“Something mentioned at Mayfield.”
“There was talk of my money at the dowager’s party?” She didn’t how she felt about that. “Who would be so crass?”
Instead of answering, he said, “Do you think your father would spend your money?”
“Of course. He spent it on me and my needs. When my stepsisters married, he told me he used some of the money for their dowries.”
“Were you all right with that?”
“Yes, Soren. Why would I not be? He gave them five thousand pounds apiece.”
“Five thousand?” he repeated as if dumbstruck by the number.
“He called it my wedding gift to them.”
“A generous wedding gift is fifty pounds.”
She tried not to bristle at the implied criticism. Should she have questioned the amount? It had not seemed to matter back then. “They needed it. They are older than I am . . . and their prospects were not good.” They had actually been terrible. Her stepsisters did not have good manners. In fact, calling them surly was not unkind.
“I imagine once it was put out they had dowries of five thousand pounds their prospects improved.”
That had been true. Cassandra had never thought of it that way before. Still . . .
“I have plenty of money. Thirty thousand pounds is a goodly sum. My father has even invested a portion of my inheritance. He’s told me that several times.”
“What sort of investments?”
She did not like the way his brow furrowed as if there might be a problem. “Good ones,” she answered, although she actually didn’t know any of the details. Soren’s questions were making her uncomfortable. “There will be enough for us to live on. Even to purchase a London home.” After all, everyone knew she was an heiress.
“Come,” she said, heading for the door. “Let us call on Father and he can explain everything to you.”
“Very well.” Soren opened the door. “I should warn you, we will be walking.”
So that was it. He wished they could take a hack. She smiled her reassurance. “Soren, everything will soon be better. We may walk to Papa’s house but we’ll ride back to the hotel. Besides, I have good walking shoes.” She raised an ankle to show him the kid leather pair she’d put on that morning. “They are the finest ever made. And you had best become used to those words, because from now on, my lord, you are a wealthy man.” She sailed out the door.
Her father had purchased the London house when Cassandra was fifteen. Until that time, they had lived in rented establishments.
The house was in Mayfair and had been owned by a marquis who had sold it to go off on an excursion to Greece. Cassandra had enjoyed living there. Her father had purchased new furnishings and it was the very height of fashion and comfort.
However, Cassandra had never stood on her doorstep as a guest before.
“Be prepared for anything,” Soren warned.
“I am.” She hoped.
Soren lifted the knocker.
The family butler, and one of only two manservants since male retainers were taxed and females weren’t, opened the door. “Miss Cassandra,” Bevil said as if happy to see her. He was a slight man with an elegant air that her father greatly admired.
“Bevil, we are here to see Papa. This is my husband, the Earl of Dewsberry. Announce us.”
The butler’s attitude changed. His shoulders squared as if he was remembering himself. “We’d heard you married a York. But I did not want to believe it. A York, Miss Cassandra—?”
“She is Lady Dewsberry,” Soren announced in a voice that brooked no contradictions. Nor did he wait for Bevil to invite them in. He plowed forward into the marbled front hall, and the butler stepped back. Cassandra followed in his wake because she wasn’t about to be left behind.
“I wish to see MP Holwell,” Soren said.
Cassandra half expected Bevil to tell them, “He is not at home.” Instead, he answered, “The master has asked me to escort you to him. Lady Dewsberry”—he spoke as if the name was distasteful on his tongue—“I have been instructed to inform you that you are not welcome during this meeting.”
“Not welcome? To see my father?” Cassandra didn’t know what to make of that statement. She looked to Soren.
“It is probably for the best. I told you this might be a difficult interview.”
That was true.
“This way.” Bevil did not use Soren’s title. He was rude. He would not have behaved in this manner when she had lived here.
Then again, a York would never have darkened their doorstep.
Soren made no issue of the matter and so Cassandra kept quiet. She watched as Bevil led him down the hall toward her father’s study. After a moment, worry urged her to follow a few steps. She heard her father’s surly greeting when his door was opened, and then it was shut.
Bevil did not return to the front hall.
Left alone in the hall, Cassandra looked around. The house seemed different to her, as if she had not lived in it for years. She realized that it was no longer a part of her, which was puzzling. How could she lose an attachment to the familiar in such a short amount of time? Perhaps because her loyalties had shifted? The marriage bed had bonded her to Soren. Even now, she wished she stood beside him. She needed the comfort of his person and his perspective.
There were no other servants wandering about at this time of the day. The downstairs maids would be in the kitchen helping Cook. The other manservant was the driver, and he only came to the house when required.
Cassandra started up the stairs. She didn’t know how long the discussion over her inheritance would take but she had intended to collect a few things from her room, and so she should. She would also make arrangements with her maid, Abby, for packing some things for the Pulteney and the rest for storage until she and Soren purchased their home in Town.
The upstairs hallway was quiet. “Abby?” There was no answer. Cassandra wasn’t about to search out Helen. At this hour of the day, her stepmother was usually at the shops.
She went to her room and opened the door. Her bedroom was decorated in apricot and periwinkle blue. The colors appeared girlish to her now. Again, she was conscious of having crossed some invisible threshold.
When she first walked into the room, everything seemed fine. Her wardrobe was closed and her bed made. The room was as tidy as ever—except the top of her dressing table was bare. No perfume bottles or ribbons or brushes. No books on the bedside table. Cassandra always had a stack of books there and even a pile on the floor. All was gone.
A bad premonition took hold of her. She moved to the wardrobe and opened the door. It was empty inside. Her beautiful gowns and dresses, her smallclothes, her shawls, and her shoes had vanished.
“My lady?”
Cassandra looked to the door. Abby stood there, her face so pale her freckles stood out in stark contrast. She quickly closed the door behind her as if not wanting anyone to know of Cassandra’s presence. “My lady, I am so happy to see you.” She spoke in a whisper.
“Where are my clothes?”
“The master had me pack them all up to sell. He ordered that everything should be taken.”
“Even my hair ribbons?”
“He was a madman when he returned from the country. He tore everything out of your wardrobe and he was checking all of the drawers. He pulled them all out. Mrs. Holwell was shouting at him about everything being your fault. He kept saying he was ruined. What did he mean, my lady? It was frightening.”
None of this made sense to Cassandra. “Ruined?”
“He wanted to know where your jewels were. I didn’t tell him. I didn’t. He shook me so hard, my neck hurt but I didn’t tell.”
Cassandra went cold inside. “Did he find the sapphires?” She touched the pearls around her neck.
“I don’t know, my lady. He ordered me from the room, and only he and Mrs. Holwell remained. I could hear them breaking things as they searched. That is why your inkstand and little things are
missing. They were all broken. The master and mistress didn’t say anything to me when they left your room.”
“But you didn’t check?” Abby knew where the sapphires were kept.
“I’m afraid to do so. I don’t want to know too much, but everything appeared to be left alone.”
Cassandra nodded with understanding. “This must be Helen’s fault,” she said. She loved her father. She trusted him . . . but she’d always been wary of Helen. Her stepmother had been upset when Mr. Calder had forced her to give the jewelry to Cassandra.
Another memory from the day the solicitor had called came back to Cassandra. He had questioned whether all the pieces were accounted for. He’d asked about emeralds.
She’d been so overwhelmed and pleased with receiving the pearls, she’d not cared if Helen had kept the emeralds. The pearls were what was precious to Cassandra. When she had been a child, she’d sat on her mother’s lap and stroked the pearls, fascinated by their creamy color and smooth surface.
Cassandra now walked over to her nightstand table. It had a false top held by a hinge. She removed the candlestick. The candle had never been lit, a sign it had been recently replaced.
Cassandra lifted the lid. Like her valise, the inside was lined in black velvet. She’d liked looking at the jewelry against rich material.
The sapphires were not there now.
Cassandra let the lid slam shut. She moved purposefully to the door. She must speak to Soren, to warn him.
“I did not tell him, my lady. I promise I didn’t.” Abby was openly crying now.
“It is not your fault.” Indeed, it didn’t make any difference whether she believed her maid’s story or not. The jewels were gone.
Soren’s earlier concerns now became hers.
Just as she opened the door, she heard Soren shout her name. She rushed for the stairs. He was at the foot of them, his hat already in his hand. “It’s gone,” he said. “Your father stole your money.”
“What?” She was confused. She started down the stairs. Her father stood off to one side, the set of his jaw mutinous, his body rigid. There were deep shadows under his eyes, and his clothes looked as if he’d slept in them. Bevil had returned to his post by the door.
Soberly, Soren said, “You have no inheritance, Cass. He spent it all. There is nothing left.”
She paused halfway down the stairs. “Nothing? That can’t be true. Papa—?”
At that moment, there was a pounding on the door.
Her father jumped to life. “Those are your creditors, Dewsberry,” he said. “I sent for them. They want the money you owe them or they want Pentreath. Let them in, Bevil.”
The butler obeyed.
Chapter 12
“No.” Cassandra charged down the stairs as if she could stop the door from opening but Soren blocked her way by catching her in his arms and gently setting her back on the step.
“Stay out of this, Cass. It will be all right—”
Before he could say more, three men marched through the door. One had the distinct look of a bailiff, including the silver badge of his office pinned to his plain wool jacket. The other two appeared prosperous. They did not remove their hats.
The bailiff looked around. “Lord Dewsberry?”
Her father pointed a finger. “There he is. That is your man.”
Soren calmly said, “I am who you seek.” To the other gentlemen, he said, “Hello, Brock, Lloyd.” He did not introduce them to Cassandra.
They ducked their heads in a semblance of a bow. “My lord,” one of them said. “We didn’t want to do this, but your note is past due.”
“Huggett could extend it,” Soren answered.
The one Cassandra believed was Mr. Brock agreed, “He could; however, he will not. He says you knew the terms. He has already been patient long enough. The bailiff has a letter from the court. Once you have signed it, your estate will transfer into his hands.”
Soren was going to lose Pentreath Castle.
And he said she had no money. There was no inheritance. Cassandra was having trouble grasping what all this would mean. “Soren, what is happening?”
“These lads work for one Jeremiah Huggett. He is the man I owe. Where is the paper I am to sign?”
The bailiff was carrying a leather portfolio. He removed some papers. “Mr. Holwell, may we trouble you for a pen and ink?”
“Actually,” her father said, “I wish you would take your business someplace else.”
“We’ll be done in a thrice, sir, once we have pen and ink,” the bailiff countered.
“Bevil, fetch it.” The butler left.
“No, wait,” Cassandra said. “This is not right.” She was horrified that her father was orchestrating Soren’s demise. He knew what Pentreath Castle meant to the Yorks. Why, it was as if he’d laid a trap for Soren.
Well, two could play those games.
She charged down the stairs. “Bailiff?” The man nodded. “I’m Lady Dewsberry and I want this man arrested.” She pointed at her father. “And taken before a magistrate.”
“On what charge, my lady?” the bailiff asked.
“He stole my inheritance.” That was what Soren had said and she believed him.
That raised eyebrows. “You stole from Lady Dewsberry?” the bailiff asked.
At first, her father did not appear inclined to answer and then words burst out of him. But he didn’t speak to the bailiff, he spoke to her.
“Your inheritance was spent on that ridiculous library of books you were so proud of and on the dresses you wore on your back. You tossed a fortune away just on shoes and hair things. Then there was the silliness of your ‘literary salons.’ Of course there is nothing left.”
Her father had been drinking. The stench of brandy mingled with desperation.
“I had a fortune to spend,” she countered. “At least thirty thousand pounds and you are saying it is all gone? I think not.”
“Then you would be thinking wrong,” her father snapped back.
“What did you do with my inheritance?” she repeated.
“It costs money to live in London,” he said as if pointing out the obvious.
“But Mr. Calder said you received a handsome dowry when you married Mother. You were supposed to be just the guardian of my money.”
“That man knew nothing.”
“He knew enough to make you give Mother’s jewelry to me.” She approached her father. “The cost of gowns and my books would not approach thirty thousand pounds, especially if invested wisely. Where is the money, Father? Did it pay for this house? Your last two coaches? Even then, there should have been a fortune left over. Instead,” she said, pointing a finger upstairs, “you have taken the sapphires and my belongings and done what with them?”
“I sold them.”
She couldn’t believe it. “You act as if you are destitute—” A new thought struck her. “Are you?”
It made sense. Lately, he had been grumbling about money. Then there was his quickness to toddle her off into spinsterhood.
Her mind worked furiously. “You’ve done your best to see that I don’t marry these past two years and more, haven’t you?” Could he truly be that deceitful? “You have turned down offers because you said you wanted a title . . . but what if you just didn’t want anyone to learn that you’d spent my fortune? Especially if it had been supporting you—?”
“Birdie, I was going to earn it all back. I needed time.”
“Earn it back? Are you a gambler?”
Fire came to his eyes. He did not like that charge. Then he would have been like one of the Yorks that he’d always railed against.
In fact, she realized, his insistence on his senseless feud with the Yorks might not have been about pride at all. Perhaps it had been guilt?
“I’m not a gambler. I invested it. I tried to do my best but luck wasn’t with me. I had damned luck. And now, everyone has their hand out. Including you and Helen’s daughters. Can you believe they are asking for mon
ey after the dowry I handsomely settled on them—”
“I handsomely paid for their dowries,” she said. “You told me to do it, and I’m not sorry. I would not begrudge my family.”
On her words, the arrogance vanished from his demeanor, to be replaced with wheedling. He took a step close to her. “Then you have to understand, Cassandra, how hard it was to have control over all that money. It was a temptation. It gave me the chance to be important, and I planned to replace it all. Once I’d had a bit of success, I’d have given it back to you. But I was rooked. Several times.” His hands curled into fists. “There are liars out there.”
“What would you have done if Camberly had offered for me? You said that is what you wanted.”
Her father’s answer was a sharp bark of laughter. “He wouldn’t have married you, Cassandra. He has his pick of anyone in London. I was not worried but his interest did open some doors for me.”
Soren came up behind her as if worried by how erratic her father was beginning to sound. He started to say something but she reached back and squeezed his arm, silently asking him for a moment. Something was bubbling beneath the surface of her father’s ranting. She would have it all out in the open.
“Why didn’t you just tell me the truth about the money, Papa?”
“Because you didn’t need to know. Besides, what would people think of me once they learned what I’d done?”
She understood. He was a proud man. She started to tell him as much, but he talked right over her.
“Your grandfather Bingham never gave me any respect. He thought I wasn’t good enough for his daughter. That is why he wrote the will to favor you. But the money should have been mine. A wife’s money goes to her husband. And yet he hired lawyers who knew the tricks and he made a fool of me. He’s lucky I married his daughter. Most men wouldn’t want another’s leavings, especially when she’s carrying his bastard. But I gave you my name and I’ve treated you well. I’ve kept the secret.”
Now the world was not so certain. Or generous.
Breathing became difficult.
She had trouble accepting the words that had come out of her father’s mouth. They didn’t make sense. Was he saying he wasn’t her true father?
A Match Made in Bed Page 14