The Thirteenth Earl (19 page)

The parlor before the evening meal buzzed with guests talking about making plans to travel back home and what a nice getaway this had been. It seemed odd to Cassandra that these two weeks had felt like a lark to anyone.

They had been the most eventful of her life.

“Miss Seton,” Miles said, approaching her and bowing, “thank you for making this simple.”

“I fail to see any other choice I have in the matter.” She lowered her voice, glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention. “Nor in the matter of our marriage. I am ruined, and I shall marry my ruiner. So, you see, I would rather you not kill him.”

“I have no intention of killing him. I intend to wound him, maybe beyond recognition, depending on how well he keeps his mouth shut during the rounds. And if you will recall, I did not issue the challenge. I found him in your room, yet I kept my head.” He paused, holding out his arm for the dinner procession. “Let the record state Lord Thaxton has never kept his head.”

Cassandra could not help craning her neck to see if she could glimpse the Earl Vane. Would the mysterious father that she had heard so much about come down to dinner? Was he well enough to do so? Did he look like his son? Did he know anything of the intrigue that had been going on while Thaxton was away from home? These were all things Cassandra should have asked when Thaxton was in her room earlier, but it would have burst a hole in her deliberate unapproachability, which was already on tenuous ground. The procession line wrapped around a corner, and she could not see either Vane.

Eliza had broken the party up further for the last formal dinner. Four tables of ten lined the wide, high-ceilinged room, lit with oil lamps. The guest ranks had thinned now that the house party neared its end, and the countess had chosen tables to mix up the conversation and protect the people who kept the secret of the duel. The setup caused a bit of a jumble in the dining room proper, everyone looking around to find assigned spots, marked by little cards in front of each setting. Miles went to say hello to Lady Beatrice and her mother, leaving Cassandra to find their settings.

Of course, she bumped clumsily into Thaxton between two tables.

“Sorry,” he said, lowering his gaze. “God, you look beautiful. Sorry. I am trying to act as if nothing is going on, I swear. Good evening, Miss Seton.”

“Good evening, Lord Thaxton. No need to apologize.” Cassandra looked down at the cards on the table next to her. She hoped it gave him a good view of her long neck, adorned with her best necklace to hide the smaller chain that held his ring. Her dress, a deep maroon crepe, looked fragile, as if it might tear under the right hands. She had known what she was doing when she put it on. “It looks as if I am here.”

His gaze was locked on her when she looked back up, and she could see from the heat in his eyes that she had made the right decision. Let him think on that dress when he was meeting with the men about the duel. Thaxton picked up his card from the table, the chair across from Miles, next to her aunt Arabella. Cassandra could not help but notice that Lucy’s name was nowhere to be seen; she must not have come down to dinner at all.

“And I am here,” he said.

“Where is your father?” she asked, trying to sound optimistic, unaffected, and pleasant, though she was sure it did not work.

“Yonder, with the dowager.” He indicated Spencer’s mother, a small but sturdy woman in a giant gown, smiling on the arm of the man who must be the earl, judging from his resemblance to Thaxton. He peered back at the table. “They are seated here as well. I am sure they will be along any moment. For the record, he does not remember Lucy. Or he has forgotten her.”

His father and Spencer’s mother were still talking as they arrived at the table.

“You, Earl Vane, always kept a party lively,” the dowager said with a smile. “I imagine that has not changed.”

The earl laughed, eyes more alert than Cassandra thought they would be. He did not look half as bad as Thaxton prepared her for.

“Father,” Thaxton said, now that they were all at their places, “I would like you to meet Miss Cassandra Seton, daughter of the Marquess of Dorset, though she prefers not to use the honorific.”

The earl looked at her. She felt sure he would give her the usual reaction to an introduction like that—an amused look, patronizing, or outright chagrin. But he just smiled.

“I like a woman who knows her own mind. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Seton.” The earl bowed his head, then turned back to the dowager with a smile.

“You have always known
your
own mind, Lady Spencer,” he said, causing the dowager to giggle, not a sound you would expect out of the stately and somewhat dour woman.

The elders began reminiscing, and Thaxton smiled at Cassandra. “I think my father is flirting with Spencer’s mother.”

“You two should not be speaking,” Miles said, arriving next to Cassandra. He pulled out her chair, or rather he yanked it out.

“Good evening, Mr. Markwick,” Thaxton said with a too-exaggerated bow. “Come to the last supper?”

Thaxton, by that time in the course of the day, just wanted to wrap his hands around Miles’s neck and get it over with. He had actually contemplated his chances of getting away with such a thing—temporary insanity.
Oh, yes, I am indeed a viscount from a very old family, your honor, ever so sorry
. He might have gotten away with it, but not somewhere so public as a dinner.

Miles did not answer. He gave him the cut direct, in fact.

Cassandra did not. She held his gaze, had not even glanced at Miles. He had expected her to have some sort of expression, whether it was of horror or something else, but her face set itself in passive lines. Placid ones, even. As if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred in her entire lifetime.

He turned back to his father and the dowager, half listening to their conversation as dinner plates began circulating the room. Their afternoon together had done his father a vast good. He did not seem to remember everything that Spencer’s mother was talking about, but instead of throwing a frustrated fit, he had nodded politely. Her patience made Thaxton think of his own behavior when dealing with his father . . . which was decidedly less patient.

The uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach told Thaxton that he might have been doing something wrong. A few things.

Dinner passed in pleasant nonsense, since their table had been loaded with people who knew what tomorrow held or would not ask intrusive questions. Quite smart of the countess. Arabella kept things light, and her husband was surprisingly witty; they ended up being the pair Thaxton listened to for most of the meal. The dowager and his father kept up their chatter, Lady Dorset bent Spencer’s ear about country versus city living, and both Eliza and Cassandra drifted in and out of various threads of conversation.

Such as now, when the countess picked up the earl saying that he did not leave the house very much anymore.

“Do you not go outside?” she asked, too politely, as if she were ashamed that she could not hold the question back.

“No, not anymore,” the earl answered with no malice. “Jonathan does not think it best.”

“That is . . .” Thaxton started, his words snarling on the way from his brain to his mouth. “That is not exactly true. It is for his own safety.”

Though Cassandra did not turn, he saw her neck extend, so subtly.

“I did miss parties,” the Earl Vane said, his eyes scanning the room in their usual way, not settling on anything in particular.

“We are so glad you came,” the dowager said, a smile softening her wrinkled face. As the earl had gotten better in her company, she was less stern for the shared memories, more accepting. Spencer threw Thaxton a look from his seat at the head of the table.

Thaxton pursed his lips and took a long drink of wine before he realized he was doing so. The alcohol hit his palate with a force that took him aback. He wanted more; he needed to obliterate the awkward sensation of owning up to his choices. He held the stem of the glass, weighing his options. This could be his last night on earth.

Better to experience it fully, then. He put the glass down.

Cassandra’s mouth turned up in the tiniest smile.

When the dinner ended and the company parted along gender lines, those men involved in the duel were to meet again in Spencer’s study. Thaxton was more than surprised when he found his father in the middle of that meeting. He raised his eyebrows, about to demand an explanation, but Spencer spoke first.

“Thaxton, sit,” Spencer ordered gravely when he entered. “There is an issue.”

Thaxton stood beside a chair but could not force himself to sit. Sutton lurked behind Spencer, presumably awaiting any task.

“Father? Has no one told you this is a private meeting?”

The Earl Vane smiled, as if there was nothing wrong with the situation.

“I am standing on Miles’s honor, of course.”

Thaxton sputtered. “That. Is that a joke?”

Miles spoke from his seat next to the earl.

“Far from it. Your father is the only man I have found at this godforsaken house party willing to stand on my honor. The whole affair quite has me wondering what kind of company the Spencers keep, and I shall say so when I get back to town.”

“Come off it,” Spencer said. “You will do no such thing. You would ruin your invitation list, and you could not bear it.”

“You must pick a new second,” Thaxton insisted. “You cannot do this.”

Miles smirked.

“Can’t I? Unless you would like to go on record as saying your father is not well enough to be considered in charge of his faculties, I do not see another choice.”

Thaxton’s eyes found Spencer’s as he stood very still behind his desk. The Earl Vane turned, looking up.

“I am in charge of my faculties, gentlemen,” he said.

Thaxton disagreed. “You have to stop this, Percy.”

Spencer crossed his arms, his eyes saying so much more than his words subsequently did. “I would have to declare your father unfit.”

“I am not unfit,” the Earl Vane said, almost sounding like his old self.

Miles leaned back in his chair, satisfied.

“Father,” Thaxton said, barely able to keep the humiliating tremolo out of his voice, “you are standing for Miles’s honor against your own son. Do you not think that odd?”

“Not at all, my dear boy. Spencer is already standing for your honor; you are taken care of—poor cousin Miles has no one.”

Thaxton directed his gaze to poor cousin Miles.

“This is a long way to go to hurt me further. You do realize that the satisfaction of my father standing on your side means that he will be the one handling your gun.”

“I am well versed in the handling of dueling pistols,” the Earl Vane said, a slight offended cast to his tone.

“No one disputes that, Father.”

“I do not think this wise,” Spencer said, “but if Miles has asked and the earl has accepted, there is nothing we can do. Short of . . .”

“We are not doing
that
,” Thaxton said.

“Spencer and I have many things to discuss,” the Earl Vane said. “So, if the duelists will leave the room, we can get started.”

There was nothing more to it. Thaxton turned, numb to his core, and left Spencer’s study. He did not turn to see if Miles was behind him. He did not turn to see Spencer’s sad resolve, an expression he knew well.

He almost did not see Miss Seton when he rounded the corner to his suite.

After the time she had bided in the shadows by his door, Cassandra did not expect Thaxton to brush by her. At first, he looked focused on getting into his foyer as fast as possible, as if he was fleeing from something. Then he stopped, fingers on the metal, and spoke without so much as glancing at her.

“Cassandra. I was not sure you’d come.”

“I wanted to stay away, but I could not.”

“Come in,” he said, still not turning to look at her.

She slipped in behind him, and he locked the door, his eyes meeting hers at last.

“Have you been trying to ignore me? Deliberately?”

“Yes.”

“You are not very good at it.”

“I know.” She smiled. “You have the advantage. Even though you say you will not die tomorrow, I cannot overlook the possibility. Have a drink with me before you sleep?”