Lord Deverill's Secret (17 page)

Anne and Justin remained in the drawing-room when their guests had gone. Anne was sitting on an elegant chaise-longue looking through a fashion journal, whilst Justin stood by the mantelpiece, winding the clock.

Anne turned over the pages of a fashion journal, then said nonchalantly, “I like her.”

“Who?” Justin asked.

“My dear brother, don’t try to dissemble,” she said, putting the journal down on her knee. “It doesn’t become you. Besides, it does no good. You have never been able to fool me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he returned, setting the clock straight again.

“I’m talking about Cassandra.”

He raised one eyebrow. “Do you mean Miss Paxton?”

“No. I mean Cassandra. I think you should marry her.”

“This is very sudden,” he said lightly. “You’ve only just met her. Besides, you told me not six weeks ago that I should marry Miss Kerrith.”

“That was different.”

“In what way?”

“You had just celebrated your thirtieth birthday, and as no one had caught your eye, I thought you should marry the first suitable young lady you came across. Miss Kerrith was a good choice. She was pretty, not too spoilt, and best of all, an heiress. I know you loved Papa. So did I. But he had no head for business, and when his investments failed he ran up ruinous debts. I hated to see you sell the estate. I hated it even more when you had to sell your hunters in order to give me a season.”

“How did you know about that?” he asked in surprise.

“I heard the servants talking. I have always known what you sacrificed for me so that I could have a splendid come out and I’ve always been grateful for it. It enabled me to meet Charles, and I have been very happy with him, but now I’d like the same happiness to befall you. If you marry Cassandra I think it will.”

“She’s very charming, but I prefer brunettes,” he said lightly.

She laughed. “Oh, no, Justin, that won’t do. I know exactly how you feel about her. Why else would you keep her portrait in your pocket? And not just any pocket, but the one right over your heart.”

“What?”

“It’s in a gold locket, on a slim gold chain. How you came by it I don’t know, but I do know that you are never parted from it.”

“How did you know about it?” he asked in amazement.

“My dear Justin, it was not difficult. I saw you fiddling with it so many times that I wondered what you could keep in your waistcoat. At last my curiosity overcame me, and I slipped into your room whilst you were taking a bath.”

He gave an exclamation and threw up his hands in a mixture of disgust and despair.

She looked at him intently.

“You’re angry with me,” she said.

He walked across the room and stood looking down at her.

“No, I’m not angry with you. I could never be angry with you. But I would rather you didn’t mention this to anyone else.”

“Of course not, if you don’t want me to.” She paused, then said, “It is serious, then?”

“No, it is not. Miss Paxton will never marry me.”

“That is not what I mean. Your feelings for her are serious?”

“Yes, they are. But it’s hopeless,” he said with a sigh.

“You seem very sure about that,” she remarked, eyeing him intently.

“I am.”

“It is surely worth asking her?”

“No. It’s impossible.”

“It seems perfectly easy to me,” she rallied him.

He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He shook his head.

“There are some things I cannot explain, Anne, even to you.”

She regarded him for a few moments, then said, “Very well, if you can’t, you can’t. But I would like to see you married, all the same, Justin.”

He gave a twisted smile.

“If I am lucky, maybe Miss Kerrith will have me.”

She didn’t smile at his forced banter. Instead, she looked troubled.

“I wish I knew what has happened to you recently. You are not usually like this. You usually set out to get the things you want in life, and you usually succeed. I know you want Cassandra, it’s no use denying it, but for some reason you won’t pursue her. Why not? Has something happened between you? Is that it?”

“Anne—”

“Is it something very bad?” she asked.

He turned towards her, revealing the hurt in his eyes.

“Yes, my dear, I’m afraid it is.”

“In time…” she said hesitantly.

“No. Not in time. I did something to hurt her, unwittingly, and it goes too deep.” He remembered the way she had turned from him when he had tried to kiss her on the forehead. “She has forgiven me for it and in time, perhaps, we might have become friends, but even that is no longer possible. She means to sell the Brighton house and retire to her estate. Once the summer is over, I will not even have the comfort of seeing her.”

Anne put her hand on his arm, then said, “She is coming to my ball in two weeks’ time. A lot can happen in two weeks.”

Justin smiled. But to himself, he thought,
That is exactly what I’m afraid of.

CHAPTER NINE

Cassandra set off early the following morning, before fashionable Brighton was astir. The coach rolled through the streets and out of town. The fields were fresh under the early morning sky, with dew still clinging to the grass. After the blue of the sea, it was refreshing to be surrounded by green fields again.

They stopped once, at an inn, where they partook of a light luncheon, and then pressed on, reaching her house late in the afternoon. She felt a surge of happiness as the coach rolled in between the stone gateposts and went up the drive, turning a last bend to reveal her much-loved home.

It was a gentleman’s residence of ample proportions, and from a distance there was no sign of decay. Two storeys tall, it had large windows arranged symmetrically along the front. There was a small parapet concealing the bottom of the hipped roof, and there were windows set into the roof. They shed light on the servants’ quarters, although the quarters were now empty. The servants had gone, and only Moll and John remained. Because of their age and their position as friends as well as servants, Moll and John did not sleep in the attic, but both slept on the first floor.

As the coach rumbled between the wide lawns, Cassandra decided she must do something about the grounds. The flower-beds under the windows were overgrown and untidy. The Paxtons had never been gardeners and Cassandra was no exception, being unable to tell a plant from a weed, but she resolved to ask Mrs. Windover, the rector’s wife, for instruction. It would be cheerful to have colourful flower beds in front of the house to brighten it.

The coach came to a halt and Cassandra alighted. The house might be run down and heavily mortgaged, but it was home. She unlocked the door and went inside. It was just as she had left it, with its oak panelling glowing in the late summer sunshine, and its moth-eaten carpet swirling with motes of dust. The long-case clock ticked companionably in the corner, and the oak table pushed against the wall creaked in welcome as she set down her valise. The stairs rose ahead of her, their ancient steps worn in the middle by countless generations of Paxton feet.

Cassandra took off her bonnet and spencer and went into the library, where the mixture of grandeur and shabbiness continued. The furniture was a blend of solid oak and more modern, gilded pieces, but most of the gilding was coming off. The curtains were made of heavy damask, but they had been attacked by moths. The Aubusson carpet was threadbare and the porcelain ornaments were chipped. But the bookcases had been lovingly polished, and the leather books on the shelves filled the air with their scent.

She wandered over to the window. The wide lawns, kept short by Farmer Jenkins’ sheep, stretched away to a shrubbery beyond. It seemed impossible to believe that, only a few days ago, someone had been trying to kill her. Now that she was at home again, the idea seemed fantastic. Might not her accidents have been simply accidents? An accidental dipping was not uncommon and could easily be accounted for. Then, too, the race track had been crowded. Might she not have been jostled by a fellow race-goer who had had no intention of knocking her under the hoofs of the horses?

But then there was Rupert…He had been a traitor. And if Justin was worried, she would do well to be worried, too.

Rupert. Her thoughts went to her brother. What was it Mr. Elwin had said? She thought of the man who had insulted her at the assembly rooms, by suggesting she become some man’s mistress. “He was always fond of money.” Yes, he had always been fond of money. Too fond. When they had played their game of buried treasure in their childhoods, she had always wished for a new gown and Lizzie had wished for a doll, but Rupert’s wishes had been more extravagant. He had wished for a pair of matched bays, then four matched bays, then a string of race horses, then a hunting lodge, then a house in London…the list had gone on. Rupert’s fondness for money had been his downfall.

As she thought of Mr. Elwin, Cassandra found herself wondering if he could be the traitors’ ringleader. There had been something dissolute about him, and he had known Rupert. He might have decided to exploit Rupert’s love of money. And if not him, who? Peter Raistrick? He seemed like a nice young man, but there had been something about him that hadn’t quite rung true. Or Geoffrey Goddard? It wasn’t pleasant to think that one of those men might have tried to kill her, but she must not discount the possibility that they were more than they seemed.

She cast her mind back to the race track. She had seen Mr. Goddard there, but she had not noticed Peter Raistrick or Mr. Elwin. It had been crowded, though, and she might not have spotted them.

But this was absurd, she told herself. They might have pushed her on to the track but they could not have tried to drown her. They were men, and men and women bathed separately. Unless they had paid someone to do it…Or unless the traitors’ ringleader was a woman, someone she had not thought of. Possibly someone she had not met…

She thought back to the day when she had gone bathing. If only she had been able to see who had pushed her under the water, but she had been floating on her back at the time she had first been knocked beneath the waves, and after that, she had been too busy trying to save herself to look at her attacker. Besides, in their voluminous gowns and bathing hats, most people looked the same. Except…She frowned in concentration. As an arm had flailed wildly past her face, she had caught sight of a small mole on her assailant’s wrist. It probably meant nothing. The person who had attacked her could have been hired to do so, and she might never see them again. Even so, it would be useful in identifying them should they ever be caught.

“Where shall I put the drum table?” asked John, rolling a mahogany table awkwardly into the room.

“In the drawing-room, I think, John. It just needs a new caster, and then we can use it.”

“Very good, miss”

Putting aside her speculation, Cassandra helped him to sort and arrange the furniture. She was home again now. She did not have to worry about being attacked any more. Instead, she had to worry about walking into the village and buying something for them to have for their supper.

Three days later, Cassandra had still not heard from Justin. She had hoped he might have caught the villain by now, but she was not too downhearted. She had no need to be in Brighton for the present, and whilst she was at home she had plenty to do. She had been so busy, in fact, that she had forgotten all about the letter she had received from Lizzie just before going to visit Granmere Park. She had put it in her reticule, meaning to read it as soon as she had time, but events had driven it out of her mind. Now that she was at leisure she remembered it and began to read.

Darling, darling Cassie,

I am having a wunderul time. I don’t want it to end. Can Jane come and stay with us? She will be very good and not eat much becos she knows we don’t have any munny. Darling Cassie, you must let her come becos if not she will have to go and see her great grandmother who likes to kiss peeple which Jane says is HORRID becos her great grandmother has a mustash. Please, darling Cassie, rite to Jane’s mama and say she can come and stay with us, PLEASE…

Cassandra laughed as she read the letter. On finishing it, she took up her quill and began to write.

Dear Lizzie,

Yes, Jane can come and stay with us. I will write to her mama and say how happy we would be to have her with us.

Your spelling grows worse. I can only hope you pay more attention to it at the seminary, otherwise I will be receiving a stern letter from your teachers. I think I will have to make you practise when you return home.

She had just finished it when a glance out of the window showed her that she had a visitor. It was her neighbour, Mr. Brown—HORRID HORRID HORRID Mr. Brown, as Lizzie called him. Poor man! thought Cassandra. He might be dry and dusty, but he was not horrid. Well, not very horrid!

There was a rap at the door, and John showed him in.

He was dressed in black clothes which had a smell of fustiness about them, and when he raised her hand to his lips she had to suppress a shudder, for they were as dry as old leaves.

“Miss Paxton, I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see you back at home again,” he said in a dry, precise voice. “I felt the sea air would not agree with you—if you remember, I warned you against it—but I am pleased to see you have returned safely.”

“You’re very kind,” said Cassandra, trying not to smile.

“Only honest, dear lady. As soon as I heard you had returned I knew I must call to welcome you home, and of course, to return your book on”—he glanced at it—
“Arboreal and Botanical Wonders.”

She thanked him for bringing it back.

“A well-stocked library is the hallmark of a great mind,” he said.