Fortune's Lady

by Patricia Gaffney

  Riordan’s were quicker. Almost before Quinn had finished speaking, he was grinning and slapping the top of the desk with his palm. “Of course! Oliver, you’re a genius. This is even better than the original plan. This way we not only learn things about Wade from Cass, we can pass selected information to him through her. It’s perfect!”

  “Yes, I thought you’d like it,” Quinn smiled thinly.

  Besides feeling a mounting sense of alarm, Cass was growing tired of being spoken of as if she weren’t in the room. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she interjected sharply. “Why would Mr. Wade want to infiltrate a relationship between Mr. Riordan and me?”

  Riordan glanced at Quinn. “You didn’t tell her?”

  “No, there wasn’t time.”

  “Tell me what?” She looked back and forth between them.

  “Mr. Riordan is a Member of the House of Commons,” the older man explained.

  Cass looked at Riordan for half a second before bursting out with a spontaneous laugh. An answering chortle sounded from the direction of Mr. Walker, although at a hard look from Quinn, it turned into a choking cough. “You’re joking, of course,” Cass stated with certainty, still smiling.

  “Odd, a lot of my new constituents had the same reaction,” Riordan smiled back amiably. “But I’m afraid it’s true. You see before you the distinguished junior Member for St. Chawes.”

  “St. Chawes?” It had to be a joke.

  “In Cornwall. A small borough, it’s true—only twelve voting burgesses. It helped at election time that my father’s wool business employed all twelve of them. My father is the Earl of Raine, by the way. He was a Member of the House of Lords until a few years ago, when drink and syphilis finally incapacitated him. Now he stays at home, peacefully counting my mother’s lovers. No easy feat even for a man in good health.”

  Cass could only stare. His tone was jocular, but there was a tightness around his mouth that made his smile seem forced.

  “It’s really true?” she asked after a full minute. “You are truly a member of the Parliament?”

  “My dear, this continued skepticism is beginning to hurt my feelings. Believe it. It’s true.”

  “Then…” She put a hand to her forehead; this was getting too complicated. “How do you expect to make people believe we’re involved?” She directed the question to Quinn. “I mean, why would we be? Mr. Riordan is the son of an earl, he holds a high position in the government, he’s obviously wealthy.” Unconsciously her chin rose a fraction. “On the other hand, you’ve had the goodness to point out a number of times that any hopes I might have had for a respectable position in society are unrealistic.” She held out her hands in honest perplexity. “Why do you expect Wade or anyone else to believe he would want me?” she asked baldly. She threw a glance at Riordan, who was looking at her with an expression she’d never seen before and couldn’t name. She turned back to Quinn, who was standing behind his chair, his thin arms folded across the back.

  “Because you won’t be the only one playing a role,” he told her matter-of-factly. “Philip has been playing one for months. For reasons that don’t immediately concern you, we’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to establish a reputation for him in fashionable society as a drunkard, a gambler, and an indiscriminate womanizer.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said softly, sitting back. “No wonder, then.”

  “Oliver, for God’s sake,” Riordan muttered.

  Now she understood the look in his eyes. Pity. “The profligate peer and the gay grisette,” she mused with a tight smile. “Very clever. And very believable.”

  “Yes, I think so,” Quinn nodded seriously. “I agree with you, Philip—in some ways this will be more to our advantage than the first scheme. Wade won’t have any trouble believing Miss Merlin would enjoy the attentions of two men at once.” He began to pace back and forth across the Turkish carpet, oblivious to the taut quality of the silence in the wake of his words. “And when she confides to him that she misses France and feels bitterness toward England because of her father’s execution, with any luck the idea of using you will come from him first. But if not, we’ll pass some innocuous bit of intelligence to him through Miss Merlin in an offhand way, and that will give him the idea.”

  Cass thought she’d insulated herself against Quinn’s insults; it must be because she wasn’t alone this time, that other people were hearing them too, that made the barbs seem so piercing. She carefully unclenched her hands. “One thing puzzles me,” she said when she could speak in a normal tone. “If I’m such an enemy of the English, why would I associate with a man who represents the very government I profess to despise?”

  “Because he’s rich,” Quinn answered promptly. “You’ll have to make Wade believe your desire for a wealthy protector is even stronger than your hatred of England.”

  “Ah, of course. Greed over patriotism.”

  “Precisely. Greed and revenge, Miss Merlin, those are your two motivations. In that order.”

  “Yes, I think I’ve got it. It should be easy, shouldn’t it, Mr. Quinn? In the theatre I believe it’s called type-casting.” She stood up. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to leave now.” Riordan stood too, but she didn’t look at him. “I expect I’ll be hearing from you quite soon.”

  “Not from me anymore,” said Quinn, “at least not publicly. Philip is your contact from now on. He’ll contrive your first meeting with Wade. I’ll go back to my role as merely an old friend of Philip’s, a drab government drone with some vague, unimportant job in the ministry.”

  Cass took his outstretched hand stiffly, absorbing this news with mixed feelings. She turned away, anxious to be gone.

  Riordan’s voice stopped her. “Wait, Cass. Before you go.” He crossed the room to a wide shelf of books on the far wall and ran his hand slowly along the top row. He halted at a thin volume and extracted it. “Here,” he said, coming back and handing it to her. “Read it.”

  She looked down at the title and felt her face grow warm. Contrat Social, by Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

  “I’ve lent my English copy to a friend. Can you read it in French?”

  “Of course,” she muttered, embarrassed and angry at the same time.

  “Good. I’ll just see Miss Merlin to the carriage,” he said over his shoulder, taking her elbow. Walker hastened to open the library door and bowed politely as they went through; Cass nodded to him, wondering again what he must be thinking.

  Riordan walked slowly but didn’t speak as they crossed the wide, elegant foyer to the front door. The carriage was still by the curb, the coachman engaged in grooming one of the matching gray geldings while he waited. They stood on the shallow flagstone stoop, two steps up from the sidewalk; after a moment Riordan dropped her arm, as if just realizing he still held it.

  “Goodbye,” said Cass. He was frowning; she had the impression he wanted to say something.

  “Cass, you mustn’t mind Oliver. Tact isn’t his strong suit.”

  “I had noticed that,” she said coolly. “It doesn’t matter in the least.” She turned away; for some reason his attempt at an apology on Quinn’s behalf deeply embarrassed her. She went down the steps, then stopped, remembering. “Would you do me the favor of reminding Mr. Quinn that I’ve not yet received any of the payment he and I agreed on?”

  At her words, his eyes narrowed and his lips twisted in a cynical smile. “Of course,” he said, bowing.

  She stiffened. “Surely you can appreciate that my new role necessitates certain expenses. Clothes, for one thing. And my aunt—” She broke off in anger, watching his eyes take on a sardonic gleam.

  “I’m sure it does,” he agreed smoothly. “A girl has to look out for herself, after all. Strike while the iron is hot, eh? And I expect you’ll want to set something by for a rainy day.”

  She spoke through clenched teeth. “I declare, Mr. Riordan, you’re more edifying than a wallful of samplers. But now if you have no more clichéd advice, I’ll bid you good day.”


  To her dismay, he descended the two steps in one stride and took hold of her arm again. Surely there was no need for him to clasp her waist so tightly as he helped her into the carriage, nor settle her skirts around her with such lingering solicitousness that it was all she could do not to slap his hands away.

  “I’ll come to see you tomorrow, Cass,” he said with one hand on the door, leaning in toward her. “Around four again, I should think. Have the book read by then so we can discuss it.” He smiled at her expression. “But you’ll be rereading it, won’t you? I’d forgotten that you admire Rousseau ‘above all men.’”

  She felt like sticking her tongue out at him.

  “And Cass, do something about your attitude, will you? You’re soon going to have to convince people we’re having a liaison, you know. You might start by calling me by my first name.”

  She glared down at him with all the haughtiness she could summon. “I’m a very good actress; I think I proved that last night rather spectacularly. Although it’s the hardest role I’ll ever have to play, when the time comes I’m sure I’ll be able to convince people I can bear to be in the same room with you. But in the meantime, I see no reason to hide my dislike. In fact, I feel quite incapable of it. Good day, Mister Riordan.”

  So quickly she had no time to react, he swung up into the carriage and sat down, facing her, on the little bit of seat left between her and the door. Her skirt was pinned under his thigh, making it impossible to move over. She had no desire to enter into a physical struggle with him. For one thing, it would be vulgar; for another, he would win. She could scream, but on the whole it didn’t seem worth it. She tried to freeze him with an icy-cold look of disdain, but its only effect was to make his smug smile widen.

  “Acting, Cass?” he asked softly. He was watching her mouth again. “Are you sure that’s all it was?”

  She felt a treacherous tremor in the pit of her stomach. “Acting,” she insisted. “That’s all it was for both of us. Please get out of the carriage now and let me—”

  “Would you like to make a small, private wager? Because if it was only acting, I could touch you now, like this, and you would feel nothing. Absolutely nothing. How does this make you feel, Cass?”

  “Stop it. Take your hands off me.”

  “I only have one hand on you,” he corrected, a little hoarsely. He moved his fingers from the side of her jaw to her throat, confirming what he’d hoped—her pulse was racing. “Now I have both hands on you.” And he put his other hand on her stomach.

  Her lips parted in shock, but she didn’t move. “I’m not afraid of you, Philip Riordan.” She didn’t even try to steady her voice.

  “I’m glad, Cass,” he whispered. “I never want you to be afraid of me. Now let me see how well you act while I’m kissing you.”

  “Don’t! Don’t—”

  “It’s for the wager. Show me how you don’t feel anything. Open your mouth, love. Yes.” His palm was pressed against her heart. He caught the back of her head in his other hand and held her like a fragile treasure while his mouth made love to her. Hazily, Cass decided her most dignified defense was to be still and let him kiss her until her unresponsiveness chilled him. By the time the defects in this plan were clear to her, it was too late to institute another. She made a faint-hearted attempt to push him away, but the touch of her small hand on his chest made her think of rolling a boulder uphill. Her name on his lips was the most seductive sound she’d ever heard. She had enough presence of mind left not to moan out loud, but not enough to keep herself from giving him her tongue when he demanded it, nor from quivering with pleasure when he sucked it between his lips and gently bit it.

  “You don’t like it, do you? This is torture, right, Cass?” he muttered thickly, before his impatient mouth found hers again and delved into its warmth and wetness without waiting for an answer. He could feel his control slipping away, just as it had last night. He hadn’t been going to touch her like this, but his hand was sliding slowly up and down between her breasts, the fingers splayed. When she didn’t resist, his excitement flared hotter. He would stop in a minute, as soon as she …as soon as they…

  “Philip!”

  He froze.

  Cass squeezed her eyes shut and jerked her head away, clutching both hands to her chest.

  There was something he wanted to tell her, but at that moment the words eluded him. Shielding her with his body from Quinn’s furious glare, he turned to face his old tutor. “Don’t say anything, Oliver. The blame is entirely mine. Miss Merlin was just…there.” In a voice loud enough only for her to hear, he added, “And more than I could resist.” He did her the kindness of not looking at her as he lowered himself from the carriage to the ground.

  Quinn’s bony, clever face was bright red with anger. “Then apologize to her, damn you, and let her go,” he grated through clenched jaws.

  “Indeed I will. Miss—”

  “It’s not necessary,” said Cass in a shaky murmur that stopped him cold. “Mr. Riordan and I were—settling a wager.” Her chin went a little higher, her voice a little lower. “I lost.” She looked directly at him, unblinking. Riordan could only guess at what the effort cost her. Her face was grim and defeated, and he felt no sense of exultation at her admission.

  Quinn’s eyes shifted between them as a glimmer of alarm began to supplant his anger. He reached around Riordan and closed the carriage door with a slam. “Take her home, Tripp!” he called to the patient coachman. The vehicle jerked forward, and the thread holding Cass and Riordan’s gazes finally snapped.

  Unmoving, Riordan watched the coach disappear around the corner, heard the clatter of hooves and wheels die away. The taste of her was still on his tongue, the imprint of her delicate throat on his palm. She’d said she wasn’t afraid of him, and he was glad. But by God, she terrified him.

  IV

  “VERY WELL, GRANDMOTHER, I’ll play if you absolutely insist.” Lady Claudia Harvellyn laughed in mock defeat and sat down gracefully at the pianoforte. She threw Riordan an amused glance and began to play, her long-fingered hands sliding over the keys with perfect confidence.

  Riordan relaxed against a satin-covered loveseat in the Harvellyns’ best drawing room and sighed contentedly. There was nothing he enjoyed more than sitting quietly for an hour or so, listening to soothing music expertly played and feasting his eyes on the lovely Claudia. In the past months these occasional family evenings had been a godsend, a blessed respite from the pointless round of frivolity he had to endure every day. Here he could be himself, he thought comfortably, taking a sip of tea from a cup so delicate he could almost see through it. Ah, this was what he needed. Peace, quiet. Civility. Association with people who loved music, who read books and talked about ideas. What an ironic joke that, just as he was beginning to understand himself, he was forced to waste precious time impersonating a wastrel to satisfy the debt he owed Quinn. But he’d given his promise, so there was no way out. The thought of going back on his word never occurred to him.

  He set his cup down on a rococo side table and sat back, eyes half-closed, and contemplated Claudia Harvellyn’s chestnut hair and flawless complexion, her ripe, womanly figure. At twenty-four, she was skating dangerously close to the thin ice of spinsterhood, but the awful prospect didn’t seem to alarm her overmuch. She liked to say she was waiting for the right man, and Riordan liked to think he was that man. But no promises had been exchanged; in fact the subject of marriage hadn’t even been raised between them. They had met at a house party in Norfolk nearly a year ago, on one of the rare weekends when Riordan had been sober, and he’d been attracted to her immediately. She was beautiful, of course, but what had drawn him even more was the aura of quiet self-confidence she projected. Here was a woman who knew and was satisfied with who she was. It was a quality he hadn’t found in many people, and it had had a curiously soothing effect on him. In combination with her keen intelligence and a dry, subtle sense of humor, it had made her irresistible; he’d decided th
en and there that she was the woman for him.

  So far the progress of his pursuit had been somewhat halting, he reflected wryly, lacing his fingers together and watching her over clasped hands. The dissolute life he’d lived for a dozen years had ended abruptly on a night ten months ago, and since then his debauchery had been only a well-acted charade. Claudia was one of a bare handful of people who knew of the reformed status of his character, yet she had shown no inclination so far to deepen their friendly, virtually platonic relationship. Riordan was frustrated by her detachment because he saw in her the perfect woman—beautiful, brilliant, accomplished, poised. The ideal wife for an ambitious young statesman. Once his obligation to Quinn was paid, he’d decided, he would court her publicly, and then he had no doubt that she would capitulate. She was strong-willed, but so was he. He intended to wear her down, pursue her without mercy until she simply gave up and married him.

  His gaze wandered lazily around the handsome, well-appointed room, where Claudia’s quiet good taste was so much in evidence. Her grandmother, Lady Alice, dozed peacefully in her chair. Her back was still arrow-straight, however, and she would happily have eaten worms before doing anything as vulgar as snoring. One only had to examine the elderly lady’s aristocratic features and papery, blue-veined skin to see what her granddaughter would look like in fifty years, Riordan thought idly. A proud, cultured face, elegant and slightly haughty. Claudia’s father, seated nearby on the sofa, had the same regal bearing, though in him it was softer, almost other-worldly, probably due to the delicacy of his health. Lord Winston had had a bad heart since boyhood; yet he’d outlived his younger, immeasurably healthier wife by a good ten years so far. Riordan theorized that he’d kept himself alive by developing a life of the mind, diverting all the energy others might expend physically into the fierce cultivation of the intellect. Claudia wasn’t so doggedly cerebral, thank God, but she had unquestionably inherited her father’s rational turn of mind.

  For no reason, he rubbed his still-sore jaw and thought of Cassandra Merlin. What a contrast the two women made! He tried to imagine Claudia angry enough to strike him—or anyone—and found it impossible. Laughable. Claudia was a lady to the marrow of her bones, and he very much wanted to cast his lot with her. He’d known enough women like Cass Merlin to last a lifetime, beginning with the ones in his own family. Flighty, empty-headed females whose sole end was the pursuit of pleasure. He wanted nothing more to do with them, and looked forward to the day when his forced “relationship” with Miss Merlin was at an end.