“He has a responsibility too.”
“I know, and that makes me angry. I’m so humiliated. If you hadn’t come back when you had—” A shudder ran through Cassandra. “And he always starts kissing me when I won’t go along with what he wants me to. Or when I won’t stop what he doesn’t want me to do. And I give in too—too much. How can I marry him if I can’t bear the sight of him now?”
15
“She wants to call off the wedding.” Lydia faced her father across his big desk in the library, her mouth dry, her pulse racing.
“Why?” Father posed the inevitable question. “I thought it an excellent match, a better match than I’d expected for Cassandra now that he came into the earldom so unexpectedly.”
“It is. But—”
“Sit down, Lydia, and tell me what’s happened these past six weeks.”
More than she dared tell him.
She sat. “Sir, Cassandra never told Whittaker about needing spectacles. You know how sensitive she is about it.”
“And rightly so. Men don’t want a wife who looks like a freak.”
Lydia ground her teeth and counted to ten before she managed to continue in a level voice. “She looks charming in her spectacles, much like a stu—”
“No female should look like a student. Now what does all this have to do with her wanting to call off the wedding? I’d think Whittaker would be the one doing the jilting if the spectacles are a bone of contention.”
“No, sir, Whittaker adores Cassie.” Lydia’s heart squeezed with the memory of the way Whittaker gazed at Cassandra, as though he expected the sun to rise at midnight just because she walked into the room. “She . . . He . . .” Her cheeks heated. “Father, this is difficult. Perhaps I should have Mama tell you.”
“Except your mother doesn’t know, does she?” Father’s cocoa-colored eyes clashed with Lydia’s.
She broke contact first, let her gaze drift toward the window and the sunlight that lured her out to the park to paint. “I try not to distress Mama.”
“As do we all.” Father’s tone softened. “So you’ll have to tell me. What has Whittaker done to persuade Cassandra she doesn’t wish to marry him?”
“He’s been too affectionate,” Lydia blurted out.
“What has he done to my daughter?” Father’s voice held an unnatural calm.
Lydia shivered, though her face, neck, and lower burned. “He, um—”
“Lydia, say it. You’re a widow, not a schoolroom miss. What liberties has this man taken with my daughter? Do I need to call him out or merely horsewhip him?”
“Neither, I hope. That is, I only saw a few buttons—”
Father said a word Lydia had never heard him utter and sprang to his feet. “One or twenty, it’s too much without the vows. Where does he live? I will see that this engagement is ended right here and now. The scoundrel, the—”
“Father, please—”
But he stormed past her, out of the library and down the steps. His shout calling for a horse and his coat and hat rang through the house.
Lydia dropped her head into her hands. “God, what have I done?” Go after him. She must go after him, stop him.
She started to rise, sensed rather than heard someone behind her. Christien stood beside her chair.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, my lady. I wanted to find my host and thank him for his hospitality.” He smiled, the curve of his lips and the blue of his eyes soft and gentle. “And you, to thank you for your kindness.”
She gathered her manners around her. “It was the least we could do after you saved me.” She blinked hard to clear the blurriness from her eyes. “My father has departed the house just this minute.”
And if God didn’t think her too unworthy, He would protect the man from a quick temper that could get him killed. Surely Whittaker wouldn’t take up a challenge to a duel. Surely he would understand that—
Lydia started.
“What is it, my lady?” Christien held out his good hand. “You look pale.”
“I’m concerned about my father. Are you certain it’s all right for you to be up and about?”
“More than all right. A little pain, is all. This is more an inconvenience to me, and I believe I may be an inconvenience to you, after our discussion.” He held her gaze, the sea-blue of his eyes no longer soft. “Have you given that thought?”
“Yes, of course.”
Too much, thoughts that drifted to the speaker and not the words, the timbre of his voice, the caress of his accent.
A shiver far different from the one of fear over her father with Whittaker ran through her, raising the fine hairs on her arms. Of its own volition, her hand reached out, touched his, warmed with the hard strength of the fingers that curled around hers.
“I don’t know what to think yet,” she managed to eke out of a tight throat. “Mr. Barnaby . . . he tells a good tale too. I’d rather have nothing to do with either of you. Surely I’ve fulfilled my promise to Mr. Lang. That is, surely he cannot blackmail me further.”
“Since the man I work for never blackmailed you at all, you are free to go your way.” He raised her fingers to his lips. “But we shall meet during the Season, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes, it’s so. And I shall afford you—both of you—all the courtesy any member of the ton deserves. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go after my father before he does something foolish like challenge Lord Whittaker to a duel.”
“A duel? Why—? But it is none of my concern. Forgive me for asking. But may I be of service?”
“No, thank you. I must call for a carriage at once.”
“But mine is awaiting me in the square. Can I not take you?”
Lydia bit her lip, darting her glance around the room as though she could find an alternative. Nothing would be faster.
“Thank you.”
Catching up with Father would be worth spending more time in Christien’s company.
“Allons-nous.” He offered her his good arm and led her downstairs. “Let us go.”
Not until she entered his carriage did she realize she wore neither pelisse nor hat. No matter. This was a closed vehicle. Another faux pas perhaps, to be in a closed carriage with him. And crossing town to the Albany, where Whittaker had rooms rather than residing in his family’s townhouse as a bachelor.
“Father will get there faster on horseback.” Lydia gripped the strap over her head for balance as the vehicle jounced across the cobbles. “If he does something foolish, it’ll be my fault. I shouldn’t have told him. I should have let him think Cassandra was simply frightened—” She stopped. She was babbling.
Christien took her hand in his, his fingers warm and strong, and she realized she wore no gloves either. “Calm yourself. Lord Bainbridge isn’t likely to do anything foolish, as you seem to fear.”
“I thought as much too, but he was angry, as though he cared—”
“But of course he cares about his daughters. If I’d stayed home and been more protective of my sisters, perhaps—but that is my concern, not yours.”
“Of course. You needn’t tell me anything you don’t wish to.” Lydia murmured the polite words while she watched the city speed past. “Your sisters are ready for their coming out, are they not?”
“They are past ready. But I’ve been away, and Maman did not feel comfortable bringing them to London on her own, not being English or French. Now the twins are nearly twenty and the eldest five and twenty and headstrong.”
“Indeed?” Lydia flicked her gaze toward him. They approached the Albany, and she saw no sign of Father’s horse amidst the other mounts and carriage teams in the street, with grooms or boys holding the horses’ heads. “How distressing.”
“To have one employed, oui.”
Lydia swung around to face him. “What?”
“Ah, I wished to see if you were listening to me.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“No matter. We are here, non? Shall I go inside and look? I thin
k this is not where a lady may go.”
“No, it isn’t, especially since—” She touched her hair, found the curl bobbing over her ear, and gave it a shove back toward its pins.
“But it is charming, my lady.” He tugged the curl free from her fingers, then alighted from the carriage with a bit of stiffness.
The man was in pain. He had just bounced across town when she suspected he should still be resting. How selfish of her to forget his injury when it had happened to her benefit.
Or because of Barnaby?
If only Father challenging or even horsewhipping Whittaker was all she had to worry about, she would be thankful.
Lord, just let me get Cassandra married and Honore betrothed and sell a few paintings or prints and—
She asked a great deal of the Lord for a female who paid Him little attention. She didn’t do any better as a practicing Christian than she did anything else.
Except paint. That she knew was good. Good but useless if she couldn’t sell enough to return to Tavistock as a lady free of worry and with some money in the bank and the Funds.
But the Season was just beginning, and she couldn’t leave yet.
She lifted the curtain on the carriage window and peered out. Christien was departing from the hotel. He caught her eye, and she jerked back in the event others might see her.
A moment later, he climbed back into the vehicle. “Lord Bainbridge has gone. Lord Whittaker isn’t here.”
“Gone where?”
“Lord Whittaker has gone back to Lancashire. He left a letter to be delivered to Miss Bainbridge, I was informed. Your father took it.”
Lydia covered her face with her hands. “What will happen next?”
“Nothing, I think, but a notice to the papers that there will be no wedding.”
“I wish I could say you’re wrong. It’s all so foolish. Cassandra needn’t take this drastic step over—well, it’s not an unforgivable situation. But to have Whittaker run off . . .”
“There is trouble in the north, you know. These men calling themselves Luddites are breaking looms and causing trouble. Perhaps he must protect his interests.”
Lydia’s hands fell to her lap, and she swung around on the seat to stare at him. “What do you know of Lord Whittaker’s interests with looms?”
“We wouldn’t have recruited you to assist us if we hadn’t known a great deal about your family, my lady.”
“Enough to know I’d do anything to protect them?”
“Oui, we know your loyalty to those close to you.”
“Which gave you room for blackmail.”
The carriage slowed to turn into Cavendish Square, and Christien sighed and leaned his head against the cushions. “Vraiment, truly possible, indeed. I know not how to convince you otherwise.”
“You needn’t, if I may go about my own way and get through this Season so I may return to the country knowing my siblings are happy and safe, and I have time to paint. That is all I ask of life.”
“I am sorry for that, my lady.” The carriage stopped in front of Number Thirty, and Christien laid his hand on her arm. “I hope today has taught you something about your father.”
Lydia stared at him, her brain disrupted by the non sequitur. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your father cares about his daughters as much as you care about your siblings and mother. That is why he thinks you’re wasted there on the moor living in genteel poverty, and I tend to agree. You have a great heart, and it is indeed wasted there.”
Her nostrils flared. “I suppose helping French spies is a better use of my heart?”
“No, ma chère, we took advantage of your heart.” He tucked her errant curl behind her ear, allowing his fingers to linger a heartbeat too long, then rose and opened the carriage door. “I will contact you only if I need your assistance, but seeing one another is inevitable. Be civil, s’il vous plait.”
“I will, though it doesn’t please me.”
Yet she lied. A hollowness had opened up inside her, a sense of loss, as she descended to the ground and entered her house. If she had a heart, it had just been wrenched from her by a near stranger telling her she had one.
“But I don’t,” she murmured to herself.
She’d been vicious to her husband in her letters. She’d said terrible things when he refused to come home to her, sell his commission, and take her to live in a real house. He’d been no different than her father, controlling her life—only worse, for he wasn’t even providing her with glimpses of concern for her, of caring, as Father often did.
Like today with Cassandra.
And Cassandra was who mattered right now. If Whittaker had left her, he accepted the end of the betrothal, and Cassandra might be hurt. Even if she wasn’t, Mama and Father would certainly have a great deal to say to her about it, badgering her. Father was likely to tell her to find another husband before the end of the Season.
“I won’t pay for the expense of bringing you all to town again,” his voice boomed from Mama’s sitting room. “The money is better spent improving the lives of the tenants on the estate, getting children educated, aiding returning soldiers who’ve been wounded.”
“Then give me my dowry and let me out on my own.” Cassandra’s airy voice sounded strong, vibrant. “I can go live with Lydia.”
“Who will get herself a husband by the end of the Season too, if I have my say.”
“Not if I have mine.” Lydia charged into the room. “Cassandra, you are welcome to stay with me, with or without your marriage portion.”
“Girls.” Mama paled. “I don’t know why you are so opposed to marriage.”
Cassandra and Lydia glanced at their father.
“I don’t object.” Cassandra twisted her gown’s sash between her fingers, fraying the ribbon. “I want a man who honors me, and Whittaker did not. And now he’s deserted me, which proves he does not.”
“He’s trying to save his mills,” Father bellowed. “Can’t you understand that, girl? It’s his livelihood.”
“And he’d rather have that than me.” Cassandra’s ribbon tore up the middle.
“You—”
“Father, please.” Lydia held up her hand and turned to Cassandra. “Cassie, don’t you understand that dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people will be out of work if these men get to Lancashire and destroy the looms? Sometimes we have to put the good of many over—over the good of one person or a few.”
She managed to finish the sentence—barely. Her mind had begun to race, spin, drag out a line of thinking she wasn’t sure she wanted to follow.
“You sent him away,” Father said with a bit more calm than earlier. “You can’t expect the man to give up his pride after that. And over something for which you are equally responsible. Or did he force you to let him . . . er . . . take liberties?” He cleared his throat, and his face turned red.
Lydia’s lips twitched.
Mama began to undo a bit of her embroidery she had apparently stitched incorrectly, and Cassandra wiped her streaming eyes with the ends of her ruined sash.
“Why don’t you go upstairs, sweetheart.” Lydia handed Cassandra a handkerchief. “Things will be all right in time. Time heals everything.”
The kind of platitude she’d been told after she’d received word of Charles’s death. But time hadn’t healed her wounded spirit, her sense of inadequacy as a wife, as a woman. It might not heal Cassandra’s shame and humiliation as quickly as they wished, or at all.
Will You listen if I pray for her, Lord?
Lydia took Cassandra’s arm and urged her out of her chair.
“Yes, go rest a while, dear,” Mama said.
Father drummed his fingers on his desk, his lips set in a hard, thin line.
Lydia got Cassandra to the door, then turned back to her parents. “Let her alone. She’ll come to her senses sooner or later.”
“As long as it isn’t too much later.” Father’s lips hardly moved. “I thank the Lord my son isn’t as much troubl
e as my daughters.”
“Yet,” Lydia muttered. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things I’d like to do. Do you know where Barbara is?”
“She’s in the kitchen learning how to make brioche,” Mama said. “Something about selling the buns at the fair back in Tavi—”
Father began to rant about his daughter’s companion acting like a common baker, and Lydia fled. She decided to take a footman and maid with her to the park rather than disturb Barbara from her baking lessons.
The fashionable hour for driving along Rotten Row hadn’t yet arrived, so Lydia shared the park with nursery maids and their charges. Rather than annoying her, the boisterous offspring of the haut ton inspired her. When they came to hang over her shoulder and watch, she told them to go around in front of her and made sketches of them. She allowed each subject to take his or her likeness with her. After a while, the novelty of a lady artist left the children, and Lydia began to draw on a canvas. Later she would paint in the colors for the picture, making her bedchamber smell of turpentine and oil. Barbara would complain a bit, but nowhere else in the house afforded her space to set up her easel now that Father had arrived.
She concentrated on her work, tried to think of nothing but the landscape she intended to create, something delicate and vibrant, lush and soothing. A picture a lady would want in her sitting room or boudoir. A picture that would sell. She did not let herself think of the revelation that had struck her in the library. She could think later, examine the good and bad of the odd notion that sometimes one’s country, keeping one’s nation and fellow subjects safe, came before family.
No, she wouldn’t think about that, wouldn’t consider it. Cassandra and Honore needed her love and guidance right now. Barnaby, Christien, Lang—whether they were on the side of right or wrong—could muddle along on their own.
But what if they were on the wrong side, had been sent to cause trouble in England as they had suffered in France? Shouldn’t she try to stop them?
No, it wasn’t her place to do so. Her father’s will to simply marry his daughters off to anyone must be fought. Let those who knew about spies and sedition do the work. She must make money in the event Cassandra did join her household. She must paint while the sun shone, a rare enough occasion in London.
A Necessary Deception Page 15