Chasing Cassandra Page 3

  “Why are you not sitting at one of the tables with the guests?” Lady Berwick demanded.

  Cassandra shrugged and replied sheepishly, “I had a little spell of melancholy after Pandora left.”

  The older woman’s keen eyes softened. “Your turn is next, my dear. And I intend for you to make an even more brilliant match than your sister.” She flicked a deliberate glance at a distant table where Lord Foxhall sat with companions. “As Lord Westcliff’s heir, Foxhall will someday inherit the oldest and most distinguished title in the peerage. He will outrank everyone, even St. Vincent. Marry him, and you will someday have precedence over your sister, and walk in front of her when going in to dinner.”

  “Pandora would love that,” Cassandra said, smiling at the thought of her mischievous twin. “It would give her the chance to whisper insults behind me, while I couldn’t turn around to respond.”

  Lady Berwick didn’t appear to share her amusement. “Pandora has always been resistant to my guidance,” she observed crisply. “Nevertheless, she has somehow managed to marry well, and so shall you. Come, we will converse with Lord Foxhall and his brother Mr. Marsden, who is also a fine marital prospect.”

  Cassandra cringed inwardly at the thought of making stilted small talk with the two brothers under Lady Berwick’s watchful eye. “Ma’am,” she said reluctantly, “I’ve already met both gentlemen, and found them quite courteous. But I don’t think either of them would suit me, nor I them.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “Oh … they’re both so … athletic. They like hunting, riding, fishing, outside games, and manly sorts of contests …” Her voice trailed away, and she made a comical little grimace.

  “There’s a wild streak in the Marsden brood,” Lady Berwick said with a hint of disapproval, “which undoubtedly comes from the mother. American, you know. However, they’ve all been respectably raised and educated, and Westcliff’s fortune is beyond calculation.”

  Cassandra decided to be blunt. “I’m certain I could never fall in love with Lord Foxhall or his brother.”

  “As I’ve told you before, that is irrelevant.”

  “Not to me.”

  “A love match has no more substance than one of those silly floating island desserts you’re so fond of—a bit of sugar-foam one chases all around the plate with a spoon until it collapses.”

  “But ma’am, surely you’re not against marrying for love if the gentleman is suitable in all other ways?”

  “Indeed, I am against it. When the marital union begins with love, it inevitably descends into disappointment. But a union of interests, aided by liking, will result in a stable and productive marriage.”

  “That’s not a very romantic view,” Cassandra dared to say.

  “Too many young women are romantic nowadays, and they are much the worse for it. Romance clouds the judgment and loosens the corset strings.”

  Cassandra sighed ruefully. “I wish I could loosen mine.” She could hardly wait to rush upstairs after this interminable buffet and change into a regular corset and a comfortable day gown.

  Lady Berwick gave her a fond but reproving glance. “Not so many biscuits at teatime, Cassandra. You could do with some slimming before the Season begins.”

  Cassandra nodded, coloring in shame.

  “This is a dangerous time for you, my dear,” Lady Berwick continued quietly. “Your first social Season was a triumph. You were acknowledged a great beauty, which excited much admiration and jealousy. However, turning down all those proposals could garner accusations of pride and vanity, and create the impression that you like to play with men’s hearts. Obviously, nothing could be farther from the truth—but the truth hardly matters to London society. Gossip feeds on lies. You would do well to accept some appropriate gentleman’s offer this next Season—the sooner, the better.”

  Chapter 4

  “I’M AFRAID THE ANSWER is no,” Devon, Lord Trenear, said, disgruntled to find himself having a brandy in his private study with Severin instead of lounging in bed with his wife.

  “But you gave Helen to Winterborne,” Severin protested. “I can’t be a worse prospect than he was.”

  Now that the wedding breakfast had concluded, the day had become relaxed and formless, the atmosphere easing like a pair of shoes that had been untied. Guests had dispersed in groups, some going out for walks or carriage drives, some enjoying lawn tennis or bowling, while others chose to rest in their rooms. Devon’s petite, red-haired wife, Kathleen, had whispered provocatively in his ear that he should come join her upstairs for a nap, an idea he’d agreed to with great enthusiasm.

  On the way upstairs, however, Tom Severin had cornered him with a request to speak privately. Devon wasn’t at all surprised to learn what his friend wanted. He’d always suspected this would happen as soon as Severin, an avid collector of beautiful things, met Cassandra.

  “I didn’t give Helen to Winterborne,” Devon said. “They both wanted to marry, and—” He broke off and sighed shortly. “No, that’s not entirely true.” Scowling, he wandered to the bank of glittering multipaned windows set in a deep wainscoted recess.

  Two years ago, when Devon had unexpectedly inherited the earldom, he’d also become guardian to the three Ravenel sisters. His first thought had been to marry the sisters off as quickly as possible, ideally to wealthy men who would pay generously for the privilege. But as Devon had become acquainted with Helen, Pandora, and Cassandra, it had begun to sink in that they depended on him, and it was his job to look out for their interests.

  “Severin,” he said carefully, “two years ago, I had the incredible arrogance to offer Helen’s hand in marriage to Rhys Winterborne as if she were an hors d’oeuvre on a tray.”

  “Yes, I know. May I have one too?”

  Devon ignored the question. “The point is, I shouldn’t have.” His mouth twisted in self-mockery. “It’s been impressed on me since then that women are actually thinking, feeling beings with hopes and dreams.”

  “I can afford Cassandra’s hopes and dreams,” Severin said promptly. “All of them. I can afford hopes and dreams she hasn’t even thought of yet.”

  Devon shook his head. “There’s much you don’t understand about Cassandra and her sisters. Their upbringing was … unusual.”

  Severin looked at him alertly. “From what I’ve heard, they lived a sheltered existence in the country.”

  “‘Sheltered’ is one word for it. More accurately, they were neglected. Confined to a rural country estate and virtually forgotten. What attention their parents did spare from pursuing their selfish pleasures was given exclusively to their only son, Theo. And even after he inherited the title, he didn’t bother to give any of the girls a Season.”

  Pushing away from the desk, Devon went to an open cabinet built into a niche on the other side of the study. A few ornamental objects had been arranged on the display shelves: an antique jeweled snuffbox, a collection of framed miniature portraits, a marquetry cigar case … and a trio of tiny taxidermied goldcrests perched on a branch, encased in the airless isolation of a glass dome.

  “There’s no object in the house,” Devon commented, regarding the glass dome, “that I hate as much as this one. According to the housekeeper, the earl always kept it in his study. Either he was amused by the symbolism, or he didn’t recognize it: I can’t decide which is more damning.”

  Severin’s incisive gaze went from the decoration to Devon’s face. “Not everyone is as sentimental as you, Trenear,” he said dryly.

  “I made a promise to myself: When Cassandra is happily married, I’m going to smash this.”

  “Your wish is about to come true.”

  “I said happily married.” Devon turned to set a shoulder against the cabinet, his arms folded across his chest. “After years of being rejected by the people who were supposed to love her, Cassandra needs closeness and attention. She needs affection, Tom.”

  “I can do affection,” Severin protested.

  Devon shook his
head in exasperation. “You would eventually find her smothering—inconvenient—you’d grow cold to her, and then I’d have to kill you. And then I’d be obliged to revive you so West could have the satisfaction of killing you.” Devon paused, at a loss for how to convey how utterly wrong the pairing would be. “You know a score of beautiful women who would marry you on the spot if you asked. Any one of them would serve your purposes. Forget this one. Cassandra wants to marry for love.”

  “What does love guarantee?” Severin scoffed. “How many cruelties have been committed in the name of love? For centuries, women have been abused and betrayed by the men who profess to love them. If you ask me, a woman would benefit far more from a diversified investment portfolio than love.”

  Devon’s eyes narrowed. “I warn you, if you start talking circles around me, it’s going to end with a hard right cross to your chin. My wife expects me to join her upstairs for a nap.”

  “How could a grown man sleep in the middle of the day? Why would you even want to?”

  “I wasn’t planning to sleep,” Devon said curtly.

  “Oh. Well, I would like to have my own wife to nap with. In fact, I’d like some good, hard napping on a regular basis.”

  “Why don’t you take a mistress?”

  “A mistress is a temporary solution to a long-term problem. A wife is more economical and convenient, and produces legitimate children, not bastards. Moreover, Cassandra would be the kind of wife I would actually want to sleep with.” As Severin read the refusal in Devon’s expression, he added quickly, “All I’m asking for is the chance to become acquainted. If she’s willing. Let me call on the family once or twice when you’re back in London. If it turns out she’d rather not see me, I’ll keep my distance.”

  “Cassandra is free to exercise her own judgment. But I’ll advise her to the best of my ability—and my opinion isn’t going to change. This match would be a mistake for both of you.”

  Severin regarded him with a faint frown of concern. “Does this have something to do with the lease agreement? Is that something I should apologize for?”

  Devon was torn between laughing and delivering the aforementioned right cross. “Only you would have to ask that.”

  He would never forget the hell of negotiating with Severin two years ago, over a lease deal that would allow Severin to build railway tracks over a corner of the estate land. Severin could think ten times faster than most people, and he remembered bloody everything. He loved to jab, duck, and dodge, all for the pure fun of keeping his opponent off balance. The mental exercise had exhausted and infuriated everyone, including the lawyers, and the most maddening part was the realization that Severin had been enjoying himself immensely.

  Through sheer mulish stubbornness, Devon had managed to maintain his position and end up with a satisfactory deal. Only later had he discovered how perilously close he’d come to losing a fortune in mineral rights from his own property.

  Not for the first time, Devon wondered how Severin could be so perceptive about people and yet understand so damned little about them. “It wasn’t one of your finer moments,” he said sardonically.

  Looking troubled, Severin stood and began to pace. “I don’t always think the way other people do,” he muttered. “Negotiations are a game to me.”

  “I know,” Devon said. “You were no more likely to tip your hand during those negotiations than you would have during a round of poker. You always play to win—it’s why you’re so good at what you do. But it was far from a game to me. Two hundred tenant families live on this estate. We needed the income from that quarry to help ensure their survival. Without it, we might have gone into bankruptcy.”

  Severin stopped at the fireplace mantel and reached up to rub the close-cropped hair at the nape of his neck. “I should have considered that the contract might mean something different to you than it did to me.”

  Devon shrugged. “It’s not your place to worry about my tenants. They’re my responsibility.”

  “It’s also not my place to harm the interests of a good friend.” Severin looked at him steadily. “I apologize for the way I acted that day.”

  It was at moments like this that Devon realized how seldom Severin held his gaze, or anyone’s, for longer than a second. He seemed to ration his moments of connection as if they were somehow dangerous to him.

  “Already forgiven,” Devon said simply.

  But Severin seemed determined to continue. “I would have reverted the mineral rights back to you as soon as I realized it was endangering your estate. I’m not saying that because of my interest in Cassandra. I mean it.”

  In the ten years of their acquaintance, Severin hadn’t apologized to Devon more than a half-dozen times. As Severin’s fortune and power had soared, his willingness to humble himself had declined proportionately.

  Devon thought back to the night they’d met at an obscure London tavern. Earlier that day, West had appeared at the doorstep of Devon’s terrace apartment with the news that he’d just been expelled from Oxford for setting fire to his room. Simultaneously furious and worried, Devon had hauled his younger brother to the darkest corner of the tavern, where they had talked and argued over pitchers of ale.

  Unexpectedly, a stranger had broken into the private conversation. “You should be congratulating him,” came a cool, assured voice from a nearby table, “not raking him over the coals.”

  Devon had glanced over to a dark-haired fellow sitting at a table of jug-bitten buffoons who were all crooning a popular drinking song. The young man had been lanky and broomstick-thin, with high cheekbones and piercing eyes.

  “Congratulating him for what?” Devon had snapped. “Two years of wasted tuition?”

  “Better than four years of wasted tuition.” Deciding to abandon his companions, the man had dragged his chair to the Ravenels’ table without asking to be invited. “Here’s the truth no one wants to admit: At least eighty percent of what they teach at university is thoroughly useless. The remaining twenty percent is helpful if you’re studying a particular scientific or technological discipline. However, since your brother will obviously never be a doctor or mathematician, he’s just saved himself a great deal of time and money.”

  West had stared at the stranger owlishly. “Either you have two different colored eyes,” he’d commented, “or I’m drunker than I thought.”

  “Oh, you’re as drunk as a fiddler,” the man assured him pleasantly. “But yes, they’re two different colors: I have heterochromia.”

  “Is it catching?” West had asked.

  The stranger had grinned. “No, it was from a sock in the eye when I was twelve.”

  The man had been Tom Severin, of course, who had voluntarily left the University of Cambridge out of disdain for having to take courses he had decided were irrelevant. He only cared to learn things that would help him make money. No one—least of all Tom—had doubted that he would someday become an extraordinarily successful businessman.

  Whether he was successful as a human being, however, was still open to question.

  There was something different about Severin today, Devon thought. A look of being stranded in some foreign place without a map. “How are you, Tom?” he asked with a touch of concern. “Why are you really here?”

  Severin’s usual response would have been something flippant and amusing. Instead, he said distractedly, “I don’t know.”

  “Is there a problem with one of your businesses?”

  “No, no,” Severin said with a touch of impatience. “All that’s fine.”

  “Your health, then?”

  “No. It’s only that lately … I seem to want something I don’t have. But I don’t know what it is. And that’s impossible. I have everything.”

  Devon bit back a wry smile. The conversation always became somewhat tortured whenever Severin, who was habitually detached from his emotions, tried to identify one of them. “Do you think it could be loneliness?” he suggested.

  “No, it’s not that.
” Severin looked pensive. “What do you call it when everything seems boring and pointless, and even the people you know well are like strangers?”

  “Loneliness,” Devon said flatly.

  “Damn it. That makes six.”

  “Six what?” Devon asked in bewilderment.

  “Feelings. I’ve never had more than five feelings, and they’re hard enough to manage as it is. I’ll be damned if I’ll add another.”

  Shaking his head, Devon went to retrieve his glass of brandy. “I don’t want to know what your five feelings are,” he said. “I’m sure the answer would worry me.”

  The conversation was interrupted by a discreet knock at the partially open study door.

  “What is it?” Devon asked.

  The estate’s elderly butler, Sims, came to stand just inside the threshold. His expression was as imperturbable as ever, but he was blinking at a faster rate than usual, and his elbows were pulled in tightly at his sides. Since Sims wouldn’t turn a hair even if a Viking horde were battering down the front door, these subtle signs indicated nothing less than catastrophe.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I find it necessary to inquire whether you might know Mr. Ravenel’s whereabouts.”

  “He said something about plowing stubble on the turnip fields,” Devon said. “But I don’t know if he meant at the home farms or at a tenant leasehold.”

  “With your permission, my lord, I shall dispatch a footman to find him. We need his counsel regarding a predicament in the kitchen.”

  “What kind of predicament?”

  “According to Cook, the kitchen boiler began to make a fearful clanging and knocking, approximately one hour ago. A metal part burst through the air as if it had been shot from a cannon.”

  Devon’s eyes widened, and he let out a curse.

  “Indeed, my lord,” Sims said.

  Problems with a kitchen boiler were nothing to take lightly. Fatal explosions resulting from faulty installation or mishandling were routinely reported in the newspapers.

  “Was anyone hurt?” Devon asked.