Cassandra was just about to cross the open space when she saw Justin walking towards her with his hound trotting by his side. He checked on seeing her, and she felt herself torn in two. After their encounter in the conservatory any meeting between them would necessarily be difficult, and with Mr. Bradley’s words haunting her it was even more disturbing, but she could not help feeling glad to see him again.
He tipped his hat.
“Miss Paxton, he said.
“Lord Deverill,” she acknowledged him.
She stood awkwardly, searching for a neutral topic of conversation to try and convince him that she was at ease. And then, to her relief, the hound nudged her hand with his wet nose and demanded her attention.
“He’s a fine animal,” she said, as she stroked him behind the ears.
“He is,” he said. “He belongs to my sister.”
“Oh! I thought he was yours.”
“Alas, no. The town house isn’t big enough for me to keep a hound, but I look after Troilus whenever my sister is away. She lives nearby, on her husband’s estate, but she is in London at the moment.”
“It seems like a useful arrangement.”
“It is. It suits us both. I have the benefit of Troilus’s company, and my sister is relieved of the worry that the servants will overfeed him.”
“And do they overfeed him?” asked Cassandra, looking at his sleek figure.
“No, but Anne is convinced that everyone indulges him when her back is turned. The irony is that she cannot resist giving him titbits herself,” he said with a ghost of a smile.
Cassandra appreciated his attempt to lighten the situation, and said, “He looks well on it.”
“Yes, he does. Are you going far?” he asked, introducing a new subject as the old one showed signs of fading away.
“To the library,” she said.
She was beginning to feel a little more comfortable. Even so, memories of Mr. Bradley’s words prevented her from being truly at ease. She reminded herself that she knew very little about Justin. She knew that she was drawn to him but she did not want the attraction to cloud her judgement. She would have liked to ask him about Mr. Bradley’s comments but out in public, and with Moll so close, it was impossible to raise the subject, and she knew she would have to wait for a more private time.
“Are you looking for any books in particular?” he asked.
“I must confess that I’m hoping to find something by Mrs. Radcliffe.”
“The Mysteries of Udolpho, perhaps?”
“No, I’ve already read that.”
“And did you enjoy it?”
“Yes. It sent shivers down my spine. I loved the sword fight.”
“And the catacombs?”
“You’ve read it?” she asked.
“My sister devours everything Mrs. Radcliffe writes. I was so tired of hearing her talk about books I knew nothing about, I decided I must read them as well.”
“You mean you didn’t lock them up and forbid her to touch them?”
“No. Nor did I lock her up and forbid her to touch them!”
“Then you have sadly missed your opportunity,” she said. “You could have figured as The Evil Guardian.”
“Modelled after Count Montoni, perhaps?” he asked, raising one eyebrow.
“I do see a certain resemblance,” said Cassandra.
She did not know how it was, but their natural rapport seemed to have overcome their awkwardness to such an extent that she had felt able to make a joke. But now she wished it unsaid. She had gone too far. But one look at his face showed her that he did not mind.
“I will have to tell my sister. She will be most amused…and glad to find someone so like-minded,” he said.
She smiled.
“If she really thought you like the wicked count, I don’t think she would have entrusted her hound to you.”
“No. Now, she likes me very well. But when I wouldn’t let her run away with her dancing master at the tender age of fifteen, she thought me an ogre, I can assure you!”
“She will not thank you for telling me that.”
“Then I must hope you never mention it to her,” he said.
“I promise I won’t.”
Cassandra reminded herself that she should not be talking to him in this easy manner, and said, “I must not detain you.”
“Nor I you.”
He made her a bow and bade her farewell, then walked on.
“A nice spoken gennulmen,” said Moll, looking after him.
“Don’t tell me you approve of him?” said Cassandra.
“There’s them that are worse,” said Moll gruffly.
“I’m sure he would be delighted to hear it.”
“Seems to bump into us regular,” said Moll.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” said Moll.
Cassandra looked at her suspiciously, but Moll assumed an innocent expression.
Cassandra resumed her walk to the library. When she reached the building a group of young ladies were coming out, talking and giggling. They were followed by a harassed-looking footman who could barely see where he was going for the enormous pile of books he was carrying. When they had let the group pass, Cassandra and Moll went into the library. Moll took a seat at the side of the room, not being interested in novels, and Cassandra was free to wander round by herself.
As she looked at the books, she thought that she had valued her conversation with Justin far more than any of the conversations she had had with Lord Armington and Mr. Kingsley. And yet there was a dark side to him, too, and she knew she would do well to remember it.
She chose her books, and half an hour later she emerged with a selection of them under her arm. Moll followed behind, carrying another two.
“Although when I’ll find time to read them, I don’t know,” said Cassandra regretfully. “I must beat the carpets this afternoon. I will get nothing done tomorrow.”
“A good thing you and Miss Maria are going to the races,” said Moll. “You shouldn’t be doing all this work, Miss Cassie.”
“Never mind, it will soon be finished,” she said, as they walked along by the sea.
“And a good thing, too,” said Moll.
But Cassandra did not think it a good thing, because once it was finished she would have no excuse to stay in Brighton. She would have to instruct her lawyer to see to the sale, and then she must return to her estate.
“I’ve laid the sprig muslin out on the bed for you,” said Moll the following morning, as Cassandra emerged from her dressing room, newly washed and dressed in her chemise. “Though mind you wear a shawl. That muslin’s as thin as a cobweb, and you’ll catch your death otherwise, just see if you don’t.”
“I’ll be sure to wear it,” Cassandra promised her.
The day was warm but she intended to follow Moll’s advice, not because she feared pneumonia, but because there was a scorch mark on the back of the dress. It had been caused by an unfortunate accident with the flat iron, and she needed a shawl to cover it. She slipped into her muslin and Moll fastened it. Then, settling a straw hat on her head, Cassandra tied it beneath her chin with a wide green ribbon. No sooner had she fastened it in place than she heard a sound of a carriage. Maria had arrived. She pulled on her gloves.
“Don’t forget your parasol,” said Moll.
Cassandra took it from her, then tripped outside.
The weather had favoured her since the start of her stay, and the sun was bright and strong. A gentle breeze blew from the sea, fluttering the ends of her ribbons.
“Do you know Geoffrey Goddard?” she asked Harry conversationally as she climbed into the carriage and they set out for Whitehawk Down.
“No, I don’t think I do. Why?” Harry asked.
“I believe he’ll be at the races today. He knew Rupert,” she explained.
“You mustn’t dwell on the past,” said Maria robustly to Cassandra. “Rupert is dead, and there’s no reason why yo
u should seek out Mr. Goddard…unless, of course, he is eligible,” she mused.
“Maria,” said Harry reprovingly.
“What’s wrong?” asked Maria innocently. “I just want what’s best for Cassie, that’s all.”
“Thank you, but I can decide on what’s best for myself,” said Cassandra, with a quirk at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t want to marry Mr. Goddard. I just want to speak to him,” she went on. “I won’t be in Brighton for much longer, and I don’t want to miss the opportunity of seeing him.”
The carriage rolled through the streets. There had been a great deal of building work carried out since Cassandra’s last visit, and fashionable houses were springing up here and there.
Cassandra’s eyes ran over a new crescent. The houses were four storeys tall with elegant balconies ornamenting the first floor windows and smart black railings separating them from the street. Their bowed fronts broke up the monotony of line, and their windows gleamed in the sunlight. Chimneys were visible, rising from the rooftops, and they had an air of prosperity about them.
Gradually the carriage left the new houses behind and passed on to the old town. Here the brick and flint buildings were jostled together without any of the symmetry that marked the new houses, but they had a charm and character of their own. Then the carriage began to make its way up the winding road to Whitehawk Down.
The road was busy with Brighton’s fashionable visitors, all travelling to the same destination, and it took them some time to reach it, but the view was worth waiting for. From the high vantage point, there was a splendid view of the sea. The position had a disadvantage, however, for the wide open spaces of the Down allowed the wind easy access, and Cassandra had to put her hand on her head to stop her bonnet blowing off. She retied the green ribbon, making it tighter, then stepped out of the carriage.
There was already a great deal of activity on the Down, and numerous carriages were dotted about. Sporting curricles stood side by side with barouche landaus and high-perch phaetons. Their shafts rested on the ground, whilst the horses that had pulled them grazed quietly nearby. Ladies and gentlemen strolled around the course. The ladies’ light dresses fluttered round their ankles, revealing an inch of embroidered stocking. Officers laughed noisily. Their scarlet and gold uniforms shone brightly in the sunshine.
A seedier set of people, in clothes that had once been good but now showed signs of wear, handed bundles of notes to sharp-looking men at the side of the course, whilst gaudily-painted women hung on their arms. A stand had been erected, and nearby, booths, stalls and tents had sprung up, offering every kind of food, drink and entertainment. Gin and ale competed with oysters and cakes for the money of the race-goers, and a hurdy gurdy man walked along, followed by a string of children.
“What a wretched noise!” said Maria, as she followed Cassandra out of the carriage. “I cannot abide it! I only hope he stops playing when the races begin.”
Cassandra rather liked the raucous sound. It was so different to anything she experienced at home that she enjoyed the novelty, and it gave the outing a holiday atmosphere.
“I can’t see the Prince,” said Maria, looking about her. “What a pity. I hoped he might be here. He is very fond of the races. But never mind. Ah, here is someone interesting. It’s Freddy Kingsley.”
Mr. Kingsley was again dressed in the extreme of fashion. His gaudily coloured waistcoat showed beneath his coat of grey superfine, which was so tight it was a wonder he could move his arms. A tall hat was placed on his curled hair, and a silver-tipped cane was in his hand. His knee breeches gave way to silk stockings, and beneath them were black pumps.
“Dashed piece of luck, seeing you here,” said Freddy, bowing over Cassandra’s hand. “Been hoping to bump into you sometime or other ever since we danced together at the assembly. Enjoyed it immensely.” He raised his quizzing glass and examined Cassandra’s hat. “Dashed fine hat,” he said. “Brim wide but not too wide. Ribbon at a jaunty angle. Sets the whole thing off.” He greeted Maria and Harry politely, then said, “Care for a stroll?”
Cassandra accepted his arm, and Harry offered his arm to Maria, then the four of them took a stroll along the Downs. The delicious smells of fresh bread and pies mingled with the salty tang of the sea air.
“Get ’em while they’re hot!” sang out the man behind the pie stall, a round individual who was a walking advertisement for his own wares.
A group of officers was standing and talking by the stall, with brightly painted women on their arms. One of the officers was holding a coin aloft.
“Look at that. It saved my life in France,” he was saying. “I was trying to get home when the Peace broke down and a Frenchie took a shot at me. He would have got me, too, if not for the coin. I had it in my pocket and it stopped the bullet. Mind you, it left an imprint on my—”
He stopped abruptly.
“Oooh,” squealed one of the women, whilst a bolder one laughed and said, “Show us, darlin’.”
“Fans! Ivory fans! The genuine article, all the way from China!” cried one of the many vendors who walked through the crowds with trays round their necks.
A young woman with a low-cut dress who was flirting with a group of fashionably dressed men, giggled, “Oh, look at all the fans! And mine’s just broken.”
A chorus of male voices offered to buy her another one, and she laughed with them, praising the choice of one whilst rejecting the offering of another.
“What are her parents thinking of?” said Maria under her breath.”
“Don’t suppose they’re here,” said Mr. Kingsley. “Left her to the care of friends, most likely. No end of mischief a girl can get up to in Brighton.”
Cassandra could understand what he meant. The gin tents and ale stalls had tipsy gentlemen nearby, and there were so many officers that it could easily turn a girl’s head if she was not properly chaperoned. It was all colourful and noisy and, to Cassandra, who had not left the quiet and boredom of the country for years, quite wonderful.
“Ballad sheets!” exclaimed Cassandra, as a hawker walked past with a tray round his neck. “I must buy the latest one. Lizzie loves singing.”
“Lizzie?” asked Mr. Kingsley.
“My sister—”
“Oh, look. There are some prints, and by a stroke of good fortune they are exactly what I have been looking for,” said Maria, turning Mr. Kingsley’s attention to another hawker. “Will you give me your arm, Mr. Kingsley? Cassandra can join us when she has chosen her ballad.”
“Oh, er…”
“Lizzie is my younger sister, and she lives with me,” said Cassandra firmly. “She is ten years old, and since my parents and brother died, I am all she has.”
Maria had advised her not to mention her sister until she was sure of a gentleman’s affections, but Cassandra did not like the idea of deceiving anyone. Lizzie was an important part of her life and she felt that the sooner Mr. Kingsley knew about the little girl the better.
“Oh,” said Mr. Kingsley amiably. “Must let me buy her a ballad as well, then. Can’t have too many.”
Maria cast Cassandra a satisfied look.
“Do you know a gentleman by the name of Mr. Goddard?” asked Cassandra, when they had made their choice.
“Geoffrey Goddard? Seen him somewhere about. Saw him with Deverill earlier.”
“Lord Deverill?”
“Yes. Tall chap. Black hair. Coat by Weston. Dashed fine cut.”
“Yes, I know Lord Deverill. That is, we’ve met.”
Freddy raised his quizzing glass and looked round the crowd. People were starting to make their way towards the track, ready for the race to begin, but one or two lingered round the stalls.
“There’s Deverill now. Got Goddard with him. Coming this way,” said Freddy.
Cassandra followed his glance and saw Justin coming towards her with a young man by his side. The two made a strong contrast. Justin, tall, well dressed in breeches and tailcoat, walking with assurance, and Mr. G
oddard, almost as tall but gangly, dressed in a striped coat, embroidered waistcoat and tight breeches, and walking with a mincing gait.
“Miss Paxton,” said Justin, as he drew level with her.
“Lord Deverill. We meet again.”
“So we do,” he said blandly. “Allow me to introduce Mr. Goddard.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said Mr. Goddard. “I’ve been wanting to speak to you ever since I knew you were in Brighton. Rupert and I were good friends. I miss him now he’s gone. We all do.”
Justin turned to Freddy.
“Kingsley, I wonder if you could help me. I’d like your advice.”
“My advice?” asked Freddy, startled.
“Yes. I’m having trouble with my cravats. My valet’s a clumsy fellow and he can’t tie them for me, so I have to tie them myself. I can manage a barrel knot, but I’ve a fancy for something more elaborate. I want to try a waterfall, and since your cravats are always exquisitely tied, I thought I’d ask you how you manage it.”
Freddy went pink with plea sure. To be asked for help! And by such a man! Then his smile gave way to a serious expression.
“It isn’t easy,” he said. “Don’t you want to start with something simpler? The waterfall’s a dashed tricky thing to do.”
“No, it’s the waterfall or nothing.”
Freddy nodded. He lifted his hands to his neck and began to describe the intricacies of the style as Lord Deverill paid him flattering attention. Mr. Goddard offered Cassandra his arm, and the transition was smoothly accomplished: Lord Deverill walked in front with Freddy, whilst Cassandra walked behind with Geoffrey Goddard. Maria and Harry brought up the rear.
As they walked, Cassandra had an opportunity to ask Mr. Goddard about Rupert, and discover that he, too, thought Rupert’s letter was nothing that need concern her.
“Been gambling too freely,” he said with decision.
“I’m relieved,” said Cassandra. “Although I hope it wasn’t a bet that led him to his death.”
“No, that was an accident. Terrible thing, but an accident,” he said firmly. “Shouldn’t have been riding at night…hard for ladies to understand…wanted to do it…”
Lord Deverill's Secret Page 8
