Cassandra's Deception

by Gayle Buck

  “I am sorry for that,” said Cassandra, biting her lip in anxiety. She buttoned up the gown. “Weems refused to let me in.”

  “It hardly surprises me. Weems watches over Sir Marcus like a flustered hen does a new chick,” said Miss Bidwell tartly. “He is by far too protective of his master, to my mind.”

  “Then ... you do not believe that I harmed Grandfather overmuch by talking to him in the way that I did?” asked Cassandra hopefully. She crossed to the vanity and picked up a hairbrush. Her hair was windblown even though she had been wearing a hat.

  “ Well, it certainly did not do him any good, Belle. However, Sir Marcus is responsible for his own passions, not you nor I nor anyone else,” said Miss Bidwell with a sharp nod that was somehow reassuring to Cassandra. She took the hairbrush out of Cassandra’s hand and began smoothing out the tangles. “You mustn’t blame yourself for his lack of self-control, my dear. And he is always calmer once he has been bled. You know that. Sir Marcus will no doubt rest easily enough tonight.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t have mentioned my uncle and aunt,” murmured Cassandra. Miss Bidwell had finished, and Cassandra tied a bit of satin ribbon about her hair.

  “Your timing was perhaps not as perfect as one could wish,” agreed Miss Bidwell, setting down the hairbrush. “Not that the thought hadn’t crossed my mind more than once to write to Mr. and Mrs. Weatherstone myself and plead on your behalf that some effort should be made to repair the breach. It is a terrible thing for a family to be split apart. And I so wished that advantageous connection for you, dear Belle.”

  “Thank you, Biddy. I know that you have done your best for me,” said Cassandra, smiling fondly at the elderly lady.

  Miss Bidwell took out her handkerchief and genteelly blew her nose. “Yes, well! I suppose that I should leave you to finish dressing, my dear. I must change for supper, as well. Shall I see you downstairs?”

  “Of course,” said Cassandra.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  As Cassandra descended to the foyer, Mr. Raven emerged from the billiards room. He walked down the hall toward the staircase, his dark head tilted as he watched her descent. “Miss Weatherstone! I am happy to have run into you. May I speak with you privately? Perhaps in the drawing room?”

  “Of course, Mr. Raven.” Cassandra joined the gentleman, who was awaiting her, and preceded him into the drawing room. She turned as he closed the door. At once on her guard, she quickly informed him, “My companion, Miss Bidwell, will be down shortly, Mr. Raven. What is it that you wished to say to me?”

  Mr. Raven approached her. He had a lithe stride, economical and graceful, an expression of concern on his face. “I have gathered that Sir Marcus has taken a sudden turn for the worse. Can you tell me how serious it is?”

  Cassandra shook her head. “I fear not, Mr. Raven. Though I have been told that the physician has been sent for to bleed him. He will be better for it, I assure you.”

  Mr. Raven regarded her with a frown. “You do not appear particularly overwrought, Miss Weatherstone.”

  “I hope that I am more self-possessed than to go screeching down the halls, sir,” said Cassandra with the tiniest of smiles. She cocked her head. “If it comforts you to know it, Mr. Raven, I was quite concerned.”

  “Was concerned,” repeated Mr. Raven, emphasizing the words. “Then you believe that Sir Marcus is in no immediate danger.”

  “I do not anticipate it, Mr. Raven,” said Cassandra with a cool assurance that she hoped concealed the still niggling unease that she felt despite Miss Bidwell’s reassurance.

  “Thank God for that,” said Mr. Raven. He took a turn about the room, his hands clasped behind his back. He had changed into a dark blue frock coat that was perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and lean form. When he came to the mantel, he stopped to look down into the yellow-tipped fire. “Miss Weatherstone, may I speak frankly?”

  Cassandra moved to a wing chair and sat down in it. She hid a tiny sigh. “I thought that you already had, Mr. Raven.”

  He turned, laying one long arm atop the mantel, and looked over at her from his negligent stance. “You refer to our conversation earlier today, of course. That was a badly botched business on my part. I apologize. I assumed that Sir Marcus had already spoken to you about why he wanted to see me.”

  “I had no reason to think that my grandfather actually had any such plan up his sleeve,” said Cassandra, thinking about her sister’s casual reference to the old argument between herself and Sir Marcus. Belle had believed that Sir Marcus and Miss Bidwell had been concerned about her reaction to Philip Raven’s arrival solely because of an old argument. She had not actually believed that Sir Marcus had any intent to approach his godson concerning a match, and had brushed aside the possibility with the observation that Mr. Raven would most certainly decline such an honor.

  Cassandra was curious. She wondered what Mr. Raven’s true thoughts had been. “Mr. Raven, I gathered from some things that you said earlier that you had declined my grandfather’s request. May I ask why?”

  He looked thunderstruck. “Why?”

  “Yes, why.”

  Mr. Raven smoothed his expression. “Is it so difficult to understand? Such an archaic arrangement, between two strangers, in this day and age. I found it ludicrous.”

  “Are you perhaps already wed?” asked Cassandra boldly.

  Mr. Raven’s face altered with something akin to shock, then became impassive again. “No, of course not!”

  Cassandra leaned back at her ease, resting her elbows on the chair arms. She had hit close to the truth. She knew it. That swiftest of expressions had betrayed him. “Then you are infatuated with someone?”

  Mr. Raven straightened to his full height and turned to the huge gilt mirror hanging above the mantel. He reached up to tidy his starched neckcloth, speaking over his shoulder. “You are very searching in your questions, Miss Weatherstone.”

  “Ah, but that is what old childhood friends do, Mr. Raven. They try to catch up on all that has occurred since the last time they saw each other,” said Cassandra, teasing him just a little. It felt very good to turn the tables, if only this once. For the first time since she had entered the manor, she felt in full mastery of herself.

  “Odd. I had thought that was what I was attempting to do when I first arrived. But you kept putting me off, Belle,” said Mr. Raven swiftly.

  Cassandra saw too late the trap that she had set for herself. She straightened primly, folding her hands in her lap. “We have already had this discussion, Mr. Raven. My reasons—

  “My assumption of your reasons,” corrected Mr. Raven. “Since you actually had not been told about Sir Marcus’s plans concerning a future between us, I now fail to understand why you have been so off-putting, Miss Weatherstone.”

  Cassandra smiled at him, when what she really wanted to do was to wipe that arrogant expression from his face. She felt that he had pushed her into a corner, and her temper abruptly flared. “Very well, Philip. Let us take off the gloves altogether, shall we? You lived here at the Hall for a brief period. We were both children. You left the Hall, whereas I did not. You return with all expectation of being received with wholehearted joy and a degree of familiarity that would not be tolerated except in the most unconventional of houses. Forgive me, sir, but I was not raised to be a bumpkin nor a wild hoyden! Indeed, you are a stranger to me, and I have found your assumption of familiarity to be both uncomfortable and offending. There, sir, is plain speaking.”

  Mr. Raven’s expression was startled. He let out his breath slowly. “Well, you have certainly learned to turn a neat phrase. I feel as though I have been finely drawn and quartered.”

  Cassandra raised her brows. “Then I trust the point is well taken.”

  “Exceptionally so, Miss Weatherstone,” said Mr. Raven, grimacing. He made the slightest of bows to her. “I shall in future be more circumspect, I assure you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Raven. It is all I ask,” said Ca
ssandra, inclining her head. She was trembling within from the risk she had run in addressing him so forcibly. Yet at the same time, knowing that she had scored a hit, she felt the euphoria of victory.

  Mr. Raven was obviously about to reply when the drawing room door opened. He closed his mouth, tightening his lips.

  Cassandra rose at the sight of her companion. Her triumph gave her more courage than she had had heretofore. “There you are, Biddy. Mr. Raven and I have had the most interesting conversation. I must tell you about it later.” She pretended to ignore the gentleman’s sharp glance. “How nice you look, Biddy. That is a pretty shade on you.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” said Miss Bidwell, her gaze surprised. “But it is the same gown that I have worn for several years.”

  “Nevertheless, I have always thought it very attractive on you,” said Cassandra imperviously.

  “Belle, I was delayed in coming down because Steeves informed me that Sir Thomas has arrived. He is this minute up with Sir Marcus,” said Miss Bidwell, glancing from Mr. Raven’s remote expression back to her charge’s heightened color.

  “I am glad to hear it. Perhaps we shall hear good tidings before long,” said Cassandra. “There is the bell. Shall we go in to supper?”

  “My dear. Do you not wish to go upstairs and speak with Sir Thomas?” asked Miss Bidwell gently.

  “I am certain that Sir Thomas will request to see me before he leaves,” said Cassandra. “I see no point in lurking about the bedroom door until the physician exits.”

  Miss Bidwell bestowed a civil smile on Mr. Raven, who was obviously listening to the interchange with interest. “Pray excuse us for a moment, Philip.”

  When he bowed and turned away to walk to the farthest corner of the drawing room, Miss Bidwell turned again to Cassandra. She said in a lowered voice, “Belle, whatever has gotten into you? Surely you wish to go upstairs and ask Weems—

  “Weems will not allow me into the bedroom. I shall not kick my heels in the hallway like a recalcitrant child until he or Sir Thomas has the goodness to convey whatever news there might be,” said Cassandra swiftly, her glance flashing. She could not believe that her sister was expected to behave in so juvenile a fashion. Perhaps it was good that she had traded places with Belle, she thought. It was obviously past time for Belle’s household to begin treating her like a mature young lady. “I shall go in to supper in a civilized fashion and wait for Steeves to bring word that Sir Thomas is ready to speak to me.”

  She turned from her astonished companion and addressed her grandfather’s guest. “Mr. Raven,, I believe we are now ready to go in to supper. Will you join us?”

  “Of course, Miss Weatherstone,” said Mr. Raven, advancing to her side. “Allow me to escort you within.”

  With an inclination of her head, Cassandra laid her fingertips on the arm that he offered. As Mr. Raven escorted her into the dining room, Cassandra was aware that Miss Bidwell followed with disapproval radiating like a cloud about her. Cassandra glanced across the table at the elderly lady while Mr. Raven politely seated her. Miss Bidwell met her gaze steadily, her mouth pursed in a stern line.

  Cassandra deliberately turned away. She would not allow herself to be treated like a naughty schoolgirl. That might have been what her sister was used to, but she was made of different stuff. She refused to be cowed.

  The masquerade was all but over, and she would not be other than herself.

  The problem with her sister’s life, thought Cassandra, was that there were too many personages at the Hall who had watched her grow up. They had watched Belle become a young woman, Cassandra thought, but they had never allowed her to become an adult.

  With that neat analysis, Cassandra turned her attention to getting through supper. For all of her newfound bravado, however, she could not help the way that her thoughts continually came back around to the old sick gentleman upstairs and what the physician might have to say about his condition.

  The physician had not returned downstairs before the covers were turned down and coffee was being served in the drawing room. Miss Bidwell declined to partake and marched over to the settee in front of the fireplace, where she immediately picked up her tatting basket and started a new set of lace.

  Cassandra understood that Miss Bidwell was still displeased with her. She did not attempt to cozen the elderly lady out of her sulks. Instead, she played hostess to her solitary guest and served coffee. It was a role that was not unfamiliar to her. She had often managed small talk with her uncle and aunt’s friends, as well as with her own. She discovered presently that Mr. Raven was easy to converse with. He was an amusing companion, and she actually began to enjoy herself. It was scarcely surprising, however, she thought at one point. Not only was he an interesting conversationalist, he was a handsome gentleman, and she was thoroughly aware of it. Cassandra swiftly put an end to that line of reflection, telling herself sternly that it would not do to become too friendly with Mr. Philip Raven. Once the masquerade was done, she would likely never see him again. It occurred to her that that was not a particularly pleasing thought.

  “Did you and Sir Marcus have a falling out?” asked Mr. Raven quietly.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Cassandra, turning her head to look at him. The question came quite out of the blue. They had been talking about books.

  “I believe you understood me, Miss Weatherstone,” said Mr. Raven.

  Cassandra considered him for a moment. She quickly made up her mind. He had every right to know, after all. “Yes, we did. We had a terrible row as a matter of fact. It was over the discussion that he had had with you.”

  “I see.” Mr. Raven considered his cup of coffee, then lifted it to his lips. When he had drunk and set it down, he said, “It appears that my presence here is the cause of all sorts of conflict.”

  Cassandra hesitated, then said straightforwardly, “I shall not deny it, sir. However, you mustn’t blame yourself. My grandfather is responsible for his own words and actions, as am I.”

  Mr. Raven chuckled. His keen gray eyes were warm in expression. “I suppose that is to prick any overweening sense of conceit I might still possess. Since returning to the Hall, I have learned to my disconcertion that I am not at all as important as I thought myself to be.”

  “Oh, but you are, sir.” A smile hovered about Cassandra’s mouth. She had liked his self-deprecating humor and responded in kind. “At least—to my grandfather.”

  “You are a serious trial, Belle,” he murmured.

  When she cut a glance at him, he threw up his hand in surrender. “Very well! I shall abide by the guidelines that we have established. I shall not address you again by your given name until you give me leave.”

  She gently corrected him, with a smile. “Unless I give you leave, Mr. Raven.”

  “You are cruel, ma’am,” said Mr. Raven, still smiling.

  “Not at all. I am thoroughly conventional,” said Cassandra. She lifted the pot. “More coffee, Mr. Raven?”

  “Thank you, yes.” When she had refreshed his cup, he remarked, “Somehow I did not expect the headstrong, free-spirited Belle Weatherstone I had known to become thoroughly conventional.”

  “One must expect change, sir,” said Cassandra, only a little shaken this time by his comparison between herself and her sister. She was beginning to feel more comfortable in her role and bolder in expressing her own sentiments.

  “You must be brutally frank with me, Miss Weatherstone. Do you believe that matters would be best served if I were to remove myself from the Hall?” asked Mr. Raven.

  “No, of course not. You are Grandfather’s guest. I have no right to make such a judgment,” said Cassandra swiftly.

  “Only consider a moment, however. Unless we have between us dissuaded him otherwise, Sir Marcus must still harbor hopes that we shall make a match of it,” said Mr. Raven somberly. His gaze was keen on her face. “How do you perceive the situation?”

  “My grandfather is very stubborn and obtuse about this matter,” s
aid Cassandra with a shake of her head. “I had no notion that he would refuse to consider an alternative.”

  “And what was the alternative if I may make so bold as to ask?”

  “I wished to ask my uncle and aunt to sponsor me for a London season,” said Cassandra. She shrugged slightly. “I am confident that they would agree, but my grandfather is adamant in his refusal to approach them.”

  “What objection could Sir Marcus possibly have?” asked Mr. Raven. “It sounds to me to be an admirable solution.”

  “My relations have not spoken to one another in many, many years,” supplied Cassandra.

  Mr. Raven frowned. “Light begins to come. I do seem to recall something about your uncle. Mr. Phineas Weatherstone, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Cassandra looked at him curiously. “Do you recall anything about why my grandfather and uncle came to be at such odds?”

  “If I once knew, I have forgotten,” said Mr. Raven. He regarded her unsmilingly. “So you asked Sir Marcus for a London season. A simple enough request on the surface. Every well-bred girl is supposed to have a proper come-out.”

  “I told Grandfather as much. He did not agree. And so, here we are,” said Cassandra, turning her hands up and out.

  “If I were to leave, then he surely could not hold to this hard line. Perhaps it is only my presence that encourages him in this phantasm,” said Mr. Raven. “Perhaps if I left, you would be able to have your London season.”

  “My dear sir, I have been immured here all of my life. My grandfather has not made the least effort to introduce me to the world. Now he is old and ill. What would change?” asked Cassandra with a little laugh.

  Mr. Raven did not reply. He merely regarded her with a thoughtful expression. Cassandra might have begun to be made uncomfortable by his unwinking regard, except that the butler entered with a gentleman in tow.

  Cassandra rose swiftly. “Sir Thomas!”