Patricia Rice (12 page)

“Where are we going?” Lotta ran to the dresser to remove the
few intimate garments stored there. Rupert’s valet loped off in search of a
bag.

“Away.” Cassandra struggled out of the remains of her gown
and grabbed her old riding habit. It was too tight in the bosom but it was
warm. They might end up walking to Kent.

By the time she had the skirt and shirt in place, the valet
was discreetly scratching at the door. Lotta let him in and sent her employer
an anxious look. “How will we go?”

As if Lotta’s words jarred her memory, Cassandra began
tugging at the various drawers in the room. Rupert had to keep his spending
money somewhere.

The lanky valet watched impassively as she dumped out drawer
after drawer. Well over six feet, stoop-shouldered, with a face as lean and
haggard as the rest of him, he appeared ancient, and not wholly stupid. He
surmised the lady’s problem.

“There’s a door at the rear of the desk, my lady. You’ll
find a coin box in there.”

Without so much as a grateful look, Cassandra ran her
fingers over the polished wood at the side of the desk until she found a latch
similar to the one in her father’s. The door sprang open and she grasped inside
until she found the money box. Opening it, she discovered Rupert very
conveniently kept his coins in the pouch from the bank. Without counting the
contents, she swept the bag from its hiding place, shoved the box back, and
slammed the door.

“Let’s go.” Gripping the pouch, trailing the skirt of her
habit, ignoring the long tendrils of hair streaming from her once neatly
arranged coiffure, Cassandra strode across the garish bedchamber to the door.

Sending the valet an anxious look, Lotta started after her. “How
will we go, my lady? You cannot travel unprotected. Is someone waiting for us?”

Cassandra swung around and gave her plump maid a look of
disgust. “Rupert will be if we do not leave at once. Are you coming?”

The lanky manservant stepped forward with an impassive bow. “If
I may suggest, my lady, there are pistols in the wardrobe.”

Cassandra nearly crumpled at the reminder. “Not anymore,
they’re not,” she said sadly. Without another look back, she left the chamber.

“Wyatt! You’re not listening to me!” The Countess Merrick
indignantly drew up her wattled chin and glared at her only son.

“No, Mama,” the earl replied absently, innocent of the irony
of his answer.

“Wyatt, put that paper down this instant and listen to me!
You have been dallying about London far too long. Now that you’re home, you
must right the situation. It’s wicked, what she’s doing, and you must put a
stop to it! You are the magistrate, it is your responsibility!”

“Yes, Mama.” Not having heard a word that was said, Merrick
continued scanning the contents of the paper while sipping at his morning
coffee.

The scandal of Sir Rupert’s and Lady Cassandra’s
disappearance after an illegal duel in the park had finally died down to an
infrequent rumor in the gossip columns.

It had been impossible to keep the episode quiet. Thomas’
large and noisy family had rampaged through Bow Street and Parliament seeking
justice. Rupert’s disloyal servants had told stories to every reporter willing
to wave a shilling. And Duncan’s arrogant denial of any knowledge of the event
had infuriated the nobility as well as the general populace.

Merrick sighed as he finally set aside the printed pages. He
prayed Cassandra had not been caught in Rupert’s clutches. Duncan had sworn the
baronet had sailed alone. Cassandra’s brother had looked gray and harried
enough to almost make his promises believable.

The earl removed his spectacles and toyed with his empty
cup. It was no concern of his where Lady Cassandra might have gone, but he
couldn’t help an uneasy feeling at the thought of her running loose.

He had been with Duncan when they returned to Rupert’s house
to see if she had returned there. The knowledge that Cassandra’s maid and
Rupert’s manservant had also disappeared did not reassure. Merrick had insisted
on hiring investigators to be certain the lady hadn’t been abducted.

The investigators had brought a mountain of confusing
information these past weeks, but all Merrick had learned was that Cassandra
wasn’t in Paris with her husband and that France was an extremely expensive
place to send hired investigators. Shrugging, he started to rise before his
mother’s constant carping finally penetrated his thoughts.

“Are you going over there today? She needs to be sent back
to her brother, or to that scandalous monster she married. It’s not right that
she remain here causing talk. I don’t know why the Scheffings haven’t had her
arrested.”

Finally, he focused on his mother’s tirade. “Who arrested,
Mother?”

The countess favored him with an irate glare. “The wanton
Howard chit, of course. Honestly, Wyatt, sometimes I believe you don’t listen
to a word I say. I have been waiting for you to come home to straighten out the
matter. What are you going to do about it?”

Merrick felt the knot in his stomach tighten. Had he spent
all these weeks scouring London when the little witch was actually right here
at his doorstep? Impossible! The Howard estate was no more than a burned-out
ruin.

Cat would never take her in, and the Scheffings would have
notified him. Surely she wouldn’t be staying in the village. His mother’s mind
must be weakening.

“What am I going to do about what, Mother?” he asked
wearily.

The countess rose to her full, somewhat shaky height and
glared. “What are you going to do about Cassandra Howard living in that
tumbledown wreck of a house and enticing our tenants away with promises she can’t
keep?” The countess enunciated each word firmly, as if speaking to a child.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mother. Even Gypsies avoid that place.
The framework could collapse any minute. Someone’s been telling you Banbury
tales.” Merrick folded his newspaper and strode across the room.

Wyatt ignored his mother’s cry of frustration. When he’d
been an adolescent, he had allowed her to guide his hand in the managing of his
life as well as his estates. She seemed to have some difficulty in recognizing
that he no longer needed her advice.

Mounting the horse he had ordered saddled and held for him,
Wyatt set out to see how his lands had fared during his absence. He was
unaccustomed to being gone during the spring planting, although his steward was
well able to carry out his duties without constant supervision. To believe the
estate ran itself would be to admit to his own uselessness.

Near the edge of the field where the men were planting the
early corn, he espied his steward, John MacGregor. The older man seemed to be
in conversation with a woman who matched him in height, although her willowy
figure was half the breadth of the stout steward’s. She wore her hair hidden
beneath a cotton kerchief, but something in her gestures stirred Merrick’s recognition—that,
and the fact that MacGregor spoke to her at all. The steward was a notorious
woman hater.

Swallowing past an odd catch in his throat, Wyatt kicked his
horse in their direction. Lady Cassandra Howard—Percival, he added
belatedly—did not belong in cotton kerchiefs and broadcloth gowns. She might be
a glittering star in the firmament, but he could not see her grubbing in the
dirt. This must be a newcomer to the area, and he was eager to greet her.

Too eager. Wyatt’s pulse raced as he reached the pair. Just
the possibility that it might be Cassandra had the strangest effect, one he
hadn’t suffered since his schoolboy days. Scowling, Wyatt swung down from his
horse.

The blue eyes smiling up at him matched the color of the
spring skies this morning, and Wyatt’s knees nearly gave way. She was only
eighteen and another man’s wife, his conscience told him, but his senses swayed
beneath her sensual perfume.

Knowing he was surely losing his mind, Merrick continued to study
her cream-and-rose features. His gaze caressed the fading bruise on her jaw
while he clenched his fingers to keep from touching her. Cassandra’s smile
faltered at his continued silence, but he had never been one for small talk,
and he didn’t dare speak what was on his mind now.

“Lord Merrick?” she asked hesitantly.

“Lady Cassandra.” He bowed perfunctorily for the benefit of
their audience. “I did not know you had returned.”

A dimple appeared at his curt tones. “I did not know I was
supposed to inform you.” Cassandra flicked her eyes in MacGregor’s direction to
indicate she was hampered by a third party.

Merrick ignored the hint as well as the jest. Turning to his
steward, he nodded a greeting. “John, I take it you have met Lady Cassandra?”

“It’s been a few years since she trampled my wheat making
hiding places for her dolls,” MacGregor said, “ but aye, I remember her well.
We were discussing which of her fields requires the least work to put it into
production. I’d guess that back lot the tenants been using to run their cows.”

Merrick raised incredulous eyebrows. “Is Eddings planning to
restore the estate?”

Her eyes danced with amusement. “I intend to restore the
estate, my lord. My estimable brother has nothing to do with it. What do you
think my chances are of earning enough to buy it from him?”

~*~

Both the earl and his steward stared at her as if she were
mad, Cassandra noted. Perhaps she was. The last three weeks of her life had
been the most miserable and the happiest she had ever known. She was still not
able to fully accept that she was responsible for a young man’s death. She woke
up in the night screaming with the memories of that smoking pistol and Thomas’
crumpled body spilling blood at her feet.

She would never lose that memory, never put another man in
that same position again. She hadn’t yet figured out how she could ever show
her sorrow to Thomas’ family or make it up to them, but she would.

That was why she was happy. She had found her home and knew
this was where she was meant to be. She could make something good here so Thomas
would not have died in vain. It would take time, but she knew she could make a
better life for many people if she worked hard at it. And then she would go to
Bertie and his family and say, “Because of your son, I could do this,” and
offer her sorrow and gratitude.

Looking up in Merrick’s cold face, she felt a momentary
trepidation, but the proud and righteous Earl of Merrick would someday look at
her with respect.

But for now she amused herself with teasing the scowl from
his face. Wyatt had grown too stuffy with age and responsibility.

Smiling and nodding a polite dismissal to the steward,
Cassandra slid her hand around Merrick’s arm and steered him toward the
hedgerow that marked the division of their properties.

“You do not think a woman can manage these fields?” she
taunted.

“I do not think anyone can manage these properties without a
large influx of wealth and labor. Has your husband signed over his fortune for
such use?”

Merrick knew the idle baronet too well to expect any such
thing, but he had to say something to keep his tongue from sticking to the roof
of his mouth. The memory of a certain heated kiss haunted him, and he felt none
of the chill of this cool spring day.

Cassandra waved her hand regally as if to dismiss her
husband in the same manner as she had the steward. “Rupert knows nothing of
this. Do not mention his name or that of my brother again in my presence. I
will work these lands on my own, without anyone’s help.”

Despite his physical attraction to her, Wyatt maintained his
practical nature, and he shook his head. “Lady Cassandra, you have no idea of
the size of the undertaking. The lands and tenants have been neglected for
years. You have no cottages left. You do not even have a house in which to
live. Where are you staying, by the way? Your brother has been looking for you.”

Cassandra snatched her hand away. “I daresay he is, and he’ll
find out soon enough, but certainly not by my words. If all you will do is
offer discouragements, my lord, I will bid you good day.”

Wyatt knew he ought to let her go. There was nothing he
could say to her that she wished to hear. But in the brief space of a few weeks
she had given him more vivid memories than he held of a lifetime. He could
still see her now in the daring primrose gown, dashing into his arms, and
later, with her glittering wedding dress torn and hanging from her shoulder and
her jaw swollen and bruised as she begged him to save a young man’s life. He
had to admire her for her courage, if nothing else.

He caught her elbow and prevented escape. “Let me escort
you, my lady. You should not be walking these fields alone.”

“I did not mean to be sharp with you, my lord,” she
answered. “It is only that I am tired of being told what I cannot do.”

“You used to call me Wyatt. Can we not be friends and return
to the informalities?”

Eyes of liquid blue scanned his face, and a smile curved her
mouth. “Are you sure you would cry friends with such as I, my lord? Or do you
just wish to preach me sermons?”

Merrick quirked an eyebrow at her. “I believe I wish to show
you that you chose the wrong man, but that wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me,
would it?”

“Oh, no, I did not,” she protested. “Husbands are easily
come by, but not friends. I would hate to lose your friendship by becoming your
wife.”

There was truth in what she said, Wyatt knew from
experience, but how had an eighteen-year-old child come to possess such wisdom?
Holding his smile so as not to disturb her, he shook his head in disbelief.

“I’ll not debate platitudes with you. Tell me where you are
staying so I might reproach your hostess for allowing you to run wild and
unprotected. Or is it the countryside that must be protected from you?”