“I have assumed that he will be there—he has not bothered to tell me,” was Cassandra’s airy comment. “And after tomorrow he will have no claim on me—you have promised me that!”
The amusement left Leeds’ face. He frowned. “Yes, I have promised you that.” He might have said more, but just then the iron door knocker sounded.
“That will be Doña Carlotta’s coach now!”
Leeds watched Cassandra drift like a great glittering moth toward the door. “I wish you a joyous evening,” he said grimly.
Cassandra turned. “Will I see you there?”
“I have not been invited.” He was tempted to say “either,” but she looked so happy that he forebore.
“Well, that will be their loss!”
And she was gone, leaving Leeds to ponder on the ways of fate.
Only Charlotte waited for Cassandra in the coach. Don Carlos had not felt well enough to come after all.
But when Cassandra saw where the coach drew up, she panicked.
“But . . . but this is the Varváez palace!” she protested.
Charlotte gave her daughter a blank look. “Yes, did you not know that?”
“Prince Damião is betrothed to their daughter Constanca. She will hardly welcome me!”
“Oh?” Charlotte frowned. “Well, it is too late to think about that, we are already here.” She alighted regally and Cassandra followed with a pounding heart.
“I may decide not to stay, Mother,” Cassandra warned under her breath.
“If you wish to leave after we are presented, I will explain that my young friend has been taken ill and that I must leave with her, ” Charlotte told her daughter calmly— for she had no intention of letting Cassandra leave her side this evening! Indeed she intended to scoop her up and bring her back to the inn, where Wend would look after her and the servants would protect her—let Prince Damião fend for himself! “But,” she added sternly, “I must at least make an appearance because I promised Carlos I would attend, since he did not feel up to coming. ”
Cassandra made no answer because they were being swept along by other guests who were already flooding in. There was a receiving line, with the Varváez family lavishly garbed and their daughter Constanca looking, in her white dress and white lace mantilla, more like a flower than the dangerous woman she was. When her eyes lit on Cassandra they opened wider—and she bared her teeth. Seen at that moment, Constanca looked a little like a tigress, Cassandra thought nervously. Best she melt into the crowd as quickly as possible, before Constanca attacked her!
Her thoughts were interrupted by her mother s voice, for Charlotte was just then being presented. “And by the greatest good luck, I have found the daughter of my oldest, dearest friend here in Lisbon—and of course I brought her along, for I knew you would want to meet her. Cassandra Dunlawton.”
Her hosts looked speechless but they rallied and welcomed both newcomers in voices that shook a little. Then, “Do something, Jorge!” muttered his wife, and Varváez turned and whispered something to a young blade in fawn satin, who promptly seized Cassandra s hand, beamed upon her, and led her firmly away through several spacious chambers to a filigreed stone balcony. Cassandra, fully aware that as Prince Damião s “mistress” she had indeed transgressed by invading the house of his betrothed, went willingly enough. She was glad to put distance between herself and that Portuguese wildcat! Here on the balcony the night air cooled her hot face, and her new escort promptly brought her a glass of wine and showered her with all the English he possessed, which consisted mainly of compliments on her beauty.
Charlotte had been following her daughter s progress with her gaze and had not even looked down the receiving line. Noting that Cassandra seemed to have found an interested admirer who had promptly spirited her away, she breathed a sigh of relief.
She moved forward with aplomb, using her floating walk of the Spanish court, her black velvet gown accentuated by a long double rope of pearls and her black lace mantilla drifting back airily from her high-backed tortoiseshell comb. She had not even looked up to see the face of the tall guest of honor, to whom she now extended one graceful black-gloved hand—at the moment he was only a pearl-white waistcoat and a gray coat of handsome cut.
. . Lord Derwent,” her host was just finishing presenting her.
Charlotte looked up and all of the color drained from her face. The guest of honor had gone ashen too.
“Tom?” she whispered as if she could not believe it.
“Charlotte,” he said hoarsely. “Is it really you?”
Their conversation was in English and nobody nearby spoke English. Charlotte had never before faked a faint in her life. This time she did, slumping suddenly, gracefully, toward the polished floor. The guest of honor caught her in his arms, and to the Varváez family’s collective discomfiture, promptly bore her away.
“Charlotte,” he whispered. “Charlotte.”
“Stand me upon my feet,” commanded his lady. “I will make my excuses and be waiting for you in my coach. Do not be long! I'll send Cassandra a message.”
But no sooner had she spoken than a crowd of people drifted in and surrounded the guest of honor, and several of them promptly engaged Charlotte in conversation. They could not get away. Across besatined shoulders they exchanged agonized looks. Her message, to Cassandra, given to a servant, went undelivered. In the crush, it was carelessly thrown away
Time dragged on and at last Charlotte managed to slip away. No sooner was she gone than the guest of honor suddenly developed a migraine from his fatiguing journey down from Oporto—he deeply regretted it, but his host would of course understand—and he was gone as well.
All in all, for the Varváez family, the evening was not a success. They had only one small consolation: Prince Damião, who should have been standing beside them in the receiving line, was very late—he would deal with his impertinent English mistress when he arrived! And if he did not, Constanca would! was plainly writ upon the face of the Varváezes’ flowerlike wildcat of a daughter!
But Cassandra was considering that in this case perhaps discretion was the better part of valor. She was content to watch the lights of Lisbon from the balcony and sip wine with a young gentleman who seemed never to tire of showering her with compliments. Time was slipping by. She was tempted to stay out here until the party broke up, then find her mother and carry her away home. There was so much catching up to do! She stood there dreaming, scarcely hearing the admiring masculine voice beside her.
After Cassandra had left for the reception, Leeds Birmingham had gone looking for Prince Damião but had not found him in any of his usual haunts. Believing he might have gone to the pink palace for some reason, he ordered his carriage back there, but even as the carriage turned into the square he ordered his driver to stop and let him out—and to wait for him.
For he had seen something that had given him pause. Something not right.
In the darkness a cart had stopped before the small pink palace in the main square. As if at a signal, a door had opened and two men—men who worked harder and faster than the usual day laborer—were swiftly unloading the cart, carrying kegs into the house, and dashing back for yet another and another and . . . Kegs!
Leeds, watching from the shadows, was growing angrier by the moment. He had a very good idea what was in those kegs—gunpowder! But what madness was this? Why would Prince Damião allow the gunpowder to be brought here, to a house which he himself often occupied?
Unless, of course, someone was trying to kill the prince?
Leeds sprinted across the square. The unloading was just finished, the driver was already back in place, and another man, a shorter, heavier-set man, was just springing up beside him. The driver swung his whip at Leeds to brush him aside. Leeds ducked, and his sword cut through the air and slashed into the driver’s chest. As if the air had been suddenly sucked out of his lungs, the driver collapsed forward and sprawled, tangled into the reins, crashing into the rump of the lead horse.
Frightened, the horse reared and then took off, carrying with him, in his rush the horse beside him. With a clatter the cart careened off down the street, by the suddenness of its precipitate start knocking the heavyset man from his almost-gained perch.
He toppled back into the street, and Leeds was upon him. No gallant street fighter was Leeds—he had been assaulted in too many dark alleys. Even as his opponent reached for his sword, Leeds hacked at the arm that would wield it. The blade bit home, and with a moan the other man abandoned his quest for his weapon and reeled backward, sword arm dangling limply and his other upraised to ward off the blow he knew would come.
“No, Birmingham—tis me, Pereira!”
“Pereira!” In amazement Leeds let his sword drop and peered forward into the darkness. “What are you doing here?”
“I am but following the prince’s orders, and I am about to bleed to death from the cut you have given me.”
“Come inside.” Leeds waved his sword at him. “We will attend your wound. ”
“No, I would rather go home. I—”
“Inside!” grated Leeds, and seized Pereira by the shoulder of his coat. Roughly he dragged him inside and closed the door behind him with his foot. Its slam resounded through the house.
“Galvão!” he called. “Lopo!”
“It is no use,” sighed Pereira. “All the servants have gone.”
Leeds frowned about him. In a wall bracket a torch was burning, casting its flickering light upon the great empty hall.
He marched Pereira to the kitchen, observing as he went the small trail of gunpowder that led from the front door, where a keg had leaked the black powder. In the kitchen he tossed Pereira some clean cloths, poured his recent adversary a basin of water, and watched him stanch and bind his wound, which was not very deep after all.
“What were the prince’s orders?” he asked Pereira bluntly.
“I think Prince Damião had best tell you himself,” sighed Pereira.
Leeds’ jaw tightened.
“I will hear it from you.”
“I am a fighting man,” complained Pereira. “I do not like these intrigues.”
“Go on.”
“Tonight Prince Damião ordered me to remove all the gunpowder from the warehouse and bring it here. I have done so. You intercepted the last load.”
Leeds swore softly. “And the guns? Did you bring them here too?”
“There are no guns.”
That brought Leeds up short. No guns? Mount a rebellion with no guns? He descended on Pereira with a swoop. “You lie! Where are the guns?”
With that fierce face thrust into his own, Pereira felt his heart tremble in his chest. “I swear to you by all that is holy, there are no guns!”
In fury, Leeds seized him by the throat.
“Prince Damião said there would be no need of guns!” gasped Pereira.
Slowly the death grip Leeds had on Pereira’s throat relaxed. “No need of guns?” he asked blankly.
“He said gunpowder would be all we would need. ”
So the rebellion had been a sham. The prince meant to blow up something—or someone. Pombal? No, Pombal was an enemy of course, but the prince had rejected the idea of killing him. A terrible suspicion was forming in the back of Leeds’ mind.
“Pereira,” he said, and now his voice was almost genial, although his eyes were dangerous, “I think you had best tell me the rest of it.”
“It is all I know,” mumbled Pereira.
“I think not.”
Pereira looked into those prismlike eyes and saw death. “What was I to do?” he burst out. “Pombal has said the Crown would be best rid of me! The royal family ignores me—me, with a name as old as Portugal! Only Prince Damião has offered me advancement, and it is from him I take my orders. I do not question them, I obey!”
Pereira knew more than he was telling; Leeds was sure of it. But there was a streak of stubbornness in this seedy aristocrat. It would take a long time to beat it out of him.
“I will take your advice, Pereira,” he said softly. “I will ask the prince to explain matters.”
“Good. ” Pereira sounded much relieved.
“And I will leave you here to consider your sins.” He grasped Pereira by his good arm and shoved him into a pantry filled with kegs and turned the key in the heavy door.
“No, no, do not leave me here!” Pereira was shouting as he left.
* * *
At the inn where he had staggered in the early dawn hours, Drew Marsden had been suffering through the worst hangover of his life. He had flung himself upon his bed with a groan, and remained there as first the morning and then the afternoon sped by. In the evening he had roused himself and had supper sent up, and after that he had soberly considered his lot.
He could of course take the first ship back to England, and he was tempted to do just that. But that meant leaving Cassandra in the arms of another man—and that cut hard across the grain. Cassandra. . . . Back in England he had filled his world with her. Was he going to let her go without putting up so much as a battle?
The hours wore on, with his lean face growing grimmer by the minute. At last he left his inn. He would have a last word with the wench before he disappeared from her life!
At the Varváez reception, his “wench” was having troubles of her own. Warmed by wine and, undoubtedly, her hot reputation, her new admirer was now making decidedly indelicate advances. Cassandra eluded them, artfully whirling about and waving her fan in his face, but when a servant who spoke a little English happened by, she asked him to tell Doña Carlotta that she had left for home.
Indeed, it was what she intended—she would give one of those waiting coachmen outside a gold coin and he would take her the short distance home and be back before the coach’s owner noted it was gone. But before she could do that, a dark gentleman in green velvet almost solidly encrusted with gold embroidery shouldered past her admirer and she found herself looking up into Prince Damião’s furious face.
He seized her arm and loosed a storm of Portuguese that Cassandra interpreted to be a rather colorfully worded “What are you doing here?”
She tried to jerk her arm away, but he was already dragging her from the balcony, back the way she had come, and at last into the crowded main reception room, where people paused in their chatter and stood back to watch this lively scene between the prince and his impudent mistress.
His voice was hard, raining words on her like stones. Cassandra felt in her heart that he was cursing her, and indignation sprang to life inside her. “But I did not know you were coming, Damião,” she protested in a clear ringing voice that carried across the room and caused Constanca to turn pale. “How thoughtless of you not to have brought me yourself!”
His words poured out even more volubly and his grip on her arm tightened cruelly.
With molten copper fire glowing in her green eyes, Cassandra drew back her other arm and struck the prince with all her strength in the face.
He staggered back; he released his hold. The room was suddenly silent as every breath was held, waiting to see what would happen next.
“I will be out of your life in an hour!” Cassandra shouted, and turning about on her high heels, sprinted for the door, her big skirts held up out of her way.
Constanca had hurried to intercept the prince, who was starting after Cassandra. The prince abandoned his pursuit.
Humiliated, furious, Cassandra found there were tears in her eyes as she blundered through the great front doors. She dashed them away and looked about. The night was very dark indeed, but tall torches burned in front of the Varváez palace. Her mother’s coach was long gone, but those torches showed her an unattended open carriage.
Unmindful of whom the carriage might belong to, Cassandra ran toward it, leapt up, and took the reins. She could return the carriage later. Or have it returned, for it was her firm intention, no matter what she had promised Leeds, to drive at once to the palace on the square, gather up her own bel
ongings, leaving everything the prince had bought for her, and find herself a room at an inn. The innkeeper’s servants could return this carriage before the reception was over. It might not even be missed.
So her thoughts ran as she drove the short distance home.
She came to a smart halt before the pink palace, leapt from the carriage, swept up her long skirts, and headed for the front door. She seized the great iron knocker, but before she could sound it, the heavy door gave inward. It occurred to her that the servants must have left it unlocked for the prince.
“Ines!” she called imperiously.
But the wide reaches of the great hall’s torchlit interior were empty of life.
“Ines!” She was about to run up the stairs when she came to a stop. There was an empty feel to the house. Had she arrived a few moments earlier, she would have heard in the back of the house Pereira shouting and banging on the pantry door, but in his violent efforts to break down the pantry door he had reopened his wound and had fainted momentarily from lack of blood. So the back of the house was as silent as the rest. “Ines!” she called again, more doubtfully. And then she stopped calling. Was that why Prince Damião had been so angry? Had Ines already left, and was he trying to tell her that she was in some way spoiling his plans?
And then on the polished floor she saw what she had not noticed before. Glowing dark red upon the shining marble surface, a little pool of blood. The trail led both ways—out the front door and toward the back of the house.
Blood! she thought. Had Ines been killed here and carried away?
She turned instinctively to run back to her carriage.
But that way was now blocked. The front door was swinging silently open.
Annette’s messenger had arrived.
And Annette’s messenger had a knife.
Cassandra screamed.
After that everything happened very fast. Cassandra turned to run; the wiry dark man who had appeared in the doorway leapt forward to stop her. He had almost reached her, knife upraised, when suddenly there was a shout from the doorway and he crashed down at her feet.
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