She heard the watchman pass in the street below. “Past eleven o’clock, a fine night, and all’s well!”
Her head had started to ache; she massaged her temples tiredly, watching the quick, nervous tapping of her aunt’s toe beneath the hem of her skirt. So more was coming.
“Of course, if you truly despise Mr. Frane and are determined not to have him…” Aunt Beth cleared her throat. “We’re women, we can discuss these things freely, I hope. It would be silly to pretend another choice doesn’t exist, that of becoming a man’s…less legitimate companion and receiving, in return, sufficient remuneration to allow one to live a comfortable if not sumptuous—”
“A mistress, you mean, Aunt? A courtesan?”
She laughed lightly. “Some might call it that.”
Cass shook her head, smiling faintly. She spoke without thinking. “I’ll leave the taking of lovers to you.”
The vicious slap across her cheek stunned her, but not as much as the look of pure hate that flashed in her aunt’s eyes and was gone almost instantly. Then they were both apologizing profusely and with every evidence of heartfelt sincerity, but in that split second Cass was able to confirm what she’d long suspected—her aunt despised her. A deep weariness settled over her with the knowledge; she could not even bring herself to feel resentment. She had a swift and unwelcome insight that Lady Sinclair’s dislike was rooted in jealousy, and that it had started when men began to pay more attention to her niece than to her. With an odd sort of detachment she contemplated her aunt’s smooth white skin and voluptuous figure, the reddish-blonde hair that was still luxuriant but now enhanced by art. Her beauty was fading as a vague but unmistakable look of willfulness encroached on the once delicate features. Her tragedy, Cass saw clearly, was that her only identity was her beauty—a quality necessarily fated to abandon her.
The two women were standing, holding each other’s hands.
“I only want what’s best for you, Cassandra, truly I do. What will make you happy.”
“I know, Aunt Beth.” She was too tired to contest this transparent piece of humbuggery.
“If I didn’t think marrying Edward Frane would make you happy, I’d never urge you to do it. He’ll come again tomorrow, I’ve no doubt, and what you tell him will be your own decision. Will you see him?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And will you think about what we’ve said tonight?”
“I’m sure I’ll think of little else!”
“Good girl.” She gave her a quick embrace and kissed her forehead.
On her way upstairs to bed, Cass reflected that Aunt Beth’s tolerance of her presence seemed to rise as the time neared for her to leave. In fact, if one overlooked the little matter of a slap in the face, she’d lavished more physical affection on her niece tonight than she had in years.
“Is my aunt up yet, Clara?”
“Yes, miss, up an’ out, makin’ ’er mornin’ calls. An’ Sir Freddy’s still abed, so you can have a nice, quiet sit-down here with yer tea.”
Cass smiled appreciatively. Clara drove Aunt Beth wild, but she found the little maid quite charming—perhaps for that reason. “I’m expecting a visitor, Clara, probably this morning. Bring him right up and take him into the sitting room.”
“Yes, miss. That’ll be that Mr. Frane, I expect?” Her thick brows lifted and her mouth pulled to the side in an expression of disapproval.
Cassandra raised her own brows back. “I expect it will, not that it’s any business of yours. Now go away so I can read the paper.”
Clara sniffed and left the room.
Cass took a sip of tea and tried to concentrate on the Daily Advertizer. She’d slept badly again and her head was throbbing dully. The room was cold, though it was already high summer.
Still, Cass wouldn’t have traded all the mild June days of Paris for a single damp, foggy English morning. The years in France had always seemed like a banishment, but now they were over and she was home. Her childhood in Surrey, before her mother died, had been the happiest six years of her life. Later, when loneliness was her closest companion and she’d given up trying to understand what she’d done to deserve such an abandonment, it had seemed as if happiness might still be possible if she could only be in England again. What she’d never foreseen was that the public trial and execution of her father would be the occasion of her homecoming.
She stood up and took her tea to the window. It still hurt that he hadn’t let her visit him in Newgate in the final weeks, no matter how she pleaded with him in her letters. It seemed he was pushing her out of what remained of his life, as he had kept her out of the past twelve years. She wrote to him every day, pages and pages filled with love and sadness and terror. He never wrote back. Anger and a sense of injustice wrestled with her fear as the long days dragged past, days so full of anguish she couldn’t even remember them now except as a blur of suffering.
Then, on the very last day, a note had come. The sight of the familiar scrawl had wrung her heart.
“My dear Cassandra,
“So. The gamble did not pay off, and now I must forfeit everything to satisfy the wager. Forgive this conceit, my dear, but gaming metaphors come easily to me nowadays. They say a man dies the way he’s lived. I shall try to take to the scaffold what’s passed for forty-four years as a sort of reckless bravery, though there are many who would call it cheap bravado. But it no longer matters what it was.
“I wish I were leaving you in better hands than Elizabeth’s, but that’s only one of my innumerable regrets. She’s a vain and selfish woman, and yet she has a knowledge of the world which may prove useful to you. Heed her advice sparingly. Try to be happy. Forgive me for leaving you with nothing, not even memories. All that consoles me now is that I did truly believe in the Revolution. I die for the one honest act of my life.
“I trust your threat to attend the hanging was only that—a threat. Don’t come, Cassie. If I believed in the immortal soul, I would tell you ours will one day be together—but alas, I never could. Good-bye, my beautiful child.”
“Well, fer the lord’s sake, she’s startin’ in again. Here, now, dry ’em up, yer caller’s in the sittin’ room. There, there, it ain’t so bad.”
Cassandra stared down at the filthy handkerchief Clara had thrust into her hand. Through the tears, she couldn’t help laughing. “I’ll use my own, thanks,” she snuffled, wiping her eyes.
“Suit yerself, Miss Priss. An’ by the way, it ain’t Mr. Frane a’tall, it’s a bloke named Quinn.”
“Quinn?” frowned Cass.
“Quinn. Said as how he wanted ter speak with you about yer father. Yer want me ter bring in some food? Biscuits er wine, like?”
“That would be nice, Clara. Then go away, and no listening at the door.”
“Hmpf,” answered the maid, flouncing off.
A man was peering at the framed portraits of Cassandra’s parents on the fireplace mantel. He straightened at her quiet “Mr. Quinn?” and turned to greet her. They studied each other during this formality, and Cass saw a tall, thin man of about forty-five, with lank black hair combed straight back from a high forehead. He struck her as a mixture of schoolmaster and priest, with glowing black eyes that seemed to see everything. His face was bony and intelligent, the face of an ascetic, or a fanatic. He had a high, reedy tenor voice and a bulbous Adam’s apple that bobbed when he spoke. There was nothing foolish or laughable about him, though; if he were a schoolmaster, there would be no tricks played while his back was turned.
“You’re younger than I thought,” he said.
“I’m—”
“No, not younger.” He raised a finger as if testing the wind. “Fresher. May I sit down?”
“Of course.” She gestured toward the sofa and took the wing chair beside it for herself. “Were you a friend of my father’s, Mr. Quinn?” Before he could reply, there was a knock at the door and Clara entered.
“Have you any plain barley water?” asked the visitor, declinin
g the offered tray.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Ah. No matter.” He watched the maid leave. “No, Miss Merlin, I wasn’t a friend of your father’s. You’ve very little French accent, have you? Hardly even noticeable. How long did you live in Paris?”
“Twelve years.”
“Tell me a little about yourself.”
Cass hesitated. “Mr. Quinn, I don’t mean to be rude, but why should I? I don’t know you at all; I have no idea why you’ve come.”
He stared at her out of his strange, searching eyes. She had an impression he was re-evaluating, changing an opinion he’d had of her. His hand went to the inside pocket of his coat and brought out a folded piece of paper. “This document will introduce me. I’m an agent of His Majesty the King.” He stood up and handed it to her. “I’ve come to ask for your help.”
In growing perplexity she opened the stiff paper, staring at the regal-looking seal at the bottom. The document identified Oliver Martin Quinn in legalistic but vague terms as a member of His Royal Highness’s personal ministry, empowered to act in furtherance and on behalf of the security and safety of the realm. Cassandra raised her eyes to the man who stood quietly watching her. “Mr. Quinn, how could I possibly help you?”
“Have you heard of the Constitution Club, Miss Merlin?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“The Revolution Society?”
“No.”
“The Friends of the People?”
She spread her hands helplessly.
He smiled, but he was watching her carefully. “These are organizations in England of men who sympathize with the revolution in France and would like to see its anarchic principles take hold here.”
“I see. Was my father a member of one of them?”
“Of all of them, I should think, at one time or another. You weren’t aware of his sympathies?”
“No. That is, I knew he sympathized with the Revolution and that, as a journalist, he often wrote in support of it.”
“Indeed. Many supported it, especially in the early days. But your father’s support went a bit further, didn’t it?”
Cassandra felt herself grow warm. “He did what he believed was right,” she said stiffly.
His brows lowered; his eyes burned into her. “Do you defend him?”
She felt ensnared by his eyes; she couldn’t look away, couldn’t even blink. “No, I don’t defend him. I’m ashamed of him,” she admitted weakly. It was as if he were drawing the truth from her without her permission. She stood and went to the window, putting the wing chair between them. “But whatever he may have done, Mr. Quinn, he was my father. If you’re expecting me to revile him, you’ll be disappointed.”
She half-expected him to pursue her, but instead he walked over to the mantel and picked up one of the miniature portraits. “Your mother?” Cass nodded. “A beautiful woman. You’re even more beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she said lightly. Compliments sounded odd coming from him, she thought.
“Men are attracted to you.” It was a statement, not a question, and it didn’t sound like a compliment at all. “In a vain and foolish world, that’s a useful skill to possess, Miss Merlin. A very useful skill.”
She made no answer. She couldn’t imagine what he was leading up to. She finally identified the odor that emanated from him ever so faintly. It was incense.
He put his hands behind his back and began to pace before the cold hearth. “Your father belonged to another group besides the ones I mentioned, Miss Merlin. A much more dangerous group, one whose name we don’t know, if it even has a name. It meets clandestinely, unlike the others, and its purpose isn’t just to drink toasts to the Revolution and talk of a Jacobin Utopia. Its purpose is to create chaos in this country by any means available, so that a republic modeled after the one across the Channel can supplant our constitutional monarchy.”
He stopped pacing. “We believe we know the name of their leader, but we have no proof. And because the man is the son of an earl, we must move carefully. The earl in question is a trusted and, as far as we know, devoted friend of the royal family, so there’s a need for extreme delicacy. Do you understand me?”
“I think so. Who is the man?”
“I will tell you his name after you’ve agreed to help us.”
“Help you in what way?” Cass burst out, exasperated. “Forgive my ignorance, but I still don’t know what you would have me do!”
Quinn put his fingertips together and pressed them against his lips, studying her. “I would have you befriend him.”
“Befriend him,” she repeated stupidly. But even as he spoke again, the light was beginning to dawn.
“Make his acquaintance, win his confidence. Your father’s just been executed, you’ve spent most of your life in France—it shouldn’t take much to convince the man you’re as devout an enemy of England as he is. Make him believe you want revenge. Let him talk of fraternité and égalité until you seem as fervent a believer in the Revolution as any Jacobin. In the meantime, keep us informed of his activities, the names of his friends, whom he meets with in secret.” He spread his hands. “Simple.”
Cassandra came around from behind the chair and sat down. “Simple,” she breathed, massaging her forehead. She tried to gather her wits. “You want me to be a spy.”
“Not—”
“You want me to befriend a man who leads a group trying to overthrow the monarchy.”
“In—”
“And the manner in which you want me to gain this man’s confidence, as you put it, is very likely to mean taking him for a lover. Isn’t that true, Mr. Quinn? Isn’t that what you have in mind?”
For once he was at a loss for words, but only momentarily. “Miss Merlin, it’s perfectly immaterial to me how you engage the man’s confidence. I would leave that entirely up to you.”
“How magnanimous!”
“It may be the quickest approach, then again it may not. May I speak frankly?”
She stifled a giddy laugh. “Do you mean you haven’t been?”
“I meant, may I speak my mind without fear of giving offense?”
“That depends on what you have to say.” But she thought she already knew.
He hesitated, and she gave him credit for at least attempting to be delicate. “Contemporary morality means nothing to me, Miss Merlin; it’s too apt to be different tomorrow from what it was yesterday. But unfortunately, we live in a society governed by rather strict rules of conduct, rules that are no less binding for their being often capricious or unfair, especially as they apply to women, and—”
“Mr. Quinn, I thought you wanted to speak frankly.”
He stopped and clasped his hands behind his back, bobbing a bit on his toes. “Quite so. It’s only this. I would never have suggested or implied that you become our traitor’s mistress if I hadn’t been in possession of information to the effect that such a relationship would not be a—a novel one for you, if I make myself clear. And that you would fit easily into the style of life in which our man is known to indulge.”
“The style of life—ah, I see. He must be a terrible libertine.” She was laughing softly, leaning back in her chair. “Mr. Quinn, I’m sure I should jump up and slap your face, but I fear it would do no good. My tattered reputation is beyond repair, I perceive.” She laughed again, but there was a bitter sound to it. “I suppose it wouldn’t help to tell you that my reputation for decadence is a bit exaggerated? No, I thought not. It doesn’t matter to me what you think, but I feel bound to tell you that if you’re looking for a truly wicked woman for this role,—a femme fatale—you would really do better to look elsewhere.”
“I thank you for the warning, but I’m satisfied with my choice.”
“I wonder why I don’t feel complimented,” she said dryly, bringing the first smile to Quinn’s thin lips.
He pulled a straight chair away from the wall, placed it near her, and sat down. “You’re wondering, naturally, what I’m offering
in return for your cooperation,” he said in his oddly boyish tenor. “The possibility of physical danger to you is extremely remote, I assure you, but I won’t say it doesn’t exist; thus I wouldn’t ask you to begin such an undertaking on the strength of mere…patriotism.”
The emphasis he gave the word struck her as almost sneering. “Actually, Mr. Quinn—”
“If I may be blunt again, I have information that your financial circumstances are unfortunate, your prospects for improving them not good. Plainly speaking, you’re incapable of making an advantageous marriage, and the combined circumstances of your father’s death, the reputation you inherited from him, and the one you’ve made for yourself make the possibility of any other course of action equally bleak.”
Cass couldn’t speak. Mr. Quinn’s words were like an echo of Aunt Beth’s last night, only somehow much worse. How had this happened? When had it begun? A feeling of helplessness settled over her as she watched him rub his hands together almost with relish.
“I can rescue you from this situation,” he was saying softly, leaning forward and fixing her with his unnerving stare. “I’m prepared to give you five hundred pounds right now, this moment. When you finish your work—that is, when the situation is resolved one way or another—you’ll receive an identical amount, as well as passage to America.”
“America!”
“Or Italy, the Netherlands—wherever you like.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Someplace where you’ll have a chance to begin again, unencumbered by the past. There’s little for you here in England now; I daresay when this is over, there’ll be even less.”
She rose from her chair slowly and went to the fireplace. She found she had to lean against the mantel to steady herself. “Let me be sure I understand you,” she said in a low, controlled voice, without turning around. “You’re asking me to prostitute myself to a traitor in return for a thousand pounds and exile from my own country forever. Do I have that right, Mr. Quinn?”
Fortune's Lady Page 2