by Georgie Lee
She sat up straighter, careful to keep her sweet smile despite wanting to rage at him for daring to judge her and her capabilities. ‘My parents taught me how to manage Belle View.’
‘Your parents ran it into the ground, just like your uncle.’
She dropped her smile, unwilling to play the empty-headed widow any longer and not caring how he regarded her in society. She would not tolerate his insults to sell a few hogsheads of tobacco and, if he spoke ill against her, she’d find another way to survive without his influence. ‘You forget yourself, sir.’
‘As do you, Lady Shepherd.’ His unblinking eyes hardened like Giles’s had when she’d refused to consent to the divorce and it made her stiffen with fear. This man was as unaccustomed to being refused as her late husband had been and he’d be just as vicious because of it. ‘Think of your daughter and what will happen to her if you fail in your efforts to restore Belle View, which you will.’
‘Don’t you dare threaten me or Dinah.’ She’d faced down her husband and all of London society to defend herself and Dinah. She wouldn’t shrink from fighting this puffed-up colonial. Let him threaten her. She wouldn’t crumple or cower beneath them any more than she had under Giles.
‘It isn’t a threat, but a reminder of your uncertain place in Virginia,’ he hissed, and Cassandra caught the shadow of the man Richard had warned her about. Richard was right. Even if he came home, they wouldn’t be safe until Mr Fitzwilliam was arrested. It added new urgency to her desire to find a way to slip through those double doors and see what was hidden behind them. How she would do it, she had no idea, for Mr Fitzwilliam wasn’t about to leave her alone. With him looking at her like some fever-infested bit of swamp land, she doubted she’d ever be welcome in this house again.
He opened his mouth to say more when the sound of Mr Adams clearing his throat stopped him.
‘Mr Devlin and his son are here to see you,’ he announced from the doorway. Cassandra couldn’t say how long he’d been there for he’d entered as quietly as an owl at night. ‘They’re in the library.’
Mr Fitzwilliam’s anger shifted to near horror and the red in his cheeks drained away. He stood, his knee hitting the tea table and threatening to upend it, the crystal pitcher and glasses on top before he caught the edge and steadied it. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Lady Shepherd. I will return shortly.’
Cassandra, clasping her glass to keep it from spilling, wondered what about Mr Devlin’s arrival troubled Mr Fitzwilliam more than Cassandra’s refusal of his suit. Perhaps they were involved with his illegal trade and she should find a way to eavesdrop on their conversation, but with Mr Fitzwilliam gone, this might be her only chance to slip into his office.
‘What the hell is he doing here?’ Mr Fitzwilliam demanded as he marched out of the room, his words trailing him down the hall after Mr Adams.
She didn’t hear his assistant’s answer, but a moment later Mr Fitzwilliam’s loud greeting to Mr Devlin, followed by the closing of the library door, told Cassandra it was safe to rise.
She hurried into the adjoining office, sliding the doors open wide enough for her and her dress to slip through and, if need be, for her to make a hasty retreat back to the sitting room. She crossed to the desk positioned a few feet away from the far wall. A portrait of a young man dressed in a much older fashion and with a severe expression hung near the window across from it, lacking the netting covering the other paintings. Cassandra ignored it and sifted through the correspondence, contracts, letters and ledgers arranged in neat stacks on top of the desk. With shaking hands, she searched for any evidence Richard could use against Mr Fitzwilliam. Nothing important or incendiary stood out, and she cursed the ridiculous idea. Of course Mr Fitzwilliam wouldn’t leave anything incriminating lying about, but she couldn’t give up. Her future, Richard’s and even Dinah’s depended on her finding something.
She tried the centre desk drawer, but it was locked. Then she noticed a piece of paper lying on the floor between the desk leg and the wall where it must have fallen. She plucked it up and read the handwritten letter from a Mr Powell, a gentleman in North Carolina concerning the receipt of a large quantity of Spanish silver in exchange for rum and other shipping supplies. Rum wasn’t one of the commodities the Virginia Trading Company was known to deal in, but she knew from things she’d read how pirates had a special taste for the drink. It meant only one thing. This must have something to do with his illicit trades. It didn’t seem like enough to help Richard, but it might be a start. Richard could find a way to speak to the gentleman from North Carolina and perhaps gather more evidence.
‘Lady Shepherd, I didn’t hear you arrive.’ A lady’s smooth voice cut through the quiet.
Cassandra dropped the paper and whirled around. She caught the edge of the desk with her hand to brace herself and her nerves. Miss Fitzwilliam stood in the doorway, regarding Cassandra with a face as blank as a Venetian mask. She was pretty but not stunning, although with a little more maturity she soon would be. Her cheeks held the fullness of her brother’s, but her chin was narrower, her nose more defined and her hair much blonder and done up in large curls set tight to the back of her head. She wore a light blue silk brocade dress that highlighted her eyes. It was embroidered with roses and Cassandra marvelled at how, with such stiff fabric, the young lady had been able to sneak up on her.
Cassandra laced her fingers together in front of her, doing her best to regain her composure and offer no sign of guilt. ‘Your brother and I were enjoying refreshments.’
Miss Fitzwilliam approached with the stealth of a cat in need of a bell, and Cassandra wondered if the young lady practised walking so as not to make a sound. ‘I believe refreshments are served in the adjoining sitting room.’
‘Your brother left me to attend to some business. I saw the portrait and wished to examine it.’ Cassandra stepped around her and made for the staid painted face of the man hanging on the wall beside the window. He had Mr Fitzwilliam’s nose and the same intense and haughty expression in his eyes she’d come to loathe in the man.
Miss Fitzwilliam didn’t follow, but swept around the desk and picked up the paper Cassandra had dropped. She read it, then slid a sly glance at Cassandra. ‘You have an interest in my brother’s affairs?’
‘He spoke to me of investing in his company,’ she lied, wondering how soon it would be before Miss Fitzwilliam called for her brother to inform him she’d caught Cassandra rifling through his private papers. Cassandra had no plausible excuses to talk herself out of this muddle and cursed again her boldness. She should have known better than to come here and risk even more ruin by continuing to help Richard. ‘I wanted to assure myself of its suitability.’
‘By searching his private papers?’
‘I’ve heard rumours about the company.’
‘I don’t doubt you have.’ Miss Fitzwilliam laid the paper on the desk, then joined Cassandra before the portrait. ‘This was my father. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumours about him, too.’
‘I have.’ It was the single truth she could offer the young lady. The elder Mr Fitzwilliam’s suicide had been the talk of Williamsburg the summer it had happened.
‘The stories are nothing compared to the truth. He was a cruel monster who delighted in threatening to cast out my mother and separate us if she didn’t give in to every one of his drunken commands. She used to cry to me after he’d scream and slap her because his dinner was cold or some other trivial matter on the nights he was here. Thankfully, given his taste for dice and drinks, they were far less than they could have been. When he wasn’t at the Raleigh Tavern squandering their money, she did all she could to protect me from his fists and his jeers, but she wasn’t a strong woman and, in the end, he wore her down. I used to pray the drink would kill him and I was glad when my prayers were finally answered, I only wish they’d been in time to help my mother.’ She brushed at her eye, and Cassandra felt for the girl. This
was how it’d been with Giles. ‘I’m sure you must think me wicked for saying such things.’
‘Not at all. My husband used to threaten to take my daughter away from me and I privately rejoiced, too, when he took all his threats with him to the grave. Like you, I wish it could have happened sooner and spared my daughter and me a great deal of anguish.’
‘With the exception of his temperance, my brother is no better than my father.’ Miss Fitzwilliam’s stoic masked slipped, and Cassandra saw the frightened young woman living beneath a stern father and now a heartless brother. It reminded her of herself in London and the lonely desperation that had nearly smothered her. She yearned to help Miss Fitzwilliam the way she’d longed for someone to help her.
Cassandra took Miss Fitzwilliam’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. ‘If you ever need anything, please come to me. I understand what it is to be in your position and how isolated it can make you feel, but you must know you aren’t alone. You have a friend who will assist you if you need it.’
Miss Fitzwilliam covered Cassandra’s hand with hers, tears shimmering in the corners of her blue eyes. ‘Thank you, Lady Shepherd. You have no idea how much that means to me.’
‘Yes, I do.’
The thud of Mr Fitzwilliam’s footsteps echoed in the sitting room behind them, forcing the women apart. Together they turned to face the door when he stormed into the room, each of them putting on a mask of innocence at his arrival.
‘What are you two doing in here?’ Mr Fitzwilliam demanded, his cheeks as red as when she’d refused to marry him. It made her realise how right she’d been to search in here. It was clear there were things in this room he was worried about others finding. ‘This is my private office and you were not invited.’
As oppressive silence filled the room while Mr Fitzwilliam studied both ladies, reserving a more wicked scrutiny for his sister. Miss Fitzwilliam didn’t back down under her brother’s hard stare, and Cassandra wondered how many rows between brother and sister had come from her refusing to be cowed by him. Mr Fitzwilliam had been livid when Cassandra had refused him, so she could well imagine how enraged his sister’s defiance could make him, enough perhaps to lash out at her. She admired the girl’s pluck for she’d done the same with Giles in the beginning. Over time, he’d worn her down. She hoped Miss Fitzwilliam would escape before her brother broke her spirit.
Cassandra faced the burgess, bracing herself for Mr Fitzwilliam’s accusations and a possible outburst, but it was Miss Fitzwilliam who spoke first. ‘I was showing Lady Shepherd Father’s portrait. She saw it through the door and was curious.’
‘I thought it in the style of Sir Peter Lely, King Charles’s court painter,’ Cassandra added, thankful for the art instruction she’d received during all her salons in England. ‘Is it?’
Mr Fitzwilliam glanced back and forth between them, seeming to waver between anger at having caught them in his office and pride in the painting. ‘The portraits are by Sir Peter. My father had them painted when he and my mother were in England in the early days of their marriage in order to secure business for the Virginia Trading Company.’
‘They are magnificent,’ Cassandra complimented, eager to bolster his ego and distract him from any hint of the real reason why she was standing here. ‘Do you have any other works by the masters?’
‘Yes, the landscapes in the sitting room and the dining room.’
‘May I see them?’ Cassandra prodded, in no hurry to resume any conversation about marriage, but ready to escape the palpable tension between brother and sister. ‘I’ve enjoyed so little fine art since returning home. It is one of the few things I miss about England.’
‘Another time, perhaps. Unfortunately I must end our visit today to attend to other matters,’ Mr Fitzwilliam answered tersely.
‘Of course.’ She was as eager to get away as he was to see her leave.
‘Lady Shepherd, Miss Fitzwilliam will see you out. Good day.’ He didn’t reach for her hand, but bowed stiffly, then turned on one heel and left, much to Cassandra’s relief.
Cassandra returned with Miss Fitzwilliam to the sitting room to gather up her fan and reticule, then walked with Miss Fitzwilliam to the front door and down the steps to her carriage. ‘I appreciate your assistance with your brother.’
‘It was my pleasure.’ The light of conspiracy danced in her round eyes. ‘I only hope you found what you were searching for.’
‘I didn’t, but I still thank you for your help and my offer remains.’
‘Thank you. I may need your assistance sooner than either of us expects.’ She nodded to the young man leaning against a wagon parked near the corner of the house. Behind him, men loaded crates and sacks of items brought out from inside. Given the metallic clink when the sacks were thrown in the wagon, Cassandra guessed they were filled with household goods and not the cargo off one of the ships moored at the dock. Perhaps it was more goods for another raid against pirates, another attempt to catch Richard.
‘Who is he?’ Cassandra asked, having never been introduced to the young man. He wore a dark blue frock coat with no embroidery, the stark white shirt beneath sharpening the angle of his chin and setting him apart from the burly and coarsely clad workmen. A tricorn shaded his light eyes, but there was no hiding his appreciative smirk, one reserved for Miss Fitzwilliam, not Cassandra.
‘Mr Evander Devlin. He and his father have a large holding downriver, but they make more money with loans to other planters than they do growing tobacco.’
Suddenly, the activity between the house and the wagons made sense.
Mr Fitzwilliam is in debt and his sister knows it. Cassandra wondered who else suspected his financial troubles. It meant all Richard’s strikes against the Virginia Trading Company were working. If he did come home, he could establish a rival company and ruin Vincent’s business and him.
Mr Devlin straightened and touched his hat to Miss Fitzwilliam. She frowned at the gesture.
‘Good day, Lady Shepherd.’ Miss Fitzwilliam strode back into the house.
The driver opened the carriage door, and Cassandra paused to nod at Mr Devlin. He swept off his hat and offered her a regal bow in return. She climbed into the coach, wishing she could enjoy whatever hold the young man and his father had over Mr Fitzwilliam so she could use it to her and Richard’s advantage.
The conveyance rocked into motion, and Cassandra tapped her fan against her palm. The visit hadn’t garnered what she’d hoped, but at least she’d come away with a few small things to help Richard, a name in North Carolina and proof Mr Fitzwilliam was in debt.
* * *
‘The vase isn’t Vincent’s to give you. It’s mine.’ Arabella clutched the full sides of her skirt and marched down the front steps and up to Mr Devlin.
Mr Devlin pushed his long, lean body off the side of the wagon where he’d been lounging and motioned for his man to hand him the silver, shell-shaped vase supported by four dolphins. The man did as instructed, then went back inside to collect more of Vincent’s things. ‘It’s worth a great deal and will help keep the roof over your head and pretty dresses on your very enticing figure.’
His gaze covered the length of her, drawing up one corner of his rakish lips. He was a foot taller than her, his hair beneath his tricorn as deep a brown as the silt from the river. It emphasised the steel-grey eyes above his stately nose.
Arabella dropped the sides of her gown and scowled at the wretched and intriguing man. ‘I’ll sleep in a field in rags, surrounded by my things, before I part with so much as a soup spoon to help Vincent. That vase is the only thing of my mother’s I have left. Vincent and my father sold off the rest.’
She’d been fascinated by the silver animals as a child, and her mother used to make up stories about them when she’d put Arabella to bed. Those happy days seemed like a lifetime ago. Losing her mother had been one of the most lonely and difficult times in Arabe
lla’s life. It’d been made worse by her father’s callous treatment of her mother’s effects and her memory.
Mr Devlin’s eyes softened beneath the shadow of his tricorn. He reached into his coat and withdrew a pocket watch, clicked open the gold case and held it up to her. ‘My mother gave me this before she died. It belonged to her father.’
‘It’s beautiful.’ With its finely engraved swirls and the mother-of-pearl face, it was an elegant piece.
He pressed the case closed and tucked the watch back into his coat, then held out the vase to her. ‘I apologise for the mistake. I suggest you keep this hidden.’
She took it, stunned at his understanding. In the past, she’d paid him little heed. Today his languid air and intense expression entranced her, along with his kindness. She hadn’t expected it. ‘Vincent is going to lose everything, isn’t he?’
‘Most likely.’
She gripped the vase against her chest. ‘Then it appears I might soon be sleeping out of doors.’
‘Surrounded by your things.’
Her lips twitched with a suppressed smile. ‘You’ll warn me before it happens so I might prepare?’
‘I’ll do better. I’ll offer you a way to protect yourself and your assets.’ He took off his hat, his sharp eyes piercing her. ‘But it comes at a price a spirited lady like you may not wish to pay.’
She traced one dolphin head with her finger, interested and terrified by his words. ‘What is it?’
* * *
‘What are you doing here?’ Lord Spotswood gripped the arms of his chair where he sat behind his desk in his office in the Governor’s Palace. With the last of the daylight disappearing from the sky, darkness began to descend over the formal garden outside and made the lamp on the Governor’s desk burn brighter.
‘I’ve come to ask for the King’s Grace.’ Richard stepped out of the deep shadow between the tall secretary and the wall where he’d been hiding, waiting for the Governor to arrive. His hands dangled at his sides, away from his blunderbuss, but close enough to seize it if he needed it. Outside the office door, the heavy footsteps of the guard passed before fading off towards the back of the palace.