Fortune's Lady (3 page)

“Of course.” She gestured toward the sofa and took the wing chair beside it for herself. “Were you a friend of my father's, Mr. Quinn?” Before he could reply, there was a knock at the door and Clara entered.

“Have you any plain barley water?” asked the visitor, declining the offered tray.

“I'm afraid not.”

“Ah. No matter.” He watched the maid leave. “No, Miss Merlin, I wasn't a friend of your father's. You've very little French accent, have you? Hardly even noticeable. How long did you live in Paris?”

“Twelve years.”

“Tell me a little about yourself.”

Cass hesitated. “Mr. Quinn, I don't mean to be rude, but why should I? I don't know you at all; I have no idea why you've come.”

He stared at her out of his strange, searching eyes. She had an impression he was re-evaluating, changing an opinion he'd had of her. His hand went to the inside pocket of his coat and brought out a folded piece of paper. “This document will introduce me. I'm an agent of His Majesty the King.” He stood up and handed it to her. “I've come to ask for your help.”

In growing perplexity she opened the stiff paper, staring at the regal-looking seal at the bottom. The document identified Oliver Martin Quinn in legalistic but vague terms as a member of His Royal Highness's personal ministry, empowered to act in furtherance and on behalf of the security and safety of the realm. Cassandra raised her eyes to the man who stood quietly watching her. “Mr. Quinn, how could I possibly help you?”

“Have you heard of the Constitution Club, Miss Merlin?”

“No, I haven't.”

“The Revolution Society?”

“No.”

“The Friends of the People?”

She spread her hands helplessly.

He smiled, but he was watching her carefully. “These are organizations in England of men who sympathize with the revolution in France and would like to see its anarchic principles take hold here.”

“I see. Was my father a member of one of them?”

“Of all of them, I should think, at one time or another. You weren't aware of his sympathies?”

“No. That is, I knew he sympathized with the Revolution and that, as a journalist, he often wrote in support of it.”

“Indeed. Many supported it, especially in the early days. But your father's support went a bit further, didn't it?”

Cassandra felt herself grow warm. “He did what he believed was right,” she said stiffly.

His brows lowered; his eyes burned into her. “Do you defend him?”

She felt ensnared by his eyes; she couldn't look away, couldn't even blink. “No, I don't defend him. I'm ashamed of him,” she admitted weakly. It was as if he were drawing the truth from her without her permission. She stood and went to the window, putting the wing chair between them. “But whatever he may have done, Mr. Quinn, he was my father. If you're expecting me to revile him, you'll be disappointed.”

She half-expected him to pursue her, but instead he walked over to the mantel and picked up one of the miniature portraits. “Your mother?” Cass nodded. “A beautiful woman. You're even more beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she said lightly. Compliments sounded odd coming from him, she thought.

“Men are attracted to you.” It was a statement, not a question, and it didn't sound like a compliment at all. “In a vain and foolish world, that's a useful skill to possess, Miss Merlin. A very useful skill.”

She made no answer. She couldn't imagine what he was leading up to. She finally identified the odor that emanated from him ever so faintly. It was incense.

He put his hands behind his back and began to pace before the cold hearth. “Your father belonged to another group besides the ones I mentioned, Miss Merlin. A much more dangerous group, one whose name we don't know, if it even has a name. It meets clandestinely, unlike the others, and its purpose isn't just to drink toasts to the Revolution and talk of a Jacobin Utopia. Its purpose is to create chaos in this country by any means available, so that a republic modeled after the one across the Channel can supplant our constitutional monarchy.”

He stopped pacing. “We believe we know the name of their leader, but we have no proof. And because the man is the son of an earl, we must move carefully. The earl in question is a trusted and, as far as we know, devoted friend of the royal family, so there's a need for extreme delicacy. Do you understand me?”

“I think so. Who is the man?”

“I will tell you his name after you've agreed to help us.”

“Help you in what way?” Cass burst out, exasperated. “Forgive my ignorance, but I still don't know what you would have me do!”

Quinn put his fingertips together and pressed them against his lips, studying her. “I would have you befriend him.”

“Befriend him,” she repeated stupidly. But even as he spoke again, the light was beginning to dawn.

“Make his acquaintance, win his confidence. Your father's just been executed, you've spent most of your life in France—it shouldn't take much to convince the man you're as devout an enemy of England as he is. Make him believe you want revenge. Let him talk of
fraternité
and
égalité
until you seem as fervent a believer in the Revolution as any Jacobin. In the meantime, keep us informed of his activities, the names of his friends, whom he meets with in secret.” He spread his hands. “Simple.”

Cassandra came around from behind the chair and sat down. “Simple,” she breathed, massaging her forehead. She tried to gather her wits. “You want me to be a spy.”

“Not—”

“You want me to befriend a man who leads a group trying to overthrow the monarchy.”

“In—”

“And the manner in which you want me to gain this man's
confidence,
as you put it, is very likely to mean taking him for a lover. Isn't that true, Mr. Quinn? Isn't that what you have in mind?”

For once he was at a loss for words, but only momentarily. “Miss Merlin, it's perfectly immaterial to me how you engage the man's confidence. I would leave that entirely up to you.”

“How magnanimous!”

“It may be the quickest approach, then again it may not. May I speak frankly?”

She stifled a giddy laugh. “Do you mean you haven't been?”

“I meant, may I speak my mind without fear of giving offense?”

“That depends on what you have to say.” But she thought she already knew.

He hesitated, and she gave him credit for at least attempting to be delicate. “Contemporary morality means nothing to me, Miss Merlin; it's too apt to be different tomorrow from what it was yesterday. But unfortunately, we live in a society governed by rather strict rules of conduct, rules that are no less binding for their being often capricious or unfair, especially as they apply to women, and—”

“Mr. Quinn, I thought you wanted to speak frankly.”

He stopped and clasped his hands behind his back, bobbing a bit on his toes. “Quite so. It's only this. I would never have suggested or implied that you become our traitor's mistress if I hadn't been in possession of information to the effect that such a relationship would not be a—a novel one for you, if I make myself clear. And that you would fit easily into the style of life in which our man is known to indulge.”

“The style of life—ah, I see. He must be a terrible libertine.” She was laughing softly, leaning back in her chair. “Mr. Quinn, I'm sure I should jump up and slap your face, but I fear it would do no good. My tattered reputation is beyond repair, I perceive.” She laughed again, but there was a bitter sound to it. “I suppose it wouldn't help to tell you that my reputation for decadence is a bit exaggerated? No, I thought not. It doesn't matter to me what you think, but I feel bound to tell you that if you're looking for a truly wicked woman for this role,—a
femme fatale
—you would really do better to look elsewhere.”

“I thank you for the warning, but I'm satisfied with my choice.”

“I wonder why I don't feel complimented,” she said dryly, bringing the first smile to Quinn's thin lips.

He pulled a straight chair away from the wall, placed it near her, and sat down. “You're wondering, naturally, what I'm offering in return for your cooperation,” he said in his oddly boyish tenor. “The possibility of physical danger to you is extremely remote, I assure you, but I won't say it doesn't exist; thus I wouldn't ask you to begin such an undertaking on the strength of mere…patriotism.”

The emphasis he gave the word struck her as almost sneering. “Actually, Mr. Quinn—”

“If I may be blunt again, I have information that your financial circumstances are unfortunate, your prospects for improving them not good. Plainly speaking, you're incapable of making an advantageous marriage, and the combined circumstances of your father's death, the reputation you inherited from him, and the one you've made for yourself make the possibility of any other course of action equally bleak.”

Cass couldn't speak. Mr. Quinn's words were like an echo of Aunt Beth's last night, only somehow much worse. How had this happened? When had it begun? A feeling of helplessness settled over her as she watched him rub his hands together almost with relish.

“I can rescue you from this situation,” he was saying softly, leaning forward and fixing her with his unnerving stare. “I'm prepared to give you five hundred pounds right now, this moment. When you finish your work—that is, when the situation is resolved one way or another—you'll receive an identical amount, as well as passage to America.”

“America!”

“Or Italy, the Netherlands—wherever you like.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Someplace where you'll have a chance to begin again, unencumbered by the past. There's little for you here in England now; I daresay when this is over, there'll be even less.”

She rose from her chair slowly and went to the fireplace. She found she had to lean against the mantel to steady herself. “Let me be sure I understand you,” she said in a low, controlled voice, without turning around. “You're asking me to prostitute myself to a traitor in return for a thousand pounds and exile from my own country forever. Do I have that right, Mr. Quinn?”

She heard him clear his throat and get up from his chair. He started speaking again, but she stopped listening, stopped thinking about anything at all. She picked up her mother's picture and stared into the clear gray eyes, so like her own. There was an ache deep in the center of her chest; pressing her hand against it brought no relief. Carefully she replaced the picture frame on the mantel and turned. Quinn stopped talking when he saw her face. “Please go away now.”

He opened his mouth in astonishment. “You refuse?”

She looked down. “No, though with all my heart I wish I could. But I must think about your offer.”

“If the money isn't enough—”

Her head snapped up. “It isn't the money! I wish I could hurl your filthy money into the Thames!”

“But that would be impractical, wouldn't it?” he said quietly, noting the clenched jaw and flashing eyes. “You'll need clothes, jewelry, the things women buy.”

“But I'm in mourning for my father!”

“I understand. Black weeds aren't very flirtatious, though, are they? They don't send quite the right message. I'm afraid they would have to go.”

Cassandra swallowed and clutched her hands together. “Mr. Quinn, you may find this hard to believe, but there is someone who I have reason to think wants to marry me. A gentleman.” Her chin lifted defiantly. “I haven't decided yet whether to accept his offer. When I've made up my mind what to do, I will let you know. And now if you'll excuse me, I'm not feeling very well.” It was true; her head throbbed as if twin hammers were beating at her temples.

Quinn rubbed his chin and watched her through narrowed eyes. “Of course. I'll say no more, except that we believe the men who failed to murder the king this time will try again, perhaps soon, and the need to infiltrate their numbers is urgent. This is the simple truth.” He walked to the door.

“One other thing,” he said offhandedly, as if as an afterthought. “This man, the one we would like you to …come to know. He secretly betrayed your father and his friends to us the day before their scheme was to be carried out. We don't know why, but it appears he meant for them to hang.” Impassively he watched her face turn ashen. “I must have your answer early tomorrow; if you agree to help us, send a message to this address. I'll arrange for you to meet our would-be assassin tomorrow night.” He laid a card on the small table by the door. “Oh, and Miss Merlin—I wouldn't expect too much from Edward Frane. As to his being a gentleman, I'd venture to say you've been misinformed.”

“Well, miss, it's him this time.”

Cassandra removed her gaze from the view of dreary, unkempt gardens outside her bedroom window and pressed the bridge of her nose between her fingers. “Who, Clara? What are you talking about?”

“That Mr. Frane. This time it's him. I put him in the sittin' room and give him the newspaper and told him ter wait. Said you'd be down when it suited you.”

Cass closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the glass for a second, feeling as if she were floating in a viscous mixture of dread and inertia. She was no closer now to deciding what to say to Mr. Frane than ever, but here he was. Presumably she would say
something
to him when—or rather, if—he asked her to marry him, and it seemed they were both going to learn what it was at the same moment. Ah, well: That wouldn't be very far from the way she'd made most of the major decisions in her life. With a weary sigh, she crossed to the bureau and peered into the glass.

“Do I look all right?” she asked the maid, not really caring but patting her hair into place and smoothing the bodice of her dress.