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CHAPTER ELEVEN

I t was Lord Ravenscroft, of course, and he was clearly furious at having discovered her ruse.

He was ushering her by her arm through the milling crowd of people and coaches and horses in the courtyard.

Cassia didn’t say a word, just fought to keep up with his pace.

He had no trouble at all navigating his way through and did not pause until they were safely away, slipping into the stable alley beyond the sights of the busy courtyard.

He took her by her shoulders and glowered at her.

“Do you at all realize how you could have been killed just now? What could you possibly have been thinking when you hatched this ridiculous scheme?”

Cassia’s heart was still pounding from the near-miss with the carriage as she stared up at him. He hovered over her, reminding her of a dark storm cloud, his eyes flashing with anger. Reminding her of her father. His face was so near to hers she could feel the heat of his breath brush her cheek.

She closed her eyes. Where were the cutting defensive words that always seemed to come so easily to her, setting down any man who would dare to treat her like this? Why was she suddenly incapable of speech at all?

Deep down inside she knew Rolfe had every right to be angry with her for she had gone back on her word and had done the very thing she’d promised him she wouldn’t do. Finally, she managed to utter two small words.

“I’m sorry.”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself? You’re sorry?

I should think ‘Thank you for saving my life, Lord Ravenscroft’ would be more appropriate.

In case you failed to notice, you nearly got yourself run down by a carriage.

You would have been killed if I hadn’t come along precisely at the moment I did.

Did you happen to think of any of that when you and your delightful yellow friend set out to cozen me this morning? ”

Cassia could think of nothing to say that would sufficiently explain her reasons for having done what she had. In fact, at that moment, with him standing before her, repeating it all to her, she did feel rather foolish.

“Why was it so damnably important for you to put on this elaborate ruse just so you could sneak away from me? I would have brought you here myself had you just asked. Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted to come here?”

Cassia wondered if she should tell him, if she dared to trust him in a world where, she had learned, even one’s friends could be one’s worst enemies.

But Rolfe hadn’t had to come racing after her like he had when he’d finally discovered her gone.

He could very well have left her to her own folly.

He could have stayed at Seagrave House, drinking tea and chatting with Cordelia while she was being trampled under the hooves and wheels of that racing coach.

But, he had come after her.

Ravenscroft had protected her. Even if it was his duty, he had still come after her.

“I ... I had to come here,” she said, fishing inside her cloak pocket. “Because of this.”

Rolfe took the folded parchment she held and shook it open with his free hand, the other still clutching Cassia’s forearm as if he feared she’d try to break free and make a run for it. He read the letter in silence, then returned it to her.

“Am I to understand this is the letter Finchley gave you yesterday, the letter your father left for you?”

Cassia nodded. “I decided I had to come here to see if that document he wrote to me about, whatever it is, was here in his office.”

“And? Was it here?”

She shook her head. “Had I thought about it more, I would have realized. My father was an extremely private man. He was uncommonly suspicious, sometimes to the point of distraction. If he truly had such a document of the importance to which he alludes, he never would have kept it here at his offices near the palace where anyone at any time could come across it. No, it is somewhere else.”

“What about at Seagrave House? Could this document be there?”

“I thought about that, too, but I’ve looked through most of his things there. Mr. Finchley went through all his papers. There was nothing there like this document he writes of.”

Rolfe thought a moment. “Perhaps this document just doesn’t exist.”

But Cassia refused to agree. “Why would he leave me this letter telling me that only I could know where the document would be? No, it does exist. It is hidden somewhere, somewhere I should know about. I just need time to think, time to figure out what he is trying to tell me in this letter. The one thing I do know is that I must find this document, and soon, because it might just be the only thing that could help prove my innocence.”

It was not until hours later that Rolfe saw Cassia again, for as soon as they had returned to the townhouse, she immediately retired abovestairs to closet herself away in her bedchamber.

To think.

When she came down for supper, sat at the other end of a dining room table that was so interminably long Rolfe suspected he would need a footman to deliver handwritten notes in order to frame any attempt at conversation with her.

He gave that up and merely exchanged a nod or two between taking bites of his roast pheasant.

As soon as the meal was finished, Cassia excused herself, most probably to spend the rest of the night cudgeling her brains in hopes of figuring out where the mysterious document might be hidden.

Sitting alone in Seagrave’s study now, the very room where the murder had taken place, Rolfe found himself wondering at this peculiar woman who seemed determined to hide everything from the rest of the world.

He was nursing his second snifter of brandy, staring at the flames snapping in the hearth, and contemplating everything he’d witnessed since his arrival thus far.

Cassia was frightened, he had no doubt about that. She was frightened of being clapped in irons, thrown into the Tower and forgotten, or worse, having to hang before the populace of London for a crime which, in truth, he had no earthly idea whether she had or had not committed.

His gut seemed to tell him it hadn’t been her, and she seemed so certain of her innocence when she’d shown him the letter from her father earlier that day, so desperate to find the proof she needed.

Still, she could have staged the entire episode starting with the visit from Lady Haslit for the sole purpose of making him think just that.

It just didn’t seem likely.

No, Cassia hadn’t needed to show him her father’s letter, a letter she’d not known before yesterday existed, a letter that could mean someone else wanted Seagrave dead.

Something had caused Cassia to trust him enough to show him that letter, and even if it was only an inkling of trust, he knew that even that was not given easily.

Rolfe stood. He crossed the room to stand before the window, parting the drapery. Just who was Lady Cassia Montefort, he wondered, downing the rest of his brandy. What sort of upbringing had she had to have resulted in such a puzzling enigma of a woman?

He leaned his shoulder against the paneled wall and gazed out at a moon that hung above the rooftops in the night sky.

She seemed to want for nothing. Her gowns were of the finest cut, her home filled with every sort of convenience.

She was well-educated, always cordial, never forgetting to say “please” and “thank you” when required.

Still, the image she presented to the world lacked for something. But what was it?

Rolfe eyed the small clock that sat ticking on the mantelpiece beside him. The hour was not that late, certainly not by society’s standards. Perhaps, when asked of the proper person, he might find some answers to these questions.

And he knew precisely to whom he should go.

Rolfe strode from the room, grabbing his cloak from the peg on the wall and started directly for the Palace of Whitehall.

As the tilt boat neared the landing just below the palace stairs, Rolfe wondered if he should have left Cassia alone at Seagrave House.

Surely she’d not attempt another outing, especially so soon after what had taken place earlier that day.

He didn’t plan on being away for that long and he’d made certain to post Quigman, the groom, at the foot of the stairs with strict instructions not to allow anyone excepting himself in or out of the house.

Strains of music came to him as he started down a tree-lined pathway lit by smoking rush torches.

It led along the perimeter of the palace heading toward the Banqueting House.

The soft murmur of voices and gay laughter could be heard coming from the very shadows around him, the carefully trimmed hedges giving many a clandestine meeting the needed camouflage.

Rolfe stopped just inside the open doorway leading inside the Banqueting House. Fully lit by hundreds of candles above and around the vast room, he surveyed the faces of the moderate crowd inside.

This evening, Whitehall’s scheduled entertainment was a masque being put on by some of the ladies of the court, a seemingly terrible rendition of one of the day’s more popular plays that was eliciting laughter in places where other deeper emotions should have been prompted.

It took him but a few minutes to find the face he was searching for, being that she had a tendency to stand out among others.

He started immediately for her.

“Lady Haslit,” he said as he drew up behind her, “it is a pleasure to see you again and so soon after our first meeting.”

Cordelia nearly dropped her wine goblet at the sight of him suddenly standing beside her.