“You are drunk, Mr. Bailey,” the earl said, his attitude turning glacial. “Therefore, I’m willing to grant you some latitude. I also assume you are troubled by your son’s disappearance, or you would not be acting in such an insolent manner. On the other hand,” he warned, “I’m losing my patience. I will not tolerate you coming onto my property and treating those who live here with disrespect.”
“But—” Mr. Bailey began.
Grandfather impatiently raised his hand to stop the drunken speech. “Mr. Bailey, you are one of my tenets, are you not?”
The threat in the question was far from subtle.
Mr. Bailey’s coloring changed to an alarming shade of purple while spittle formed on his loose lips. “You wouldn’t turn out a man wif a wife and family, would you, milord?” he whined.
“I wasn’t suggesting any such thing,” the earl said, his tone now superior. “Go home, Mr. Bailey. If we learn of your son’s whereabouts, we’ll let you know.”
The man looked as though he wanted to argue but he did not. Her grandfather’s expression would have frightened even the most fearless individual, and George Bailey had to rely on the false courage he received from a bottle. In his confused state he could never match wits with the earl.
Timothy’s father staggered from the yard, muttering oaths to himself and casting dark looks at those assembled on the drive. As he rounded the bend, he reached into his back pocket, extracting a flask. He threw back his head and took a deep swig then continued on his way.
Cassandra waited until Mr. Bailey disappeared from sight before starting down the steps.
“Cassandra,” her grandfather’s voice stopped her.
She paused, steeling herself for a confrontation and then turned to look at him with what she hoped was a guiltless face. “Sir?”
“Avoid that man. He could be dangerous.”
Again he scrutinized her so pointedly she felt her heart begin to thud nervously. “Yes, of course,” was all she could manage.
He walked into the house without another word.
Cassandra checked to see if Fenn was still on the drive. He was. He met her eyes with something akin to panic. She tripped down the steps toward the coachman.
“Fenn, I’m glad you are still here.”
“Yes, miss,” he said in a mournful voice.
“Now, now, it can’t be as bad as all that. Actually, it was much better than I hoped it would be. I feared my grandfather was about to force the truth from us. My knees were like water.”
Mr. Fennigan’s shoulders drooped. “I don’t like lying to his lordship. It’s not only my hide I’m worried about. It don’t seem right somehow.”
Cassandra looked at him doubtfully. “Then I suppose you’re not going to be pleased when I ask you to do me another favor.
“Ah…miss, I don’t know,” the coachman said, and he backed away from her. “We’re in a fix, that’s for certain. We haven’t been caught, but I’d be willing to wager a month’s pay we will be. Let’s not make it any worse than it already is.”
“You saw Mr. Bailey. What kind of father is that?”
He shrugged, his attitude fatalistic. “What can you do when all’s said and done? It is his son.”
“I don’t see it that way.”
He continued to stare at her, plainly unwilling to bend.
“Please, I want you to warn Lord Sutherfield and Mr. Stiles that Timothy’s father came here. They need to be aware in case Mr. Bailey discovers where his son is staying.”
“I could do that,” Fenn said. “But I’m not going to lie if Lord Whittingham asks me directly.”
“I know you are an honest man, Mr. Fennigan, and I wouldn’t ask you to do anything else.”
That seemed to mollify him, and he nodded.
Cassandra reached over and touched his arm. “And, Fenn, one more thing.” She laughed when his face fell. “No, no, it’s nothing that will cause you more trouble. I would appreciate it if you would bring me a report on Timothy’s progress. I’ve been worried.”
Mr. Fennigan nodded again. “That I can do, miss. I’ve been worrying about the lad myself.”
Cassandra smiled at the well-meaning servant. For the first time she actually believed it was possible to develop a rapport with some of these people. And that was a welcome thought, for until this moment she had been afraid to admit how lonely she felt.
*****
“Lord Sutherfield, hate to bother you, but the little bugger—I mean the little fellow will not cooperate. I had to threaten him with coming for you and he called my bluff. I couldn’t let him get away with that, now could I, my lord?”
Simon, pulling at his lip to hide a grin, shook his head at the exasperated footman. “Absolutely not, Peters. You did right. Come on,” he said as he unfolded his body from his chair and put down the book he was reading. “Let’s see if we can make our young person see reason.”
A wet sight greeted him a few moments later in Harry’s green guest room. A hip bath occupied the middle of the chamber floor, although most of the fragrant water had already been splashed onto the expensive Persian carpet.
Next to the tub stood a dripping Timothy Bailey. The boy shook himself like a drowned puppy, sending large droplets of moisture cascading away from his frail body. This explained why Peters looked as though he had been swimming in his uniform.
“I tell you, it ain’t natural,” Timothy howled his outrage.
“What isn’t natural?” the marquess asked.
“To put me whole self in water. Why, I could drown or get a chill. Even me da didn’t make me do that.”
“You can’t be clean if you do not bathe, Tim,” Simon said reasonably.
“I don’t care.”
“I do. Civilized people do not go about smelling like animals. I’m sorry to make you do something you are dead set against, but you are going to have to trust me that it will do you no harm. I want you to be a man and climb back into the bath.”
“Do I have to?” The poor child looked as though his very best friend had turned on him.
Simon merely nodded.
Timothy sent the marquess an accusing stare through great sorrowful eyes. “I’ll do it but I don’t have to like it.”
“You are correct—that is not a requirement,” Simon said as he made his way to the door. “And, Tim, keep that plaster on your arm out of the water. Won’t do it any good if you get it wet.” He stopped to talk to the footman, but he made sure his voice carried across the room. “Peters, I believe the lad will not cause you further difficulties.”
He stepped into the corridor, uncertain whether he had lied to Peters or not.
*****
“Life has become rather dull lately,” Simon ventured later that evening. Harry and he had finished a fine repast and were enjoying a bottle of Harry’s best brandy.
“Has it? I thought we’d had quite a bit of excitement with the arrival of young Timothy a few days ago. What are you proposing we do to enliven things?” Harry’s attitude was good-natured as he sipped his drink.
“A dinner party—possibly some music and dancing. We could invite a few of the local gentry.”
Harry set his glass to the table. “I thought you didn’t like country parties.”
“Maybe I was somewhat hasty. Some things become more tempting when compared to a little inactivity.” Simon gave his companion a bland look.
“I don’t suppose you would like me to place Lord Whittingham and his house guests at the top of the list?”
“I think their presence would ensure the success of your party.” The marquess was determined not to admit he had any ulterior motives. “After all, they are the only nobility in the neighborhood aside from you and me.”
“I have no title.”
Simon laughed. “You are the fourth son of a baron. Your bloodlines are not paltry.”
“I’ve always felt guilty about that,” Harry admitted.
“In what way?”
“My eldest bro
ther has the title, but with it comes tremendous responsibility. You more than anyone should know what I mean. I, on the other hand, have abundant wealth and am still able to do in life exactly as I please. I can marry whom I want when I want. I am a lucky man.”
The marquess listened to his friend with dawning respect and perhaps a little envy. Must be nice to have one’s future decided in such a neat and orderly fashion, he thought. Simon had believed his own life was the way he wanted it as well. Lately, he’d begun to wonder.
*****
Cassandra frowned at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were like enormous blue-green holes in her strained face. She did not need help from her rouge pot, for nerves had sent the color high in her cheeks. Tonight would be a test, and she did not know if she was up to the challenge.
Seven days before Fenn had kept his promise to warn Lord Sutherfield and Mr. Stiles about Mr. Bailey. The coachman had returned with the news that Timothy was doing nicely. He’d returned with something else—an invitation to a dinner party given by Mr. Stiles. Not everyone in the Whittingham household was pleased by the coming event.
Grandfather was reluctant to attend the party because he had reservations about the marquess. However, he felt obligated as he was well acquainted with and liked Stiles’ father, Baron Camberdale. He did not want to cause offense by refusing.
Naturally, Penelope was ecstatic by the opportunity to socialize since she did not tolerate boredom well. She had complained much to Cassandra’s amusement that her uncle’s neighbors were dull and uninspired. As for Roger, he had become morose of late and had no opinion on the matter.
Now the evening of the party had arrived, and Cassandra was experiencing a mixture of emotions. Only one was she able to identify. Fright. She had thought about feigning an illness rather than submit herself to the torture of an evening in the company of Lord Sutherfield, sweet torture though it might be. But that was cowardly. Hopefully, the presence of a large group of people would prevent her from having to share any intimate moments with the marquess.
Having made the decision to brave it out, Cassandra also resolved to do it looking her best. From her wardrobe she pulled the one dress she had saved for a special occasion. Her maid Annie helped her into the high-waisted, bottle green gown made of satin with an overskirt of gauze. The neckline dipped somewhat lower than she preferred, but it made her feel sophisticated. No pastel colors or girlish frocks for her, she decided. Her coloring needed drama.
Cassandra’s hair was piled high, the final touch a strand of pearls and turquoise beads threaded through the auburn curls. Quintin James had imported the necklace from Turkey for her twenty-first birthday, and it was one of her most prized possessions.
At last she was ready. She twirled in front of cheval glass, and the long skirt belled out around her. The candlelight glinted off the nearly transparent gauze over the shiny satin, and the dress shimmered delightfully. She felt like an exotic bird she had once seen in a painting.
“You look beautiful, miss,” Annie said.
Cassandra smiled at the abigail. It had taken some time but she and Annie were beginning to come to an understanding.
“Thank you. Wish me luck. I think I will need it tonight.”
“Not you, miss. You will outshine every lady at the party,” Annie said as Cassandra whisked from the room.
She came downstairs after everyone else. Grandfather and her cousins were sipping champagne and sharing small talk in the parlor. They turned to greet her as she entered the room, and Cassandra suspected she looked well for even Roger’s eyes darkened with appreciation. She knew it for a certainty when Penelope began to pout.
“You have more courage than I, cousin.” There was a sniping quality in the young lady’s words.
“Do I?”
“That dress is very immodest, don’t you think,” Penelope ventured primly, her stare fixed on Cassandra’s exposed bosom.
“Enough of this,” the earl broke in. “Cassandra looks lovely. She’s of an age to carry it off. You, Penelope, need a few more years, but your time will come.”
That little speech left Cassandra wondering whether she should be pleased or insulted. Her grandfather had defended her and that was nice, but he had relegated her to the role of spinster. Nothing like a little unfettered truth to bring one’s ego into check, she mused, smiling inwardly. She joined her family as they moved into the main hall to put on their wraps.
When they arrived at the home of Mr. Stiles, every window in the mansion shone with welcome. A dozen carriages lined the drive. The din of a large crowd could be heard coming from inside, mixed with the lilting sounds of a stringed orchestra. Cassandra tensed with expectancy at the promise of an entertaining evening. Perhaps she too had been suffering from boredom.
They were ushered into the hall by the butler, and Harry Stiles rushed forward, greeting them warmly.
“Lord Whittingham, what a pleasure it is to have you and your family join our little gathering this evening. Come in, come in.”
Introductions were made quickly around the large parlor, for she had already met most all the other guests. As she said her hellos, Cassandra realized that she felt comfortable with her grandfather’s neighbors.
The same thought had occurred to her with regard to the earl’s servants when she had spoken to Mr. Fennigan earlier in the week and then Annie tonight. She wondered when she began to feel that way. Was it possible that she might actually belong? What’s more, did she want to? Somehow it seemed disloyal to her father.
And then she saw him.
The Marquess of Sutherfield stood by the double doors leading to the balcony, watching her. In that moment she was back at a party given by Mrs. Witherspoon. A dark gentleman, much too handsome for his own good, stared avidly at her, not bothering to hide his interest. Something different colored his expression tonight.
For an instant he was unmasked.
He snared her with his gaze, although he did not toy with her as he had on that first evening many weeks before. Cassandra saw the hunger in his eyes, the exposed desire. He sent her a silent message across the crowded room, and a strange throbbing burgeoned deep within her in response.
Then it was if it had never happened. He nodded at her and turned his attention to an attractive brunette on his left. So completely did his attitude change, she wondered if she had misunderstood.
The marquess ignored her after that. He made the rounds, stopping to chat with the other guests. He was a charismatic socializer and divided his time equally between the ladies and the gentlemen. Cassandra tried not to notice how the women were drawn to him, how they flirted, how they vied for his attention.
Only once did she catch his gaze on her as she conversed with another gentleman, a Mr. Haseltine. Mr. Haseltine had monopolized her for twenty minutes, making plain his admiration until she was thoroughly embarrassed. She saw Lord Sutherfield’s eyes narrow slightly as he looked first at her and then her companion, but his expression was unreadable.
Moments later he took Penelope into dinner.
As prearranged, Roger approached Cassandra at that time to take her into dinner, saving her from Mr. Haseltine. She could not believe how happy she was to see her cousin’s sanctimonious face. Cutting off Mr. Haseltine mid-sentence, she grasped the excuse Roger provided and pulled him into the dining room.
Roger steered her toward a small table where Penelope sat alone, waiting for the marquess to return with food from the buffet. Cassandra didn’t understand why Roger chose to sit there, although she had detected his displeasure at the attention Lord Sutherfield was showing Penelope.
Penelope, however, was more than gratified to have caught the notice of the marquess. She sent Cassandra a self-satisfied smile.
“Isn’t Lord Sutherfield the most handsome man?—and such a gentleman, too. Cassie, you believed he was interested in you.”
Roger interrupted. “Lord Sutherfield is not the sort of man to be interested in any woman seriously. I suggest both of you
remember that,” he said in a sour voice. “What would you like to eat, Cassandra?”
“You choose. I really don’t care.”
And she did not. Penelope’s vanity and Roger’s discontent had robbed her of her appetite. To make matters worse, Lord Sutherfield was threading his way through the crowd, balancing a plate of food in each hand as he approached their table. Now she would have to talk to him.
Roger gave the marquess a curt nod before turning to leave. Cassandra sensed the animosity emanating from her cousin, which increased her apprehension. At least he was exhibiting some emotion besides the sulks, she thought.
An odd little smile played on Lord Sutherfield’s mouth. “I don’t think Mr. Morley cares for me,” he said when Roger was out of hearing distance. He placed the plates on the table and sat down.
“I’m certain you are mistaken,” Penelope said. “Roger likes everyone, doesn’t he, Cassie?”
Since Cassandra had come to believe Roger liked almost no one, she could not give the expected answer. She found herself looking to Lord Sutherfield for guidance.
He lifted his gaze to hers and grinned mischievously. “Doesn’t he, Miss James?”
Cassandra felt the heat rise to her face. There was no reason she should be embarrassed except his black stare held something so insinuating, she began to squirm in her seat. She hated that he could fluster her with such ease, always putting her on the defensive.
“There are those people Roger likes, and those he does not. I’m not certain what category you fall into, my lord.”
The marquess laughed, a great bellowing laugh that caused heads to swivel in their direction. He looked at Penelope. “Your cousin takes much delight in putting me in my place. So refreshing, don’t you think?”
Penelope merely stared at him in open fascination.
“Oh, hush!” Cassandra was mortified, and yet the warm admiration on his face sent a shiver of excitement racing through her vitals.
Roger returned, his features pinched with disapproval. “This certainly is an unruly table,” he said, taking a seat.
In the Garden of Seduction Page 13