Лиза Клейпас - Chasing Cassandra

“I’m sure we do,” Devon replied ruefully. “Plumbing work never ends in this house.”

Severin rose to his feet and took off his coat. “Mrs. Bixby,” he said to the cook, “would you and your staff be able to stay clear of this area while I do the repairs?”

“Will your work be dangerous?” she asked apprehensively.

“Not at all, but I’ll need room to measure and saw pipes, and spread out the tools. I wouldn’t want to trip anyone.”

The cook looked at him as if he were her guardian angel. “We’ll keep to the other side of the kitchen and use the scullery sink.”

Severin grinned at her. “Give me five or six hours, and I’ll have everything back in working order.”

Devon felt more than a little apologetic about putting him to work when all the rest of the guests were relaxing. “Tom,” he began, “you don’t have to—”

“Finally,” Severin interrupted cheerfully, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs, “there’s something interesting to do at your house.”

Chapter 5

Although Cassandra was tired after the excitement and bustle of Pandora’s wedding, she couldn’t seem to relax sufficiently to take a nap. Her thoughts were restless, her mind running in place. By now, Pandora and Lord St. Vincent had probably reached the Isle of Wight, where they would spend their honeymoon at a fine old hotel. Tonight, Pandora would lie in the arms of her husband and experience the intimacies of the marital relationship.

The thought caused a twinge of something that felt like jealousy. Although Cassandra was glad Pandora had married the man she loved, she wanted her own forever to begin. It didn’t seem entirely fair that Pandora, who’d never wanted to marry, now had a husband, whereas Cassandra was facing the prospect of yet another London Season. The thought of meeting the same people, dancing the same dances, all that lemonade and stale conversation . . . God, how dismal. She couldn’t fathom how the outcome would be any different the next time around.

Hearing the laughter and shouts of the younger guests playing lawn tennis and croquet, Cassandra considered going outside to join them. No. The effort of pretending to be cheerful was more than she could manage.

After changing into a yellow day dress with airy pagoda sleeves that ended at the elbow, she went to the family’s private upstairs parlor. The family dogs, a pair of small black spaniels named Napoleon and Josephine, saw her in the hallway and trotted after her. The parlor was comfortably cluttered with heaps of colorful cushions on the furniture, a battered piano in the corner, and piles of books everywhere.

She sat cross-legged on the carpet with the dogs, smiling as they bounded in and out of her lap excitedly. “We don’t need Prince Charming, do we?” she asked them aloud. “No, we do not. There’s a patch of sun on the carpet and books nearby—that’s all we need to be happy.”

The spaniels stretched out in a bright yellow rectangle, wriggling and sighing in contentment.

After petting and scratching the dogs for a while, Cassandra reached out to a stack of books on a low table, and sorted through them idly. Double Wedding . . . The Secret Duke . . . My Dashing Suitor, and other romantic novels she had read and reread. Much lower in the pile, there were books such as History of the Thirty Years’ Peace and Life of Nelson , the kind one read in case one was called upon to make insightful comments at dinner.

She came across a novel with a familiar title stamped in gilt on green leather: Around the World in Eighty Days , by Jules Verne. She and Pandora had especially liked the novel’s hero, a wealthy and adventurous Englishman named Phileas Fogg, who was something of an odd duck.

As a matter of fact . . . this would be the perfect recommendation for Mr. Severin. She would make a gift of it to him. Lady Berwick would say it wasn’t appropriate, but Cassandra was intensely curious about what he would make of it. If, of course, he bothered to read it at all.

Leaving the dogs to nap in the parlor, she headed to the grand double staircase that led to the main floor. She kept to the side of the hallway as one of the footmen, Peter, approached from the opposite direction with two large brass hot-water cans.

“Pardon, milady,” the footman said, setting down the sloshing cans to flex his aching hands and arms.

“Peter,” Cassandra said in concern, “why are you carrying all that water? Problems with the plumbing again?”

As soon as Devon had inherited Eversby Priory, he’d insisted on having the manor fully plumbed. The process was still ongoing, since much of the ancient flooring they had pulled up had been in a state of decay, and many of the walls had to be rebuilt and freshly plastered. The family had become accustomed to the fact that at any given time, something in the ancient house was being repaired.

“Kitchen boiler’s broken,” Peter said.

“Oh, no. I hope they can find someone to repair it soon.”

“They already have.”

“Thank goodness. Peter, do you happen to know which room Mr. Severin is occupying?”

“He’s not staying at the manor, milady. He brought his private railway carriage to the estate quarry halt.”

Cassandra frowned thoughtfully. “I’m not sure how to deliver this book to him. I suppose I’ll ask Sims.”

“He’s in the kitchen. Not Sims . . . I mean Mr. Severin. He’s the one working on the boiler.”

Dumbfounded, Cassandra asked, “You’re referring to Mr. Severin the railway magnate?”

“Yes, milady. Never seen a gentleman so handy with a wrench and saw. Took apart the boiler pipe system like a child’s toy.”

She tried to picture the urbane and impeccably dressed Tom Severin with a wrench in his hand, but even her lively imagination wasn’t up to the task.

This had to be investigated.

Cassandra went downstairs, stopping briefly at the parlor on the main floor. After pouring a glass of chilled water from a silver refreshment tray, she continued to the basement, where the kitchen, scullery, pantry and larder, and servants’ hall were located.

The cavernous kitchen was filled with quiet, frantic activity. Cook instructed a row of kitchen maids as they peeled and chopped vegetables at the long worktable, while the assistant cook stood at a solid marble bowl, grinding herbs with a pestle. A gardener came through the back door with a basket of greens and set it near the scullery sink.

It appeared as if an invisible line had been drawn through the kitchen. One side was teeming with servants, while the other side was empty except for a lone man in front of the cooking range.

A bemused smile crossed Cassandra’s face as she saw Tom Severin kneeling on the floor with his thighs spread for balance, a steel pipe cutter in one hand. In contrast to his earlier polished elegance, he was in shirtsleeves with the cuffs rolled up over his forearms and the collar unfastened. A well-formed man, wide-shouldered and long in the bone. He was steaming in the residual heat from the range, the cropped hair at the back of his neck damp with sweat, the fine linen of his shirt clinging to a hard-muscled back.

Well. This was an eye-opener, in more ways than one.

Deftly he clamped a copper pipe into the cutter blades and trimmed it with a few controlled rotations. After inserting a wooden turnpin into one end, he reached for a nearby mallet and flipped it in the air to catch it by the handle. Every movement was skilled and precise as he hammered the cone-shaped turnpin into the pipe to create a flared edge.

As Cassandra approached, Mr. Severin paused and looked up, his eyes a jolt of intense blue-green. A peculiar feeling went through her, as if an electrical circuit had just been completed, and steady voltage were humming between them. A quizzical smile touched his lips. He seemed as surprised to see her in the kitchen as she was to find him there. Setting aside the tools, he made to stand, but she stopped him with a quick gesture.