Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,109

more suited to the occasion, crimson, with a fine cashmere shawl of black and white.

During these leisurely preliminaries she considered several approaches and settled on three, depending on the reception she met.

Miss Pomfret came downstairs promptly. She did not appear wary. She wore her usual expression, which was to say, no expression. A china doll was easier to read. But Lady Bartham didn’t need to look for clues. She held all the cards.

They exchanged courtesies.

“You will wonder why I wished to see you, particularly,” Lady Bartham said.

“I assumed you had something particular to say to me, since neither of my parents is home, as you are doubtless aware,” Miss Pomfret said. “A secret, is it?”

Though Lady Bartham was far from unfamiliar with the girl’s blunt speech, she’d grown accustomed to the seen-but-not-heard Miss Pomfret she’d encountered here lately. The directness took her aback, though she didn’t show it.

“How perceptive you are,” she said. “I daresay it is a secret, for the present.” She withdrew from her reticule a folded note. “I considered asking you to walk with me in the garden, for privacy, but I supposed you might hesitate when you didn’t know what the matter was.”

She held out the note. Miss Pomfret stared at the folded paper for a moment, then took it. She opened it and read. Her expression didn’t change.

“I see,” she said. “You wouldn’t have given me this merely for information. You want something. The rain has subsided. We shall walk in the garden.”

The note was to the point:

Your adventure last night was witnessed. You wore a top hat, coat, and Cossack trousers. You were observed in the window of Ashmont House, in the embrace of the Duke of Ashmont. You were seen and heard later, in Park Street, climbing into hackney coach No. 317. The direction given the driver was the intersection of Duke and Great Ryder Streets, close by your home.

Chapter 17

It took a moment for the words on paper to become real. Cassandra stared at them with the sensation of being in a dream. It made no sense. It wasn’t possible. And then, yes, clearly it was possible, because here she was, reading it again, and the words didn’t disappear, and all the world remained as it had been minutes before. In the garden a few persevering birds, past their springtime mating enthusiasms but not yet taciturn, chirped in the shrubs and trees.

What a curious thing it was to have one’s greatest anxieties realized like this, out of the blue. How had Lady Bartham found out? It was unlikely she’d seen for herself, though not impossible. But no, she would have had to skulk about Ashmont House for at least half an hour, perhaps an hour or more, on a Friday night, when she might be skewering reputations at any of half a dozen entertainments. And why hang about waiting for Ashmont to do something gossip-worthy? That made no sense. She must have had a spy. Did others know, apart from the spy?

The questions tumbled over themselves in Cassandra’s head, though the answers hardly mattered now. The lady walking alongside her on the garden’s gravel path knew. That was enough. She’d have no trouble informing the entire world, and in no time.

The rain had stopped a short time ago, leaving the air cooler but heavy with humidity.

Life felt heavy at this moment, weighed down by a crushing sense of responsibility. A few hours earlier, Cassandra’s spirits had soared impossibly high, all the way to Olympus, to touch true happiness. Now she felt like Icarus, wings melting, plummeting into the sea.

“Obviously your sister helped you,” Lady Bartham was saying. “You couldn’t have done it without her. On that count alone your father would not be pleased.” She smiled. “An understatement, as you must realize, unless you are lost to all natural filial sensibility.”

Your behavior reflects on her, on all of us.

But this went far beyond appearances. Papa would be furious and worse, hurt. To him, what Cassandra had done would constitute a betrayal of trust, and he would not be wrong.

“I’m aware of the consequences,” she said. “Perhaps you will be so good as to tell me what you want. It seems pointless to ask why you’ve done this or how you came by the knowledge. I should simply like to know what you hope to accomplish.”

Lady Bartham only smiled. “Well, then, let me match you in directness. It would give me no small satisfaction to make your duplicity and shame known to the