“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” he asked.
“Yes. I saw something similar when Rupert came home for a brief visit. He brought it with him. I asked him about it, but he said it was nothing. Just something he’d picked up at a fair.”
“It’s more than that. It’s a plan of action. Not in the details—without a way to steer them, balloons are no threat, and a tunnel under the sea is just a fantasy. But Napoleon’s built a fleet of ships, and last year he was ready to invade. Fortunately he did not manage it.”
“But you think he will try again?”
“Yes, I do. He has been distracted by other matters recently. There was a plot against his life, and after that he had his coronation to think of, but our intelligence tells us he’s still determined to go ahead.”
“But what has this to do with me?” she asked, handing the print back to him.
“Nothing, directly. But indirectly…”
“It had something to do with Rupert,” she said, looking at him for confirmation.
“Yes, it had.”
She felt the cold touch of dread. But she had come this far. She would see it through. She waited for him to continue. He did not seem to know how to do it. He walked away from her towards the sea. Then he turned round.
“Napoleon is determined to invade England if he can. But it won’t be easy for him. First of all he has to get his ships across the Channel. They’re unsuitable, and they won’t survive rough weather, but if luck is with him and the weather is fine then they might make the crossing. Then he will have to evade the navy. It’s unlikely, but again it’s possible. Then he will have to land. There are not many places along the coast that are suitable, and the likely spots are well guarded. Brighton has soldiers camped here, ready to fight any invasion. But if something happened to the soldiers, if their wine was drugged, or if their horses were stolen, or if there was an uprising inland that demanded their presence, or if the camp was set on fire, or if all those things happened together, then the French could land virtually unhindered.”
“But that wouldn’t be likely to happen—would it?” she asked.
“Yes, it would. Napoleon has paid men and women to bring about this end. There are traitors in Brighton even as we speak, who mean to make sure the militia are distracted or incapacitated if Napoleon invades.”
“But I still don’t see what this has to do with me,” she said, shaking her head.
“Don’t you?” He watched her intently.
“Unless…unless you think one of the traitors is trying to kill me,” she said. “Is that it? Did Rupert discover something before he died, and the traitors are afraid he mentioned it to me? Their names, perhaps, or some detail of their plans?”
He did not reply.
“I can think of nothing. He never mentioned anything to me. I saw him infrequently, and then he told me about his horses and his clothes. If he had uncovered a plot, I knew nothing about it.” She paused. “Do you think it has something to do with his death?” she asked.
She saw his face change. He turned away and walked down to the water. She followed him.
“It does. Tell me what. I must know.”
“Cassandra…”
He turned to face her again. There was something gentle in his voice, and it frightened her more than a string of curses would have done. She felt a coldness invade her, starting at her extremities and working its way inward towards her heart.
“He had done something terrible,” she said in a whisper. “That was what he was talking about in his letter. You told me it was a reckless gamble, and I thought it was an abandoned serving girl, but it was worse, wasn’t it?”
“Cassandra…”
“Rupert had one of those prints in his pocket.” Her voice sounded dead to her own ears. “He was a traitor.”
“Cassandra…”
“Yes or no. Just tell me, Justin.”
He took a step towards her and she took a step back.
“Was my brother a traitor?”
She read the answer in his face.
“Yes,” he said. “He was.”
“This is terrible. Worse than I’d imagined by far. Oh, Rupert, Rupert…”
Justin closed the space between them in one stride and rested his hands on her arms.
She looked down at the ground.
“I’m surprised you can bear to touch me,” she said.
“It was not your fault.”
“So that is why he wrote to me,” she said. “He wanted to confess, but then death overtook him. And his treachery—had that something to do with his death?” she asked, looking at him once more.
He dropped his hands to his side.
“Yes.”
She said nothing, needing to make sense of what she had learnt, but she could not make sense of it without knowing more.
“I would like to know what really happened that night,” she said.
“I would rather not tell you.”
“Please,” she beseeched him. “I have to know.”
“Very well.” His voice had dropped to a low murmur, as though it was an effort for him to speak. “But you will hate me at the end of it.”
“No, I could never hate you,” she said.
He reached out and cupped her cheek, letting his thumb stroke across the soft skin. She had never felt anything so mesmerizing. She never wanted it to end. She wanted it to go on and on whilst the world disappeared, taking all of its problems with it. She wanted to be standing there with Justin, free and as equals; free to touch him as he was touching her; free to give rein to the feelings that were churning inside her. But then his hand dropped to his side, as though he no longer had the energy to hold it up.
She looked into his face and saw something unbearably sad there. She stopped breathing as it came to her that his touch had not been a caress, it had been a farewell. She was suddenly frightened and opened her mouth to stop him speaking, but it was too late.
“I had been looking for the traitors for many months,” he said. “I had helped the government on many occasions, and I gave them my assistance again over this matter. I eventually discovered the names of three of the men I was looking for. I received information as to their whereabouts and I found two of them at a brothel. I handed them over to the proper authorities, and then went in search of the third man—Rupert. One of the women from the brothel ran to warn him. She reached him before me and told him I was coming. By the time I arrived, he had saddled his horse and ridden out of town. I followed. Eventually I caught up with him on the Downs. I gave chase. He took a hedge and landed badly. I followed. I found him lying on the ground, on the other side of the hedge, mortally wounded.” His voice dropped. “That is how Rupert died.”
Her voice did not seem to belong to her, as she said, “You chased him. That’s why he took his horse out at night. Because you were chasing him. And you chased him to his death.”
He said nothing, but his face told her everything she needed to know.
She turned away from him. He put his hand on her shoulder, but she was hurt and confused and she did not respond.
“I want to be alone,” she said.
“Cassandra—”
“Please.”
For a long moment he did not reply. Then he said, “Very well. If that is what you want.”
She heard his footsteps crunching across the beach, growing gradually quieter and quieter until they disappeared altogether. She folded her arms round herself, then walked down to the water’s edge, but it was not the water she was seeing. It was Rupert. Rupert, dressed in his best clothes on the day he started school; Rupert, making her mother rock with laughter when he impersonated his masters; Rupert helping her father with the horses, grooming them as though they had been his best friends; Rupert tying his first cravat…All the memories of childhood welled up inside her and threatened to overwhelm her. And now he was gone, cold and dead, laid in a grave, when he should have had his life before him.
She
did not notice the passage of time. It was not until she heard Maria’s voice that she was recalled to reality.
“Cassie! Cassie! Oh, I’m glad I’ve found you.”
Cassandra made an effort to shake off the ghosts of the past. She took a deep breath and then turned round to see Maria picking her way across the beach.
“What a wonderful time we’ve had,” Maria said, as she joined Cassandra by the shore. “We are very lucky you met Lord Deverill, Cassie. We would not have been invited on such a picnic otherwise. But I think it’s time to go home. The party’s breaking up. Why, Cassie,” she said, her tone changing as she drew near. “You look terrible. Is anything wrong?”
“No. Nothing. A slight headache,” said Cassandra.
“I’m not surprised, it’s very hot,” said Maria sympathetically. “Oh!” She looked down at Cassandra’s feet. “Cassie. You’re standing in the water.”
Cassandra looked down. Maria was right. She had been so distracted she had not noticed.
“You must have been hot,” Maria went on, looking worried. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Yes. I am. But I’m glad we’re going home.”
“We will soon be back at the carriage. Harry has ordered it to be brought round.”
They went back towards the rest of the party, walking side by side. A number of the picnickers had already left and the beach wore a deserted aspect. The few people who remained were heading for their carriages. The footmen had packed the hampers with the used plates and were folding away the trestle tables. A group of gulls was feasting on the crumbs.
“Ready?” asked Harry, beaming at them.
“Yes, ready. What a wonderful time we’ve had, and it was all thanks to Cassandra.”
Cassandra murmured a reply. As she climbed into the carriage, she saw Justin bidding some of his guests farewell.
He turned his head towards her but, unhappy and confused, she looked away.
“We should thank Lord Deverill,” said Maria.
“I’ve already done it,” said Harry. “I thought I’d do it whilst he had a minute to spare.”
“A good idea,” said Maria. “He’s been busy all day. Drive on,” she said to the coachman, then yawned. “All that fresh air has made me tired. I’m looking forward to going home.”
“So am I,” said Cassandra. She leant back against the squabs. She had never wanted to go home so much in her life.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cassandra passed a restless night and rose with the dawn. Moll, already awake and busy about the house, brought her hot water and helped her to dress. Cassandra made a poor breakfast crumbling her roll and leaving most of it on her plate, then said “I am going for a walk.”
“I’ll just get my bonnet,” said Moll.
“No,” said Cassandra. She wanted to be alone but knew that with someone trying to kill her, it wasn’t wise. Although Justin had told her he had set someone to watch over her, she did not want to take a risk of going out unaccompanied. “I’ll take John.
Moll grumbled, but was content to let her mistress go out in John’s charge.
Donning her spencer and bonnet, Cassandra left the house, but it was not to the sea front or the shops that she went. Instead she turned her steps towards the church where Rupert had been buried. She had not visited it since the day when, just over a year before, she had seen her brother laid to rest.
There was an early morning mist, making everything appear hazy. The sun was partially obscured, but she could feel it would be hot later in the day. She passed a flower seller and bought some flowers, then continued on her way.
As she approached the church, her steps slowed, until she stood outside the lych gate. She rested her hand on the gate. Then she pushed it open and went in. Her brother’s grave was at the far end of the graveyard. She walked slowly down the path until she reached it. The gravestone was already showing signs of age. Lichen had started to cover it, softening it and giving it a mellow feel. She knelt down beside it and ran her fingers over the name and dates carved there. Rupert David Charles Edward Paxton. Born 8 January 1780. Died 15 May 1804.
“Oh, Rupert,” she whispered. “You were too young to die.”
Her feelings were confused. She had begun to like Justin, and to trust him, but how could she ever love him now that she knew he had caused her brother’s death?
She looked up in an effort to escape her painful thoughts. Outside the confines of the churchyard, she saw a woman laying flowers on the ground. What is she doing? thought Cassandra. And then she realized. The woman was laying flowers on an unconsecrated grave. Cassandra shivered. She looked back at Rupert’s headstone, arranged with the others in the graveyard. Her brother had been given a proper funeral. He had had a church service attended by family and friends. And now he had a proper grave on which she could lay flowers. But would that have been his lot if his treachery had been known? If Justin had spoken of it openly, then the case could have been very different. But he had not. Only he, and a few others, had known of it, and they had protected Rupert after his death. It had been an accident, they had said. He had jumped a ditch and taken a fall.
Some of her pain started to leave her. She did not feel she could see Justin again. It would be disloyal to her brother, but she felt a lessening of her distress.
She laid her flowers on Rupert’s grave. As she did so, she realized that Justin and his friends had spoken the truth. Her brother had been killed in an accident. He might have been a traitor, and he might have been being pursued, but his death had still been unintentional. Justin had not meant to cause it: he had intended to capture Rupert and nothing more. If only Rupert could have been saved…But even as she thought it, she knew it would have been impossible.
She stood up. Walking quietly over to the lych gate, she left the graveyard behind her. John followed at a discreet distance. The mist was beginning to clear and the sun was rising in the sky. It was warm, and the gulls were crying. The sea was calm and unruffled. Fishing boats bobbed gently on its surface. Her own world might have been shaken, but all around her life went on as normal. She found the knowledge soothing, and the tension that had gripped her on learning the truth about Rupert began to disappear, so that by the time she returned to the house, she was ready to face the day.
“I want to sort out the furniture today,” she said to Moll, speaking briskly. She knew from experience that hard work could be a solace in times of distress. “Between us, we must take all the spare furniture downstairs to load on to the coach. She turned to John. “I want you to take it back to the estate.”
“Yes, miss,” said John.
There came a knock at the door.
“It’ll be Lord Deverill,” said Moll. “He’s been here this morning already.”
“Tell him I can’t see him,” said Cassandra.
Moll looked at her in surprise.
Cassandra turned to John.
“Answer the door, John, if you please. Say I am not at home.”
John heaved a sigh that said, “Women!” as plain as words, and then left the room.
Moll was not so easily satisifed.
“He’s not been trying to take advantage of you, has he?” she asked.
“No, of course not.”
“It’s not like you to say no to a visitor,” said Moll suspiciously.
“I’m too busy for callers at the moment,” said Cassandra. “I want to have the house ready for sale by the end of the month. I still have to finish sorting the attic, then I have to help John with the pieces for the estate. I simply don’t have time.”
“You’ve time to see Miss Maria,” said Moll.
“That’s different. Maria’s a friend. But Lord Deverill is just making a polite call.”
“If you say so,” said Moll, though she did not look convinced.
“I do say so,” said Cassandra. “Now, we had better see to the furniture.”
Moll was silenced.
John soon returned to say that he had sent L
ord Deverill away.
“When you take the spare furniture back to the estate, I think I will come with you,” said Cassandra to John. “I will need to arrange it when we get there. Some of it is good enough to go downstairs. Other pieces will go in the spare bedrooms.”
“Very good, miss,” said John.
Cassandra felt her spirits begin to lift. The idea of a few days in the country was very appealing to her. It would give her a chance to rest and refresh her spirits somewhat before returning to Brighton.
“I have promised Maria I will go and see Granmere Park with her on Monday, but then I have no more engagements for a week. We will set out on Tuesday. You will stay here, Moll. I need you to look after the house whilst I’m away.”
“Very good, miss,” said Moll. “And a good thing, too,” she muttered. “The springs on that coach aren’t what they used to be.”
“Make sure the coach is ready when I need it,” said Cassandra to John.
“Don’t you worry, Miss Cassie. It’ll be ready,” said John.
Justin stood by the fireplace in his drawing-room, his hand in his waistcoat pocket. It was now two days since the picnic and his efforts to see Cassandra had been in vain. He had wanted to explain to her, to tell her the full story, but she would not give him the chance. There was more she had to know, and it might help to ease her pain.
He remembered how badly he had wanted to comfort her, on the seashore. He remembered how warm she had felt when he had put his hand on her shoulders. He had wanted to take her in his arms, but she had withdrawn from him, telling him she wanted to be alone.
And now she had refused to see him. He found he could not blame her. It had been his duty to chase Rupert, but he could not expect her to see it that way, because he had been the cause of her brother’s death.
He looked at the locket again. He had meant to return it to her after Rupert’s death. He had meant to give it to her again when he had discovered she was in Brighton, but he hadn’t been able to part with it. And now he knew he never would.
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