Lady Thief

by Kay Hooper

  Slowly Cassandra said, “Her brother found them—together?”

  “No, for Stone had gone to a nearby livery stable to arrange for a better team of horses. What the brother found was his no-longer-innocent sister in a tumbled bed. She confessed quickly enough, and tearfully I imagine—but what I can’t be sure of is whether he took her away by force or if she went willingly. When Stone followed them back to London—more high drama!—he was told the girl was betrothed to a nabob friend of the brother’s twenty years her senior.”

  “How could she—?”

  “I don’t know. Nor do I know why the nabob overlooked her rather profound indiscretion—unless, of course, he had no idea she had actually given herself to Stone. I suppose the girl was swayed by her brother, or even forced by him, to turn Stone away, but he has always refused to talk about it, and only the two of them and the brother likely know the whole truth.”

  Cassandra swallowed hard. “I heard . . . there was a duel.”

  Lady Harleston nodded. “The brother would have preferred to avoid more doings sure to reach the ears of the ton, I’m sure, but Stone was past reason. I believe he offered what the gentlemen consider unpardonable offense, and they met a few days later. Both were wounded—Stone only slightly, but the brother nearly bled to death. Of course, gossip was rampant, and with the brother badly wounded and the girl sent off with telling speed to marry her nabob and go abroad to live, Stone was the only principal upon whom society could pile its condemnation. The brother left soon after to live abroad himself.”

  After a silent moment Cassandra said, “Stone—the earl left England after that?”

  Lady Harleston did not appear to notice the slip. “Yes, that summer. I believe he has seen much of the world in his travels. He returned only a few years ago, and since then he has worked to restore the Hall.” She paused, then said, “He should have reappeared in society, of course, and quieted if not silenced the wagging tongues, but he did not. So the tales grew wilder, and in them he was painted blacker. You know as well as I that he is still seen as a rake at the very least.”

  Cassandra drew a breath. “Even so, I refuse to behave as if I have done something wrong.”

  “My dear, you know word of your stay here will reach London eventually. Jasper and I can be trusted to keep silent, you may be sure, but servants talk. Tradesmen come to the door, deliveries are made, gossip is exchanged—and before you can say scat, garbled bits of information take on a life of their own. What was, in fact, understandable and perfectly innocent will never be seen as such. If Stone cares a jot about his reputation I have never seen it, but you must care for yours. Your fortune and standing in society may protect you from open hostility, but you will be called upon to pay some price for this, my dear.”

  I already have. But Cassandra did not say those words, of course. Instead, she said steadily, “What would you have me do, my lady? Insist that your brother make me an offer so that we may forestall vulgar speculation?”

  “Why not?”

  Lifting her chin, Cassandra said, “Because it is very obviously not what he wishes to do, ma’am!”

  “What about what you wish him to do?”

  Cassandra felt heat sweep up on her face but managed to keep her voice calm. “He has been very kind, but—”

  “Oh, don’t talk such nonsense! I believe it is said that love and a cough can’t be hidden—and I am neither blind nor stupid. You watched him all evening, and if ever I saw her heart in a woman’s eyes, I saw yours!”

  Shaken, Cassandra could only murmur, “Whatever I may feel, my lady, I nevertheless refuse to force any man to marry me.”

  “He is not a fortune hunter,” his sister declared, “so you need not worry about that. I don’t understand how it came about, but Jasper says Stone turned his West Indian properties to the good after years of neglect, and so recouped much of the fortune our father ran through.”

  Cassandra was glad of that for his sake but shook her head slightly. “You have no need to tell me that, my lady. But I will not marry to protect my reputation. Tomorrow I will return to London, where I will tell my aunt and uncle the circumstances of my stay here.”

  “Sir Basil won’t like it,” Lady Harleston said shrewdly.

  Conjuring a smile, Cassandra said, “Perhaps not, but I manage my own life. If there is talk, I will deal with it in my own way. And that does not include marrying any man to suit society’s notions of propriety.”

  The older woman eyed her for a moment, then rose with a gusty sigh. “It’s a great pity, Miss Eden; I believe you and my brother would deal extremely well together.”

  Cassandra felt the sting of tears and blinked them away. Quietly she said, “Good night, Lady Harleston.”

  “Good night, Miss Eden.”

  When she was alone in her bedroom again, Cassandra sat there at her dressing table for a long time gazing at nothing. She thought she understood a few things now, the information supplied by Lady Harleston having drawn a clearer picture for her.

  Sheffield must have loved that girl very much. Perhaps he still loved her; he certainly felt some bitterness or anger about that episode of his life. It hardly mattered. His attitude toward Cassandra today, as well as what he had said just before Lord and Lady Harleston had arrived, demonstrated his true feelings for her quite clearly.

  “It is just as well you mean to go, Cassie. These past days . . . shut off from outside contact and thrown together as we have been—”

  She really did not need to hear the rest. He did not want another chit of a girl losing her head and ruining his life a second time, obviously. And who could blame him for that? She had lied to him about her identity, had virtually thrown herself at him in the most wanton, unprincipled way . . . He had known how she felt, of course, even his sister had seen it, and this older earl, with his experience of flighty girls with fickle hearts, had decided to take no chances that Cassandra’s foolishly romantic imaginings could cause him trouble.

  Desire was one thing—love quite another.

  Cassandra let herself cry a little, but not for long. She had too much to do, and very little time in which to do it. She dried her eyes and rang for Sarah, and when her maid appeared, said, “Sarah, can you contrive to get a message to John tonight without alerting the Hall staff?”

  Bewildered, Sarah said, “Yes, Miss Cassie, but—”

  “I want you to do so. Tell him we are leaving here at first light and returning to London. Ask him to bring the coach around to the front, as quietly as possible, and not to rap on the door if we are not already waiting. You and I will carry what baggage we can—the rest can be sent.”

  Sarah was staring at her.

  Cassandra passed a hand across her brow and sighed. She was so very tired. “I am sorry to keep you working so late, Sarah, but we shall have to pack tonight, and we must be ready before dawn.”

  “It’s quite all right, miss,” Sarah said mechanically.

  “Thank you. Go and talk to John now, if you please—we have a great deal to do.”

  While her maid went to advise the coachman, Cassandra found paper and ink and concentrated fiercely on composing a suitable note for the earl.

  The snow crunched softly but otherwise muffled the sounds of the coach and horses, and in the gray light of dawn Cassandra left Sheffield Hall. She looked out the coach window until the huge house was lost to sight, then settled back against the cushions with a weary sigh.

  How strange it was to know that her life had been forever changed in less than a week. That she had been changed. A broken axle and a winter storm—fate’s tools.

  And now it was past. She had done the best thing possible by leaving this way. She would return to London, and if there should be talk about her stay at the Hall, she would hold her head up and reply calmly to any remarks addressed to her. And if, after the Season was done, she was unable to bear it any longer, she could retreat to either her uncle’s country home or her own and have the satisfaction of knowing she had
stood firm.

  When Cassandra heard a miserable sniff, she thought at first it was her own. But then she turned her head to find Sarah was trying to inconspicuously blot her damp cheeks with a square of equally damp linen.

  “Sarah? Why, what is wrong?”

  Her gray eyes red-rimmed, Sarah blinked several times, then blew her nose fiercely and very nearly wailed, “Anatole!”

  Blankly Cassandra repeated, “Anatole?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Oh, Sarah—do you mean to say that you and Anatole—”

  With another watery sniff, the maid said, “I didn’t mean for it to happen, Miss Cassie, but I just couldn’t help it.”

  “But I thought you were afraid of him.”

  “Only at first, miss. But that scar isn’t so bad once you get accustomed to it, and he has the kindest eyes. And such a deep, strong voice.”

  “I see.”

  The maid smiled somewhat mistily. “I was stiff with him at first, but he didn’t let that go for long. With the Hall closed up against the storm and you and His Lordship spending so much time together, we just seemed to keep meeting each other here and there, and so we’d talk. He told me the most wonderful stories about places across the oceans. And it seemed so natural somehow, the way I felt . . . and the way he did . . .”

  “Sarah, you haven’t—you didn’t—”

  “Oh, no, miss! I’m a good girl—and he never treated me like anything else. Never. I think—I believe he would have asked me to marry him, but . . .”

  “But I had to drag you away. I am sorry, Sarah, truly. I had no idea.” She sighed, wondering why she was so surprised. If she could fall in love in less than a week, then why not Sarah?

  “Miss Cassie? Do you think His Lordship might have a notion to come to London?”

  Cassandra looked into that hopeful face and couldn’t find it in her heart to say what she believed—that Sheffield would very likely avoid London at all costs. “I . . . don’t know, Sarah. Perhaps.”

  But as the coach reached the main road and picked up speed, Cassandra gazed out the window at the passing landscape and wondered if it was only Sarah whose hopes she was so reluctant to dash. Did she—could she—still have hopes of her own? Could she possibly imagine that Stone would leave his restored estate and return to the society that had denounced him only because she was there?

  Could she possibly be that foolish?

  Chapter Five

  Excuse me, Miss Cassie, but there is a gentleman to see you.” Cassie looked up from the stack of invitations and notes in her hand and frowned at her uncle’s butler, Gargary. “I told you I am not at home—”

  “Yes, miss, but the gentleman was most insistent,” Gargary said with a slight bow, keeping to himself the knowledge of the very handsome sum bestowed on him by this insistent gentleman.

  “Who is he?”

  “He did not give his name, miss.”

  Cassandra felt her heartbeat quicken and wondered with despair if she would go on forever reacting this way to no more than the possibility of seeing Sheffield. Back in London for nearly two weeks now, she had tensed at the first step of every caller and searched every face she saw on the streets, but there had been no sign of him.

  Now she realized she was rising and nodding mechanically to the butler. “Very well, then. I will—I will see him.”

  “In the front parlor, miss.”

  She paused to check her appearance in the mirror beside the door of her sitting room and was surprised to find that the dusting of pink across her cheekbones had returned. She had believed that she had left it at Sheffield Hall, that evidence of awakened sensuality, but now the delicate color bloomed, making her eyes sparkle and diminishing the wan look she had worn for so many days. She smoothed her hands down the bodice of her simple morning dress of dove gray, aware that she had lost a few pounds she could ill-afford to lose since returning to London.

  Not that her visitor would notice, of course, because it would not be him. It was never him.

  She went downstairs, her pace deliberate, and paused before the parlor door for an instant to gather herself. Then she opened the door and went in. “Good after—” Her voice broke off, and suddenly it seemed almost impossible to breathe.

  He turned from the window, where he had been gazing out into the street, and something flared in the depths of his black eyes when he saw her. Immediately he came toward her, an unnervingly powerful man who seemed to fill the room with his presence. When he reached her, he held out a hand imperatively, and without a thought she put hers into it.

  He bent slightly to brush his lips against her knuckles in a gesture far too intimate for a social greeting, but his voice was calm when he said, “Hello, Cassie.”

  Since it didn’t seem he was going to release her hand, Cassandra pulled it gently away. She did not want to, and she felt bereft when the contact was broken, but she could not think when he touched her, and she needed to think. She eased past him and walked to a chair near the fireplace; she did not sit down, but rested her hands on the back as she looked at him. “I—am surprised to see you here, my lord,” she said formally.

  Sheffield closed the door she had left half open, then leaned back against it and met her gaze. Those dark, direct eyes were fixed on her face. “Are you? I came to deliver the baggage you left behind at the Hall,” he said.

  “Oh.” She saw him smile at her deflated syllable, and fought a sudden wild urge to throw something for the first time in her life. Apparently, her mother’s half-French temperament was alive in her—and had needed only this utterly maddening man to bring it to the fore.

  “And for a few answers,” he added, pushing himself away from the door and coming to stand at the fireplace. He eyed the chair she had placed between them like a shield, and his mouth quirked again in the smile of amusement.

  Cassandra lifted her chin. “Answers?”

  “Well, I have a number of questions,” he said casually.

  “Oh?” She tried to make her voice haughty.

  “Certainly. For instance, I would like to know why you had to carry off your maid just when Anatole was fixing his interest with her.”

  Cassandra blinked. “You knew?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No. That is—”

  Sheffield shook his head. “Well, never mind. Now that I plan to be settled here in town for a while, I depend upon you to allow Sarah to see Anatole. He was a confirmed bachelor, you see, and fell very hard for her. I believe that is usually so whenever one has . . . given up all hope for love.”

  Her throat seemed to close up, and Cassandra hardly knew what to say. “I—I would never stand in their way if—”

  He bowed slightly. “Thank you, on behalf of Anatole.”

  She nodded. “Um . . . you said you had questions?”

  “You left the Hall so abruptly we had no opportunity to talk,” he reminded her. “In fact, you slipped away at dawn, without a word.”

  “My note—”

  “Yes, your note—shall I tell you what it said? I have it memorized, you know.” He leaned his powerful shoulders back against the mantel and crossed his arms over his chest, gazing at her unreadably. “It said: ‘My Lord, thank you very much for your hospitality and your kindness in providing shelter from the storm. I am most grateful. I regret being unable to say goodbye to you in person, but I feel sure you agree that it is best I return to London immediately. ’ And it was signed: Cassandra Eden.”

  He had memorized it. Cassandra cleared her throat. “Well, then? What questions could you possibly—”

  “I think we can begin with your name. Why did you give me a false one?”

  That was a question she had expected, and she answered it honestly. “Sarah gave it, because Anatole frightened her when he first opened the door and because she knew your reputation. I kept up the lie because . . . oh, at first because I was weary of—”

  “Fortune hunters?”

  She nodded. “The longer I k
ept up the lie, the more impossible it seemed to tell the truth, so I just put it out of my head.”

  It was impossible to tell if he believed or disbelieved her, or even if he felt anything at all about the matter; he merely nodded and said matter-of-factly, “Did you believe I was a fortune hunter?”

  Cassandra hesitated. “No, not really—not after I got a good look at the Hall. It seemed to me you had no need to dangle after an heiress.”

  He nodded again. “I see. That seems reasonable enough. Now for the next question. Why, Cassie?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why?” His voice was infinitely patient. “Why did you feel it necessary to bolt for London at dawn?”

  This was an answer that was more complicated. “The storm was past, the roads clear. I—I had told you I meant to go. There was—there was no reason for me to remain any longer.”

  “Was there not?”

  Cassandra struggled silently for a moment, then blurted, “You did not discourage me when I said I meant to go! In fact, you said—”

  “I know what I said,” he interrupted. “And what you obviously do not know is why I said it. It is a pity we were interrupted before I could explain myself.”

  Back in control, she said stiffly, “I believe the reason is clear, sir, and required no further explanation. You as good as said that the—the attraction we felt for each other was due to the circumstances of our being thrown together by the storm.”

  “And did you believe that was true?” he asked politely.

  Staring into his eyes, she saw a flicker of something she dared not try to define. But it roused a tiny spurt of hope in her, and it forced her to say hesitantly, “I—I thought you believed it.”

  In a very deliberate tone he said, “What I believed was that you should leave as soon as possible for three reasons. Because you were unchaperoned. Because the storm had isolated us and quite possibly led you to believe you felt more for me than you actually did. And because I no longer trusted myself not to accept what you offered me so passionately with every look, every touch, and most especially every kiss.”