Lord Deverill's Secret

by Amanda Grange

  “The meals are always extravagant,” said Matthew to her in an aside, as she took her place at the table. “I hope you have a hearty appetite.”

  In fact she had none. She forced herself to look at the table and her close companions, but her eyes kept wanting to stray to Justin, who was sitting next to Miss Kerrith.

  “…French chef,” Matthew said.

  Cassandra collected her straying thoughts.

  “Wonderful,” she said, hoping her answer suited whatever he had said.

  He smiled.

  “I hear Lord Armington paid you a morning visit,” he said nonchalantly, as tureens of soup were set on the table.

  Cassandra looked surprised, but then realized that, as she was being watched, all her movements and all the movements of those who visited her must be known.

  “He did,” she acknowledged.

  “Armington’s a fine man,” he said.

  “Indeed,” she agreed.

  “He’s very popular with the ladies. It will be a lucky young woman who wins him for a husband.”

  Cassandra felt the conversation was becoming pointed, and did not reply.

  “Don’t you agree?” he asked.

  “Yes, indeed,” she said politely.

  “Almost as lucky as the woman who wins Deverill,” he said.

  Cassandra had no more taste for her champagne. Putting her glass down, she said nonchalantly, “I believe Miss Kerrith is a likely choice.”

  “Do you? She’s certainly very pretty,” he said musingly, looking across the table to Miss Kerrith. “And she’s an heiress. Some would say she would make him an ideal wife. However, I don’t believe she’s the wife for Justin.”

  “No?”

  Cassandra relapsed into silence, knowing she had sounded both too eager and too hopeful.

  “No. I think he deserves more than a pretty wife, even if she is an heiress. I believe he deserves the woman he loves.”

  And who would that be? Cassandra was about to ask, when she stopped herself just in time.

  Matthew seemed to read her thoughts. He raised his glass and smiled, then, saluting her with his champagne, he took a long drink.

  Cassandra could not resist a look at Justin. He looked up and their eyes met. Then the Prince claimed his attention and he was forced to look away.

  The dinner was like nothing Cassandra had ever eaten before. The service was à la française, with all the dishes being arranged in the middle of the table so that guests could offer the various dishes to their nearest neighbours before helping themselves. There were four soups followed by four fish dishes, of which Cassandra had turbot served in lobster sauce whilst Matthew partook of the trout in garlic and tomatoes. She tried to catch the names of the various dishes when the fish was removed and the entrées were brought in, but her French had never been very good, and phrases such as poulets à la reine, filets de lapereaux, petites croustades and filets de perdreaux à la Pompadour, which seemed to trip off the tongues of those more used to the Pavilion, left her be-mused. But when the dishes were arranged with all due ceremony in the centre of the table, she recognized woodcock, quails, partridges, pigeons, mutton and beef, all served in rich sauces which proved to be laced with Madeira, wine, port and truffles.

  “Does the Prince eat like this every evening?” asked Cassandra, as once again the dishes were removed and pineapple jelly took its place alongside cherry tarts, chocolate soufflés and a host of other mouthwatering desserts.

  “Yes, certainly when he has guests,” said Matthew.

  Cassandra glanced at her affable host, who was presiding over the meal, and thought it was no wonder his slim figure had not lasted. Nor was it any wonder his complexion was looking rather mottled. He had taken a great deal of wine, and was beginning to show signs of having drunk too much. His bonhomie, which had been evident throughout the meal, was becoming more exuberant, and Cassandra found herself hoping he would not speak to her after they retired from the table.

  Leaving the banqueting room behind, they entered the drawing-room and Cassandra saw that cards, conversation and music were to be the order of the evening. A small orchestra was playing in the background, and guests began to pursue a variety of entertainments. Matthew excused himself, and Cassandra saw him walk across to Justin, who was no longer with the Prince, but was standing by himself at one side of the room.

  “Well, I have never had such a sumptuous dinner in all my life,” said Anne, joining her on one of the splendid sofas.

  “Nor I,” said Cassandra.

  “I have eaten so much I can’t move.”

  Charles laughed.

  “Then it is a good thing there is no dancing. The Prince keeps a good table, and an excellent cellar. I’ve never drunk such marvellous wine in all my life.”

  “I’m glad you took it in moderation,” said Anne, glancing at her host.

  “He is used to it,” said Charles, following her gaze. Then, changing the subject, he said, “Now, can I interest you ladies in a game of cards?”

  Justin could not keep his eyes away from Cassandra. Was it only a few days ago that he had last seen her? It seemed like a lifetime ago. And yet here she was, now, in front of him, looking more beautiful than ever. Her blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight, and the pearls round her neck drew attention to the soft creamy skin of her throat. He was filled with protective feelings for her and longed to go to her, but he was at his Prince’s plea sure. He had hoped the murderer would have struck by now, but the villain was probably waiting for the end of the evening, when the guests would be befuddled with wine and even less likely to notice a sly push in the dark.

  He saw Matthew coming towards him. Making the most of the Prince’s distraction, for the Prince was flirting with a pretty widow, Justin asked, “Are Cassandra’s spirits good?”

  “Yes,” said Matthew. “She is bearing it very well. It can’t be easy for her, knowing she could be attacked at any time and not knowing when.”

  “No, it can’t,” said Justin.

  “She has plenty of courage,” Matthew remarked.

  “Yes, she has,” said Justin, looking at her with admiration.

  “And she knows her own mind.”

  Justin looked at him enquiringly.

  “Most young ladies would jump at a chance to marry Armington, but not Cassandra.”

  “He proposed?”

  “There could be no other reason for him to go down on one knee. Are you surprised?”

  “No,” said Justin truthfully.

  “And…”

  “And?” asked Justin, his heart stopping.

  “And…I gave her every opportunity to say that she was engaged to him, but she said nothing. She turned him down.”

  Justin let out a long sigh, and his heart began to beat again.

  “But I will say no more,” said Matthew. He looked round the room. “We’ve another few hours yet before the party breaks up, but then we will need to be vigilant. It’s when Cassandra leaves that the villain is going to strike.”

  Cassandra passed a pleasant hour playing cards, but as the evening drew on she began to grow uneasy. Despite the grandeur of her surroundings, some of the gentlemen had taken far too much to drink and an uncomfortable atmosphere was developing. The Prince of Wales was obviously drunk, but because of his rank no one could contain him as they could contain an ordinary gentleman, and when his bonhomie turned into something verging on exhibitionism Cassandra began to wish herself elsewhere.

  “I think perhaps we should be leaving,” said Anne to Charles.

  “My dear, we can’t. It would look most particular,” said Charles, but he, too, sounded troubled.

  There had been some rowdy practical jokes during the course of the evening, and Cassandra feared things were about to get worse. Her fears proved well founded when the Prince hit upon the notion of shooting with an air gun at a target set up at one end of the room. He called upon the assembled guests to watch him.

  Cassandra stood up and began
to move towards the door, but it was impossible to leave. Servants were coming in and out, bringing a target and other necessary paraphernalia in accordance with the Prince’s orders, and she could not slip out.

  “We will have to watch him,” said a deep voice behind her, “but as soon as there is a chance to leave I will escort you to your carriage.”

  She knew before looking round whose voice it was. It was Justin’s. She looked up at him as he moved to stand next to her.

  “Is it often like this?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” he replied. “When the Prince is bored, he must have entertainment, and we must all be ready to admire him, no matter how outrageous his ideas.”

  “I don’t believe he’d notice if we slipped out now,” said Cassandra, glancing at the Prince, who appeared to be occupied with telling the servants where to set the target. “But would that defeat the purpose of my being here this evening? Would my attacker try to kill me if I left early, when there wasn’t a crush of carriages?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then I must stay.”

  “It would be impossible for you to do anything else,” said Justin. “The Prince would notice if you tried to leave, and it would be unforgivable in his eyes. You would not be received in Brighton again.”

  The buzz of conversation died down, and Cassandra looked towards the end of the room, where the Prince was taking up an air gun. There was an expectant hush as he took aim. He fired. Despite his drunken state he managed to hit the target with commendable accuracy. There was a ripple of applause and many congratulations, and the Prince looked pleased. Cassandra felt her uneasiness growing, however, for having taken a shot himself, the Prince began to urge those closest to him to follow his example. Cassandra could only be thankful that she was no longer at the front of the room.

  An elderly dowager was the Prince’s first choice. She tried to protest, but he would not take no for an answer and put the gun into her hands. She was forced to shoot or risk his displeasure, but she did not know what she was about, and her shot hit the door. The Prince laughed and took the gun from her, handing it to the next person, a young lady with dusky curls—Miss Kerrith. Cassandra had no reason to like the young beauty, but she felt a surge of sympathy at Miss Kerrith’s frightened face, for she, too, was forced to shoot. Miss Kerrith fared no better than the dowager. Her shot missed the target altogether, and she fired into the ceiling.

  “If the Prince should look in this direction, drop your fan and then bend down to pick it up,” said Justin in a low voice. “If his eyes don’t alight on you, he will not choose you.”

  Cassandra nodded, grateful for his advice.

  The Prince gave the air gun to another elderly lady and applauded her shot, which by some miracle found its way to the target. Then he turned towards Cassandra.

  Acting on Justin’s advice, she dropped her fan, then bent down to retrieve it. She heard a shot ring out, and then stiffened as she felt a rush of air above her. This time, the shot had gone even further astray, and passed over her head. She turned instinctively to follow its trajectory, and saw a bullet lodged in the wall. Justin moved discreetly towards it and examined it. As he did so, his face grew pale. She knew why. Having lived with a dissolute brother she had witnessed similar drunken shooting matches, and she knew that the bullet had nothing to do with the air gun; it had come from a pistol.

  She turned to Justin, but he was not looking at her. Instead, his eyes were scanning the room. Her gaze followed them, but saw nothing.

  “Trouble?” asked Matthew in a low voice, coming up.

  Justin showed him the bullet.

  “Did anyone see anything?” asked Justin.

  “No. Everyone’s eyes were on the Prince and his victim.”

  “If I don’t miss my guess, it’s the murderer who suggested this game to the Prince. Do we know whose idea it was?”

  “No, and it’s no use asking,” said Matthew. “The Prince will claim it as his own. This is getting too dangerous. We were prepared for an accident, but not a bullet, and we weren’t prepared for such recklessness. To shoot a pistol, here in a crowded room…”

  “He had the sound of the air pistol for cover,” Justin remarked.

  “It’s still a reckless thing to do. It looks as though he’s getting desperate.”

  Cassandra shivered.

  “I want you to stay here with Matthew,” Justin said. “I’m going to have your carriage brought round, and then I’m going to escort you home, what ever the Prince might think.”

  Cassandra wanted to finish what they had started, but at the same time she felt the danger was growing too high. She did not just have herself to think of. She had Lizzie, too.

  Leaving Matthew by her side, Justin said, “Look after her,” then chose a moment when the Prince was distracted and left the room.

  “Ah! Standish!” The Prince’s slurred voice rang out. “Just the man I’m looking for. Come and show us what you can do.”

  “It’s all right. Go. I will be on my guard,” said Cassandra.

  Matthew reluctantly left her side. Cassandra edged into the middle of a large group of people. Anyone who tried to shoot her now would find it impossible to do so. Having done so, she felt a little safer.

  “You had a narrow escape,” came a voice next to her.

  She turned to see Geoffrey Goddard.

  “You know?” she asked in surprise.

  He nodded. “I saw the Prince looking your way. It was a good thing you bent down, or he’d have chosen you next.”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course,” she said, realizing he had been talking about her escape from being forced to shoot, and not her escape from death.

  “The Prince often gets like this. It’s best to keep out of the way and wait for him to tire of the game. He always does in the end. He will soon move on to something else. Would you care for a pinch of snuff?” he asked, taking a small and exquisitely engraved box out of his pocket.

  “No, thank you,” said Cassandra.

  He flicked it open and took a pinch. As he did so, Cassandra noticed the inside of his wrist, and on it she saw he had a mole. It was the same mole she had seen on the wrist of the person who had tried to drown her. She felt herself grow cold. The murderer was here in the room, standing right next to her. It was Geoffrey Goddard. She glanced at Matthew. The Prince was handing him the air pistol. It would be some minutes before he would return to her side.

  “Is anything the matter?” said Mr. Goddard.

  “Oh, no, I was just hoping the Prince would not look this way again,” she said, wanting to back away from him but knowing that she must not let him know that she had recognized him.

  “He’s been a prince too long,” said Mr. Goddard. “He has nothing to do, and he needs excitement. This is how he gets it.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Cassandra, growing more and more uneasy, and wondering how she was to get away from Mr. Goddard.

  And then she was saved by one of Mr. Goddard’s friends greeting him. Whilst he was distracted she slipped away from him, hugging the walls as she crossed the room. She went through a door into the hall and felt a surge of relief as she closed it behind her. She had escaped. Now she had only to find Justin and she could tell him what she had discovered before she left the Pavilion.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Cassandra looked about her, trying to get her bearings. She found that she was in the Chinese Gallery and did not know which way to go. She looked around for a footman, meaning to ask if he had seen Justin, but there was no one in sight. The gallery was empty. It was probably only the effects of her overstretched nerves, but she found the atmosphere oppressive. The Chinese mandarins set into niches no longer seemed exotic, they seemed ominous. Their faces were bland and their eyes were staring. Their robes were grotesque, making it seem as though at any moment they might come to life.

  She felt her heart begin to beat more quickly as she began to traverse the empty gallery, her footsteps falling softly
on the thick carpet. What if she lost her way in the strange corridors? What if she couldn’t find Justin? Even worse, what if Mr. Goddard followed her into the gallery? She glanced over her shoulder nervously, but it was empty. She continued in what she hoped was the right direction, finding the silence unnerving.

  The gallery seemed endless. It stretched ahead of her for miles…Miles? It could not be that long. And yet, although it was absolutely straight, she could not see the end of it. She felt the small hairs at the nape of her neck begin to rise. There was something very strange about the gallery. The bamboo murals and the Chinese lanterns seemed alien, out of place, and she longed to see something English. But all she could see was the endless corridor, stretching into an unimaginable distance…and then she came to a pair of doors. She stopped just before she bumped into them and laughed at herself. The doors were backed with mirrors! The endless gallery was a trick, and nothing more.

  Feeling heartened, she opened the doors and saw the bamboo staircase beyond. She went forward cautiously. The staircase curved upward gracefully in two arcs, which met above as they led upstairs. She looked at the staircase more closely. It was not made of bamboo after all, but iron made to look like bamboo. The Pavilion, which seemed so beautiful and ethereal, was a fake.

  She was about to turn round and retrace her steps when she thought she caught sight of a slight movement behind her, out of the corner of her eye. She whirled round and looked back along the gallery but could not see anything. Could Mr. Goddard be hiding there? she wondered. Behind one of the mandarin statues, perhaps? It was not likely; surely there was not enough space for a man to squeeze behind them? But he could be hiding in one of the water closets, for the Pavilion was not only beautiful, it was equipped with the most modern conveniences, and water closets opened off the gallery’s length.