Chasing Cassandra

by Kleypas, Lisa

  “What about operating a big excavating machine, and digging up an entire street instead of sweeping it?”

  To Tom’s amusement, Bazzle’s expression lit up with interest.

  “Me, dig up a street?”

  “Someday, Bazzle, you could be in charge of a fleet of large machines. You could own companies that make new roads and dig tunnels. But those are the jobs that go to men who use forks and know their alphabet.”

  ON THE DAY Tom brought Cassandra to visit his offices, he hadn’t expected that all businesslike decorum would have been so utterly abandoned by everyone from department heads down to the secretaries and accountants. They crowded around her and fawned as if she were visiting royalty. Cassandra was gracious and charming amid the crush, while Bazzle clung to Tom’s side and looked up at him with mild alarm. “They all gone orf their chumps,” the boy said.

  Tom kept a protective arm around him, reached for Cassandra, and managed to usher them both to his private offices on the top floor. As soon as they reached safety, Bazzle looked up at Cassandra with his arms locked around her hips. “I got squashed,” he told her.

  She smoothed his hair and straightened his cap. Her reply was forestalled as someone approached and stumbled against a chair, nearly tripping.

  It was Barnaby, who had just entered the office and caught sight of Cassandra. Tom reached out automatically to steady him.

  “Oh no,” Bazzle groaned, “not ’im too!”

  Barnaby, to his credit, managed to recover his composure, but his face was infused with heightened color that electrified his wild curls until they seemed to radiate out from his head. “My lady,” he said, and bowed nervously, with a stack of ledgers and papers clutched in one arm.

  “Is this the indispensable Mr. Barnaby?” Cassandra asked with a smile.

  “It is,” Tom replied for his assistant, who was too befuddled to reply.

  Cassandra moved forward, with Bazzle still hanging from her hip, and extended her hand. “How happy I am to make your acquaintance at last. According to my husband, nothing would be accomplished around here if it weren’t for you.”

  “Is that what I said?” Tom asked dryly, while Barnaby took Cassandra’s hand as if it were a sacred object. “Barnaby,” Tom continued, “what is that stack you’re holding?”

  Barnaby gave him an owlish glance. “What … oh … this stack.” He released Cassandra’s hand and hefted the pile of materials to Tom’s desk. “Information on the Charterhouse Defense Fund, sir, as well as the local businesses and residents, a summary of the pending report of the Royal Commission on London Traffic, and an analysis of the joint select committee that will vote to authorize your bill.”

  “What bill?” Cassandra asked.

  Tom drew her to a map of London on the wall. With a fingertip, he traced a line that went under Charterhouse Street toward Smithfield. “I’ve proposed a bill to build a connecting underground railway line to an existing one that currently ends at Farringdon.

  “The proposal is currently being examined by a joint select committee of the Lords and Commons. They’ll meet next week to pass a bill that will authorize me to proceed with the line. The problem is, some of the local residents and tradesmen are fighting it.”

  “I’m sure they dread all the inconvenience and construction noise,” Cassandra said. “Not to mention the loss of business.”

  “Yes, but they’ll all eventually benefit from having a new station built nearby.”

  Barnaby cleared his throat delicately from behind them. “Not all of them.”

  Cassandra gave Tom a quizzical glance.

  Tom’s mouth twisted. Resisting the urge to send Barnaby a lethal glance, he indicated a spot on the map with his fingertip. “This is a remnant of Charterhouse Lane, which was left after most of the thoroughfare was converted to Charterhouse Street. Right here, there are a pair of tenement slums that should have been condemned years ago. Each one was designed to house three dozen families, but they’re crammed with at least twice that number of people. There’s no light or air, no fire protection, no decent sanitary arrangements … it’s the closest thing you’ll find to hell on earth.”

  “They’re not your slums, I hope?” Cassandra asked apprehensively. “You don’t own them?”

  The question annoyed him. “No, they’re not mine.”

  Barnaby spoke up helpfully. “Once the bill is passed, however, Mr. Severin will have the power to buy or underpin any property he wants, to make the railway go through. That’s why they’ve organized the Charterhouse Lane Defense Fund, to try and stop him.” At Tom’s slitted glare, Barnaby added quickly, “I mean, us.”

  “So the slums will become yours,” Cassandra said to Tom.

  “The residents will have to move,” Tom said defensively, “regardless of whether or not the railway line is built. Believe me, it will be a mercy for those people to be forced out of those hellholes.”

  “But where will they go?” Cassandra asked.

  “That’s not my business.”

  “It is if you buy the tenement buildings.”

  “I’m not going to buy the tenements, I’m going to acquire the land beneath them.” Tom’s scowling gaze softened slightly as it fell on Bazzle’s upturned face. “Why don’t you fetch your broom and do some sweeping?” he suggested gently.

  The boy, who was bored by the conversation, seized on the suggestion eagerly. “I’ll start on the outside steps.” He hurried to Cassandra and tugged her by the hand to one of the front windows. “Mama, look down there and watch me sweep!”

  Barnaby looked stunned as Bazzle ran from the office. “Did he just call her Mama?” he asked Tom blankly.

  “She said I could!” called Bazzle’s retreating voice.

  Cassandra sent Tom a troubled glance as she remained by the window. “Tom … you can’t make homeless outcasts of all those people.”

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  “Because—in addition to your natural sense of compassion—”

  A peculiar snort came from Barnaby’s direction.

  “—it would be disastrous from the standpoint of public relations,” Cassandra continued earnestly, “wouldn’t it? You would appear completely heartless, which we know you are not.”

  “The residents can apply for help from countless charities in London,” Tom said.

  She gave him a chiding glance. “Most of those charities won’t be able to offer real help.” After a pause, she asked, “You want to be known as a public benefactor, don’t you?”

  “I’d like to be known as one, but I wasn’t necessarily planning to become one.”

  Cassandra turned to face him. “I will, then,” she said firmly. “You promised I could start any charity I wanted. I’m going to find or build low-cost housing for the displaced Charterhouse Lane residents.”

  Tom regarded his wife for a long moment. The flash of newfound assertiveness interested him. Excited him. He approached her slowly. “I suppose you’ll want to take advantage of some of the undeveloped lots I own in Clerkenwell or Smithfield,” he said.

  She lifted her chin slightly. “I might.”

  “You’ll probably rook some of my own people into working for you … architects, engineers, contractors … all at cut-rate fees.”

  Her eyes widened. “Could I?”

  “I wouldn’t even be surprised if you forced Barnaby, who has access to all my connections and resources, to act as your part-time assistant.”

  As Tom stared into his wife’s beautiful face, he heard Barnaby exclaim in a heartfelt voice behind them, “Oh, must I?”

  “Do you think I could succeed?” Cassandra whispered.

  “Lady Cassandra Severin,” Tom said quietly, “that you’ll succeed is not even a question.” He gave her a wry glance. “The question is, are you going to spend the rest of our marriage trying to make me live up to your standards?”

  Her eyes flickered with impish humor. She was about to reply, but she happened to glance outside at the
front steps several stories below them, where Bazzle’s small figure stood waving up to them.

  At that moment, a huge, hulking form ran up to the steps and grabbed the child, lifting him off his feet.

  Cassandra let out a cry of panic. “Tom!”

  He took one glance and bolted through the office as if the devil were at his heels.

  BY THE TIME Tom had reached the front steps, the stranger had made it halfway down the block with the wailing child, and had shoved him into a dilapidated hackney cab driven by a skinny, whey-faced young driver.

  Tom sprinted to the horse’s head and grabbed the bridle. “If you try to drive off with him,” he panted to the cabman with a murderous glare, “you won’t bloody live to see another day. I swear it.” He directed his voice to Bazzle. “Get out of the cab, boy.”

  “Mr. Severin,” Bazzle sobbed. “It’s … it’s Uncle Batty …”

  “Get out of the cab,” Tom repeated patiently.

  “The ’igh and mighty Tom Severin,” the big, grizzled brute sneered. “Noffing but a common thief! Stealin’ away a man’s living! This ’ere is my pigeon. You wants to make a nancy o’ the little sod, you ’as to pay for it.”

  Bazzle called out tearfully, “I ain’t no sod! Leave Mr. Severin alone! ’E ain’t done noffing to yer.”

  “’E robbed me o’ yer rightful earnings wot I was due,” Uncle Batty retorted. A sneer twisted his face. “No one steals from me. I’m taking back wot’s mine.” Without looking at Bazzle, he said, “Mind me, boy, or I’ll wring this fine feathered toff’s neck like a chicken fit for the plucking.”

  “Don’t touch ’im,” the boy cried.

  “Bazzle,” Tom said, “listen to me. Climb out of that damned cab and go back to the office building. Wait for me there.”

  “But Uncle Batty will—”

  “Bazzle,” Tom said curtly.

  To Tom’s relief, the boy obeyed, slowly descending from the cab and heading toward the steps. Tom let go of the horse’s bridle and moved to the pavement.

  “Wot’s the brat to yer anyways?” Uncle Batty sneered, circling him. “Bazzle ain’t worth the time o’ day to yer.”

  Tom didn’t reply, only countered his movements, keeping his gaze fixed on the other man’s face.

  “Going to lay yer flat, I am,” Uncle Batty continued. “Pound ye to a paste. Or … if ye cares to toss some blunt me way, I might leave yer be.”

  “I wouldn’t give you a farthing, you gatless arsewit,” Tom said. “It’s the surest guarantee you’d come back for more.”

  “As the gen’leman wishes,” the other man growled, and lunged for him. Tom sidestepped, turned swiftly, and was ready with a jab, cross and a hard left hook when he came upright.

  Uncle Batty stumbled back and roared with outrage. He plowed forward again, absorbing a blow to his side and another to his stomach before landing an overhand punch that sent Tom reeling back. Pressing forward, Batty pounded him with an uppercut and another right, but Tom sidestepped to deflect the force of the blow. With bullish rage, Batty launched at him, sending them both to the ground. A burst of white sparks went across Tom’s vision as his head hit the pavement.

  When Tom came to himself, he was rolling across the ground with the massive figure, trading blows, using knees, elbows, fists, any means to gain an advantage. He smashed a fist into the bastard’s face, sending a spray of blood over them both. The big body beneath him went still, groaning in defeat. Tom kept pounding, machine-like, the breath sawing from his lungs, his muscles burning in agony.

  He felt a multitude of hands grabbing him, pulling him away. Unable to see clearly, he dragged his sleeve across his eyes. In the tumult and fury, he became aware of a small body pressed tightly to him, skinny arms cinched around his waist.

  “Sir … sir …” Bazzle sobbed.

  “Bazzle,” Tom slurred, his head spinning. “You’re my boy. No one takes you away from me. No one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sometime later, he heard Cassandra’s tense, quiet voice. “Tom. Tom, can you hear me?”

  But his vision had gone gray, and he could only mumble a few words that he knew weren’t making sense. Feeling her arms around him, he sighed and turned his face against the perfumed softness of her bosom, and let himself drift into the inviting darkness.

  “I HAVE NO middle name,” Tom said testily, as Garrett Gibson leaned over his bedside and moved her finger across his field of vision.

  “Keep following my finger. Who’s the queen?”

  “Victoria.”

  Cassandra sat at the foot of the bed and watched the examination. After the previous day’s events, her husband’s face was a bit worse for wear, but the bruises would heal, and thankfully, he had suffered only a slight concussion.

  “What year is it?” Garrett asked.

  “Eighteen seventy-seven. You asked me the same questions yesterday.”

  “And you’re just as cantankerous as you were then,” Garrett marveled. Sitting up, she spoke to Cassandra. “Since the concussion is minor, and all indications are promising, I’ll allow him some limited activity for the next day or two. However, I wouldn’t let him overdo. He should rest his mind and body as much as possible to ensure a complete recovery.” She wrinkled her nose playfully at Bazzle, who was curled up on the other side of the bed with a ball of red fluff cuddled against his chest. “That means we mustn’t let the puppy disturb Mr. Severin’s sleep.”

  The puppy had been a gift from Winterborne and Helen, delivered just that morning. They had received word of a new litter from a friend who bred toy poodle dogs, and at their request had sent the pick of the litter when he was ready to be weaned. Bazzle was enchanted with the little creature, whose presence had already helped him to stop fretting over the fright he’d received.

  “There’s a dust wad on the bed,” had been Tom’s comment upon first seeing the puppy. “It has legs.”

  Now the toy poodle stretched and yawned, and toddled up along Tom’s side, staring at him with bright amber eyes.

  “Was this thing on our approved list?” Tom asked, reluctantly reaching out to stroke the curly head with two fingers.

  “You know quite well it was,” Cassandra said, smiling, “and, being a poodle, Bingley will hardly shed at all.”

  “Bingley?” Tom repeated.

  “From Pride and Prejudice. Haven’t you read that one yet?”

  “I don’t need to,” Tom said. “If it’s Austen, I already know the plot: two people who fall in love after they have a terrible misunderstanding and have many long conversations about it. Then they marry. The end.”

  “Sounds orwful,” Bazzle said. “Unless it’s the one with the squid.”

  “No, that’s an excellent novel,” Tom said, “which I will read to you, if you can find it.”

  “I know where it is,” Bazzle said eagerly, and jumped off the bed.

  “I’ll read it to both of you,” Cassandra said, “after I see Dr. Gibson out.”

  “I’ll see myself out,” Garrett said firmly. “You stay with the patient, dear, and don’t let him overexert himself today.” She stood and collected her bag. “Mr. Severin, my husband asked me to convey to you that Uncle Batty will be incarcerated for a good long while. By the time he’s released, he’ll pose no more problems for you or anyone. In the meantime, I’m treating the boys who were living with him, and endeavoring to find them new situations.”

  “Thank you,” Tom said, seeming disconcerted as Bingley snuggled into the crook of his arm. “You’re not supposed to be on the bed,” he told the puppy. “It’s contractually prohibited.”

  Bingley didn’t seem to care.

  Cassandra leaned over Tom. “Does your head hurt?” she asked in concern. “Do you need more medicine?”

  “I need more you,” he said, and pulled her down beside him. She snuggled against him carefully. “Cassandra,” he said huskily.

  She turned her face until their noses were nearly touching, and all she could see were
the mingled depths of blue and green in his eyes.

  “When I woke up this morning,” Tom continued, “… I realized something.”

  “What was that, dear love?” she whispered.

  “What Phileas Fogg learned after traveling around the world.”

  “Oh?” She blinked and raised herself up on one elbow to look down at him.

  “The money meant nothing to him at the end,” Tom said. “Whether he won or lost the bet … that also meant nothing. All that mattered was Aouda, the woman he fell in love with along the way and brought back with him. Love is what’s important.” His gaze locked with hers, a smile deepening at the outer corners of his eyes. “That’s the lesson, isn’t it?”

  Cassandra nodded, wiping at the sudden watery blur of her vision. She tried to smile back, but a wave of pure emotion made her mouth quiver.

  One of his hands touched her face reverently. “I love you, Cassandra,” came his shaken voice.

  “I love you, too,” she said, and her breath caught on a little sob. “I know the words aren’t easy for you.”

  “No,” Tom murmured, “but I intend to practice. Frequently.” His hand slid around her head to pull her down to him, and he kissed her ardently. “I love you.” Another longer, slower kiss, seeming to pull her soul from her body. “I love you …”

  THE SOUND OF shattering glass caused Kathleen to start as she walked through the entrance hall at Eversby Priory. Or waddled, rather, she thought ruefully, one of her hands pressed against the curve of a distinctly rounded tummy. With only two months left to go, she had become heavier and slower, her joints loosening until the gait of impending childbirth was unmistakable. She was grateful to be away from the social whirl of London, back in the comforting surroundings of Eversby Priory. Devon had seemed equally as happy, if not more so, to return to the Hampshire estate, where the winter air was bitten with the savor of wood smoke and ice and evergreen. Even though she was too far along to ride, she could visit her horses in the stables, and take long walks with Devon, and return to snuggle beside a snapping fire in the hearth.

  They had just finished afternoon tea, while Kathleen had read aloud from a letter that had arrived that morning. It had been from Cassandra, amusing and chatting and brimming with happiness. There was no doubt she and Tom Severin were good for each other, and their feelings were developing into a deep and enduring bond. They seemed to have found the remarkable affinity that sometimes occurred between people whose differences added spice and excitement to their relationship.