The Unofficial Suitor (12 page)

Releasing her hold on Ellen’s arm, Cassie hesitated only a few seconds before following her step-mother. It will not be so bad, she repeated over and over to herself. I shall smile at Mr. Hawke and dance with him, but I need not be afraid of him, because Geoffrey will never allow me to throw myself away on a nobody, even if he is a rich nobody. Surely I will have other suitors whom Geoffrey will find more suitable.

Indeed, within minutes after they joined Lady Letitia, the men began flocking around, seeking an introduction to her, and by the time she had danced two country dances, her card was filled for all but the waltzes, which she could not dance until after she had been given permission to waltz at Almack’s. It was one of the sillier rules, but in this case she was quite thankful for the restriction since it meant Mr. Hawke must limit himself to signing his name beside two of the country dances.

What she had not anticipated was that he would be seated beside her for all the waltzes. She wished desperately that he would show some attention to another young lady, but he did not budge from his chair, except to rise courteously to his feet whenever her partner returned her to her chaperone.

Halfway through the evening, she realized that in some subtle way, he was staking a claim on her—making it appear that the other men were returning her to him, rather than to Ellen.

With added dismay, she noticed what had escaped her attention before—that the first dance he had put his name beside was the supper dance, and the second one was the last dance of the evening. How could she have allowed him to claim her for two such significant dances?

How could she have prevented him, was more to the point, she thought, reluctantly accepting his arm and allowing him to lead her down to supper. He was a master of small talk, and as tongue-tied as she was every time she was near him, she knew she must appear to be shy in comparison. But was it shyness that caused a partridge to flee before a hawk?

She had a moment’s reprieve when he seated her at a small table and went to fill plates for both of them. Moments later, Ellen took one of the other three chairs.

“Is he not handsome? Oh, my dear, I could not credit it. He swears he has never forgotten me, and now he is a widower and quite free to marry again, as am I.”

Puzzled, Cassie looked at her step-mother. “Who are you talking about?”

“Why, Mr. Arthur Dillingham, of course. I introduced him to you not an hour ago. Did you not remark how handsome he is? And still quite smitten with me. I remember once he wrote a poem about me, and it was quite well done—everything rhymed beautifully.”

Vaguely Cassie remembered being introduced to a tall man with a rather florid complexion, who was already inclining toward fat. Apparently this was a former beau of Ellen’s, from the days before her marriage to Cassie’s father.

When their two escorts joined them, it was quite obvious that Mr. Dillingham was indeed smitten with Ellen’s charms, as he alternated bites of food with fulsome compliments.

Cassie could only be grateful that Mr. Hawke was not given to uttering such flowery phrases.

“I have been wanting to ask you for advice,” he said to her instead. “As payment for a debt, I have recently come into possession of a tin mine in Cornwall. Unfortunately, I am as yet at the mercy of my manager. Knowing nothing about mining, I must accept blindly anything he tells me, which makes me rather nervous. I have learned over the years that the more one knows, the less likely one is to be cheated.”

Richard had intended it merely as an opening conversational gambit, but Lady Cassiopeia looked positively stricken. “You are the owner of a mine?”

“Yes,” he repeated, wondering at her distress. “It appears to be a good investment, although I have not yet had an opportunity to inspect it as thoroughly as I might wish. The manager, who has been handling everything for the previous owner, has assured me that he is capable of running things without any attention from me, but—”

“There is nothing more disastrous than an owner who takes no interest in the running of his mine,” Lady Cassiopeia said firmly. “All of the worst abuses occur in such cases.”

“Abuses? My manager has said nothing about abuses, only about ways to increase profits.”

It was as if he had struck flint against steel—before his eyes she was transformed from shy young lady into fiery reformer.

“Of course he says that, but what he will never tell you is that the easiest way to increase profits is to pay the men such a pittance that they cannot support their families.” She had begun in a low, indignant voice, but with each word she uttered, the volume rose. “Then their wives are forced to work in the mines also, except that even then there is not enough money to support the family, so soon the children are also sent to work in the mines. Babies of four and five years are undoubtedly crawling on their hands and knees in your mine, Mr. Hawke, pulling carts of ore through low tunnels, because children are found to be cheaper than ponies and also more expendable, and therefore profits go up!”

Before she had finished, her step-mother was frantically trying to shush her, finally in desperation clapping her hand firmly over Lady Cassiopeia’s mouth.

“Really, Cassie,” the older woman hissed, her eyes darting around the room to see who was watching, “you are making us the center of attention. You must not talk about such subjects in polite company! Why, people will think you are a Methodist!”

Richard could not contradict Lady Blackstone, who was right about the notice they were attracting, nor yet could he abandon such a promising topic of conversation. Thinking fast, he said quietly, “I would learn more about this subject, but indeed, your step-mother is correct. This is not the ideal place to talk of tin mines. May I take you for a drive tomorrow afternoon, say at three, so that we can continue this discussion?”

Lady Cassiopeia was clearly torn between the desire to avoid him and the desire to reform him. In the end, her concern for the tin miners won out, and she nodded her agreement.

For the rest of the supper, he allowed Mr. Dillingham and Lady Blackstone to carry the weight of the conversation, only now and then tossing in a platitude where one was required.

In general, he was not dissatisfied with the evening’s work. He had an assignation with the woman of his choice ... and he also had the names of several men who had been particular in their attentions to her. Tomorrow Tuke could start investigating and see which of them constituted a serious threat.

The red-headed maid who opened the kitchen door regarded him with a baleful eye. Not that Digory could blame her. He had done his best this morning to look as disreputable as possible. The part of his face not hidden beneath his low-pulled cap was adequately covered by a four-day’s growth of beard, and his clothes looked as if he had been wearing them night and day for a month.

He had not, of course. It had taken great artistic skill to achieve the level of grime and stains that his jacket and trousers were now displaying. But as Cassie had pointed out to him, all cleaned up he bore a remarkable resemblance to the late Lord Blackstone, and Digory’s life would become truly complicated if anyone in London noticed the similarity of features.

Still and all, as much as he sympathized with the maid, he could not let her slam the door in his face, which she seemed inclined to do. Deftly inserting his foot, which was safely clad in a heavy boot, into the opening, he growled, “I’m here to see Piggot. He’s expecting me.”

There was a string of violent curses from inside, and the maid was roughly shoved aside. Piggot, apparently, had used a more time-honored method of acquiring his patina of grime, because he was not only disgusting to look at, but also offensive to the nose.

“You got the keg?” the earl’s factotum said with a scowl.

“If you’ve got the money,” Digory countered.

“My master’s credit is good.”

“That ain’t what I heard.”

“You ain’t seen the quality of the merchandise he’s got his hands on.” Piggot’s description of Cassie was so crude, he almost earned himself a broken jaw, but Digory was well trained in dissembling, having sat in many a tavern in France drinking to the health of the Emperor with spurious bonhomie.

“I’ll sell you this keg on credit, though the price’ll be half again as much as we agreed upon, but before you get another, I’ll ask around again and see if you’re telling the truth.”

“Fetch in the keg then and be quick about it,” Piggot said with a snarl.

* * * *

Cassie was sitting up in bed reading the latest novel from the Minerva Press—or rather, she was staring at the pages, trying unsuccessfully to take her mind off Mr. Hawke. Whyever had she agreed to drive out with him, when he was the one man in all of London she wanted absolutely nothing to do with?

And more important, how could she get out of the appointment? She could not feign an illness, because her step-mother would not allow that. The evening before, when they were all returning from the party, Ellen had positively crowed at the thought of Mr. Hawke’s being one of Cassie’s admirers.

“He is as rich as Croesus, and it is quite a feather in your cap that he is paying you so much notice,” she had insisted. “Not that you would want to marry someone like him, who has been wandering around in America, no doubt picking up heathenish habits, but still and all, it adds to your consequence to be seen with him.”

Cassie had pointed out that as she was an earl’s daughter, it seemed unlikely to her that such a man could add to her consequence, but Ellen had merely laughed and said that there were earls’ daughters and then there were earls’ daughters, and a rich suitor must always be a welcome addition to a young lady’s train of followers.

Unfortunately, the wretched man had already cost Cassie a night’s sleep. Every time she had dozed off, she’d had dreams—no, nightmares—that she was sitting beside him in his carriage, but instead of merely driving to the park and back, the carriage had kept going on and on, carrying her farther and farther away from the people she loved ...

Suddenly, her solitude was interrupted by the maid’s entering in a huff. One glance at Annie’s face was enough to tell Cassie the maid had not come up to fetch the breakfast tray.

“This used to be a respectable house to work in.” Annie cast a fulminating eye at Cassie. “But very much more and I shall decide starving in the streets is preferable to continuing in service here.”

“Has my brother ...?” Cassie asked, not sure how to express her question politely.

“His ardor has cooled considerably since I let him feel the point of my knife,” Annie replied, “although I still have to be alert to keep from getting pinched. And that Piggot is worse, because he’s got a fouler mouth than ever I heard when I was following the drum, and he never misses an opportunity to bump up against me. But as bad as the two of them are, I draw the line at having a smuggler in the kitchen.”

Could it be? Cassie felt hope for the first time since she had left Cornwall. “A smuggler?” Oh, perhaps there was yet a chance that she could avoid driving out with Mr. Hawke!

“Yes, a smuggler! I’ll bet a quarter’s wages not a shilling was ever paid to the king for that keg of brandy he delivered just now.”

“Never mind about the brandy,” Cassie said quickly, throwing back the covers and rolling out of bed. “Tell me about the smuggler. What does he look like?” If it was Digory, then he would certainly be willing to help her this time when she explained about Mr. Hawke. Surely her brother could not approve of such a suitor.

“He looked like the scum he is,” Annie said, beginning to pace the room. “Like something thrown up by the sea to rot on the beach. Like—”

But Cassie interrupted. “Did you hear his name? Tell me!”

Annie stopped her pacing and looked at Cassie suspiciously. “His name?”

“Did you hear Piggot mention his name? ‘Tis most important that I know—oh, please, think hard.”

Although still scowling, Annie thought for a minute, then said, “I think Piggot called him Randall or—”

“Rendel?” Cassie asked quickly.

Annie nodded, and Cassie threw her arms around the Scottish maid. “Oh, Annie, that is the most wonderful news.”

“Since when do you number smugglers among your friends?”

“Since ... since ... oh, Annie, I am sure the man is my brother, Digory Rendel.”

“Brother?”

“Born on the wrong side of the blanket, but still a most wonderful brother. He has taken care of me ever since my father died, and I know he has come to London just to see if I am all right. I must talk with him, but...” She paused, suddenly realizing the difficulties. “Annie, can you help me? I must speak to Digory, but it will be disastrous if Geoffrey or Piggot learn his identity. I cannot meet him in this house, lest we be seen or overheard. Perhaps a note? Could you...? It is much to ask, I know, that you go down to the kitchen again and risk being insulted by Piggot, but I cannot go myself, and there is no one else to send.”

“Are you sure this man is your brother? He looks so ... so ...” Annie made a look of disgust.

Cassie smiled. “He is quite good at disguises. But if you ignore the clothes and the scruffy beard, then you will see he bears some resemblance to Geoffrey, although Digory is a little taller, and his shoulders are broader, and he is much stronger. To be sure, he is not as pretty as Geoffrey, but Digory is trustworthy and honest and—”

“An honest smuggler? Is that not a contradiction? Or is he only pretending to be a smuggler?”

“No, he has made his living for years by smuggling, and I shall relate it all to you later if you promise never to tell a soul, but not now—he may be leaving at any moment, so I must get word to him.”

“There’s no need for a note,” Annie said. “I shall go back to the kitchen and flirt with this paragon of virtue and entice him into carrying my basket to the market for me. If he is your brother, he will come with me because he will wish to have me make arrangements for you to meet with him. And if he is not your brother, then I still have my knife. As soon as possible, you slip out of the house and meet us in the alley beside the butcher shop. Wear your plainest dress—one of those you brought with you from Cornwall will do—because in a fancy London gown, you will attract too much attention. And cover your head with a shawl, and pull it forward so that it shadows your face, and—”