shows her or her family. She saved his life, and got his attention that way. I hope he cares for her, truly, but I suspect he’s only trying to get the marrying over with, now that Blackwood’s done it. There she was, right at hand—pretty, good family, virgin, but not boring. She spared his having to go out in the normal way and find a bride. Horrible thing to say, but I’m horrible, as you know.
Still, Ashmont may come to love her. She deserves to be loved, in my opinion. As to her feelings, I can’t say absolutely. Let us bear in mind, however, that her father’s debts are nothing to sneeze at and the family is large, like yours, and also overburdened with boys. Self-sacrifice? I wish women wouldn’t do such things, yet I understand the compulsion to protect those nearest and dearest. (I trust it’s understood I except Blackwood? He needs nobody’s protection.) Only think, if Lady Olympia proves a difficult wife, who better deserves difficulties than Ashmont?
Cassandra had laughed at this conclusion, though other parts of the letter troubled her. Mainly the parts relating to Alice and Blackwood. As to Ashmont, five or six years ago she might have grieved for something lost. But whatever she’d lost had been gone long before she admitted it. She’d loved a boy, then an illusion. The boy no longer existed. The illusion had crumbled under the weight of evidence.
She had only wished his marriage would not go so badly awry as Alice’s had done. Though she didn’t know Lady Olympia very well, what little she knew she liked. She’d hoped Ashmont would treat her kindly.
But none of that signified now. He’d behaved stupidly, as usual, and Lady Olympia had decided not to risk it, after all. The man had been blind drunk at his own wedding. Cassandra shook her head. He was simply incapable of doing the right thing, even on his wedding day.
At some point—time meant nothing at present—a maidservant entered, bearing a tray of tea and sandwiches that Cassandra hadn’t asked for. She shook off the past, to discover that she was hungry. She’d be no good to Keeffe in a weak and famished state.
She found she was shivering as well. Her clothes. Her overnight case. She’d planned to return to London after a few hours’ visit. But Gosney had packed a small travel case, anticipating mishaps on the road. She’d borne a few.
She didn’t approve of her mistress’s manner of travel, and she’d seen little value in journeys to foreign parts. Still, she’d lasted longer than previous lady’s maids. She did try to prepare for every eventuality. She couldn’t have foreseen this, poor girl.
Cassandra explained to the servant about the case, which might still be with the damaged carriage. Otherwise it was on Putney Heath, covered in mud by now. Fixed on Keeffe, she’d given it no thought whatsoever.
“We’ll find it,” the maid assured her. “But meanwhile, I’ll tell my mistress, and we’ll see what we might have for you to wear.” She shook her head over Cassandra’s still damp, wrinkled, and dirt-spattered dress. “That won’t do. You’ll catch your death, Miss Pomfret.”
No, it wouldn’t do. When the maid left, Cassandra moved to a chair nearer to the fire Ashmont had insisted upon, and fortified herself. The day—and the coming night—promised to be long.
Morris woke Ashmont to tell him Sommers had arrived—in a post chaise, of all things! He brought with him no valises, not even an overnight case.
The valet confirmed this when he entered empty-handed.
“What?” Ashmont swung his long legs over the side of the bed.
“I do beg Your Grace’s pardon,” Sommers said. “I pray this explains.”
He took out from the pocket of his tailcoat a piece of writing paper bearing a familiar seal and gave it to Ashmont.
He broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
In Lord Frederick Beckingham’s clear, decisive hand the duke read the following:
You were never there.
Pay whatever is necessary.
I’ve written to Lady Charles.
Leave as soon as you can, and take Bartham’s boy with you.
Come directly to me.
If you truly want to help the girl, for once in your life, do as I say.
If you don’t truly want to help her, I wash my hands of you.
Ashmont stared at the single sheet of paper.
No greeting. No closing. No signature. Nothing else.
He turned it over, as though expecting invisible ink to suddenly become visible, in a language he could understand.
He looked up from the note to the two men standing in the bedchamber.
Morris was