Chasing Cassandra Page 4

  “Fortunately not, sir. The range fire has been put out, and the pipe valve has been closed. Regrettably, the master plumber is on holiday, and the nearest one is in Alton. Shall I send a footman to—”

  “Wait,” Severin interrupted brusquely. “Which valve? The one to the cold water supply pipe or the one to the water-back?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know, sir.”

  Devon looked at Severin sharply.

  Severin’s mouth curved with grim amusement. “If something were going to blow up,” he said in answer to the unvoiced question, “it would have by now. But you’d better let me take a look at it.”

  Grateful that his friend was an expert in steam engine mechanics and could probably build a boiler while blindfolded, Devon led the way downstairs.

  The kitchen was a ferment of activity, with servants rushing to and fro with baskets from the gardens, and crates from the icehouse and cellar.

  “We’ll make German potato salad,” the grim-faced cook was saying to the housekeeper, who took notes. “We’ll serve it with cuts of beef, ham, tongue, and galantine of veal. On the side, relish trays with caviar, radishes, olives, and celery on ice—” Catching sight of Devon, the cook turned and curtsied. “My lord,” she exclaimed, visibly fighting back tears, “it’s a disaster. Of all times to lose the cooking range! We’ll have to change the dinner menu to a cold buffet.”

  “As the weather has been so warm,” Devon replied, “the guests would probably prefer that. Do your best, Mrs. Bixby. I’m sure the results will be excellent.”

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Church, looked harried as she spoke to him. “Lord Trenear, the kitchen boiler supplies hot water to some of the first- and second-floor bathrooms. Soon the guests will want to bathe and change before dinner. We’ve set up pots to boil on the old kitchen hearth, and the servants will carry up cans of hot water, but with such a large crowd and so many extra chores, they’ll be pushed to their limit.”

  Severin had already gone to inspect the boiler, which still radiated heat even though the fire had been put out. The cylindrical copper tank was set on a stand beside the range and connected by copper pipes.

  “The part that shot through the air was the safety valve,” Severin said over his shoulder. “It did exactly what it was supposed to do: relieve built-up pressure before the boiler ruptured.” Picking up a rag from the long kitchen worktable, he used it to open a range door, and lowered to his haunches to look inside. “I see two issues. First, the water tank inside the range is producing too much heat for a boiler this size to handle. It’s straining the copper shell. You’ll need to install a larger boiler—eighty gallons or more. Until then, you’ll have to keep the oven fire lower than usual.” He examined a pipe connected to the boiler. “This is the more serious problem—the supply pipe leading into the boiler is too narrow. If hot water is drawn out of the boiler faster than it’s refilled, steam will build until it eventually causes a rip-roaring explosion. I can replace the pipe right away if you have the supplies.”

  “I’m sure we do,” Devon replied ruefully. “Plumbing work never ends in this house.”

  Severin rose to his feet and took off his coat. “Mrs. Bixby,” he said to the cook, “would you and your staff be able to stay clear of this area while I do the repairs?”

  “Will your work be dangerous?” she asked apprehensively.

  “Not at all, but I’ll need room to measure and saw pipes, and spread out the tools. I wouldn’t want to trip anyone.”

  The cook looked at him as if he were her guardian angel. “We’ll keep to the other side of the kitchen and use the scullery sink.”

  Severin grinned at her. “Give me five or six hours, and I’ll have everything back in working order.”

  Devon felt more than a little apologetic about putting him to work when all the rest of the guests were relaxing. “Tom,” he began, “you don’t have to—”

  “Finally,” Severin interrupted cheerfully, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs, “there’s something interesting to do at your house.”

  Chapter 5

  ALTHOUGH CASSANDRA WAS TIRED after the excitement and bustle of Pandora’s wedding, she couldn’t seem to relax sufficiently to take a nap. Her thoughts were restless, her mind running in place. By now, Pandora and Lord St. Vincent had probably reached the Isle of Wight, where they would spend their honeymoon at a fine old hotel. Tonight, Pandora would lie in the arms of her husband and experience the intimacies of the marital relationship.

  The thought caused a twinge of something that felt like jealousy. Although Cassandra was glad Pandora had married the man she loved, she wanted her own forever to begin. It didn’t seem entirely fair that Pandora, who’d never wanted to marry, now had a husband, whereas Cassandra was facing the prospect of yet another London Season. The thought of meeting the same people, dancing the same dances, all that lemonade and stale conversation … God, how dismal. She couldn’t fathom how the outcome would be any different the next time around.

  Hearing the laughter and shouts of the younger guests playing lawn tennis and croquet, Cassandra considered going outside to join them. No. The effort of pretending to be cheerful was more than she could manage.

  After changing into a yellow day dress with airy pagoda sleeves that ended at the elbow, she went to the family’s private upstairs parlor. The family dogs, a pair of small black spaniels named Napoleon and Josephine, saw her in the hallway and trotted after her. The parlor was comfortably cluttered with heaps of colorful cushions on the furniture, a battered piano in the corner, and piles of books everywhere.

  She sat cross-legged on the carpet with the dogs, smiling as they bounded in and out of her lap excitedly. “We don’t need Prince Charming, do we?” she asked them aloud. “No, we do not. There’s a patch of sun on the carpet and books nearby—that’s all we need to be happy.”

  The spaniels stretched out in a bright yellow rectangle, wriggling and sighing in contentment.

  After petting and scratching the dogs for a while, Cassandra reached out to a stack of books on a low table, and sorted through them idly. Double Wedding … The Secret Duke … My Dashing Suitor, and other romantic novels she had read and reread. Much lower in the pile, there were books such as History of the Thirty Years’ Peace and Life of Nelson, the kind one read in case one was called upon to make insightful comments at dinner.

  She came across a novel with a familiar title stamped in gilt on green leather: Around the World in Eighty Days, by Jules Verne. She and Pandora had especially liked the novel’s hero, a wealthy and adventurous Englishman named Phileas Fogg, who was something of an odd duck.

  As a matter of fact … this would be the perfect recommendation for Mr. Severin. She would make a gift of it to him. Lady Berwick would say it wasn’t appropriate, but Cassandra was intensely curious about what he would make of it. If, of course, he bothered to read it at all.

  Leaving the dogs to nap in the parlor, she headed to the grand double staircase that led to the main floor. She kept to the side of the hallway as one of the footmen, Peter, approached from the opposite direction with two large brass hot-water cans.

  “Pardon, milady,” the footman said, setting down the sloshing cans to flex his aching hands and arms.

  “Peter,” Cassandra said in concern, “why are you carrying all that water? Problems with the plumbing again?”

  As soon as Devon had inherited Eversby Priory, he’d insisted on having the manor fully plumbed. The process was still ongoing, since much of the ancient flooring they had pulled up had been in a state of decay, and many of the walls had to be rebuilt and freshly plastered. The family had become accustomed to the fact that at any given time, something in the ancient house was being repaired.

  “Kitchen boiler’s broken,” Peter said.

  “Oh, no. I hope they can find someone to repair it soon.”

  “They already have.”

  “Thank goodness. Peter, do you happen to know which room Mr. Severin is occupying?”

&n
bsp; “He’s not staying at the manor, milady. He brought his private railway carriage to the estate quarry halt.”

  Cassandra frowned thoughtfully. “I’m not sure how to deliver this book to him. I suppose I’ll ask Sims.”

  “He’s in the kitchen. Not Sims … I mean Mr. Severin. He’s the one working on the boiler.”

  Dumbfounded, Cassandra asked, “You’re referring to Mr. Severin the railway magnate?”

  “Yes, milady. Never seen a gentleman so handy with a wrench and saw. Took apart the boiler pipe system like a child’s toy.”

  She tried to picture the urbane and impeccably dressed Tom Severin with a wrench in his hand, but even her lively imagination wasn’t up to the task.

  This had to be investigated.

  Cassandra went downstairs, stopping briefly at the parlor on the main floor. After pouring a glass of chilled water from a silver refreshment tray, she continued to the basement, where the kitchen, scullery, pantry and larder, and servants’ hall were located.

  The cavernous kitchen was filled with quiet, frantic activity. Cook instructed a row of kitchen maids as they peeled and chopped vegetables at the long worktable, while the assistant cook stood at a solid marble bowl, grinding herbs with a pestle. A gardener came through the back door with a basket of greens and set it near the scullery sink.

  It appeared as if an invisible line had been drawn through the kitchen. One side was teeming with servants, while the other side was empty except for a lone man in front of the cooking range.

  A bemused smile crossed Cassandra’s face as she saw Tom Severin kneeling on the floor with his thighs spread for balance, a steel pipe cutter in one hand. In contrast to his earlier polished elegance, he was in shirtsleeves with the cuffs rolled up over his forearms and the collar unfastened. A well-formed man, wide-shouldered and long in the bone. He was steaming in the residual heat from the range, the cropped hair at the back of his neck damp with sweat, the fine linen of his shirt clinging to a hard-muscled back.

  Well. This was an eye-opener, in more ways than one.

  Deftly he clamped a copper pipe into the cutter blades and trimmed it with a few controlled rotations. After inserting a wooden turnpin into one end, he reached for a nearby mallet and flipped it in the air to catch it by the handle. Every movement was skilled and precise as he hammered the cone-shaped turnpin into the pipe to create a flared edge.

  As Cassandra approached, Mr. Severin paused and looked up, his eyes a jolt of intense blue-green. A peculiar feeling went through her, as if an electrical circuit had just been completed, and steady voltage were humming between them. A quizzical smile touched his lips. He seemed as surprised to see her in the kitchen as she was to find him there. Setting aside the tools, he made to stand, but she stopped him with a quick gesture.

  “Are you thirsty?” she asked, handing him the glass of chilled water. He took it with a murmur of thanks. In just a few long gulps, he had drained it.

  After blotting his perspiring face on a shirtsleeve, Mr. Severin said ruefully, “You’ve caught me at a disadvantage, my lady.”

  Cassandra was inwardly amused by his discomfort at being less than perfectly attired and groomed in front of her. But she actually preferred him like this, all disheveled and unguarded. “You’re a hero, Mr. Severin. Without you, we would all be doomed to cold baths, and no tea for breakfast.”

  He handed back the empty glass. “Well, we can’t have that.”

  “I’ll leave you to your work, but first …” Cassandra gave the book to him. “I brought this for you. A gift.” His thick lashes lowered as he studied the cover. She couldn’t help noticing how beautiful his hair was, the black locks cut in well-shaped layers that almost begged to be played with. Her fingers actually twitched with the urge to touch him, and she curled them tightly against her palm. “It’s a novel by Jules Verne,” she continued. “He writes for young readers, but adults enjoy his work as well.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “An Englishman who accepts a wager to go around the world in eighty days. He travels by train, ships, horse, elephant, and even a wind-powered sledge.”

  Mr. Severin’s perplexed gaze met hers. “Why read an entire novel about that when you could obtain the itinerary from a travel office?”

  She smiled at that. “The novel isn’t about the itinerary. What’s important is what he learns along the way.”

  “Which is?”

  “Read it,” she challenged, “and find out.”

  “I will.” Carefully he set the book beside a canvas plumber’s bag. “Thank you.”

  Cassandra hesitated before leaving. “May I stay for a few minutes?” she asked impulsively. “Would that bother you?”

  “No, but it’s as hot as blue blazes in here, and it’s a fine day outside. Shouldn’t you spend time with the other guests?”

  “I don’t know most of them.”

  “You don’t know me either.”

  “Then let’s become acquainted,” Cassandra said lightly, lowering herself to a cross-legged position. “We can talk while you work. Or do you need silence to concentrate?”

  A small but noticeable stir ran through the kitchen staff as they saw one of the ladies of the house sitting on the floor.

  “I don’t need silence,” Mr. Severin said. “But if you end up in trouble for this, I want it known I had nothing to do with it.”

  Cassandra grinned. “The only person who would scold is Lady Berwick, and she never sets foot in the kitchen.” With a self-satisfied air, she gathered the excess fabric of her skirts and tucked it beneath her. “How do you know so much about all of this?”

  Mr. Severin picked up a shave hook with a wickedly sharp blade and began to carve burrs from the pipe’s copper edge. “As a boy, I apprenticed at a tramway construction company. I built steam engines during the day and took courses in mechanical engineering at night.”

  “What is that, exactly?” she asked. “The only thing I know about engineers is there’s always one on the train.” Seeing the beginnings of a smile on his lips, she rushed on before he could reply. “How stupid I must sound. Never mind—”

  “No,” he said swiftly. “There’s nothing wrong about not knowing something. The stupid people are the ones who think they know everything.”

  Cassandra smiled and relaxed. “What does a mechanical engineer do?”

  Mr. Severin continued to carve the inside of the copper pipe as he replied, “He designs, builds, and operates machines.”

  “Any kind of machine?”

  “Yes. The engineer on the train is responsible for the operation of the locomotive and all its moving parts.” He picked up a round brush and began to scrub the inside of the pipe.

  “May I do that?” Cassandra asked.

  Mr. Severin paused, giving her a skeptical glance.

  “Let me,” she coaxed, leaning closer to take the brush and pipe from him. His breath caught audibly, and he suddenly had the kind of dazed, unfocused expression men sometimes wore when they found her especially pretty. Patiently she eased the objects from his lax hands.

  After a moment, Mr. Severin seemed to collect his wits. “Helping with plumbing repairs doesn’t seem like something you should be doing,” he commented, his gaze flickering to the gauzy sleeves of her dress.

  “It isn’t,” Cassandra admitted, scrubbing the pipe. “But I don’t always behave properly. It’s difficult for someone who was raised with hardly any rules to learn a great many at once.”

  “I’m not fond of rules myself.” Mr. Severin bent to inspect a copper fitting protruding from the boiler, and polished it with emery cloth. “They’re usually for other people’s benefit, not mine.”

  “You must have some personal rules, though.”

  “Three.”

  Cassandra lifted her brows. “Only three?”

  Although his face was partially averted, she saw the flash of his grin. “Three good ones.”

  “What are they?”

  Mr. Severin rumm
aged through the plumber’s bag as he replied, “Never lie. Always do favors for people whenever possible. Remember everything they promise in the main part of the contract can be taken back in the fine print.”

  “Those sound like good rules,” Cassandra said. “I wish I had only three, but I have to follow hundreds.”

  He opened a tin of paste labeled flux and used a forefinger to apply it to the pipe and fitting. “Tell me some.”

  Cassandra obliged readily. “When introduced to a gentleman, never look higher than his collar button. Don’t accept costly gifts; it will put you under obligation. It’s not nice to wear a tall hat while attending a play. And—this is an important one—never let the dogs stay in the room when you’re working with feathers and glue. Also—”

  “Wait,” Mr. Severin said, sitting up and wiping his hands with a rag. “Why can’t you look higher than a man’s collar button when you meet him?”

  “Because if I look at his face,” Cassandra said primly, “he’ll think I’m too bold.”

  “He may think you need an eye examination.”

  A chuckle escaped before she could restrain it. “Make fun if you like, but it’s a rule one can’t break.”

  “You looked directly at me when we first met,” Mr. Severin pointed out.

  Cassandra sent him a gently admonishing glance. “That wasn’t really an introduction. Leaping out like that during a private conversation …”

  He didn’t even try to look contrite. “I couldn’t help it. I had to offer you an alternative to marrying West Ravenel.”

  Hot color flooded over her face and body. The conversation had abruptly become far too personal. “That was a silly impulse on my part. I was anxious—because sometimes it seems as if I’ll never—but I wouldn’t. Marry West, I mean.”

  His gaze searched her face intently. “You don’t have feelings for him, then?” His voice had lowered a note or two, in a way that made the question seem even more intimate than it was.

  “No, he’s like an uncle.”

  “An uncle you proposed to.”

  “In a moment of desperation,” she protested. “You’ve had one of those, surely.”