Fortune's Lady (41 page)

Then he had an idea.

C
ASS TOOK A LAST LOOK
around the room. His room, which she would never share with him now. The few belongings she was taking were packed in a small bandbox lying open on the bed. The clothes he'd bought her still hung in the wardrobe; books and writing materials he'd given her lay in a neat stack on the bureau. She would take none of them. So there was nothing else. She went to the box and closed it.

But with her hand on the handle, she paused. There was one other thing. Not to take, but to leave. She reached up to untie the thin blue ribbon at the back of her neck, and slid the ring off it into her palm. He'd said she needn't wear it but she had, secretly, next to her heart. Her eyes went helplessly to the inscription—“You and no other.” Her throat tightened. She'd thought it impossible that she could cry a single new tear, and yet here came more.

She moved to the bureau and set the ring down with a clink of finality. Raising her head, she saw a watery reflection of herself in the glass: a pale young woman with grieving eyes. What a cunning disguise the body made for the soul, she mused; no one looking at her in a casual way could tell that inside there was almost nothing left, only empty, echoing space. Before the swollen ache in her chest could paralyze her, she went to the bed, picked up her box, and walked out of the room.

Riordan's valet was coming toward her in the hall. “Is Mr. Riordan still here, Beal?”

“No, madam, he went out about an hour ago and hasn't come back.”

“Oh, I see. Thank you.” She had to turn away before he could see the fresh gush of tears—whether of relief or regret she wasn't sure. But no, this was better; it
was.
Nothing needed to be said between them now, and if she saw him again she would undoubtedly cry in front of him. This way she could take a snippet of dignity with her.

She'd taken two steps down the staircase when the front door opened and Riordan entered. She froze. He was whistling. He stood in the foyer, stripping off his gloves, looking energetic and purposeful. And
whistling.
What was left of her heart broke in half. He looked up and saw her then, so there was nothing to do but come down the rest of the way.

“Hello, Cass.” He noticed her box. “Going somewhere?”

“Yes. I'm going away.”

He saw her red-rimmed eyes and turned grave. “Are you? Where?”

“I'm not sure.” Her voice gave her away, she knew; it was thick from weeping.

“Have you any money?”

She focused her solemn gray gaze on him and said nothing.

“No, of course not,” he said, half-smiling. “I tore it up. I apologize for that.”

She drew herself up, a spark of anger beginning to flicker beneath the ashes. “I'm going to ask Mr. Quinn for an advance,” she said stiffly, “on the money he's promised to pay me when Wade is caught.”

“Oh, don't do that. Come in the library, I'll give you some money.” He started down the hall. “Come!” he called over his shoulder.

She stood stock-still. Hurt and confusion and fury battled inside her. Confusion prevailed. She put her box down and followed him.

He was pulling notes out of the back of a drawer in his desk. “This is all I've got in the house at the moment.” He counted it quickly. “About three hundred pounds. I'll owe you the rest, all right?”

She swallowed and nodded, putting out her hand.

“But there's a condition.”

She snatched her hand back. This was more like it. “What condition?”

“You must give me two hours of your time.”

She flushed scarlet and backed away.

“Oh, no, you misunderstand, I didn't mean—” He paused to laugh. “But what an enchanting idea,” he murmured on an intimate note, causing new color to stain her cheeks. “I meant, two hours
outside
the house. In full view of the public eye, both of us conducting ourselves with perfect propriety. Well, me, anyway; I can't speak for you, can I?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about you and me taking a walk, Cass. I want to show you something. Will you come?”

She frowned with suspicion. “A walk?”

“A walk.”

“And then you'll give me the money, and…let me go?”

“Yes, if it's what you want.”

“It's what I want.” She paused again. For the life of her, she couldn't think of anything she had to lose. “Very well. I'll go with you.”

“Good!”

By the time they'd crossed Oxford Street and Piccadilly, passed the Queen's Palace, and skirted the southern edge of St. James's Park, Cass had a fair idea where they were heading. But why in the world he wanted to take her to Westminster, and presumably to the particular House of Parliament there in which he spent his working days, she couldn't guess. And she refused to ask. He spoke little, to match her mood, but he wasn't at all gloomy; she sensed, in fact, a definite cheerfulness bubbling beneath his quiet surface. He swung a walking stick between his fingers with unmistakable jauntiness, while calling out lighthearted greetings to his acquaintances along the way. In the blackness of Cass's mind, it seemed the cause of his high spirits could be but one thing: her imminent departure. She sank deeper into her private misery and spoke not a word.

“Welcome to the venerable rabbit warren,” he announced with a wave of his hand, breaking in on her profitless thoughts. She looked around. They were crossing Old Palace Yard, opposite the Abbey, where buildings ancient and new seemed to grow out of each other like barnacles. “Warren” was an apt description, she decided, for shops, law courts, coffee houses, government offices, and even private homes coexisted here on intimate, overcrowded terms, clustered around the nucleus of Westminster Hall. Over it all hovered a dark-smelling, unsanitary dampness. It was anything but grand, and seemed a great deal more medieval than modern, yet there was vigor in the diversity and energy in the chaos. Riordan's tone and manner were consciously modest, even deprecating, but there was a flush of pride in his face; glancing about, she had a glimmer of an idea why.

“Walter Raleigh lost his head right…here,” he told her, pointing to the ground at their feet, while she tried to ignore the hand he held at the small of her back. “Milton was married over there, in St. Margaret's. Oliver Cromwell's head sat on the roof of the Hall for twenty-three years. Sir Thomas More was tried there, and the Earl of Essex, and Guy Fawkes. That's the House of Lords, Cass, in the Chamber of Requests. And this—this is the Commons.”

She regarded with surprise the modest, three-story stone building with leaded windows and a slate roof. “It looks like a church,” she observed. Perhaps if she pretended she was on a guided tour with a stranger, she could get through this.

“It is. Or it was, St. Stephen's Chapel. It was deconsecrated in 1557, and it's been the House of Commons ever since. Come on, let's go inside. I want to show you—” He stopped, his eyes on the figure of a stoop-shouldered gentleman coming down from the stone portico. The man saw them in the same moment. He squinted, then raised his arm in a sort of greeting.

“That you, Philip Riordan? I've got a bone to pick with you!”

Cass was astonished when Riordan halted in his tracks like a schoolboy caught in a prank. But he took hold of her arm and marched bravely toward the older gentleman, as if preparing to take his punishment.

“Good afternoon, sir. What a pleasure to—”

“Don't ‘good afternoon' me. What's this reform nonsense I hear you're planning to introduce this term, before I can even get my coat off?” The speaker was past sixty, a heavy-set individual in a scratch wig and round spectacles, with a deeply lined, profoundly weary countenance. “I'll oppose you, my boy,” he warned, stabbing at Riordan's lapel with a stubby finger. “You can count on it.”

“I expected that, sir—”

“What do you mean, taking up time with fluff like this? We'll be at war with France inside the year if I have my way, and that's a damn sight more important than whether a horse thief hangs or goes to jail.”

Riordan grinned. “You're quite right, but I'll wager we can find time for both.”

“We'll see about that. Who's this, then, your new wife?” He touched his hat, and his care-worn face softened.

“Yes, sir, this is Mrs. Riordan. Cass, I'd like you to meet Mr. Burke.”

Extending a hand, Cass had to retrieve her fallen jaw.
The
Mr. Burke? Edmund Burke? But this man was so old! “I'm honored to make your acquaintance,” she said earnestly. “I'm a great admirer of your work.”

Mr. Burke looked skeptical.

“It's true,” Riordan assured him. “She's read almost everything you've written.” His eyes twinkled. “In all candor, sir, she likes you better than I do.”

The great statesman lowered his brows in a fierce scowl. “Then you've married well, you young rake, and much beyond what you deserve. Let's hope some of her good sense rubs off on you.” He turned back to Cass. “I don't envy you, madam. Keep an eye on this scoundrel. The only admirable qualities I've noticed in him are a keen mind, absolute integrity, and the ability to get along with anybody. A dangerous start.” He touched his hat again. “Good day to you both. And good luck.”

It was Riordan's turn to close his mouth. He stared at the portly, retreating back of Edmund Burke in utter stillness, repeating the great man's parting words in his head, committing them to memory. After a moment he looked down at Cass, unable to conceal his elation. “Lord, Cass, did you hear him? He—”

“He likes you,” she finished, trying not to smile. “Why shouldn't he?” There was no reason why Riordan's pleasure should please her, but it did.

“Because! My reputation's a shambles, I come to the sessions pretending I'm drunk, I—”

“Perhaps he's been told how matters really stand,” she suggested quietly. “Isn't he the leader of his branch of the Whigs?”

“Yes, but—” He stopped, considering. “It's possible, I suppose. After all, Pitt knows, and some of the other ministers as well.” He paused again; his face was a study.

“It would mean a lot to you, wouldn't it? To be known for what you are by the man you respect so much?”

He smiled into her eyes, loving her dearly at that moment. He wanted to kiss her, but of course she wouldn't let him. But there would be time for that later. “Yes, it would,” he said simply, and took her arm.

But she didn't move. “I think there must be two men inside you, Philip,” she told him, her voice bleak. “One of them is noble and generous and upright. But the other is a liar and a hypocrite. I'm sorry we ever met.”

He shook his head slowly, without anger. It wasn't only he she didn't trust, he realized, it was herself. She hadn't enough confidence in her own worth to believe he loved her, that he could have married her. It was a melancholy insight. “After you change your mind about me, Cass,” he said with quiet determination, “I'm going to make you change your mind about yourself. That's a promise.”

But first things first. Without waiting for her to answer, he put his hand on her elbow and hurried her up the steps, through the arched portico, and into the House.

The cloakroom was the old church cloisters. Red tapes dangled from the coat hangers lining the walls—so the Members could hang up their swords before going into the Chamber to debate, he explained. Much less bloody that way. “But we always keep our hats on, Cass. Can't imagine why, but it's a tradition. Spurs, too, if we like. And you can't arrest us, we're immune. Speak ill of us and we'll have
you
arrested, for breach of privilege.” He nodded to a porter standing by the door, then led her through another passageway to a high-ceilinged, medium-sized room. “And this is the dark and comfortless Lobby. When a vote's taken on a bill, we don't raise our hands or shout out. We walk out here if we're for it, and the Speaker counts us. It's called a division. Come on, this way.” He pulled her through a short hallway to another door and threw it open. “The Chamber,” he announced proudly.

His enthusiasm was touching; in spite of all he'd done, she couldn't bring herself to hurt his feelings. “Very nice,” she said politely, marveling at how small it was, more cozy than grand, not at all what she'd expected. It was even paneled. More than ever it looked like a church, of the Reformed variety.

“That's the Speaker's Chair,” he said, pointing to a plain, straight-backed chair on a raised dais. It faced two large groups of benches separated by a green carpet. “I sit here, on the Whig side.” He dropped her hand and walked toward the back of the Chamber. “Here!” He was so far away he almost had to shout. “The important Members sit in front!” He came toward her again, smiling. “Strangers sit up there.” He pointed to a three-sided gallery above their heads. “A Stranger, of course, is anybody who's not a Member. Burke sits here, on the Treasury bench since he broke with Fox and the other Whigs.”

“Will he really oppose your bill?” she asked, worried in spite of herself. But what she really wanted to ask was,
Philip, what are we doing here
?

“Oh, yes. That was a foregone conclusion. ‘Reform' isn't a word in Burke's vocabulary.”

“Then why do you like him so much? Wade hates him.”

“Yes, I imagine he does. Burke's his worst enemy. He hates the Revolution for the same reason he hates reform—they both upset the traditions of the past.” He dropped down in Burke's seat on the Treasury bench. “Why do I like him? Because his mind is brilliant, he's as honest as he is stubborn, and he'd die before he'd compromise his principles. And he's the most extraordinary speaker. Or rather, he used to be. Now they call him the ‘dinner bell of the House.' ”