Seducing an Angel

/15/

STEPHEN spent the morning of the following day at the House of Lords, participating in a debate on an issue that particularly interested him.

He went to White's afterward, as he often did, for a late luncheon with some of his friends and would probably have proceeded to the races with them if his mind had not been distracted by something – or someone – he had seen from a distance just before arriving at the club.

Wesley Young.

And of course his mind had been on Cassandra ever since yesterday. She had even inhabited his dreams. He had been standing on that tree branch again, kissing her, and they had floated off into the sky, happy enough until they tried to find their way back while she fretted over the fact that the dog needed to be fed and he tried to see where they were going through her windswept red hair.

Such an absurd dream.

He could not remember dreaming about a woman ever before.

"Does anyone know where Sir Wesley Young lives?" he asked now of no one in particular.

All of them shook their heads except Talbot, who seemed to recall that Young had bachelor rooms on St. James's Street, not far from the club.

The house with the bilious yellow door and the semicircular fanlight above it.

"I remember standing in front of that door after having a few drinks, while Young fumbled with his key," Talbot said. "And it did nothing to settle my stomach, I can tell you, Merton. It quite put me off drinking more than half a dozen glasses more once I was inside."

The fact that he had seen Young not far from here might mean, Stephen thought, that he had been going home for luncheon – or leaving to take it elsewhere.

He disappointed himself and a few of his friends by deciding against going to the races. He went instead in search of the bilious yellow door, which turned out to be not quite so bilious after all when viewed in sunlight and with a sober stomach.

Stephen knocked upon it.

This was really quite irrational, he realized. And purely impulsive. He was not even sure why he was doing it except that he had somehow got himself – and his emotions – entangled with Cassandra and could not resist the reprehensible urge to interfere in her life.

He ought not to be doing it. She had not asked it of him.

He had not even made any arrangement to see her again after yesterday's picnic. He had felt the need of a cooling-off period. Within four days he had got himself embroiled in madness. It was quite unlike him. He led a normally tranquil, rather predictable life, and he liked it.

His dream had not cooperated with his very sensible decision, of course.

Neither had his waking spells when, if he was honest with himself, he had lain in his bed wanting her, desire like a raging fever in his blood.

It simply would not do. He needed to /do/ something for her and then resume the normal, perfectly happy course of his life.

Young's valet opened the door and took Stephen's card. He asked him to wait in a downstairs visitors' room – typically dark and gloomy – while he saw if Sir Wesley was at home, a sure sign that he was. If he had not been, Stephen would have been turned away at the door.

Young came in person within a few minutes, looking both surprised and mystified. He was dressed as though he had been about to step out.

"Merton?" he said. "This is an unexpected honor."

"Young?" Stephen inclined his head.

He was auburn-haired and good-looking, though he had none of the vivid beauty of his sister. The family resemblance was unmistakable, though.

He had a pleasant, good-humored face, a fact that irritated Stephen.

There was an awkward silence.

"Would you care to step up to my rooms?" Young asked, breaking it.

"No, thank you," Stephen said. He had no wish to engage in small talk either. "I have given the matter much thought during the past few days, and I have come to the conclusion that there are absolutely no circumstances under which I can imagine myself riding past one of my sisters in Hyde Park and giving her the cut direct."

Young seated himself in an old leather chair without inviting his guest to sit too. Stephen sat anyway in a lumpy chair opposite him.

"Especially," he said, "if she were friendless and destitute."

Young flushed and looked annoyed – not without reason, perhaps.

"You must understand, Merton," he said, "that I am not a wealthy man – or perhaps you /cannot/ understand that. It is important to me that I make an advantageous marriage, and this year I am – /was/ – close to doing just that. It was selfish of Cassie to come to London now of all times, especially when I had specifically warned her not to."

"Selfish," Stephen repeated as Young got restlessly back onto his feet and crossed the room to gaze into the empty fireplace. "Where else was she to go?"

"She might at least," Young said bitterly, "have lived quietly here so that no one would have noticed her. But I have heard since that afternoon in the park that she had already appeared at Lady Sheringford's ball and at Lady Carling's at-home. And somehow she persuaded you to take her driving in the park at the very busiest hour.

She has to understand that after what she did she is fortunate to be alive and free. She certainly cannot expect decent people to receive her. She cannot expect me to – But why am I explaining all this to you? I scarcely know you, Merton. And it is none of your business how I choose to treat my own sister."

Stephen ignored the rebuke, though Young was quite right, of course.

"You believe what you have heard about her, then?" he asked. "Did you know Paget well?"

Young frowned down at the grate.

"He was the most amiable fellow you could hope to meet," he said. "And generous to a fault. He must have spent a king's ransom on jewels for her. You ought to have seen them all. I went to Carmel a few times to visit. I was disappointed in Cassie. She had changed. She had lost the warmth and sparkle of humor she had always had when we were growing up.

She scarcely spoke. She clearly regretted having married a man who was no younger than our father, and I thought that very unfair to Paget, who doted on her. She knew his age when she married him, after all. Did she kill him? Well, /someone/ did, Merton, and I cannot think anyone would have had any motive except her. She wanted to be /free/. She wanted to come back here and behave just as she is behaving. She obviously has you besotted, and everyone knows you are as rich as Croesus."

"Would the sister you remember actually /kill/ a man," Stephen asked him, "in order to be free to enjoy life again?"

Young crossed back to the leather chair and dropped heavily into it.

"She was mother, sister, and friend to me when we were growing up," he said. "But people change, Merton. /She/ changed. I saw it with my own eyes."

"Perhaps," Stephen said, "she was made to change. Perhaps all was not as it seemed in that marriage. Your visits, I take it, were infrequent and not lengthy?"

Young frowned at his own boots and said nothing.

He knew, Stephen thought. He had probably always known – or strongly suspected, anyway. Sometimes it was easier not to know, though, to shut one's mind to the truth.

"I was very young," Sir Wesley said, as if reaching for an excuse.

"You are past your majority now, though," Stephen said. "She needs a friend, Young. She needs someone of her own who will love her unconditionally."

"Miss Haytor – " Young began. He had the decency not to complete the thought.

"Yes," Stephen said. "Miss Haytor is her friend. She is not family, though. Neither is she a man."

Young moved restlessly in his seat, but he would not look at Stephen opposite him.

"The young lady who was with you in the park," Stephen said. "I do not have an acquaintance with her, I'm afraid."

"Miss Norwood," Young said.

"Do you still have hopes of marrying her?" Stephen asked.

"She was indisposed when I arrived to escort her to a garden party yesterday afternoon," Young said with a twisted smile. "She was expected to be indisposed for some days to come. I saw her at Vauxhall last evening, though, looking in perfect health. She was with her parents and Viscount Brigham."

"Then I would say," Stephen said, "that you had a fortunate escape.

There will be those members of the /ton/ who will respect you far more if you stand staunchly by your sister than if you pretend you do not even know her. And of course there will be those who will not. Which group would you rather impress?"

He got to his feet to leave.

"What is your interest in Cassie?" Young asked him, keeping his seat.

"Is she your mistress?"

"Lady Paget," Stephen said, "is in dire need of a friend. I am her friend. And although I know from her own lips that she had motive more than sufficient to kill the bastard who was her husband, something tells me she did not do it. I know nothing about the circumstances of his death beyond the fact that he was shot with a pistol, /not/ hacked to pieces with an axe. But I will tell you this, Young. Even if at some time I discover beyond all doubt that it /is/ true, that she /did/ shoot him, I will still be Lady Paget's friend. He /was/ a bastard. Did you know that she had two miscarriages and one stillbirth, none of them necessary?"

Young looked directly at him then, the color draining from his face.

Stephen did not wait for him to say anything. He took up his hat and cane from just inside the door and let himself out of the dingy parlor and out of the rooming house.

Well, how was /that/ for interfering in lives that were really none of his business?

He found his steps leading him toward Portman Street and Cassandra's house. He had no idea why. Perhaps he needed to confess what he had just done. She would, he suspected, be furious with him, and she had every right to be. But was he sorry? He was not. He would do it again given the chance.

And did he /really/ believe Cassandra was innocent of murder? And even of the lesser crime of killing in self-defense? Was it just wishful thinking on his part?

She was not at home. It was almost a relief.

"She has gone out with Miss Haytor, my lord," the maid told him.

"/Ah/," he said. "Some time ago?"

"No, my lord," she said. "Just this minute."

But there was no sign of her in either direction along the street. She would not be back soon, then.

"Mary," he said, "may I have a word with you?" /Now/ what the devil was he up to?

"With me?" Her eyes grew saucer-wide, and she touched a hand to her bosom.

"Can you spare me a few minutes?" he asked her. "I will not keep you long."

She stood back from the door to admit him, and he gestured toward the kitchen. She scurried ahead of him.

He noticed in passing that there was a distinctive gilt-edged card propped against a vase on the hall table, with Lady Paget's name written on it in an elegant hand. It was an invitation to Lady Compton-Haig's ball the following evening. He had a duplicate addressed to him on the desk in his study.

It was beginning to happen for her, then? She was beginning to be accepted into society?

The child was sitting on the floor beneath the kitchen table, the dog stretched out at her feet. He raised his eye to Stephen and thumped his tail lazily on the floor but did not otherwise move. The child was singing softly to her doll, which was wrapped in its white blanket. She was rocking it.

Mary turned to face Stephen, and it occurred to him that she really was rather pretty in a thin, pale sort of way. She had fine eyes, and the color his presence had put in her cheeks became her.

"Mary," he said, and realized he could not ask what he most wanted to know. She probably did not have the answer, anyway. He felt suddenly foolish. "What happened to the dog?"

She looked down and twisted her apron.

"Someone," she said, "a-a /stranger/, was trying to beat Lady Paget out in the stables, and Roger tried to defend her. He did too – she was not near so badly beat up as she usually – As might have been expected. But Lord – But the strange man caught hold of a whip and whipped the dog so vicious that he lost the sight of his eye and lost the tip of his ear, and his leg was crushed so bad that part of it had to be cut off."

"Crushed with a whip?" Stephen asked.

"With a – a shovel, I think," Mary said.

"And did this stranger – or Lord Paget – get hurt too?" Stephen asked.

She darted him a glance before returning her attention to her apron.

"He got bit something fierce, my lord," she said. "In his arms and legs and on the side of his face. He took to his bed for a whole week before he could get up and go about his business. Lord Paget, I mean. When he went rushing to her rescue, that was. I don't know what happened to the strange man. He must of escaped."

Stephen wondered if she would think back and wince at the gaping holes in her story.

"The head groom wanted to put Roger down," Mary said. "He said it was the kindest thing to do. But Lady Paget had the crushed part of his leg took off and then carried him to her own room, and she kept him there until he was better, though none of us but her thought it would happen.

Lord Paget never said he was to be put down though we was all expecting it. Roger must not of recognized him when he came to the rescue and attacked him too."

Stephen set a hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

"It is all right, Mary," he said. "I know. Lady Paget told me herself.

Not about Roger, but about the rest of it. She did /not/ tell me about Lord Paget's death, but I will not try to squeeze that story out of you."

Yet it was what he had come inside to ask, he realized.

"I am sorry if I have caused you distress," he added.

"She didn't do it," she whispered, her eyes like saucers again, her cheeks suddenly pale.

He squeezed a little harder before releasing her.

"I know," he said.

"I worship her," she said stoutly. "Did I do wrong coming here with her?

I cook and clean for her and do everything I can, but did I bring shame on her by coming? And did I add a burden on her because she has to feed me and Belinda? I know she feels obliged to pay me. I know she don't have no money – or didn't until – " She stopped abruptly and bit her lip.

"You did right, Mary," he said. "Lady Paget needs someone to look after her, and it appears to me as if you do that very well indeed. And she needs friends. She needs love."

"/I/ love her," she said. "But I am the one who caused her all the trouble in the end. It was all my fault."

She threw her apron over her face, and Belinda stopped rocking her doll and looked up.

"No, this has been my fault," he said. "I ought not to have come in to pester you with questions. How is Beth today, Belinda? Is she sleeping?"

"She is being naughty," she said. "She wants to play."

"Does she?" he said. "Perhaps you ought to play with her for a little while, then, or tell her a story. Stories often put babies to sleep."

"I'll tell her one, then," she said. "I know one. She has just eaten, and if I play with her she may be sick."

"I can see," he said, "that you are a very good and wise mother. She is fortunate."

He turned his attention back to Mary, who was smoothing her apron down over her skirt again.

"I have kept you long enough from your work – or perhaps from your leisure hour," he said. "And I am sorry about the questions I asked. I am not usually so inquisitive about other people's business."

"Do you care for her?" she asked.

"Yes." He raised his eyebrows. "I am afraid I do."

"Then I forgive you," she said, and blushed hotly. "Will you be offended," he asked her, "if I leave you money to take Belinda to Gunter's for an ice when you have free time one afternoon? No child should go through life without that experience. No adult either."

"I got money," she said.

"I know." He smiled. "But it would give me pleasure to treat Belinda – and you."

"Very well, then," she said. "Thank you, my lord."

He took his leave after setting down some coins on the table – just enough for two ices – and hurried from the house. He made his way homeward even though there was still plenty of the afternoon left. He was in no mood for any of his usual pursuits. He did not even consider going to the races after all, though he would not have missed very much.

He tried to think of all the young ladies with whom he usually liked to dance and converse, even flirt in a mild sort of way.

He could scarcely bring one face to mind.

If memory served him correctly, he had not yet reserved even one set with anyone for tomorrow's ball. /She/ had been to blame for what had happened at the end, Mary had just said. For Paget's death, he had taken her to mean. And she had been quite adamant that Cassandra had not done it.

Immediately after saying so, of course, she had said she worshipped Cassandra. It was easy to lie for a loved one.

The dog had been maimed while taking a whipping intended for his mistress. His leg had been crushed with a shovel – also intended for Cassandra? Would she be dead now instead of her husband if Roger had not intervened on that occasion? And would the official story have been that she was another victim of a fall from horseback?

He had a headache, Stephen discovered when he arrived home.

He /never/ suffered from headaches.

"Go away, Philbin," he told his man when he found him in his dressing room, putting away some freshly ironed shirts. "I'll just be barking at you if you open your mouth, and I'll be damned before I'll be apologizing to you every second day of my life."

"The new boots pinching, are they, m'lord?" Philbin asked cheerfully. "I told you when you got them that – "

"Philbin," Stephen said, grasping his temples with the thumb and middle finger of one hand, "go. Now."

Philbin went.

Cassandra had looked through the paper Alice had bought a few days ago and had written down the names and addresses of three lawyers she hoped might be able to help her. Alice, when she knew what Cassandra was going to do, advised that she talk with Mr. Golding or even the Earl of Merton. Both would surely know the best lawyers for such a case.

But Cassandra was tired of leaning upon men. They were rarely reliable, and even if that was probably an unfair judgment of Mr. Golding and undoubtedly of Stephen, then she was tired of having no real control over her own life. Less than a week ago she had thought to get that control by acquiring a wealthy protector. Now she was going to do what she ought to have done at the start.

It was not easy, though, as she discovered when she called upon the three lawyers one by one, Alice at her side. Alice had insisted upon accompanying her. Nobody would take a lady seriously, she explained, if she was alone.

Nobody took her seriously anyway.

The first lawyer was not taking new clients, as he was far too busy with the ones he already had – even though he had advertised his services in the paper. The next lawyer was far more blatant about recognizing her name, and sent out the message that he was not a criminal lawyer and would not represent ruthless murderers even if he were.

Alice wanted to go home after that. She was very upset. So was Cassandra, but the effect of the man's rudeness to her – which, by the way, he had not had the courage to deliver in person – was to make her lift her chin and square her shoulders and march onward with an almost militant stride.

The third lawyer admitted them to his inner sanctum, bowed low to Lady Paget and smiled obsequiously, listened to her story with attention and sympathy, and assured her that she had a perfectly legitimate case and that he would get her money and her jewels and the dower house and town house too in the mere snap of two fingers. He named his fee, which sounded exorbitant to Cassandra, though he claimed that he was giving her a considerably reduced rate on account of the fact that her case would give him no trouble at all and she was a /lady/ for whom he felt considerable respect and sympathy. And he would take only half of the fee in advance – not one penny more.

Cassandra offered what she had. If her claim was an easy one and if he could get her money with little delay, then she would be able to pay him in full very soon. But while her money was being withheld from her, she explained, she really had quite limited means.

It seemed that it had not occurred to him that someone with the title /Lady/ Paget might also be virtually penniless – despite the story she had told. His manner changed. It became brisk and cold and irritated.

He could not possibly proceed on so small a retainer.

He had a wife and six children…

He regretted having wasted his precious time…

There was, of course, his consultation fee…

And there would be a great deal of work involved in…

Lady Paget could not possibly expect him…

Cassandra did not even listen. She got to her feet and swept from the office and the building, Alice scurrying along behind her.

"Perhaps," Alice said when they were outside and striding along the pavement, "the Earl of Merton would – "

Cassandra rounded on her, her eyes blazing.

"Just a few days ago," she said, "the Earl of Merton was the devil incarnate in your eyes because he was paying me a generous salary for the use of my body. And yet now, Alice, you think it perfectly unexceptionable to beg a small fortune from him though he is no longer making use of my body?"

"Oh, shush, Cassie," Alice said, looking around in an agony of embarrassment.

Fortunately there were not many pedestrians on the street, and none were within earshot.

"I was merely thinking of a /loan/," Alice said. "If that man is right, you would soon be able to pay it back."

"I would not pay that man a /farthing/," Cassandra said, "if he could get me my money with the crown jewels thrown in /tomorrow/."

And then her shoulders slumped.

"I am sorry, Allie," she said. "I had no right to snap at you of all people. But tell me I am right. Tell me all men are rotten to the core."

"Not /all/ men are," Alice said, tapping her on the arm, and they resumed walking. "But /that/ one was rotten right /through/ the core. I pity his poor wife and six children. He thought because you are a woman he could make a great deal of money from you. And he could have. You would not have argued with his fee, would you, though it was outrageous.

Unfortunately for him, he was too greedy to wait."

Cassandra sighed deeply. So much for taking charge of her life. So much for firmness of purpose and planned action. But she would try again. She was not going to give in.

No more today, though. All she wanted to do now was creep home to lick her wounds. As if in sympathy with her mood, heavy clouds had gathered overhead and a wind was beginning to whip up the dust in the gutters.

There was a sudden chill in the air.

"It is going to rain," Alice said, looking up.

They hurried home and arrived just as the first large, round drops were beginning to fall. Cassandra heaved another sigh as the key she had retrieved from under the flowerpot turned in the lock and she and Alice stepped inside. This place was beginning to feel like home. Like sanctuary.

Mary came hurrying from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

"There is a gentleman in the sitting room, my lady," she said.

"Mr. Golding?" Alice said, brightening. /Stephen/? Cassandra did not say it aloud. He had not said anything after the picnic yesterday about seeing her today. It had been a relief – she was seeing too much of him. And yet there had been something dreary about today without him – alarming thought.

She opened the door to the sitting room to find a young man pacing inside.

She turned cold as he stopped to look at her.

"Cassie," he said. He looked miserable.

"Wesley." She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Alice had already disappeared.

"Cassie, I – " he began. He stopped, and she heard him swallow. He ran the fingers of one hand through his auburn hair, a gesture that looked very familiar. "I was /going/ to say that I did not recognize you the other day, but that would be stupid, would it not?"

"Yes," she agreed, "that would be stupid."

"I don't know what to say," he said.

She had not seen much of him in the last ten years, yet she had always adored him. He was someone of her very own. Foolish her.

"Perhaps you could begin," she said, "by telling me what happened to the walking tour in the Highlands."

"Oh," he said. "A few of the fellows could not – Dash it all, Cassie, there was no such tour."

She took off her bonnet and set it, with her reticule, on a chair close to the door. She went and sat in her usual place beside the fireplace.

"You must understand," he said, "that Papa did not leave much money behind – or much of anything at all, in fact. I decided this year that I must look seriously about me for a bride who could bring a decent portion to the marriage. I did not want you to come here and spoil everything for me. Not /this/ year."

Wesley was doing something not very different from what she had done, she thought – he was looking for someone who could provide for his financial needs.

"I suppose," she said, "having an axe murderer for a sister /does/ rather interfere with your matrimonial chances, does it not? I am sorry."

"Nobody believes that," he said. "Not the axe part, anyway."

She smiled, and he resumed his pacing.

"Cassie," he said, "that time I visited when I was seventeen. Do you remember? You had the yellow remains of a black eye."

Had she? She could not remember his being there close to the time of any of her beatings.

"I had walked into the door of my bedchamber, had I?" she said. "I seem to recall that happening once."

"The stable door," he said. "Cassie, did – Did Paget ever /hit/ you?"

"A man has a right to discipline his wife when she is disobedient, Wesley," she said.

He looked at her, frowning and troubled.

"I wish," he said, "you would talk in your real voice, Cassie, not in that… sarcastic one. /Did/ he?"

She stared at him for a long time.

"He was an infrequent drinker," she said. "When he /did/ drink, he did so for two or three days without stopping. And then he would – turn violent."

"Why did you never let me know?" he asked her. "I would have – " He did not complete the thought.

"I was his lawful wife, Wes," she said. "And you were a boy. There was nothing you could have done."

"And you killed him?" he said. "Not with an axe, but you /did/ kill him?

Was it self-defense – when he was beating you?"

"It does not matter," she said. "There were no witnesses who will ever talk, and so there will never be proof. He deserved to die, and he died.

No one deserves to be punished for killing him. Leave it."

"It /does/ matter," he said. "It matters to me. Just to know. It makes no difference to anything, though. I am thoroughly ashamed of myself. I hope you will believe that and forgive me. I have been thinking only of myself, but you are my sister, and I love you. You were my mother too when I was a child. I never felt alone and unloved even when Papa was out gambling for days on end. Let me – Let me at least /be/ here for you, Cassie. Late enough, admittedly, but not /too/ late, I hope."

She rested her head against the back of the chair.

"There is nothing really to forgive," she said. "We all do selfish, despicable things from time to time, Wes, but they do not have to define us if we have a conscience strong enough to stop us from /becoming/ selfish and despicable. I did /not/ kill Nigel. But I am not saying who did, not to you or to anyone else. Ever. And so I will always be the prime suspect even though his death was ruled an accident. Most people will always believe I killed him. I can live with that."

He nodded.

"The lady in the park," she said. "Are you still courting her?"

"She was a shrew," he said, and pulled a face.

"Oh." She smiled at him. "You had a fortunate escape, then."

"Yes," he said.

"Come and sit down," she said. "It is giving me a stiff neck to keep looking up at you."

He sat in the chair beside hers, and she held out her hand to him. He took it in his own and squeezed tightly. Heavy rain was beating against the window. It sounded almost cozy.

"Wes," she said, "do you know any good lawyers?"