Almost Perfect (14 page)

He knew better and he wouldn’t be satisfied until he knew how she’d done it. He strode back across the room, but this time he didn’t stop himself. Opening the door, he stepped barefooted into the corridor.

The newborn sun warmed the window at the hallway’s end, bringing out the vibrant blues, greens and reds of the corridor’s long runner. Two long steps took him to Cassie’s door. He put his hand on the lever, only stopping himself at the last second from opening it without knocking. To barge into her chamber might make him seem a bounder attacking an innocent woman when a good number of Devanney’s guests already wondered if he was a poor loser. He wasn’t, both he and God knew it, although the two of them might be the only ones who did.

Gritting his teeth, he rapped on Cassie’s door. There was no answer. He tapped again, louder this time. Again, no answer. This time when he knocked the sound echoed down the still hallway.

The door to the right of Cassie’s creaked open. Lucien recognized Barbara’s maid. The girl blinked against the brightness in the corridor. Although she was dressed her hair was loose beneath her voluminous ruffled cap.

“Oh, I thought you were knocking on our door,” the maid said when she saw him. “You’ll not have an answer from them ladies, my lord. They left last night. I was just coming up to bed when I met their trunks coming down the stairs.” Having said her piece, she pulled the door gently closed behind her.

Lucien thrust open Cassie’s door. No longer was the room strewn with female frippery. Instead the floor was clean and the wardrobe doors were closed. The coverlet hadn’t been disturbed and only ashes filled the hearth. The feeling of a whirlwind departure radiated from the chamber’s very walls.

So, she hadn’t been as secure in her deception last night as her confidence suggested. She ran, wanting as much distance as possible between them before he discerned whatever it was she’d done. Grinning in exultation, Lucien whirled on his heel and strode down the quiet hallways of Ryecroft Castle to Devanney’s bedchamber. He entered his cousin’s private room without knocking, startling Devanney’s valet. The man was already dressed and laying out his master’s carefully pressed neckcloth.

“My lord.” The servant offered a swift bow, showing no surprise at Lucien’s unexpected appearance. Their valets were accustomed to the casual relationship between their masters.

Devanney liked opulence. Even with the draperies closed his room glowed from the plasterwork moldings decorated with gold leaf to the silk wall covering done in a pattern of willow and rose. The settee at the bed’s end was covered in golden brocade.

On the ceiling cherubs peered down from behind clouds or played tag in an artificial sky. One solitary winged babe had retreated to the room’s corner to relieve himself. Although the chubby creature had his back turned to those who might want to spy on him, Adam Devanney--the artist not the earl--had painted him winking over his shoulder at his audience.

Lucien strode to the bed and threw back green and gold bedcurtains. Devanney, his dark hair tousled, lay with his back to Lucien, lost in his dreams. Still reveling in confirmation that Cassie had hoodwinked everyone but him, Lucien sat on the bed. Leaning over, he put his mouth near Devanney’s ear.

“Oh my lord, your prowess makes me weep with joy,” he whispered in falsetto, running his finger up his cousin’s arm.

Jolted out of sleep, Devanney came upright with a start. He groaned when he saw Lucien then dropped back onto the mattress. “Blast you, Lucien. Watson, what the hell are you thinking, letting this bleater in here at this hour?”

Watson didn’t bother answering. Lucien only grinned at Devanney’s attempt to prick his pride. “I’m no bleater. Our little sharp has flown the coop. She took my money and her family, fleeing to avoid questions she didn’t care to answer.”

Devanney scrubbed his hands through his hair and yawned. “No, she didn’t. Lady Forster took her away. It seems the old woman didn’t much care for last night’s exhibition. Just before we retired last night she sent me a note begging my pardon, saying that she and the Conningsbys would have to excuse themselves from the remainder of the house party.”

“And you call me the bleater?” Lucien protested in outrage. “You’re the one being gulled. I tell you, Cassandra Marston is running to escape her eventual exposure.”

“If that’s so, then why didn’t she demand I redeem the hundred and eighty pounds I owed her on your behalf?” Devanney asked. “Not that I could have done it last night.”

Lucien frowned. “She didn’t collect?”

“Not a farthing.” Devanney rolled onto his side facing Lucien. “If you think she went for any other reason, then go to Ettrick House and ask her.” He pulled the bedclothes over his head. “Either way, go away and let me sleep,” he said, his command muffled.

Wanting to roar at the way his cousin blinded himself to Cassie’s obvious guilt, Lucien came to his feet. “I have a hundred pounds that says she won’t be at Ettrick House when I get there.” Even slipping past his clenched teeth his words thundered in the quiet room.

Devanney threw back the bedclothes, squinting at Lucien in the room’s brightening dimness. There was just enough light for Lucien to see a gambler’s gleam come to life in Devanney’s eyes. “Make it one hundred eighty. If she’s at Ettrick House to greet you, then it’s double you owe me. If she’s gone as you contend, then you owe me nothing.”

Lucien grinned. “Not good enough. If she’s there I owe you three hundred and sixty. And that’s what you’ll owe me if she’s fled to parts unknown.”

“You heard that, Watson?” Devanney called.

“I did, my lord,” the valet called back.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” a laughing Devanney asked Lucien. “Go to Ettrick House and settle the wager.”

Barely two hours later, Lucien rode past the stables at Ettrick House then drew his horse to a halt before Philana Forster’s door. Although still misty the sun was warm enough to tease tendrils of steam from the house’s roof as the slate tiles dried. A breeze drove the wisps upward until they became part of the thicker plumes of smoke rising from the house’s chimneys. Yet moist, the house’s gray stone walls looked almost blue against classical white trim around the windows and doors. A few of the dozen or so gardeners looked up as Lucien mounted the stairs. The rest were hard at their morning chores, some clipping bushes into fanciful shapes, others spading up beds. Other than these men the house appeared to slumber, something Lucien wouldn’t be doing until after he’d confronted Cassie.

A bewigged footman opened the door at his knock. The young man’s coppery red eyebrows were startling under his powdered hairpiece. It took Lucien a moment to recognize the lad as one of his housekeeper’s many relatives. The boy’s flat expression, required of his position, clung precariously to his face. No doubt he wished to tell this unexpected caller to return at a more decent hour.

“Lord Graceton, calling on Lady Forster and Mrs. Marston,” Lucien said, handing the man his card.

The footman led Lucien into a comfortable drawing room then disappeared. Lucien eyed the chamber in approval. Unlike Devanney’s more formal decorating, this room looked as if someone actually lived in it. The walls were covered in creamy printed linen fabric while ancestral portraits hung on the walls. More recent and more personal, miniatures crowded the tops of two small inlaid chests at either side of the door. A pair of spectacles and a basket of needlework sat on the cushioned window seat of the room’s bay window. A cat curled in the basket. Knickknacks lined the cornice that framed the window. The view through the glass was of the short, green plain that led down from the house to a tumbling river, the Ettrick Water; Ettrick House nestled against the thrusting, folding hills that ran almost the width of southern Scotland.

Lucien paced, his impatience growing with every breath. Ten minutes became twenty, then thirty. He told himself it was a good sign that Lady Forster’s butler hadn’t appeared to refuse him, asking him to return later. At last he heard a woman’s footsteps in the hall. Utterly certain it wasn’t Cassie Marston who came, Lucien turned.

When the door opened he grinned in triumph. It was Lady Forster. That old Philana had dressed hastily there was no doubting. Her blue and gold striped day dress hung crookedly on her elderly frame, the bodice concealed beneath a swathing shawl. Her uncoiffed hair was covered by a voluminous lace-trimmed cap.

“Lord Graceton,” she said, managing a curtsy. “To what do I owe this unexpected honor?”

Lucien saw no reason for pretense, not when Philana Forster’s behavior last night suggested she was a conspirator in the farce. “Tell me where she’s gone and don’t waste my time by pretending that she’s sleeping upstairs. I rode past your carriage house. The Conningsbys’ coach wasn’t there.”

That knocked the beginnings of dissembly right off the old woman’s face. Exasperation flashed in her blue eyes, only to disappear as swiftly as it’d come. Crossing the room, she sat on the window seat, stroking the sleeping cat.

“Why do you chase her?” she asked after a moment, knowing without explanation who it was he wanted.

“Because she runs,” Lucien retorted. “She’s no innocent, madam, and you know it. If Cassandra Marston runs it’s because she expects me to discern how she did what she did last night. She doesn’t want to be anywhere near me when I discover it. I, on the other hand, want very much to return her to Ryecroft Castle where she will admit to everyone there that she is a sharp.”

“So it’s your pride that drives you?” Lady Forster asked, studying him as if weighing something she saw within him. “You cannot bear that a woman bested you at cards?”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “You misjudge me, madam. I will happily lose to either man or woman as long as my loss is a fair one. I will not tolerate being cheated.”

“And, you’re utterly certain she cheated you?” the old woman asked.

“Completely,” he told her.

Her jaw tightened. “But if it could be shown to you that she did nothing untoward, you would accept it?”

“If is the appropriate word, my lady,” Lucien snorted.

“But would you accept it if her innocence could be proved to you?” Lady Forster insisted.

“Of course,” he snapped, annoyed at yet another person treating him as if he were a poor loser.

Taking no affront at his harsh tone, Philana tapped her forefinger against her lips, her expression contemplative. A moment later her face cleared. Her wrinkles shifted until she almost looked like she was smiling.

“The Conningsbys ride the road to Edinburgh, on their way to purchase passage away from England.”

Lucien laughed aloud. Here it was, proof that what Cassie had done last night wasn’t the outcome of natural talent. Better than that, he’d just won himself a tidy sum from Devanney. Now all he had to do was catch Cassie Marston.

“Have a wonderful morning, Lady Forster,” he said, bowing.

Turning on his heel, Lucien walked to the door. It would be wise to detour to his fishing lodge, which lay only a mile or so from here and not too far off the Edinburgh road. It wasn’t just Cassie who fled, but her father, sister and whatever servants they had with them. He didn’t wish to confront them alone and unprepared. He’d have his lodge’s gamekeeper, Jamie Laidlaw, at his side before he stopped the Conningsbys.

“Push, Eliza!” Cassie exhorted.

“I am pushing,” a cranky, exhausted Eliza snapped, her shoulder braced against the two trunks lashed to the coach’s back luggage rack. It wasn’t the first time on this short journey that they’d taken their places here, their sturdy short boots sinking almost to the top in the muddy road.

Roland snapped the whip. The exhausted horses snorted and strained. Together, Cassie and Eliza shoved. The wheels slid and shifted, spewing muck as they turned.

Pushing with what little might she had left, Cassie glanced skyward, frantic. It had to be nearly ten in the morning and they’d managed only sixteen miles, passing through the village of Selkirk. At this rate they’d be in Edinburgh sometime next week. That was, if they ever reached the city. Not long ago Roland had called down from his coachman’s perch that he could see a pair of men riding in their direction. For all Cassie knew they might be men out and about on their own business, but what if they weren’t?

The unwieldy and overburdened vehicle began to move forward. Cassie pushed harder, leaning her whole body against the trunks. The front wheels caught on the lip of the ruts they’d carved in the soft road. Again, Roland snapped the whip. The horses whinnied.

There was a loud crack. The wheel at Cassie’s right tilted to the side, disconnected from their coach. Unbalanced, the vehicle roared back down into its ruts. The ropes holding the trunks jerked then one snapped.

“Cassie!” Eliza screamed, scrambling back from harm’s way.

Cassie wasn’t fast enough. The vehicle toppled, landing with a thundering crash. The trunks tumbled down. One nicked her knee, driving her to the ground. The other landed atop her foot as she hit the grassy verge. Stars danced before her eyes. In instinctive reaction she jerked on her trapped foot, only to bite back a shriek at the pain in her knee.

At the front of the fallen coach the horses screamed and thrashed in their traces. Not far from her, Roland, once more dressed as a coachman, rose to his hands and knees from where he’d landed in the grassy sod. “That demmed axle. I knew the repair was no good,” he shouted, then leapt to Cassie’s side to lift the trunk off her foot. She yelped as her ankle began to throb in time to her knee.

Calm purpose filled his round face, making him look more commanding than she’d ever seen him. “I have to see to the horses. Eliza, come help your sister to her feet,” he called, then raced to the horses.

Flinching, Cassie rolled onto her back. Overhead the morning’s clear sky had given way to a sullen layer of clouds that had already once spat rain at them. A sodden breeze ruffled the grasses and tossed the broad white heads of Queen Anne’s lace around her.

She sat up and gingerly moved her leg. Tears filled her eyes, having as much to do with failure as with pain. She’d gambled all on this escape, and now all was lost. If Lord Bucksden was behind them, he’d soon have Eliza. Everything in her screamed in protest. Not her sister!

Eliza came to help her rise. “Are you all right?”

“I think so,” Cassie replied, swallowing.

“Move your foot,” Roland called back to them as he stroked the nose of the lead horse. Where that beast went the other was content to follow. They grew steadily calmer. “If it’s broken it’ll snap and hurt like the. . . well, terribly.”

Cassie did as she was bid. Nothing snapped or popped. She set her foot on the earth. When she shifted some weight onto it everything from her tiniest toe to her knee screamed. She lifted the foot.

“I don’t feel anything that I shouldn’t,” she reported, her voice trembling, “but I cannot walk on it.”

“No need to walk,” Roland said, coming back to join them. Again, purpose and confidence firmed the cut of his delicate jaw. “We ride the horses from here, taking only our satchels.”

Eliza made a despairing sound at the thought of abandoning her few belongings. Cassie knew how her sister felt. Mud spattered her from near the raised waistline of her fashionable pelisse to the garment’s sweeping hemline. No doubt the dress she wore beneath the coat was equally ruined. The thought of immigrating with nothing but a single change of clothing and their personal effects was daunting, indeed.

“Cheer up.” Roland smiled at his daughters. He climbed into the side of the fallen coach, the mud-splattered tails of his maroon jacket falling soddenly against his leather breeches. “We’ll use what we get from the sale of the horses to replace some of what we leave here.”

“Can you still see the riders?” Cassie asked.

“Eh?” Standing atop the coach’s side, Roland turned to look behind them. Their position atop the hill gave him a clear view of the road in either direction. “They come steadily on, but I don’t think it’s the earl. Didn’t you say Mr. Percy reported Bucksden’s head was bandaged?” he asked Eliza.

“He did,” Eliza replied. “He said the earl’s whole head was swathed so thickly that he couldn’t wear his hat.”

“That’s what I thought.” Roland lowered himself into the coach with more agility than Cassie suspected he owned. “The two men behind us both wear their hats without a speck of white to obscure their faces. We have about half an hour before they reach us. Perhaps we should just let them catch us and ask for aid?” His voice echoed oddly out of the fallen vehicle.

“No,” Cassie said. “What if those men serve Lord Bucksden?”

Roland threw their four satchels up onto the side of the coach. Clambering back out, he collected the ropes that had secured their trunks. He wound one of them through the handles of two satchels, creating something akin to saddle bags. Having never seen her father do anything useful, Cassie watched in amazement. When he finished with the last two satchels he went to unharness their horses.

Cassie again tried to put weight on her foot, but the pain was almost sickening in its intensity. “Help me to the side of the coach,” she said, laying an arm over Eliza’s shoulder.

Hobbling was worse than she expected. Her good foot kept slipping in the muck, which caused her to put too much pressure on the injured one. She was panting and trembling by the time she leaned against the coach.

Roland brought the first horse around. “Cassie, climb onto the coach. From there it should be an easy step to settle on his back.”

“Eliza first,” Cassie said, still wincing at the throbbing. It didn’t help to imagine having to bend her leg as she rode without saddle or stirrup for support.

Eliza climbed onto the coach with ease then sat astride the horse, aghast at the way her skirts hiked past her knees. Roland brought the second horse around for Cassie.

“Now you, girl,” he commanded.

Cassie set her injured foot on the front axle brace to thrust upward. Pain shot up her leg. She changed feet and tried again, but her injured ankle refused to hold her. It was impossible.

“I can’t,” she cried.

“You have to do it, Cassie,” Eliza said, terrified for her. “The men are close enough that I can almost see their faces. We have to go.”

Frantically, Cassie tried again. Roland grabbed her by the waist and lifted her until she sat on the edge of the coach, then he brought the horse to stand against the vehicle. Cassie bent her knee to swing her injured foot over the horse. The pain was so intense that stars circled in her vision.

“I can’t,” she cried again. “Even if I could get my leg over his back I cannot bend my knee enough to sit astride.”

Reaching down, she touched Roland on the shoulder. “Mount, Papa. It’s up to you now. Take Eliza and the money. Go without me.”

“No, Cassie!” Eliza cried in protest.

“I will not!” her father retorted. “If those men work for Bucksden, they’ll--”.