“Perhaps,” Kathleen suggested cautiously, “it’s worth considering a trip abroad? We could send Cassandra to America. We have connections in New York through Lord St. Vincent’s family. I’m sure they would let her stay for as long as necessary.”
“It would cool the heat of scandal,” Lady Berwick allowed, “but Cassandra would be a nonentity upon her return. No, there’s no escape from this. She must have the protection of a husband with a respectable name.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “If St. Vincent is willing to approach his friend Lord Foxhall delicately, and prevail on his sense of chivalry … I believe there was some earlier interest in Cassandra—”
“Please, no,” Cassandra groaned, a wave of humiliation rolling over her.
“—and if Foxhall won’t have her,” Lady Berwick continued inexorably, “his younger brother might.”
“I can’t bear the idea of begging someone to marry me out of pity,” Cassandra said.
The older woman gave her an implacable look. “No matter how emphatically we proclaim your innocence and denounce Lambert as a cad, your position is precarious. According to my sources, you were seen slipping out of the ballroom with Lambert. I’m trying to save you from being ostracized from good society altogether. My girl, if you do not marry immediately, you’ll cause untold difficulty for your family and friends. Wherever you go, there will be cuts and snubs. You’ll venture out less and less, to spare yourself hurt and embarrassment, until you become a prisoner in your own home.”
Cassandra fell silent, letting the discussion continue without her. She was relieved when Helen and Winterborne arrived, both of them consoling and sympathetic, and then Devon came in with Pandora and St. Vincent. She took comfort in being surrounded by her family, who all wanted what was best for her, and would do whatever they could to help.
Unfortunately, there was little encouraging news. Devon reported that Ethan Ransom was in the process of tracking down Lord Lambert, who so far hadn’t been found.
“What will Ethan do when he finds Lord Lambert?” Cassandra asked.
“There’s not much he can do,” Devon admitted, “but at the very least, Ransom will scare the wits out of him.”
“If that’s possible,” Cassandra said, finding it difficult to envision the arrogant Lambert being frightened of anything.
Winterborne spoke up then, having had longer acquaintance with Ethan than any of them. “When Ransom was a government agent,” he said quietly, “he was the one they sent to terrify the terrorists.”
That made Cassandra feel a little better.
Devon turned his attention to Lord St. Vincent. “How did it go at the London Chronicle? Did you find out who wrote the column?”
“Not yet,” St. Vincent admitted. “I tried bribery as well as threats of legal action and bodily harm, but the chief editor kept waving ‘liberty of the press’ in front of me like a little parade flag. I’ll exert pressure in various ways until he gives in, but it will take some time.”
“As if ‘liberty of the press’ gives someone the right to commit libel,” Helen exclaimed indignantly.
“Libel is difficult to prove,” Winterborne said, holding his wife’s hand and playing lightly with her fingers. “If a published opinion isn’t based on a deliberate misstatement of fact, it’s not libelous. Whoever wrote the column was careful in the wording of it.”
“Obviously Lord Lambert wrote it,” Pandora said.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Helen commented thoughtfully. “It doesn’t have the tone of a young person. The manner is scolding … lecturing … not unlike a disapproving parent.”
“Or chaperone,” Pandora added, grinning at Lady Berwick, who gave her an admonishing glance.
“But who would be motivated to single out Cassandra as a scapegoat?” Kathleen asked.
Lady Berwick shook her head. “It is unfathomable. She hasn’t a single enemy that I know of.”
The tea was brought in, along with plates of refreshments: lemon tea cakes with fluted edges, currant scones, plates of tiny sandwiches, and toasted muffins with jam. Cassandra briefly considered nibbling on a tea cake, but she was afraid she might not be able to swallow it without choking.
Midway through the tea, the butler came to the doorway and announced a visitor. “My lord … the Marquis of Ripon.”
The room fell abruptly silent.
Cassandra felt the cup and saucer rattle in her hands.
Lady Berwick instantly took them from her. “Breathe, and remain calm,” she murmured near Cassandra’s ear. “You need say nothing to him.”
Devon stood to greet the marquis, who came in with his hat and gloves to indicate he would not stay long if his presence wasn’t wanted. “Ripon,” he said darkly, “this is unexpected.”
“Forgive me, Trenear. I don’t mean to intrude. In light of recent events, however, I felt it necessary to speak to you as soon as possible.”
The marquis sounded very grave, his voice stripped of its former sneering edge. Cassandra risked a glance at him. He had a certain hawklike handsomeness, his form slim and smartly dressed, his black hair threaded with silver. “I came to tell you how thoroughly I condemn my son’s actions,” he said. “It grieved and angered me to learn of his conduct. Nothing in his upbringing would explain or excuse it. Nor can I fathom why he would speak so recklessly about it afterward.”
“I can answer that,” Pandora broke in heatedly. “He started the rumor out of spite, because my sister didn’t want him.”
Ripon looked directly at Cassandra. “I apologize most humbly on his behalf.”
She nodded slightly, comprehending that he wasn’t a man who was often given to humbling himself for any reason.
Lady Berwick spoke frostily. “One would wish, Ripon,” she said, “that your son had come to tender the apology on his own behalf.”
“Yes.” A rueful note colored his reply. “Unfortunately, I have no knowledge of his whereabouts. I’m sure he dreads my reaction to what he’s done.”
“What of the column in the Chronicle, Ripon?” St. Vincent asked, staring at him intently. “Who do you think wrote it?”
“I know nothing about that,” Ripon said, “other than it was reprehensible.” His attention returned to Devon. “For me, the issue of paramount importance is how best to help Lady Cassandra. Her reputation has been harmed … but perhaps the damage is not irreversible.” The marquis lifted his hands as if anticipating a volley of arrows. “I beg you to allow me to explain.” He paused. “Lady Cassandra, if I were to bring my son before you, penitent and profoundly apologetic—”
“No,” Cassandra said, her voice bowstring-taut. “I have no interest in him. I never want to see him again.”
“As I thought. In that case, there’s another candidate I would like to put forth for your consideration: myself.” Seeing her astonishment, Ripon continued carefully. “I am a widower. For some time, I’ve searched for someone with whom I could share the kind of contentment I enjoyed with my late wife. I find you ideal in every regard. Marriage to me would restore your reputation and lift you to a high place in society. You would be the mother to my future children, and the mistress of a great estate. I would be a generous husband. My wife was a very happy woman—anyone who knew her would attest to that.”
“How could I possibly become Lord Lambert’s stepmother?” Cassandra asked, revolted.
“You would never have to see him. I’ll banish him from the estate altogether if you wish. Your happiness and comfort would take precedence over all else.”
“My lord, I couldn’t—”
“Please,” Ripon interrupted gently, “don’t give me an immediate answer. I beg you to do me the honor of taking some time to consider the idea.”
“She will consider it,” Lady Berwick said flatly.
Cassandra glanced at her in mute protest, but managed to hold her tongue. She owed it to Lady Berwick not to contradict her in company. But she knew exactly what the other woman was thinking. This offer, from t
his caliber of man, wasn’t something to turn down summarily.
“I’ve been lonely for a long time, Lady Cassandra,” Ripon said quietly. “I’ve missed having someone to care for. You would bring much joy into my life. I’m sure the difference in our ages gives you pause. However, there are advantages to having a mature husband. If you were mine, every obstacle, every thorn and rough patch, would be cleared from your path.”
Cassandra glanced at Lady Berwick, whose brows lifted an infinitesimal but significant distance, as if to say, You see? He’s not so terrible after all.
“You will have many questions and concerns, of course,” the marquis said. “Whenever you would like to talk with me, I’ll come at once. In the meantime, I’ll do everything I can to publicly defend your honor.”
A new voice entered the conversation. “Well. That would be a refreshing change.”
Cassandra felt her heart jolt painfully as her gaze went to the doorway, where Tom Severin stood.
Chapter 15
THE BUTLER, WHO HAD been waiting for an opportune moment to announce the new arrival, was clearly disgruntled at having being preempted before he could perform his duty correctly. “My lord,” he said to Devon, “Mr. Severin.”
Unlike the marquis, Tom had already dispensed with his hat and gloves, as if he intended to stay for a while.
Devon went to him, deftly blocking his way. “Severin … not now. We’re dealing with a family matter. I’ll meet with you later and explain—”
“Oh, you want me to be here,” Tom assured him nonchalantly, and walked around him to enter the library. “Good afternoon, all. Or evening, I should say. Are we having tea? Splendid, I could do with a cup.”
Devon turned to watch him with a perplexed frown, wondering what his friend was up to.
Tom looked relaxed and supremely confident, a man who was thinking five steps ahead of everyone else. The tantalizing sense of something dangerous held in reserve, a hidden volatility beneath the coolness, was still there.
Weak with longing, Cassandra stared at him, but his gaze didn’t meet hers.
“Mr. Severin,” Kathleen asked pleasantly, reaching for a fresh cup and saucer from the tea tray, “how do you prefer your tea?”
“Milk, no sugar.”
Devon began to make introductions. “Lord Ripon, I’d like to present—”
“No need,” Tom said casually. “We’re already acquainted. Ripon happens to sit on a select committee that awards contracts to railway developers. Oddly enough, the most lucrative contracts tend to go to a railway company in which he’s heavily invested.”
Ripon stared at him with cold disdain. “You dare to impugn my integrity?”
Tom reacted with mock surprise. “No, did I sound critical? I meant to sound admiring. Private graft pairs so beautifully with public service. Like Bordeaux with aged beef. I’m sure I couldn’t resist the temptation any more than you.”
Lady Berwick, bristling with indignation, addressed Tom directly. “Young man, not only are you an unwelcome distraction, you have the manners of a goat.”
That drew a flashing grin from Tom. “I beg your pardon, madam, and ask your indulgence for a minute or two. I have a good reason for being here.”
Lady Berwick huffed and regarded him suspiciously.
After taking the teacup from Kathleen and declining the saucer, Tom went to brace his shoulder against the fireplace mantel. The firelight played over the gleaming short layers of his hair as he glanced around the room.
“I suppose the subject of the missing Lord Lambert has already been brought up,” he remarked. “Has there been any sign of him?”
“Not yet,” Winterborne replied. “Ransom has dispatched men to find him.”
Cassandra suspected Tom knew something no one else did. He seemed to be playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game. “Do you have information regarding his whereabouts, Mr. Severin?” she asked unsteadily.
Tom looked directly at her then, the nonchalant mask temporarily falling away. His intense, searching gaze somehow burned through the numbness of the past twenty-four hours. “No, sweetheart,” he said gently, as if there were no one else in the room. The deliberate endearment caused a few breaths to catch audibly, including hers.
“I’m sorry for what Lambert did to you,” Tom continued. “There’s nothing more repellent than a man who forces his attentions on women. The fact that he went on to malign you publicly proves he’s a liar as well as a bully. I can’t think of two more damning qualities in a man.”
Ripon’s face darkened. “He’s your better, in every way,” he snapped. “My son had a lapse in judgment, but he’s still the cream of the crop.”
Tom’s mouth twisted. “I’d say the cream of the crop has gone sour.”
Ripon turned to Devon. “Will you allow him to stand there crowing like a cock on his own dung hill?”
Devon shot Tom a vaguely exasperated glance. “Severin, could we go to the point?”
Obligingly, Tom drained his tea in two swallows and continued. “After reading that slanderous rubbish in the Chronicle, I found myself puzzled. Lord Lambert had already done enough damage with his rumormongering … why butter the bacon by writing a society column on top of it? There was no need. But if he didn’t write it, who did?” He set the empty teacup on the mantel and wandered insouciantly around the library as he spoke. “I came up with a theory: After discovering his son had hopelessly botched any chance of winning your hand, Lord Ripon decided to take advantage of the situation. He’s made no secret of his desire to marry again, and Lady Cassandra is an ideal candidate. But to obtain her, he first had to destroy her reputation so thoroughly that it left her with few practical alternatives. After having brought her sufficiently low, he would step forth and present himself as the best solution.”
Silence descended over the room. Everyone looked at the marquis, whose complexion had turned purple. “You’re mad,” he snapped. “Your theory is absolute rot, as well as an insult to my honor. You’ll never be able to prove it.”
Tom looked at St. Vincent. “I assume the editor at the Chronicle refused to divulge the writer’s identity?”
St. Vincent looked rueful. “Categorically. I’ll have to find a way to pry it out of him without bringing the entire British press to his defense.”
“Yes,” Tom mused, tapping his lower lip with a fingertip, “they tend to be so touchy about protecting their sources.”
“Trenear,” Lord Ripon said through gritted teeth, “will you kindly throw him out?”
“I’ll see myself out,” Tom said casually. He turned as if to leave, and paused as if something had just occurred to him. “Although … as your friend, Trenear, I find it disappointing that you haven’t asked about my day. It makes me feel as if you don’t care.”
Before Devon could respond, Pandora jumped in. “I will,” she volunteered eagerly. “How was your day, Mr. Severin?”
Tom sent her a brief grin. “Busy. After six tedious hours of business negotiations, I paid a call to the chief editor of the London Chronicle.”
St. Vincent lifted his brows. “After I’d already met with him?”
Trying to look repentant, Tom replied, “I know you said not to. But I had a bit of leverage you didn’t.”
“Oh?”
“I told him the paper’s owner would dismiss him and toss him out on the pavement if he didn’t name the anonymous writer.”
St. Vincent stared at him quizzically. “You bluffed?”
“No, that is what the business negotiations were about. I’m the new owner. And while the chief editor happens to be a staunch advocate for freedom of the press, he’s also a staunch supporter of not losing his job.”
“You just bought the London Chronicle,” Devon said slowly, to make certain he hadn’t misheard. “Today.”
“No one could do that in less than a day,” Ripon sneered.
Winterborne smiled slightly. “He could,” he said, with a nod toward Tom.
“I did,”
Tom confirmed, picking idly at a bit of lint on his cuff. “All it took was a preliminary purchase agreement and some earnest money. It will come as no surprise to you, Ripon, that the editor named you as the anonymous author.”
“I deny it! I denounce him, and you!”
Tom pulled a piece of folded parchment from an inside coat pocket and regarded it reflectively. “The most dangerous substance on earth is wood pulp flattened into thin sheets. I’d rather face a steel blade than certain pieces of paper.” He tilted his head slightly, his steady stare fixed on the marquis. “The original column,” he said with a flutter of the parchment. “In your hand.”
In the suffocated silence that followed, Tom glanced over the page in his hand. “I have so many interesting plans for my newspaper,” he mused. “Tomorrow, for example, we’re running a special feature about how an unprincipled nobleman conspired with his spoiled whelp of a son to ruin an innocent young woman’s name, all for the sake of greed and lechery. I’ve already set my editor to work on it.” He sent the marquis a taunting glance. “At least now the mudslinging will be reciprocal.”
“I’ll sue you for libel,” Lord Ripon cried, his facial nerves twitching, and stormed out of the library.
The group sat in stunned silence for a full half minute.
After exhaling slowly, Devon approached Tom to shake his hand heartily. “Thank you, Severin.”
“It won’t reverse all the damage that’s been done,” Tom said soberly.
“It will help, by God.”
“Publicity of any kind is distasteful,” Lady Berwick said severely, glowering at Tom. “It would be better to hold your silence and refrain from printing any kind of story about Cassandra.”
Helen spoke up quietly. “Forgive me, ma’am, but I should think we want the truth to be spread as widely as the falsehoods were.”
“It will only stoke the controversy,” Lady Berwick argued.
Tom looked at Cassandra. Something in his eyes caused a twinge of heat deep at the pit of her stomach. “I’ll do whatever you say,” he said.
She could hardly think. It was difficult to wrap her mind around the fact that he was there, bigger than life, that he hadn’t forgotten about her, that he’d done all this to defend her. What did it mean? What did he want? “Publish it, please,” she faltered. “You …”
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