Лиза Клейпас - Chasing Cassandra

Mr. Severin’s expression turned inscrutable, as if she’d spoken in a foreign language he was trying to interpret.

She’d been too forward, saying such a thing. It had just slipped out. Had she embarrassed him?

To her relief, the tension was broken as Devon strode briskly into the kitchen, saying, “I arranged for a new boiler. Winterborne doesn’t carry an eighty-gallon model in his store, but he knows a manufacturer who—” He stopped in his tracks, looking aghast as he beheld the two of them. “Cassandra, what the devil are you doing here with Tom Severin? Why don’t you have a chaperone?”

“There are at least a dozen people working only a few yards away,” Cassandra pointed out.

“That’s not the same as a chaperone. Why are you on the floor?”

“I helped Mr. Severin solder a pipe,” she said brightly.

Devon’s outraged gaze shot to Mr. Severin. “You had her working with an open flame and molten metal?”

“We were being careful,” Cassandra said defensively.

Mr. Severin seemed too preoccupied to explain anything. He bent to gather some of the tools and slid them back into the plumber’s bag. One of his hands went to the center of his chest and rubbed surreptitiously.

Devon reached down to pull Cassandra up. “If Lady Berwick finds out about this, she’ll come down on us like the wrath of Zeus.” He glanced over her and groaned. “Look at you.”

Cassandra grinned up at him, well aware that she was perspiring and bedraggled, with soot marks on her yellow dress. “You probably thought Pandora was the cause of all our misadventures. But as you see, I’m capable of getting into trouble all on my own.”

“Pandora would be so proud,” Devon said dryly, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Go change your dress before anyone sees you. We’ll have afternoon tea soon, and I’m sure Kathleen will want you to help pour and entertain.”

Mr. Severin stood as well, and executed a short bow. His face was expressionless. “My lady. Thank you for your assistance.”

“I’ll see you at tea, then?” Cassandra asked.

Mr. Severin shook his head. “I’m leaving for London right away. I have a business meeting early tomorrow morning.”

“Oh,” she said, crestfallen. “I’m sorry to hear that. I . . . I’ve so enjoyed your company.”

“As I’ve enjoyed yours,” Mr. Severin replied. But the blue-green eyes now held a chill of wariness. Why had he suddenly become guarded?

Annoyed and a bit hurt, Cassandra curtsied to him. “Well . . . good-bye.”

An abbreviated nod was the only reply.

“I’ll walk you to the servants’ stairs,” Devon told Cassandra, and she went with him willingly.

As soon as they had left the kitchen, Cassandra asked in a low voice, “Is Mr. Severin always so mercurial? He was perfectly charming, and then his mood turned sour for no reason.”

Devon stopped in the hallway and turned her to face him. “Don’t try to understand Tom Severin. You’ll never come up with the right answer, because there isn’t one.”

“Yes, but . . . we were getting on so well, and . . . I liked him so much.”

“Only because he wanted you to. He’s a master at manipulation.”

“I see.” Her shoulders slumped as disappointment settled over her. “That must be why he told me the story about his father.”

“What story?”

“About the day his father left, when he was a boy.” As she saw Devon’s eyes widen, she asked, “He hasn’t told you that one?”

Looking perturbed, Devon shook his head. “He never speaks of his father. I assumed he’d passed away.”

“No, he—” Cassandra stopped. “I don’t think I should repeat a personal confidence.”

Now Devon wore a troubled frown. “Sweetheart . . . Severin isn’t like any other man you’ll ever meet. He’s brilliant, unprincipled, and ruthless by nature. I can’t think of a single man in England, not even Winterborne, who’s positioned so exactly at the center of forces that are changing life as we know it. Someday he may be mentioned in history books. But the give-and-take of marriage . . . the awareness of another person’s needs . . . those things aren’t in his capacity. Men who make history rarely make good husbands.” He paused before asking gently, “Do you understand?”

Cassandra nodded, feeling a rush of affection for him. From the moment Devon had arrived at Eversby Priory, he had been kind and caring, the way she and Pandora had always wished their brother, Theo, would have been. “I understand,” she said. “And I trust your judgment.”

He smiled at her. “Thank you. Now, hurry upstairs before you’re caught . . . and put Tom Severin out of your mind.”

Later that night, after the cold buffet supper, and music and games in the parlor, Cassandra retired to her room. She was sitting at her dressing table when her lady’s maid, Meg, came in to help take down her hair and brush it out.

Meg set something down on the dresser. “This was found in the kitchen,” she said matter-of-factly. “Mrs. Church told me to bring it up to you.”

Cassandra blinked in surprise as she beheld the green leather cover of Around the World in Eighty Days . Realizing Mr. Severin had left it behind, she felt the cold weight of disappointment pressing down on her. It had been no accident, this rejection of her gift. He would not call on the family in London. There would be no discussions of books, or anything else.

He’d proposed marriage in the morning, and abandoned her by evening. What a frustrating, fickle man.

Slowly Cassandra opened the book and paged through it while the lady’s maid pulled the pins from her hair. Her gaze happened to fall upon a passage in which Phileas Fogg’s faithful valet, Passepartout, was reflecting on his master.

Phileas Fogg, though brave and gallant, must be . . . quite heartless.

Chapter 6

September

After three months of hard work and as many distractions as he’d been able to devise for himself, Tom still hadn’t been able to put Lady Cassandra Ravenel out of his mind. Memories of her kept catching at the edge of his consciousness, sparkling like a tenacious strand of Christmas tinsel stuck in the carpet.

He wouldn’t have guessed in a million years that Cassandra would have come down to the kitchen to visit him. Nor would he have wanted her to. He’d have chosen far different circumstances, somewhere with flowers and candlelight, or out on a garden terrace. And yet as they’d crouched together on a dirty floor, soldering boiler pipes in a room full of kitchen maids, Tom had been conscious of an unfolding sense of delight. She had been so clever and curious, with a sunny energy that had transfixed him.

Then had come that moment, when she’d said so artlessly, “I like you just as you are,” and he’d been shaken by his reaction.

From one moment to the next, Cassandra had gone from being an object of desire to a liability he couldn’t allow. She posed a danger to him, something new and strange, and he wanted none of it. No one could ever have that kind of power over him.

He was determined to forget her.

If only that were possible.

It didn’t help that he was friends with Rhys Winterborne, who was married to Cassandra’s sister Helen. Tom often met Winterborne for a quick lunch at one of the cook shops or chop houses between their respective offices. It was on one of these occasions that Winterborne revealed West Ravenel had just become engaged to marry Phoebe, Lady Clare, a young widow with two small sons, Justin and Stephen.

“I suspected he would,” Tom said, pleased by the revelation. “I went to Jenner’s Club with him the night before last, and she was all he wanted to talk about.”