Lisbon (56 page)

She was thinking about it all the time that Robbie was taking her home. Absently she answered his carefully phrased remarks, never noticing how keenly his blue eyes considered her, or the warmth in a voice that was more used to crisp commands. Robbie was wishing he were in his twenties again and pursuing this delectable girl with her straight glances and her startling beauty. Lord, how she would look running laughing through the heather or standing beside a cairn of stones facing the sea, eyes sparkling, fair hair flying in the wind. She had a Scottish beauty, he told himself—and tried to clamp a rein on his imaginings, for he was fast becoming enamored of the girl he was thought to be “chaperoning. ”

Her father was not at home when she got back. She never guessed that this was deliberate, for although he could bear to look at her by day, at night when the candlelight turned her hair to a deeper gold and seemed to change the color of her eyes, he felt eerily that it was Charlotte who faced him, and his hands grew damp and regret assailed him. If only he had not left her in the Alfama . . .

Knowing nothing of this, Cassandra hurried inside and was already at the stair landing before she turned to Robbie and said, “I think "I'll just go down and fetch a book from the library.”

Downstairs she waited until she heard his door close; then she hurried into the library and found a dueling pistol of her father’s, made sure it was loaded against footpads or whatever else lurked in the dark streets she must traverse alone—but paused at the front door. The upstairs maid had a habit of leaving doors open after she 
had cleaned the rooms. It would be unfortunate indeed if her father walked by and saw her door open and her bed unslept in.

She went back upstairs, making plenty of noise in case Robbie should be listening.

Her door was closed.

She would have turned back the way she had come but for a small sound from inside the room. Frowning, and with the pistol concealed in the folds of her wide white velvet skirt, she threw open the door.

Phoebe stood there.

Cassandra drew a deep breath and closed the door behind her.

“Does Father know you’re here?”

“No. Cook let me in.”

“He’s been combing the country, looking for you everywhere.”

“I know.” Phoebe sounded entirely composed. “But I just wasn’t ready for him quite yet.”

“And are you ready for him now?” Cassandra’s tone was ironic. She noticed that Phoebe no longer looked so young. At sixteen there was a worldliness about her, as if she had seen much.

“Oh, yes,” was the lazy answer.

Cassandra blinked at the ease with which this new, older Phoebe had said that. Phoebe was looking very elegant, she saw. Her deep green velvet gown was of the latest cut, trimmed in black grosgrain. And her black hair was topped by a modish little three-cornered hat.

“You’re a Fleet Street bride,” said Cassandra evenly. “I would think
that
would daunt you. ”

“Oh, not a bit of it.” Phoebe laughed. “I never regarded Fleet Street as anything but a first step. ”

“You mean his mother will receive you now?” She could not keep the incredulity from her voice.

Phoebe grimaced. “Hardly,” she admitted.

“Then what makes Fleet Street a first step?”

Phoebe made a little deprecating gesture. Like Rowan, she had a courtly grace—she moved like a duchess.

“Well, I’ll admit Clive never meant to
really
marry me.

Unless of course my claims to wealth turned out to be true.”

‘Which of course they weren’t. ”

“So in order to get me to be his mistress, he promised me a Fleet Street marriage—and kept his word,” she added almost proudly.

“Wasn’t that handsome of him?” Cassandra could hardly keep the sarcasm out of her voice. He had debauched a fourteen-year-old girl, and that same misguided wench was actually
proud
that he had handed her a worthless piece of paper as a memento of the event!

“Well... we changed our names, of course, and bounced around the country as Lord and Lady Cambridge—for that was where we met. And I kept thinking up marvelous ways that we could spend lots of money and live for nothing, which delighted Clive, of course—and everywhere he claimed me as his wife. Quite proudly, I thought. ”

Cassandra closed her eyes. They had left a trail of bilked and furious creditors, she had no doubt—debts everywhere. Debtors’ prison yawned ahead.

“And time went by while we rushed about, for we didn’t dare let Father catch up with us, of course—Clive is very afraid of Father.”

He has reason to be,
thought Cassandra.

“And now a whole year has passed, living together with Clive claiming me as his wife—by whatever name. So now it’s a legal marriage,” she added coolly.

Cassandra opened her mouth—and closed it again. Phoebe was right. Although it might be contested in the courts, Cassandra had no doubt that Phoebe and Clive were at this moment legally wed.

“Of course, that hasn’t occurred to Clive yet. Phoebe was studying her fingers thoughtfully, one by one. “But Father will explain it to him shortly.” She looked up with a smile.

“Father won’t like having a daughter who’s a common-law wife,” warned Cassandra.

Phoebe’s wicked smile deepened. “No, I counted on that,” she said softly, “when I thought it all out back in Cambridge. Father will now offer Clive a choice: he can 
marry me in a church or Father will spit his gizzard for him on the field of honor. Clive would
faint
at the thought of a duel with Father!”

“I see you have it all worked out, but suppose Clive prefers to run for it?’’

“Oh, he won’t.” Phoebe was entirely confident. “Because it will also be explained to him that he’s tied to me anyway. So Clive will trot nicely along to the church, believing he might as well go all the way.”

In for a penny, in for a pound,
thought Cassandra grimly.

“And
that,”
announced Phoebe with satisfaction, “will open the way for Clive’s mother to receive me—at last. ” Yes, the dowager Marchioness of Greensea might do just that, Cassandra realized. It would be touch and go, of course, but her devious younger sister might just be able to pull it off.

“That is, if Father is especially generous with my dowry. ” Phoebe was again airily studying her hands. “And I’ll explain the need for
that
to him, of course. ”

“First you tricked Clive and now you’re planning to buy him—with a dowry,” murmured Cassandra. “I wish you joy of him—but suppose Father just drags Clive off at gunpoint and makes him marry you in a church. Suppose he won’t give you any dowry. ”

“Why shouldn’t he?” demanded Phoebe indignantly. “And if mine isn’t enough to impress Clive’s mother, why shouldn’t he give me
your
dowry too?” And when Cassandra stared at her, speechless, “After all, anyone who ever looked at you would know you didn’t
need
a dowry!”

“And why not?” Cassandra was beginning to be angry at Phoebe’s high-handed assumptions.

“Your
face
is your dowry!” was Phoebe’s instantaneous retort. “I
had
to get you out of Cambridge—Clive might never have looked at me with you around!” And at Cassandra’s dazed look, “Oh, I’m sorry, Cassandra.” She was instantly placating. “I saw Clive and I wanted him more than anything else in the world—and I still do.”

For Phoebe, Cassandra supposed, love was like that. She’d lie, steal, cheat, cause her sister to be locked away, 
she’d do anything—just to keep Clive beside her.
If I live ten thousand years,
she thought,
I could never be like Phoebe.

“Oh, do stop looking at me like that!’’ Phoebe sounded aggrieved. “You should
want
me to have your dowry. After all, everyone always loved you—and they never cared for me.”

That argument seemed hardly to merit an answer. It came to Cassandra suddenly that the dueling pistol was growing heavy in her hand. She brought it up.

“Cassandra!’’
Phoebe turned pale and took a step backward.

“Oh, I’m not going to shoot you, Phoebe.’’ Cassandra’s voice was ironic. “And as to nobody caring about you, you can hardly have forgotten that you were always Father’s favorite—I doubt he can deny you anything.’’

“Oh, I do hope so,” said Phoebe fervently. She had recovered her aplomb, and now she struck a posture. “Do you like this gown?” she asked. “I had it made up in Bath.”

And still owe the dressmaker, no doubt.

“You look splendid.” Cassandra gave her sister a cynical look. “And I’ve no doubt it will look even better splashed with your tears as you plead you case with Father.” At the door she turned. “I’m off to stop a duel. Don’t tell Father I’ve gone out—let him think I’m asleep.”

Phoebe’s dark eyes followed her with wonder as she went through the door.

A chill morning fog enveloped Lord Cloperton’s park and made the shapes of the two smartly dressed young men, with their long dueling pistols in hand, seem somehow unreal against the huge trunks of the ancient oaks and hornbeams, whose spreading branches seemed to disappear into the gray mist. It dimmed the stalwart figures of the seconds, waiting, pistols cocked—for the code of dueling decreed that should either one of those tall determined figures pacing the distance apart before turning to fire should break the rules and try to bring down his opponent before the appointed time, it was the duty of the seconds forthwith to shoot the culprit. Somewhere in the background should have hovered a doctor, but at the last minute the doctor they wanted (a man known to be discreet) had been called away to deliver a baby and—the antagonists being hot to go at it—the seconds after some argument had agreed to forgo the services of medical science. It was the private if unexpressed opinion of both the seconds that neither Lance Riverton nor Tony Dunn really wanted to kill the other; this quarrel was over a lady’s wandering affections and would soon blow away. Indeed, it would not have surprised the seconds if both men, having had overnight to think about it, deloped— fired in the air rather than at the opponent. In any case, only one shot would be fired by either party, and at the 
worst, each man would fire near his opponent—perhaps near enough to wing him in the arm or leg, a little blood would be drawn, honor satisfied, and that would be that. Everyone would be out of this cursed damp and back to an early breakfast at some inn—and soon back to being the best of friends!

Cassandra, viewing this scene as she spilled out of her hackney coach, was not so sanguine. She had tried Tony’s flat on Dorchester Street, she had tried the gaming hells, she had searched the town without finding either Tony or Lance. In despair she had ordered her hackney driver to take her to Lord Cloperton’s park and had had her head out the window half the time calling to him to hurry. She was already on the verge of exhaustion when the hackney coach turned into the long driveway that wound through the “park, ’’ or grounds, of Lord Cloperton’s handsome estate, but so keyed up was she that at the first sight of the dueling oaks—and she knew those oaks, for she had attended a party at Lord Cloperton’s mansion and they had been pointed out to her—she tumbled out almost before the driver stopped at her breathless command.

She had thought to arrive early, to dissuade Lance and Tony on the spot. And yet there they were, already marching off the fifteen paces before they turned and fired. On the way over here she had nurtured the wild idea of pointing the pistol she still carried at her own breast and warning them both that since
she
was the cause of their quarrel she would do away with herself if they did not desist instantly. Calling out to them at this point, she knew, would do no good. The two young men and both the seconds who stood at right angles facing each other were all far too intent on what they were doing.

With her left hand she scooped up her velvet skirts and ran like a deer across the damp grass beneath the old trees.

The combatants had paced off the distance. In the gray dawn the seconds, young and savoring the drama of the moment, allowed them to stand poised, pistol in hand, still with their backs to each other.

Cassandra was losing her hairpins as she ran, but what 
did that matter? She must put a stop to this before it went any further! She raced forward, straining every nerve. Her breath sobbed in her throat.

“Turn and fire!”

At exactly that moment, Cassandra, ignored by the seconds, unseen by the combatants, reached the grassy stretch down which ball and shot would whine as both guns spoke. Reached it at a point midway between.

Tony whirled and saw across the barrel of his gun, not Lance Riverton behind the muzzle of a pistol, but a whitefaced Cassandra, who had come to a halt, blonde hair flying. She had appeared like a wraith in her white velvet ball gown.

Tony’s nerves were excellent. With an oath he brought up the barrel of his gun. He had not fired a shot.

Lance, on the other hand, was excited. He had never fought a duel before, someone had told him (erroneously) that Tony had fought three, and someone else had told him (maliciously) that Tony had bragged that he would kill not only Lance but also any other man who dared pay court to Cassandra. Although Lance appeared cool and steady, his heart was pounding and he was praying that his hand would not shake as he whirled to face his opponent.