“I am curious, Letitia,” Vincent said, having decided to join her in the drawing room after all, to clear the air, “did your parents marry for love?”
She looked up at him with those ambitious brown eyes. “Heavens no. My father thinks my mother is as dense as a post, and most of the time I agree with him.” Letitia gave him a naughty little smirk, then turned her nose up at a vase of orchids, which was presented before them. “No, I do not like those,” she said. “Their scent is revolting.”
The maid quickly steered them away, and another maid approached with a vase of red roses mixed with some kind of white concoction.
Vincent smiled dutifully at the arrangement, which Letitia seemed to approve of, then they were left alone again while her preferences were being noted out in the hall.
“Though to be completely honest,” she said as she bit into a chocolate biscuit, “I don’t think my father even notices my mother’s silliness anymore. He spends all his time in Yorkshire with his mistress. They have a cottage there.”
Surprised by her candid confession of her father’s infidelity, Vincent sought to clarify her opinions on the subject. “You are aware of your father’s mistress?”
“Of course.”
“And it doesn’t bother you that he has...” He paused. “Other interests?”
She shook her head. “Why should it matter to me?” As soon as the chocolate biscuit was down her throat, she glanced abruptly at him. “Oh, I see. I know why you are asking me these questions. You want to know if I am fretting about your reputation with women.”
Vincent was about to respond, but she smiled with understanding and spoke openly before he had the chance.
“There is no need to worry,” she said in a quiet, sensual voice. “I know exactly what to expect with you, Vincent, because I am fully aware that you have no scruples.” She looked him over from head to foot and smiled alluringly. “Of course, I must concede that you are incredibly handsome, which is very nice for me, as we will look marvelous together.” She reached for another biscuit.
“I had no idea you were so liberally minded, Letitia.”
“I am simply not foolish,” she explained. “I am an enlightened woman, and I know that you will have mistresses. I shall not protest, just as long as you are discreet about it.”
He found himself thinking of Cassandra at that moment, and how very different these two women were. He felt oddly disappointed. “Then I shall only ask the same of you,” he said to her, without antagonism, “if you ever decide to take a lover.”
Which he was certain she would.
Letitia reached for another chocolate biscuit. “Fair is fair, I suppose. And this shall be my last bite, I promise, because I do not want the buttons bursting on my wedding gown. That simply would not do, would it?”
“No, indeed.”
She offered him a biscuit, but he found he had no appetite.
Three days later, the solicitor Cassandra had selected from Vincent’s comprehensive list arrived at the dower house with a black leather folio in his arm. He spent two painstaking hours with her, going over every detail of the contract.
It was surprisingly fair, she discovered—almost too fair, for it focused mainly on her needs, liberties, and financial privileges. There was only one brief clause pertaining to Vincent’s right to see June when he wished, without prior arrangement, and through that one her solicitor drew a big red X.
“I recommend that you require at least twenty-four hours’ notice,” he suggested.
Cassandra understood it would mean that Vincent would never arrive unannounced, therefore she would never have to see him, since she could leave the house when he was expected.
She accepted the solicitor’s recommendation but rejected his further suggestion to restrict the visits to twice a week. It was not her wish to limit the frequency of Vincent’s calls. She believed he should be permitted to see June every day if he wished it. And the contract had been so very generous.
The solicitor rewrote the clause to that effect. Vincent could come every day if he so desired. She could be at home or elsewhere. That would remain her prerogative.
The very next day, Cassandra received another unexpected visitor—Lady Charlotte, Vincent’s younger sister, who arrived with a large trunk on the back of her coach. Cassandra had not met Charlotte during her brief stay at the palace but knew who she was.
“I am pleased to see that your health has improved,” Charlotte said as she handed her heavy hooded cloak to Mrs. Bixby.
Cassandra admired Lady Charlotte’s golden hair and striking blue eyes. She was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman, with little resemblance to Vincent and his dark features, but she looked very much like her mother.
“All I required was a few days of rest,” Cassandra said, adapting quickly to their assumed acquaintance. “And some especially delicious quail soup.”
“Ah, yes,” Charlotte agreed, smiling. “That recipe comes from the palace housekeeper, Mrs. Callahan, who is Aggie’s mother. Vincent specifically recommended it, as it was always his favorite, ever since he was a boy.”
Cassandra took note of the surprising fact that Vincent had personally overseen her recuperative menu that first week.
She led the way up the stairs to the drawing room on the second floor. As soon as the door closed behind them and they were alone, Lady Charlotte’s shoulders rose and fell with what appeared to be a sigh of relief.
“Finally,” she said. “I am here.”
Cassandra wasn’t sure what to say, or what to expect next.
Charlotte strode toward her and took hold of both her hands. “It is so nice to finally meet you,” she said.
“And you as well,” Cassandra replied, smiling.
Charlotte pulled off her gloves and looked around the room. “I haven’t been here since my aunt passed away. I forgot how charming it was.”
“Yes. I am very grateful to be living here. Temporarily, that is.”
Charlotte nodded. “I understand Vincent is going to find a house for you and June? Do you know where?”
Cassandra wondered how much Charlotte knew about their relationship and arrangement. Was the entire family aware of it? “I don’t know yet,” Cassandra replied. “We haven’t really discussed that.”
Charlotte moved to the sofa and sat down. “I apologize, I don’t mean to pry. I only came to bring you some gowns. Vincent wasn’t quite sure what to do in that regard, whether he should send a seamstress here or just arrange for you to have an account with one of the merchants in the village or in London. I told him I could help with that, so I thought we’d start with a few of my things—which you could borrow because he said we appear to be the same size—until we get it all sorted out. Personally, I think you and I should take a trip to London and visit Mrs. Leblanc.” Her eyes lit up with excitement. “She’s French, and specializes not only in gowns, but in the most exquisite undergarments.”
Cassandra invited Charlotte to sit down. “You are very kind, Charlotte, but I don’t think I’ll need anything too fashionable, as I don’t expect to be in London a great deal. June and I will be living a quiet life. I expect to be spending a lot of time gardening.”
A great deal of time, in fact, if Vincent came to visit every day.
Charlotte sat back. “Of course. I don’t mean to be pushy.”
“You’re not.”
“Oh, I probably am. I suppose I am looking for any excuse to escape the goings on at the palace. It has been very...”
Curious, Cassandra leaned forward. “Yes?”
Charlotte gave her a melancholy smile. “Forgive me. I came to bring you gowns, and I am waxing on about my own life.”
A maid appeared then with a tray of tea and cookies.
Cassandra poured them each a cup, and they chatted about the delightful presentation of sweets and how perf
ectly hot the tea was.
“I must confess,” Charlotte said, “I fell in love with little June the day you brought her to the palace, and I was delighted when I learned that Vincent intended to take care of both of you. He has not had anything to focus on in a very long time, and I have noticed a difference in him already.”
“How so?”
Charlotte looked up at the ceiling and shrugged. “It is not easy to explain. I suppose it seems like a remedy of sorts. He’s been more cheerful lately, if you can imagine that, even under the difficult circumstances of his engagement.”
Cassandra set down her teacup. “Difficult?”
“Well, it is not exactly what one would call a love match, but it is certainly very beneficial for Lady Letitia.”
“Isn’t she the daughter of the Duke of Swinburne?” Cassandra asked. “One would think she could have any man she wanted.”
“With her beauty and position, certainly yes, but her family is deeply in debt. All the children will have to marry money, and I suspect most will end up with Americans. But not Letitia. She would never have that. Nothing less than an English lord will do for her, and of course he must be the most handsome of men. Unfortunately, most of the eligible bachelors in England are as broke as her father. And not nearly as good looking.” She raised the teacup to her lips.
“The men of Pembroke, on the other hand...” Cassandra grinned playfully at Charlotte, rather surprised at herself.
Charlotte laughed. “Most women share your opinions, I dare say. May I ask you a question, Cassandra?”
“Of course.”
“It is rather personal.”
“I don’t mind.” The truth was, she found Charlotte delightfully sincere.
Charlotte set down her teacup. “On the day you brought June to the palace, some of us wondered if Vincent might try to wiggle out of his engagement to Letitia and marry you instead. Obviously, that did not happen, and I am wondering...did he suggest that to you at all?”
Cassandra swallowed uncomfortably. “Perhaps you should ask your brother that question.”
“I already have. Everyone seems quite certain that Father will never accept anyone for Vincent except for Letitia, which is probably true. He has some very strict ideas about the kind of woman who is suitable as a Pembroke wife. The fact that you and Vincent have already had a child...” She dropped her gaze. “Do forgive me. I didn’t mean to imply...”
“There is nothing to forgive, Charlotte. I understand the ways of the world.” Indeed, Cassandra was all too aware that she was a fallen woman. The son of a duke would require someone respectable.
“But I told Vincent that he shouldn’t care about any of that,” Charlotte said passionately. “I told him he shouldn’t sacrifice his happiness because of Father’s ridiculous, stubborn ideas. But then he told me that you would never accept him in a hundred years, regardless, but I find myself wondering if he is completely daft to think so.”
Cassandra looked down at her tea. “Your brother is correct in that regard. I do not wish to marry him. But even if I did, he is already engaged to Lady Letitia, and a gentleman is not at liberty to break an engagement. That is up to the lady.”
“I know that,” Charlotte said, “but perhaps Letitia might release him if she knew about you and June.” She added under her breath, “I am sure she would be just as happy with Blake. Or Garrett, for that matter. Or some other man from some other family, if only we could arrange it.”
Realizing that Charlotte was not fond of Lady Letitia, Cassandra moistened her lips and decided to trust her with this, at least: “There is no point in hoping that Letitia might release him, Charlotte. Even if Vincent were free, my feelings would remain the same.”
“Because of his reputation?”
“That is a large part of it, yes.”
Charlotte inclined her head. “You do not think he is capable of true love.”
“No, I do not.”
Charlotte leaned back and nodded. “I thought that might be the case, and I cannot blame you. I am sure—given what is printed about him in the newspapers and how unimaginably beastly he can be sometimes—that most women would share your opinion.”
“But you do not?”
Charlotte sat very still, her blue eyes gleaming. “I realize that on the surface Vincent appears cold and unfeeling, and he has certainly lived the life of a shameless libertine over the past few years, but I have known him all my life and I believe him to be the most loving, kindhearted, devoted of brothers. He was not always as cynical as he is today. Did you know that he was engaged once before, and that it was a true love match? At least on his side.”
Cassandra nearly choked on her tea. “A true love match, you say?”
“Yes. Her name was MaryAnn. He had been in love with her since they were children, desperately so, but she died tragically.”
“I was not aware,” Cassandra replied, almost unable to move. “When did this happen?”
“Three years ago. It is part of the reason for his feud with Devon.”
Cassandra inclined her head with curiosity. “I know that he resents his older brother. I assumed it was envy because your father favored him.”
“Father certainly did favor Devon, but Vincent never blamed Devon for that when we were growing up. They were the best of friends, at least until MaryAnn fell in love with Devon.”
Cassandra could not contain her curiosity. “How did it happen?”
“One week before MaryAnn was to become Vincent’s wife, she wrote a letter to Devon, and they had a secret tryst in the forest. They were returning to the palace together afterward when there was an accident.” Charlotte looked down at her hands on her lap. “The horse they were riding slipped in the mud and threw them both, then fell upon MaryAnn, killing her instantly. Devon was injured as well and returned to the palace with a broken leg to reveal what had occurred. Vincent went riding to the scene like a madman, not believing that MaryAnn was dead. He arrived there and discovered it was true. He found and read the letter in her pocket and had to shoot Devon’s beloved horse. It was a terrible nightmare, every bit of it. Devon left for America the very next day, and Vincent has never been the same. It was a double betrayal, from both the woman he loved and his own brother.”
“I cannot imagine...”
“And I cannot bear to remember it. I don’t think Vincent can either.”
Cassandra remembered what he had said in the coach when they were discussing the contract—that it would protect his rights as well. I certainly cannot have you changing your mind and running off in six months’ time.
Cassandra had not trusted Vincent, that was obvious, but he had not trusted her either. Now she knew why. And here they both were.
“I want to tell you another story,” Charlotte said, “of when we were children—an image that has never left my mind or my heart since the day it occurred.
“Once, when we were playing in the woods, we found a fawn whose mother had died. We all wanted to leave her, because we were sure we would get into trouble if we did not, but Vincent carried that fawn back to the palace stables and demanded that he be allowed to keep her until she was fit to survive on her own. He fed her and cared for her, and when he took her back to the forest, I went with him. He shooed her away, then dropped to his knees and wept. Perhaps he did not want to say goodbye, or perhaps they were tears of joy that the fawn was well again. At any rate, after he wiped his tears away, he smiled and was content.”
Charlotte glanced toward the window and continued. “I was happy that day, too, and so very glad I was his sister. I always knew I would be able to depend on him for anything—as you are doing now. He will never abandon you and June. I can promise you that. And not because of the contract, or because it is his duty, but because he is caring and steadfast, despite what the gossips say. And most of all, despite what he says.”
Cassandra looked pointedly at Charlotte. “Is that why you came here today? To tell me all these wonderful things about your brother?”
“Yes,” Charlotte replied, matter-of-factly. “I simply wanted you to understand him and know the kind of man he truly is, despite appearances, so that you can perhaps...forgive certain things.”
“What sorts of things?”
“To begin with—why he never answered your letter or contacted you again after meeting you.”
All at once Cassandra felt torn by conflicting emotions. She was shocked that Charlotte knew all these things about her brief affair with Vincent. Had he confided in his sister about such intimate matters? Cassandra was fascinated as well by these surprising stories that seemed to contradict everything she knew and believed about him.
Beneath it all, she felt fearful. She had been ducking under a shield whenever Vincent walked into a room and sent her heart flip-flopping inside her chest. That shield seemed to protect her, but all these things Charlotte was telling her were hammering away at it.
“What do you know about that?” Cassandra asked, referring to the letter she had sent Vincent, and his lack of response. Cassandra needed to remain clearheaded.
Charlotte dug into her purse. “I don’t suppose this is yours...” She withdrew a mother-of-pearl hair comb and handed it to Cassandra.
“I was wearing this the night we first met,” she said, running her fingers lightly over the graceful pink and white design. “I thought I’d lost it.” She looked up. “Where did you find it?”
“In Vincent’s room, in the drawer next to his bed. It was wrong of me to take it, but I wanted you to know that he had kept it.”
“But how did you know it was mine? I was not the only woman he had been with.”
“He told me about you. He probably doesn’t even remember it now, for he was completely foxed. It was late one night, and I came upon him sitting at his desk, staring at your unopened letter and clutching your comb in his hand and rambling on about how you were going to be the end of him.”
The Mistress Diaries (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 2) Page 11
