Chasing Cassandra Page 5

  He shook his head. “Desperation isn’t one of my emotions.”

  “You’ve never felt desperate? About anything?”

  “No, long ago I identified the feelings that were helpful to me. I decided to keep those and not bother with the rest.”

  “Is it possible to dispense with feelings you don’t want?” she asked doubtfully.

  “It is for me.”

  The hushed conversation was interrupted as Cook called out from the other side of the room, “How goes it with the boiler, Mr. Severin?”

  “The end is in sight,” he assured her.

  “Lady Cassandra,” the cook persisted, “mind you don’t distract the gentleman while he’s working.”

  “I won’t,” Cassandra replied dutifully. At Mr. Severin’s quick look askance, she explained sotto voce, “Cook has known me since I was a little girl. She used to let me sit on a stool at the worktable and play with scraps of dough.”

  “What were you like as a little girl?” he asked. “Prim and proper, with your hair in curls?”

  “No, I was a ragamuffin, with scraped knees and twigs in my hair. What were you like? Wild and playful, I suppose, as most boys are.”

  “Not especially,” Mr. Severin said, his expression becoming shuttered. “My childhood was … short.”

  She tilted her head and regarded him curiously. “Why?”

  As the silence spun out, she realized Mr. Severin was debating whether to explain. A slight frown appeared between his dark brows. “One day when I was ten,” he eventually said, “my father took me with him to Kings Cross station. He was looking for work, and they were advertising for baggage men. But when we reached the station, he told me to go to the general office and ask for a job. He had to go away for a while, he said. I would have to take care of my mother and sisters until he came back. Then he went to buy a ticket for himself.”

  “Did he ever return?” she asked gently.

  His reply was brusque. “It was a one-way ticket.”

  Poor boy, Cassandra thought, but she didn’t say it, sensing he would resent anything that sounded like pity. She understood, though, about what it was like to be abandoned by a father. Even though hers had never left for good, he’d often spent weeks or even months away from Eversby Priory.

  “Did they give you a job at the station?” she asked.

  A brief nod. “I was hired as a train boy, to sell newspapers and food. One of the station agents advanced me enough money to make a decent start. I’ve supported my mother and sisters ever since.”

  Cassandra was quiet as she absorbed this new information about the man she’d heard described in such contradictory terms. Callous, generous, honest, crafty, dangerous … sometimes a friend, sometimes an adversary, always an opportunist.

  But regardless of Severin’s complexities, there was much to admire about him. He’d become acquainted with life’s rougher edges at a tender age, and had assumed a man’s responsibilities. And not only had he survived, he’d flourished.

  Cassandra watched as he applied more of the flux paste along the pipe and joint seam. His hands were elegantly long-fingered, but also strong and capable. A few small scars were scattered over his well-muscled forearms, just barely visible beneath a dusting of dark hair.

  “What are those?” she asked.

  Severin followed her gaze down to his arms. “The scars? Spark burns. It happens during forging and welding. Little bits of flaming steel sear through gloves and clothing.”

  Cassandra winced at the thought. “I can’t imagine how painful that must be.”

  “They’re not so bad on the arms: They tend to bounce off sweaty skin.” A reminiscent grin crossed his lips. “It’s the occasional spark that burns through your trouser leg or boot—and sticks—that hurts like the devil.” He struck a Lucifer match against the nearby range and bent to light an alcohol blow-lamp fitted with a perforated nozzle. Gently he adjusted a knob until the nozzle emitted a hissing spear of continuous flame. Gripping the lamp in one hand, he directed the flame against the flux-coated seam until the paste had melted and bubbled. “Now for the fun part,” he said, giving her a bright sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth curling upward. “Would you like to help?”

  “Yes,” Cassandra said without hesitation.

  “There’s a thin stick of metal solder on the floor near the—yes, that’s it. Hold it by one end. You’re going to run a bead around the seam to seal it.”

  “Run a bead?”

  “That means make a line with the tip. Start on the opposite side from where I’m holding the flame.”

  While Severin held the flame against the pipe, Cassandra guided the tip of the solder around the joining. The metal liquefied and flowed instantly. Oh, this was fun—there was something viscerally satisfying about watching the solder run around the seam to form a neat seal.

  “That was perfect,” Mr. Severin said.

  “Is there something else that needs soldering?” she asked, and he laughed at her eagerness.

  “The other end of the pipe.”

  Together they soldered the copper pipe to the joint coming from the wall, both of them intent on the task. They were kneeling a little too close for propriety, but Mr. Severin was being a gentleman. Far more respectful and polite, as a matter of fact, than most of the privileged lords she’d met during the London Season.

  “How curious,” Cassandra said, watching the melted solder run up the seam when it should have dripped downward. “It’s defying gravity. It reminds me of how water runs up the hairs of a paintbrush when I dip it in.”

  “How sharp you are.” There was a smile in his voice. “The cause is the same in both cases. Capillary action, it’s called. In a very narrow space, like the seam of this pipe and fitting, the molecules of the solder are so strongly attracted to the copper, they climb up the surface.”

  Cassandra glowed at the praise. “No one ever calls me sharp. People always say Pandora’s the sharp one.”

  “What do they say about you?”

  She gave a self-deprecating little laugh. “Usually it’s something about my looks.”

  Mr. Severin was silent for a moment. “There’s much more to you than that,” he said gruffly.

  Shy pleasure suffused her until she turned pink from head to toe. She forced herself to concentrate on the soldering, grateful that her hands kept steady even though her heart was charging and halting like an unbroken horse.

  After the pipe had been soldered, Mr. Severin extinguished the flame and took the metal stick from her. It seemed to cost him something to meet her gaze. “The way I proposed to you earlier … I’m sorry. It was … disrespectful. Stupid. Since then I’ve discovered at least a dozen reasons for proposing to you, and beauty is the least of them.”

  Cassandra stared at him in wonder. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  The humid air was scented of him … the pine-tar tang of rosin soap … the acrid bite of shirt starch softening from body heat … and the fresh sweat on his skin, salty and intimate, and oddly compelling. She wanted to lean even closer and take a deep breath of him. His face was over hers, a slant of light from a casement window catching the extra green in one eye. She was utterly fascinated by the cool, disciplined façade overlying something withheld … deeply remote … tantalizing.

  What a pity his heart was frozen. What a pity she could never be happy living in his fast-paced, hard-edged world. Because Tom Severin was turning out to be the most attractive and compelling man she’d ever met.

  The clatter of a bowl on the kitchen worktable recalled her to herself. She blinked and looked away, searching for a way to ease the tension between them. “We’re returning to London soon,” she said. “If you call on the family, I’ll see that you’re invited to dinner, and we can discuss the book.”

  “What if we argue?”

  Cassandra laughed. “Never argue with a Ravenel,” she advised. “We never know when to stop.”

  “I was already aware of that.” A hint of friend
ly mockery entered his tone. “Would you like me better if I agreed with everything you said?”

  “No,” she said easily, “I like you just as you are.”

  Mr. Severin’s expression turned inscrutable, as if she’d spoken in a foreign language he was trying to interpret.

  She’d been too forward, saying such a thing. It had just slipped out. Had she embarrassed him?

  To her relief, the tension was broken as Devon strode briskly into the kitchen, saying, “I arranged for a new boiler. Winterborne doesn’t carry an eighty-gallon model in his store, but he knows a manufacturer who—” He stopped in his tracks, looking aghast as he beheld the two of them. “Cassandra, what the devil are you doing here with Tom Severin? Why don’t you have a chaperone?”

  “There are at least a dozen people working only a few yards away,” Cassandra pointed out.

  “That’s not the same as a chaperone. Why are you on the floor?”

  “I helped Mr. Severin solder a pipe,” she said brightly.

  Devon’s outraged gaze shot to Mr. Severin. “You had her working with an open flame and molten metal?”

  “We were being careful,” Cassandra said defensively.

  Mr. Severin seemed too preoccupied to explain anything. He bent to gather some of the tools and slid them back into the plumber’s bag. One of his hands went to the center of his chest and rubbed surreptitiously.

  Devon reached down to pull Cassandra up. “If Lady Berwick finds out about this, she’ll come down on us like the wrath of Zeus.” He glanced over her and groaned. “Look at you.”

  Cassandra grinned up at him, well aware that she was perspiring and bedraggled, with soot marks on her yellow dress. “You probably thought Pandora was the cause of all our misadventures. But as you see, I’m capable of getting into trouble all on my own.”

  “Pandora would be so proud,” Devon said dryly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Go change your dress before anyone sees you. We’ll have afternoon tea soon, and I’m sure Kathleen will want you to help pour and entertain.”

  Mr. Severin stood as well, and executed a short bow. His face was expressionless. “My lady. Thank you for your assistance.”

  “I’ll see you at tea, then?” Cassandra asked.

  Mr. Severin shook his head. “I’m leaving for London right away. I have a business meeting early tomorrow morning.”

  “Oh,” she said, crestfallen. “I’m sorry to hear that. I … I’ve so enjoyed your company.”

  “As I’ve enjoyed yours,” Mr. Severin replied. But the blue-green eyes now held a chill of wariness. Why had he suddenly become guarded?

  Annoyed and a bit hurt, Cassandra curtsied to him. “Well … good-bye.”

  An abbreviated nod was the only reply.

  “I’ll walk you to the servants’ stairs,” Devon told Cassandra, and she went with him willingly.

  As soon as they had left the kitchen, Cassandra asked in a low voice, “Is Mr. Severin always so mercurial? He was perfectly charming, and then his mood turned sour for no reason.”

  Devon stopped in the hallway and turned her to face him. “Don’t try to understand Tom Severin. You’ll never come up with the right answer, because there isn’t one.”

  “Yes, but … we were getting on so well, and … I liked him so much.”

  “Only because he wanted you to. He’s a master at manipulation.”

  “I see.” Her shoulders slumped as disappointment settled over her. “That must be why he told me the story about his father.”

  “What story?”

  “About the day his father left, when he was a boy.” As she saw Devon’s eyes widen, she asked, “He hasn’t told you that one?”

  Looking perturbed, Devon shook his head. “He never speaks of his father. I assumed he’d passed away.”

  “No, he—” Cassandra stopped. “I don’t think I should repeat a personal confidence.”

  Now Devon wore a troubled frown. “Sweetheart … Severin isn’t like any other man you’ll ever meet. He’s brilliant, unprincipled, and ruthless by nature. I can’t think of a single man in England, not even Winterborne, who’s positioned so exactly at the center of forces that are changing life as we know it. Someday he may be mentioned in history books. But the give-and-take of marriage … the awareness of another person’s needs … those things aren’t in his capacity. Men who make history rarely make good husbands.” He paused before asking gently, “Do you understand?”

  Cassandra nodded, feeling a rush of affection for him. From the moment Devon had arrived at Eversby Priory, he had been kind and caring, the way she and Pandora had always wished their brother, Theo, would have been. “I understand,” she said. “And I trust your judgment.”

  He smiled at her. “Thank you. Now, hurry upstairs before you’re caught … and put Tom Severin out of your mind.”

  LATER THAT NIGHT, after the cold buffet supper, and music and games in the parlor, Cassandra retired to her room. She was sitting at her dressing table when her lady’s maid, Meg, came in to help take down her hair and brush it out.

  Meg set something down on the dresser. “This was found in the kitchen,” she said matter-of-factly. “Mrs. Church told me to bring it up to you.”

  Cassandra blinked in surprise as she beheld the green leather cover of Around the World in Eighty Days. Realizing Mr. Severin had left it behind, she felt the cold weight of disappointment pressing down on her. It had been no accident, this rejection of her gift. He would not call on the family in London. There would be no discussions of books, or anything else.

  He’d proposed marriage in the morning, and abandoned her by evening. What a frustrating, fickle man.

  Slowly Cassandra opened the book and paged through it while the lady’s maid pulled the pins from her hair. Her gaze happened to fall upon a passage in which Phileas Fogg’s faithful valet, Passepartout, was reflecting on his master.

  Phileas Fogg, though brave and gallant, must be … quite heartless.

  Chapter 6

  September

  AFTER THREE MONTHS OF hard work and as many distractions as he’d been able to devise for himself, Tom still hadn’t been able to put Lady Cassandra Ravenel out of his mind. Memories of her kept catching at the edge of his consciousness, sparkling like a tenacious strand of Christmas tinsel stuck in the carpet.

  He wouldn’t have guessed in a million years that Cassandra would have come down to the kitchen to visit him. Nor would he have wanted her to. He’d have chosen far different circumstances, somewhere with flowers and candlelight, or out on a garden terrace. And yet as they’d crouched together on a dirty floor, soldering boiler pipes in a room full of kitchen maids, Tom had been conscious of an unfolding sense of delight. She had been so clever and curious, with a sunny energy that had transfixed him.

  Then had come that moment, when she’d said so artlessly, “I like you just as you are,” and he’d been shaken by his reaction.

  From one moment to the next, Cassandra had gone from being an object of desire to a liability he couldn’t allow. She posed a danger to him, something new and strange, and he wanted none of it. No one could ever have that kind of power over him.

  He was determined to forget her.

  If only that were possible.

  It didn’t help that he was friends with Rhys Winterborne, who was married to Cassandra’s sister Helen. Tom often met Winterborne for a quick lunch at one of the cook shops or chop houses between their respective offices. It was on one of these occasions that Winterborne revealed West Ravenel had just become engaged to marry Phoebe, Lady Clare, a young widow with two small sons, Justin and Stephen.

  “I suspected he would,” Tom said, pleased by the revelation. “I went to Jenner’s Club with him the night before last, and she was all he wanted to talk about.”

  “I heard about that,” Winterborne commented. “It seems you and Ravenel encountered a bit of trouble.”

  Tom rolled his eyes. “Lady Clare’s former suitor came to the table with a pistol
in hand. It wasn’t nearly as interesting as it sounds. He was soon disarmed and hauled off by a night porter.” He leaned back in his seat as the barmaid set plates of chilled crab salad and celery in front of them. “But before that happened, Ravenel was rambling on about Lady Clare, and how he wasn’t good enough for her because of his disreputable past, and how he was worried about setting a bad example for her children.”

  Winterborne’s black eyes were keen with interest. “What did you say?”

  Tom shrugged. “The match is to his advantage, and what else matters? Lady Clare is wealthy, beautiful, and the daughter of a duke. As for her sons … no matter what example you set, children insist on turning out how they will.” Tom took a swallow of ale before continuing. “Scruples always complicate a decision unnecessarily. They’re like those extra body parts none of us need.”

  Winterborne paused in the act of lifting a forkful of dressed crab to his lips. “What extra body parts?”

  “Things like the appendix. Male nipples. The external ears.”

  “I need my ears.”

  “Only the inner parts. The outer ear structure is superfluous in humans.”

  Winterborne looked sardonic. “I need them to hold up my hat.”

  Tom grinned and shrugged, conceding the point. “In any case, Ravenel has managed to win the hand of a fine woman. Good for him.”

  They lifted their glasses and clinked them in a toast.

  “Has a date been set for the wedding?” Tom asked.

  “Not yet, but soon. They’ll have the ceremony in Essex, at the Clare estate. A small affair, with only close friends and relations.” Winterborne picked up a celery stalk and sprinkled it with a pinch of salt as he added, “Ravenel means to invite you.”

  Tom’s fingers clenched reflexively on a lemon wedge. A drop of juice hit his cheek. He dropped the crushed rind and wiped his face with a napkin. “I can’t fathom why,” he muttered. “He’s never put my name on a guest list before. I’d be surprised if he even knew how to spell it. In any case, I hope he won’t waste paper and ink on an invitation for me, since I won’t be going.”