The Unofficial Suitor (4 page)

“Why, my dear, I was forced to come. My man of business wrote me the most extraordinary letter. Said there was nothing left here to sell. So of course I was obliged to leave my rather pressing engagements in town to travel down here and see for myself.”

Now her brother was running true to form again, thinking of himself first and foremost—in fact thinking of no one’s wishes but his own.

“And having seen for yourself that your long journey was in vain, I assume your visit will not be unduly prolonged.” Her voice held only a faint echo of the bitterness she’d felt for years at the repeated visits of Jackson Thwaite, her brother’s man of business, an apologetic, cringing little worm of a man, who had nevertheless managed to ferret out and remove everything that could possibly be sold, not concerning himself unduly with such niceties as differentiating between items belonging to the estate and items Cassie had inherited directly from her mother, the second wife of the late earl. The only things not carted off by Thwaite were a few broken pieces of furniture that Cassie and Ellen had retrieved from the attic.

“In vain? But my dear Cassiopeia, whatever gave you the idea that my trip was not successful? On the contrary, the results have exceeded my wildest expectations, and I fully intend to be handsomely rewarded for the jolting about I had to endure to come here.”

“Rewarded?”

“Why, yes. I find Thwaite has quite overlooked the most valuable asset left at my disposal.”

“Not—not the house!” All the anger and resentment drained out of Cassie, leaving her limp with fear. “But what could we do—where could we go if you sold the house?”

He smiled at her with genuine mirth, as if he were amused by some secret joke. “No, no, Cassie, there is no money to be had from the house. It is mortgaged to the hilt, I am afraid. In fact, were the truth known, I have mortgaged it twice over, and I am afraid that mortgaging it a third time would be pushing even my luck a little too far. Guess again.”

Cassie was not about to fall into his trap. She knew full well that his present amiability was only skin-deep, and that even now, as a grown man, he would not pass up any opportunity to tease and torment her the way he had done so regularly during her childhood.

Instead of continuing to try to divine his purpose in coming to Cornwall, she walked carefully over to the tall French doors through which she had entered earlier and stood pretending to look out into the darkness. Actually, she was watching her brother’s reflection in the glass and was therefore not caught by surprise when his voice spoke behind her, only inches away from her ear.

“Don’t wish to play guessing games anymore, little sister? I have to admit, I have found other games much more interesting, also.”

His reflection did not show the ravages of time, and Cassie again saw the handsome older brother who had seemed so godlike in her childhood. Why she had been taken in then by his superficial good looks, she could not say since her memories of him were uniformly unpleasant. Try as she might, she could not dredge up the memory of even one small act of kindness on his part, not for her nor for their little sister nor for any of the servants, who at that time had still run the house with clockwork precision.

The best she had settled for then had been to be ignored, so that was the most she could hope for now—that he would take whatever he had come for and depart, leaving them to manage as best they could.

And really, they could manage without him. They were, thanks to Digory’s willingness to supply what they could not grow themselves, reasonably well fed, which was, after all, the most basic necessity. And they still had an attic full of broken bits of furniture to burn in the fireplace.

With one finger under her chin and absolutely no force, her brother turned her to face him. “You see, Cassie, what Thwaite quite overlooked...” His finger slid down her neck and tugged until he managed to dislodge the scarf from its place.

Somehow she found it less demeaning to let the scarf slither to the floor than to make a futile grab for it, which would undoubtedly have afforded her brother a good laugh at her expense. But no amount of willpower could stop the flush that crept up to her shoulders and beyond to her face, and it was only by clenching her fists that she was able to keep her hands from automatically covering the expanse of rosy skin now exposed to his view.

“Is you,” he finally concluded.

She looked at him blankly, her mind in total confusion, unable to make any sense out of what he had just said.

“I am sorry, I do not quite understand what you...” her voice trailed off, as her brain suddenly grasped the meaning of his words.

“What do you mean, me?” she whispered, her throat tightening up so much she had trouble talking.

His laughter rang in her ears. “Why, my dear, sweet, saintly sister, is it not obvious? I intend to take you back to London with me and sell you to the highest bidder.”

Cassie clutched at her brother’s sleeve in desperation. “What do you mean? You cannot sell me—I am your sister. I am the daughter of an earl. Even your reputation would not survive such infamy.”

“Ah, so you have heard of my reputation even here in the back of beyond. Not to worry. I am sure the old biddies in London will thoroughly approve of my actions. After all, what could be more suitable than a loving brother sacrificing to give his beautiful sister a Season in London and doing his best to help her form an eligible connection? And if you think they would disapprove of a very large marriage settlement being the sole criterion for eligibility, then there you are out. On the contrary, I could be sure of receiving their censure were I to allow you to throw yourself away on a penniless nobody.”

“You would marry me off to anyone with enough money to line your pockets?”

“Not as things now stand. I admit, I had not planned on taking you to London. I had thought to take you directly to Leeds or Manchester, where I could have conducted a private and very discreet auction among some of the merchants, whose pocketbooks are as fat as they are, and whose desire to hold onto what they have accumulated through trade is secondary only to their desire to marry above their station.”

“You would marry me off to a ... a tradesman?” Nothing Cassie had experienced this evening shocked her as much as her brother’s last statement. She might be forced to live on the brink of total poverty with very few hopes of the situation’s ever improving, but one thing had always given her the strength to go on, and that was the knowledge of who she was—she was Lady Cassiopeia Anderby, daughter of the Earl of Blackstone, and as such she could hold her head up in the most exalted company.

Never, never could she bring herself to stoop so low as to marry into trade, not even to enrich herself, and certainly not to enrich her brother. She would—she would throw herself into the pond, before she would do anything so degrading.

Her brother was still smiling, as if her reaction had amused him. “You’re not paying proper attention, my sweet, delectable sister. I said that was what I had intended to do, before I made the acquaintance of your not inconsiderable charms.” His eyes dropped to her bosom, and this time she was unable to prevent her hands from flying up to cover the parts of her anatomy left exposed by that awful woman’s dress.

“No, no, my dear sister, with beauty of face and form such as you possess, and with a name as old and respected as ours, we can aim as high as we wish—in fact, money and title are not enough. A mere baronet need not apply, for example.”

For a moment Cassie was tempted. The thought of a family—of having children and security—made her think such a bargain as her brother was proposing would be as much to her advantage as to his, but then she remembered what it really meant to be married.

She had seen too many women mistreated by their husbands—women beaten, abused, neglected. She had heard too many stories of wives cast aside when their husbands lost interest, of women married for their money and then forced to endure the humiliation of their husbands’ mistresses.

Ellen, her step-mother, had once even confessed that in some ways it was a relief to be a widow. She had immediately retracted her statement, of course, and assured Cassie that the married state was truly the only one a woman should aspire to.

Even were Cassie to accept without question that any marriage was preferable to spinsterhood, still Chloe’s mocking words echoed in her mind. “Do you know what a whore is? It’s a woman who sells herself to a man.”

That is what she would be if she allowed Geoffrey to carry out his scheme, Cassie realized. She would be selling herself to a strange man, giving him the right to see her naked, to touch her—to paw at her—to do heaven knows what unspeakable things to her, in return for giving her his support and the protection of his name. An unknown man would be buying her body for the price of a few pretty frocks and bits of jewelry, and she would be nothing more than his legal whore, bought and paid for.

“No, I will not do what you are proposing.” She spoke flatly, with no emotion in her voice. “And you cannot make me participate in such a revolting plan, either. I shall make faces at any man who looks at me twice.” She crossed her eyes and let her mouth slack open.

Her brother laughed. “Then you prefer Manchester? I am sure I could find a rich factory owner there who is willing to take an old sow to wife if the porker only has a title.”

“Then I shall ...” Cassie cast her mind around desperately, trying to hit on some weapon that could be counted on to quell the ardor of the most persistent suitor. “I shall start a rumor that the doctors are certain my spells of insanity will gradually increase as I grow older.” She could not keep from smiling in triumph at the beauty of her plan.

Her brother sighed, but something about his sigh seemed phony, as if he were not yet ready to concede defeat. “Then I am afraid you leave me no other choice.” Before she could congratulate herself on the ease of her victory, he continued, “It will have to be your sister, then.”

“There you are out, also,” she said smugly. “Seffie is too young. You may have forgotten, but she is a full five years younger than I, and she is only now just turned fifteen. And,” Cassie added, “she is terrified of her own shadow, and could not possibly manage to attract a husband.”

“Who mentioned anything about a husband for her? Living here as isolated as you have, perhaps you did not know that there is quite a good market on the Continent for terrified fifteen-year-old virgins? I assure you, I have it on good authority that in certain cultures a bonus is paid for blondes, and I have a vague memory that sweet little Persephone is quite fair, am I not right?”

Cassie had known her brother was not a particularly nice person—that he was self-centered, inconsiderate, greedy, and mean—but she had not had any inkling of how low he had sunk into depravity. At some time he had evidently crossed the line into real wickedness, of the sort she had only heard about from the pulpit on Sunday.

“No answer, my dear Cassie? I leave the choice to you, then. You may have your Season in London and marry a man of my choosing, or you must let your sister take her chances on the open market.”

“You are despicable. You are the most miserable excuse for a gentleman that it has ever been my misfortune to meet.”

His complacent smile was not dislodged by the most dreadful things she could think of to say to him. “Come, come, my dear,” he said finally. “We must not waste any more time discussing my character. What is it to be then? Will you join me in London, or shall I start making arrangements—”

“Yes, yes, I will come to London,” she interrupted, not wishing to hear again what could happen to Seffie if she herself refused to cooperate.

“And you will smile sweetly and not try any tricks to discourage your suitors? I must warn you that one chance is all you will get, and if you have not managed to snare a rich title by the end of the Season, it will be off to Leeds with you. I am presently but one step ahead of my creditors, but they will be more than willing to hold off a little longer when they see what a lovely asset I have in your person.”

Before Cassie could utter another protest, the orange-haired woman returned.

“I have checked all the rooms, m’lord, like you asked. There is nothing here that I’d give two shillings for, nor yet there isn’t. Thwaite has been most thorough.”

“Then, my pet, I think it is time for us to be off.” He started for the door where Chloe waited.

“You are going back to London?” Whatever Cassie had expected, it had not been this calm leave-taking.

Her brother paused at the door and looked back at her. “Surely you do not expect me to spend even one night in this rotting mausoleum, do you, my dear? I have already reserved rooms at the Red Goose, and I shall return on the morrow to make the final arrangements.”

With that he was gone, leaving nothing behind to show that he had actually been there and that she had not merely dreamed the whole episode except the dress she was wearing, the candles burning down, and the fire crackling in the fireplace.

In this instance Cassie found it hard to enjoy the pleasant experience of being able to see clearly since all the myriad tiny flames did was show the dismal state of abandonment and decay that had destroyed a once magnificent room. Not a single one of the many books that had formerly lined the shelves now remained, and the only furniture left in the room besides the broken sofa was a very shaky end table, which now gave precarious support to two candelabra.

Unable to hold back a bitter thought of what the morrow would bring, Cassie moved quickly to snuff out the candles nearest her. The light her brother had enjoyed tonight would be paid for by an endless string of lost evenings, when having no candles at all would force them to retire to their beds with the setting of the sun.

But no, there would be no more evenings here. Geoffrey was taking them to London, where the darkness would be banished by hundreds of candles—wax candles, undoubtedly, not tallow like these—and every one of them paid for by the sale of her person.

Leaving the rest of the candles burning, she picked up one of the candelabra with a hand that trembled in spite of all her efforts to control it and went in search of her step-mother and sister. She delayed only long enough to pull the pins out of her hair and change back into her own dress, leaving the exotic gown in a silvery-blue puddle on the floor.