Before he could lift it to his lips, however, his hand gripped the fragile crystal so tightly that it shattered, spilling its contents on the carpet.
Mutely, John handed him a handkerchief, and Richard wrapped it around his hand to stop the bleeding.
The cuts from the broken glass were little more than scratches, John was relieved to see, but it would appear that whatever was bothering Richard was no minor matter.
“Do you wish to tell me what has occurred?” John asked finally, the smile gone from his face.
After a short pause, Richard said simply, “I have met Lord Blackstone.”
“And?”
Richard looked up at him and said bleakly, “He quite reminds me of Mudgeley.”
Richard did not need to say anything further. At the mention of that name, John felt his own hands begin to tremble, and he quickly sat down again in his chair before his knees could fail him.
As overseer, Mudgeley had been the most hated man on the plantation where they had been slaves, because he had issued the daily orders and given out the job assignments. He had also been the most feared since it had been his arm that had wielded the whip when they failed to finish the impossible quotas he had set for them.
But it had not only been control over their lives, which even now, years later, made John’s heart pound in his chest. It was the fact that Mudgeley had taken a perverse pleasure in causing pain to others—in thinking up new and novel ways to torment and torture the slaves under his control.
“Dear Lord,” John murmured. “If what you say is true, it would appear the earl has undoubtedly earned his nickname, ‘Lord Blackheart.’”
“You spoke to me earlier about evil,” Richard said. “Today I looked in the earl’s eyes and saw a blackness of the soul that he could not hide—indeed, it appears he makes no effort to disguise it.”
For a moment they both were lost in their thoughts, shaken by their memories. Then John said, “At least we can be thankful we are not in the earl’s power.”
“Lady Cassie is,” Richard replied, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.
“But you will rescue her,” John said, forcing a smile. “I have great confidence in your abilities.”
“But I failed to rescue Molly. She died waiting for me to return for her,” Richard said, his voice now so soft John had to strain to hear him. But his friend’s words, quiet as they were, felt to John like bullets smashing into his flesh.
Richard’s courtship of an earl’s daughter had seemed like a game to John—merely another challenge testing their combined abilities and ingenuity. But now that they knew the kind of man her brother was, it had indeed become a serious matter.
What fate might befall Lady Cassiopeia if Richard were too slow to win her for himself?
* * * *
The Heathertons’ ball was a tolerable success, Lady Letitia decided. Not because it was a “sad crush,” which was every hostess’s dream, nor was it because Lady Letitia’s little machinations were all proceeding on schedule.
Due to her cousin’s granddaughter having come down with the measles, and her third husband’s grandniece being in mourning for one of her grandparents, Lady Letitia had ended up with the task of marrying off only three young ladies this Season, which was rather fewer than usual, and she had assumed it would be a bit boring this year with so little to occupy her time.
But that was before her grandson had returned from the Colonies, obviously in need of a wife. Not only was he the perfect age for matrimony, but there was a chance—however remote—that if he fell head over heels in love with an Englishwoman, he might not be so eager to sail back to America again.
Strangely enough, however, if she were to be honest with herself, Lady Letitia had to admit that she was even more intrigued by the prospect of helping Richard Hawke win the hand of Lady Cassiopeia.
As if her thoughts had conjured him up, Richard reappeared at her side, bearing two goblets. “It is rather inferior champagne, I am afraid,” he said, handing her one of the glasses. “Remind me the next time we attend an affair hosted by Lord Heatherton, and I shall contrive to smuggle in a bottle of something that is a little more palatable.”
He seated himself beside her, and as always, his eyes immediately sought out Lady Cassie, who was dancing with Oliver Ingleby.
“You need have no worries about my grandnephew, at least,” Lady Letitia said. “Although he is far from being a pauper, his pockets are not deep enough for Blackstone to consider him as a suitor for Cassie’s hand.”
“It is a pity she is so beautiful,” her companion mused. “As it is, Tuke is hard pressed to investigate all of her assorted suitors.”
“Ah, the redoubtable John Tuke. I have also heard many tales of his fearlessness and his physical prowess. But I had not realized he had accompanied you back to England. Why have you not brought him to meet me? I would also wish to thank him in person for the care he has extended to my grandson.”
“He is ... shy about going out into company.”
“Shy? You may give him my word that I shall not bite his head off.”
“No, no,” Richard said with a smile. “I am sure he has no fear of you.”
“Of what then?”
“He fears evil incarnate, or at least that is the way he has explained it to me. He claims that he feels safer with me as his shield and defender.” Richard smiled wryly, and it was easy for her to believe that it was a role he was not entirely comfortable with.
“I see,” Lady Letitia said, but her mind was already busy considering this new challenge. Who could she find to be a wife for John Tuke? Not a woman who would protect him from evil, but a woman he himself would need to defend, that much was obvious.
“Tell John Tuke that he is to call upon me tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock, so that I may thank him in person.” Then lowering her voice, she added, “And you may also tell him that the only three men whom he needs to investigate are Lord Fauxbridge, Lord Rowcliff, and Lord Atherston. Of all the peers who are currently in the market for a wife, they are the only three who are also rich enough to attract Lord Blackstone’s interest. And they have all three signed Lady Cassie’s dance card this evening. I can, if you wish, point them out to you.”
Richard was not slow to take her up on her offer, and she not only indicated which three men were his rivals, but also gave him a thorough description of their character and a brief history of each man.
As always when he was with her, Lady Letitia could not help feeling a twinge of regret that Richard was young enough to be her grandson since he appeared to possess all the traits she usually looked for in a husband. His only flaw was that he simply did not have enough years behind him.
Or she had too many.
Pshaw! That was the type of depressing thought she had resolved to give up when she passed her fortieth birthday and decided to stop counting her years. In spirit she was still younger than many of the women here who were half her age and one of these days she might even bestir herself and find a fifth husband.
In the meantime ... “I believe my grandson was to accompany you this evening?”
“Perry? Ah, yes. We were actually coming out the door together when Stanfrew arrived to discuss the sale of a filly. The horse in question being a particularly fine specimen, Perry explained to me that the opportunity was not to be lost. He did send his regrets, however,” Richard said, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Did he now?” Lady Letitia said mildly, and Richard’s smile deepened.
“He has, of course, no real objections to the Heathertons’ ball—”
“Just that there is a dearth of four-legged females here,” Lady Letitia concluded.
“Exactly! He shall be so happy to hear that you understand completely.” Richard’s smile was now full-blown, and grinning like that, he looked years younger than the age she knew him to be.
“Oh, I understand full well what his intentions are. But tell me—and please be honest—just how l
ong is he planning to stay in England?”
“He has not set a date for his departure, but he has indicated his willingness to stay until the end of the Season. After which, I believe, he intends to travel in Ireland for a while, buying up more good breeding stock.”
“I am surprised to discover that he has the necessary funds for such purchases.”
There was a long silence before Richard spoke again. “I have offered to lend him the necessary capital as an investment.”
For the first time in years, Lady Letitia felt herself in imminent danger of losing her temper. How could Richard not only refuse to help her keep her favorite grandson in England, but also actively promote Perry’s departure?
“I regret that I cannot do what you requested of me,” Richard said, “but I have a strong aversion to forcing people to do what they do not wish to do. Coercion is linked so closely in my mind to slavery, and slavery is something I must always fight against, no matter how it seeks to disguise itself.”
His tone of voice was so bleak, and there was so much pain in his eyes, that Lady Letitia could not remain angry with him. “I understand why you feel as you do, but for myself, I can only regret that you were not here sixty years ago, when I could have used your support in my own struggles for freedom.”
* * * *
Ponderous. That one word described Lord Fauxbridge perfectly, Cassie decided. Although not precisely fat, there was a thickness about his torso and limbs that was decidedly off-putting. Even his fingers, which now held hers in too tight a grip, were pudgy, and she had to fight off the urge to jerk her hands away from his touch.
Still, as unappealing as he was to her physically, it was his conversation that she found most disheartening. His words were all so weighty and uttered with such deliberation, that she could picture them dropping one by one like stones out of his mouth, falling to the floor to trip up the unwary. Somehow, he made every sentence he uttered sound like the most solemn pronouncement, as if he were the Bishop of London preaching a sermon to the King himself.
Despite his bulk, Lord Fauxbridge knew every step of the country dance, which was lucky for her, as he would surely have crushed her foot if he trod upon it. Still, there was no grace in his movements, only a mechanical perfection.
Worst of all, he appeared to be totally infatuated with her, and she could tell that with the slightest sign from her that she favored his suit, he would rush posthaste to her brother to ask for her hand.
Could she do it? Could she give him that encouragement? If she did not, her brother would be so angry there was no telling what he might do. On the other hand, could she bear to spend a lifetime with such a ponderous companion?
She could not suppress a feeling of deep relief when the music finally ended and Fauxbridge escorted her back to her step-mother, who was sitting and chatting with Oliver Ingleby. But Cassie had not long to savor her release from the weight of Lord Fauxbridge’s company.
“Thank you for the dance, Lady Cassiopeia.” The marquess bowed formally over her hand but did not release it, not even when she tugged gently, trying to free her fingers from his grasp. “Would you do me the honor of driving out with me tomorrow afternoon?”
Cassie opened her mouth, but she could not say the words that would seal her fate.
“Why, Lord Fauxbridge, what a marvelous idea.” Ellen rose to her feet and put her arm around Cassie’s shoulders. Batting her eyes wildly at the marquess, who was still attached to Cassie’s hand, she said lightly, “And I can see that my step-daughter is so overcome by your flattering attention, she is unable to express her delight properly.”
To Cassie’s amazement, the marquess did not boggle at the notion that a young lady might be rendered speechless by an invitation from him.
“Shall we say four o’clock then?” He smiled down at her—except to Cassie, it looked more like a leer than a smile.
She could not bring herself to agree until Ellen pinched her on the arm. “Yes, four o’clock,” she finally managed to squeak out, and was rewarded by the return of her hand, which Lord Fauxbridge had squeezed so tightly, her fingers had all gone quite numb.
The minute he was out of earshot, Ellen began to scold, her voice low enough that no one would be able to overhear her. “Have you no sense at all? How could you play such coy games with Fauxbridge? Do you think he is so infatuated with you that you can dangle him like a puppet on a string? He is well aware of his own worth, and if you toy with him, you will lose him.”
“I was not being coy,” Cassie whispered back. “I find the marquess quite repellent.”
“Do not be a nodcock,” her step-mother replied, tugging her down into her chair. “He is rich and he is a marquess, which makes him quite the most eligible bachelor of the Season. It will be a real feather in your cap if you catch him.”
“A title cannot make up for deficiencies of character.”
“Yes, it can,” Ellen said, smiling determinedly. “A title can make any suitor palatable.”
“Even my father?”
For a moment Ellen’s polite smile faltered, but she made a quick recovery. “I shall be eternally grateful that my parents were wise enough to arrange such an advantageous marriage for me.”
It was hopeless. No one was going to help her escape the horrible fate Geoffrey had arranged for her. Ellen would not, Digory would not, and there was no one else Cassie could turn to.
Feeling like a rabbit caught in a poacher’s trap, Cassie looked wildly around the room, searching for an escape even while she knew none was to be found.
Then her eyes made contact with those of Mr. Hawke, who was openly staring at her. For a moment she was tempted to appeal to him for help, but a brief reflection made her realize how ridiculous such a notion was. That would be akin to asking the fox to help guard the chicken house.
* * *
Chapter 9
Sisters were a plaguey nuisance, Oliver Ingleby decided, pacing back and forth in the entrance hall of his town house. As dearly as he loved Cecily, right now he could not help feeling exasperated with her. If she did not hurry, they would miss the entire first act of the opera.
Finally, too impatient to wait any longer, he took the stairs two at a time and was soon rapping on the door of his sister’s bedroom. Hearing her voice bidding him enter, he opened the door to discover she was fully dressed in a glittery gold gown, several ostrich feathers in her hair. She was standing in front of her cheval glass, studying her reflection.
“Thank goodness you are finally ready to go. Where is your cloak? I have had the horses put to a good half hour ago.”
“Just a minute, Oliver. I am not quite sure I like the fit of this gown. I am considering whether I should change into my green one, even though I have already worn it once before. But if Betty sews some new ribbons on it, perhaps no one will—”
Grabbing his sister’s hand, Oliver began dragging her protesting out of the room.
Behind him Betty, the maid, squeaked out, “Wait, Miss Cecily needs her cloak,” but Oliver was beyond waiting.
“Brothers,” Cecily muttered under her breath, even though she followed him docilely enough. “Since when have you become such a fan of the opera that you cannot bear to be the merest bit late?”
Reaching the foot of the stairs, Oliver was forced to cool his heels a few minutes longer, while the maid hurried down and draped a russet cloak around his sister’s shoulders.
“Oh-ho,” Cecily cried out abruptly. “I know what it is. You are not in a hurry to listen to the caterwauling of a parcel of well-endowed sopranos and overweight tenors. It is obvious that you must be impatient to see a woman—a particular woman!”
Oliver felt his face grow hot, and he knew he must be blushing from ear to ear.
“You are in love,” his sister crowed. “At last you have thrown your heart over the windmill.”
Betty was gazing up at him, her mouth agape, while James, the footman, was staring straight ahead, doing an imitation of a statue carved
out of marble. But Oliver well knew that as soon as the door closed behind him and his sister, the maid, and the footman both would be off like a flash to the servants’ hall, there to report what they had overheard.
Unfortunately, there was no way to call his sister a liar—or at least no way that he could possibly convince her she was mistaken since what she had deduced was nothing more nor less than the truth. He was in love, head over heels in love, as agonizingly in love as a callow youth in the first throes of calf-love. And love makes fools out of all men.
Turning on his heels, he stalked out to the waiting carriage, not bothering to make sure his sister was following. She was forced to scramble into the vehicle without any help from him, but she managed with the same ease with which she had as a child climbed trees on their estate. She had apparently not outgrown all her hoydenish ways, even though her London manners were in general quite above reproach.
Seating herself opposite him, she smiled like a cat and said smugly, “I can guess who you have fallen in love with.”
His heart sank, and he considered the possibility of bribing his sister to guard her tongue. But honesty compelled him to admit to himself that it would take more than gold to achieve such a longed-for outcome. Having learned to talk when she was barely a year and a half old, Cecily had been chattering ever since. In short, it would take a miracle to keep her from broadcasting his affairs all over town.
It was enough to make a man flee the country. But if he did, he would never see his beloved again, never look down into eyes that were lifted so appealingly to his, never feel the curves of her waist beneath his hand when they waltzed, never hear the sound of her voice—
“Oh, I shall dearly love having a sister at last. But do you honestly think you have a chance?”
Of course he did not have a chance. It was not only the disparity in their ages, but dearest Ellen, Lady Blackstone, was every bit as much in love with Dillingham as he, Oliver, was in love with her.
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