Chasing Cassandra

by Kleypas, Lisa

  After having received a telegram from Devon the previous day, West and Phoebe had arrived on the first train from Essex this morning. To no one’s surprise, West was in a temper, longing for vengeance against Ripon and his son for daring to slander a Ravenel.

  The rest of the family would arrive later for dinner, but for now it was enough just to handle West and Devon, who were both strongly against the idea of her marrying Tom Severin. Kathleen seemed at least open to the idea, and Phoebe was maintaining a policy of strict neutrality.

  “What have the others said?” West asked, in the manner of a general assessing troop strength. “I hope no one else supports this asinine idea.”

  “Mr. Winterborne and Lord St. Vincent have refrained from giving their opinions,” Cassandra replied. “Helen said she wants whatever I want. Pandora likes Mr. Severin and thinks it’s a splendid idea—”

  “She would,” West muttered.

  “—and Lady Berwick said it’s a disaster, and she won’t have any part of it.”

  West looked glum. “This is the first time the old battle-ax and I have ever agreed on anything.”

  The group meandered across the broad natural landscape of Hyde Park. In spring and summer, the park teemed with carriages, riders, and pedestrians, but in the chill of winter, it was nearly deserted. Flower-beds had gone dormant, tree limbs were bare, and the trampled parade grounds had been left in peace to recover. A flock of rooks squabbled among a grove of ancient oak, presenting such a perfect reflection of the Ravenels’ mood that Cassandra was amused despite herself.

  “Let’s set aside the subject of Tom Severin for a moment,” West told Cassandra. “Phoebe and I have come up with a plan.”

  “It’s West’s plan,” Phoebe said.

  “You’ll recall she has a younger brother named Raphael,” West continued. “Tall, unmarried, nice teeth. He’s perfect.”

  “He’s not at all perfect,” Phoebe said. “And how do you know he’s tall and has nice teeth?”

  “Your parents are obviously incapable of producing a less than superior human being. We’ll introduce him to Cassandra, he’ll want to marry her right away, and everyone will be happy.”

  “What about Tom?” Cassandra asked.

  “He’ll be happy as soon as he finds some other woman’s life to ruin.”

  She gave him a reproachful glance. “I thought you liked him.”

  “I do, absolutely. He occupies a high place on the list of things I don’t respect myself for liking, right between street food and filthy drinking songs.”

  Cassandra was aware that it had always been West’s habit—as well as Devon’s and Winterborne’s—to make sarcastic remarks about Tom Severin, in the way of longstanding friends. But it rankled now in a way it never had before. “After all Mr. Severin has done for our family,” she said quietly, “he deserves more respect than that.”

  They were all silent, darting surprised glances at her. Until that moment, Cassandra had never dared to utter one word of reproof to him.

  To West’s credit, he considered the point, and relented. “You’re right,” he said in a different tone. “I beg your pardon for being a facetious arse. But I know both of you well enough to be certain you don’t belong together.”

  Cassandra met his gaze without blinking. “Is it possible that Mr. Severin and I might know each other in a different way than you know either of us?”

  “Touché. Is it possible that you might think you know him far less than you actually do?”

  “Touché,” Cassandra replied reluctantly.

  West’s face softened. “Listen to me, Cassandra: If you spend enough time around Severin, you’ll come to love him. It’s your nature. Even knowing it’s a bad idea under the circumstances, you’ll end up doing it, the way I used to sing in the bath.”

  Phoebe slid her husband a surprised glance. “When was that?”

  “When I lived alone. But I was obliged to stop after I moved to Eversby Priory, when Kathleen told me it was scaring the servants.”

  “It sounded nonhuman,” Kathleen said. “We all thought someone was performing an exorcism.”

  Entertained by the revelation, Phoebe grinned and slipped her arm through West’s.

  West turned his attention back to Cassandra. “Sweetheart, none of us could bear seeing you in a one-sided marriage. Don’t expect Severin to change. You can’t love someone into loving you back.”

  “I understand,” Cassandra said. “But even if Tom is never able to return my feelings, he has qualities that make up for it.”

  “What qualities?” Devon asked, plainly bewildered. “I’ve always thought I understood you well, but this … you and Severin … it makes no sense to me.”

  As Cassandra considered how to explain, she heard Phoebe point out with a touch of amusement, “It’s not that improbable, is it? Mr. Severin is a very attractive man.”

  Both Ravenel brothers looked at her blankly.

  “Oh, yes,” Kathleen agreed. “Not to mention charming.”

  West rolled his eyes and gave Devon a resigned glance. “He’s always had it,” he said flatly. “That thing women like.”

  “What thing?” Devon asked.

  “The secret, mysterious thing I’ve always wished someone would explain so we could pretend to have it too.”

  They approached a massive weeping beech tree, its silvery branches draping down to the ground to form an umbrella-shaped skeleton. In the summer, its rich, dark foliage turned the tree into a living cave, and inspired some to refer to it as “the upside-down tree.” At this time of year, only a few pale brown leaves clung to the branches, shivering and crackling in the breeze.

  Cassandra wandered slowly among the trailing branches and sprays of threadlike twigs as she tried to explain. “I’ve always found Tom very appealing,” she said, and was grateful for the chill of December air against her hot cheeks. “Despite his eccentricities, and perhaps even because of them. I wasn’t able to envision myself as the wife of such a man before, but yesterday he made some compelling arguments. And the moment he suggested the contract, I knew for certain I wanted to marry him.”

  “What bloody contract?” The word had instantly riled Devon. “Severin has no business mentioning contracts without someone there to protect your financial interests—”

  “Not that kind of contract,” Cassandra replied quickly. She went on to explain Tom’s proposition to write an agreement together, about the things they valued and needed, the compromises they would be willing to make, the lines that had to be drawn.

  “But it wouldn’t be legal,” Devon said.

  “I think,” Kathleen ventured, “the point is that it shows Cassandra’s thoughts and feelings matter to Mr. Severin.”

  “It means he wants to listen to her,” Phoebe added, “and take her opinions into consideration.”

  “Diabolical bastard,” West muttered, although the corner of his mouth twitched with rueful amusement.

  Cassandra paused to curl her gloved hand around a beech branch. A wondering smile broke out on her face as she regarded her family. “He’s not like anyone else I’ve ever met. His brilliant mind won’t let him view anything, even his wife, in a conventional way. He sees more potential in me than I’ve imagined for myself. I’ll admit, I’m surprised by how much I like it.”

  “Has Severin told you he has only five feelings?” West asked sardonically.

  “He told me. But recently he’s been forced to add a few, which I find encouraging.”

  Devon approached Cassandra, gazing at her in the manner of a concerned older brother. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, and sighed. “From my own experience, I can say this with authority: There’s no better way to become familiar with Tom Severin than negotiating a contract with him. If you’re still speaking to him by the end of it … I’ll consent to the match.” At the periphery of his vision, he saw West begin to object, and added firmly, “You have my word.”

  “SIR, THIS WAS just delivered by a footman in f
ull livery.”

  Barnaby approached Tom Severin’s desk with a sealed letter, intensely curious about its contents. Although it wasn’t unheard-of for correspondence to arrive at the office in such a manner—Severin had business dealings with people from all walks of life—it was somewhat more unusual for the address to have been written in a feminine hand. On top of that … the letter was lightly scented. The fragrance reminded Barnaby of a field full of tiny white flowers, so delicate and alluring that he ducked his head and sniffed it discreetly before handing it to Severin.

  Severin seemed riveted by the sight of the letter. Barnaby could have sworn his employer’s hand trembled slightly as he reached out to take it. There was something very off about Severin. It had started with that business over the London Chronicle yesterday, when Severin had impulsively decided to buy the newspaper. He’d gone about it with maniacal determination, bypassing his usual business protocols, and hounding lawyers, accountants, and bankers to have it accomplished immediately. Then this morning, Severin had been incredibly distracted and edgy, checking his pocket watch over and over, and jumping up every few minutes to stand at one of the windows and stare blankly down at the street.

  Now seated at his desk, Severin broke the wax seal and hesitated unaccountably before unfolding the letter. His gaze moved swiftly over the written lines. One of his hands came up to rub his lower jaw slowly as he read it over again.

  The black head lowered, as if Severin were overcome by illness … or emotion, which for Severin amounted to the same thing … and Barnaby was tempted to panic. Dear God, what was happening? What terrible news did the letter contain? But then Barnaby realized with a little shock that Severin had bent to press his lips to the scented parchment.

  “Barnaby,” came his employer’s unsteady voice. “Clear my schedule for the rest of the week.”

  “The entire week? Starting tomorrow?”

  “Starting right now. I have preparations to make.”

  Unable to stop himself, Barnaby asked hesitantly, “What has happened, sir?”

  Severin grinned, a flush climbing in his fair complexion. His eyes were an intense blaze of blue-green. Such an apparent extremity of excitement was not at all normal for the man, and it made Barnaby nervous. “Nothing to worry about. I’ll be occupied with negotiations.”

  “More to do with the Chronicle?”

  Severin shook his head. “Another business entirely.” A brief, wondering laugh escaped him. “The merger of a lifetime.”

  Chapter 19

  AT EIGHT O’CLOCK IN the morning, Tom arrived at Ravenel House, dressed in a beautiful dark suit of clothes with a royal-blue four-in-hand necktie. As he entered the breakfast room and bowed, he was so obviously pleased with the entire situation that even West was moved to reluctant amusement.

  “I expected you to look like the cat who swallowed a canary,” West said, standing to shake Tom’s hand, “but you look more like a cat who swallowed another entire cat.”

  At Kathleen’s invitation, Tom went to the sideboard and helped himself to coffee from a silver urn. He took the unoccupied chair between Cassandra and Phoebe. “Good morning,” he murmured.

  Cassandra could hardly meet his gaze. She felt ridiculously shy and giddy, and embarrassed by the memory of their intimacy … those deep, consuming kisses … the wicked exploration of his fingers …

  “Good morning,” she replied, and quickly took refuge in her tea. She was vaguely aware of the conversation taking place around her, a few pleasantries, and a tentative question from Phoebe about where he and Cassandra would take up residence after the wedding.

  “The betrothal isn’t official yet,” Tom replied seriously. “Not until Cassandra is satisfied with the outcome of our negotiations.”

  “But assuming you’ll reach an agreement … ?” Phoebe pressed.

  “At the moment,” Tom said, looking at Cassandra, “I live at Hyde Park Square. We could live in that one if you like it. But it would be an easy matter to move to one of the others, if you would prefer.”

  Cassandra blinked in confusion. “You have more than one house?”

  “Four,” Tom replied in a matter-of-fact tone. Seeing her expression, he appeared to realize how odd she found it, and continued more cautiously, “I also have a few undeveloped residential lots in Kensington and Hammersmith, and recently I acquired an estate in Edmonton. But it would be impractical to live that far from my offices. So … I thought I might turn that one into a town.”

  “You’re going to start a town?” Kathleen asked blankly.

  “For the love of God,” West said, “don’t name it after yourself.”

  A vaguely uneasy feeling crept over Cassandra. “Why do you have so many houses?” she asked Tom.

  “Sometimes when a freehold property comes on the market at a decent price, I’ll buy it as an investment.”

  “The London Ironstone railway isn’t your only source of income, then,” Cassandra said, trying to make sense of it. “You also deal in real estate.”

  “Yes, and I do some speculative building here and there.”

  “How many businesses do you have?” she asked.

  Registering the keenly interested gazes focused on him, Tom asked uncomfortably, “Aren’t we supposed to refrain from discussing this at the breakfast table?”

  “You never follow the rules,” Cassandra reminded him.

  His reluctance was obvious. However, being Tom, he answered honestly. “I’ve grouped several companies with London Ironstone to form a conglomerate. Freight, steel and concrete production, factories that make hydraulic pumps, dredging and excavating equipment, an engineering and design firm, and so on. When I build a new railway line, I don’t need to hire outside contractors, I use my own. I also have service companies for maintenance, communications and signaling, safety equipment—” He paused as he saw the color drain from her face. “What’s the matter?”

  “I just realized,” Cassandra said in a suffocated voice, “you don’t have a railway, you have an empire.”

  “That’s not how I think of it,” Tom said with a slight frown.

  “No matter what word one uses … you must be nearly as rich as Mr. Winterborne.”

  Tom devoted a great deal of attention to buttering his toast.

  Reading into his silence, Cassandra asked apprehensively, “Are you richer than Mr. Winterborne?”

  “There are many different ways to calculate wealth,” Tom said evasively, reaching for a pot of jam.

  Her stomach sank. “Oh, God, how much richer?”

  “Why must I be compared to Winterborne?” Tom parried. “He does well at his business, and so do I. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Devon replied to Cassandra in a matter-of-fact tone. “The two aren’t really comparable. Although Winterborne is a dominating force in commerce, Severin’s business affects everything: transportation, trade, manufacturing, communications, and urban development. He’s not only changing the way business is done, but how and where people live.” Devon stared at Tom speculatively as he continued. “My guess is, Severin’s fortune is half again as much as Winterborne’s, and before long will be approximately double.”

  Tom gave him an oblique glance, but didn’t deny it.

  “I see,” Cassandra said sickly, thinking of her quiet, cozy life in the country, with dogs and gardens and relaxed afternoon walks.

  “You won’t be burdened by my business affairs,” Tom told her, his brows lowering. “All of that will be kept separate from my home life.”

  “The question is,” Devon said quietly, “how much home life will there be? You’re only one man, Tom, doing the work of at least ten—and the demands on you will only grow worse over time.”

  “That’s for me to worry about.”

  West spoke then, making no effort to hide his concern. “I’d say it’s for your future wife to worry about.”

  Tom’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever my wife needs or desires of me,” he said with cool arrogance, “she’l
l have it. I can arrange my schedule in any way I wish. I do as little or as much work as I want, go wherever I please, and stay or leave as it suits me. No one owns me or my time. That’s the point of being me.”

  Ordinarily, Devon or West would have said something mocking in reply, but they were both silent. Something in Tom’s face communicated that he’d been pushed far enough. For the first time, Cassandra had an inkling of how he must appear to other people: someone to be respected and even feared. A man who possessed vast power and authority, and was entirely comfortable wielding it. This was a side he rarely, if ever, revealed to the Ravenels. He’d always been willing to tolerate a few jabs and teasing from his friends with good grace … but he didn’t have to.

  In fact, there was very little Tom Severin had to tolerate.

  He would be nearly impossible to manage, Cassandra thought apprehensively. One might as well try to harness a storm. But he’d brought himself to confess he needed her, which had been extraordinarily difficult for him. That wasn’t a guarantee of anything … but it wasn’t a bad start.

  AT THE CONCLUSION of breakfast, Kathleen walked with Cassandra and Tom to the library, where a jug of water and glasses had been set out on the long table, along with a neat stack of parchment, pens, and an inkwell.

  “Ring for the servants if there’s something you require,” Kathleen said. “I’m going to leave the door ajar, and I suspect someone might come to check on you now and then. But that someone won’t be me.”

  “Thank you,” Cassandra replied, smiling affectionately after the woman who’d been such a steady and loving presence in her life.

  When they were alone, she turned to Tom. Before she could say a word, he reached around her, pulled her up against him, and kissed her. She responded helplessly, lifting her arms around his neck, pressing tightly against his solid form. He made a hungering sound and altered the angle of the kiss to make it deeper, more intimate.

  All too soon, Tom broke the kiss, his eyes cinder-bright, the set of his mouth brooding. “You won’t be getting half a husband,” he said brusquely. “Just the opposite. You’ll probably have more of me than you want.”