The Mistress Diaries

by Julianne MacLean

  “But she doesn’t love him.”

  “How is everyone so sure of her feelings? What if she is simply reserved?”

  Charlotte laughed. “No. Letitia is not reserved.”

  “I presume you are not fond of her.”

  “I regret to say I am not.”

  Cassandra sat for a moment, trying to imagine giving her heart to Vincent, freely and without inhibitions.

  She sighed, then put her hand on the comb and slid it across the table, back to Charlotte. “I am afraid there is too much water under the bridge when it comes to your brother and me. We have a contractual agreement now, and it provides me with everything I could ever want. June will be taken care of, and so will I. I will have my freedom as a woman. Why would I want to complicate or jeopardize that?”

  “But—”

  Cassandra stood up and walked to the window. “I am sorry, Charlotte. I do not wish to become involved with him—or any other man, for that matter. I do not wish for emotional upheaval. I’ve had quite enough to last me a lifetime. I do not need the insanity of lust to make me foolish again, nor do I want to steal a man away from a woman who does want him, whatever her reasons.” She turned to face Charlotte. “Besides, what if your brother is not redeemable? What if the damage has been done and cannot be undone? He is no longer that boy who carried the fawn home to the palace stables. Because of what happened with his former fiancée, he is a different person now, a grown man who drinks and gambles and breaks women’s hearts. He has changed.”

  Charlotte did not say anything for a long time. She simply sat on the sofa, gazing at Cassandra with what appeared to be compassion. “I think you might be wrong about that,” she softly said. “I cannot give up my opinion that he is still that person.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Do you not see, Cassandra? My brother has brought another fawn home to care for, and that fawn, my dear, is you.”

  Chapter 11

  Sometimes I wonder if I really know him at all. Or myself, for that matter.

  —from the journal of Cassandra Montrose,

  Lady Colchester,

  June 1, 1874

  After her most unsettling conversation with Lady Charlotte, the following week was surprisingly tranquil for Cassandra. Warm, cloudy days came and went without a single drop of rain. Sparrows chirped in the treetops against the bright sky, and spring-scented breezes wafted over the damp earth in the gardens.

  She spent hours outdoors with her hands in the soft dirt, cleaning away the dead leaves from the previous summer and making room for new growth, while June slept in the pram nearby.

  For seven full days Vincent did not make any arrangements to visit, which made it possible for Cassandra to forget about her conversation with Charlotte and go on as if nothing had changed regarding her association with him. And in all practical matters nothing had.

  At the end of that tranquil week, however, he made appointments to visit June on three consecutive days, at 3:00, 4:00, and 5:00 p.m., respectively.

  Cassandra decided that she would go for long walks across the estate on each of those days. That is exactly what she did. She did not return until he was gone.

  On the following day, however, a palace footman knocked on the door and delivered a note from her benefactor himself, requesting an appointment for the next morning to discuss a contractual matter. Cassandra felt she had no choice but to agree, and sent the footman back to the palace with her reply.

  The next day, she waited at the drawing room window, wearing a peach-colored day dress from the collection of gowns Charlotte had brought, watching for his coach and hoping that nothing of a personal or intimate nature would be discussed. She hoped Vincent did not know that Charlotte had come to speak with her. She did not wish to discuss any of the things his sister had confided nor engage in a conversation about the painful troubles of his past. Having worked diligently to push all that from her mind, she did not want to ever cross over the wall that stood between them—the wall that separated light conversation from intimate matters of the heart.

  The drawing room door opened and a maid walked in with a vase of fresh tulips, which she set on the table in the center of the room.

  Cassandra stopped pacing. “Thank you,” she said. “Those are my favorite flowers. They always lift my spirits.”

  The maid simply nodded without looking up. Cassandra watched her for a few seconds.

  “We haven’t met,” she said, moving closer. “What is your name?”

  “Iris, ma’am. I come to the dower house only when I’m needed to clean the grates.”

  “I see,” Cassandra replied with a smile. “Iris—that is another beautiful flower.” She felt a chill suddenly and rubbed her hands over her arms.

  “Shall I light a fire for you, ma’am?”

  “Yes, please, Iris. That would be lovely.”

  A short time after the fire was lit, Vincent’s shiny black coach rolled up the lane, precisely on time at 10:00 a.m. sharp. Cassandra went to the window. He stepped out with what appeared to be a ball of fur in his arms.

  “What in the world has he brought?” she asked, but when she turned around, she was alone again. Iris had left.

  A few minutes later there was a knock on the drawing room door, and Vincent was shown in by the housekeeper.

  “I have something for you,” he said. Bending down, he set a black and white puppy on the floor.

  All Cassandra’s anxieties vanished instantly and her heart melted into a puddle of sweet nonsense. She covered her face with both hands and carefully approached the little dog, who plopped down at Vincent’s feet and sniffed the floor.

  “Oh, good gracious,” she cooed, kneeling down to let the puppy sniff her fingers. “What is your name?”

  “She has no name yet,” Vincent said. “I thought I would leave that to you.”

  Cassandra patted the puppy’s soft, fluffy head, then scooped her up into her arms with a smile. “She’s so tiny. What kind is she?”

  “She is a rare breed from Cuba called a Havana silk dog. I got her from the Earl of Osborne, who went traveling abroad last year and brought back a number of them to breed. She has a gentle disposition and is bred for children. She doesn’t shed.”

  “You don’t say.” Cassandra scratched under her floppy ears and turned to cross the room. “And you brought her as a gift?”

  He followed her to the piano. “Yes, for both you and June. Every little girl should have a dog, don’t you think?”

  Cassandra smiled. “Absolutely—and especially one as adorable as this little bundle. Truly, Vincent, it was so kind of you.” Joy bubbled up inside of her and a cry of laughter broke from her lips as the puppy began to lick her chin.

  “She likes you,” Vincent said.

  “That’s good news, because I certainly adore her.”

  “You shall accept her, then?”

  “Definitely.” Entranced and smiling, Cassandra set the puppy on the floor and watched her sniff around the piano legs.

  A moment later she met Vincent’s gaze for the first time since he’d walked in, and realized with surprise that she had been completely distracted by the little dog and had forgotten to be cool and collected.

  “There is something you wanted to discuss?” she prompted, willing herself to focus on matters of business, rather than the length of his eyelashes and the manner in which his thick black hair fell in waves over his shirt collar.

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “My fiancée has set a date for our wedding in two months’ time, so I must begin looking at suitable properties for you and June. It would be appropriate, I believe, to have you settled comfortably before then.”

  “And to be gone from the estate, so as not to raise suspicions,” she added for him.

  He made no reply.

  Taking a deep breath, she gestured with a hand for him to take a seat on the sofa. She sat in the chair by the fireplace.

  “Is there anywhere in particular you woul
d like to live?” he asked, crossing one long leg over the other. “As you know, we agreed you would be convenient to London.”

  “That will be fine,” she replied, “and I have no preferences, nor do I require much. The most important thing is that we have our privacy. I do not wish to move about in society.”

  He nodded. “That will not be a problem. Will something similar to this suit you?” He looked about the room.

  “Oh, nothing so extravagant. A small country cottage will be much more appropriate, and will require fewer servants. But I would like to have gardens.”

  “I will keep that in mind when I view the properties. I have arranged to see a few places tomorrow.”

  “So soon?”

  Just then she spotted blood dripping down the back of his hand from under his sleeve. “Good heavens, Vincent, you’ve cut yourself!”

  They both stood up. She crossed to him, while he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped at the blood on his knuckles, turning briefly to make sure he had not stained the sofa.

  “Do not worry about that,” she said. “What happened? The dog didn’t bite you, did she?”

  “No, no. I do apologize. This is from this morning. The bandage must have come loose.”

  She reached for the lapels of his jacket and helped him shrug out of it, then slid it down over his arms. “What in the world were you doing this morning? Polishing your swords while blindfolded?”

  The sleeve of the white shirt he wore beneath the green brocade waistcoat was bloodstained, but baggy enough for her to roll it up to his elbow and look at the wound. There was a bloody bandage wrapped clumsily around his wrist and forearm, which had become unraveled.

  Momentarily stalled, her eyes lifted.

  Silence loomed between them as he met her intense, questioning gaze, then he frowned and shook his head.

  “Good God, woman, it’s nothing like that,” he explained. “I have no death wish. Quite the opposite, in fact, for I was defending myself—deflecting a china figurine that was launched at my head.”

  She exhaled a tight breath of relief, followed instantly by disapproval. “I see. It must have been a very exciting morning indeed.”

  Crossing to the bellpull, she called for a maid, who appeared within the minute. “Bring us water and something to use as a bandage,” Cassandra instructed. “Lord Vincent is bleeding.”

  The maid gasped and fled from the room.

  “That one doesn’t like the sight of blood,” he casually said.

  Cassandra glanced at the puppy, who was busy chewing on the corner of the fringed carpet.

  She took Vincent by the arm and led him to the polished table in the center of the room, then pulled a Chippendale chair up for him.

  “Sit down here,” she instructed as she went to fetch a second chair.

  She took a seat before him and began to unravel the blood-soaked bandage. Neither of them spoke as she focused on the task. All the while, she was glad he could not read her thoughts, for she was thinking of little else but the way the broad bands of muscle lined his strong arm, and how masculine his big veins were, visible to the eye, so unlike her own. And his hands—those large, manly hands. She remembered how they had moved so lightly and teasingly over her skin a year ago.

  The maid returned with a bowl of warm water and a handy box of bandages, which had likely just been torn from someone’s petticoat in the kitchen. “Shall we send for the doctor, ma’am?”

  Cassandra swept her wayward musings from her mind and examined the wound. It was a deep gash indeed.

  Vincent addressed the maid himself. “Thank you, but that will not be necessary. I believe we have everything well in hand. Lady Colchester should be able to tie a better knot than I did.”

  “You tended to your own wound without assistance?” she asked, looking up.

  “It was early. I didn’t want to wake anyone.”

  Cassandra glanced at the maid. “Thank you, that will be all.”

  The young woman left the room, and Cassandra set about washing the wound and rewrapping his arm.

  When the task was complete, she leaned back in her chair. “There. That should suffice.”

  He examined her handiwork, nodded his approval, then began to roll his bloody sleeve down again. He rose from the chair, scooped the puppy up in his good arm and rubbed the top of her fluffy head as he strolled around the drawing room.

  “Did she find out about me?” Cassandra asked. “Is that why she was angry?”

  Vincent paused and looked at her, bewildered. “Who? Letitia?”

  “Who else would I be talking about?” Cassandra replied. “Unless it was some other woman who used a knickknack to brain you. I suppose I didn’t think of that.”

  “It wasn’t a woman,” he said. “It was my father, and may I inform you, that so-called ‘knickknack’ was a weapon of the highest order—a very heavy statuette with a sharp point like a spear.”

  “Your father?” She stood and returned the chairs back in their proper places. “Why would he do that? Did he find out about me?”

  Vincent chuckled. “The whole world doesn’t always revolve around your scandalous life, Cassandra Montrose. People have problems of their own, you know.”

  She swallowed over her embarrassment. “Of course. I just assumed…”

  He said nothing more. He merely strolled around the room with the puppy in his arms, scratching behind her ears.

  “What happened?” Cassandra asked, unable to curb her curiosity. “Why did he do it?”

  “It was a simple misunderstanding,” Vincent explained. “We encountered each other in the gallery at dawn, and he thought I was a ghost.”

  “A ghost?”

  “Yes, he believed I was a monk of the old abbey coming to murder him while the rest of the household was asleep.”

  “What old abbey?”

  He faced her. “Have you not heard the history of the palace and the stories of our ancestry?”

  “No, I regret to say I have not.”

  “It’s built on the ruins of an ancient abbey where a prior was murdered by two of his own canons, who discovered he had a secret mistress.”

  Well, there, she thought. It appeared mistresses ran in the family. “How dreadful.”

  “Yes, disgraceful business, my family’s history, and I know exactly what you’re thinking.” He looked at her shrewdly. “You’re thinking we have far too many mistresses in our past.”

  She frowned at him. “What happened afterward? How did the abbey become Pembroke Palace?”

  “After the prior’s death, his mistress bore his child—a son—and then you can refer to the English history books for this portion of the story. King Henry dissolved the monasteries, including this one, but the prior’s illegitimate son nevertheless grew up to become a trusted friend of the king. He later became the first Duke of Pembroke, and built this palace as homage to his dead father and mother. The truth was only discovered after his death, when he revealed everything in his will.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “No? I’ve always thought it was one of the things that gave our family a certain air of excitement and mystery. The locals and servants continue to tell stories of how the palace is haunted, which is probably what has my father behaving so strangely in his old age. He is sixty-nine now, and has become very aware of his mortality.”

  “Hence the self-protective measure with the china figurine.”

  “It was a blue sheep—a tawdry affair which my grandmother adored. It was the shepherd’s hook that cut me when he hurled it.”

  Cassandra couldn’t help herself. She put a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. “You’re lucky he didn’t put your eye out.”

  “It amuses you, does it?”

  “Forgive me. It’s all just so…bizarre.”

  “You’ve found the perfect word to describe the comings and goings at the palace these days. Sometime I’ll tell you the rest of our trials and tribulations, but not today. I must be going
.”

  He handed the puppy to her, and she escorted him downstairs to the door. The butler brought his hat and coat.

  “Have you thought of what you will name her?” he asked, patting the puppy in her arms.

  Cassandra considered it a moment. “I think she looks like a Molly.”

  “Indeed she does. Well, good day, Molly.” He leaned down and lifted her floppy ear to whisper into it. “If you can help it, try not to wet on the Persian carpets after I go.”

  Cassandra laughed. “I promise I shall have her trained in no time.”

  He touched the brim of his hat and turned to leave, but paused briefly. “You look very nice today, by the way. That color suits you.”

  “Thank you.”

  She followed him out onto the front step, realizing it had been a visit entirely free of both his customary animosity and his frivolous flirting—with the exception of that one compliment just now, but she was quite certain he was merely being polite.

  Imagine that. Vincent Sinclair, saying something courteous.

  He walked down the steps to his coach.

  “I am hoping for sunshine tomorrow!” she called out, just before he stepped inside.

  He stopped and turned, then, to her surprise, came leaping back up the stairs, taking two at a time to the top to reach her. “Would you like to come with me to see the properties?” he asked, slightly out of breath. “It will be a few hours by coach. I expect to be back at the palace by nightfall.”

  She could not mask her surprise. “You would not prefer to choose it on your own?”

  “It will be your house. You should take part in the selection.”

  She could not deny that she would greatly enjoy choosing her new home. And yet…

  “I am not sure it would be wise.”

  “Why not? Are you afraid of being alone with me?”

  She shifted the puppy in her arms. “No.”

  “Then what causes you to hesitate?”

  “Well, I…” She couldn’t seem to come up with an answer.

  “For God’s sake, Cassandra, just say the word yes and I will pick you up at eight.”