Лиза Клейпас - Chasing Cassandra

Devon turned to watch him with a perplexed frown, wondering what his friend was up to.

Tom looked relaxed and supremely confident, a man who was thinking five steps ahead of everyone else. The tantalizing sense of something dangerous held in reserve, a hidden volatility beneath the coolness, was still there.

Weak with longing, Cassandra stared at him, but his gaze didn’t meet hers.

“Mr. Severin,” Kathleen asked pleasantly, reaching for a fresh cup and saucer from the tea tray, “how do you prefer your tea?”

“Milk, no sugar.”

Devon began to make introductions. “Lord Ripon, I’d like to present—”

“No need,” Tom said casually. “We’re already acquainted. Ripon happens to sit on a select committee that awards contracts to railway developers. Oddly enough, the most lucrative contracts tend to go to a railway company in which he’s heavily invested.”

Ripon stared at him with cold disdain. “You dare to impugn my integrity?”

Tom reacted with mock surprise. “No, did I sound critical? I meant to sound admiring. Private graft pairs so beautifully with public service. Like Bordeaux with aged beef. I’m sure I couldn’t resist the temptation any more than you.”

Lady Berwick, bristling with indignation, addressed Tom directly. “Young man, not only are you an unwelcome distraction, you have the manners of a goat.”

That drew a flashing grin from Tom. “I beg your pardon, madam, and ask your indulgence for a minute or two. I have a good reason for being here.”

Lady Berwick huffed and regarded him suspiciously.

After taking the teacup from Kathleen and declining the saucer, Tom went to brace his shoulder against the fireplace mantel. The firelight played over the gleaming short layers of his hair as he glanced around the room.

“I suppose the subject of the missing Lord Lambert has already been brought up,” he remarked. “Has there been any sign of him?”

“Not yet,” Winterborne replied. “Ransom has dispatched men to find him.”

Cassandra suspected Tom knew something no one else did. He seemed to be playing some kind of cat-and-mouse game. “Do you have information regarding his whereabouts, Mr. Severin?” she asked unsteadily.

Tom looked directly at her then, the nonchalant mask temporarily falling away. His intense, searching gaze somehow burned through the numbness of the past twenty-four hours. “No, sweetheart,” he said gently, as if there were no one else in the room. The deliberate endearment caused a few breaths to catch audibly, including hers.

“I’m sorry for what Lambert did to you,” Tom continued. “There’s nothing more repellent than a man who forces his attentions on women. The fact that he went on to malign you publicly proves he’s a liar as well as a bully. I can’t think of two more damning qualities in a man.”

Ripon’s face darkened. “He’s your better, in every way,” he snapped. “My son had a lapse in judgment, but he’s still the cream of the crop.”

Tom’s mouth twisted. “I’d say the cream of the crop has gone sour.”

Ripon turned to Devon. “Will you allow him to stand there crowing like a cock on his own dung hill?”

Devon shot Tom a vaguely exasperated glance. “Severin, could we go to the point?”

Obligingly, Tom drained his tea in two swallows and continued. “After reading that slanderous rubbish in the Chronicle , I found myself puzzled. Lord Lambert had already done enough damage with his rumormongering . . . why butter the bacon by writing a society column on top of it? There was no need. But if he didn’t write it, who did?” He set the empty teacup on the mantel and wandered insouciantly around the library as he spoke. “I came up with a theory: After discovering his son had hopelessly botched any chance of winning your hand, Lord Ripon decided to take advantage of the situation. He’s made no secret of his desire to marry again, and Lady Cassandra is an ideal candidate. But to obtain her, he first had to destroy her reputation so thoroughly that it left her with few practical alternatives. After having brought her sufficiently low, he would step forth and present himself as the best solution.”

Silence descended over the room. Everyone looked at the marquis, whose complexion had turned purple. “You’re mad,” he snapped. “Your theory is absolute rot, as well as an insult to my honor. You’ll never be able to prove it.”

Tom looked at St. Vincent. “I assume the editor at the Chronicle refused to divulge the writer’s identity?”

St. Vincent looked rueful. “Categorically. I’ll have to find a way to pry it out of him without bringing the entire British press to his defense.”

“Yes,” Tom mused, tapping his lower lip with a fingertip, “they tend to be so touchy about protecting their sources.”

“Trenear,” Lord Ripon said through gritted teeth, “will you kindly throw him out?”

“I’ll see myself out,” Tom said casually. He turned as if to leave, and paused as if something had just occurred to him. “Although . . . as your friend, Trenear, I find it disappointing that you haven’t asked about my day. It makes me feel as if you don’t care.”

Before Devon could respond, Pandora jumped in. “I will,” she volunteered eagerly. “How was your day, Mr. Severin?”

Tom sent her a brief grin. “Busy. After six tedious hours of business negotiations, I paid a call to the chief editor of the London Chronicle .”

St. Vincent lifted his brows. “After I’d already met with him?”

Trying to look repentant, Tom replied, “I know you said not to. But I had a bit of leverage you didn’t.”

“Oh?”

“I told him the paper’s owner would dismiss him and toss him out on the pavement if he didn’t name the anonymous writer.”

St. Vincent stared at him quizzically. “You bluffed?”

“No, that is what the business negotiations were about. I’m the new owner. And while the chief editor happens to be a staunch advocate for freedom of the press, he’s also a staunch supporter of not losing his job.”

“You just bought the London Chronicle ,” Devon said slowly, to make certain he hadn’t misheard. “Today.”

“No one could do that in less than a day,” Ripon sneered.

Winterborne smiled slightly. “He could,” he said, with a nod toward Tom.

“I did,” Tom confirmed, picking idly at a bit of lint on his cuff. “All it took was a preliminary purchase agreement and some earnest money. It will come as no surprise to you, Ripon, that the editor named you as the anonymous author.”

“I deny it! I denounce him, and you!”

Tom pulled a piece of folded parchment from an inside coat pocket and regarded it reflectively. “The most dangerous substance on earth is wood pulp flattened into thin sheets. I’d rather face a steel blade than certain pieces of paper.” He tilted his head slightly, his steady stare fixed on the marquis. “The original column,” he said with a flutter of the parchment. “In your hand.”

In the suffocated silence that followed, Tom glanced over the page in his hand. “I have so many interesting plans for my newspaper,” he mused. “Tomorrow, for example, we’re running a special feature about how an unprincipled nobleman conspired with his spoiled whelp of a son to ruin an innocent young woman’s name, all for the sake of greed and lechery. I’ve already set my editor to work on it.” He sent the marquis a taunting glance. “At least now the mudslinging will be reciprocal.”

“I’ll sue you for libel,” Lord Ripon cried, his facial nerves twitching, and stormed out of the library.

The group sat in stunned silence for a full half minute.

After exhaling slowly, Devon approached Tom to shake his hand heartily. “Thank you, Severin.”