In the Garden of Seduction Page 3

  Cassandra moved to the center of the library, misgiving causing her undigested breakfast to churn. To one side of the room stood a man she had never met. Jonathan Peters, she assumed. She watched the man for a moment before shifting her attention to her father, who sat behind his desk.

  “Papa, you sent for me?”

  “Mr. James,” the detective interrupted, his expression uncomfortable, “if you would like to speak to your daughter privately, I can wait outside.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” her father said. His voice sounded unsteady, and he had turned an ashen color, appearing almost ill. “Tell your story, Mr. Peters.”

  She looked at Jonathan Peters, a smallish man with nondescript features and coloring. What could such a dull little person have to say that could reduce her robust, self-confident parent to tears?

  Mr. Peters was clearly nervous. “Miss James, the news I bring is not necessarily bad. A whole new way of life is waiting for you, with opportunities that money alone cannot buy. I hope you will consider what I have to say in that light.”

  Cassandra merely stared at him and so he pressed on.

  “Twenty-four years ago, in the winter of 1785, a baby was born to a young woman by the name of Mary Lamberton. Several months before the birth, Mary had wed Trevor Lamberton in Gretna Green against the wishes of his father Earl Whittingham. The couple ran away rather than contend with the earl’s wrath. They came to London and lived quietly. At least, Mary lived quietly.

  “Trevor did not settle down as a married man ought. He was in one scrape after the other, and weeks before his daughter was born he lost his life in a racing accident. Mary was a widow when she gave birth.

  “From what we can determine, Mary developed milk fever and died within days of her confinement. On her deathbed she entrusted the future of her baby with her personal servant, Louise Biddle. After that, Louise and the child disappeared.”

  “Interesting story, Mr. Peters,” Cassandra said, her stomach now beginning to tighten with alarm, “but what does that have to do with us?”

  “We believe that servant is the woman who raised you,” Mr. Peters stated, “and you are that missing child.”

  “That’s impossible! My mother’s name was Louise, yes, but her maiden name was Smith. Tell him, Papa, tell him they’ve made a mistake.”

  Her father, not only silent but utterly still while Mr. Peters told his story, could hardly meet her gaze as he said, “I met Louise Smith in 1787. She was applying for a housekeeping position I had advertised in the daily. Pretty young thing she was,” he whispered, glancing at Cassandra briefly before dropping his gaze again. “At that time she was struggling to support herself and her small daughter—”

  “Papa, no!” Cassandra cried.

  He continued as if she had not spoken. “I had just begun to find success in business, and a wife seemed like the next logical step. And I was no longer a young man, you see. Louise wasn’t much more than a girl herself, but I fell in love with her and her sweet baby.” He looked directly at Cassandra then, his manner almost defiant.

  Standing abruptly, he knocked aside the leather chair he was sitting on. His face had turned a bright pink, now with anger. He brought a large fist down on his desk with such force, the two other people in the room jumped.

  “No one can tell me she’s not my daughter!” her father bellowed. “My blood may not flow in her veins, but she is my child as surely as there is a God in the heavens.” He looked wildly at Mr. Peters. “Do you think you are going to come in here and take her away from me? She’s all I have left.”

  “None of this proves Mama was not my mother, does it, Papa?” Cassandra whispered over a terrible knot blocking her throat.

  Righting his chair, her father sat down heavily and stared, eyes unfocused. He looked at her then and a sad smile eased his haunted expression.

  “I’m sorry, lass,” he said, his voice rumbling with feeling. Leaning over, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a small wooden chest with a carved lid. He placed it on the ink blotter in front of him and slowly pushed the box toward her.

  “Your mother gave this to me a few days before her death. I swear, until then I didn’t know the truth. Louise knew she was dying…” He stopped, visibly grappling with emotion then cleared his throat. “She didn’t think it was right to rob you of your heritage by taking this information to her grave.”

  Cassandra hesitated briefly before reaching for the chest with shaking hands. Sitting down, she placed the container on her lap but did not immediately lift the lid. She felt as if she held Pandora’s mythical box and, once opened, her life would be irrevocably changed.

  She shifted her gaze to Mr. Peters where he stood alone. Cassandra saw the regret on his face, and she could almost pity him his embarrassment.

  Almost…

  “Who are you, Mr. Peters?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  The detective blinked. “Well, I…that is to say, I’m employed with an agency hired by your grandfather nearly twenty-five years ago to find you. Of course, I wasn’t there then—I’m much too young. But I’ve been working on this case for six years.”

  “Six years—that’s a long time on one case,” she said thoughtfully.

  “There have been others, but we were ready to give up on this one. However, Lord Whittingham is a powerful man and we did not want to disappoint him.”

  Cassandra glanced at her father, who watched her pensively, then resumed her conversation with the detective. “Suppose, Mr. Peters, just suppose I accept everything you have to say. What do you or, more accurately, Lord Whittingham hope to gain by disclosing this information now? I mean, it is long past the time it will alter anything.”

  The young man looked surprised. “Miss, James, I thought it was obvious. You are the only child of the earl’s only child. And unfortunately, his son is deceased. You are Lord Whittingham’s sole descendant. He wants you to take your rightful place in your natural family.”

  “Impossible,” Cassandra said. “If that is why you are here, it would be best if you left at this time.”

  Mr. Peters sighed. “We are prepared for your refusal, Miss James,” he said. “If you do not go home freely and, I might add, immediately, Lord Whittingham will bring charges against Mr. James accusing him of kidnapping.”

  Cassandra was robbed of speech. She looked frantically at her father again, but his expression told her he had already been informed of this possibility.

  “My father said he knew nothing about my birth!”

  “When did your mother die, Miss James?”

  “Just before my fifteenth birthday.” Cassandra answered slowly, unsure where the detective was headed with this line of questioning.

  “Then by his own admission, your father did learn of your origins at that time. For close to ten years he’s kept quiet even as your natural family continued to search for you.” Mr. Peters paused as if driving home his point. “There will be little sympathy for his motives, pure as they may seem to you.”

  Cassandra closed her eyes, appalled by the sheer inevitability of her situation. Of course, they would know to choose her one great weakness, she thought. She loved her father. She would protect him.

  “Do I have Lord Whittingham’s word, if I do as he asks, he will not press charges?” How could she sound so calm when her heart was breaking?

  “Miss James, your grandfather is very relieved that you have been found. He says the matter will end here if you come home.”

  Cassandra looked directly at the young man through scornful eyes, her voice taking on a biting quality. “Do not fool yourself, Mr. Peters. I am home and nothing your employer can do will ever change that fact. When do I have to leave?”

  “You have a week to prepare. Lord Whittingham has made all the arrangements, and I will escort you to his estate.”

  Cassandra nodded, aware that the courage she was displaying would soon desert her. She could not sit here and continue to talk in a rational, controlled
manner as if her world were not falling apart. Her ordered life had been tossed into the air like so many pebbles, only to fall in an unknown pattern at her feet.

  She stood.

  The little wooden chest, forgotten on her lap, tumbled to the floor, though a metal clasp kept the contents from spilling. For several moments no one moved. She shared a look with her father then bent down and picked up the box.

  “Mr. Peters,” Cassandra said as she straightened and transferred her gaze to the detective, “you have earned your pay this day.”

  “Beg pardon?” He appeared ill at ease.

  “There’s always the temptation to slay the messenger. I realize you are only doing your duty.”

  “Thank you,” the detective murmured.

  “Papa, I will let you see our guest out. I think I need to be alone for awhile.” She stopped at the library door and spoke to the detective once more. “I will be ready one week from today, Mr. Peters.”

  She found her way upstairs but instinct must have taken her there, for she couldn’t remember making the journey. Cassandra paused at the threshold to her bedchamber, feeling as if she were seeing it for the first time.

  The suite was richly appointed, a tribute to an adored child, from the drapes that graced the mullioned windows to the outrageously expensive Persian carpeting on the floor. Done in varying shades of blue with ivory, it suited her taste perfectly.

  Nothing was too good for her. Quintin James had pampered Cassandra all her life, giving her everything she had ever wanted and more, much more. He indulged her, allowing her to do as she pleased, for her happiness made him happy.

  To think, this morning she had been upset because a young lord had had the temerity to trifle with her. If this was God’s way of giving her perspective, then she had to admit He had brought his message home most forcefully.

  Cassandra stepped through the doorway and walked to the bed. She placed the chest on the counterpane then ran her fingers over the carved top. A numbness had settled over her though she felt thankful for the respite from emotions gone out of control. Her curiosity was dead at the moment—she really didn’t want to know. Regrettably, it seemed she had no choice. Drawing in a deep, unsteady breath she opened the lid.

  Inconceivable how several scraps of yellowed paper could change one’s life forever. There were pages filled with disjointed sentences, written in an uneducated hand by her mother Louise in the form of a confession. Those pages comprised the bulk of what was in the box, along with a copy of the Whittingham’s wedding certificate obtained in Gretna Green. Louise Smith had indeed started her life as Louise Biddle. And she had worked in the household of Trevor Lamberton’s young widow. Louise changed her name so she could not be traced after she disappeared with the couple’s newborn daughter. Marriage to Quintin James had hidden her completely. Poor Louise had been guilt-ridden from the part she had played in Cassandra’s abduction, and she had spent most of her adult life dreading detection.

  A young Mary Lamberton, overcome with grief at the death of her new husband, had begged her servant to care for the baby. She had no family of her own and no one to whom she could turn for help. Mary hated Trevor’s father Earl Whittingham and adamantly insisted the man should not be allowed near her child. Tragically, she had died a few days after giving birth.

  Cassandra could not help wondering what had caused the terrible aversion Mary felt for her father-in-law. Whether fear or spite motivated Trevor’s wife, it was hard to judge. But Cassandra suspected it would be wise to remember Mary’s distrust when she had to deal with Lord Whittingham herself.

  Only two other items lay hidden at the bottom of the chest, a lace monogrammed handkerchief grown gray with age and a gold locket. The handkerchief was embroidered with Mary Lamberton’s initials, and Cassandra ran her fingers over the raised stitches trying through touch to absorb something of the woman who had sewn them.

  However, not until she reached for the locket did an appalling sense of what had happened today finally take hold of her. She snapped the locket open.

  Two fine miniatures stared out at her, one a man, the other a pretty woman. Until that moment, she had been rather detached as she examined the contents of the box as though what was in it would not drastically change her life. But the sight of the couple with the promise of a bright future shining on their young, expectant faces filled her with uncertainty.

  The woman, dark-haired with large brown eyes, had a sweet, timid smile, and though Cassandra liked the looks of her, she couldn’t detect a relationship. But the man! Her heart rose in her chest, for he wore a male version of her own features. There was no doubt he was her father, despite his complexion being fairer and freckled and his hair more orange than red. A jaunty grin indicated a devilish nature and, though she suspected he had been a trial while he lived, she identified with the personality emanating from the tiny painting. She swallowed over a sudden ache in her throat.

  Here was something she had been missing all her life, and she’d never had a clue. Intuition should have warned her but it hadn’t. She’d been happy, blithely so, and never, given a hundred alternatives, would she have guessed what today held in store. Cassandra wanted to toss herself into the middle of her four-poster bed and weep until she could not produce another tear. Can’t do that, she thought stubbornly, for tears were a weakness she rarely indulged in.

  Instead, she planned to undress, lay her exhausted body down and try to recapture some of the rest that had been lost to her the night before. Perhaps when she awoke she would find all of this had been a bad dream—a very bad dream.

  It was, however, many hours before she slept.

  *****

  Cassandra bolted upright in the bed. How long had she been asleep? The room was bathed in darkness, so it must be night. Strange, no one had come to wake her.

  Awareness came slowly as she stared at the vague outlines of her furniture. And then a sudden memory of the day’s events caused her to moan aloud. Oh Lord, why couldn’t she have been left to her slumber?

  Her head ached and she felt parched. She lay back against the pillow and closed her eyes, for the throbbing in her temples made her feel queasy. She swallowed, her throat muscles protesting the effort to make them work despite her thirst.

  Perhaps a glass of warm milk would do the trick. She knew she must be desperate to consider such a remedy, but in the order of things she found most distasteful, warm milk had taken a tumble down the list.

  The house was eerily quiet and, more than the milk, she wanted to leave the solitude of her room and make certain the world outside was still spinning. Where was everyone?

  Cassandra pushed back the covers and reached for the silk wrapper on the end of her bed. She put it on, stepping into the deserted corridor. As she walked down the passage, she felt a heightened sense of her surroundings—the pictures on the wall, the carpet under foot.

  She arrived at the head of the staircase with its carved teak banister and ran her hand along the railing, soaking in the texture and the warmth of the polished wood. Her gaze moved downward to the foyer, as big as a small room. A chandelier fashioned from Austrian crystal hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting refracted light onto the Italian marble of the entry. She lived in opulence and she doubted there were many who lived better. So what was the advantage of her sudden promotion to the nobility?

  Besides, Cassandra accepted her position in society, was comfortable with it. She was privileged among those of her class and that had always been enough. Only once had she felt her lack of status, and an egotistical marquess had been the reason. A sly thought made her pause, and a sudden smile curved her lips. Wouldn’t Lord Sutherfield be surprised?

  As she began her descent, she remembered other times she had made her way down this regal staircase. Often an attractive young man had been at the base of those steps, watching her with admiration in his eyes. It would be an untruth to say she had not thoroughly enjoyed those moments.

  Cassandra had received more than
her share of offers. But she had not been tempted to take that final step because she’d never been quite certain how much those offers had to do with her and how much they had to do with her father’s wealth. Papa had been cautious as well.

  She thought of her father’s ravaged face when she had left him hours before, and she felt a stab of remorse. She ought to be angry with him for letting this happen as it had, but in reality he was as much a victim as she.

  What should he have done ten years ago when he had discovered the truth? His wife had just died and he feared losing his child. And even if he knew about Lord Whittingham’s attempt to find her, he no doubt believed Cassandra would be taken from the only life she had ever known and he would never see her again.

  Reaching the foyer, she turned toward the kitchen, but a light under the doorway to the library caught her eye. Who was about at this hour? It was really not a question, for she knew who it must be.

  Cassandra knocked. “Papa? Are you in here?” The door was not latched and so, pushing it open, she entered the room.

  Quintin James sat in a wingback chair facing the fireplace. His body was concealed from view except for his left arm which lay on the armrest, a brandy glass held loosely in his fingers. He did not move but his voice drifted in a hoarse whisper across the room.

  “Come in, lass.”

  Cassandra tiptoed to his side and kneeled down beside him. She reached for the glass and gently eased it from his grasp. He did not resist instead turning on her bleary eyes full of sorrow.

  “I’m drunk,” he croaked, stating the obvious. “I didna’ mean to, but I couldna’ help myself.”

  The slight brogue he had spent so many years erasing from his speech had slipped back with the alcohol. It was a sign of his vulnerability, and it pained her terribly.

  “I know,” she consoled him in a broken whisper. Placing her face against his shoulder, she patted his arm.

  “I should not be allowing you to make this sacrifice for me,” he said, “and then I worry that you will consider it no sacrifice at all. Can you forgive me for being selfish?”