The Conquest of Lady Cassandra (11 page)

“Ah,” Prebles said with a nod. “I understand now why you appear annoyed, sir. The situation with that property is vexing, I agree.”

This was news to Yates. What situation with which property? What had he missed?

Prebles helped him out by lifting one of the deeds, then pointing to a map. “Did you visit it? Is it the dearth of evidence of rents that upsets you?”

Yates recognized the deed as one for a swath of property amid the swamps of the southern coast. “I went north, not south. Are there a dearth of rents because the land is not worked?”

“In part. It is not the best land, what with the sea so close and parts of it too wet for farming.”

“But there is more?”

“It seems that there is the chance, even the likelihood, that there may be another claim on it. See, look here at this earlier map. The land is clearly marked as Highburton’s. But on this newer one there is the notation that it may be contested.”

Yates noted the maps, then inspected the deed. The date on the vellum, written in a flourish even more dramatic than Prebles’s own hand, marked its transfer to the Earl of Highburton in the year 1693.

“If there is another deed, it would be peculiar if it predated this,” he said.

“That is what I thought. I have never found evidence it was sold, so the note on the newer map is unexplained. Yet there it is.”

Yates folded the deed and set it aside. “When next I speak with my father, I will mention it. Any rents collected would be minor, of course, and probably not worth spending the cost of time and money to go to court.”

“No doubt, sir. No doubt.”

“D
o you want all of them? Every one?” Merriweather asked. Her chin held a stack of boxes steady as she carried them from the dressing room.

“All of them.” Cassandra eased the stack out of her arms and placed them on her bed.

After Merriweather made another trip, Cassandra sent her away, then sat down on the bed to examine the part of the legacy that Aunt Sophie had given her in advance of actually dying.

First she opened the two largest wooden boxes. Inside lay little velvet sacks and a variety of trinket boxes. These were the boxes that had held the jewels that she sold at Fairbourne’s last spring. The sacks and boxes were empty now.

That was not true with the other two containers. A rainbow of stones and a small fortune in settings greeted her inspections there. Not only jewelry rested in the trinket boxes, however. Little pieces of paper did as well.

She plucked one of the tiny notes and unfolded it. “Not to be worn when the Count of Emilia is in England,” it said, in Aunt Sophie’s hand. She placed it back with the garnet
ring it accompanied, then lifted an organza sack and tipped it into her palm.

A fine golden filigree necklace, more valuable in its workmanship than its metal, poured down. So did another little note. “Best to wear this only when Sir Charles and Lady Lightbown are abroad.” Several others also named specific individuals. A number simply instructed, “Not to be sold unless the jewels are reset.”

The notes implied the jewels had been gifts from lovers whose wives and family might object. They had tempered her excitement about receiving Sophie’s gifts. She had not cared for the notion of checking who was and was not in London, or likely to attend a party, before donning a piece of jewelry.

What if she made a mistake? Would some man be horrified to see her walk in wearing his love gift? Would the man’s wife guess the jewels had been bestowed on a lover by her husband?

It was good of Aunt Sophie to take such care with others’ happiness, but Cassandra’s reaction had been to never wear any of these baubles herself.

She reached for the first box again. One by one, she opened all the empty boxes. A few of them had notes too. She read each one. No names were mentioned, and all of them appeared to warn against wearing in various Continental capitals rather than in England. Three, however, merely said “Can be pawned or sold if necessary, but not to be worn.” At the time she first read them, Cassandra had assumed that was Aunt Sophie’s way of giving a lesson in taste and fashion.

She tried to remember which box or sack had held the diamond-and-sapphire earrings. Had it been one with a note? Perhaps one of the three that could be sold but not worn?

Her memory failed her. Nor could she recall the details of that day when she had spread all the jewels on the carpet and Sophie had pointed to this one and that and allowed
their sale. Cassandra had requested the exercise because of the history of this jewelry, or much of it. She had not wanted to make a mistake.

Now she wondered if she had, and if Aunt Sophie had as well. Maybe the jewels had lured Aunt Sophie into her memories, and her attention had been distracted from the task at hand.

She put all the jewels away and closed all the boxes. She wished she could just burn those notes and not wonder what they meant. Worse, she worried that perhaps they did not refer to lovers and gifts after all.

She suspected that if Ambury knew about them, he would think they did not too.

Looking at those boxes made her miserable, because her thoughts were turning in directions that were disloyal to the only family member who had remained a friend.

Merriweather returned to the chamber, carrying a card. “You’ve a visitor.”

She took the card. Lydia had called.

She went below and greeted her. “Emma said you had come up to town. It is good to see you. Are you here to shop?”

“That and other things. I have decided to become accomplished at more than riding and sketching, Cassandra. And you get to help!”

Y
ates opened the door to his father’s apartment slowly. He stepped inside silently. That was how he always approached his father now, in careful movements and soft footfalls. There was no reason for it, yet everyone acted the same way.

The earl sat in a chair by a closed window in the sitting room. The physicians feared summer fevers claiming his ailing body, and wanted him in the country. The earl had always preferred town, however, and now, with the news out of Ireland, he had found the perfect excuse to return.

The prime minister had visited yesterday to discuss the matter. It had been a symbolic act to acknowledge the role of the Earls of Highburton down through the years. The current earl could no more effect politics now than he could rise from that chair alone, but Pitt had pretended matters could not be resolved without his sage advice.

His father’s eyes opened. “What have you there?” He nodded to the papers in Yates’s hand.

Yates sat in the chair. “More of the same. Questions that Prebles could not answer.”

Yates waited for him to ask for the questions, or to sleep.

“What do you think of this Irish mess?” the earl queried instead.

They had not spoken of politics since winter. It had been an unspoken pact. They would take care of the estate together but avoid the topics that had caused so much rancor between them.

“I have not thought about it much at all.”

Something like a laugh choked out. “The hell you haven’t. You have an opinion on most everything, so this would be no different.”

He should tell the earl what the earl wanted to hear and claim to agree with his father’s own opinion. It would be a kindness, perhaps. A gift.

“Don’t be feeding me mush like the physicians do. My stomach is bad, but my head is still fine.”

“I think the mess is the result of one very foolish man thinking he will be a hero. It would be an error to punish an entire people for his crime.”

The earl shook his head. “What I expected you to say.”

“I am who I am.”

“That’s the truth, although soon you will be Highburton, and then you are not only who you are. So you counsel restraint, do you? Pitt told me there are others saying that. Even Penthurst, who can be a hard man when it is warranted. You must be influencing him, and not to the good.”

Yates did not influence the Duke of Penthurst at all these days, not that he thought he ever had. His father did not know about the rift that had formed between him and that friend. Other than a few formal conversations on strictly official matters, he had not spoken to Penthurst since last March.

“No doubt you know his trial is next month,” his father added. “I told Pitt that it was nonsense, that he had been challenged by Lakewood and the duel was a point of honor and everyone knew it. Important that there be no special treatment, he said, so the lords will take it up.” He made a face of disapproval, but it dissolved, and he shrugged. “There is no danger, so you are not to worry for him. Gentlemen understand these things, but the people must have their shows.”

The effort at reassurance touched him, even as he reacted badly to the assumptions his father made about another friend. But then the earl had never liked the man who had died in that duel for which Penthurst would answer to his fellow peers.

This was how their arguments started in years past. He swallowed his reaction so one would not start now.

His father seemed to drift off. Yates was beginning to ease out of the chair when the earl’s eyes opened again. His pale hand gestured to the papers. “What questions?”

How minor these details seemed now. Hairpins, his mother had called them.

“There is this property on the coast. I have not been there yet. However, it is apparent from the records that no rents have come from it in years, if ever. Prebles cannot account for it. I thought perhaps you can.”

The earl held out an unsteady hand. He took the deed. Angling the vellum so the window light washed it, he squinted.

“Ah, this one.” He nodded, as if remembering an old puzzle. “There is said to be another deed that challenges this one.”

“Have you seen the other deed?”

He shook his head. “The tenants send rents to him who holds it, however. Not much income from there. Half of the land is swamp.”

“I should tell Prebles to address it. So you know what is what.”

An exhausted sigh issued from his father. Yet his eyes appeared less filmed and distant for a moment, even as that sound hung in the air. The mind was being engaged, and the sight of it raised Yates’s spirits.

While he watched his father consider the question and had a glimpse of the man he had once battled and defied, a profound emotion filled his heart. He wished there were a pact with the Creator that the current Earl of Highburton would not die until every tiny question were answered, and that there would be years of questions to settle.

“It would cost thousands to claim this property,” his father said, handing the vellum back. “Not worth it. I left it be. When you inherit, you can reconsider, but I think you will decide as I did.”

It was an odd response from a man who did not favor ambiguity on any matter, least of all the honor of Highburton. A measured one, and probably financially sound, but it disheartened Yates anyway. He had rather hoped settling the challenge to this property would become a crusade. They would spend hours plotting strategy, and he would see alertness and life in those eyes again and again.

“Open the window a little, Yates. Damned physicians worry that a fever will kill me. That is a joke. They have no idea how feeling the sun and the breeze—it is a comfort and a treasure. Perhaps it is also a preparation. A way of calling one home.”

Yates opened the window so the breeze could enter. His father turned his face to it and smiled with private pleasure.

“Have you learned anything about those jewels?” he asked in a voice half asleep.

“A little. Not how they left their box here.”

“Stolen,” his father muttered. “Sure of it. No other possible explanation that makes sense. Hell of a thing. Who would have guessed it?” Slowly, his body sank as sleep robbed him of alertness to his posture.

Yates did not leave at once. He stayed and shared the breeze for a while.

T
here is not much for a man-about-town to do in London in August. Especially a man looking for distraction from a heaviness of the spirit. Yates therefore went for a walk after spending more hours with the deeds and accounts. Even a long respite making music had not relieved the mood that had overtaken him that afternoon while visiting his father.

While he strolled, he allowed himself to dwell on the memory of kissing Cassandra Vernham. He wondered how she would react if he called on her now. At this hour, there could be no mistake why he had done so. Nothing about their business together required a meeting at eleven o’clock at night.

He wanted to believe she would debate sending him away for at least a few minutes before doing so, but he was sure she would not receive him. She had responded to the kisses. She was not immune, but as a woman of the world she knew better than to yield quickly, should she yield at all.

He spent some time plotting a strategy to that end. It
distracted him as even the cool night and exercise could not. Feeling more himself, but still in need of some society, he turned his direction toward a house where he knew some friends would undoubtedly be in attendance.

He mounted the steps of the building with something like a light heart. That was what contemplating the seduction of a lovely woman could do for a man.

She was still much on his mind when he entered the drawing room that served as Mrs. Burton’s discreet and elite gaming salon. Enough that when he spied her standing near a table, it did not surprise him. Then he remembered that Cassandra Vernham had not been gambling of late. He hoped his delay in paying for the earrings had not driven her to it again.

He walked toward her. While he did, he admired the dress she wore. Its barely pink fabric and its narrow skirt skimmed around her curves. Her dark lashes appeared very thick in the candlelight, and her eyes were sapphire pools gazing down at the table.

The other patrons moved enough for him to see the Duke of Penthurst standing on the other side of her, also watching the card play. With occasional smiles, she acknowledged His Grace’s presence.

Seeing them together ruined his mood. Cassandra’s name had never been connected to Penthurst’s in any romantic sense, but the trial Penthurst would soon endure might change that. Hell, for all he knew, she had been Penthurst’s mistress for years now.