The Mistress Diaries (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 2) Page 6

“I know the ones,” Vincent said.

  Abruptly, the duke frowned and looked down at his feet. “Where the devil are my shoes?” Then he turned and walked out into the corridor shouting at the top of his lungs, “Jennings!”

  Cassandra looked up from the pages of her diary when a knock sounded at the door. “Come in.”

  An older gentleman, carrying a black leather satchel, entered the room. “Lady Colchester?”

  “Yes.”

  He bowed slightly at the waist. “Good day, madam. I am Dr. Thomas. I understand you have not been well.”

  She set her diary and pen on the bedside table under the lamp and sat up. “That is correct. It was good of you to come.”

  Though it was not she who had requested it.

  The doctor approached and set his bag on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. He was a tall, fair-haired man with an intelligent pair of eyes behind round spectacles. “May I examine you?”

  “Yes, Doctor, though you needn’t worry about the task of delivering bad news. I have already seen a doctor and I know my prognosis.”

  “I see. Well, I shall have a look at you nonetheless, since Lord Vincent specifically requested it.” He removed his stethoscope from his bag and came around the side of the bed. “If you could sit forward, I will observe your breathing.”

  She did as he asked, and he pressed the scope to her back. “Take a deep breath, please... Thank you. Again, if you will... And again.” He moved it to a new spot. “One more time, if you please.”

  She inhaled deeply and let it out, then began to cough into her fist. He continued listening.

  “That is certainly quite a serious cough you have,” he said, then shifted to her front and listened at her chest. “Breathe again, please... Thank you.”

  He asked her a number of questions—like how long she had been ill, how often she had fevers, whether or not she had any appetite, and was there blood when she coughed? He took her pulse, asked her to lie back and looked at her pupils. Then he pressed upon her abdomen, pushing firmly in various places while his gaze was fixed on the window.

  After a thorough and lengthy examination, he returned to the foot of the bed and put his stethoscope back in his bag. “I am of the opinion, Lady Colchester, that the doctor who examined you previously was mistaken. You are definitely ill, but you will recover. You simply require rest and nourishment.”

  Feeling somewhat disoriented, she felt her eyebrows pull together in dismay. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said you will recover. You do not have consumption.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No, madam, you do not.” He closed his bag and looked at her strangely. “Are you not relieved to hear it?”

  It took her a moment to find her voice. “I am in shock.”

  “But surely you are pleased...” he prompted.

  She smiled and let out a curt little laugh. “Yes, of course I am pleased. I am going to be all right!”

  He smiled as well and nodded. “Yes, you are. So if there is nothing else...?”

  “No,” she stammered. “Thank you.”

  He bowed again and left the room.

  Cassandra lay for the longest time, staring up at the ceiling as a tear trickled down her cheek. She was going to live, and she would not have to say goodbye to June. She would be able to keep her!

  Then panic shot through her veins and she sat up. Vincent had just agreed to raise June, and so had the duchess. What if they decided they did not wish to let her go? What if they insisted that June be raised at the palace, even though Cassandra was going to live?

  Suddenly overwhelmed by a dozen-and-one uncertainties, she looked around the room at the gilt-framed portraits on the walls, the elegant wallpaper, and the fine mahogany furniture. She had accepted that this was going to be her daughter’s home and that she would be raised in one of the wealthiest aristocratic houses in England. A palace. But now the circumstances had changed. Cassandra was going to live.

  Could she deprive her daughter of all this, for the sake of her own emotions and desires as a mother? Wouldn’t it be best for June to remain here with one of the most powerful families in England?

  Cassandra lay back down and tried to imagine giving her daughter up when she now knew she was going to survive. Could she do it? Was it the right thing? Or would June be better off with her? The mother who loved her more than anyone else ever could?

  “Look, Mother, now it is official.” Lady Letitia held the Pembroke Sapphire out for all to see, then flashed her engagement ring in every direction.

  Vincent stood back and marveled at the ridiculous notion that the brown blemish on his fiancée’s hand held any resemblance whatsoever to the sun. It looked more like a peanut.

  “Champagne everyone!” the duke said. “Come, come!”

  A liveried footman brought a tray around the room, and everyone raised their glasses to Vincent’s lovely future wife. Only then did he realize his mother had not been present for the announcement of his engagement. He looked around and saw her just arriving. She stopped outside the door and signaled to him with a hand.

  He politely excused himself from Charlotte and Blake and made his way out into the hall. “What is it, Mother?”

  She took him aside. “I am sorry to disturb your celebrations, Vincent, but I have some important news for you. Dr. Thomas has seen Lady Colchester. He has just informed me that she was diagnosed by a most incompetent physician. Dr. Thomas is of the opinion that she is not as ill as she was led to believe, and that she will recover fully. All she requires is rest and nourishment... Vincent, are you listening to me? Vincent?”

  He realized with a start that he had been staring absently at the empty air between them. Focusing his attention more clearly on his mother, he said, “Yes, of course I am listening.”

  “Aren’t you relieved?”

  “Yes. That is very good news.”

  But it was so much more than that. He was, quite frankly, astounded by the measure of his relief.

  “But we have already agreed,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady while turning his thoughts to more immediate practicalities, “to take Lady Colchester’s daughter in and raise her as a Sinclair.”

  Devon approached him from behind. “It appears you are off the hook, Vincent. The mother of your child will not need you after all. Shall I send for another bottle of champagne?”

  Vincent strove to control his breathing. “This is none of your business, Devon.”

  “I only thought you might like to know,” his brother said, “that Lady Colchester is out of bed, fully dressed, and headed for the nursery. Rebecca passed her in the corridor just now.”

  A look of panic flashed across their mother’s face. “Oh dear. She is going to leave and take June. We will never see her again.”

  Devon spoke glibly. “Looks that way.”

  Vincent glanced toward his fiancée in the drawing room, proudly showing off her necklace and engagement ring. “Bloody hell.”

  “It is quite a sticky situation, isn’t it?” Devon said, looking like he was enjoying this far too much.

  “Why don’t you just stay out of it?” Vincent gave his brother a look of warning, then turned and walked toward the stairs.

  “What are you going to do?” his mother asked. “You can’t just let her leave.”

  Vincent stopped at the bottom of the staircase and rested a hand on the newel post. He could not look at either of them. “Why not? It’s her child. She wants nothing from me.”

  “See, Mother?” Devon said. “He is pleased to be free again. He will not be required to care for anyone.”

  “She didn’t want help from me before,” he argued. “Why should she want it now, when all is well again?”

  “But Vincent,” his mother said, taking a few anxious steps forward, “what about June?
She is a Sinclair. We must at least offer something to Lady Colchester.”

  He continued to stand at the bottom of the stairs with his back to them, saying nothing for the longest time, then he started off toward the nursery. “I will go and see what the lady will require.”

  Chapter 6

  Last night I dreamed I shot him in the heart with a pistol, but then I was overcome with regret for my vengefulness. I ran to him, knelt down and shook him hard. He woke up and kissed me. I was terribly distraught when I opened my eyes.

  —from the journal of

  Cassandra Montrose,

  Lady Colchester,

  February 18,1874

  Vincent pushed through the door of the nursery with compelling force—not sure what to expect when he entered the room—and stopped abruptly just inside.

  Cassandra’s distressed gaze darted to him as she backed up against the far wall, clutching her baby protectively to her breast, as if he had come to do them murderous harm.

  “You scared the life out of me,” she said.

  June began to wail.

  Vincent stood inside the door, gazing intently at the two of them. “It was not my intention to startle you.”

  Cassandra cradled her daughter in her arms. She swayed back and forth, cooed softly and spoke in a soothing, melodic voice. “Everything’s all right, my darling girl. I’m here.”

  June’s cries subsided to mere complaints, then Cassandra met Vincent’s gaze. “I assume you know that Dr. Thomas came to see me. You have heard his prognosis?”

  “I have,” he said. “You must be greatly relieved.”

  She chuckled somewhat bitterly. “Yes, I am. It’s not every day one learns that one has a second chance at life. But I doubt you would understand that kind of joy, or any deep feelings of a profound nature.”

  “Certainly not,” he replied matter-of-factly. “I am far too shallow for that. I could not possibly comprehend it.”

  She regarded him with a hint of uncertainty as she shifted uneasily on her feet.

  “I should like to inform you,” she said, “that I will no longer be in need of your assistance.” Cassandra glanced nervously at June, in her arms. It was the first time since her arrival that she appeared less than absolutely certain of what she wanted. “Let me add that I am grateful for what you and your mother were willing to do, and I thank you sincerely from the bottom of my heart.”

  It was more than clear to Vincent that Cassandra was terrified he would not let her leave with her baby. Strangely intrigued by the first sign of a chink in her armor, he took a careful step forward. He saw her delicate throat bob as she swallowed.

  “How exactly do you mean to raise my daughter?” he asked, not inclined in the least to make this easy on her, for reasons he did not wish to explore.

  She lifted her chin proudly. “I will return to my position at Madam Hilliard’s, and I shall continue to rely on my landlady to care for June during my hours at the shop.”

  Vincent strode even closer, wanting to test Cassandra, challenge her, subdue her. “And what will happen five years from now, when our daughter is ready to be schooled? Will she learn the letters of the alphabet, and eventually how to play the piano or speak French? Or will she be too busy washing out your landlady’s dirty laundry?”

  Cassandra began to move sideways along the wall as he drew closer. “I am not sure what the future will hold.”

  “No, clearly you have not given it a single thought.”

  “I will take good care of her,” she assured him. “No one will do that better than I can.”

  He gestured toward her with a hand. “But you don’t have the resources.”

  All at once her cheeks colored with anger and her eyes burned with resolve. “You don’t know the first thing about ‘resources’ when it comes to dedicating your life to someone. What June will have from me is love. Beautiful, selfless, priceless love. Nothing is more important than that.”

  He scoffed. “And with your love, she will conquer the world, is that it?”

  “Yes!”

  Neither of them spoke for a moment, while Vincent was caught somewhere between resenting Cassandra for her idealistic notions about love, and respecting her for holding onto them, despite the fact that he knew she was fighting a losing battle—for love was simply not enough.

  Her blue eyes flashed with determination. He hated to admit it, but she looked quite exquisite.

  “Please,” she said, “just let me go.”

  He strode forward and spoke in a gentler tone. “You are the mother of my child. I cannot let you leave Pembroke with nothing but the clothes on your back.”

  “I will manage.”

  “You are too proud, Cassandra, and you are a fool if you think I am going to allow you to simply walk out of here like this with June. How can I be certain you won’t just disappear?”

  “If you will recall,” she said, “the brilliant disappearing act is yours, not mine. And why should it matter to you anyway if you never hear from me again? You don’t care for us. You care for no one.”

  He glanced down at June, wrapped snugly in a soft white blanket, and felt a jolt inside his chest, as if he had been hit with something across the back.

  “True,” he replied, nevertheless. “But I will not shirk my responsibilities.”

  Cassandra was quiet for a moment. “If you wish to give me money,” she said at last, “I will not be so proud as to refuse it. I will leave my address with the housekeeper, and you may send what you like. But I beg of you, Vincent, just let me leave here with my daughter. There is no need for any connection between us in the future.”

  He frowned. This was all horribly, disturbingly, unpleasant. “Have you lost your mind, woman? I am a Pembroke, a member of one of the wealthiest, most powerful families in England. How can you say that you do not want to be connected to me? Look around you.”

  She did as he asked, then her striking eyes settled upon his again. “I have looked around, Vincent, and I know what this world—your world—is like.”

  He shook his head. He could not understand this.

  “I would like to go now,” Cassandra said. “There is an evening train.”

  He was finding it increasingly difficult to accept how this was unfolding. “Are you certain you are well enough to leave?” he asked, hearing the desperate intonation in his voice and realizing that he was grasping at straws. He did not usually find himself on this side of the fence. He did not like it at all. “You seem to be forgetting that you are ill.”

  “I am feeling quite better now. My fever has broken, and the doctor’s visit did wonders. In a few days I will be my old self again, I am certain of it.”

  His heart was pounding as she started for the door. Spontaneously, he stepped into her path and blocked her exit, bracing his arm across the open doorway. She smelled achingly familiar. It was not perfume or powder. It was just her.

  “What is your hurry, Cassandra?” He leaned closer—almost close enough to touch his nose to her soft, smooth cheek—and spoke in a hushed tone. “Are you sure it has nothing to do with my presence in the house? Because it is quite clear you cannot stand the sight of me.”

  Her voice trembled slightly. “That is true, I cannot.”

  Something made him want to knock her off balance emotionally, which was cruel of him under the circumstances. An hour ago, she had believed she was dying and would have to give up her child. Now she was on her own. But he could not stop himself. He wanted to lash out at her. He was angry with her—angry with her for giving birth to his child and never intending to tell him.

  Then he realized that he was rather conveniently forgetting about the fact that she had written him a letter, which he had chosen to ignore.

  “You do not have one single pleasant memory of me, or of that night?” he asked. “Because my recollection is that
you quite enjoyed yourself at the time.”

  She practically ground out her reply. “Only because my head was in the clouds.”

  “Your head was in a great many places that evening, my dear, once our clothes were out of the way. Which was a complete delight for me, of course.”

  He was fully prepared for the fierce slap that struck his face in record time, for he was no stranger to the fury of passionate women. He accepted it without flinching, knowing he deserved it, for that had been a wretched thing to say.

  “How can you say such things when your fiancée is downstairs?” she demanded to know.

  “It’s not as if she cares anything for me. She cares only for herself.”

  Cassandra grimaced. “Then why in the world are you marrying her?”

  Vincent decided to lower his arm and clear Cassandra’s path. “Because if I don’t marry someone,” he said, “I will lose my inheritance. Did you not know that? Father wants us all cornered and wedded by Christmas, and Lady Letitia was the one he handpicked for Devon originally before he found Rebecca, whom you have met. He plucked Letitia like a bright red rose from the thorny bush of London society.”

  Cassandra shook her head, looking almost sickened. “I feel very sorry for her, and for all the people who must count you as a friend or acquaintance. But why are you telling me this? I don’t care about your life.”

  “Leave then,” he said, stepping back, clearing her way. “And take your illegitimate child with you.”

  He bowed to usher her out.

  Cassandra crossed over the threshold, but something in her expression changed and she stopped in the narrow corridor. She looked down at the floor.

  Vincent stood very still, his stomach in knots as he watched her.

  She turned around and looked at him with sorrow. “Despite your great wealth and power, Vincent, I would not wish to ever be you, for you are someone who does not believe in love. You are a man who breaks women’s hearts carelessly, without compassion or remorse. The world regards you as a rake, somehow appealing in your wildness, and I confess that I was enchanted by it once. I was seduced by what was exciting and rebellious about you. But now I see more than that. I pity you, because I see that on the inside, you are very unhappy. That’s what makes you heartless and cruel.”