Lady Thief (25 page)

Too wise—and too chilled—to bother protesting further, Cassandra merely told Sarah to take care on the uneven surface of the road, then struck out briskly. Unlike her maid, she was country bred and enjoyed daily long walks when she was home, so this trifling distance bothered her not at all.

Her estimation of the distance involved turned out to be fairly accurate; they came upon the manor’s neat driveway a little more than half a mile from the stranded coach, and Sarah had complained of sore feet only once. But the drive itself wound along for another half mile, and it was nearly dark by the time they neared the house.

John Potter seemed much reassured by the condition of the place, commenting once that care and money had been spent here right enough. Cassandra agreed silently. The estate was clearly in excellent shape, the lawns immaculate and the shrubbery pruned, and the manor house itself was neat as a pin, at least on the outside. For the first time she wondered whom it belonged to; the place was a fair distance from London—inconvenient in a country house.

Not that she was in any position to be particular as to the identity of her host, of course. She needed shelter.

With her servants half a step behind her on either side, Cassandra trod up the steps and applied the gleaming brass knocker firmly. When the door was pulled open almost immediately, she had to fight the impulse to step back, and Sarah’s gasp was perfectly audible in the startled quiet.

It had become dark enough outside that the only illumination came from inside the house, and in that faint light half of the manservant’s grim, swarthy face was visible. Unfortunately for the maid’s disordered nerves, that side of his face bore an ugly scar that twisted from the corner of his left eye to the corner of his mouth, and the disfigurement lent him an appearance of menace virtually guaranteed to terrify an imaginative young woman.

“Yes?” he said, his unusually deep voice another shock.

Cassandra’s alarm had been momentary, and when she spoke it was pleasantly. “Good evening. I am afraid I have suffered a slight misfortune on the road and require assistance.”

The servant’s chilly gray eyes looked her up and down swiftly, and then were veiled by lowered lids. “Indeed, miss? We don’t get many travelers out this way.”

A little impatient at being kept standing out in the cold and snow by a servant—hardly the kind of treatment to which she was accustomed—Cassandra’s voice sharpened. “I don’t doubt it. Be assured I would hardly have come this way myself had not a bridge washed out some miles back. Would you kindly be good enough to inform your master of my plight? I have my maid, as you see, and my coachman will require assistance to bring my coach and horses safely off the road.”

It was not in her character to be so peremptory, particularly with a servant in a private house, but Cassandra was chilled and tired, and all she wanted was something hot to drink and a brisk fire where she could warm her hands and feet. And she was not pleased by the notion that this manservant regarded her with only thinly disguised disdain.

And, indeed, he hesitated after she spoke just long enough to subtly imply that it was his decision rather than hers to admit her to the house. He stepped back, opening the door wider, and said in a colorless tone, “If you’ll step this way, miss, I’ll inform His Lordship.”

Cassandra came into the entrance hall, which was quite impressive and blessedly warm, and said, “His Lordship?”

“Yes, miss. The Earl of Sheffield. This is Sheffield Hall.” He said it as if he seriously doubted she had not been aware of the information.

She heard a quickly indrawn breath from Sarah, and Cassandra felt a bit dismayed herself. The Earl of Sheffield? Though she had never met him—or even seen him, for that matter—two Seasons in London had certainly exposed her to all the talk concerning one of the more infamous rakes of past Seasons.

Stone’s his name, stone his heart.
That was what they said about Stone Westcott, the Earl of Sheffield. It was always said with a sad shake of the head and an ominous frown, a warning to all young ladies of quality to stay out of the earl’s path if they wished to keep their good names—and their hearts. Of course, unmarried young ladies were considered too innocent to hear what sin, precisely, Sheffield was guilty of committing, and so those interested or merely curious were reduced to piecing together whispers and overheard comments and arriving at some conclusion, however unsatisfying.

The facts Cassandra felt reasonably sure of were few. Sheffield sprang from a long line of apparently rakish earls, most of whom had treated their reputations with careless disregard and the rules of society with even less respect. Sportsmen rather than dandies, they had excelled in all the manly pursuits, and among the numerous sporting records gentlemen discussed, many were held by various Westcotts. They seemed to own the finest horseflesh and to drive their racing vehicles farther and faster than anyone else (often merely to win a bet), were famous for their punishing fists in the boxing ring, and were said to be superior marksmen.

And for generations they had seemingly held a powerful, unusual fascination for the women they encountered. Rarely handsome and never famed for their social graces, they nevertheless boasted an astonishing history filled with conquests. It was whispered that more than one lady of quality had abandoned her morals and, many times, a husband and family in order to run off with “one of those Westcotts.”

From all Cassandra had heard, this particular Westcott, the current earl, was worse than all his ancestors put together.

All this flashed through her mind as the dour manservant crossed the hall on silent feet and opened the door to the parlor, where she and Sarah would wait, but her hesitation was momentary despite her misgivings. She had little choice, after all.

“What name shall I give His Lordship, miss?” the servant inquired as he held the door.

Before Cassandra could reply, her maid spoke up in a voice that was higher than usual and definitely frightened. “Wells. She is Miss Wells.”

Once again, Cassandra’s hesitation was fleeting.
It hardly matters, after all. With luck, the coach can be repaired tomorrow, and I will never see Sheffield after that.
So she didn’t correct her maid, allowing the lie to stand.

But as soon as they were alone in the lovely, snug parlor, Cassandra took a chair near the crackling fire, held out her gloved hands toward the flames, and said severely, “Sarah, why on earth did you say such a thing? Wells is your name, not mine.”

“You know very well why, Miss Cassie,” Sarah retorted with spirit. “They say the earl has run through his fortune and intends to wed an heiress—and you’re under his roof unprotected! He’s already ruined one lady and only laughed when her brother demanded he marry her
and
nearly killed the brother in the most wicked duel the next day!”

Cassandra’s surprise was momentary. Naturally, Sarah would have heard servants’ gossip—which was clearly more candid than what was whispered abovestairs. But was it any more truthful?

“Duels in this day and age? Sarah—”

“It’s true, Miss Cassie. It was years ago, but it happened. My cousin was groom to—to the young lady’s brother, and he swears he saw it with his own eyes. How the earl stood there smiling like a
fiend
and then shot that poor young man, blood everywhere, and then he just walked away. And he was still smiling, Miss Cassie! Like a devil!” Sarah shuddered, obviously finding a ghoulish delight in the retelling of such a dramatic story.

Cassandra was unwillingly impressed but reminded herself silently that gossip—even that supposedly obtained by an eyewitness—could seldom be relied upon to be wholly truthful. Still, it seemed at least probable that a meeting had taken place between the disreputable earl and some man he had grossly insulted, though the cause as well as the meeting itself was doubtless less dramatic than Sarah’s cousin had described.

“Be that as it may, you have put me in an awkward position,” she told her maid firmly. “Whatever the earl may have been guilty of in his past, there is no reason to suppose he would be anything but courteous to a stranded traveler, and I very much dislike facing him with a lie.”

Unrepentant, Sarah said, “Even a saint can be tempted, miss, and tempting a sinner is foolish! Bad enough you’re so pretty and look so delicate—if he knew you had a fortune as would make a nabob stare, he’d be after you in a trice!”

Cassandra couldn’t help laughing, but she shook her head as well and lapsed into silence as she warmed her hands at the fire. Hiding her identity had not been her doing, and it was not what she wanted, but now that Sarah had taken that step, she was uncertain if she would correct the situation.

She was not afraid of Sheffield, or of being under his roof without the protection of a family member; no matter how black the earl was painted, he was indisputably a gentleman. He might well flaunt the conventions of society, and he might even have compromised a lady and then refused to marry her, but he would no more take advantage of a young lady temporarily under his protection than he would rob a bank.

So it wasn’t fear of him that made Cassandra hesitate to offer her true identity. It was, more than anything, a rather weary repugnance for the inevitable response her name evoked in so many of the men she had met. Fortune hunters had dogged her steps since the day she had come out into society, and she was very tired of weighing the sincerity of every compliment and searching each charming smile for signs of duplicity or greed.

At least if Sheffield had no idea she was an heiress, she would be able to relax that particular guard. Not that she expected him to attempt to charm her—despite Sarah’s flattering words, Cassandra knew herself to be too dark for fashionable prettiness, too tall, and so pale and fine-boned that she appeared ridiculously fragile—but her social mask had become so fixed that it required a conscious effort to relax.

Which was one reason she had decided to go home for a few weeks.

Cassandra was still undecided about exposing Sarah’s lie when the door opened a few moments later and a trim middle-aged woman in sober raiment entered the room carrying a tray.

“Good evening, Miss Wells. I am His Lordship’s housekeeper, Mrs. Milton. He’ll be down to welcome you shortly but asked that I see to your needs in the meanwhile. Your coachman has gone with some of our men to fetch your coach and horses, and I will take your maid and baggage to the room being prepared for you. We keep country hours here, but supper has been put back to allow you time to warm and refresh yourself.”

As she accepted a cup of steaming tea, Cassandra said apologetically, “I am sorry to have disrupted the routine of the household, Mrs. Milton.”

Her own tone comfortable and placid, the housekeeper replied, “There’s no bother, miss. We have visitors rarely enough, but His Lordship expects things to be done right. Now—I’ll take your maid up and see to her, and as soon as the room is ready, I’ll be back for you.”

“Thank you,” Cassandra murmured. Left alone in the warm parlor, she reflected wryly that the moment for confessing Sarah’s lie was beginning to recede into the distance. Every time she faced someone as “Miss Wells,” it would become more and more difficult to tell the truth.

She removed her gloves and untied the ribbons of her bonnet to remove it as well, having been reassured that she would remain at the Hall at least for tonight. The mirror over the fireplace told her that her dark curls were sadly crushed. She did what she could to restore them but did not worry particularly about it; she was not a vain woman and, moreover, had no desire to present any more than a neat and ladylike appearance to the earl.

She had finished her tea as well as a slice of bread and butter, and was feeling much warmer and more comfortable—and, in fact, a little sleepy—when the door opened a second time and her host strode in.

Cassandra rose to her feet in a response that had less to do with politeness than with something deeper and more basic within her, and her drowsiness vanished.

“How do you do, ma’am?” the earl said in a rather hard, abrupt tone as he came toward her. “I am Sheffield.”

She did not know what, precisely, she had expected, but Lord Sheffield surprised her. She doubted he was much past thirty, which was rather young to be so infamous a reprobate. He was an unusually big man, well over six feet tall, with very wide and powerful shoulders, and he moved with an almost eerie, catlike grace. His thick hair was black, his eyes dark and brooding, his complexion tanned; he was not a conventionally handsome man, but he was quite definitely . . . impressive.

Cassandra offered her hand, having to look up to meet his eyes, which was rare for her. “Lord Sheffield. I am—Miss Wells. Cassandra Wells.” She heard herself continue with the lie but was still unsure why she had.

His hand, unexpectedly well formed and beautiful, held hers for a brief moment and then released it while his frowning dark eyes looked her over with more censure than admiration—or even curiosity—and his voice was still abrupt when he spoke. “You’re traveling alone? What was your family thinking of to allow a girl of your age to travel alone?”

The impatience in his tone did not disturb Cassandra; her uncle was a man of irritable temperament, and she got along quite well with him. Nor was she offended by his assumption of extreme youth; she knew only too well that, despite her height, large eyes and a childlike voice—which she had attempted in vain to mature—caused her to appear a good four or five years younger than her actual age.

If she had removed her cloak, he would have had no doubt of her maturity; slender virtually everywhere else, her breasts were well formed and generous—the envy of her friends but an attribute with which Cassandra had never been quite comfortable because of the way men looked at her. So while she might, if she wished, have added to the lie and allowed him to believe her much younger, her own body made it unlikely she would be believed.