Rupert. Her thoughts went to her brother. What was it Mr. Elwin had said? She thought of the man who had insulted her at the assembly rooms, by suggesting she become some man’s mistress. “He was always fond of money.” Yes, he had always been fond of money. Too fond. When they had played their game of buried treasure in their childhoods, she had always wished for a new gown and Lizzie had wished for a doll, but Rupert’s wishes had been more extravagant. He had wished for a pair of matched bays, then four matched bays, then a string of race horses, then a hunting lodge, then a house in London…the list had gone on. Rupert’s fondness for money had been his downfall.
As she thought of Mr. Elwin, Cassandra found herself wondering if he could be the traitors’ ringleader. There had been something dissolute about him, and he had known Rupert. He might have decided to exploit Rupert’s love of money. And if not him, who? Peter Raistrick? He seemed like a nice young man, but there had been something about him that hadn’t quite rung true. Or Geoffrey Goddard? It wasn’t pleasant to think that one of those men might have tried to kill her, but she must not discount the possibility that they were more than they seemed.
She cast her mind back to the race track. She had seen Mr. Goddard there, but she had not noticed Peter Raistrick or Mr. Elwin. It had been crowded, though, and she might not have spotted them.
But this was absurd, she told herself. They might have pushed her on to the track but they could not have tried to drown her. They were men, and men and women bathed separately. Unless they had paid someone to do it…Or unless the traitors’ ringleader was a woman, someone she had not thought of. Possibly someone she had not met…
She thought back to the day when she had gone bathing. If only she had been able to see who had pushed her under the water, but she had been floating on her back at the time she had first been knocked beneath the waves, and after that, she had been too busy trying to save herself to look at her attacker. Besides, in their voluminous gowns and bathing hats, most people looked the same. Except…She frowned in concentration. As an arm had flailed wildly past her face, she had caught sight of a small mole on her assailant’s wrist. It probably meant nothing. The person who had attacked her could have been hired to do so, and she might never see them again. Even so, it would be useful in identifying them should they ever be caught.
“Where shall I put the drum table?” asked John, rolling a mahogany table awkwardly into the room.
“In the drawing-room, I think, John. It just needs a new caster, and then we can use it.”
“Very good, miss”
Putting aside her speculation, Cassandra helped him to sort and arrange the furniture. She was home again now. She did not have to worry about being attacked any more. Instead, she had to worry about walking into the village and buying something for them to have for their supper.
Three days later, Cassandra had still not heard from Justin. She had hoped he might have caught the villain by now, but she was not too downhearted. She had no need to be in Brighton for the present, and whilst she was at home she had plenty to do. She had been so busy, in fact, that she had forgotten all about the letter she had received from Lizzie just before going to visit Granmere Park. She had put it in her reticule, meaning to read it as soon as she had time, but events had driven it out of her mind. Now that she was at leisure she remembered it and began to read.
Darling, darling Cassie,
I am having a wunderul time. I don’t want it to end. Can Jane come and stay with us? She will be very good and not eat much becos she knows we don’t have any munny. Darling Cassie, you must let her come becos if not she will have to go and see her great grandmother who likes to kiss peeple which Jane says is HORRID becos her great grandmother has a mustash. Please, darling Cassie, rite to Jane’s mama and say she can come and stay with us, PLEASE…
Cassandra laughed as she read the letter. On finishing it, she took up her quill and began to write.
Dear Lizzie,
Yes, Jane can come and stay with us. I will write to her mama and say how happy we would be to have her with us.
Your spelling grows worse. I can only hope you pay more attention to it at the seminary, otherwise I will be receiving a stern letter from your teachers. I think I will have to make you practise when you return home.
She had just finished it when a glance out of the window showed her that she had a visitor. It was her neighbour, Mr. Brown—HORRID HORRID HORRID Mr. Brown, as Lizzie called him. Poor man! thought Cassandra. He might be dry and dusty, but he was not horrid. Well, not very horrid!
There was a rap at the door, and John showed him in.
He was dressed in black clothes which had a smell of fustiness about them, and when he raised her hand to his lips she had to suppress a shudder, for they were as dry as old leaves.
“Miss Paxton, I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you back at home again,” he said in a dry, precise voice. “I felt the sea air would not agree with you—if you remember, I warned you against it—but I am pleased to see you have returned safely.”
“You’re very kind,” said Cassandra, trying not to smile.
“Only honest, dear lady. As soon as I heard you had returned I knew I must call to welcome you home, and of course, to return your book on”—he glanced at it—“Arboreal and Botanical Wonders.”
She thanked him for bringing it back.
“A well-stocked library is the hallmark of a great mind,” he said.
“It’s the product of many generations of my family,” she said.
“Your illustrious ancestors would be charmed to know that it is in such good hands.” His gaze fell to her hands. “Fine hands, roughened with honest toil,” he said. “Though young, you will soon mature into a sensible woman who will be capable of managing her husband’s house hold to the highest standards.”
Oh, no! thought Cassandra. Surely he isn’t going to propose again?
Her worst fears were realized as he dropped creakily to one knee.
“Miss Paxton, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
“Mr. Brown, I have told you before—”
“Of course. Womanly modesty prevented you from accepting my first proposal. I understand,” he said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.
“Mr. Brown,” she said firmly. “I’m very sorry, but I cannot accept.”
His complacent expression wavered for a moment, but then his habitual certainty returned.
“You are not yet used to being at home again. I will ask you again in a few days’ time. I am sure you will see the advantages of uniting our two estates as well as our two persons—”
“Mr. Brown—”
“—the two oldest families in the area banding together for the future. Our land will stretch all the way from Farview to Millween, and our children will inherit an estate to be proud of.”
“My estate is sadly mortgaged,” she reminded him.
“My dear Miss Paxton, mine suffers from the same malaise. But that is all the more reason for us to marry. Once the estates are merged, we can sell off some of the outlying fields to pay the mortgages and still have an estate to be proud of,” he said.
“You are very kind, but I must stand by my original answer,” said Cassandra, praying for patience. “I cannot marry you.”
“I will say no more for the present,” he said.
Thank goodness for that, she thought.
“But I will leave you to contemplate my offer.”
So saying, he bowed himself out of the room.
Well, thought Cassandra, if people aren’t wanting to murder me, they are wanting to marry me! At least he had not borrowed another book, and so had no excuse to return. Although no doubt an enquiry as to whether she’d changed her mind would suffice as a reason.
She glanced at Arboreal and Botanical Wonders before returning it to its shelf. Perhaps if she read it, she would be able to learn something about plants—enough to stop her pulling them up by mistake, at least! But she was not i
n the mood for gardening, and she went upstairs instead.
As she passed the gallery, she was seized by a sudden impulse and went in. There on the walls were paintings of all her ancestors, and at the end of the row were a number of paintings of her family. There was a group portrait, showing herself, her parents, Lizzie and Rupert, and next to the group portrait there was a portrait of each of them painted individually. She traced the lines of Rupert’s face. It was a handsome face, but the chin was weak and the mouth was slack. She felt a wave of sadness for her brother. She was sure he would not have trodden such a dangerous and dismal path if her parents had lived, but left to his own devices he had fallen by the wayside.
Her eyes moved on to the portrait of Lizzie. The artist had caught the curve of her lips and her golden hair very well, but had not quite captured the merriment in her eyes. The portrait of her father was better. The wide, generous mouth, the broad forehead and the hint of grey at the temples were all well caught. And then she turned to the portrait of her mother. Gentle eyes looked out at her. She missed her mother. They had always been close, and it had come as a terrible blow to learn that her mother was dead. Her eyes followed the golden hair and blue eyes and fell to the locket hanging round her neck. What had happened to her mother’s locket? she wondered. She had looked for it after her mother’s death, but had not been able to find it.
“Miss Cassie!” John’s voice brought her thoughts back to the present. “There’s mildew in the cupboard.”
Cassandra gave a sigh. “Coming!” she said.
Justin was in his drawing-room of his Brighton home when Matthew was shown in.
“Mr. Standish, my lord,” said Manby.
Justin looked up from the notebook he was studying.
“Interesting?” asked Matthew, nodding towards the notebook, as Manby left the room.
“Perhaps,” said Justin. “I’ve been gathering together all our information, but so far it tells me nothing. I hope you’ve discovered something useful?”
Matthew sat down, lifting the tails of his coat out of the way, and then crossed one booted leg over the other.
“Nothing conclusive, but suggestive all the same. I’ve been asking around, and Elwin was at the races that day. He was seen by at least a dozen people.”
“So he could have pushed Cassandra under the horse,” said Justin thoughtfully, closing the notebook and putting it on the table beside him.
“Yes, he could, but I don’t think it’s likely,” said Matthew. “It was a risky thing to do. He could have been seen, and besides, there was no guarantee that it would work. If she had recovered her footing she would not have fallen, and even if she had, she might not have fallen far enough forward to be in danger.”
“But it was worth his while trying,” said Justin. “If someone had seen him, he could have passed it off as the normal jostling that goes on at a race track, and although she might not have been killed it was a possibility. If things went well for him, he could have been rid of her with no one being any the wiser. He knew she was in Brighton, he knew she was asking about Rupert…. If he is the traitor’s ringleader, and if he felt threatened, I think he might have felt the risk was worth his while. You’ve arranged for a watch to be kept on him?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because I don’t want anything like this to happen again. I want to know where he goes, what he does and who he sees. Did you discover anything else?”
“Yes, I made enquiries about Peter Raistrick, as you asked me to do.”
“Yes?”
“There might be something there. He’s been seen with one of the dippers. He was giving her money.”
“Ah.” Justin was thoughtful. “So he could have paid her to drown Cassandra?”
“He could have done. But there are…rumours about him.”
Justin looked at him enquiringly.
Matthew raised his eyebrows and went on.
“It’s rumoured that Peter likes to dress in a chemise and cap and join the women when they bathe.”
Justin’s lip curled. “I didn’t know that.”
Matthew shrugged.
“So far, they are only rumours. Several of the people I spoke to have heard he likes to do this, but not one of them has seen him actually do it. It might just be scurrilous talk. Alternatively, it might not.”
“You’re having him watched?” asked Justin.
“I am.”
“Good. We need to know the truth of the matter, because if he really does like dressing up, he could have tried to drown Cassandra himself.”
“It’s certainly possible,” Matthew agreed.
“Which would explain why Cassandra found it so hard to break free when she was knocked beneath the water,” said Justin, following his line of thought. “A woman would have been relatively easy to fight off, but a man would have been another matter.”
“Very true.”
“Anything else?” asked Justin.
“Yes. I’ve been making enquiries about Goddard. He’s in a bad way. He has a mountain of debts and no income. He tries to make his living from gambling, but he doesn’t have either the luck or the skill to do it. I don’t think he has the brains to be the ringleader, but if someone approached him with a difficult job and offered him enough money to do it, I think he would do anything that was asked of him.”
“Then he could be our man. Do we know where he was when Cassandra was bathing?”
“He was supposedly out of town, but I’m making enquiries to see if that is true.”
“Good. Are all the men being watched?”
“Yes. They are.”
“I want this finished with as quickly as possible,” said Justin, standing up.
“I’m not surprised,” said Matthew.
Justin looked at him enquiringly.
“As soon as it’s finished, Cassandra can come back to Brighton,” said Matthew.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that you’ve been like a bear with a sore head whilst she’s been away. You miss her.”
Justin acknowledged the truth of it.
“Yes, I do.”
Cassandra could not sleep. It was now five days since she had left Brighton and she had still heard nothing from Justin. She did not know how things were progressing in Brighton, or if they were progressing at all. She turned over and plumped her pillow, then closed her eyes and counted sheep. Unfortunately, the shepherd began to look remarkably like Justin. He was walking towards her, stroking her face, kissing her—
She sat up resolutely. If she allowed herself to think of Justin, she would never fall asleep. She decided to get up and choose a book to read. Inspiration hit. She would read Arboreal and Botanical Wonders. That should keep her thoughts from straying to anything romantic! It should also help her with the flower-beds when she plucked up the courage to weed them.
Throwing a wrapper round her shoulders she lit her candle with a tinderbox and then, picking it up, she went downstairs. The library looked serene in the moonlight, which came in through the french window. She put her candle down on the table and went over to the first shelf, looking along it until she found what she sought. She picked it up, collected her candle, and went out into the hall. As she did so, she heard a tinkling sound, as of glass breaking, and immediately she stiffened. She turned her head towards the dining-room, which was where the sound had come from. She strained her ears, but could hear nothing. And then she heard a creak, and knew at once what it was: the creaking floorboard in the middle of the dining-room floor. Someone had broken into the house, a burglar or…
She did not dare follow that thought. Hurrying upstairs, she ran into her bedroom with her heart pounding. She threw her book down on a chair and locked the door, pressing against it and listening hard, trying to catch any sound that would tell her where the burglar was.
It must be a burglar, she told herself. It couldn’t be someone who had followed her from Brighton. No one knew she was going, except Maria, and Maria had not wanted
to tell anyone.
But someone could have seen her leave….
She caught the sound of a groan, and recognized it as the groan of one of the stairs halfway up the staircase. She held her breath. There came another groan, more like a whine this time: it was the second stair from the top. Seeing the candle, she quickly blew out the flame so that no light would show under her door, then she listened again. There was nothing. She waited. And waited. And…the door handle began to turn. She felt her heart thudding in her chest. There was someone on the other side of the door. They tried to open it, but the lock held. They put their shoulder against it, but the door was made of oak and the lock was a strong one, and did not give.
But now they knew she was in there. Or rather, they knew that someone was in there. What would they do next? She glanced at the window, but was reassured. It was inaccessible. There were no trees nearby, and no creepers on the walls. Without a ladder, it would be impossible to climb in, and her ladder was broken. Unless the burglar had brought a ladder with him.
She heard a slight creak and let out a sigh of relief, knowing they had moved away from the door. But where had they gone? She fought down an impulse to open the door and look. She knew she had to stay locked in her room until morning. She could only hope that John would be safe. But if the intruder was a burglar, he was unlikely to want to harm anyone, and if he was an assassin, sent to kill her, he would have no reason to harm her servant.
She stayed by the door until she was sure the intruder would not come back, then padded over to the bed. All hope of sleep was gone. So, too, was all hope of reading. The curtains were pulled across the window, and there was no moonlight coming in from outside. She did not intend to pull them back, and she did not want to risk lighting a candle. Instead, she huddled under the covers and waited for daylight.
At last it came, creeping through a crack in the curtain. She felt drowsy, and realized she must have dozed off. But she was still safe, and in one piece. She waited until it was fully light before getting out of bed and cautiously peering round the curtain. The lawns lay peaceful and serene beneath another fine sky. There was no sign of any disturbance.
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