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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

C assia turned to see the same blonde woman who Rolfe had been sitting beside at the table earlier sidling up beside her.

Having spent a lifetime at the royal court, among the fakery and the artifice, her senses immediately told Cassia this wasn’t just some cordial chat. She pasted on a measured smile and asked, “It is Lady Westcott, is it not?”

The woman nodded. “Yes, I am. But please call me Daphne. And you are the one and only Cassia Montefort, Lady-in-Waiting to the queen and the new Lady Seagrave. I have heard much about you from Lady Castlemaine and the others.” And then she added, “I was sorry to hear about the unexpected demise of your father.”

Cassia held her expression unreadable. With Rolfe’s unquestioning faith in her innocence, she had almost forgotten how many still believed her a murderess. Being reminded of it now brought an unwelcome tension to the conversation. “Yes, well, there is ...”

Daphne held up a hand. “Please, there is no need to try to explain the rumors. I don’t really care if you killed your father or not. From what I hear told, he was quite a bastard and so he probably deserved it. No, I simply wanted to meet the woman who Rolfe finally managed to snare.”

Cassia immediately caught the woman’s mocking tone. Daphne had failed to disguise it despite her seemingly polite words. Cassia also noticed that for the second time in as many minutes, this woman had employed the use of her husband’s given name.

“Lady Westcott, it would seem you are more than just recently acquainted with my husband. I wonder, how is it that you know him?”

The blonde smirked with satisfaction. “I should say we are more than just acquainted with one another. Much more. In fact, less than a year ago your husband declared he was in love with me and asked me to marry him.”

Cassia felt like a stone settled deep within her stomach. So Daphne was the one Mara told her about, the one who had refused Rolfe’s proposal, leaving him so devastated that it had sent him into exile in the country.

“In fact,” Daphne went on, “Rolfe proposed to me on several occasions. I’m afraid he was besotted with me.

And, at first, I, of course, was dazzled by his attentions.

I mean, who wouldn’t be? He is rather easy on the eyes.

But, you see, ultimately I had to refuse his suit when it became obvious that Rolfe only sought to marry me for my dowry.

He was near penniless, I am afraid. And, sadly, it seems he is just a blackguard. ”

She brightened. “But perhaps he just waited for a better prize, and congratulations to him on landing you for a wife. An heiress who brings him both a marquessate and a fortune? He must be thinking his dreams have all come true.”

Cassia simply stared, stone-faced. She didn’t like this woman. Not at all. Nor did she like her veiled insinuations against Rolfe’s honor.

Cassia lifted a brow. “And in exchange, it seems, you wed yourself to a nightmare.” She motioned across the room to where Daphne’s husband, Lord Westcott, stood leaning into the décolletage of another woman, laughing drunkenly. “At least I know in whose bed my husband sleeps at night.”

Daphne was too taken aback by Cassia’s reaction to respond.

Cassia went on. “We both know the picture you paint of your relationship with Rolfe is false. It was you who wanted the better catch, my lady. Did you think I would believe you? I barely know you, in fact, I only just met you this evening.” She threw a glance at Daphne’s husband.

“Appearances being what they are, I am more likely to believe that you are now regretting your decision to refuse Rolfe’s suit and seek to sully his good name with your own misery. ”

Daphne’s face colored red.

Cassia had had enough. She hated that court life became this constant sparring vitriol where people’s reputations were twisted and used for another’s advantage.

She hated that in order to survive, one had to harden themselves—or be chewed up by another.

She realized that the attraction of life at the royal court had definitely waned.

She turned to leave. “Good evening, Lady Westcott,” she said in dismissal.

She was three steps away when Daphne called from behind her. “Has he ever told you he loved you?”

Cassia froze.

“Ah, I was right. He hasn’t, has he? He used to recite poetry to me, you know.

I have one in particular that he wrote likening my eyes to periwinkle flowers.

I still read it sometimes just for the amusement of it.

” Daphne came back toward her and glared into Cassia’s eyes then.

“Rolfe vowed to die for me. He told me he could never love another woman more than he did me.”

Cassia took a deep, measured breath. “I would like to say it was a pleasure meeting you, Lady Westcott. However, it was not. I wish you much happiness in your marriage.”

Cassia started walking through the room, the faces around her becoming an indistinct blur.

She just wanted—needed—to leave.

Has he ever told you he loved you?

Lady Westcott’s words taunted her in her thoughts as she headed from the room.

Cassia was nearly to the door when Cordelia came upon her.

“Cass, where are you going?”

“Cordelia, I am tired. I want to go home.”

“But you told Rolfe you would wait for him here.”

Cassia squeezed her friend’s hand. “Don’t worry. I will have Quigman at home with me, and besides, everyone else is here at the palace tonight. Home is the safest place for me to be.”

There was a single candle burning in the entrance hall when Cassia alighted from the hackney coach in front of Seagrave House and proceeded inside. Quigman stood at the door awaiting her, locking the latch as he took his post on a chair just inside the entryway.

Knowing she would never be able to fall asleep until Rolfe returned and told her what had happened with Geoffrey, Cassia took up another candle, lit it and followed it’s light to her father’s study with a mind to fetch a book.

“Aren’t you going to bed now, my lady?”

“No, Quigman, I don’t think I could sleep even if I wanted to. I would like to wait for his lordship to return. I’m just going to get a book.”

The groom grunted and lowered into his chair, to take up his task of watching out the window at the front of the house.

Cassia headed down the hallway, past the dining room and the morning parlor, to the study door at the back of the house.

Once there, she walked across the room to the shelf where she’d arranged the poetry books and novels.

She set the candle into an empty sconce on the wall and was just starting up the small ladder to fetch her favorite Madame de Scudéry novel when she suddenly heard the study door click closed behind her.

“Quigman, is that you?”

The next sound she heard was that of the key turning in the lock.

Gooseflesh streaked along the nape of her neck.

“Who is there?”

With only the single candle on the wall beside her, she could barely make out the shape of someone standing near the door, but the light was too dim to see who it was.

Her heart pounded. Memories of the night when her father had brought her there, locking the door in that same fashion, came rushing around her like a gale wind, threatening to overwhelm her.

No! Father!

She squeezed her eyes against the images, steeled herself. Then she asked again, “Who is there?”

“If you attempt to call out, or summon anyone in the house, I promise you this girl. I will shoot you before the sound ever leaves your mouth.”

It was a man’s voice, oddly familiar, but one she didn’t immediately recognize. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Cassia stepped quickly down the ladder, and turned to face the direction of the door.

The intruder emerged out of the shadows, coming into the circle of light given off by the candle.

She gasped when she recognized him.

“Your Grace!”

The Duke of Manton, the man who might have been her father-in-law, Malcolm’s father, stopped just a few spaces away from her. The barrel of his flintlock pistol, leveled at her, glinted in the candle’s flickering glow.

“Surprised to see me, girl?”

She was too stunned to answer.

“Ah, but you and I, we have been in this same room together before, haven’t we? Of course, you wouldn’t remember it, being that your bastard of a father had beaten you unconscious that night.”

Cassia just stared at him. “You. It was you who was here that night.” And then, as realization dawned, “You killed my father.”

The duke simply shrugged at the accusation.

“You should thank me after what he did to you that night. And who knows what else you would have suffered if I hadn’t arrived when I did.

None of that unpleasantness would have happened to you, you know, if you had just agreed to marry Malcolm like you should have.

You wouldn’t have been beaten. Your father would still be alive.

We’d had it all worked out. No more of his threats.

No more of his blackmail. His grandchildren would be dukes one day.

But you just couldn’t comply, could you? ”

“I don’t understand. What do you mean blackmail?”

The duke smirked. “It’s simple. Your father has something, something I want, which is why I haven’t killed you. Yet . Geoffrey tells us that he left you a letter, telling you all about it. I want that document, girl. And you are going to give it to me.”

While she tried to piece together what the duke was saying, Cassia tried to evade him. “I don’t know what you mean, your grace.”

The duke reached out and grabbed her roughly by the arm. “Don’t play your little games with me, girl. You know what I am talking about. Your father’s final letter to you. I want the document your father left you, the one he told you about in that letter. And I want it now.”

Cassia tried to pull away from him, but the duke held her. “I don’t have the document. I was never able to find it.”

“Liar!”