Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CASSANDRA
Rosamund’s carriage came to a halt on the drive of Hartwell House, where several carriages waited before theirs.
“Very grand,” remarked Cassandra, gazing out the carriage window at the fine Palladian manor house, lit by a great number of torches. Tens of footmen guided well-dressed guests from their carriages, up the steps of the manor.
This was the social event of the month, which Rosamund had proudly masterminded along with Lady Hartwell, mostly because Lady Hartwell had the large house and was thrilled to have someone else take up the responsibility of orchestrating such an event.
“I’m only sorry that Frederica could not join us this evening,” said Rosamund. “Since she gave birth, she’s been feeling poorly off and on.”
Cassandra’s gloved fingers tightened around her reticule. “It’s completely natural.”
“Of course,” Rosamund said. “But the poor dear is in dire need of outings and was very much looking forward to this one in particular.”
“’Tis a shame, to be sure,” said Cassandra, her tone even. “But as she gets stronger, she shall join us. Until then, she does herself and her child good by resting.”
“Quite right.”
Finally, they descended from the carriage and climbed the stone steps into the house. The ladies were announced and were rewarded with a sudden hush of the crowd and a sea of probing glances.
An ache flickered through Cassandra. How odd to enter a glittering room with all eyes on her and not have Rowen’s steady presence at her side.
Lady Hartwell grasped her hands. “Ah, Your Grace, it is such an honour to have you with us this evening. When my dear Rosamund told me that you would be here…I cannot express to you how I felt.”
Cassandra squeezed the older woman’s hand and bestowed her with her well-practised elegant smile.
“It is most certainly my pleasure to be here at your splendid home to enjoy such a fine celebration of the arts. Music and poetry together—how divine. I’m only sorry the Duke was unable to accompany me on this trip, but alas, he has many responsibilities to the Crown at this time. ”
“Of course, he does. Of course!” Lady Hartwell turned to her husband, who eagerly took Cassandra’s hand in his. Lord Hartwell and Rowen knew each other as Rowen had been conducting business in Jersey for over a decade.
“Ah, Sir Giles. I’m so very pleased to see you again,” said Cassandra.
“Your Grace…” Lord Hartwell gushed as he took her hand in his. “You are a vision!”
The ladies entered the grand salon where the guests milled about, not yet ready to sit in the rows of chairs set in a semicircle about a small dais.
A servant offered them cups of champagne.
The slight train of Cassandra’s gown whispered across the polished floor behind her as Rosamund set about introducing the Duchess of Oakley to nearly everyone in the room.
Cassandra smoothed a hand down her high-waisted gown of deep sapphire blue silk embroidered with silver thread.
Nancy had expertly curled her hair into ringlets that were crowned with a fashionable turban of pale silver.
The silk headpiece was twisted elegantly and finished with blue feathers and a diamond pin that had been a gift from Rowen, along with her diamond drop earrings.
The stones brushed against her neck as she bowed her head to a new acquaintance.
It had been a very long time since she’d navigated a social event without her husband.
Cassandra took in a breath and smiled as another wave of guests bore down on them with great zeal.
Eventually, everyone settled into chairs and listened to the first part of the musical programme.
The harpist’s angelic music was soothing and enchanting all at once. The atmosphere in the room was charged with expectation and keen appreciation, not jaded appraisal, so different from any such concert she’d attended in London.
The programme paused for refreshment, and the din of conversation grew loud once more.
The candles burned intently, reflecting their light and heat in the great many gilt mirrors in the room.
The frothy wine had lightened Cassandra’s head considerably, and she was rather grateful for it.
She looked forward to penning Rowen a letter full of the details of the evening.
Now it was time for poetry, and the guests took their seats.
Everyone’s attention was fixed on the handsome dark-haired Irishman, who stood on the dais and read from his newly published work.
His rich accent in his deep baritone and the expressive movement of his features remained just as Cassandra remembered.
Stephan Delaney was a dashing figure as he had been when Cassandra had first made his acquaintance in Naples.
A restless wanderer by nature, he was a gifted poet and a skilled draughtsman.
His sketches and watercolours of many an ancient temple ruin and Mediterranean landscapes of all kinds had been popular with wealthy tourists, and thus, he was able to support himself on his travels.
He and Rowen had first met in Venice when Rowen was on his Tour. Together, they’d gone to Rome, Florence, Naples, Sicily, and even the island of Corfu in the Ionian Sea. As they travelled, Stephan sketched and sold his artwork whilst Rowen collected and bartered ancient artefacts.
Later, when Rowen was in service in Naples, he came into contact with Stephan again, but this time as intelligence gathering professionals—one gathered, the other assessed.
Rowen had shared with Cassandra that Stephan had been a member of the rebellious United Irishmen, who operated a network out of the Irish community in Paris, where he’d lived for years.
Their goal had been to feed the French information on the British in an effort to gain favour and eventually sway the French to invade Ireland, of course.
Those years in Naples, Rowen had never betrayed Stephan’s true allegiance, and to show his appreciation, Stephan provided Rowen with choice bits of information. Stephan never stepped foot in England, so seeing him again here tonight was a treat for Cassandra.
The front rows were filled with young ladies who were taken by Stephan’s evocative metaphors and clever turns of phrase.
His sensual, deep voice lent a thrilling bluster to his verses.
Cassandra was pleased that Stephan had embraced the new movement in poetry that she so admired.
She smiled to herself. Of course he had.
If ever there was a person who single-mindedly and unreservedly followed the call of his passions and greatly revered the tempestuous world around him, giving homage to it in design and word, it was Stephan Delaney.
Stephan’s smoky gaze fell on Cassandra. His eyes softened for but a moment, and his chest broadened as he recited his final verses to her.
Noticing, people glanced back at Cassandra, but she ignored them and focused on the gift the poet bestowed upon her.
He finished in a flourish of emotion, his jaw tightening. Applause erupted.
“He is a marvel!” remarked Rosamund.
“He is indeed.”
The guests rose from their chairs for another round of refreshment and conversation. Musicians began to play whilst servants appeared with trays filled with wines and sweetmeats.
Cassandra lost Rosamund to a trio of officers from a visiting British regiment, but Lady Hartwell found her, and they discussed Mr. Delaney’s vivid poem.
Cassandra placed her empty cup on a tray, and a chill passed over her bare arm.
Even though the doorways and windows were open to the crisp sea air, the heat in the room was overwhelming.
As she took a fresh cup of champagne and lifted it to her lips, she saw him.
A heavy-set older man with a full glass in his hand stared at her. Glared at her. Her lips parted as his dark eyes narrowed, his thick brows furrowed. He raised his glass at her, that familiar cheerless smug grin of his stamped on his mouth. Her stomach tightened.
Lord Enggers.
The memory of the vulgar things he had said to her out of spite the last time they had spoken came over her like a foul smell. She shook it off. The cold champagne did nothing to soothe her burning throat as Enggers made his way over to her.
Thank God Frederica had not come.
“Your Grace, what a great shock and an even greater pleasure to find you here.” His voice sent a slither of cold down her spine.
Cassandra bowed her head ever so slightly. “My Lord. What a shock to see you here.”
He laughed. “I would have thought you’d be by your husband’s side in town with the ongoing festivities of the royal wedding.”
“Much to my disappointment, I did not have the pleasure of seeing you or Lady Enggers at the royal wedding. Is she with you here?”
“I am here on business, Your Grace.”
“Ah. I daresay you must be quite occupied at the Foreign Office in the aftermath of that unfortunate military expedition some months ago in France. Morbihan, on the Breton coast, was it? It is still much talked of in town. What had they called it? Ah yes—a disaster.”
The man’s brows furrowed again, his lips curling.
Cassandra sailed on. “How fortunate for the Foreign Office that the royal wedding overtook the attention of the nation from that horrible massacre.” She enjoyed enunciating that hideous word. “But now the wedding is over, isn’t it?”
“Your Grace, I am not here this evening to comment on matters of state.”
To a woman, his clipped and chastising tone implied. A familiar tone Cassandra despised. Perhaps she had overdone her little speech. She returned his remark with her signature cold smile.
Rowen was now working on the investigation which was underway into how this tragedy had occurred, and he’d shared with her that he felt that Enggers was more involved than was being said.
This investigation was keeping him in London, not only the post-wedding parties with foreign dignitaries and politicians.