Fortune's Lady

  They leaned back on separate walls, facing each other. She tried to replicate his conspiratorial grin. “Well, well! This’s a bit more than we bargained for,” he said, slurring his words only slightly. “You sure you’re game?”

  “Oh, I’m game—only I doubt very much that there will really be a wedding, Colin.”

  “Don’t be too sure—his honor’s at stake now. Y’know, C’sandra, watching you tonight, I could almost believe you’re really attracted to him.”

  “Attracted to Riordan? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Maybe not consciously. But I remember the first time I saw you—he was kissing you and you were punching him in the jaw. Love an’ hate. ’S a dang’rous combination.” He tried to fold his arms across his middle, but they came unfolded immediately; she realized he was drunker than she’d thought.

  She sent him a pitying glance. “I assure you, in this case there’s no love. Only hate.”

  He smiled and raised his brows, unconvinced but unconcerned. She could not figure him out. “Well, it’s too bad in a way if you do marry him, ’cause he’ll wanna keep an eye on you, and we’ll have to meet clandesh”—he giggled—“clandestinely.”

  She nodded, not certain if that was good or bad. Seeing him publicly had offered her a measure of protection against his strange advances, but now that safeguard would be gone. “True, but I’ll be able to get much more information if I’m living in his house.” She looked out the window again, watching two swallows soar past. This was the oddest conversation she’d ever had. She was playing too many roles at once, and sometimes she suspected Colin was playing one, too. For a second she tried to imagine herself marrying Riordan tomorrow morning. It was impossible.

  She looked up to see a footman coming toward them along the hall, carrying her bag. “I had Ellen pack your things,” Wade explained when she looked startled. “Well.” He took her cold hands and grinned down at her. The wine had stained his teeth purple; she could see all the tiny lines around his eyes and mouth. “Have a wonderful wedding trip, Cass. I’ll find a way to get in tush—in touch with you after you’re back in London.” He kissed her hands wetly, then raised his head to look at her mouth. She felt a stab of dread. But he only smiled a little regretfully and dropped her hands. Then he took her elbow and led her unsteadily back down the hall toward the staircase.

  She could feel Riordan’s eyes on her before she saw him. As she reached the last step, he pulled her out of Wade’s grasp into his own and draped a possessive arm around her shoulders. She was dismayed when he lurched against her, knowing his drunkenness this time was unfeigned.

  Enthusiasm for accompanying them overnight to Gretna Green had waned considerably; only Wally, Tom, and their lady friends had the heart for it now. But the others saw them off with undiminished eagerness. All the men kissed Cass; Teddy Everton kissed her for so long and with such fervor that Riordan finally grabbed his coat and pulled him off. Then they were bundled into the waiting post-chaise with cries of good will and farewell, and in no time at all the carriage was rolling down Ladymere’s smooth, tree-lined avenue toward the highway.

  A single candle in a glass box lit the roomy interior, casting shifting shadows as the coach rocked along. It was curiously quiet for a while as all six passengers adjusted to their surroundings and, as much as possible, to their circumstances. Cass and Riordan were given the rear seat to themselves; the others sat opposite, arms entwined, grinning stupidly. But soon Wally discovered the wooden crate on the floor with twelve bottles of Wade’s best claret inside, and the party began all over again. It was decided that they should dispense with the bothersome formality of passing the bottle around while each took a sip. How much easier if everyone had his or her own bottle—and how much more sanitary, noted Cora in fastidious tones, the first words Cass had ever heard her utter. And so they sat, except for Cass each holding a bottle of wine, toasting and laughing and singing. The night wore on and the jokes grew bawdier, the caresses exchanged in the opposite seat more starkly intimate. Finally the singing gave way to yawning, then snoring, with someone rallying periodically to tell another joke, sing another song, or put another hand inside a bodice, before lapsing back into inebriate oblivion.

  The candle guttered. Cass leaned an elbow against the window and peered across the dark seat at Riordan, huddled in his corner. She knew he wasn’t sleeping because she was aware of every time he lifted his bottle to his lips. She also knew precisely how many mouthfuls of wine he swallowed on each occasion. It wasn’t lost on her that he was drinking like a man trying to forget he was en route to the gallows. Now he had the wine bottle between his thighs, thrusting up at a lewd angle. She stared at it, unable to look away, and for a moment her vague and deliberately abstract mind-pictures of the wedding night, should this insane parody of a marriage actually occur, became graphically real. An uncomfortable warmth crept through her and her palms went damp. Then he reached for the bottle, releasing her gaze, and she went back to staring out the window.

  Three times she opened her mouth to speak to him; three times she closed it again. What was there to say? What are we doing here, Philip, how did this happen? Touch me, I’m so scared.

  Oh, why wouldn’t he speak to her? She hated to see him like this; it tore her heart to shreds. She didn’t know what it was that had made him stop drinking all those months ago, but it must have been something terrible. Now he was drinking again, and in a way it was all her fault. No, it wasn’t, not really—but still, she couldn’t shake a feeling of responsibility. She wanted to take the bottle from him and throw it out the window. What would he do? Was he violent when he drank? She’d seen no evidence of it so far. But she hadn’t crossed him yet, either.

  Warring with her guilt was an equally powerful sense of having been humiliated. Regardless of what happened tomorrow, the position she was in was degrading. She put her head in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the evening, unable to think of something she could have done to change the outcome. It had all seemed so unreal, a night no one could take seriously. If she’d jumped up and run from the room at the first hint that two men were actually going to play cards for her, she’d have betrayed her carefully crafted image of the wild French hoyden. And she couldn’t, she simply could not have let him win her like a sackful of guineas! She’d wanted to make the wager a little more even, and at the same time take him down a peg or two. She glanced at the dark, still, somehow sinister form in the opposite corner. She’d succeeded with a vengeance. But to back out now would only make things worse. If what Wade said was true and Riordan was honor-bound to marry her, refusing him would only add insult to injury—and make them both look even more foolish than they already did.

  Rather than cry, she stared out the window, watching the dark shapes of trees and hedges glide past. There was a moon on her side, but for the most part it refused to show itself through the thick wisps of clouds. Sounds of snoring were irritating at first, then restful as she grew accustomed to the separate cadences. She propped her head on one hand and let her eyes close. She imagined she was in France, on an outing with her boarding school classmates. To St. Cloud, perhaps, or Versailles, for a picnic and then an overnight stay in a pension. They’d laughed and sung songs and worn Mademoiselle to a frazzle, and now they were drowsy and quiet, dropping off to sleep one by one….

  Riordan took a last shuddering swallow of wine and backhanded the bottle out the window. There was a quick, satisfying crunch from out of the darkness. He smiled meaninglessly and wished he had another to sail out after that one. Should he open a new bottle? He beat on his stomach with both hands; it sounded pretty full, not unlike a bass drum. Maybe he’d had enough. Then again, maybe not. He bent over the wooden crate at his feet. The dark floor seemed to rush up toward his face as the bottom dropped out of his stomach. He straightened carefully and reconsidered.

  He glanced at Cass. Sleeping. Good. At least now she wasn’t staring at him.

  He stared at her. In the pale
wash of moonlight her skin was like some marble goddess’s. She’d looked like a goddess the night he met her. Aphrodite at the Clarion Club. A kiss in a garden for a hundred-pound cast at hazard. He’d won that night. Tonight he’d lost.

  He leaned closer, peering, resting one long arm on the back of the seat. Her parted lips shone like wet silver as dappled shadows picked out the lovely planes and hollows of her face. She was resting her head in her hand, the fingers threading her inky hair. He whispered her name, “Cass.” Cassandra Merlin. The hanged traitor’s loose-living daughter. The Honorable Philip Riordan’s bride-to-be.

  Elation and profound dread filled him equally.

  Couldn’t marry her. Couldn’t. Too much to lose, too many people expecting something else. He watched his hand go out to touch one errant lock of black hair. She sighed and he went still, the silky strands trapping his fingers. What he had to do was escape, leap quietly from the carriage now while they were all sleeping. He patted the fat purse in his pocket. Plenty of money. He’d be in London in two days.

  ’Course, Cass might be mad. Money—he’d give her money, and she’d get over it. Pretty soon things would be the way they were before. He’d keep at her until she gave in, became his mistress. He’d marry Claudia and become a great statesman. Oliver would be proud of him. Everything would be perfect. Perfect.

  He took hold of the door handle. Bye, Cass. Her breathing was silent and even. Her shawl had slipped down one shoulder, exposing her upper arm in her gown to the elbow. She moved her hand to the space of seat between them, palm up, the sensitive fingers twitching.

  He bent down on his forearms and laid his cheek on the inside of her wrist. Lightly, lightly. The fragile pulse beat against his skin with the softness of a bird’s wing. His lips were nestled in her palm. He closed his eyes and breathed in her special scent. From out of nowhere came a swift, uncanny certainty that when she awoke and found him gone, she would weep.

  He sat up carefully and stared straight ahead. In the seat opposite, Tess looked as if she’d fallen asleep trying to crawl inside Wally’s waistcoat. Tom had his head back, mouth open, his snores like the last plaint of a dying bull. Cora sprawled limply across his lap, her face between his legs.

  Riordan’s head throbbed; his eyelids felt weighted. Outside, trees and hedges and prickly-looking bushes were speeding by at an alarming rate. Probably kill himself if he jumped now. Better wait. Cowardly to jump, anyway. He slumped back into his corner heavily. Tomorrow. He’d tell Cass he couldn’t marry her tomorrow. Tell her straight out. She’d understand. Hell, she’d probably be relieved. His eyes closed on the sight of her glossy lashes resting like a crow’s wings on her high, white cheekbones.

  Cass woke up, confused, unable to remember falling asleep. It was still dark in the carriage, but outside the sky was lightening. She heard a guttural voice—the coachman’s—and realized they were stopped at a toll booth. Then the coach jerked forward, rolling through a gate onto the single street of a sleepy-looking village. Something warned her that they had arrived.

  The others slept on, huddled against each other in the opposite seat like a litter of puppies. Riordan slumped beside her on his spine, arms crossed, chin on his chest, breathing loudly. The carriage stopped again and she heard the thud of the driver’s feet hitting the ground. Her heart jumped into her throat. They were here.

  The door opened.

  “Beggin’ yer pardons, ladies and gents, but we’re ’ere.” Only Cass heard him, but she pretended not to. If the coachman went away now, it would be up to her to wake them all up—an appalling prospect. “I said we’re ’ere!” he repeated, shaking Wally’s arm roughly. “Whew!” he muttered to himself, “stinks like a gin mill in here.” Then more loudly, “Gretna Green, folks, yer destination!” He shook Riordan’s boot. “I’d like t’ get this ’ere rig in the livery, yer lordships, so if you wouldn’t mind—”

  Finally they roused themselves, blinking stupidly, scratching and groaning and rubbing their faces. “Are we here?” Wally mumbled, hoisting himself out with surprising agility. On the ground, he gazed around at the quiet buildings, flexing his muscles, chafing his neck. “Lord, I’ve got to piss! Come on, Tom, let’s see what’s what.”

  Still in the carriage, Riordan clutched his head in both hands and ground his teeth, feeling as though two small men with pickaxes were gouging out his temples. He shuddered suddenly and felt a rolling sensation in his stomach. Sweat popped out on his forehead and his mouth started to water. Grabbing the doorframe, he hauled himself up and out of the carriage, and hit the ground at a run.

  When Cass descended a moment later, he was leaning against the side of the building, his face a damp, fish-belly white, trying to stop shaking. “I’ve been poisoned,” he rasped. “I’m dying.” His red-veined eyes lit on the horse trough in front of him and he started toward it in a trance-like shuffle.

  “Don’t drink—” she started to warn him, but it was too late. He thrust his head into the blackish water and left it there, up to the shoulders, for so long she thought he was drowning. When he came up, sputtering and gasping, his black-and-silver hair was plastered back from his forehead and he looked like an otter.

  “I wasn’t drinking it,” he said with weak reproach. He looked a little better; his cheeks under the three-day beard had a pinkish cast and his hands weren’t shaking as much. They stared at each other. He resembled a Cheapside derelict on a particularly bad morning, and she looked like what she was—a woman who had sat up most of the night in a carriage, worrying. He’ll call it off now, she thought. She wondered how he would phrase it.

  “It’s all set,” Wally called out, coming toward them with Tess in tow, Tom and Cora behind.

  All four looked obscenely chipper to Riordan. “For God’s sake, don’t shout.”

  “It’s easy, there’s nothing to it,” Wally went on, unheeding. “The tollkeeper does it, and we’re the witnesses.”

  “The tollkeeper?” Riordan repeated stupidly.

  “Or the blacksmith, but he’s in Annan fixing a cart, so it’s the tollkeeper.”

  The sun crept over the top of the roof opposite, sending shards of pain into his eyeballs. “The blacksmith?”

  “Actually, anyone can do it, but it’s usually the tollkeeper or the blacksmith, and we want this to be a traditional wedding, don’t we?” He cackled and sent an elbow into Tess’s ribs. “So, are we all ready?”

  Then Riordan remembered. He was getting married this morning.

  The pickaxes in his temples resumed pounding; he took an involuntary step backward and came up against the water trough. His knees buckled and he sat down heavily on the edge. His face went bloodless again and he stared up at Cass as if she were a specter of sudden and horrible death. He sent her a weak smile.

  She turned her back on him, stood still for the space of a heartbeat, and started to walk away.

  “Whoa, hold up, missie!” cried Wally, sensing his morning’s sport was about to be spoiled. He made a grab for her arm and forcibly brought her back to the trough. “Hold on a blinkin’ minute! No cold feet at this hour! Here, now—” He hauled Riordan up by the collar, took both their hands, and squeezed them together until their fingers entwined. He gave them a push to get them started, then walked behind them down the dusty street, talking all the while. “A wager’s a wager, my friends. Twenty people watched it made and won—or in your case, Philip, lost—and now you’re both bound to satisfy it. Your honor’s on the line, you can’t renege. I’m here to see you do your duty by each other. And by God, one day you’ll thank me—?

  Residents and shopkeepers began to appear in doorways and storefronts as the sun rose higher. Some stared, some nodded knowingly; strange young couples were commonplace in the little Scottish village on the border, their business there no mystery to the villagers.

  Riordan heard none of Wally’s words of encouragement. The urge to vomit was powerful. He fought it, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Cass’s hand in
his felt as warm and welcoming as a dead bird’s claw. His brain wasn’t functioning; he couldn’t put two consecutive thoughts together. He saw the tollkeeper’s stone cottage ahead, and something inside him shuddered. It must have vibrated through his hand, because she turned her head sharply and looked at him. Who are you? he wanted to ask. She looked like a stranger. What was the expression in her wide gray eyes—challenge? Panic? He was too dimwitted to decipher it. He stopped and turned toward her, taking her other hand. “Cass,’’ he mumbled, with no idea of what he was going to say next.

  But Wally wanted no candid tête-à-têtes at this late stage, and hustled them forward with encouraging pats on the shoulders. “Now, now, can’t keep the tollkeeper waiting.”

  “Wait a minute, damn it!” Riordan shook Wally off and they stopped again, within arm’s length of the cottage. They all looked at him. Cass waited with a hurting, hollow fatalism, wishing now she’d taken the initiative; it would have softened the humiliation a little. But to her surprise, he didn’t speak. Instead he ran his fingers through his wet hair a couple of times to comb it. He retied his wilted cravat and buttoned his waistcoat. Then he reached out with a shaky but gentle hand to push a wild strand of black hair away from her cheek and repin it on top of her head. For a second their gazes locked. She searched his face, but could not discover what he was thinking.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” Wally urged, wary as a sheepdog.

  And then, without touching, they were through the door and inside the cottage, and a bald man was waddling toward them, rubbing his hands.