by Shana Galen
“My lady!” Booted footsteps neared, and Lucien reluctantly sat on his haunches. The footman he recognized as the one always with Cassandra appeared before them. He spotted his mistress lying on the floor, and his ruddy face went pale. “Lady Ashbrooke! Are you hurt?”
Cassandra sat up and lifted a hand to her collar, a gesture that made Lucien smile. His mother always lectured his sisters when they appeared rumpled or disheveled before her. A true lady is always straight and neat.
Lucien had thought true ladies must never have much fun if they always had to worry about mussing their hair or muddying their dresses. He rather liked a rumpled lady, but being older now, he could also appreciate more refinement and elegance. Cassandra Ashbrooke had both in abundance.
“I’m quite well, Riggersby,” Cassandra told her man. She struggled to her feet, her legs tangled in her skirts, and Lucien offered a hand. The footman gave him a dark look and shouldered himself between the two.
“A ruffian has thrown rocks through the shop window,” Riggersby told his mistress. “I must see you home immediately.”
But Cassandra was having none of that. “Is anyone hurt? Has the Watch been summoned?”
Riggersby gaped at her. “I couldn’t say, my lady. I only know I must see you safely home.”
“I’ll hardly tuck tail and run if someone needs me,” she said, and pushed past him toward the front of the shop. Lucien followed, but the footman blocked his path.
“And just where the devil do you think you’re going?”
Lucien nodded toward where Cassandra had just disappeared. “To see if Lady Ashbrooke needs any assistance.”
“She’s my responsibility. You can go to the devil.”
Lucien had had enough of pesky interlopers—be they footmen or assassins—bullying him. He shoved the man against a shelf and glared down at him. “She is my responsibility too, and you’d best take care not to stand in my way.”
He shoved away from the servant and stalked after Cassandra. He hadn’t anticipated speaking the words he had, but neither did he wish to retract them. She was his responsibility, whether he wanted the duty or not.
Cassandra stood beside the shopgirl, who was crying, and seemed on the verge of hysterics. Cassandra patted her shoulder, and both women stared at the wreckage that had once been the window. As the footman had said, two large rocks sat on the floor, having been thrown through the glass. The cold air and snow had already begun to penetrate.
“I d-don’t understand,” the shopgirl sobbed. “Who would do such a thing? And to think we almost lost that window, but Lord Wrathell caught the lady. And now it’s broken!”
Cassandra glanced at him, and he gave her a slight nod. He couldn’t know for certain, but if it hadn’t been the Glennish assassins, he would have been very surprised.
“What can we do for you, Miss Merriweather?” Lucien asked. “Shall we send Lady Ashbrooke’s footman to fetch your parents?”
The muffled sound behind him attested to the servant’s displeasure at the suggestion.
“Oh, would you?” The pretty shopgirl looked from Cassandra to Lucien with teary eyes. “Charlie tore out of here after the rogues.”
“Of course.” Cassandra turned back to her man. “Miss Merriweather will give you the directions. Go and fetch her parents directly.”
“But, my lady, I must see you home.”
“I’ll do that,” Lucien volunteered.
“But—”
“Riggersby!” Cassandra seemed to have found her voice. Lucien liked a woman who stood strong in a crisis. “Do not argue. If Miss Ashbrooke takes you to task later, I will claim full responsibility.”
Riggersby glowered at Lucien. “Yes, my lady.”
While Miss Merriweather instructed Riggersby, Lucien took Cassandra’s arm. “I think it would be better if we leave now, before they have a chance to come back.”
She looked up at him, her eyes even wider than usual behind her spectacles. “Do you think they will?”
“No, but I don’t like to tarry.”
They took their leave and stepped out into the cold. The bitter wind and snow weren’t quite as much of a shock as they might have been, considering how quickly the temperature in the bookshop had dropped after the window was broken. Still, Lucien shoved one hand in his pocket, his other being free and icy so that Lady Ashbrooke might hold his arm. Like the other people out and about, they walked quickly with their heads down.
“When we reach the house, you will come in and warm yourself,” Cassandra said.
Lucien made a sound of protest.
“You will,” she argued. “I cannot possibly send any man out in this weather, and if there is danger, I am most certainly already in it.”
Lucien did not mention that she’d sent her footman out in the snow, but he could not argue her other point. If the assassins had tracked him to the bookshop, they might very well have seen him with Lady Ashbrooke. And that meant she wasn’t safe, even in his absence. Was it merely the desire to be warm and fed that convinced him she was actually safer with him present? If the assassins did attack her home, he could defend her. He was already on guard for any possible attack. Would her household staff be so alert?
“Very well.”
She glanced up at him quickly. “Then you will come inside?”
“I will.”
“And you will stay?”
She didn’t add the night, but it was implied. “I will. I’ll protect you until I can make a plan to leave London, and when I go, I’ll lure the assassins with me.” He would never find what he sought now. He would have to give up his hope of any sort of future beyond merely eking by. But Cassandra was worth the sacrifice. She was worth that and much more.
“Is that wise? Leaving London? What about the bookshop and the papers you seek?”
“There’s nothing for it,” he said, not allowing the despair to sink in. There would be time to wallow in self-pity later. “If I want to stay alive, I must flee.” Run like a coward in the night. Good God, but he hated himself sometimes.
She looked as though she might say more, but the wind kicked up just then, and they both had to focus their attention on making their way to Mayfair. Lucien tried to look behind him, tried to make certain they were not followed, but it was an impossible task. The snow fell too quickly.
Finally, they arrived. The door to the town house was opened by a very English-looking butler. “My lady, Miss Ashbrooke was worried.” The butler spoke to Cassandra, but his gaze was locked firmly on Lucien.
Behind the servant, a curved staircase led to the upper floors. The banister was swathed with Christmas greenery. Shiny red apples and hellebore added splashes of color. The scent was sweet and fresh as a meadow.
“I’ll speak to her directly, Vidal.” Cassandra gestured to Lucien. “This is my friend...” Here she paused and seemed to consider how to introduce him.
“Mr. Glen,” he said, bowing. “Lucien Glen.”
The butler looked down his nose at him. “I see. And where is Riggersby?”
“There was an incident at the bookshop,” Cassandra explained, unfastening her pelisse and handing it to Vidal. “I sent Riggersby to fetch Mr. and Mrs. Merriweather as Miss Merriweather was there alone.”
“What sort of incident?” a shrill voice interrupted.
Lucien’s attention snapped to the top of the stairs, where a thin woman with a rather yellow pallor stood, clutching her throat.
“Some ruffians threw a stone and broke the shop window,” Cassandra explained, sounding very calm and composed. One might never have guessed that she’d been trembling beneath him when the glass had shattered.
“Oh, dear me!” The woman, clutching the stair rail, took several steps toward them. “You are not to return there. You must stay home.”
“I will not set foot outside again today, Effie,” Cassandra told her. “And I’ve invited Mr. Glen to stay with us as well.”
“What?” That exclamation came in unison from t
he Effie woman and the butler.
Cassandra seemed unconcerned by their astonishment. “Mr. Glen is a friend, and he is in need of shelter for a few days. I’ve offered my home.”
“A few days!” Effie sputtered. Lucien could only assume the butler was too shocked to speak. “You cannot allow a man to stay here for an hour, much less a few days.”
“Perhaps I should wait in the parlor,” Lucien said.
“That’s not necessary.” Cass placed a hand on his arm. “I have offered my home, Effie, and I will not change my mind now. There’s nothing scandalous in it. You are here to chaperone, and it is not as though I am an unmarried miss. I am a widow.”
“Exactly!” Effie pointed a bony finger at her, and Lucien could have sworn Cassandra shrank back slightly. “You dishonor my brother’s memory, bringing your lover here!”
“My lover? He is not my lover, and even if he were, this is my house. It was left to me by Norman. I may have any guest here I choose, and you can be certain that were Norman still alive, he would certainly offer the same hospitality I do to a friend in need.”
“How can you—”
Cassandra held up a hand. “That is all I shall say on the matter. It is decided. Vidal, have the maids prepare a room for Mr. Glen, and then inform Cook we will have three for dinner. Tell her I want her to serve the best she has. No bland dishes tonight. I want wine and flavor and dessert.”
Lucien’s belly rumbled at the thought. The butler, obviously reminded of who his true employer was, scurried away to do the viscountess’s bidding.
“Well!” Effie huffed. “If that is the way it is, then you will have to do without me. I shall not eat at your table. In fact, as soon as the snow has passed, I will remove myself from your house.”
Cassandra sighed, as though she’d expected this response. “There’s no call for that, Effie. I promised Norman I would take care of you, and there will always be a place for you here.”
“My dear brother would be shocked were he here now.”
“He is not here now,” Cassandra said. “He has been dead for over a year.”
Effie gasped.
“My period of mourning is over.” As if to illustrate that point, she ripped off the black bonnet she wore. “I will never disrespect Norman’s memory, but neither will I hide in my room, waiting for my time to die. If you choose to leave, that is your decision. If you choose to stay, know this: There will be changes.”
Effie all but fled in horror, and Lucien clapped quietly. “Brava! That was well done. What do you do for an encore?”
She gave him a shaky smile, and he realized just how much the confrontation had cost her. “Cassandra, do sit.” He steered her toward a small, stiff-backed chair against a wall. “Why are you shaking? You were brilliant.”
“I feel as though I will be sick.” She tried to lower her head into her lap, but he caught her chin.
“No, you won’t. I don’t know your late husband’s sister, but I venture to guess that dressing down was well deserved and well past due.”
“I should not have spoken to her thus!” she protested.
“You’re right.” He crouched beside her. “You should have told her off with much more colorful language.”
Cassandra laughed lightly. “That is not what I meant, and you know it.”
“No. What I know is that you are beautiful and strong and brave.”
She gave him a look of incomprehension. “I’m none of those things.”
“You are all of them and more.”
Behind them, the butler cleared his throat. “Mr. Glen, if you would follow me, I will show you to your room.”
“Thank you,” Lucien said without taking his eyes from her.
“Will you tell me what you were looking for in the bookshop?” she asked, her voice so low only he could hear. “Over dinner? Will you finally tell me?”
He nodded. “I’ll tell you every detail.”
***
Several hours later, he had bathed, slept, eaten a small meal of bread and cheese, and dressed in clean clothing, which he suspected had belonged to the late Viscount Ashbrooke. They smelled of tobacco and mothballs. They were a bit small for him—the viscount had been shorter and thinner—but they were clean, and if he did not move his arms too much, the tight coat would not bother him.
When the butler summoned him to dinner, Lucien followed the man to the dining room, where he found Cassandra already waiting. “My apologies.” He bowed. “I have kept you waiting.”
When she didn’t speak, he looked up. She stared at him as though he were a stranger. He looked down and immediately realized she must be shocked to see him in her dead husband’s clothing.
“I do apologize. I found the clothes laid out after my bath. Should I change back?”
“No! It’s not the clothes. I mean, it is strange to see you in his clothing, but that is not it.” Her words bubbled up, sounding as though she’d had to force them through a tight throat.
“Then what is wrong?”
“Nothing. It’s only... you are so impossibly handsome.”
He felt the slow smile on his lips.
“I am certain you must have heard that a thousand times, and I suppose I did know you were handsome.” Her cheeks were flaming red now. “But seeing you dressed properly, with your hair washed and your stubble shaved, it’s rather a shock.”
“A pleasant shock, I hope.” He stepped closer, far more pleased by her compliment than he ought to have been. Of course he’d heard such flattery a thousand times—she was correct—but he had never thought of it as much more than flattery. He could see in Cassandra’s eyes that she meant it, and he could also see the effect on her. She was doubting herself now.
“I—Lord, I have behaved like an idiot. If you will excuse me.”
“I will not.” He took her hand before she could escape. “You can’t possibly be thinking of forcing me to endure Miss Ashbrooke’s company alone.”
Her hand trembled in his. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and her skin was very soft and very pale. “Effie has chosen to dine in her room.”
“Good. Then we shall have the evening to ourselves.”
“But—”
“Cassandra, I want to dine with you. You really do not see yourself, do you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then you don’t see what I see.” He drew her closer and would have taken her into his arms if he hadn’t known the footmen were on the other side of the door, waiting for them to take their seats so they might serve the first course. “I look at you and see a beautiful woman. That rose-colored gown is the perfect shade for your skin, the neckline just modest enough but teasing me with a hint of what lies beneath.”
It did not seem possible, but her cheeks reddened further.
“And I don’t think I’ve told you how much I love the color of your hair. It’s like spun silk. And your eyes—”
“They’re behind spectacles!”
“That takes nothing away from their blueness or your beauty. You cannot possibly think of denying me the sight of you at dinner tonight. If you do, you will also force me to break my promise.”
“What promise?”
“I vowed to tell you my story.”
“Oh.” She looked at the table then, and he knew she would stay. Her interest in his tale was much more incentive than any compliment he might give her. He would have to remember that.
He moved his plate to the seat close to hers, so they would not be at opposite ends of the table, then she rang the bell and the first course arrived. Lucien could not speak for the first three courses. He was so completely focused on the food. It was not until the fourth course was set on the table that he’d eaten enough to realize he’d been utterly silent for the past three-quarters of an hour.
But when he looked at Cassandra, she was smiling at him.
“I have been an intolerable bore,” he said. “Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. I knew you were hu
ngry that day I brought you currant buns. You must have extraordinary willpower to have eaten them so slowly.”
“One does try to remain civilized.”
“Oh, some days I do wish we could send civility to the devil.”
“And what would you do? If we sent civility to the devil?”
A flush crept up her cheeks.
He grinned. “Ah, we shall come back to that later. First, I believe I owe you a tale. I must earn my keep.”
“You do not need to sing for your supper.”
“I would have told you even if you hadn’t fed me. As I told you before, my mother was a suspicious woman. She had been born in France, and though the people of Glynaven loved her—or at least they seemed to—she never saw them as fully her people. Not the way my father, the king, did.” He paused as the fourth course was taken away and the fifth presented.
“Perhaps that was why she heard the first strains of discord before any of the rest of us. She saw the unrest brewing and knew the inevitable result. My father shook his head at what he called her silly ideas, and my siblings and I followed his lead. I suppose I knew more of the situation than the other children, being that I am the eldest and the heir. I knew about the accusations the Parliament made against my father. They claimed he stole money from the treasury and imprisoned innocents with secret letters.”
“Was any of that true?” she asked, bringing him back from the stone chambers of Glynaven Palace and into the cozy dining room in London.
“I suppose every accusation has a kernel of truth at the center. My parents were the king and queen. They lived lavishly, and they had enemies. But my father was not a cruel man or an unjust one. I believe he would have listened to the dissent if the leaders had come to him. Instead, they chose to attack his private guard. Such an attack angered my father, and he instituted curfews and curbed other privileges that sent many to prison for seemingly small infractions.”
Cassandra poured him more wine, and he realized he’d drunk all of his and his throat still felt dry. “My mother warned him of the dangers, but he didn’t listen. He saw the uprising as a trifle stirred up by a few malcontents. I don’t think any of us, save the queen, realized how persuasive the reavlutionnaire were and how easily convinced the people were to follow their cause.