The Thirteenth Earl (14 page)

She smiled in a tentative way, like he was an animal she did not want to scare.

“Are you saying you trust me?”

“Inasmuch as I trust anyone.”

“What is that?” she said, looking suspiciously at his hand. “You are covered in mud.”

“It requires some explanation. Two years ago, my father began deteriorating in earnest. It took a while until he was incapable of being in public, but before that he was acting very strangely at home. Sometimes to me, sometimes to the servants. It was as if he was fading in and out. He had outbursts.”

She was listening, not trying to interject, not even nodding. He was not sure that anyone had ever done that for him, listened without trying to sympathize or patronize him.

“You know my mother is dead, but I do not think I told you that she died birthing me. I never knew her, but people say she and my father were very much in love. In a lot of ways, he never got over losing her, so I lost him as well.”

She did not interrupt.

“I digress. As I said, two years ago the Earl Vane was increasingly taking leave of his senses. One evening, he decided that he wanted none of my mother’s possessions in the house. He insisted that I get rid of her wedding ring. He wanted me to throw it into the Thames.”

“No,” she breathed.

“That had better not be pity on your brow, Cassandra.”

“Never,” she said. “I am dismayed.”

He struggled with the latch on the box.

“I could not do it.” The rust on the latch held it closed and he had to force it, another inelegant movement. He had imagined the scene much less awkward, himself much more gallant. “I buried it here, I cannot tell you why, I do not know. I could have placed it in safekeeping, but I was convinced my father would find out that I had kept it. Mind you, Cassandra, I did not put it here because I thought
I would
ever need it.”

He flipped open the lid. His mother’s ring gleamed—his father had polished it lovingly before he abandoned it. It glowed the same way it had the night Thaxton had put it in the ground. The sapphire caught the moon and smashed it to pieces, throwing shards of light in a starburst around it. Cassandra had stilled even more.

He took her hand, not dropping to one knee because he felt he needed to look her in the eye. Too late, he remembered he was covered in soil, but there was no choice but to push through.

“Cassandra, we are out of time,” he said. “Miles will speak with your mother, and then you will be gone.”

“I have to run away,” she said, jerking her hand.

He held it tighter, the ring clutched in his other hand.

“I have an idea, hence the long story and the ring.” Thaxton took a deep breath. “Will you let me ruin you, Cassandra Seton, and therefore marry me?”

“What?”

Oh, he had definitely phrased that wrong. His automatic reaction, again, the wrong one, was to push the ring at her in a frantic manner.

“You cannot get out of your engagement but for one circumstance—your reputation compromised. Being that my own reputation is sullied, I can assure you that it is nowhere as bad as it seems. It is freeing.” Cassandra gaped at him, the ring box wedged between their bodies. “Spend the night with me. I will make sure we are discovered in the morning, and we can marry in a blaze of scandal.”

“That is—”

“Mad?” he finished for her.

“We will be pariahs,” she said.

“Nonsense. We will be invited everywhere. We will be a spectacle. I can handle it. Can you? Cassie, please, will you?”

She looked at him, somewhere between puzzled and shocked. He did not break her gaze, though he wanted to. It was too piercing, like her thoughts were manifesting as fog, weighing on him.

“No,” she said.

In Cassandra’s experience, men never decided they loved you in a swooping fashion while also worshipping your power and grace. They wanted you for practical purposes, such as your money or their honor. Cassandra Seton was growing mightily tired of proposals that did not include the word “love.” She had been the recipient of two such proposals thus far, and neither of them satisfied her.

In Thaxton’s case, she assumed it was honor.

“Did you say no?” the viscount sputtered, as if it were inconceivable.

“Yes, Jonathan. No.”

He stepped back, taking the ring away with his hands.

“I am offering you a way out,” he said, his voice too even. “I know that ruination will be an unsavory way to do so—”

“Stop,” she said.

He was offering her a way out, he said. Not happiness, mutual affection, or a family. A way out.

“You feel obligated,” she said. “And I think a little sorry for me.”

He had a pained look on his face, his features drawn taut.

“I feel—strongly, Cassandra.”

“I see that,” she said, and she truly did. She could tell he was sincere in his desire to help her, which hurt more. She did not want his help; she wanted his love. She tried to keep her voice formal. “It is noble of you, but no thank you.”

“Mucked it up, did I not?” he said.

Yes,
she thought but did not say.

“Darling,” he said, clutching her hand again, pulling her in, “I know I made a muddle of that, but I am sincere. Please—marry me.”

“You said yourself that you are unsuitable.”

She shifted in his arms.

“I have changed my mind. Thoroughly.” He pressed the ring into her palm and closed her fingers around it. “Think about it. We work well together, do we not?”

Another turn of phrase that seemed too realistic. They worked well together; they did not burn with a passion that must be answered. Cassandra pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to tell him what she was thinking. The blue light of the labyrinth made him every inch the dark hero as he held her, all shadowed cheekbones, and damn him, it should have been romantic.

She drew in a breath for strength.

“I think you will look back on this and regret it. We have not even known each other a month.”

“You met Miles twice before this trip. You and I have had more conversation; I am certain of it. Besides, it had not occurred to me how long we have been acquainted.” He paused, searching her eyes. “Do you not feel . . . ?”

He did not finish the sentence, the remnants of his last word searching fruitlessly for the next. She thought for a moment that he was going to say it; it being,
I love you and I must have you.

“Cassandra,” he said, his jaw tight, “I dug my mother’s ring out of the ground for you. What more do you want to prove my earnestness?”

What an idiot she was for wanting three silly words. He was right that his actions spoke far louder, but there was a roar in her for verbal clarity. She felt stupid and childish, but she could not shake it. She wanted to hear it, wanted to hear him say he wanted her, outside of his wish to save her from Miles.

“Thaxton, you have spent most of our acquaintance trying to impress upon me how you can never marry.”

Cassandra hated the way she sounded. She wanted to go back, start over. Even if he never loved her, it was a better fate than being Mrs. Markwick. It was probably a better fate than trying to make her way alone, penniless and outcast. Thaxton would never mistreat her, and the bedroom would be exhilarating. He might grow to love her. But would he want her to have babies? She was not sure she wanted to be in the heir-making business, considering the trouble that being a Vane heir entailed.

“If it helps, I was reading my family histories, and my father was mistaken about the Countesses Vane. Not all of them die young. I think that may be something he twisted to suit his inner world after losing my mother.”

“I had not even pondered the curse,” she said, not altogether truthfully. It would not do to have him think she was buying into it, even thinking of it.

“Rest assured that it would not kill you to marry me. But, according to the rest of the history, a case could be made for the majority of what my father calls the curse. Add that to your catalog of reasons we should not wed; then decide in favor of marriage anyway.”

“I will take it into consideration,” she said, somewhat wryly.

“Please do.” He picked up her hand again, tracing his finger around her palm as he had at the séance table. It set her every nerve on end, but then he raised his eyes to her, and she discovered nerves that had no scientific name. “And then if it is ruin that you choose, madam, I will bring cities down at your feet.”

She amended what she thought earlier about his proposal. Maybe it was a bit romantic. Cassandra hoped she was not gaping at him, but he had honestly robbed her of words. It was disconcerting as she was never at a lack of them.

“I do not think I should debase myself by asking you again,” he said, taking her silence as a firm no. His posture slumped.

A contrary panic seized her—was she losing her chance with him? The thought terrified her far more than she would have liked.

“Give me a day,” she blurted. “One day to think about it.”

“Take as long as you need,” he said, tilting his head to kiss her again.

It seemed much easier than talking; their kisses could not be misinterpreted. His hands on her cheeks brought back the sense memory of their first kiss in the dim blue parlor, when she had been so bold. The more she kissed him, the more she thought she would endure anything as long as it quenched what he awakened in her every time they came together.

Even now, when he only touched her with one hand, he was too creative. The empty ring box stayed clutched in one hand while the other had traveled to her bottom, crushing her against him. Cassandra tightened her fist on the ring, her other arm at his neck, fingers snaking into his hair. She felt him growing harder against her, and desire hit her so strong it frightened her. She let out a little moan, barely recognizing her own voice. Thaxton actually growled.

“We must stop,” he said with very little breath. “I would like nothing more than to ruin you, but I must insist on a bed.”

For a moment she considered suggesting ruination take place that very night, and damn the consequences.

So Cassandra led with that when she got to Eliza’s door.

“He wants to ruin me,” she said, “and I want to let him.”

The countess was already in her nightclothes, but she did not look too shocked to see her friend. She ushered her in and handed her a glass of brandy without asking. Cassandra took it, and followed Eliza’s lead in sitting by the low fire. The countess treated her gingerly, and she appreciated it.

She took a drink, then opened her palm, the sapphire glinting in the light.

“He also asked me to marry him.”

“I fail to see an issue. Besides the scandal, do you not love him?”

“I do,” she said, closing her hand around the ring again. “But he does not love me.”

Eliza let a beat pass before answering.

“Of course he does,” she said with a short laugh. “He just neglected to say.”

She made it sound so logical. Cassandra took another drink, quaffing the brandy, with a thought in the back of her mind that she had been drinking more than Thaxton lately. “I need to hear it,” she said, setting the now-empty glass down. “I know it does not make sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Eliza replied. “You did not get that with Miles; he did not even get you a ring. You want to make sure this is different. That it is for the right reasons.”

“Exactly.” Eliza put it into words better than she had mustered. Cassandra stood, holding her arms out to her friend. “I am sorry to barge in on you.”

She smiled and hugged her. “Anytime. But get some sleep now.”

“You, too.”

Before closing the door, Eliza patted her arm.

“He will pull up to scratch. I feel it.”

Chapter Eight

“Honestly, Lord Spencer,” Miles said the next morning. His spinelessness surrounded him like a gas as he paced forward in the study. “You cannot allow his disgraceful actions to go unpunished.”

Spencer, looking official behind his desk, glanced at Thaxton with obvious annoyance. “I am sorry, Mr. Markwick. But sending Thaxton home is quite out of the question.”

Thaxton, he of the disgraceful actions, lounged on the side sofa. He was rather pleased with those disgraceful actions, so he could endure Miles’s bloviating. Miss Seton had nearly accepted his unorthodox proposal, and if that happened, none of this rot mattered.

“I do hate pulling rank,” he said in a bored, aristocratic tone he knew would annoy Miles, “but Markwick leaves me no choice. If anyone should be punted, it is he.”

“Hardly,” Miles scoffed. “You are a danger to Spencer’s entire house party—violent and unpredictable. There is also the matter of the rumored dead raven with a slit throat on your balcony.”

“Hmm. And how do you know that?” Thaxton gave him a slow smile. “Because you did it or because of a little bird called Lucy?”

Miles stepped toward him. “Are you accusing me?”

“And Lucy, yes.”

“Gentlemen,” Spencer said, hiding his amusement behind a grimly set face, though he could not keep it out of his voice, “now is not the time for quibbling. As Markwick pointed out, this household is in danger. But it seems to me that our good Lord Thaxton is the victim here, do you not think? The events surrounding him as of late have been detrimental to his temper. Certainly we can forgive him a momentary lapse in judgment.”

Thaxton knew he indeed had made a lapse in judgment, but it had not been choking Miles. That was justified and he would not regret it. He did, however, regret the way the night before had transpired. He did not know why he had frozen when he tried to tell Miss Seton he loved her. He suspected it had to do with the fact that he had little to no experience in loving anyone, much less verbalizing it. He loved Spencer and his father, but there was no need to go about announcing it. But Cassandra had been waiting for him to say it, and he could not.

He should have just seduced her.

“I am disappointed, Lord Spencer,” Miles pronounced. “I thought you would see my point. There is little other solution but for me to repair to the Marquess of Dorset’s estate with Miss Seton in tow. I am sure Lady Dorset will agree.”

“I doubt Cassie would like that,” Thaxton said, savoring Miles’s simmering rage. “In fact, I know she would not.”

“Allow me to steer us back to shore,” Spencer said, crossing to the front of his desk so that his presence was the largest in the room. He put himself conveniently between the other two men. “Miles, you know about the symbol on Thaxton’s door, so you must realize we have a larger issue than one altercation.”

“Yes, the issue that my deranged cousin painted a door with animal’s blood? I agree, my lord, that is a bigger problem.”

Thaxton did not bother to defend his own honor.

“Not but a week ago, you believed in otherworldly events,” Spencer said. “Can you not conceive that Thaxton may be the one in peril here?”

Miles’s face scrunched, searching for a way out of the question, a hole in it to squish through.

“Of course, I would never deny Spiritualism,” was all he could come up with.

“Lucy Macallister seems to agree.” Spencer could not resist a little smile, the same that he always wore when he had the advantage in a fencing match. Thaxton had seen it many a time from behind a sword. “She will be doing another séance this evening. We were hoping, Miles, that you and Cassandra would stay for continuity. We were all at the first sitting; it should be the same with the second.”

“One more night cannot possibly hurt,” Thaxton said with forced innocence. “You can leave with your blushing bride on the morrow.”

Or,
he added inwardly,
she will wake up in my bed, and then I will abscond with her.
That hinged on her answer. He had not been able to use the correct words, but he thought he had made his desire rather apparent. In more ways than one. Yet still she could refuse.

“One more night,” Miles grumbled. “I am through with parlor games and do not intend to stay in a place where I have been both assaulted and accused.” He glared at Thaxton again. “But you stay away from me, Viscount. More importantly, you stay away from Cassandra.”

“Understood,” Thaxton said. It was not a lie—he understood, he was just not willing to comply.

“The blue room at midnight,” Spencer said. “Now both of you get out of my study, I have work to do.”

Thaxton did not know what work Spencer could possibly have to do at the moment, but he was glad to divest himself of Miles’s presence.

He discovered Eliza lurking outside the door to Spencer’s study. She could have been listening. Miles passed her without a glance, not seeing the countess for as fast as he skittered out of the room.

“Lord Thaxton,” she greeted him, sounding more amenable than ever before. It dawned on Thaxton that he and the countess had never before spoken one-on-one. “I was hoping you might take a turn in the garden.”

“Would you call me Jonathan?” He gave her his most nonthreatening smile and offered his arm. “I assume Cassandra has spoken to you. That would be why you seek an audience with me.”

The countess nodded, putting her hand in the crook of his arm. They reached the verdant area at the front of the larger garden, equipped with a path for casual wanderers. They strolled at a leisurely pace, the sun bright and high.

“Are you sincere?” she said after a long time. “In your affections for her?”

“Utterly. Though I am never sure of anything,” he admitted, “Cassandra is the exception. I have no doubt that we could make each other happy.”

“Then consider this a courtesy. My Cassie is an incurable romantic, Jonathan, though she does not want the world to know it. I should not be telling you this, you must appreciate, but it was a real mistake to not declare your devotion. She believes you want to bed her and also play the hero, but not that you love her.”

“Clearly I love her,” he said, finding it much easier to say when Cassandra was not in the room. “I nearly told her so.”

“But you did not.”

“Neither did she!”

She had not, though it felt puerile for him to perceive a sting in that. He had spent a moment with his breath held during the proposal, thinking she was going to say it. Thinking,
Surely she will say it now
. It would have been easier for him to parrot it back, knowing that she had already revealed her hand. She had not.

“Percival botched his proposal, too,” Eliza said, fondness in her expression. “He asked me directly after an indiscretion. I thought it impulsive.”

“He told me,” Thaxton said, happy to have the other side of that story available to her. “He came to my house after you said you needed time. He was very scared, but do not tell him I told you that. We fenced for over an hour, but his panic would not abate.”

“Silly man,” she said, shaking her head. “He knew I wanted to accept.”

“Does Cassandra? Because I will not impose it on her again if you do not think she is agreeable.”

Eliza pressed her lips together. “She is. But I did not tell you that.”

“Thank you,” he said, meaning it deeply.

“You and I barely know each other, my lord, but I have never seen my friend so . . . agitated. It will be very easy to make this right.”

He nodded, noticing that they had returned to the garden entrance. The countess must have had hundreds of garden talks to hone her timing to such precision.

She bowed her head. “Until this evening, Lord Thaxton. And if it turns out you need someone to discover you
in flagrante delicto
, do send me a note.”

Thaxton watched her walk back inside, not believing his ears. Somehow, he had gotten the go-ahead from both of the Spencers. It had to be a miracle.

Even if there were no spirits in Spencer House, something supernatural was afoot.

Cassandra stayed in her room until three minutes before midnight. She had no wish to arrive early this time, to be faced with Thaxton alone. During dinner, he shamelessly smoldered in her direction, his gaze saying things that had no place at a meal. The only option had been to keep her head down and attempt to be demure, which was something she struggled with on a good day. Miles spent dinner a single word away from an outburst as it was.

When she reached the blue parlor, everyone was already seated, waiting for her. Thaxton, who somehow managed to appear both stately and infuriatingly dissolute, gave a half smile.

“You are late,” Miles reprimanded. “I hope it is because you were packing your trunks.”

She had been nearly packed for days, though not as he’d desired. One traveling bag whittled down to essentials. A bag that she could carry alone, the essentials of her existence. A plan for an emergency.

“I apologize,” Cassandra said compactly. “Let us get this over with, shall we?”

Eliza bristled visibly. Cassandra knew the lack of emotional discretion being displayed would make her friend uneasy, but she could no longer pretend she felt anything toward Miles but scorn. She sat down next to the countess, flanked on the other side by Lucy. They had discussed the seating in depth, in order to best detect any suspicious activity from the medium or Miles. Thaxton sat on the other side of Lucy, next to Spencer. The seating, practical as it was, also assured Cassandra that she would not have to be next to Thaxton. She was not ready to be that near to him.

The note she had received an hour before in his decisive hand read,
Eschew the labyrinth tonight. Come to my room.
She had not been able to think since.

Thaxton smiled across the table from her. It looked as if he could read her thoughts, and he did not dislike playing the reprobate.

“Thank you for attending us again, Lucy,” he said with uncharacteristic graciousness. Apparently Thaxton was in a generous mood. “I, especially, appreciate the use of your talents again, given my unique position.”

“I am happy to help where I can,” she said, looking down. She seemed much more anxious in comparison to the first séance, when she had been so self-assured. Cassandra almost felt sorry for her, but then she remembered that no matter what, the target of this ruse had been Thaxton. That was an unforgivable offense.

“If you will all join hands again,” Lucy said with an air of resignation. “And do close your eyes.”

The bell was under the jar in the middle of the table, but all the rest of the accoutrements had been abandoned. No more stones or rose petals; the room more brightly lit on Eliza’s insistence. It served to take away all the atmosphere. Only one of them joined Lucy in shutting her eyes: Miles. The rest of the party looked at each other in expectation.

“Honored spirit,” Lucy continued in hollow tones, “we have come together tonight to ask humbly that you make your presence known again. Please ring the bell if you wish to communicate.”

She did not go through the bit about rapping; of course she did not. She no longer had her contraptions. Cassandra looked over at Thaxton, who raised his tediously perfect eyebrow. It had been easier to evade him when they first met, with his confidence shaken and mind scrambled. The unpleasant side effect of helping him, she now knew, was that Thaxton at his full strength was too much for her to bear. No longer drifting along, his new certainty brought back his charm. There would be no denying him anything, no matter how foolhardy.

And by god, he looked gorgeous in candlelight.

“If you are here, please ring the bell once,” Lucy said, her breathing uneven and her eyes shut too tight. The bell rang, not a strong ring, but one tiny flicker.

“She moved,” Thaxton mouthed to Cassandra, inclining his head at the medium. He turned and repeated it to Spencer, who nodded.

She had indeed moved—Cassandra could not tell if it had been her left or right foot. It was definitely her foot, since her hands had remained still. Amazingly, her legs had not moved either. Whatever she was doing required a fair amount of skill and practice. Spencer’s gaze traveled around the table, trying to detect anything amiss, and Eliza watched Miles so intently that it was a wonder he did not feel her scrutiny.

“Spirit,” Lucy said, her voice faltering, “we seek information regarding the entity attached to Lord Thaxton. Can you help?”

There was no movement, no sound, nothing but their four pairs of eyes, watching and waiting. Miles let out a breath, and the candles wavered.

“Should I go into another trance?” Lucy asked with uncertainty. Cassandra did not like her posture at all. She had shrunk into herself, making it evident that she was no longer enjoying the role.

“I have a question,” Thaxton said, “if I might.”

“Of course,” Lucy said, though it sounded more like
Please don’t.

Cassandra prayed that Thaxton would ask a question that could be answered with a no. If Lucy had to ring the bell twice more, Cassandra thought she would be able to detect the deception. She caught his gaze, and the table between them might have caught on fire with the heat of it. He slanted his mouth down—an absolutely delicious mouth, she noted.