Seducing an Angel

by Mary Balogh

  “She is being naughty,” she said. “She wants to play.”

  “Does she?” he said. “Perhaps you ought to play with her for a little while, then, or tell her a story. Stories often put babies to sleep.”

  “I’ll tell her one, then,” she said. “I know one. She has just eaten, and if I play with her she may be sick.”

  “I can see,” he said, “that you are a very good and wise mother. She is fortunate.”

  He turned his attention back to Mary, who was smoothing her apron down over her skirt again.

  “I have kept you long enough from your work—or perhaps from your leisure hour,” he said. “And I am sorry about the questions I asked. I am not usually so inquisitive about other people’s business.”

  “Do you care for her?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He raised his eyebrows. “I am afraid I do.”

  “Then I forgive you,” she said, and blushed hotly. “Will you be offended,” he asked her, “if I leave you money to take Belinda to Gunter’s for an ice when you have free time one afternoon? No child should go through life without that experience. No adult either.”

  “I got money,” she said.

  “I know.” He smiled. “But it would give me pleasure to treat Belinda—and you.”

  “Very well, then,” she said. “Thank you, my lord.”

  He took his leave after setting down some coins on the table—just enough for two ices—and hurried from the house. He made his way homeward even though there was still plenty of the afternoon left. He was in no mood for any of his usual pursuits. He did not even consider going to the races after all, though he would not have missed very much.

  He tried to think of all the young ladies with whom he usually liked to dance and converse, even flirt in a mild sort of way.

  He could scarcely bring one face to mind.

  If memory served him correctly, he had not yet reserved even one set with anyone for tomorrow’s ball.

  She had been to blame for what had happened at the end, Mary had just said. For Paget’s death, he had taken her to mean. And she had been quite adamant that Cassandra had not done it.

  Immediately after saying so, of course, she had said she worshipped Cassandra. It was easy to lie for a loved one.

  The dog had been maimed while taking a whipping intended for his mistress. His leg had been crushed with a shovel—also intended for Cassandra? Would she be dead now instead of her husband if Roger had not intervened on that occasion? And would the official story have been that she was another victim of a fall from horseback?

  He had a headache, Stephen discovered when he arrived home.

  He never suffered from headaches.

  “Go away, Philbin,” he told his man when he found him in his dressing room, putting away some freshly ironed shirts. “I’ll just be barking at you if you open your mouth, and I’ll be damned before I’ll be apologizing to you every second day of my life.”

  “The new boots pinching, are they, m’lord?” Philbin asked cheerfully. “I told you when you got them that—”

  “Philbin,” Stephen said, grasping his temples with the thumb and middle finger of one hand, “go. Now.”

  Philbin went.

  Cassandra had looked through the paper Alice had bought a few days ago and had written down the names and addresses of three lawyers she hoped might be able to help her. Alice, when she knew what Cassandra was going to do, advised that she talk with Mr. Golding or even the Earl of Merton. Both would surely know the best lawyers for such a case.

  But Cassandra was tired of leaning upon men. They were rarely reliable, and even if that was probably an unfair judgment of Mr. Golding and undoubtedly of Stephen, then she was tired of having no real control over her own life. Less than a week ago she had thought to get that control by acquiring a wealthy protector. Now she was going to do what she ought to have done at the start.

  It was not easy, though, as she discovered when she called upon the three lawyers one by one, Alice at her side. Alice had insisted upon accompanying her. Nobody would take a lady seriously, she explained, if she was alone.

  Nobody took her seriously anyway.

  The first lawyer was not taking new clients, as he was far too busy with the ones he already had—even though he had advertised his services in the paper. The next lawyer was far more blatant about recognizing her name, and sent out the message that he was not a criminal lawyer and would not represent ruthless murderers even if he were.

  Alice wanted to go home after that. She was very upset. So was Cassandra, but the effect of the man’s rudeness to her—which, by the way, he had not had the courage to deliver in person—was to make her lift her chin and square her shoulders and march onward with an almost militant stride.

  The third lawyer admitted them to his inner sanctum, bowed low to Lady Paget and smiled obsequiously, listened to her story with attention and sympathy, and assured her that she had a perfectly legitimate case and that he would get her money and her jewels and the dower house and town house too in the mere snap of two fingers. He named his fee, which sounded exorbitant to Cassandra, though he claimed that he was giving her a considerably reduced rate on account of the fact that her case would give him no trouble at all and she was a lady for whom he felt considerable respect and sympathy. And he would take only half of the fee in advance—not one penny more.

  Cassandra offered what she had. If her claim was an easy one and if he could get her money with little delay, then she would be able to pay him in full very soon. But while her money was being withheld from her, she explained, she really had quite limited means.

  It seemed that it had not occurred to him that someone with the title Lady Paget might also be virtually penniless—despite the story she had told. His manner changed. It became brisk and cold and irritated.

  He could not possibly proceed on so small a retainer.

  He had a wife and six children …

  He regretted having wasted his precious time …

  There was, of course, his consultation fee …

  And there would be a great deal of work involved in …

  Lady Paget could not possibly expect him …

  Cassandra did not even listen. She got to her feet and swept from the office and the building, Alice scurrying along behind her.

  “Perhaps,” Alice said when they were outside and striding along the pavement, “the Earl of Merton would—”

  Cassandra rounded on her, her eyes blazing.

  “Just a few days ago,” she said, “the Earl of Merton was the devil incarnate in your eyes because he was paying me a generous salary for the use of my body. And yet now, Alice, you think it perfectly unexceptionable to beg a small fortune from him though he is no longer making use of my body?”

  “Oh, shush, Cassie,” Alice said, looking around in an agony of embarrassment.

  Fortunately there were not many pedestrians on the street, and none were within earshot.

  “I was merely thinking of a loan,” Alice said. “If that man is right, you would soon be able to pay it back.”

  “I would not pay that man a farthing,” Cassandra said, “if he could get me my money with the crown jewels thrown in tomorrow.”

  And then her shoulders slumped.

  “I am sorry, Allie,” she said. “I had no right to snap at you of all people. But tell me I am right. Tell me all men are rotten to the core.”

  “Not all men are,” Alice said, tapping her on the arm, and they resumed walking. “But that one was rotten right through the core. I pity his poor wife and six children. He thought because you are a woman he could make a great deal of money from you. And he could have. You would not have argued with his fee, would you, though it was outrageous. Unfortunately for him, he was too greedy to wait.”

  Cassandra sighed deeply. So much for taking charge of her life. So much for firmness of purpose and planned action. But she would try again. She was not going to give in.

  No more today, though. All she wa
nted to do now was creep home to lick her wounds. As if in sympathy with her mood, heavy clouds had gathered overhead and a wind was beginning to whip up the dust in the gutters. There was a sudden chill in the air.

  “It is going to rain,” Alice said, looking up.

  They hurried home and arrived just as the first large, round drops were beginning to fall. Cassandra heaved another sigh as the key she had retrieved from under the flowerpot turned in the lock and she and Alice stepped inside. This place was beginning to feel like home. Like sanctuary.

  Mary came hurrying from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “There is a gentleman in the sitting room, my lady,” she said.

  “Mr. Golding?” Alice said, brightening.

  Stephen? Cassandra did not say it aloud. He had not said anything after the picnic yesterday about seeing her today. It had been a relief—she was seeing too much of him. And yet there had been something dreary about today without him—alarming thought.

  She opened the door to the sitting room to find a young man pacing inside.

  She turned cold as he stopped to look at her.

  “Cassie,” he said. He looked miserable.

  “Wesley.” She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Alice had already disappeared.

  “Cassie, I—” he began. He stopped, and she heard him swallow. He ran the fingers of one hand through his auburn hair, a gesture that looked very familiar. “I was going to say that I did not recognize you the other day but that would be stupid, would it not?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, “that would be stupid.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said.

  She had not seen much of him in the last ten years, yet she had always adored him. He was someone of her very own. Foolish her.

  “Perhaps you could begin,” she said, “by telling me what happened to the walking tour in the Highlands.”

  “Oh,” he said. “A few of the fellows could not—Dash it all, Cassie, there was no such tour.”

  She took off her bonnet and set it, with her reticule, on a chair close to the door. She went and sat in her usual place beside the fireplace.

  “You must understand,” he said, “that Papa did not leave much money behind—or much of anything at all, in fact. I decided this year that I must look seriously about me for a bride who could bring a decent portion to the marriage. I did not want you to come here and spoil everything for me. Not this year.”

  Wesley was doing something not very different from what she had done, she thought—he was looking for someone who could provide for his financial needs.

  “I suppose,” she said, “having an axe murderer for a sister does rather interfere with your matrimonial chances, does it not? I am sorry.”

  “Nobody believes that,” he said. “Not the axe part, anyway.”

  She smiled, and he resumed his pacing.

  “Cassie,” he said, “that time I visited when I was seventeen. Do you remember? You had the yellow remains of a black eye.”

  Had she? She could not remember his being there close to the time of any of her beatings.

  “I had walked into the door of my bedchamber, had I?” she said. “I seem to recall that happening once.”

  “The stable door,” he said. “Cassie, did—Did Paget ever hit you?”

  “A man has a right to discipline his wife when she is disobedient, Wesley,” she said.

  He looked at her, frowning and troubled.

  “I wish,” he said, “you would talk in your real voice, Cassie, not in that … sarcastic one. Did he?”

  She stared at him for a long time.

  “He was an infrequent drinker,” she said. “When he did drink, he did so for two or three days without stopping. And then he would—turn violent.”

  “Why did you never let me know?” he asked her. “I would have—” He did not complete the thought.

  “I was his lawful wife, Wes,” she said. “And you were a boy. There was nothing you could have done.”

  “And you killed him?” he said. “Not with an axe, but you did kill him? Was it self-defense—when he was beating you?”

  “It does not matter,” she said. “There were no witnesses who will ever talk, and so there will never be proof. He deserved to die, and he died. No one deserves to be punished for killing him. Leave it.”

  “It does matter,” he said. “It matters to me. Just to know. It makes no difference to anything, though. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I hope you will believe that and forgive me. I have been thinking only of myself, but you are my sister, and I love you. You were my mother too when I was a child. I never felt alone and unloved even when Papa was out gambling for days on end. Let me—Let me at least be here for you, Cassie. Late enough, admittedly, but not too late, I hope.”

  She rested her head against the back of the chair.

  “There is nothing really to forgive,” she said. “We all do selfish, despicable things from time to time, Wes, but they do not have to define us if we have a conscience strong enough to stop us from becoming selfish and despicable. I did not kill Nigel. But I am not saying who did, not to you or to anyone else. Ever. And so I will always be the prime suspect even though his death was ruled an accident. Most people will always believe I killed him. I can live with that.”

  He nodded.

  “The lady in the park,” she said. “Are you still courting her?”

  “She was a shrew,” he said, and pulled a face.

  “Oh.” She smiled at him. “You had a fortunate escape, then.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Come and sit down,” she said. “It is giving me a stiff neck to keep looking up at you.”

  He sat in the chair beside hers, and she held out her hand to him. He took it in his own and squeezed tightly. Heavy rain was beating against the window. It sounded almost cozy.

  “Wes,” she said, “do you know any good lawyers?”

  16

  STEPHEN had suffered another night of disturbed sleep. He really ought not to have interfered in business that was absolutely none of his concern. He ought not to have called upon Wesley Young, and he certainly ought not to have questioned the maid even so far as to ask what had happened to the dog.

  It was not in his nature to interfere in other people’s business.

  He half hoped he would not see Cassandra again. He wanted his old, placid life back.

  Had it really been placid?

  Was he that dull a dog—at the grand age of twenty-five?

  He only half hoped never to see her again, though. The other half of himself leapt with what felt very like gladness when he did.

  He was walking down Oxford Street with his sister Vanessa, since when he had called on her earlier she had complained of being in the mopes because the children were still sleeping and Elliott was out of town for a couple of days and would probably be home only just in time to dress for the evening’s ball, for which she desperately needed a length of lace to replace a torn frill on the gown she wanted to wear.

  The errand had already been accomplished when Vanessa exclaimed with pleasure and Stephen, following her gaze, saw Cassandra approaching on the arm of her brother.

  That was when half of some part of his being—his heart?—leapt with gladness. She was looking elegant and lovely in a pale pink walking dress and the straw bonnet she had worn to the picnic. She appeared flushed and rather happy.

  Stephen swept off his hat and bowed to her.

  “Ma’am?” he said. “Young? A lovely afternoon, is it not?”

  Young, seeing him, looked suddenly embarrassed.

  “Indeed it is,” Cassandra said. “How do you do, your grace, my lord?”

  “I am extremely well,” Vanessa said. “Sir Wesley Young, is it not? I believe we have met before.”

  “We have, your grace,” he said, inclining his head to her. “Lady Paget is my sister.”

  “Oh, how wonderful,” Vanessa said, smiling warmly. “I did not realize yo
u had relatives in town, Lady Paget. I am so glad you do. Are you planning to attend Lady Compton-Haig’s ball this evening?”

  “I believe I will,” Cassandra said. “I have had an invitation.”

  She had accepted it, then. Stephen had not known if he hoped she had or if he would have preferred it if she had not. Now he knew. He was glad she was to be there.

  Was the happy glow on her face a result of her brother’s being with her? If it was, then Stephen no longer regretted having interfered.

  “Perhaps, Lady Paget,” he said, “you would be so good as to reserve the opening set for me?”

  She opened her mouth to reply.

  “I am afraid, Merton,” Young said stiffly, “that is my set.”

  “Then another later in the evening,” Stephen said.

  A smile played about her lips. Perhaps she was thinking that she had come a long way in a week.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said in her velvet voice. “It would be a pleasure.”

  Sir Wesley Young clearly had no wish to prolong the encounter. With another half-bow he bade them both a good afternoon and continued on his way along the street with Cassandra on his arm.

  “I do believe,” Vanessa said as they resumed their own course in the opposite direction, “that Lady Paget could wear a sack and still look more beautiful than anyone else in London. It is most provoking, Stephen.”

  “You are quite lovely enough to turn heads, Nessie,” he said, grinning at her.

  She had always been the plainest of his sisters—and the most vivacious. She had always seemed beautiful to him.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “It did seem as though I was fishing for a compliment, did it not? And I got it. How very gallant of you. It is time I went home, Stephen, if you do not mind terribly. What if Elliott has come home and I am not there?”

  “Would he have a fit of the vapors?” he asked.

  She laughed and twirled her parasol.

  “Probably not,” she said. “But I might if I discovered I had missed ten minutes or more of his company.”

  He maneuvered her about a noisy group of people coming in the opposite direction without looking where they were going.