The coachman’s shoulders slumped, and a resigned look entered his eyes. He turned forward on the bench and snapped the reins, sending the horses in the opposite direction from Mr. Bailey’s impoverished abode.
*****
Simon heard the door chime through the haze of a very agreeable dream. His eyes came open and he glanced across the library at Harry. His friend sat straight in his chair, eyes blinking as though he also had just awakened.
“Did I fall asleep?” Harry asked in a raspy voice. “What is the hour?”
“Nearly dinner time by the looks of it,” Simon said. “Rides at dawn and port at noon are enough to take the stuffing out of men with tougher constitutions than we have. I suggest we take it easy on ourselves from now on.”
Harry chuckled. “I must be a boring host if I’m putting my guests to sleep in the middle of a deep discussion. What were we talking about, anyway?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Simon responded. He looked up as the butler came into the library.
“Sir,” the servant said, “a Mr. Fennigan from the Whittingham estate has asked to speak with you.”
Harry glanced at Simon and shrugged his shoulders before heaving himself from his chair. He crossed the room and disappeared through the library door.
Simon stood and stretched. The rural life ate away at his energy, and he ought to be depressed. Oddly, he didn’t care. This respite had been extremely pleasant. The only thing bothering him was not seeing Miss James.
The library faced the drive, and the marquess walked to the window. Curious, he pulled back the drape. Outside on the walk Harry was talking to a mammoth individual, while someone waited in a carriage. Simon squinted into the fading light.
By Jove! is that Miss James in the carriage?
The last vestiges of sleep vanished, leaving behind an intense excitement. He had spent days wondering how to contrive a meeting with her, and here she sat on Harry’s drive, gift-wrapped in a handsome landaulet.
He straightened his vest and ran his fingers through his tousled hair. This was the very opening he had been waiting for. He moved from the library to the hall, heels echoing off the marble floor as he strode through the entry and out the front entrance.
When he reached the porch, the white-faced expression Miss James turned on him made his mouth go dry. She waved him over to the carriage.
The marquess walked in her direction. “Miss James, are you all right?”
Harry stopped him. “Simon, this is Mr. Fennigan. He is employed by my neighbor Lord Whittingham. Miss James and Mr. Fennigan have brought us a little boy they believe has been beaten by his father. Lord Whittingham wants the child returned to his family, but Miss James feels this will put the lad in further danger. She has asked us to help.”
“I really cannot do as my grandfather has ordered me. You do understand, don’t you?” She sounded emotional, looking at him with imploring blue eyes brimming with tears.
He was surprised. His fight with Miss James two weeks earlier had led him to believe she would not be friendly. The drama now unfolding could not have come at a better time. This was a perfect opportunity for Simon to redeem himself. If she wanted him to help this little boy then he could think of nothing he wanted more. He walked to the carriage.
“And whom do we have here?” he asked with tender understanding. She raised her gaze to his, and he could see the gratitude lurking there.
“The son of one of my grandfather’s tenants. Will you call a doctor for him?” she asked. “I think his arm is broken.”
His eyebrows shot upward. “That is serious. What kind of father would do that?” Simon reached toward the child, gingerly removing him from the carriage.
“Be careful,” she cautioned.
Simon, the boy now firmly in his grasp, turned to his host. “We will see he receives the best of care, won’t we, Harry?”
Harry nodded at Miss James. “Don’t worry, dear lady. We will see to the little fellow.”
“You do not know how that eases my mind.” Her voice was thick with tears as she fought the urge to cry. The appearance of most women did not improve with a ravaged face.
She was breathtaking.
A sudden protective desire, utterly alien, seized Simon. “Go home, Miss James,” he said gently. “You’ve done what you can tonight.”
She reached out and touched his arm. “Thank you, my lord,” she whispered.
Simon waited until the carriage pulled away then carried the boy up the steps.
Inside, Harry stopped him. “There could be trouble, Simon, if the father decides to come for him. We have no legal right to interfere.”
“I know.” He brought his attention to the child in his arms. “Can you stand, young man?”
“Yes milord,” came the thready reply.
“There’s a good lad.” Simon set the boy down. “Let’s have a look at you. Have you a name?”
“Timothy, milord.”
“Well, Timothy,” Simon said briskly, “we’re going to take care of you. What say?”
A strained smile creased the child’s ashen features. “Aye, milord.”
Then he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
*****
CHAPTER 7
Cassandra awoke to blackness. The clock on the mantle chimed the half hour and she squinted at it across the gloom. Thirty minutes past three o’clock. Perfect timing. She threw back the coverlet and climbed out of bed.
She dressed quickly in an old cotton gown. Grabbing a brush, a half dozen rapid stokes brought her hair into order, and a ribbon at the nape of her neck bound the curls neatly.
At the door she placed her hand on the knob, turning it slowly. Cassandra held her breath, waiting for the latch to release. The pent-up air whooshed from her mouth when she heard the distinctive click. She eased the door open and stepped into the hall.
It took only minutes to creep down the stairs and through the kitchen to the exit at the rear of the house, but it seemed an eternity.
The night breeze greeted Cassandra as she slipped outside. She dashed across the yard to the stables. Here she encountered her first obstacle.
Placing a halter on her mare was not difficult, but she had never saddled a horse. If she woke the groom for help, that would end her outing immediately. Traveling bareback was an option, however, then she must ride astride. She shrugged. If she had come this far, why not add the sin of an unladylike ride?
She led the horse from the stables to the back pasture, praying no one would detect her departure. Every tiny noise seemed to thunder in her ears, and she didn’t relax until she had walked several dozen yards from the house.
Though the field was dark, the moon was a great shimmering ball low in the sky, and it lighted her way. A rock loomed out of the early morning shadows. Could she use it to climb on her horse? Her foot was still a tender reminder of her recent clumsiness.
It was a struggle. Cassandra stepped on the rock and threw her body belly down over the back of the horse. The dratted animal did not help matters by insisting on dancing from side to side. Fighting into a sitting position, her legs hugging the mare’s body, she straightened, winded but pleased.
“There now,” she said to her mount. “You thought to stop me, didn’t you?”
Cassandra grasped the reins and turned the horse in the direction of Mr. Stiles’ residence. She sent the mare into a gallop, swiftly crossing the open fields. There was something liberating about riding astride without a saddle. Perhaps something wicked, too, but she didn’t care. She could feel the sleek strength of the horse beneath her, and for a few ecstatic moments she felt one with the animal.
A short while later she approached Mr. Stiles’ manor home from the front drive. Until now it had not occurred to her how she was to accomplish her mission. If she rang the bell, she would wake the occupants. Perhaps if she went around to the kitchen. It was after four o’clock in the morning. Servants were often beginning to stir by that time.
All she wanted
was to know how the little boy fared. Leaving him in the care of the marquess had been traumatic. Cassandra had felt a traitor, the boy’s mournful eyes haunting her dreams.
She had ignored her grandfather upon returning the night before. He’d had nothing to say to her, either. His attitude about the child had forced another wedge between them, and she wondered if they would ever bridge the gap. As far as she was concerned it had been a wasted effort from the start.
As Cassandra tethered her mount, the front door was opened. Mr. Stiles stood at the entrance, a look of surprise on his homely features.
“Miss James?” he ventured. “I thought I heard a rider. What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Mr. Stiles, I apologize for disturbing you, but I’ve been so worried about that little boy. I couldn’t tell my grandfather he was here, or he would realize I disobeyed him. I had to sneak away—”
“My dear Miss James, you will be in serious trouble if Lord Whittingham discovers you have come.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t tell.” She smiled at him hopefully. “Please, let me see the boy for a moment.”
He returned her smile and, after a brief hesitation, nodded. “I suppose it can’t do any harm.” He drew back from the door so she could enter.
“I’m sorry I woke you, Mr. Stiles,” she said as she entered.
“Nonsense. Haven’t been to bed yet—on my way there right now. I was passing through the main hall. That’s why I heard you arrive.” He started to climb the staircase but turned to look at her. “By the time the little fellow was settled, I couldn’t sleep and neither could Simon.”
“Did you call the doctor?” Cassandra fell in behind Mr. Stiles, following him up the stairs.
“Yes. You were correct, you know,” he said as he reached the landing. “That child has a broken arm.” He led her down a long hall, stopping at the last room on the right. “He’s in here.” He opened the door and ushered her into the chamber. Holding his index finger to his lips for quiet, he nodded toward the bed.
Alone in the room with her host, all at once Cassandra realized the impropriety of her mission. She sent Mr. Stiles an embarrassed look.
“Perhaps I should not have come.”
Mr. Stiles dropped his gaze and coughed into his hand. “No need to apologize, dear lady. I find your concern admirable. You sit with him as long as you like, although we should take care that you leave before you are seen. If you need me I’ll be down the hall.” He left the room.
Cassandra pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat down, bringing her attention to the tiny boy as he slept soundly, nearly lost in the plush bedclothes. His delicate features were drawn and pale and even in sleep his suffering was evident. Someone had washed his face, which brought to light a fine sprinkling of freckles across his impish nose. The doctor had set the broken arm with plaster from shoulder to wrist, leaving just a small hand visible. She placed slim fingers on his forehead.
“He will be all right, you know.”
Cassandra stiffened. Her gaze flew across the room to where Lord Sutherfield lounged against the doorjamb, watching her. She had hoped not to see his lordship because he always complicated matters. She glanced at the boy to hide her confusion, refusing to allow the marquess to see how he had disconcerted her.
“I’m more worried about where we go from here, my lord,” she said finally. “Once he is mended do we send him back to that cruel father? I could hardly sleep thinking about what to do.”
Lord Sutherfield straightened and ambled across the room. He looked as rumpled as the bedding he clearly had come from. She supposed she ought to be used to him in that disheveled state. Still she found it discomfiting.
He leaned against the fireplace, arm thrown across the mantle, and studied her through narrowed eyes. “Have you come to any conclusions?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Perhaps if the father knows he is being watched…”
“That’s what my grandfather said, but Mr. Bailey is an inebriate. Someone under the influence of alcohol rarely has the sense to do what is right, even if there are disagreeable repercussions. If this man is in the habit of terrorizing his family, it is not going to end simply because we don’t approve.”
“I believe you are right.” Sighing, he ran his hand across his mouth. “I think we are going to have to take this a day at a time. Let’s get the boy well. Then we will do what we can to stop the abuse.”
He sounded confident and that gave her hope, as he was in a position to have some influence over the situation. She brought her gaze back to the child.
“Timothy,” Lord Sutherfield said.
“What?” She darted a look at the marquess.
“You were wondering what his name is, weren’t you?”
Smiling, she said, “It suits him.”
“I thought so.” Lord Sutherfield took the remaining chair in the room and moved it to the side of the bed opposite Cassandra. “He’s a brave little chap. I was quite impressed.” Sitting down, he brought his warm regard to her face. “Before the laudanum took effect, he asked me where the beautiful angel with the red hair had gone.”
She felt her cheeks grow hot, for his black eyes had taken on that sultry, suggestive look which always made her pulse leap.
“That was sweet of him,” she said dubiously.
“Oh, no, I think he’s the right of it.” He paused, a half-smile easing his handsome mouth. “I want you to answer a question for me.”
“What?” Why did she have to sound so breathless, Cassandra thought in disgust?
“Have you forgiven me?”
He looked at her with such an expectant expression, she couldn’t find it in her power to deny him. “I will forgive you under one condition.”
He beamed at her. “Anything.”
“Would you try not to make me appear an absolute fool? I find I cannot like it. Vain of me, I’m sure, but there it is.”
“Miss James, you could never appear the fool. And you know,” he confided, his manner ingenious, “I was about to kiss you in that carriage. I was having such a pleasant time admiring your lovely face, I simply didn’t get down to the business at hand. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Cassandra smiled at him because she could not prevent herself.
“Ah, Miss James, you warm my heart. I feared I might never again feel the warmth of your approval.”
Cassandra raised one brow at him in challenge. “I don’t know that you’ve ever felt it, my lord.”
His husky laughter filled the chamber. “What a delight you are. I was right—I do like you.”
“Be quiet, please, you’ll wake the child.”
She wasn’t certain whether she should be pleased or dismayed by this sudden turn in the conversation. Cassandra glanced uneasily at Timothy, but the boy continued to sleep, oblivious. She searched for a change of subject.
“You know something of me, Lord Sutherfield, but I know nothing of you.”
“It’s my history you want? I’m flattered.”
“I’d rather you weren’t,” she muttered ungraciously.
Again he laughed. “I have an older sister, Lydia, another sister, Jillian, who is about your age, two younger brothers, a wonderful mother and scores of relatives—some of whom I hardly know. My father died nearly four years ago.” The marquess sobered then. “I still miss him.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugged, his attitude philosophical. “It’s the way of the world. We live and we die. The lucky ones are those who leave mourners. It’s a sad thing to pass through this earthly realm and no one cares.”
“Yes, it is.” Cassandra’s gaze drifted back to the tiny form under the coverlet, and she felt a pressure around her heart that was altogether unpleasant. She brought emotional eyes back to the marquess. “Thank you, my lord, for helping Timothy. You and Mr. Stiles have been very kind.”
“Then I’m going to ask a favor of you in compensation.” He gazed intently at her.
She was suddenly wary. “I’ll try, my lord.”
“On those occasions when we are alone, I would like to call you by your given name.”
“We shouldn’t be alone, my lord.” She skirted the issue, for it was risking a familiarity she shouldn’t allow. She decided to ignore the fact that they were alone right now.
“But in the unlikely event that we are,” he pressed, “I would consider it a token of our friendship. And I would like you to call me by my given name.”
Cassandra started to fidget in her chair. She had stayed too long, she realized. Every time she was in this man’s company he stalked her like a wily cat. And it didn’t help that the prey was captivated by the hunter. On the surface, what he asked was reasonable. It hurt nothing, really. But she believed this was his way of pealing back the layers of inhibitions. Each layer was so fine, so insubstantial, so seemingly innocuous, what could she protest? But add those layers together, and she came perilously close to disgrace.
“Lord Sutherfield,” Cassandra emphasized his name, “you place me in a delicate position. I am grateful for your kindness, and I wish to return the favor. Isn’t there something else I could do?”
“No,” he said, his voice full of regret. The marquess hesitated then as though suddenly struck by an idea. “Wait a minute now. Perhaps there is something.”
She felt herself tense with anticipation. All she could manage was a wide-eyed stare, waiting for him to enlighten her.
“I would settle for that kiss we almost shared in Harry’s carriage.”
Cassandra stood abruptly. “That does seem less intimate than sharing names,” she said caustically. “I think it’s time I went home, my lord.”
He caught her as she stomped angrily toward the door. Grabbing hold of her upper arms, he pulled her up against his chest. “Oh, come, Miss James—Cassandra—you were prepared to kiss me before. Why not now? Such a small request.” The marquess’ voice had turned to a gravelly whisper and his dusky eyes gleamed at her meaningfully.
In the Garden of Seduction Page 11