Emma squinted at the walls. “He has already found a way to supplement that miserly allowance, so he is not a good choice.”
“Being your agent is more secure than taking his chances at the tables.”
“Not the tables,” Emma said, still distracted by her walls. “Blue, I think. Not too dark or bright a hue though. It would have to be just the right one.”
“Blue it is. How is he enhancing his allowance, if not by gaming?”
The question confused Emma a moment, until she found the thread of thought in her mind. “You mean Ambury? Darius says he does investigative missions for people, very discreetly. He first did it as a favor for a friend, and proved to have the talent and found it interesting. Now he is sought out, and the most discreet compensation is offered for his services. You must not tell anyone, Cassandra. Promise you will not.”
Cassandra turned her own gaze to the walls, but the only color she saw on them was red. She did not fight her surging anger, because it kept in check another emotion that weighed inside her, thick and sour.
The scoundrel. He was not merely curious about the history of the earrings. He did not only want to ensure there would be no embarrassment if he gave them to someone. He was investigating their history, which was another matter entirely. He was digging into their past for someone who had told him they were probably stolen. He probably had been hired to find the thief.
That was why he had gone to the pawnbrokers too. No wonder he was being so relentless about the whole matter. She had been a fool not to pay more attention to how odd his determination first seemed.
Even his kisses were part of the scheme. He had distracted her from the start with his flirting.
He had been pointed about confirming they had come from Aunt Sophie too. Which meant that now he was investigating her.
The thought horrified her. She thought she would be sick. If Ambury did this for pay, anyone might hire him.
Even Gerald.
“I wonder if a hue close to primrose would be better than blue,” Emma said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Do you think so?”
“Primrose would be lovely. It is the perfect choice. Now, might we go sit in the garden? I have a favor I must ask of you. It is a big one, I am afraid.”
The summons came that evening. Yates had not been formally commanded to attend on his father in months, so the footman’s message surprised him.
He set aside the map on which he was charting a visit to that disputed land on the southern coast. The plan had not progressed far. Left alone with his thoughts, they turned to Cassandra too often. An hour would then be lost in memories of her firm, snowy breasts in his hand and his mouth, and of the adorable, arousing way she tried in vain to hold in her sounds of pleasure.
In the day since Kendale and Southwaite had alerted him that he had been seen leaving her house, nothing more had developed. That did not mean the story had not spread. Scandal could quietly pass around this circle or that for a long time before it emerged as a public spectacle.
It had been madness to try and take her. Ill-timed and ill-advised. Careless and ignoble on several counts.
She had just accused Lakewood of dishonorable behavior.
Had desire led him to grab at the chance to think the worst? Had he used those doubts as an excuse to have a way of possessing her? He only remembered his anger in a blink, turning into a different fury and succumbing to an urge to conquer the voice and person who had just threatened memories from half a lifetime. That he had wanted Cassandra Vernham almost as long hardly absolved him.
He was not above seducing a woman, but normally he planned it with more ceremony. There had been no planning at all this time, just the impulse to have what he wanted and the instinct to know he probably could.
He owed Cassandra an apology, unless he wanted what had happened to be an insult he neither intended nor wanted to stand. Before he went down to his father, he penned a quick note and gave it to a footman to deliver.
Chapter 13
Cassandra found her aunt in the little library of their house with her face buried in a voluptuous collection of blooms that overloaded their vase.
“Heavenly,” Sophie sighed. “Roses and hydrangeas. What a lovely and unexpected combination.”
“Where did you get them?”
“A footman delivered them. Merriweather was putting them in this vase when I came in after supper. This came with them.”
Cassandra picked up and read the folded paper to which Aunt Sophie pointed. “I will call on you tomorrow. Please receive me. Ambury.”
Aunt Sophie shot her a sly glance. “Thank goodness he is not going to pretend it never happened. Men who do that are so annoying. One should not sin if one is not willing to own the sin.”
“It would be better if he did pretend. I do not expect any weight on his conscience, but mere common sense says he should not call.”
“What nonsense. Flowers change everything. They absolve all presumptions. Had he pretended it had not happened, that would be insulting enough to call him out. If you had a male relative brave and honorable enough to do so, that is.”
Which she did not have. Perhaps Sophie was correct, and the flowers absolved any presumption or insult implied by that night. They did not truly alleviate either, however.
She had not conquered one whit of her suspicions about Ambury, and she really wished he had not sent these flowers.
“You must receive him. Will it be easier if I do as well?” Aunt Sophie asked. “I can sit with you when he arrives, and stay a few minutes.”
The offer astonished Cassandra. She embraced the dear woman who would leave the safety of her retirement in order to make the visit from Ambury less awkward.
She held Sophie a moment, smelling the lavender in her hair. She kissed her aunt’s cheek. “I can manage Ambury alone. I thank you for loving me enough to offer. I will receive him as you advise, this one time.”
Her aunt patted her face in approval, then buried her face in the huge bouquet again. Then Aunt Sophie picked up a basket and headed to the garden to tend her own blooms.
When a man has seen a woman naked, it changes the way he views her forever.
Ambury noted the truth of that old lesson when he entered Cassandra’s drawing room.
She appeared proper, respectable, and even demure as she greeted him. He might have been Pitt coming to call, she proceeded so formally. Yet in her eyes he saw the same familiarity he felt, and he knew the ongoing sense of intimacy was mutual.
They continued to pretend it was not. He smiled and spoke as he might if this were a call on Southwaite’s wife. All the while, Cassandra’s clothes were peeling off in his mind until she sat on her straight-backed chair totally naked, with the hard tips of her breasts beckoning him to lick until she screamed from pleasure.
“I appreciate your receiving me today,” he said. “I need to leave town, and wanted to see you before I did.”
“More duties to your father’s estate?”
“Yes. A border dispute between tenants up north. He told me that he wants me to tend to it personally. He thinks it will accustom the tenants to accepting my authority.”
“How does he fare?”
“There has been a small revival that is heartening. It is subtle but visible.”
“That is good news.” She idly twisted her forefinger in a curl dangling down her shoulder. “If you came to learn if I have discovered more about the earrings, I fear I have nothing to give you. I am making inquiries, but to no avail. I think the month will end without more information for you.”
“That is not why I am here.” She knew it wasn’t. She had just let him know that she wondered if the two things—his interest in the earrings and his seduction of her—were in some way related, however.
She looked at him with those blue eyes, waiting. She appeared to be daring him to speak of it, and warning him not to at the same time.
“I need to apologize for importuning you the other night. It wa
s reckless impulse, but that hardly excuses me.” There. It was done.
She thought over his words as if weighing each one. “So you had never planned on more than a stolen kiss or two? You had never thought about seducing me, despite your bald announcement the afternoon of Emma’s wedding?”
“I can see that you have decided not to make this easy for me. As a gentleman, I must accept responsibility, of course, however you choose to interpret my actions and intentions.”
“Even though you do not feel totally responsible. Do you?” Her voice challenged him like someone looking for a good row.
“I do not engage in games of blame about such actions,” he said. “If you do, allow me to accept all of it.”
She studied him, as if trying to decide something important. Perhaps she only wondered if he were the least sincere.
“I accept your apology,” she only said. “Let us not speak of it again.”
“That may not be possible. There has been some talk about us. Did no one tell you that yet?”
Her face fell. A tiny panic entered her eyes, but it only lasted a moment before disappearing. “No. However, I have only seen Emma, and she is not yet a part of circles where talk would begin.”
“It is mild. Unformed. I expect it will all come to naught.”
“I am not too concerned. I will brave this out as I have before.”
She was taking it very well. Surprisingly so. “I will not permit lies to attach to you regarding what happened.” He stood to take his leave. “I will call on you when I return. We will see how things stand then.”
“You need only write. You do not have to call.”
“I will call on you anyway.”
To his surprise, she accompanied him to the door. They stood before it, mere feet from where passion had overruled good sense so recently.
She looked up at him after he made his bow. Neither her eyes nor her expression held the mocking humor that so often served as her shield. “Kiss me good-bye, Ambury, so we part as friends.”
It was her first acknowledgment of the intimacy that bound them now. Her first words that were not arch and indifferent and spoken like a woman who gladly accepted being slightly notorious.
He lifted her chin and touched her lips with his. He lingered, because it had not entirely been a momentary impulse that night, and they parted now as more than mere friends.
“Go now,” she said, stepping back. “Duty waits and cannot be denied.”
He opened the door, then looked back at her. She stood in the shadow beyond the sunlight pouring through the opening. She gave him a vague, sad smile, then closed the door after him.
“Here is the letter for Ambury,” Cassandra said. “Here is the one for the lawyer, Mr. Prebles, who now holds the jewels. And this one is for you, in which I give you permission to auction the earrings again should I remain down at Anseln Abbey longer than initially planned.”
Emma took all three sealed letters and set them on the corner of the desk at Fairbourne’s.
“Please allow me to simply give you the money.”
“It is better this way.”
“I do not understand why. But then I do not understand why Ambury did not pay for them. I told you after the auction that Darius offered to cover the bid if you needed the funds right away. Of course, he did not expect Ambury to wait months to make good, just as you did not.”
“Do not think ill of him for the delay. He has been much distracted by family matters.” She did not know why she defended Ambury. He had put it off a long time by any accounting. Since he bid on the earrings and investigated their history for someone else, as an agent, he did not even have the excuse of his father’s illness.
You defend him because his last kiss was sweet, and because he promised to defend you. He might well prove to be a scoundrel in the end, but right now, as she put in place the means to escape London, nostalgic feelings about him dulled her mood.
That emotion was one more reflection of a sadness that would not leave her. She had to go, of course. She had to take Aunt Sophie far away. The tickets on the ship had already been bought with the money given to her by Emma, who had not even asked the purpose of the loan before agreeing to provide it.
The settlement regarding the jewels had now been arranged. When the month was up, and Ambury had no information, Emma would give him the letter reminding him of the pact. She would send the lawyer, Prebles, the letter demanding the jewels be released. Then Emma would add the earrings to her first auction and repay herself with the proceeds.
Emma’s fingertips rested on that last letter. “This was unnecessary. I do not need a signed promise from you about that loan, if you insist it be a loan at all.”
“I prefer to do it this way. I am sure your husband would prefer it too, if he knew. Does he?”
Emma blushed. As Cassandra had assumed, Southwaite did not know.
“When are you going down to your family’s estate?”
“Tomorrow.” She had decided to visit her mother one last time. It would be a surprise, and for only a few days. Gerald was in town, so Mama and she could spend the time privately. Upon her return, she and Sophie would use a hired coach to travel to Liverpool, and they would be gone.
She looked at Emma and her heart ached. She remembered the first time they met, in front of a painting at a Royal Academy exhibition. They had argued whether the artist deserved the prize he had won. There had been no deference in Emma’s frank manner, even when she later learned she was talking to an earl’s daughter. The argument had turned into a long walk, and eventually into a deep friendship. The only close one that Cassandra had.
There was a fourth letter, in addition to the three now on the desk. It would be mailed from Liverpool the day she and Aunt Sophie sailed. She hoped Emma, who had never blamed or judged, who had accepted a friend’s rebellious views even when she did not hold them herself, would understand why there had been no good-bye other than the one that, unbeknownst to Emma, they would have today.
Emma lifted a delicate watch from the surface of the desk. “I hope that you will stay awhile longer. I am expecting a very important consignment to arrive any minute now, and I want you to see it.”
“Is your brother bringing it?”
“He knows nothing about it yet, but he will be delighted if it is as good as I hope.” She set the watch down, then stood and went to the door to peer out into the exhibition hall impatiently.
Cassandra joined her there. Men were busy painting the walls in preparation for the autumn auctions. Mr. Nightingale, Fairbourne’s exquisitely handsome exhibition hall manager, directed them. Even in shirtsleeves and waistcoat he appeared too perfectly beautiful to be real. He rebuked one painter for using strokes that were sure to show streaks when the light hit the wall from an angle.
The door to Albemarle Street opened. Emma’s gaze shot there expectantly. Her face fell when the person who entered was her own auctioneer, the short, slight, and graying Obediah Riggles. He greeted Cassandra with a bow on his way to the storage chamber next to the office.
Emma fretted. “Perhaps it will not be today after all.”
“It must be a fine collection if you are so excited.”
“It is reputed to be. I will need to see the paintings myself before I know for certain.”
“From whom are you receiving them?”
“Did I not say? Marielle is bringing them.”
“It is odd for her to find paintings for you. Jewels and cameos, and even drawings and books, are easily brought over by the émigrés, but paintings do not easily fit on the boats by which they cross the channel.”
“These are very small ones. They are very rare, she says. Do not look so skeptical. She has promised the provenance is all in order and that the owner—ah, here she is now!”
A lovely young woman wearing a dress two decades out of style walked in. The sunlight blazed off her light brown hair before the door closed. Cassandra had always thought it very unfair that Marielle Ly
on could appear elegant and delicate dressed in old mended silk decorated with torn lace.
She hailed Emma with a wave. In her other hand she carried a framed panel not much larger than a dressing-room looking glass.
“The others are in the carriage outside,” she said to Emma as she handed it over. “Perhaps that pretty man can bring them in. The hackney also wants to be paid.”
Emma fished a coin from her reticule and gave it to Mr. Nightingale. He flashed a gleaming smile at Marielle and went to get the paintings.
Marielle flipped her long curls over her shoulders while Emma assessed the painting. It had brilliant colors and showed a primitive Deposition from the Cross. The figures appeared angular and emaciated, and very different from the rounded and real-looking ones seen in the Renaissance art favored by collectors.
“It is odd, no?” Marielle said. “I did not think such a thing of value, but the man who owns it said it is very old and rare. Perhaps some English lord will buy it for a few pounds.”
“A sophisticated collector will find it of great interest,” Emma said. It was obvious that she did too.
“Here come the others. I like this one better.” Marielle took a painting from Mr. Nightingale and held it in front of her, displaying it for Emma. It showed the interior of an old house, and a garden in the background. A man and a woman sat at a table, and all of it appeared so real that one was sure one could get splinters from the wood depicted.
“That is much more recent,” Emma said. “Seventeenth century. It is Dutch. It will bring a very good price.”
“The same terms, yes?” Marielle asked.
“Of course.” Emma told Mr. Nightingale to put the other paintings in the office and followed him to see them in the light that flowed in through the window there.
Marielle admired the new wall color. Mr. Nightingale returned and admired Marielle. Cassandra sidled beside them both.
The Conquest of Lady Cassandra Page 15