Miss Bunbury had asked him what the worst part of war was. He’d been asked that question countless times. On the parcel riding back to England, on the mail coach to London, even in town when a few people had recognized him before he’d left for the house party. He usually answered with his normal, nonchalant, “I’m merely glad to be home.”
No one could understand the hell that was war. Not truly. They wanted their sordid details and the thrill of talking to a seasoned soldier. But no one truly wanted to know what it was like, the smell of wet warm blood, the dirt, the sounds of screams, and the fear that became so entrenched in your soul, you had no idea where it ended and where you began. No one wanted to hear about that. So he gave them the answer they wanted, a calm reassurance that there was life after war. Survival. That’s what he represented to his fellow countrymen. He was playing a role and he must continue to play it.
But when Patience Bunbury had asked him, all deep blue eyes and quiet resolve, he’d done something completely unexpected. He’d actually told her the truth. The worst part of war—the very worst—was learning how deeply unfair life was. Truly learning it. Was it fair that David Covington was dead? The young man’s body buried in foreign soil while his mother sobbed for him? David was an only son. Death shouldn’t have come for him. Was it fair that Julian had watched men die of infection, disease, thirst? Watched as they went mad from heat? Written letters to their mothers or their wives attempting to skim over the horrific details of their last moments on earth? No. None of it was fair. And it never would be. Least of all the fact that he, a second son, an unnecessary person, was still alive and well while his brother was now in danger.
Much to his dead father’s chagrin.
His thoughts turned to Donald and Rafe. They were lost in France, captured by the enemy, more than likely dead. Over the years Julian’s heart had hardened to hearing news of death. It was a hazard of his occupation after all. But it could not, would not happen to his brother, his big, strong, noble brother. Donald must live to fulfill their father’s expectations, to make their mother happy, to carry on as the Earl of Swifdon, as he was always meant to.
And Rafe. A few years younger, plenty more rash, a great deal more rakish, and hell-bent on causing trouble, the young man had run off to war the moment he’d had a chance. He’d been a solider, but his penchant for slipping in and out of places quickly, quietly, and unnoticed had earned him a spot as a spy. And he was a hell of a spy. Julian could only imagine that Rafe had been captured trying to save Donald, and that thought tortured Julian. He took another sip of brandy, swallowed hard, and stared into the fire that crackled in the hearth across the room.
Yes. Life was unfair. Fate sometimes made mistakes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Ah, Lord Berkeley. I’m so glad you are here,” Lucy gushed as she ushered the viscount into the foyer the next morning.
Cass stood next to Lucy, beaming at the viscount. “It’s good to see you, my lord.”
“Thank you for inviting me, Lady Worthing.” Lord Berkeley winked at them both and bowed. “And it’s lovely to see you again, Miss Bunbury.”
Cass smiled and curtsied to Lord Berkeley. She’d always liked him immensely. Tall and handsome and blond, Lord Berkeley was a great deal like Julian actually. No wonder she felt so at ease in the viscount’s company. Yes, indeed. He looked a great deal like Julian as well. Only whereas Julian had gray eyes, Lord Berkeley’s were sky blue. The viscount wore dark trousers, a sapphire-blue waistcoat, a white shirt with a perfectly starched white cravat, and black top boots. He was ever so dapper and appeared to be in high spirits today.
Not to mention, it seemed Lord Berkeley had lost his stutter. Perhaps it was because he was no longer attempting to court Lucy. Last summer in Bath, the two had had a bit of a failed romance. But Lord Berkeley was obviously still great friends with Lucy, and clearly up for a bit of fun. He’d agreed to participate in this madness, hadn’t he?
“Thank you for your gracious invitation. I’ve been looking forward to it all week,” Lord Berkeley said to Lucy.
“Now in addition to calling me Lady Worthing and Cass Miss Bunbury, Miss Jane Lowndes is here and she has decided to be Miss Wollstonecraft,” Lucy informed him.
The viscount arched a blond brow. “Wollstonecraft?”
“Yes. She’s the niece of the author. In her head, that is.”
Cass elbowed Lucy and blushed at Lord Berkeley.
“What?” Lucy asked, her innocent look firmly ensconced upon her face. “Didn’t he ask Derek to write letters to me pretending they were from him last summer? If anyone is up for this little farce, it’s our Lord Berkeley here.”
It was true. Poor Lord Berkeley had been so overcome by his stutter that he’d gone to Derek and asked him to help him write letters with which to woo Lucy. He’d chosen Derek because Lucy had indicated how much she enjoyed her banter with the duke. Derek had agreed until he’d inconveniently realized he was writing letters to the woman he himself loved.
Lucy smiled at Lord Berkeley. “I can only say I’m sorry the party is not larger, so we might introduce you to some eligible young ladies.” She said to Cass, “Christian here is quite interested in finding a nice young woman and settling down to have an inappropriate amount of children. He told me so himself.”
“Lucy!” Cass pressed her palms to her burning cheeks. Not only was Lucy using Lord Berkeley’s Christian name—which just so happened to be Christian—she was mentioning his future children. “You must be the most improper duchess in the history of improper duchesses.”
“Which is exactly how I like it,” Lucy replied with another smile for Cass.
“I did, indeed, say that,” Lord Berkeley interjected, bowing. “But in an effort to change the subject and spare poor Lady Cassandra any more embarrassment, let me say that I look forward to meeting Captain Swift and enjoying myself at the house party.”
“Excellent.” Lucy clapped her hands. “Now, don’t worry that Garrett isn’t here.” Lucy put her arm through Lord Berkeley’s, drawing him farther into the house while Cass followed behind them.
“Yet.” Berkeley added with a firm nod.
Cass’s head snapped up. “Pardon?”
“He’s not here yet,” Berkeley replied.
Still smiling, Lucy shook her head. “Oh, no, he’s not coming. I thought you knew.”
Berkeley shrugged. “That’s not what he said to me this morning.”
Cass gasped. Her hand flew to her throat.
Lucy stopped walking. She dropped Berkeley’s arm and turned to face him. “This morning? You spoke to Garrett this morning? In person?”
Berkeley straightened his cravat. “Yes. We spoke before I left his house. He said he planned to come along as soon as he was able. Seems he had a few business affairs to attend to first.”
Lucy’s face was quickly turning a mottled shade of red. “You were at Garrett’s house this morning?”
“Yes. It was on the way. I decided to stop and see if he would like to come over with me.”
Cass resisted the urge to sink to the floor. Where was that elusive magic wand when one had need of it? Of course Lord Berkeley would stop to visit Garrett. Whyever would Berkeley assume that Lucy’s own cousin wasn’t invited to her house party? Oh, this was no good. No good at all.
Lucy quickly recovered herself. “Oh, well, that’s wonderful. It’ll be lovely to have him. I haven’t seen Garrett in several weeks, actually.”
Berkeley smiled approvingly.
Lucy looped her arm through the viscount’s again and they continued their stroll across the foyer. Cass followed in their wake, frantically tugging at the ends of her gloves and considering the possible scenarios over and over again in her mind, all of them equally horrifying and with sufficiently appalling endings. What would Patience Bunbury do?
Lucy stopped at the foot of the staircase where a footman patiently waited. She faced Lord Berkeley. “Henry here will take you up to your rooms, my lord, and
see that you are settled.”
Lord Berkeley bowed again and made to follow the footman away. “Thank you, Your Grace, er, my lady,” he replied.
He had barely taken two steps up the staircase when he turned back to face Lucy. “I nearly forgot. I saw someone else you both know while I was visiting Upton.”
Cass was still frantically attempting to think of a way they might evade discovery by Garrett. She was barely paying attention. “Someone else?”
Lucy echoed the same words.
“Yes, he arrived at Upton’s house just as I was leaving.”
Cass perked up and turned to face Lord Berkeley.
“Wh … who? Who?” Lucy sounded like an anxious owl. Her eyes were also nearly as wide as the fowl’s. Cass was half expecting her head to swivel.
Lord Berkeley smiled at Cass. “Why, none other than your very own brother, Lady Cassandra. Lord Owen Monroe.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“What would Patience Bunbury do?” Cass murmured to herself as she paced in front of the windows in the blue drawing room. How had the entire charade gone from tenuous to catastrophic in a matter of mere hours? She should have known this plan would never stand up to scrutiny … and the inclusion of several other people. The old Cass would have wrung her hands and asked Lucy what to do next. The new Cass, ahem, Patience, was determined to figure out a way to handle this.
“About what?” Lucy asked. As usual, she was doing several things at once. At present she was busily going over the evening’s dinner menu while picking out swaths of fabric for the new table linens the housekeeper planned to order.
Cass turned to face Lucy with wide eyes. “What do you think? Garrett and Owen!”
“Garrett won’t be an issue.” Lucy went back to perusing the menu. “I don’t think pickled beets sound good at all. Do you, Jane?”
Jane sat on the sofa in the center of the room wearing a light blue day dress. She pushed her spectacles up her nose and glanced up from her book. “Not at all.” She shuddered.
“Apparently, Mother adores them. Why am I not surprised?” Lucy rolled her eyes and drew a line through the pickled beets.
“Forget the pickled beets!” Cass tossed her hands in the air. “I must think. Garrett will be an issue. Lord Berkeley says Garrett knows we’re over here. He’s not stupid. He must have guessed we’re up to something, especially if Berkeley told him about the false identities. It’s not possible Garrett is going to stay away.”
“I’m afraid she’s right, Luce,” Jane replied. “I’ve little doubt Upton will be over here the minute he can put his horses to.”
Lucy waved her quill in the air as if brushing away the matter. “Garrett doesn’t scare me one bit. We’ll just tell him something to keep him quiet.”
“Something? What something? And what about Owen?” Cass viciously tugged at her gloves.
“Stop it, Cass. You’re going to ruin that perfectly lovely kid leather. And as for Owen, there’s absolutely no reason why he would come here. Lord Berkeley was quite certain he hadn’t mentioned the party to Owen.” She turned back to face Jane. “What do you think about pears?”
“Pickled pears?” Jane asked, wrinkling her nose.
“No. Just pears,” Lucy replied.
Jane shrugged. “As long as they’re not pickled, I’ve no objection.”
Cass stopped pacing and pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting the urge to throttle both of them. “It’s not that simple. I think we need to go to Garrett, find him, tell him what’s going on, and secure his promise to help us.”
This time Jane didn’t look up from her book. “Best of luck with that.” She snorted.
Lucy tapped her quill against her cheek. “Actually, Cass may have a point. It may be a problem if Garrett just barges in here and begins asking questions.”
At her friends’ silence Jane looked up to see them both staring at her. “What are you looking at me for?”
“You have to do it, Janie,” Cass began.
Jane snapped her book closed and let it fall to the cushion beside her. “You must be jesting.”
“No. I’m not. It has to be you.” Cass resumed both her pacing and her glove tugging in front of the fireplace.
“Why me?” Jane asked.
“Because Lucy cannot leave her own house party, and Garrett won’t listen to her in any case.”
“Oh, thank you, Cass,” Lucy said.
“You know it’s true,” Cass replied.
Jane’s eyes were wide. “And you think he’ll listen to me?”
Cass flew over to the sofa and kneeled at her friend’s feet. “Don’t you see? You have the best chance of convincing him, Jane. You’re so good at arguing your point and you’re so clever and wise and—”
Jane smiled at her and patted her cheek. “Don’t think I don’t know that you’re merely attempting to flatter me in order to get me to do your bidding.”
“Yes. I am,” Cass agreed, nodding. “But it’s true.”
Jane tugged Cass by the hand and pulled her up to sit next to her. Then she crossed her arms over her chest. “I truly have no earthly idea what you think I might possibly say to Upton of all people to get him to agree to go along with any of this.”
“You must at least try, Janie. Won’t you try, for me?” Cass asked, batting her eyelashes at Jane innocently.
“It is your turn,” Lucy added, abandoning the menu. “I seem to remember the last time such a mission came up, I was forced to go to Derek’s town house in Bath and tell him that Cass was sick.”
“Yes. And look how that ended,” Jane replied. “With you married to him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lucy replied. “It’s not as if you’re going to marry Garrett.”
Jane nodded once. “Precisely why I should not be the one to go. Thank you, you’ve proved my point.”
“Janie, don’t listen to her, you may marry Garrett if you wish,” Cass replied with a small laugh.
Jane tossed her hands in the air. “I do not have any intention of marrying Upton. For heaven’s sake, I—”
Cass put up her hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I’m only jesting, Jane. Please. Please try. I’ll have Lucy’s coach put to for you. Go over there, visit him, see what he’s up to. Try to find out if he truly intends to come over here. Oh, and ask him to convince Owen to stay away, too, if you please.”
Jane breathed hard through her teeth. “If I go over there, I’m going to confess to everything and bribe him to keep silent. I am much more comfortable with a direct approach.”
Lucy scooped up the menu again, and Cass smiled and patted Jane’s hand. “Sounds divine. Use whatever means of persuasion you must.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cass hugged her shawl close to her shoulders and popped open the French doors that led to the terrace. She had to get away from the group of partygoers in the house. It was a beautiful autumn evening. A bit of a chill hung in the air but the stars twinkled overhead like a row of diamonds in the black velvet sky. The smell of freshly fallen leaves whispered through the wind.
Cass glanced back into the brightly lit house. It was all so unreal. Like being trapped in a play. Everyone was calling her Miss Bunbury. She’d nearly begun to believe that was her name. With every mention of the false name, all she could think about was how she was a liar. She had to get out of there, and just breathe.
She strolled out into the night and gazed up at the stars. Then she followed a few of the stone steps down into the gardens. There were candles there, sprinkled throughout the pebbled pathways. Cass made her way to her favorite stone bench and sat down. She leaned back and took a deep breath, and then another. In addition to the leaves, the crisp air smelled of burning logs. The light wind ruffled the curls at her temples.
She squeezed her eyes shut and imagined … How would everything be in two weeks’ time? Surely, this entire farce would be over by then. Would Julian and Pen be planning their wedding? Would Julian hate Cass for her duplicity? She shook
her head and took another deep breath.
“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.” The deep male voice wafted on the cool breeze.
Cass started, and her eyes flew open, but she already knew who it was. She’d memorized his voice. Julian was standing there, not ten paces away, crushing out a cheroot beneath his boot.
“Oh, no, Ju … Captain Swift, not at all.”
He strode closer. The candlelight highlighted the deep planes of his cheeks, glinted off his steely gray eyes. “May I?” He gestured to the bench.
Cass gulped. “Of course.”
He slid onto the bench next to her, bracing his palms on the cold stone. The warmth of his body so near her own sent a shiver down her spine. There was that scent again, too, clean and strong and … Julian.
“Enjoying this fine weather?” he asked, shaking her from her thoughts. And just as well. Surely, he’d be suspicious if he found Miss Patience Bunbury sniffing at his coat, not that she hadn’t considered it.
Cass straightened her shoulders and pulled her shawl tight. “Yes. I felt it was entirely too warm in the house just now. I do so love the outdoors.”
“I do, too,” Julian said. “Especially in the country. I’ve been waiting years to sit outside at night like this in the English countryside.”
Cass nodded. I know. He’d mentioned it in his letters. She’d memorized them, knew each of them by heart. “My fondest dream is to sit under the stars in the country, breathe the fresh air, and not worry about death and destruction and war.” That particular bit had been in a letter he’d written to her perhaps two years ago. It had been winter.
“The war must’ve been awful for you,” she ventured. Of course it had been awful for him. Cass knew that. But Patience didn’t. Or would she guess? Excellent. Patience is a nitwit.
Julian pulled his hands from the bench, braced them on his knees, and stared off into the darkened hedges. “I was one of the fortunate ones.”
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