by Candace Camp
“Why wait a year?” Cassandra queried. “He could have followed the journals here when Papa bought them, with exactly the same result. Why wait till now? It seems to me that that is the important thing—that it is only now that someone started searching for the letters. It would suggest that that someone just learned of it.”
Sir Philip quirked an eyebrow, and his voice went ominously quiet. “Are you suggesting that I am the thief?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
CASSANDRA WAVERED A little at his icy demeanor, but she kept her voice calm. “There is a certain logic to it.”
Neville pressed his lips together, and for a moment, Cassandra thought he was going to explode into a furious denial, but he said only, “Yes, I can see that it has logic—I am sure anyone would trust a man about whom they knew absolutely nothing, like David Miller, over a man whom you know is a peer of the realm, a scion of one of the oldest and most honorable families in England, and, moreover, a man of enough wealth that this Spanish dowry would hardly swell his coffers.”
Cassandra’s spine stiffened. She had felt a moment’s discomfort over voicing her suspicion, but Neville’s arrogant words drove the vague guilt completely away. “No doubt all rich men are exempt from seeking further wealth, as well as from being greedy villains. It is only we impoverished folk who have such low morals that we would stoop to look for money. It is only unknown foreigners who would break into houses.”
Neville shifted uncomfortably. “I did not say that. I simply pointed out that logic would indicate the stranger rather than the man you know.”
“But I know neither of you,” Cassandra reminded him crisply. “Indeed, I have probably talked with you less than I have with Mr. Miller, since he visited with us for several days. But I do know that you are a Neville, and historically Nevilles have not been friends of Verreres. I also know that wealth is often obtained in dishonest ways, and that wealthy men often cannot get enough money to satisfy them. It is my intent not to blame you or Mr. Miller or some other person until I have more facts. I strive always to be fair.”
Sir Philip ground his teeth. He was not sure why it made him furious that Cassandra should so coolly and reasonably suggest that he could be the intruder. But he did know that it galled him to the point where he would have liked to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her.
“You are the one who dislikes coincidences,” she continued calmly. “Wouldn’t you say it was rather fortuitous that this break-in occurred the day after you arrived here? And that it occurred two weeks after you learned of the treasure—and a year after Mr. Miller did?”
Flame crackled to life in Philip’s golden eyes, but he clenched his fists tightly at his sides and waited a moment before he spoke. “Fortuitous, too, that it happened only a week after Mr. Miller was here and you showed him where you were looking for the key to the treasure.” He let out a noise of disgust. “You are determined to make me the villain, are you not?”
“No. I would far rather trust my partner,” Cassandra admitted honestly. “But I also have difficulty believing that Mr. Miller is an evil man, and, besides, it makes no sense that he would wait a year.”
“Ah, but it does if you consider that he might have sold the journals having no idea that there was any truth to the story of the treasure or that the families still existed. He may have thought he would be content with the money he made from selling the journals. But then this year, when he came back and visited your Mr. Simons, he learned of the Verreres’ existence. Perhaps Mr. Simons even told him about the legend of the lost dowry and of your father’s interest in trying to find it. Perhaps then he rethought the matter and saw that he could come here and trick you into telling him about it. That he could seize the whole treasure for himself.”
“That is all speculation.”
“Indeed. So is everything else we have been saying for the past few minutes. We have absolutely no idea who was up here last night. We don’t even know for sure that they were looking for the letters. We only presume that.”
“It makes little sense otherwise.”
“Unfortunately, I have found that things all too often do not make sense.”
Cassandra cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. “Are you saying that you think it was coincidence that someone was in this attic last night?”
He sighed. “No. It is a possibility, but I cannot really believe it. Someone must have been looking for those letters. With any luck, they had as much trouble finding them as we had. Still, it makes it imperative that we find the letters as quickly as possible, wouldn’t you say?”
“Absolutely. I am glad that there is something upon which we can agree. Shall we stop our guesswork and get down to business?”
“Immediately.” He stripped off his coat and ascot, tossing them over a chair, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Where shall I start?”
They worked along quietly for some time, slowly moving through box after box and trunk after trunk, moving aside furniture and all sorts of the odd detritus left from occupying a house for hundreds of years. Then Olivia let out a gasp, and they all swung toward her.
“What is it?” Cassandra started toward her worriedly, afraid that she had hurt herself. She paused and wrinkled her nose. “Phew! What is that smell?”
“Camphor, I think. There are little bags of something in here with the clothes. Funny, isn’t it, how it still stinks? But look.” She reached with both hands into the trunk before her and stood up, pulling out a bodice with one hand and a skirt with the other. “It’s faded over time, but isn’t it magnificent?”
Cassandra came over to stand beside her. “Yes. It is. Beautiful.” It was a heavy gown of green velvet, faded, but still rich with golden embroidery. It had a square neckline, and the stiff bodice laced up the back. The front of it was covered with a large pattern of flowers done in thread and braid, still richly golden despite the years, and a matching pattern ran around the ends of the full sleeves, puffed to the elbow and then slit open the rest of the way down over a cascade of lace, now tattered and yellowed with age. The hem of the skirt, too, was trimmed in the same pattern of embroidery and braiding.
“When is it from, Cassandra?” Olivia asked excitedly. “Do you think it was a court dress? Or a wedding gown?”
“It looks very special indeed.” Cassandra reached out and grasped the skirt, holding it out on the sides. “It looks made to be worn hooped out to the side, but not nearly so wide as those dresses during the 1740s and later. I think it’s older. Not as old as Elizabeth or even James I. There aren’t any ruffs, the sleeves are attached, and the waist is more normal, not that long, waspy shape. I would say maybe the time of the Cavaliers—or maybe later, King Charles II.”
“It’s so romantic!” Olivia held the skirt up to herself, pulling one side of it out, and executed a twirl.
“Oh, my.” Cassandra peered down into the trunk and pulled out a shoe, also of velvet, this time deep blue, and also richly embroidered. It had a thick, blocky heel and squared-off toe.
“Goodness! Imagine wearing that. It’s so big!” Olivia marveled.
“Much too big to be a woman’s, I think. My guess is that it belonged to some Lord Chesilworth,” Cassandra told her.
“That!” Crispin stared in fascination at the ornate shoe. “You’re jesting.”
“Men wore much more colorful attire back then,” Sir Philip answered, joining them around the trunk. He took the shoe in his hand. “There is a portrait of one of my ancestors in shoes much like these. He wore a very fancy coat and vest, as well, and rather baggy trousers and huge sleeves, slit like this dress’s to show billowing lacy shirtsleeves.”
“Let’s try it on!” Olivia cried. “Please, Cassandra…”
“I suppose. But be very careful. It’s ancient.” She went with her sister behind a stack of boxes large enough to conceal them and helped h
er sister into the old, formal clothes.
“Oh! It’s too big!” Olivia wailed. The skirt, without hoop or petticoats beneath it, was far too long, and the bodice hung on her still-undeveloped body. “You put it on. It will fit you much better,” she told Cassandra, perking up. “Please…I want to see how it looks.”
Olivia helped Cassandra out of her own dress and into the other one. “Oh, Cassie…” she breathed. “It’s beautiful.”
Olivia pulled Cassandra out from behind the boxes to where Sir Philip and the boys stood. “Look how beautiful it is on Cassie.”
Sir Philip turned and gazed at her for a long moment. “It is indeed,” he said quietly, and his eyes traveled down her body.
Cassandra was very aware of the way the stiff, undarted bodice pushed up her breasts so that their tops swelled above the neckline. She could feel the heat rising up her neck as he looked at her. She wet her lips unconsciously and turned away, going to the trunk.
“If I am having to play dress-up,” she said, “then I refuse to be the only one.” She bent over the trunk and shuffled through the other clothes that were there. “Aha!”
She pulled up a coat, also decorated with embroidery and boasting the sort of loose, full sleeves that Sir Philip had mentioned earlier. She turned, holding it out. “Here. You have to try on this coat.”
Sir Philip looked at it doubtfully, but reached out to take it. Carefully he pulled it on and straightened it down the front. Cassandra caught her breath. He looked as if he should have a slender sword strapped to his side and an upturned hat with a plume.
She started to speak, but nothing came out, and she had to try again. “You look as if you are about to go out to fight the Roundheads.”
“Mmm. More likely tuck one of Charles’s toy spaniels under my arm and mince about the court.”
“You?” Cassandra smiled. “Never!”
“Why, thank you…I think.”
“’Twas meant as a compliment. Come, we should see how we look.”
Cassandra led him through the trunks and boxes to where a long cheval glass stood propped against the attic wall. She was not aware that she had taken his hand to lead him there until she saw their clasped hands reflected in the looking glass. She dropped his hand as if it had suddenly grown hot. Her eyes flew involuntarily to his in the mirror. There was none of the amusement she had expected, only a fierce flame, a fire that mirrored the sudden spark deep inside herself. She wished suddenly and intensely that Olivia and the twins were back at Moulton Hall instead of here with them.
It required a physical effort on her part to turn away from him. “This is not getting the letters found,” she said stiffly, sounding priggish even to her own ears. “We should get back to work.”
“You are right, of course.”
“Cassie…” Olivia complained. “What about the other things in the trunk?”
“Check through them, of course. This trunk is most encouraging.” She kept her voice carefully businesslike, not betraying that her pulse was running a trifle fast or that she could still feel the way Philip’s hand had felt in hers as she had led him to the mirror. It had been so hard and firm in contrast to hers, so warm, so…exciting. She cleared her throat, jerking her mind back to the matters at hand. “It, ah, is the first thing we have found from the right century. However, it is a little too early, I think. Perhaps we should move our search closer to it. Except that the attic isn’t completely neat and orderly.”
“Why don’t Olivia and the boys work from the wall in?” Neville suggested. Cassandra thought his voice was enviably, irritatingly, devoid of emotion or nerves. “You and I will come in from where we are, and perhaps it will lie between the two.”
Cassandra agreed and retired behind the boxes to get rid of the Cavalier lady and return to the workaday woman who was committed to the search for Margaret Verrere’s letters. She shrugged off the faint deflation she felt when she was once again in her own worst clothes and returned to the trunk she had been methodically unloading earlier.
They continued to work through the afternoon, but though they covered another large chunk of the attic, they did not find anything relating to Margaret Verrere or her father. Finally Cassandra sat back on her heels with a despondent sigh and wiped the sweat from her forehead with an unlady-like swipe of her hand.
Sir Philip removed his watch from its pocket and opened it. “I fear we must stop. I have to return to the inn to get ready for this evening’s dinner.”
“Oh!” Cassandra jumped to her feet. “Sweet Lord, what time is it?” When Sir Philip told her, she let out another moan. “What was I thinking of? I have to get back to Moulton Hall to prepare for the party.”
She had left everything humming along, but one never knew what might have happened to derail her plans—contradictory commands from her aunt, or Joanna’s meddling, or an obstacle she had not foreseen and which none of the servants were willing or able to take care of without the advice of someone in authority. She had meant to leave herself plenty of time to look over the house and the food preparations, and make sure that everything was in order, but she was, she realized now, much too tardy, and she would probably have to skimp on her own preparations for the dance.
Well, that was something that was of little importance, she told herself as she bade Sir Philip a short farewell and hurried with the children up the hill toward Moulton Hall. She had never been one to shine at parties, and she dimmed even more than normal around Joanna’s beauty and vivacity. Why, she didn’t even have a new gown to wear. The coffee-colored satin she planned to wear was at least three years old, and the new lace and ribbons, and the resewing she had done to the skirt, could not make it appear new. Moreover, it had not been a good color for her, and she had wished that she had not ordered it from the dressmaker in Bath, but it had been too dear not to wear it.
She did not like to admit it, but the truth was that she coveted the dress her aunt was wearing tonight. Well, not that actual dress, of course, for anything her aunt could wear would have been so short that Cassandra’s ankles would have showed and so large around it would have swamped her. What she envied was the material. It was a lovely light gray satin, perhaps not the favored color for a young woman, but Cassandra had been certain that its color would complement her eyes, and, besides, the color had a shimmer to it that lifted it above mere gray and seemed to contain flashes of mauve and lavender and other elusive pastel colors that enlivened Cassandra’s pale skin.
Aunt Ardis had seen her staring at it in the shop window one day in Fairbourne, and she had come over to see what it was that had caught Cassandra’s attention.
“Why, what lovely material!” Aunt Ardis had exclaimed, and for a brief moment Cassandra’s heart had leaped with hope that the woman would purchase it for her, seeing what a perfect color it was for Cassandra.
Instead, she had said, “How lucky that you saw it, Cassandra. It would make a lovely dress for me. Edged with black lace, perhaps. Come, let us go inside. Of course, the dressmaker here in Dunsleigh is hopelessly behind the times, but perhaps, just this once, she could whip up something acceptable.”
So Cassandra had gone in with a heavy heart, biting her tongue as her aunt ruined the material with rows of ruffles and the addition of lace and ribbons and fichu until it was girlish and overdecorated enough to suit Aunt Ardis’s tastes. Cassandra did not think that her aunt had taken the material she had loved and made it her own out of sheer cruelty. It was, she thought, simply that her aunt was so uncomplicatedly, utterly selfish that it never occurred to her that she might give up something she liked to anyone else.
Of course, the dress was nothing Cassandra would want now. Still, when she was dressed in her old café-au-lait satin, her hair hastily twisted up into a simple knot, she could not help releasing a little sigh as she glanced over at her aunt and saw the shimmer of color in the pale, watery s
ilk as the soft glow of the candles touched it.
But Cassandra was not one to bemoan circumstances that she could not change, and, besides, she had her hands full making sure that the dinner went off smoothly and that no one was left standing about with no one to talk to. She circulated through the room, signaling to a footman when refreshment was needed and stopping beside Squire Harrelson’s chair to chat when she saw that he was sitting alone, pinned to his chair by the latest in a long string of hunting accidents. The squire’s desire to hunt far outpaced his ability to ride, and over the years he had acquired an assortment of broken arms, sprained ankles and bruised hips that would have daunted a lesser man.
She sensed rather than saw when Sir Philip entered the room. She wasn’t sure how she knew, for she had never felt anything quite like it before. But all of a sudden the skin on the back of her neck prickled, and she could not stop herself from glancing quickly behind her. She saw Sir Philip standing in the doorway, his eyes on her. He smiled when she spotted him and started across the room toward her.
Aunt Ardis quickly waylaid him, however, and dragged him across the room to meet the vicar and his wife and daughter. It was not until after dinner that Cassandra actually talked to Sir Philip, though she saw him now and again across the room and smiled. Sir Philip was not a guest whom she needed to worry about being entertained; he would have to be fighting off everyone all evening, for he was the prize of the party. Nor did she have any desire to give either Joanna or Aunt Ardis the slightest reason to scold her for trying to “compete” with Joanna for Sir Philip’s affections. Though she cherished none of the delusions the Moulton women did that Sir Philip had any regard for Joanna, life would be much easier as long as Joanna and Aunt Ardis thought he did. While Aunt Ardis and Joanna were hot in pursuit of a supremely eligible male, they cared little for what Cassandra was involved with.
