He remembered the first time he had seen the portrait. The locket had burst open when Rupert Paxton had thrown it down on to a gaming table to cover a bet. Rupert had had four kings. Justin had had four aces. He had won the locket fair and square. Even so, he had not meant to keep it. For a day or two, yes, to teach Rupert a lesson, but then he had meant to return it: he was not in the habit of keeping personal possessions won from young fools at the gambling tables. But somehow he had not been able to part with it.
CHAPTER FIVE
Despite her misgivings about Maria’s tendency to matchmake, Cassandra found herself looking forward to the soirée. It would be one of her last few chances to enjoy herself and she meant to make the most of it. She also had to admit to herself that she was looking forward to seeing Lord Deverill.
She looked through her gowns, trying to decide which one would be the most appropriate for the evening. The white muslin she had already worn, which left the blue spotted muslin or the jonquil satin. Knowing how much Maria disliked the jonquil, she decided on the blue spot. It was a little short, but it was otherwise unexceptionable. Its short, puffed sleeves were edged with lace, and there was a matching row of lace decorating the high waistline. With a scoop neckline and a long, narrow skirt, it was fashionable enough, and with her blue satin shoes it would make a passable outfit.
She slipped her chemise over her head then put on her drawers and corset, standing still whilst Moll laced it up. Then she put up her arms as Moll slipped the gown over her head, and dropped them as Moll fastened the buttons at the back. She sat in front of the dressing table so that Moll could thread a blue ribbon through her golden chignon, and then pulled on her gloves.
“You’re ready early,” said Moll, as Cassandra glanced at the clock.
“Maria asked me to arrive in good time. Her house keeper hasn’t been well, and I promised I would help with any last minute arrangements.”
Moll nodded approvingly.
Cassandra picked up her fan and went downstairs, to find John waiting in the hall. He was a stocky man in late middle age, and had been with the family for as long as Cassandra could remember. He had put her on her first horse, and had refused to leave her when her parents died. “You need a man about the house,” he’d said, when Rupert had left for Brighton, and he had stayed.
“Has the coach been properly mended?” she asked him, as the two of them went outside.
“Yes, miss They’ve done a good job of it. That wheel won’t come off again in a hurry.”
“Good.”
John opened the door and let down the step, and Cassandra climbed inside. The coach was a ponderous equippage, not like Maria’s smart new carriage, but it was serviceable, and they were soon on their way.
Maria’s house was in one of the less fashionable parts of town, but it was very smart inside. A narrow hall with a straight staircase led upstairs, and Cassandra was taken up by a liveried footman. Once upstairs the rooms were of a good size, and were elegantly proportioned. Gold paper covered the walls in the drawing-room, an oriental rug covered the polished floorboards, and lacquered furniture completed the oriental theme.
“It’s the Prince who revived the craze for chinoiserie,” said Maria, as she greeted Cassandra. “Harry loves it, so we have installed it throughout the house.”
“I like it,” said Cassandra approvingly. “It’s very different from the gilded furniture you had the last time I was here. And the conservatory is lovely,” she said, looking through the door and noticing the new addition to the house, which had been built over the kitchen.
“Isn’t it? You must let me show it to you.”
Maria led the way proudly into the conservatory, her silk gown rustling as she walked. Her gown was a wonderful creation in a shade of deep rose, and it was decorated with artificial flowers and foliage. Over it, she wore a shawl embroidered with silver, and to complement it, she wore a few simple flowers tucked into her hair.
“I suppose I ought to wear a turban,” she remarked, as Cassandra said how well she looked, “but I can never quite get used to them. Besides, Harry doesn’t like them. He says they make me look old.”
“Where is Harry?” asked Cassandra.
“He is seeing to the wine. He is terrified Hingis will serve his best claret and is overseeing him as he brings the bottles up from the cellar.”
They passed into the conservatory. Although small, it had a selection of exotic plants and a few choice pieces of furniture, tastefully arranged.
“I must remember to replace the candles,” said Maria, glancing at the wax candles which had burnt down to stubs. “I have so many things to remember! It’s such a relief that you’ve come early. I’ve had to spend the afternoon organizing the servants, and even so, some things have been left undone.”
“What do you need me to do?” asked Cassandra, after exclaiming over the conservatory.
“If you could see to the candles—no, wait, the cards need putting out first. I’ve set up a card room for the gentlemen,” she explained. “Can you set out new packs of cards for me?”
“Of course,” said Cassandra.
“Good. Then I can make sure that Cook is almost ready.”
Cassandra went into the card-room as Maria departed to speak to her cook. The card-room had been set up in a small ante-room opening off the drawing-room, and four card-tables had been set up in its centre. A candelabra on each ensured good light, but as yet the cards had not been put out. Cassandra looked round. There was no sign of them. She went over to a beaureau at the side of the room and, opening a drawer, found what she was looking for. She set out the crisp new cards, one pack on each table. Then she went through into the drawing-room again. One of the footmen was there. Instructing him to replace the candles in the conservatory, she then set about organizing two further footmen as they arranged the room ready for the concert. A small dais had already been erected at one end, and Cassandra made sure the chairs were placed in rows in front of it. She arranged the music stand and then stood back to view the effect.
“Oh, yes, that’s just right,” said Maria, hurrying in, just as the long-case clock in the hall struck the hour. “Thank you, Cassie. I thought I would never be done. Now, Madame Lorette should be here with her harp in a few minutes. It will give her time to tune her instrument before the guests arrive.”
Sure enough, there was a commotion downstairs, and a few minutes later Madame Lorette swept into the room. She was an imposing woman with a heaving bosom, who was resplendent in scarlet. Her gown was ruched at the sides to reveal a white underskirt, and was matched by a scarlet turban adorned with a white feather. After much difficulty, her harp was manouevred upstairs, and she began to tune her instrument. As the rippling notes filled the room, Cassandra was pleased to see that Maria relaxed.
“Now everything is ready,” said Maria. “Our first guests can arrive.”
It was a small, select gathering. Cassandra recognized a number of young ladies from her seminary and was soon busy talking to them about their favourite mistresses, whilst sharing fond reminiscences of the dancing master.
“A lucky man,” came a soft voice behind her, and Cassandra saw that Lord Deverill had joined her. “He had the opportunity of dancing with you before I did.”
“I don’t think he was really so fortunate,” said Cassandra with a smile. “I found it almost impossible to learn the cotillion, and I kept stepping on his toes!”
Lord Deverill laughed.
“Do you enjoy music?” she asked him, as she saw him glance towards Madame Lorette.
“Very much. I used to have a box at the opera. Have you ever been?”
“Yes, I went with my family.”
She found the conversation flowed easily. They talked of the museums and galleries, the theatres and parks, all the things Cassandra had seen on her one visit to the capital. Lord Deverill was knowledgeable and interesting.
At length they took their seats for the concert. Maria introduced Madame Lorette, ther
e was a smattering of applause, and then the conversation died away as Madame Lorette began.
Lord Deverill turned his attention to the music. Cassandra, too, was enjoying the concert, but all the time she was aware of Lord Deverill sitting next to her. She didn’t know how it was, but he affected her in ways no man had ever done before. She seemed to have an awareness of him that was entirely new to her. It was alarming and pleasurable at the same time. She turned to look at him. His face, seen in profile, was strong, but around the eyes something softer lurked.
The recital came to an end and there was enthusiastic applause. Cassandra was about to comment on the music when Lord Deverill was accosted by a dowager, who expressed herself volubly on the subject of harps. Seeing Maria close by, Cassandra went over to her friend and complimented her on the evening.
“I am so relieved that everything is going well,” said Maria. “Madame Lorette played admirably. But that is not the best thing. The best thing is that Lord Deverill is clearly enchanted with you. And he is not the only one. I distinctly saw Lord Armington looking in your direction when he arrived, and he has asked if he can take you into supper. Two earls, Cassie! You are one of the most popular young ladies in Brighton.”
Lord Armington walked over to join them. He was immaculately dressed in satin breeches and a satin tailcoat.
“Might I have the honour of taking you in to supper?” he asked, bowing over Cassandra’s hand.
Cassandra saw Maria mouthing the words, “Try, Cassie,” behind his back.
Cassandra gave an inward sigh, but knowing it would be rude to refuse, she accepted Lord Armington’s invitation.
Maria’s cook had excelled herself, and there were many flattering comments on the food. After everyone had eaten their fill, the party began to split up into groups. Some people went into the card-room to play whilst others indulged in conversations.
Soon the guests would wander into the conservatory, thought Cassandra. Wanting to make sure the footman had replaced the candles as she had instructed, she excused herself.
“I must help Maria,” she said to Lord Armington.
He bowed politely, and she went into the conservatory. She was pleased to see that her orders had been carried out. The candles were new, and had just been lit. They cast a warm glow over the exotic green foliage and the carefully placed furniture. She was about to return to the drawing-room when she found that she was not alone. One of the younger gentlemen had followed her, and was propping himself up against a tall urn.
“Miss Paxton,” he said in a slurred voice.
“Mr. Bradley.”
Mr. Bradley was the son of a wealthy manufacturer, and heir to a vast fortune. His clothes were exquisite, but reflected the most outlandish taste. His tailcoat was adorned with huge gilt buttons and his shoes were capped with rosettes. His stockings were gold, and his waistcoat was dazzling. But despite this magnificence, she eyed him warily. He was clearly drunk, and young gentlemen in their cups could prove difficult to manage.
“I was just about to join the company,” she said.
He took a tottering step into the room.
“No need to do that just yet,” he said. “Come to talk to you about—hic!—selling your town house.”
“Ah.” Here was a piece of good fortune. “I’m glad to know you’re interested in it. It’s a fine house, close to the sea. It’s been very well cared for, and is furnished with style. My brother had excellent taste.”
“I might be interested in buying it,” he said, lurching towards her.
She smelt the alcohol on his breath.
“You must see my lawyer—”
“Come now, no need for lawyers. Thought we could fix it up between the two of us. Just you and me. Thought I could come round and see it. I could come to night,” he said tapping his nose with his finger, or at least attempting to, for he was too drunk to accomplish the feat. “No one the wiser. Come when the servants are in bed. See the whole place. See the drawing-room. See the bedroom,” he leered.
“Mr. Bradley, you’re drunk,” she said with a sigh.
“Not too drunk to know a pretty girl when I see one,” he said, making a lunge for her. He snaked his arm round her waist and pressed his face close to hers. She turned away in disgust, unwrapping his arm as she did so.
“No need to be like that. No shame in needing money. Well, I’ve—hic!—got it. You can name your price.”
“The house will be offered—”
“I’m not talking about the house. I’m talking about the house with you inside it.”
“I don’t understand you,” she said, drawing herself up and hoping her cold tone would return him to his senses.
“Oh, you understand me all right. I’ll set you up there as my…my mistress,” he said, swaying precariously. “You can have anything you want.” He waved his arms. “Anything. Pair of matched bays. Four matched bays. Six matched bays,” he said expansively, almost toppling over. “A carriage. Fine clothes. All the clothes you want.”
“Mr. Bradley, I’m going back to the drawing-room now,” she said firmly.
“What about a little kiss?” he said, leaning towards her.
“Absolutely not,” she said.
His face became belligerent, and for the first time in the encounter she began to feel uneasy. His ridiculousness was fast wearing off, to be replaced by something uglier. She was not ignorant of drunkards and their moods and she could sense something menacing behind Mr. Bradley’s manner. She edged round him, hoping to get past him and go through into the drawing-room, for she felt it was time to bring the episode to a speedy end. But he moved surprisingly quickly and he cut her off.
“Just a li’le kiss,” he said.
Cassandra edged over to a pot which was displayed on a console table and contained a small palm. It would be very useful for crashing down on Mr. Bradley’s head. But before she could reach it he flung his arms round her and they closed round her with surprising strength. He thrust his face into her own and fastened his lips on hers. She turned her head and fought him off. Breaking free, she ran to the door, but he reached it before her and slammed it shut. His face broke into a leer. He rubbed his hands together.
“A bit of a—hic!—game.”
Unable to get past him she made for the pot, grasping it firmly in both hands and lifting it over her head. She was just wondering whether she should go towards Mr. Bradley menacingly or hope her actions would warn him to stay away when the door opened, knocking Mr. Bradley off balance, and glancing towards it she saw Lord Deverill.
“What the devil’s going on here?” he asked, lifting one eyebrow. But beneath his light tone there was a note of steel.
“Mind your own damn business,” said Mr. Bradley. “Miss Paxton and I were just having a bit of fun. You’re not welcome here, Deverill.”
“A pity,” he drawled, “because I’ve a mind to stay.”
Mr. Bradley lunged at him but he stepped aside and then, seizing a vase of flowers, he removed the flowers and flung the water in Mr. Bradley’s face.
Mr. Bradley started backwards, rubbing the water out of his eyes.
“You bloody—”
He started to advance on Lord Deverill, who raised one eyebrow. Mr. Bradley hesitated.
“I think you owe Miss Paxton an apology,” said Lord Deverill.
“What for?” asked Mr. Bradley belligerently.
“For insulting her.”
“Never did anything of the kind,” muttered Mr. Bradley sulkily.
“No?” asked Lord Deverill with a smile that bordered on the dangerous. “Unfortunately, I don’t share your opinion. You will apologize to the lady.”
Mr. Bradley looked up at Lord Deverill’s implacable face and his bravado left him.
“I apologize,” he muttered.
“Apology accepted,” said Cassandra.
She put down the pot, returning it to its original position.
“Now I suggest you go back to your father. And one last thi
ng, Bradley. You’ve had enough wine for one day.”
Mr. Bradley looked sulky, then slunk out of the room.
“Are you all right?” asked Lord Deverill, going over to her.
“Yes. Thankfully you came in just in time. I was prepared to hit him over the head with the pot”—she smiled suddenly—“but I’m glad I didn’t have to break one of Maria’s prized possessions!”
He laughed.
“With luck, it would have broken Bradley’s head first!”
Cassandra laughed, too. Then her laughter died away and there was an awkward silence. He was standing very close to her, and it made her feel on edge. Whether it was the fear left over from Mr. Bradley’s behaviour or the energy left over from preparing to defend herself she did not know, but she somehow found that her pulse was racing and her breathing was shallow.
“When you offered me your help the other day, I did not know I would need it so soon,” she said.
“No. Neither did I. Bradley’s a fool with more money than sense, but he’s nothing worse than that. Take no notice of him.”
“No, I think it is better not to.”
She was aware of his gaze resting on her; indeed he seemed to be finding difficulty taking his eyes away from her. She tried to meet his gaze, but she was suddenly abashed. Dropping her eyes, she traced the pattern of the rug on the floor.
“I hope it hasn’t spoilt your enjoyment of the evening?” he said at last.
There was a rough edge to his voice, and she felt it sending a shiver down her spine.
“No,” she said, and to her surprise, her voice came out with a quaver.
“Good. There are some foolish young men in Brighton, but they are not worth noticing.”
He was standing so close to her that she could feel the heat of him and she put her hand to her hair, instinctively playing with a strand that had fallen loose to calm her rapidly beating pulse. He raised his hand, too, and their fingers touched. She dropped her hand as though scalded, but his continued to rise and tangled itself in her golden tresses.
Lord Deverill's Secret Page 6