Page 18

CHAPTER NINE

R olfe did not see Cassia again the rest of that evening.

When she neglected to come down for the summer, he was informed upon his questioning the maid, Lynette, that “Milady had requested a tray brought up to her chamber, pleading a headache and extending her polite apologies to his lordship for her unexpected, but necessary absence.”

Quigman, the groom and the unfortunate man to whom Cassia had assigned the unpleasant task of removing Rolfe from the premises earlier that day, had left for a short time after supper, indicating to Clydesworthe that he had a letter to deliver for his mistress posthaste.

By eleven o’clock that evening, Rolfe entertained the thought that perhaps Cassia had somehow quit the house without his knowing, using Quigman having gone off on his errand as a sort of decoy to keep him from suspecting anything might be afoot.

He realized that Cassia was not the typical, gently-bred female.

She may look like one, sound like one, but there was a decided difference to her.

She had a mind of her own. Knowing this, the idea of her having stolen away in the darkness of night was not outside the realm of possibility.

Rolfe went to Cassia’s bedchamber. The door stood slightly ajar.

Peering inside, he found that she had not, in fact, run off without his knowing.

She was asleep on her bed, curled atop the pale blue damask coverlet, still wearing the clothes she’d been in earlier that day, the dark mourning gown fastened up to her neck.

Gazing at her, she suddenly looked vulnerable to him.

The tray bearing her supper was indeed sitting, untouched, on a table beside her.

A cup of tea, half-filled, stood atop it.

Her abigail, the stout and indifferent Winifred, lay on a truckle bed in a corner at the far side of the room, but even with the distance that separated them, her rumbling snore filled the chamber.

Rolfe turned to leave, his mind set at ease as to Cassia’s whereabouts, but hesitated when he realized a draft wafting its way through the room.

Seeing that the window near Cassia’s bed had been propped open a bit, he started over to shut it.

He thought it odd that the window should be open, being that it was early autumn and the night’s air carried a definite chill.

For a moment, he wondered if it was thus because Cassia had, indeed, thought to flee and had gotten so far as the open window for her escape.

It would explain her lying there still in her clothes, but he did not see any traveling bag, nor did it appear as if she’d packed up her toiletries.

Cassia was no fool. She would know she would need at least a change of clothing and a hairbrush, perhaps, but there her hairbrush sat, at the edge of her dressing table, amid her hairpins and other furbelows.

No, he did not believe she had planned to flee.

Rolfe gently pulled the window shut, latched it, and turned to go.

It was then he saw the small stack of papers spread out across her scrivania.

Something about that stack of papers, perhaps the way they were strewn so haphazardly across the desk when everything else in the chamber was orderly and neat, caught his attention.

He didn’t know why, but he picked up the topmost sheet and peered at it in the moonlight.

He saw it was a sketch, done in charcoal.

It depicted a small bird, a Dartford Warbler, if memory served, judging from its short, pointed beak and large, inquisitive eyes.

Its small body was perched on the branch of an elm, its head cocked slightly as if it was curious about what it was seeing.

Though drawn with only a simple pencil, the artist’s eye for balance and shading seemed to give the viewer the impression that at any moment, the tiny creature might hop from its perch and take flight.

Rolfe set the drawing aside and glanced through the others in the pile, a number of them made up of numerous of objects that were set around the room or that could be seen from the window’s vantage.

There was a gown draped carelessly across a chair, with a pair of slippers sitting beside it.

The sign hanging crookedly outside the glove maker’s shop that stood on the corner of the street across.

Each drawing, while showing certainly ordinary things, had been drawn in such a way as to evoke a certain mood just in the shading of it. Not many artists had that same ability.

There were several more sketches underneath these, curiously turned face down on the desk.

Rolfe took them up and peered at the first one in the moonlight.

The unmistakable foppish figure of Cassia’s cousin, Geoffrey, stood poised upon the page.

He was sitting as he had been earlier that day when he’d come with Mr. Finchley, before he’d learned of Seagrave’s petition, when he still expected to be named the heir.

Slouched in his chair, he looked as if he had the world on a gilded platter set before him.

From his frilly shirt cuffs to his beribboned shoes, every detail had been taken into account.

Except for one. Oddly, in the space where he should have had a face, there was nothing, except black shading, as if only that part of him was obscured by some sort of shadow.

The second face-down sketch was of the maid.

She was standing before a full-length mirror, holding a gown up against herself as if to see what it might look like on.

Her linen cap hung slightly askew and she was holding her head to the side.

He guessed that the gown was one of Cassia’s for it was far too ornate to have been the maid’s.

Had the picture suddenly come to life, Rolfe knew, from the way she was portrayed with one leg extended, that she would be pretending to dance.

He could almost hear her humming to herself as she moved through the steps for every detail had been taken into account, except that, again, strangely, the maid’s face was obscured.

Rolfe did not need to be told that Cassia was the artist of these drawings; it was obvious just looking at them for surely the indifferent Winifred would never be so artfully inclined.

As he gazed at each one, he thought to himself that she really was quite talented, which made him wonder all the more why she chose not to draw in the subject’s face.

Through the whole set of sketches, on each person depicted, the faces were left to nothing, almost as if they were concealed by a mask.

Setting the sketches aside, Rolfe approached the side of Cassia’s bed.

Looking down, he saw her face illuminated in the silvery moonlight that spilled in through the windows.

She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

And in sleep, she was even more lovely than in the daylight, taking on a softer, more gentle appearance without that ever-watchful expression as if always expecting something or someone to come at her.

Her dark hair had come loose from its pins and was spread out across the pillow.

One stray wisp twisted about her cheek and trailed downward along the line of her neck.

Rolfe could see her pulse beating there in the light and felt an odd urge to trace his finger over it, but held that impulse in check.

Instead he found himself kneeling down on his knee.

The instant he moved, he caught her scent, that same scent that seemed to fill the air around her.

Fresh, flowery, it made him feel as if he was standing in a field of wild flowers after a late spring rain.

It was the same scent that had perfumed the handkerchief he’d found on the floor after taking his bath.

Reminded of that now, it made him smile.

He could recall, when he’d been standing behind Cassia at the palace earlier that day, that the top of her head came to just above his chin, making her taller than most women, yet not overly so. But the way she carried herself might make one think she stood even taller.

Good God, he was waxing on poetic like a lovesick calf, he thought to himself, no doubt like many of the unfortunate swains Cassia had rebuffed at court.

He wondered how this woman who drew such vivid images as those he’d seen on the desk, and who looked so innocent and so damned vulnerable now, could ever be thought of as a murderess.

He simply could not imagine this woman clutching a knife and plunging it savagely into her father’s neck.

Was she innocent? Had someone carefully arranged the whole scene somehow to incriminate her?

Or was she simply a talented actress who was well-practiced at making men believe whatever she wanted?

Rolfe then spied the small bottle of laudanum sitting beside the teapot on her bedside table. Somehow he knew it wasn’t just Winifred’s snoring that necessitated the dosage.

The day had been quite troubling to Cassia—it hadn’t taken much for Rolfe to realize that—and rest had obviously been difficult in coming to her that evening.

Being an heiress, bestowed now with in excess of eighty thousand pounds, one would think she would be celebrating, not holing up in her room as if her very world was coming to an end.

She had a fortune at her disposal and yet, she’d said quite plainly that she hadn’t wanted it, rather wanted her cousin, that popinjay Geoffrey, to have it.

Geoffrey. Now there was someone who bore looking into further.

Rolfe recalled Mr. Finchley’s explanation as to why Lord Seagrave hadn’t left his fortune to his nephew, the one who most would think should be the preferred heir.

He wondered as well just how fond of gaming cousin Geoffrey was, how far into debt his habit might have brought him.

Perhaps far enough to have spurred him into taking the life of Cassia’s father, setting her up to take the blame and securely bringing him the full inheritance to which he believed he’d been entitled?

It certainly was a possibility. In fact, it actually made the most sense.

Rolfe made a mental note to ask Dante to make inquiries along that line.

Yet, one could argue, being as close to the king as she was, perhaps Cassia had somehow learned of her father’s petition, knew she would be inheriting the entirety of the Seagrave fortune, and actually had committed the crime.

She had been found with her father’s body, his blood on her hands.

Rolfe wondered what the letter Mr. Finchley had given her from her father had said, then thought to himself that it really was none of his business.

He was getting too involved in this already, and he hadn’t even been there one full day. His business was to simply guard the woman and try to learn if she was guilty of the crime.

Still, Rolfe knew from personal experience that women were accomplished actresses, and could make a man believe whatever they wanted. An artful woman, a woman who had so deftly manipulated the king earlier that day, could charm the very robes off a monk just for the mere sport of it.

Rolfe knew this and knew it well, for he’d been charmed of his pride, his soul and his heart by the very best. It was a mistake he was not about to make a second time.

“Good morning, Lord Ravenscroft.”

Rolfe set aside his copy of L’Estrange’s Publick Intelligencer and stood as Cassia came into the room.

She wore mourning again, although this time the cut of the gown was far less severe. Her hair was arranged in a soft coiffure. She looked fresh of face and well-rested.

“Good morning to you, Lady Cassia. I trust you slept well?”

Cassia took a seat at the table and waited until her tea had been poured from the breakfast tray, a plate bearing a baked bun, and a small bowl of the cook’s quince marmalade thoughtfully placed before her by the dutiful Clydesworthe.

“Yes, thank you, sir. I am feeling more myself today. I do apologize if I was less than hospitable to you yesterday. So many things were happening all at once, and with Mr. Finchley making his most unexpected announcement, I was simply overwhelmed. I hope you understand.”

“Of course. As well, I hope you can understand why I could not, in all good faith, abandon the king’s orders.”

Cassia inclined her head over a sip of her tea. “Of course.”

As she took up her bun and began spreading it with a thin layer of the marmalade, Cassia’s mind unwittingly drifted back to the previous evening. What immediately came to mind was having seen Rolfe at his bath. She was so caught up in the thought, she hadn’t even heard him speaking to her.

“Lady Cassia?”

“Oh, excuse me. I am sorry, Lord Ravenscroft. I was just remembering something.”

“From the look on your face I would wager it must have been a pleasant memory.”

Cassia felt her face color and hoped he hadn’t been able to read her thoughts, which was silly, of course.

Thoughts were the one place where a person truly had privacy, never having to worry about someone ridiculing them.

Still, she was not at all certain as to how she should respond. “You were saying?”

“I was wondering if you had misplaced this?”

Rolfe reached forward and set something on the table in front of her.

It was crumpled and white, but Cassia immediately recognized it as the handkerchief she’d soaked in scented water the previous day to help ease her headache, the same one she’d later been clenching in her fingers when she’d seen Rolfe at his bath.