The Thirteenth Earl (18 page)

Cassandra paced the portrait hall in a state of high agitation. She could not believe that they had not called it off yet. She had been waiting all day to hear that someone, anyone, had come to his senses. Spencer, Thaxton, Miles: it did not matter which one, just that one of them had stopped the farce. It had apparently been too much to think that even one in three men would behave logically.

Sutton had thankfully been able to get quite a lot of information on the duel by showing up to the meeting between the opponents. Eliza said the valet had been rather proud of himself: he had not asked to be invited, but they had never once questioned his presence. Thanks to that blessing, they had the date and time of the duel. That day, both Cassandra and Eliza would be on the field.

She turned around midpace to find Thaxton standing next to a portrait of Spencer’s severe grandfather.

“I love you,” he said before she could even get out a greeting. “I fear I had not made it abundantly clear, but I love you, Cassandra. That is why I want to marry you, and all other reasons are incidental.”

Everything she had been meaning to say flew from her mind. Her voice came out far more quiet and unsure than she had intended.

“Well, I love you, too.” Cassandra fumbled for all of the speeches she had planned, the cutting remarks, the reasonable rationale contriving to bring him round. She found nothing. Just the simple truth. “But I fail to understand why you cannot take it back. And if you say it is an exclusively male activity, I will strangle you.”

“Then I must give you my throat.”

“We should leave, Jonathan.” She came forward to clasp his hands, feeling very at sea. She had the distinct feeling that nothing she could say would change the situation. “We should leave tonight.”

“I cannot. Markwick would come after us, and I would be humiliated. I know society thinks I am daft, but I would rather they not think me a coward, too.”

“It is a consistent worry of mine how little you value your life,” she said.

He did not answer, and it made the portrait room too soundless, like an unused church. As if the air had gone stale. He had worn gray—why had he done that? His eyes matched the fabric, and it rendered his whole form drawn and sad. Ashen. Half in and half out of this world. Like an apparition.

She had fallen in love with a ghost. She should have known. Society had been right, but not in the superficial definition they were employing. Thaxton was a ghost, but it was not because he was absent, but because he had never been fully alive.

“I know you could not wear the ring at dinner,” he said, tentative, “but I hope that does not mean . . .”

She yanked the chain out of her bodice, cutting off his sentence. She felt so angry, so unable to reconcile his love for her and his willingness to throw himself into the arms of the grim reaper.

“I am not leaving you, Jonathan, but I should. All this time, you have been telling me you are destined to be mad—I never believed it until today.”

“Fair enough,” he said quietly. “Fair enough.”

The gilt portraits flanked him, pressed in on him. Or she was imagining things. He seemed surrounded, suffocated. Cassandra wished they were anywhere but among the rows of nobles’ eyes, oppressive and judgmental. And Thaxton had been the one who had chosen this room. Rows and rows of men sitting, men standing, in court dress, with hunting hounds. Women who were either dour or ethereal, with no in-between. Families, unhappy families. Stretching generations back, hanging on to their histories and honor and rot.

“You cannot expect me to stand idly by while this happens,” she said. “Do what you have to do, and so will I. For now, we both need rest.”

“Am I being dismissed?” Thaxton sounded as if he could not decide whether he was offended or amused.

“Yes,” she said. “Think on your sins.”

She knew she was being harsh, that she should have spent have more time talking to him or even spent the night. But if he was so convinced that he was not going to die, then what need she worry about time? She could not help but simmer in anger. He did not even realize that the hotheadedness of the duel was leaving her to investigate on her own.

Which was why she was going straight to Lucy Macallister’s chambers.

Not a single candle burned in the hallway; they expected no one to visit Lucy. It was not lost on Cassandra that the last time she had been to the room was to rifle through the woman’s personal belongings. Shortly before exposing her as a fraud in front of a phalanx of nobility.

Come to think of it, Cassandra could not imagine she would be a welcome guest. She ventured to knock gently on the door.

“Come in,” Lucy’s voice, hoarse, said from behind it.

Cassandra turned the knob with a creak. Inside, the room was inky, with a sheen of moonlight emanating from the sheer white curtains. Lucy had the covers pulled up to her neck, ensconced in the large canopy bed, the same model in each lower guest room. Her kimono lay draped over a lamp, casting reds and oranges through the light.

“It is Cassandra,” she said, tentative. “I come in peace.”

“Peace?” Lucy sounded cynical. “It is too late for that.”

As Cassandra drew closer, she could make out Lucy’s puffy eyes and drawn face. She had been crying, probably for hours. A sharp stab of guilt went through her. This looked for all the world like a grieving woman, not a calculating schemer bent on taking down anyone. How could she have not seen it before?

“I am sorry,” she said slowly, weighing her words, “about what happened at the last séance. It was badly done of me.”

“I deserved it,” Lucy said.

“Not . . . the way I did it.” Cassandra crossed to the side of the bed, gesturing to a chair. “May I sit?”

Lucy nodded.

“Are you ill?” Cassandra studied her. “Eliza said you were not feeling well.”

“Never felt worse, actually.” Lucy averted her eyes, staring at the curtain. The window, open a crack, rustled the material. “Though I do not see why you should care.”

“I do not hate you, Lucy. I was hoping we might talk frankly.”

“A forthright talk between us may be fraught with danger, Miss Seton.”

“No, I know you hate formality. Cassie. Please.”

“Cassie,” Lucy repeated. “I am afraid I have been operating under the wrong impression of you.”

“I think I may be guilty of the same.”

The silence between them felt like a gap closing.

“I wanted to hate you,” Lucy said, “because I love Miles. I know you do not care about him, but I do—I did. I thought he was also sincere in that affection.”

“I know nothing of Miles’s mind. I do not know him.” Cassandra paused, her eyes drawn to the window where low fog crept over the hills. “I am going to marry Lord Thaxton. You and I have no quarrel.”

“Not over men.” Lucy pulled herself up in bed, straightening her back against the multitude of pillows. “What I do—mediumship—is not the fraud you think it is.”

“I understand it is somehow important to you, but why then use it in the way that you have?”

“I cannot . . . I cannot possibly explain to you why I did it. Miles seemed to think that . . . that we could be together. We fell in love slowly while he was in Scotland. I knew he was engaged, but he kept telling me he would find a way out of it. He kept asking worse and worse things of me, insisting he had a plan. It all seemed different before I knew any of you; Miles painted Thaxton as a man who deserved to have his fortune taken away. And if he had Thaxton’s fortune, then we could marry and he would still be able to finish the Scottish estate, elite stables, and everything. There is no reason I should have done what I did, except that I was in love and it drove me a little mad.” There were tears in her voice. “I am so very sorry.”

“I know that feeling,” Cassandra said. “Love driving one mad, I mean.”

“My mediumship started out separate from what I had with Miles, but it got tangled with it.” Lucy reached for the glass of tea on her nightstand, which had to be cold. She drank it anyway. “Please do not think I am insincere in my beliefs. I lied to Thaxton for Miles, but it is not something I have ever done or would ever do again. I disgraced my gift and disrespected all of you. I wish I could take it all back.”

“Lucy, there is something I must tell you. Thaxton challenged Miles to a duel, which will be in one day’s time. This has gone far beyond whatever it was conceived to accomplish.”

“A duel?”

“Yes, I know. Let it sink in for a moment.”

“We certainly cannot let them do that.”

Cassandra smiled in the darkness. “I am so glad you said that.”

Chapter Ten

Thaxton slept sitting up that night, outside of Cassandra’s door and around the corner, for fear that Markwick would try to do something terrible.

He saw her return to her room from wherever she had been. He wanted Cassandra’s forgiveness, craved it, but knew he did not deserve it. It would be wrong to press her for it. But he also did not believe she was entirely safe.

So, he slept against a wall, his topcoat propped under him to ease the pressure. No one passed in the evening, or if they did, they did not make an effort to rouse him. Thaxton had never been a heavy sleeper, so he was fairly certain that once he heard the morning maid enter Cassandra’s room, it had been a quiet night. He stretched and returned to his room.

The early hour of the morning made him think of the next. Hopefully, the carriage carrying Miles’s second would arrive that evening, and they could have a quick meeting that would seal the event. All the waiting was bad for his nerves. He had no idea what to do with himself, and little will to socialize. Since his reputation preceded him there, he did not think he would be missed if he eschewed all responsibilities and supervised the packing of his trunks.

He wanted to be ready to leave as soon as the smoke cleared on the shots that finally cowed Miles. He was hoping that the blackguard would be more forthcoming when a few bullets had narrowly missed him. Any duel Thaxton had heard about (and he had been to two himself) rarely resulted in death. It was mostly quite a bit of yelling, gunplay more to wound or scare than kill, and an awful lot of noise. Deaths in duels were discouraged.

But Cassandra was right. There was no counting on Miles playing by the rules. In fact, there was precedent that he would not. It was time to think about preparations in advance of that. He knew he could count on the pistols not being tampered with, since they would be using his set. There was nothing to be done about the possibility that Miles would shoot to kill, but Thaxton did not think that would happen.

Miles wanted acceptance, not infamy.

A knock came at his door, a superfluous knock, because Spencer entered well before he could be given leave.

“I am about to tell you something, but first I need you to promise me that you will remain calm.”

“Not a good start. Go on.”

“Your promise, Thax.”

“I promise, Spence, go on.”

“Your father is here.”

Thaxton’s feet were moving before he even knew where he was going. Why would his father be here?
How
would his father be here? Spencer followed behind him, now in full rant.

“I am standing on your honor tomorrow, Thaxton. Do not panic, do not yell, do not scare him. He seems fine to the outward perception. This is not the end of the world.”

Thaxton whirled.

“Is it not? Percy, my father has not been in a room with more than three people for years. He very well cannot be here.”

“He knew who I was, Jonathan, so he is fine at the moment. His eyes look bright and he is mostly lucid, even if he wanders in conversation.” Spencer paused. “Give it a chance. It is worse that he has been cooped up in the house all this time.”

“It sounds suspiciously like you are questioning my judgment in the matter.”

“I am.”

The two men faced each other, the sound of their breathing the only noise for a moment. Sutton appeared at the end of the hallway.

“Let us assess the situation,” Spencer said. “Come, talk to your father, but do not storm there.”

Thaxton took a moment to think before rushing into the fray, which was something he barely ever did. It was time he cultivated thinking before raging. He realized he would not have even considered it in the past. He would have raged first and thought later. But after the reactionary duel challenge, Cassandra made her point well. She deserved better than a man who overreacted and made situations worse. It had also been a long time since he had been around his father while sober, so that might make a difference. He let his breathing return to normal before starting to walk downstairs.

“He showed up in his carriage with one servant,” Spencer said. “He does not seem to know anything about the duel, said he just thought he might spend the last few days of the house party in ‘the pleasant company.’”

Thaxton put a hand to his head, rubbing it over his eyes.

“What could have possessed him?”

“He mentioned a letter from Miles—saying that he was missed here and should join the party. The rat must have sent it even before the duel.”

They descended the stairs in a clatter, Thaxton leading by merit of the fact that he was in a full panic, exactly what Spencer had warned against.

The Earl Vane stood at the bottom of the stairs.

“My son!” he said, coming halfway up the stairs to meet Thaxton, his hands at his cheeks. “I thought you were never coming home.”

Thaxton shrank from his father’s embrace, glimpsing his father’s valet, their oldest family servant, behind him.

“Sykes,” he said, as evenly as he could, “why was this allowed to happen?”

“Sorry, sir. He insisted he could travel,” the valet said. “We ran out of reasons to put him off. Could not be helped.”

“Jonathan, Jonathan.” His father patted his cheek. “You look so well.”

Thaxton backed up one stair, a little above his father. He could see the very top of his head, his wispy gray hair so thin that pink skin shown through it.

“Papa. I told you I would be back in a fortnight.”

“It has been more than a fortnight.”

“No, it has not; you are confused. I would have been home in three days.”

“We should take this conversation to the parlor.” Spencer put a hand at Thaxton’s back and prodded both Vanes down the stairs. Some of the guests were finishing breakfast and throwing curious glances in their direction as they moved to their next destination. Sykes took hold of the elder earl and guided him along.

The morning light lent the air in the parlor a yellow haze. No one made any move to change that by drawing the curtains.

“Please, sit.” Spencer gestured to the copse of seats in the corner. “I will have someone get tea.”

It was good of him to try to normalize it.

“Papa,” Thaxton said, sitting down across from his father, who had plopped down after looking all around the room, “I wish you would not have done this.”

“Why do you get to go on holiday, but I do not?”

“You never asked.” Thaxton knew he did not quite speak the truth. His father had not asked, but even if he had, Thaxton would not have let him go.

“The house went wonky while you were away. Walls are moving; do you think we should employ an architect? Your mother says it is not necessary, but I do not believe her. Will you find one? An architect?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Thaxton had learned that it was best to agree with his father.

Spencer returned, followed shortly by a tea tray. The Earl Vane accepted a cup without incident and sipped, again looking all around the room. He seemed too serene. Thaxton had always thought that being in public would further unruffle him, but the opposite seemed true. He had even remembered Spencer.

“Tell me what you have been doing,” the Earl Vane said, quite like a normal person. Thaxton fought to not be slack-jawed.

“He met a girl,” Spencer answered, standing behind Thaxton’s chair.

“You did?” The brightness of his father’s eyes shocked Thaxton. The earl looked genuinely happy.

“I, er. I have.”

“Capital,” the elder Vane said. “Right age to meet a girl.”

Thaxton raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“But you have always said I should not fall in love.”

“You should not, but it is inevitable.”

Spencer laughed.

“Wise words, sir. Come with me and we will get you settled in. You should stay for the rest of the house party and enjoy yourself; then you and Thaxton can return to London together.”

“Thank you, Spencer. You are too kind.”

Thaxton stood with his father, awash in confusion. Not only was he polite to others, but he also seemed able to hold conversations. Of course, he was not all there, but it was the best he had been in months.

What to do with that knowledge?

After further talk with Lucy, Cassandra and Eliza had a concrete plan. It felt good to have steps in place, even if the plot did not seem exactly foolproof. Revolving, as it did, around Lucy’s last revelation, their trump card, and timing on the field, it could easily backfire, but it was more than they had at the beginning of the day.

It seemed strange that the rest of the house party went on as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. At Cassandra’s home, word traveled faster among the staff than the family.

If all was going well, Lucy was already started on her part of the plan. For now, Cassandra would take breakfast in her room. She was not sure if she wanted to see Thaxton or not—to see him and risk hearing that the duel was still a reality or that he had come to his senses and called it off. She settled for imagining the latter, how she would collapse into his arms, thank him, tell him that she loved him so.

That seemed unlikely, though.

Thaxton’s voice followed a soft knock at her door. “Cassie. Quick. Let me in.”

The remains of her breakfast lingered on a small table, and she eyed the door warily. There was a moment where she thought she should let him wait, but the urgency of his tone scared her. He entered as soon as she opened the door, hardly even a crack, and shut it tightly behind him.

“My father is here,” he said on a breath. “My father is here.”

She took both his hands in hers. “Calm down.”

“Why would he come? Why would he come?”

“He is your father, Jonathan. Why are you so scared of him? He raised you from a young child. The man he was remains, just . . . buried.” She paused, considering whether she should say the next thing on her tongue. She decided to go with yes. It was honest. “Have you considered, possibly, that your pushing him away has made the situation worse?”

“That is very close to what Spencer said,” he replied with narrowed eyes.

“And have you noticed that if he and I agree, we are generally right?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Cassandra frowned. “It is a distinct talent of yours to go from panicked to flippant.”

“It is not a talent. It is a reaction.”

She sat back down, exasperated. Anticipating his moods and vagaries exhausted her as the duel loomed. His willingness to follow fancy to his own detriment seemed so much easier to excuse before, but now it might get him killed.

“If you want to talk, Jonathan, sit down. If you want to trade witticisms, please go elsewhere.”

He declined to sit.

“You do not intend on forgiving me, do you? About the duel, I mean. Even if I survive, I have broken . . . this. Us.”

“I have not made a decision, truth be told.”

“Then this would be the wrong time to ask if you would like to meet my father before dinner.”

“The most wrong of times. Does he even know about the duel?”

“I hope he never will.”

“Instead of trying to explain to him who I am, you should have a discussion about the threat to the life of his heir.”

“He does not care about the line, if you recall.”

“How could I forget, Thaxton? Please, sit if you are staying, and leave if you must. Your hovering is making me vastly nervous.”

“I am going; I must attend to father. I simply want to know if you are mine or not. It matters a great deal to how I proceed.”

“Am I yours? Listen to yourself. Are you mine?”

He actually took a step back.

“You would be the second person to tell me to listen to myself in two days. Would you like to guess who the first one was?”

Cassandra took a sip of her tea, which bought a moment of time.

“Please go attend to your father,” she said steadily. “I will see you at dinner.”

“But you will be with Miles.”

“Yes. I will be with Miles. How else do you propose we do this? Tell the whole house party about my ruining and, inevitably, the duel?”

“A salient point.” He bowed stiffly. “I will take my leave. If you would like to talk, I am sure I will have trouble sleeping tonight.”

She nearly cracked then, he sounded so desolate. She knew she would go see him tonight, but until then, she did not want him to think he was forgiven. One did not just issue a duel and expect to get off scot-free. Instead, she watched his back as he turned away, watched him close the door, holding her breath so that she would not tell him to stay.