Chapter Five
Upon rising, Cassandra realized two things. First, that she should not indulge in more than two glasses of port in one sitting. And second, that she had made an absolute fool of herself.
With a groan, she tore herself from her bed, only to come face to face with Sidlow. Her willowy maid’s smile and exuberance grated against Cassandra’s already fragile temper.
“Your Grace.” Sidlow dipped into a low curtsey.
Cassandra waved her hand. “It is far too early and my head feels as though it has been kicked by a runaway horse.”
Sidlow’s smile disappeared. “Of course, madam.”
“Once I have dressed, I shall require a very large pot of strong tea.” Cassandra rubbed her temples.
After the maid’s quick acquiescence, blissful silence filled the room. The occasional rustle of fabric or a creaking groan from the floorboards punctuated their movements. Upon seeing Sidlow’s stoic expression, Cassandra shifted uncomfortably as guilt needled at her conscience.
“I fear I am quite out of sorts today, Sidlow.” Cassandra cleared her throat. “Forgive me.”
A small smile returned to the young maid’s face, but she remained silent and continued working. As she pinned the final strands of hair into place, Cassandra inspected her reflection.
The skin beneath her eyes showed the effects of the poor quality of sleep. She pinched her cheeks to bring some life back to her pale face.
“Would you like some powder and rouge?” Sidlow offered.
“No, this will suffice for the moment.” Cassandra stood. “I will take my tea in the study, Sidlow.”
“At once, madam.”
“If you happen to see Evans in passing, please relay my request that he join me in the study.”
“He stepped out on an errand this morning, madam.” Sidlow paused at the door.
“Oh,” Cassandra muttered, wondering if his mysterious disappearance this morning could be attributed to their encounter from the night before. She barely registered when the maid curtsied again and slipped from the room.
The details of her actions the previous evening remained enshrouded in a port-induced haze.
Had she really thrown herself at him in such a wanton display of recklessness?
She hung her head and groaned. It was no wonder Evans had decided to put some distance between them.
Not that she could blame him. Her behavior had been terribly unladylike.
She pressed her eyes together and tried to shake the only vivid image that remained from the night before.
Evans staring at her in utter horror as she’d begun disrobing.
That had been the moment that had solidified her embarrassment. Not only had she offered herself to him, but she’d bared more than her soul in doing so. How in the devil could she face him now?
Cassandra straightened and smoothed a hand over her bodice. This was not the first time she had found herself in a compromising situation in his presence. Evans had shown no judgment on those previous occasions, so it maintained that he would not upon this blunder.
After fetching her wrap, Cassandra found her way to the study, where a lovely tray of tea, warm scones, clotted cream, and preserves waited on the desk. She muttered a prayer of thanks for Mrs. Mercer, who possessed the patience of a saint.
Cassandra basked in the relative silence as she poured a cup of the warm brew. It reminded her to send an invitation to Lady Corby and the other widows to join her for tea the following day. She set her cup aside to cool and opened the bottom desk drawer to retrieve some paper.
But the paper was not there. In its place sat a box with a key nestled in the lock.
Curious, she removed the box and placed it on the desk.
This had not been there last week when she’d looked in that drawer.
Beneath the desk lay a thin slab of wood.
It slid perfectly into the drawer, resting on small indentations along the sides and hiding the space where the box sat. But who had removed it?
Had it been her son? If Phillip had unearthed this treasure, then surely, he would have told her upon their conversation yesterday evening.
With a trembling hand, Cassandra slowly unlocked the box. Inside, she found documents. Letters. Her heart seized. Photographs.
She laid the pile on the desk, setting the lockbox back in the drawer.
As she leafed through the papers, bile rose in her throat.
Legal documents. Properties obtained. The hunting lodge in Scotland appeared frequently in the paperwork.
Financial tabulations. Gambling debts. She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.
Lewd photographs, and a compiled collection of James’s sordid investments.
Horrified, she skimmed the text, glimpsing only a passing implication of what this revealed.
Cassandra opened an envelope and tucked inside were newspaper clippings—of various crimes. No—of murders.
The stack of clippings slid from her hand, scattering across the ground.
A soft knock echoed somewhere in the background. “Your Grace.”
Cassandra jumped at the sudden interruption. Her gaze snapped up in time to see Evans closing the door behind him.
“Are you we—?” The words died on his lips as his attention shifted from her face to the horrid pile on the desk before her. Evans straightened, clasping his hands behind him.
“Are you well?” he asked softly, gauging her reaction.
“Wh-What is the meaning of this, Evans?” Her hands shook as she dropped them in her lap and stood.
Evans gazed toward the heavens for a brief moment before meeting her eyes again. Gone was the stoic, impassive expression, replaced with a calculating confidence.
“It seems you have finally uncovered the full complexity of your husband’s depravity.” Evans took a step closer.
“I do not understand.” Cassandra maintained her ground, keeping the desk between them. “These papers—what are they?”
“Proof.” Evans rounded the desk, but Cassandra shifted, stumbling backward to keep distance between them.
“Proof of what?” Tears pricked at her eyes. “That he gambled. That he lied. I already knew these things.”
“He gambled. He lied. But more than that…” Evans crept closer, his measured steps bringing him within arm’s reach. “He stole.”
“Everyone steals in some manner when it benefits them.” Cassandra collided with the back of the chair near the fireplace. “He was a rotten blackguard. How is this proof of anything?”
“It shows his intent. His ruthlessness.” Evans took a deep breath, his pupils consuming the handsome color of his eyes. “It proves he is a murderer.”
Cassandra scoffed and it bubbled into a wild laughter. This was madness. Utter lunacy. “You have no proof of that claim. These”—she gestured to the pile of clippings sitting on the desk, out of reach—“are a collection of papers. Letters and articles that prove nothing of the sort.”
Evans stood, still as a statue, regarding her with absolute stoic calm.
“You expect me to believe that a man I was married to for nearly thirty years could keep such horrid secrets from me?” Cassandra’s voice wobbled. The truth was, she knew very little about her late husband other than some of his vices and proclivities. But murder—that was ridiculous.
“You knew even less about him than you know about me,” Evans responded, his voice even.
“I know practically nothing about you.” Cassandra gripped the chair harder. Her mind begged her to flee, but the temptation to remain won.
“Exactly.” Evans’s wicked smile blurred her self-preservation. “And yet you would throw yourself at a man you do not know to compensate for a man you knew even less.”
“Do not pretend to know my inner thoughts,” she hissed. “Your audacity has reached its limit. I insist you leave at once.”
“That is not what you truly desire, is it, madam?” Evans asked.
“It is.” She glared at him, regret filling her mind as it warred with lust. “I order you to leave this house. Now.”
Evans tutted. “And if I refuse?”
“I shall have you arrested.”
His laughter filled the space between them, infuriating her further, and still the fire in the pit of her stomach blazed hotter. “I would like to see you attempt it.”
“Are you threatening me?” Her teeth ground together.
“Hardly.” Evans’s eyes sparkled in the light filtering through the windows. “If you truly viewed me as a threat, you never would have tried to seduce me last evening.”
“I—” She scowled as the words died in her throat and heat rose into her cheeks. He baited her with his teasing—his lies. “Do not turn this on me.”
“Is that why you attempted to kiss me? To entrap me into some offense where you could have me carted off to prison? To claim I took advantage of you?”
“You bastard.” Cassandra raised her hand to him, palm flat, aiming for the side of his face.
With the reflexes of an alley cat, Evans caught her wrist in his hand, enclosing it like a manacle binding her to him. He tugged, pulling her against him.
“Oof.” She collided with the solid wall of his chest. As she fought against his hold, his arm banded around her waist, firmly keeping her in place. No matter how hard she struggled, Cassandra could not break free. His iron grip softened slightly the moment she stilled.
Although her mind raged against the intrusion, her heart pounded deep in her chest with both desire and fury.
Evans hooked a finger beneath her chin, forcing her to lift her gaze and meet his amused expression.
His eyes darkened, and those sinful lips parted.
She wanted to hate him, but after years of longing—of desperate need for some scrap of physical affection—she could not bring herself to hate him. No. Cassandra wanted him—wanted this.
Then his lips covered hers.
Surprise flared inside her chest and turned to molten flame as his lips parted over hers, his tongue darting over the seam, begging entrance. She surrendered, and her sigh mingled with his groan of pleasure.