can’t get enough of him. They’re clamoring for him everywhere. Trust me, you’ve never seen anything like him.” Lady Waldgren barely paused for breath before continuing on. “We are so very fortunate he agreed to play for us here in Brighton before he moves on to London after the Prince Regent’s visit. I understand we have Mr. Bellefonte to thank for Paschal’s presence with us. Oh, there he is. Oh, I say, Mr. Bellefonte!”
Lady Waldgren drew a large handkerchief from her stiff bombazine sleeve and waved it over her head like a flag of surrender. Cassandra turned to find Roderick coming toward her.
After he greeted Lady Waldgren and her minions, he focused on Cassie. “Miss Darkin, what an unexpected pleasure. You won’t mind if I steal away my childhood friend, will you, Lady Waldgren?”
Before the old battle-ax could raise an objection, Roddy had Cassie by the elbow and was steering her away from her ladyship’s tight little circle.
“I’m surprised to see you in Brighton, too,” Cassie said, hardly daring to breathe. His grip on her arm was tight enough to be uncomfortable. Had he penetrated her angel disguise after all? “Is Lady Sylvia and her family here with you?”
“No. My darling fiancée is embroiled in plans for the wedding and cannot be pulled away from the florists and musicians and, of course, her dressmaker.” He shook his head in wonderment. “I swear, the lady is having a trousseau made that would beggar the royal family.”
Since Lady Sylvia’s father was paying for her new attire now, Cassie thought Roderick should be grateful instead of complaining. But perhaps he worried rightly that his future wife’s wardrobe needs would beggar him in the future.
“How is it you could find your way to the Brighton shore, but you couldn’t be bothered to attend my party when I know for a certainty that you were in the country at your parents’ home?” he asked once they were out of earshot of Lady Waldgren’s circle.
“I’m sorry, Roddy.” Cassandra sighed in relief that he hadn’t recognized her in her angel costume, after all. “I’m afraid we were confused about the day of your party and then when I realized we’d missed it, I was so embarrassed. We simply returned to London after that.”
“Just as well,” he said morosely. “I suppose you heard there was a fire.”
“Oh, yes, I understand the dower house was heavily damaged,” she said with genuine sadness. She sincerely regretted that the home of Roderick’s dear grandmother had been ruined.
“And we were robbed.”
Why had she never noticed before how very like a bloodhound Roderick looked when he was dejected? “Oh? What was taken?”
“Nothing you’d be interested in.”
If only he knew…
“You still haven’t answered my question,” she said. “Why are you in Brighton?”
It seemed an odd coincidence that Roderick should be close by when two objects of psychic power came to light, first the Infinitum and now the ASP.
“I’m a patron of the arts, don’t you know? The Bellefontes were instrumental in bringing Paschal here to play. Father and I have been watching his career on the Continent and couldn’t wait for him to grace English soil. He’s every bit as good as they say. Prinny is going to have a new pet once he hears the boy next week.”
“The boy?”
“Didn’t you know? Paschal is only a child. No more than ten or eleven years old, I’d wager, but already he’s a terror on the keys,” Roderick said. “Mozart reborn, they say.”
“There you are, Miss Darkin.” Garret appeared at her side offering his arm. “I have seats for us near the proscenium, but if we don’t take them now, I shall be forced to wrestle Lord Waldgren for them.” He lowered his voice to add, “Since I’m acquainted with his wife, I’d hate to increase that poor man’s burden.”
Cassandra stifled a chuckle over the plight of Lady Waldgren’s long-suffering husband.
“Nonsense,” Roderick said with a surprisingly affable tone as he stuck out his arm for Cassie as well. “I have reserved seating to the left of the dais. You’ll be able to see Paschal’s fingering from there.” He sent Garret an unmistakable glare of challenge. “However, I only have one extra seat.”
Cassandra tossed Garret an apologetic look and took Roddy’s arm. They were supposed to investigate all things connected to the ASP. Mr. Bellefonte’s unexpected appearance had Cassandra’s every nerve twitching. Whether Roddy was aware of the psychic energy swirling about him and his father, his proximity to the ASP was still suspicious.
As she left Garret behind to accompany Roderick, she hoped he understood her motives. His black scowl said he did not.
Chapter Eighteen
If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
—Shakespeare, from “Twelfth Night”
Roderick ushered Cassie to her seat. Then he stepped up on the dais and stood in the singer’s crook of the grand piano. The room stilled when Roddy raised his hands for quiet. Garret was the last to take his seat, positioning himself on the opposite side of the dais, the better to glare in her direction.
If he wants to assure I’m always at his side, he only has to say the words. Crossly, she wondered how hard it could be to craft a proposal of marriage. Four words—Will you marry me?—would be enough.
“Thank you for coming this evening,” Roderick said to the expectant crowd. “Those of you who have previously heard Paschal play know what a delight awaits you. Those who haven’t, well, let’s just say, this is an evening you will remember with unabashed pleasure, all your life.”
Cassie blinked in surprise. Roddy had never been one for the performing arts before this. He had balked at attending the theater, even when the playbill had featured a popular comedy. He had made himself scarce for musical evenings organized by society matrons. Even the symphony had held no allure for him.
Whatever magic Paschal possessed must be formidable indeed to make Roddy change his tune.
“And now without further ado, I bring you the illustrious Paschal!” Roderick raised an arm toward the door to his right where a slight lad stood framed by the opening.
The room erupted in enthusiastic applause as Paschal came in, sweeping into the chamber with the dignity of a much more mature performer. The child was dressed in a charming suit, a midnight-blue tailcoat and buff knee britches with an intricately tied cravat. Silver buckles sparkled on his shoes. He was a dandy in miniature. If only he were older, Paschal would look completely at home at Almack’s, except for a garish pair of scarlet gloves. Spine ramrod straight, the boy mounted the dais and bowed slightly to Roderick. Then he adjusted the piano bench to suit him and went through an elaborate ritual of removing his gloves.
Roderick settled into the tufted chair next to Cassandra and leaned to whisper, “Paschal is a fanatic about his gloves. The only time he goes without them is when he plays.”
“Artists are known for being eccentric,” Cassie said charitably.
“Well, I only mention it so you don’t repeat Lord Stanstead’s faux pas.”
“Oh, what was that?”
“The earl was so moved by Paschal’s performance, he didn’t wait for the receiving line to congratulate him. After the final piece, Stanstead leaped up onto the dais to shake the boy’s hand before he had a chance to don his gloves,” Roddy whispered. “I thought he was going to have a fit of apoplexy on the spot.”
