The Unofficial Suitor

by Charlotte Louise Dolan

  Fie on his horses, Cassie thought rebelliously. She sneaked a peek at the man who was standing in front of her, and it was even worse than she had feared. The minute their eyes met, she got the same sick feeling in her stomach, only this time it was even worse than when he had danced a country dance with her.

  “I shall go ... I shall just ... my bonnet,” she finally managed to say. Maybe, she thought desperately, she could throw all her bonnets out the window, and then she would not be able to drive out, because no lady could set foot outside her house without a bonnet. That was another of those idiotic rules society had made expressly to plague young ladies, or so it seemed to Cassie, who was accustomed to going about the Blackstone estate bareheaded.

  But again, she was not given a chance to procrastinate even another few precious moments. Annie was waiting in the hallway, the chosen bonnet in her hands. Adjusting it on Cassie’s head and tying the ribbons in a bow, the maid said in an undertone, “You will survive a drive in the park. You will discover within yourself more strength than you ever knew you had. When it is over, you will wonder at how foolishly you are behaving now.”

  There was no reproof in the maid’s voice, but Cassie felt herself deeply ashamed that she was, in truth, acting the coward. How Digory would scoff if he saw her being such a timid little mouse—she, who had bragged she could take care of herself.

  Stiffening her back, she turned to face the man who had followed her out into the hallway. The bonnet, she discovered, was perfect. Chosen, or so Ellen thought, because it suited the gown, it had actually been picked first and the dress decided upon only because it required this particular piece of headgear. Its particular attraction for Cassie was its most ridiculous brim, which extended so far forward that unless she looked directly up at Mr. Hawke, he would not be able to see her face at all.

  Richard looked down at the young lady standing so demurely beside him, and he could not keep his mouth from curling up in a smile. Remembering how fiercely she had argued with the landlord on the journey to London, Richard did not believe she was as meek as she was now pretending to be.

  Nor did he believe for a moment that she had just “happened” to be wearing headgear shaped like a coal scuttle—a bonnet, moreover, which could only have been designed by a woman who hated men. But he had never backed down from a challenge, and even now he did not despair in the slightest. Before their drive was over, he would somehow coax her into showing him her face.

  He offered Lady Cassiopeia his arm, and as always, she hesitated, as if afraid to allow the slightest physical contact between the two of them. And as always, he had the urge to remind her that she had already slept with her head resting on his shoulder, but he was too much the gentleman to speak of that time.

  Finally she allowed her hand to rest gently on his arm, her touch still tentative, as if at any moment she might jerk her hand away. The best thing to do, he decided, would be to distract her with conversation, so that she could become accustomed to him gradually, and perhaps, maybe, possibly—no, definitely—if he were patient enough, some day she would begin to feel comfortable in his presence.

  “This morning I had my secretary, John Tuke, produce for me some articles about the newest technology available for mining. Tell me, what do you think of Humphry Davy’s invention? I believe he calls it a safety lamp and claims it will prevent gas explosions in mines.”

  * * * *

  After two days of cold, biting wind, the weather had turned balmy and the park was crowded with those who had come to see and be seen. Such was the congestion along Rotten Row that even though Lady Letitia’s coachman was quite good at avoiding certain specific people, on this occasion he could not take evasive action when another landau moved into position beside her carriage and a cloyingly sweet voice bid her good afternoon.

  It was with regret that Lady Letitia turned to speak—briefly, she hoped—with the woman, a certain Lady Potherwick, who was distantly related to Lady Letitia’s third husband. The daughter of a cit who had married well above his station, she was herself the mother of six vapid daughters. With her two eldest already of marriageable age, Lady Potherwick was pathetically obvious in her attempt to make it appear that her connection with Lady Letitia was closer than it was.

  Her efforts along that line were futile, did she but know it. No matter what gambit she used to try to make Lady Letitia feel an obligation to help her dispose of her daughters—no matter how blatant her “hints”—Lady Letitia was far too clever to allow herself to be trapped into doing something she had no desire to do.

  She would long ago have ended the matter by giving the woman the cut direct except that it was mildly amusing to watch Lady Potherwick’s thinly disguised attempts to impose in an outrageous manner—attempts which were, of course, suitably tempered by her obvious and completely justified fear of the dire consequences that would result if she offended Lady Letitia completely.

  Today, however, Lady Potherwick had other things on her mind than acquiring a notable sponsor for her daughters.

  “Really, my dear Lady Letitia, without wishing to set myself up as an arbiter of your actions, as it were, yet my conscience demands that I speak to you on what may be a painful subject. Doubtless you recognize the man in that carriage over there? The one escorting Lady Cassiopeia? He calls himself Richard Hawke, and I know you have received him in your home, but I must warn you that he appears to me to be an impostor—nothing more nor less than a deliberate fraud.”

  Lady Letitia gave the woman an icy stare, but Lady Potherwick rattled on, blissfully unaware of the dangers along the path she was treading.

  “Indeed, I have asked all my acquaintances and searched through every page of Debrett’s and have not found any family he could be attached to. Granted, Mr. Hawke may be rich,” she said with a sniff, “still, I suspect he is some opportunist battening himself on your grandson. Either that, or it is Lord Westhrop himself who is engaged in some sort of practical joke, attempting to foist some American riff-raff off onto an unsuspecting public.”

  Holding back her anger at the woman’s presumption, Lady Letitia uttered a total falsehood, deliberately using her most imperious tone of voice. “Richard is the grandson of one of my dearest friends, who was compelled by unfortunate circumstance to emigrate to America with her husband years ago. I stood godmother to her daughter, Mr. Hawke’s mother, and I shall take it amiss if anyone begins to spread scurrilous rumors about the dear boy, who is almost like another grandson to me.”

  Ignoring Lady Potherwick’s profuse apologies, Lady Letitia rapped coachman on the back. Luckily, by this time the congestion had eased, and they were able to move away from the other carriage. The cut direct from now on, Lady Letitia mused. Definitely, the woman had ceased to be tolerable the moment she decided to instruct Lady Letitia on proper behavior.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  “I shall certainly take your advice, Lady Cassiopeia,” Richard said, pulling his horses to a stop in front of the house being occupied for the season by the Earl of Blackstone and his family. “In fact, I shall not only send one of my own agents to investigate the situation at my mine, but I shall also instruct him to go incognito so that the manager will have no reason to disguise the true conditions there. Will that be adequate, do you think?”

  Cassie tipped her head way, way back so that she could see his face. It had amused him to note that halfway through their drive her bonnet had ceased to be her defense and had become instead merely an obvious inconvenience—and undoubtedly a strain on her neck.

  “I think that would be a very good plan,” she said. Never before had he seen her look so happy. Her eyes positively glowed, and he felt a ridiculous urge to buy up all the mines in Cornwall and pay all the miners outrageous salaries if only it might give her pleasure.

  Then she seemed to realize she was smiling at him, and she immediately ducked her head. “Not that I know anything about the manager of your mine, but it has been my experience with other manager
s that they tend to resort to any stratagem that will increase their profits. Nor do the owners in general care one way or another, as long as they can squeeze every possible penny out of the misery of others.”

  “I care, Lady Cassiopeia,” Richard said in a low voice.

  For a moment he thought she was going to look up at him again, but then she seemed to think better of it and stared instead at the house. He would have given a thousand pounds to be able to see her expression, or ten thousand to know her thoughts.

  Lacking that ability, he instead signaled a small boy standing nearby to go to his horses’ heads. Then he climbed down and walked around the carriage to help Lady Cassie descend. She was as light as a feather in his hands, and he wondered how such a tiny body could contain such a large heart and such a valiant spirit.

  Despite the temptation, he did not let his hands linger on her waist a second longer than politeness dictated. Releasing her as soon as her feet touched the ground, he offered her his arm.

  “Will you be attending the Heathertons’ ball this evening?” he inquired.

  There was a silence beside him as they mounted the steps, then a murmur of assent that was so soft that he was left with no doubts about her reluctance to let him know her plans for the evening. He had hoped that their drive—and more importantly, their discussion of mining conditions in Cornwall—would have lessened her fear of him, but she was obviously still uncomfortable in his presence. Reaching the door, he raised the heavy knocker and rapped loudly to summon the butler.

  Despite her unspoken desire to have nothing further to do with him, he nevertheless asked politely if she would save the first waltz of the evening for him. She gave him no answer, but her hand, which had been resting lightly on his arm, suddenly tightened its grip.

  His attention was focused so completely on her that it took him a moment to realize the door had opened on well-oiled hinges. Looking up, he saw a man standing in the doorway staring at him—an elegantly dressed young man, who was still handsome despite the lines of dissipation that were already carved into his face.

  Although he had never before seen the man in person, Richard had no trouble recognizing the notorious Earl of Blackstone.

  “I had not realized you were home, Geoffrey,” Lady Cassie said. “May I present Mr.—”

  “I wish to speak with you in the library,” Lord Blackstone said curtly, cutting her off before she could complete the introductions. Then without in any way acknowledging Richard’s presence, the earl turned on his heel and disappeared into the bowels of the house.

  Richard could feel the tremors that shook Lady Cassie’s entire body, and he wished he could simply whisk her back into his carriage and carry her away from this house—and more important, far, far away from her brother. Alternatively, he wished he could at least wrap his arms around her and hold her close until she stopped trembling.

  But the rules of society demanded that he do nothing when she finally released her grip on his arm and followed her brother into the house.

  * * * *

  You were rude just now, Cassie wanted to say. But for some reason—something she could see in her brother’s expression—she could not bring herself to utter the words that would doubtless only serve to antagonize him further and put him in a worse mood than he was in already.

  “In the future,” Geoffrey said, his voice little more than a snarl, “you will not waste your time driving out with such men.” He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and threw it at her face.

  Startled, she flinched away, and the paper dropped harmlessly to the floor.

  “That is a list of the men I have chosen as potential husbands for you. Pick it up,” he ordered when she made no move to do so.

  She met his gaze defiantly, but again, something in his eyes frightened her, no matter how brave she tried to be, and after a few moments, she bent and picked up the piece of paper.

  Three names were inscribed upon it in her brother’s scarcely legible scrawl: the Marquess of Fauxbridge, the Earl of Rowcliff, and Baron Atherston. The names were familiar, so she had undoubtedly met the men at some society function, but despite her best efforts, she could not put faces to the names.

  “You will, of course, concentrate your efforts on Fauxbridge since he is a marquess. But you must also encourage Rowcliff and Atherston, in case Fauxbridge fails to come up to scratch.”

  Cassie’s hand shook so much, the names on the paper blurred before her eyes. Then to her dismay, a tear fell on the paper, causing the ink to run. She could only be thankful the brim of her bonnet hid her face—and her tears—from her brother.

  These were the men who were going to bid for her—Geoffrey was going to sell her to one of these men. One of them was going to own her, body and soul, and there was nothing she could do about it except pray that whoever he was, he would treat her kindly.

  “Well, what are you standing here for?” her brother snapped out.

  Without deigning to answer him, Cassie turned and left the room, going in desperate search of Ellen, hoping despite all evidence to the contrary that her step-mother would do something to help her.

  She found Ellen in her room, unpacking the latest batch of new gowns, and at the sight of all the bright colors and beautiful fabrics, the lace and beadwork, the ribbons and flounces, Cassie admitted to herself that Ellen would even sell her own daughter to the devil if it meant she could stay in London and continue to dress herself in the latest fashions.

  “Oh, Cassie, look at my new blue lutestring—is it not lovely? I think I shall wear it tomorrow night to the opera. Dear Lady Letitia has invited us to share her box. But come, why the long face? Was your drive with Mr. Hawke so unpleasant then? I vow, if he is going to give you frown lines, then by all means you must do your best to avoid him.”

  “No,” Cassie forced out, “it was not anything Mr. Hawke did. I have just had an interview with Geoffrey.”

  For a second Ellen’s hands shook, and her eyes flitted desperately around the room, as if seeking a way to escape, but then she fixed a smile firmly on her face and asked in an overly bright voice, “And what did your brother wish to speak to you about?”

  “He informed me ...” Cassie’s own voice wavered, and she had to pause and start over again. “He told me which three men he finds acceptable as purchasers.”

  “Purchasers? Whatever are you talking about?”

  “The men who shall be allowed to buy me,” Cassie snapped out, finally losing control of her temper. “The men with pockets deep enough to satisfy Geoffrey.”

  “Your suitors, you mean? Oh, Cassie, this is so exciting! Show me the list.”

  Before Cassie could stop her, Ellen had snatched the piece of paper out of her hand and was reading aloud. “Fauxbridge, Rowcliff, Atherston—oh, this is marvelous beyond anything I had hoped for. A marquess! Imagine that. It is indeed unfortunate that there are no dukes of a marriageable age, but a marquess is almost as good.”

  Without warning, she threw her arms around Cassie and hugged her tightly.

  Standing stiffly in her step-mother’s embrace, Cassie said coldly, “I do not even know the man.”

  Ellen pulled away and looked down into her face. “But of course you know him. Why, you danced with him just last evening.”

  “I do not remember him.”

  “But you must remember—he is a marquess! Do, pray, cast your mind back. He was wearing a bottle-green waistcoat with roses picked out in seed pearls, and his cravat was tied in a trone d’amour—”

  Jerking free of Ellen’s arms, Cassie began to pace the room. “I am to marry a man because of his waistcoat and tie?”

  Ellen gave a peal of laughter. “No, silly, because of his title. And his money, of course.”

  Cassie stopped directly in front of her step-mother and glared up at her. “Do you know, they have a name for women who sell themselves to men, and that name is whore!”

  With no warning, Ellen’s hand came up and slapped Cassie across the face,
hard enough to make her stumble sideways. For a moment they both stood there staring at each other, then Ellen burst into tears. Automatically, Cassie embraced her and began patting her on the back, soothing her until her sobbing died down.

  Pulling away, Ellen dried her face and without meeting Cassie’s gaze directly said, “I think I shall lie down now.” Still sniffling and dabbing at her eyes, she crossed to the chaise longue, where she reclined gracefully, a woeful portrait of abject misery. “I suppose now you will refuse to go to the party this evening, and Geoffrey will be angry with me also.”

  “No,” Cassie said tiredly, “I will go and dance with Fauxbridge and smile at Rowcliff and flirt with Atherston.”

  Without uttering another word, Cassie left her step-mother and returned to her own room, where she threw herself down on the bed. But the tears did not come—or rather, they remained locked in her heart—so when Annie later came to help do her hair, at least Cassie’s eyes were clear, with no puffiness or redness to give an outward sign of her distress.

  * * * *

  After a day of moderate success at investigating the men who appeared to be courting Lady Cassiopeia with serious intent, John Tuke was relaxing in an easy chair in the sitting room of their hotel suite, a bottle of Madeira on the table beside him, waiting for Richard and Perry to return with news of their day’s activities.

  Richard was the first to arrive, and John welcomed him with a smile and a lift of his goblet. “Welcome back, Richard. And how was your drive? Have you succeeded in winning the hand of your fair lady? Or has she at least ceased to tremble at the sight of you?”

  Richard did not answer, but stood silently, clenching and unclenching his hands, looking as if he would like to smash everything in the room. Apparently his courtship of the Lady Cassiopeia was not progressing smoothly.

  “That bad?” Tuke said mildly, trying to hide his smile. “It appears you need some liquid refreshment.” Standing up, he fetched another goblet from the mantel and filled it with the sparkling amber liquid. “Here,” he said, extending the drink to Richard, who took it and stared down at it.