The Unofficial Suitor (24 page)

Her questions ended as soon as she entered the library and stood face to face with its sole occupant. Her eyes widened, but she bit back all the new questions that popped into her mind.

“Lady Cassiopeia, your brother has given me permission to speak to you.”

How could he? was her first thought. How could Mr. Hawke have betrayed her thus? Betrayed?—an odd word to describe her emotions, but nonetheless the only word. Only now did she realize that she had come to think of him as a friend—only now when he had ruthlessly ripped away the bonds that had gradually been forming between them.

“Lady Cassiopeia, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

He had deceived her—like a fox in sheep’s clothing, he had subtly led her to believe that he cared about her, whereas all the time he was no different from the other men who had wanted to purchase her.

How much did it cost you to buy me? she wanted to ask. As much as a new carriage? More? As much as a new ship? Or did you haggle with my brother until you had me for a bargain price?

“Are you all right, Lady Cassiopeia? Has your brother said something to upset you?”

Mr. Hawke reached out a hand toward her, but she flinched away as if he had struck her.

There was a long and not at all comfortable silence while he stared at her, his eyes boring into hers. But she refused to look away. Let him read in her eyes the anger she was not allowed to express with words—the contempt, the disgust, the defiance, the ... the hatred!

Perhaps he would decide he had not gotten the better of the bargain after all? Perhaps he would withdraw his offer? There was nothing he could do that would please her more. She would much rather be sold to a total stranger than be betrayed by a false friend.

“Will you marry me?” he repeated, his eyes now shuttered, his thoughts well hidden from her.

Her heart aching in her chest, she finally admitted to herself that there was nothing she could do that would alter matters. Her fate had been decided by her brother and this ... this ... She could not think of an epithet bad enough to describe him.

“I shall be delighted to marry you,” she replied in a wooden voice.

* * * *

The anger in her eyes could not quite cover up the pain. Richard looked down at Lady Cassiopeia and wished there were some way he could reassure her. But even were he to kneel before her and swear eternal love and devotion, he doubted she would believe a word he said.

Her brother had apparently done something to cause her hostility. Since Blackstone had made very little effort to hide his animosity, it was only to be expected.

There was, unfortunately, no viable option at hand other than a hurried wedding, even though Lady Cassiopeia deserved a long and ardent courtship.

And a husband of her own choosing?

He pushed that thought out of his head. Given the character of Lord Blackstone, she would never be allowed the slightest say in the matter, even were he himself to withdraw his offer.

“I have procured a special license,” he said finally, when he could bear her silence no longer. “We shall be married in St. George’s in Hanover Square a week from today.”

She nodded her head briefly, but did not utter a single word. On her lower lip, however, a drop of scarlet appeared. Her torment was obvious, and just as painful for him as it was for her. He wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms and soothe away her hurt. But remembering the way she had earlier flinched from his touch, he kept his hands clenched at his side.

“Do you prefer to—”

Interrupting his question, she said, “Make whatever arrangements you wish. I have no preferences in the matter.”

Without meeting his eyes again, she turned and walked stiffly out of the room.

* * * *

“And when will the wedding take place?” Oliver asked politely. He was a fool to have come—a masochist to torture himself this way. But after a night wandering the streets, unable to sleep, unable to think, unable to eat, his feet had led him to the house of his beloved.

“Arthur wishes us to be married as soon as possible—as soon as the banns are called,” Ellen replied, her eyes downcast.

Three weeks—in three weeks she would be gone from his life forever. Another man would receive her smiles, delight in her conversation ... share her bed. He could not bear this torment any longer. He had to find a place to hide until he could again face the world—a world without his dearest Ellen.

Rising to his feet, he began to take his farewell, when he noticed that a tear was rolling down her cheek. Stricken, he knelt in front of her and took her hands in his.

“You are crying! Has someone done something to upset you? Tell me what is wrong.”

Pulling one hand free, she wiped at her cheek, but as soon as she removed the first tear, two more took its place. “I am ... am ... all right,” she said, sniffling a little.

“Oh, my dearest darling,” he said, joining her on the settee and pulling her into his arms. “Tell me what is wrong and I shall fix it.”

“I do not... I do not wish to marry Arthur,” she wailed. “He is the awfullest man I have ever met.”

Now that the reason for her unhappiness was out in the open, her words tumbled out faster than her tears.

“He falls asleep during the opera, and he snores, and ... and he says he is going to shut me away in Northumberland forever—in Northumberland! Why, that is even worse than Cornwall! And he has made it clear I shall never again have a new dress or a new bonnet. He calls it being frugal, but I think he is the veriest nipfarthing! And ... and he does not intend for Seffie to have a Season. He says he will marry her off to some provincial hick in Newcastle-upon-Tyne!”

Somehow, without precisely planning it, Oliver began kissing away the tears. He met with no resistance whatsoever, and soon his lips met the sweetest, softest lips ...

His heart was filled with ecstasy when he realized his angel was kissing him back.

“You shall not marry Dillingham,” he said firmly. “I shall not allow it.”

“Oh, Oliver,” she said, looking up at him adoringly. Never had his name sounded so beautiful as when she said it.

“You shall marry me instead.”

“Oh, yes, I should love that above all things,” she replied. Then clouds again appeared on her face. “But how shall we manage? There will be such gossip, and Arthur will not wish to release me from my promise, and I cannot bear to think of how my step-son will scold me. Why, Geoffrey may even forbid me to marry you. He is quite determined to have his own way in everything, you know. He was always the most deceitful, nasty, boy.”

Oliver kissed her again, and she softened against him. With her head resting against his chest, he explained to her how they would manage everything.

“We shall simply elope. I shall take you—and Seffie, of course—to Paris, and we shall have the most delightful honeymoon. I shall buy you dozens of Paris bonnets and we shall attend the opera every night, and when we become bored, we shall move on to Italy or Greece. By the time we return to England, we shall be quite old news, not the least bit worthy of gossip.”

“Oh, Oliver, you are so masterful—so ... so absolutely wonderful!”

He could not argue with her. When she looked up at him with that light in her eyes, she made him feel as if he could do anything.

* * * *

Lying alone in bed with Annie asleep on a cot in the corner, Cassie thought back over the events of the last few days. The gods must surely be enjoying a good laugh at her expense, because every time it seemed as though her life could not possibly be any worse, events invariably proved her wrong.

It had been four days since she had agreed to marry Mr. Hawke, and three days since Ellen had shocked all of London by jilting Arthur Dillingham and eloping with Oliver Ingleby, a man at least five years her junior. As bad as that had been, two days ago Geoffrey had installed Chloe, his foul-mouthed mistress, in the bedroom formerly occupied by Ellen. That had been such a disgraceful thing for him to have done that the few remaining household servants had resigned in high dudgeon.

Only Annie had remained faithful, but there was little the Scottish maid could do to help. Although she had willingly gone to his hotel several times, she had never found Digory at home, nor had he responded to the notes Cassie had written.

With Seffie safely in France, well out of reach of Geoffrey’s machinations, it had immediately occurred to Cassie that her brother no longer had any hold over her—that she could also simply walk out the door and never come back. She had toyed with the idea of returning alone to Cornwall, where she could live in Digory’s secret room in the stable and grow whatever food she needed.

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately, she admitted grudgingly—she had mentioned that possibility to Annie, who had told her bluntly that there were any number of men who could be counted upon to take advantage of an unprotected young girl. Men who were, in fact, so totally ruthless and depraved, compared to them Piggot appeared virtually a gentleman.

For better or for worse—and the way her life had been going, it was undoubtedly for worse—it seemed unlikely that anything fortuitous would occur in the next three days to prevent her from standing up beside Mr. Hawke in St. George’s and reciting her vows.

* * * *

“You shouldn’t oughta let him cheat you out of what is rightfully yours.” Chloe jabbed him in the ribs to emphasize her point. “He’s bluffing, that’s what he’s doing. Hundred to one he ain’t made no arrangements to have you kidnapped.”

Geoffrey opened one eye and glared balefully at his mistress. Ecod, but she looked raddled by the light of day. He had planned to give her her congé as soon as he was plump in the pocket, and in her place make an arrangement with that feisty red-haired Scottish maid, who was playing hard to get. Unfortunately, the way things now stood, Chloe was better off financially than he was, and he would be lucky if she allowed him to sleep on the floor in her miserable room in Soho.

On the other hand, what she was saying now made good sense. What could he lose by calling Mr. Hawke’s bluff? His creditors were already yapping at his heels, and as soon as they learned he had lost his sister and all the potential wealth she represented, they would go for his throat—tear him to pieces in their frenzy to recoup their losses.

“Shut your mouth, woman,” he growled, his mind made up. “And send Piggot in to see me. I have work to do.”

The perfect plan had sprung full-blown into his head. All he had to do, in fact, was turn the tables—do unto the self-confident, supercilious Mr. Hawke what Mr. Hawke had threatened to do unto him. But he, Geoffrey, planned to do it first, and in such cases, timing was everything.

“Piggot,” he said as soon as his minion appeared, “I need you to find me someone who will do anything for money, no questions asked.”

Briefly he explained what he intended to do. With every word he spoke, the smile on Piggot’s face became broader.

“I already knows just the man we need. Digory Rendel is his name, and he’s bound to know his way around the docks, because he’s a smuggler by profession. He’s got no more morals than a snake, and he’d betray his own crew members to the preventatives if he thought there’d be a profit in it.”

“The very man for our purposes,” Geoffrey gloated.

“There’s only one problem,” Piggot continued. “I doubt the man will be hired on credit. Very tough customer, he is—he’ll demand cash on the table.”

Geoffrey thought for a moment. Cash was as difficult to come by as credit was easy. But then he bethought himself of Chloe. Knowing her miserly ways, she undoubtedly had plenty of brass squirreled away for her old age. Under sufficient duress, she would cough up enough for his purposes.

“Arrange for a meeting with this Rendel, and be quick about it. The wedding is the day after tomorrow. Or rather,” he added with a laugh, “that is when Mr. Hawke thinks he is getting married.”

* * * *

“There does not appear to be anyone home,” Perry said.

“Nonsense,” Lady Letitia replied. “I am positive that Lady Cassiopeia has not flown the coop in the disgraceful way apparently favored by her ramshackle relatives. Only rap more vigorously and someone is bound to answer.”

Her grandson raised the knocker again and banged it several times loud enough to wake the dead. A few moments later they were rewarded by the door opening to reveal a red-headed housemaid, who eyed them with suspicion.

“I am Lady Letitia. I have come to escort Lady Cassiopeia to St. George’s Church.”

The girl made no move to admit them, and after a moment Lady Letitia realized the chit was dubiously eyeing her grandson. Glancing sideways at him, Lady Letitia realized with astonishment that he was staring at the servant girl with the same look of rapt delight that he usually reserved for a four-legged filly with particularly fine conformation.

Well, the maid did indeed have a trim figure, but why could Perry not look at a lady of quality with just such a light in his eye? Why, after all her efforts to strew his path with nubile young ladies, had he ignored them one and all only to be overset by a servant girl?

At least it proved he was not totally blind to feminine charms. Perhaps she had erred in providing only blondes and brunettes? Now who did she know who had hair that looked as if it would burn your fingers if you touched it, green eyes that sparkled like emeralds, and withall not a single freckle? No candidate came to mind, but that did not mean she could not conjure up one if she applied herself.

“Do you intend to leave us standing on the stoop all day?” she asked sharply, and the maid stood aside to allow them to enter.

“I shall tell Lady Cassiopeia that you are here,” the girl said, only a trace of Scotland in her voice.

“Close your mouth, Perry, or you will catch flies,” Lady Letitia said firmly.

* * * *

Gripping Annie’s hand tightly, Cassie could only wish it were a longer drive to Hanover Square.

“He is not an ogre, you know,” Lady Letitia interrupted her thoughts.

Her nerves too overset to allow her to participate in idle chit-chat, Cassie did not reply. She essayed a smile, but doubted that it fooled any of the other three occupants of the carriage.