Page 37 of From Duke Till Dawn
“God bless you, Your Grace,” many said after glaring at her. Five pounds could house or feed a person or family for a long time.
He waved off their praise, focusing on the rest of the staff.
Most noblemen had stewards or land managers who dealt with financial matters. It was vulgar to handle actual money. Yet Alex didn’t appear to care. He had a task to accomplish, and nothing seemed to stand in his way of getting it done. Would he be horrified if any of his highborn friends saw him now? Embarrassed?
At last they’d gone through everyone and the gaming hell stood empty, except for her and Alex.
She struggled to push the words from her lips. “Thank you.”
He appeared unimpressed by his actions and her gratitude. “A month without pay must be a long time.”
“I remember.” As a child, she’d gone weeks at a time without a coin crossing her palm, which meant she had to steal everything she’d eaten, and slept in dirty alleyways.
He glanced at her, assessing. But she wouldn’t tell him more about herself. He didn’t ask, and she didn’t owe him the story of her life. Besides, he already thought her the worst sort of criminal. Why prove him right?
“Are there a few pounds left over?” she asked.
“I’m not giving you any money,” he answered.
“I can’t sleep here—Lacey will come looking for me. But I’ll need something to pay a boardinghouse.”
He tugged on his coat, ensuring that his appearance was flawless—as usual. He checked his pocket watch as if time was his to master. “Go up and pack. I’m giving you fifteen minutes.”
“Where am I going?”
“While we look for Martin,” he replied levelly, with no fear of being contradicted, “you’re staying with me.”
Cassandra woke as she often did—not knowing where she was. It was a habit born from years of moving from place to place, never the same location for more than a week. This morning, that familiar fear lurched in her stomach.Where am Inow?
An embroidered canopy curved overhead, little yellow flowers sprouting all over the fabric. Stretching out her hand, she felt soft, smooth sheets, and the gentle weight of a down blanket pressed lightly on her body.
Her surroundings were right grand. The bedroom was big enough to sleep half a dozen people, the walls were covered with paintings of pretty girls dressed like pretend shepherdesses, and thick patterned carpets covered the polished floors. A fire already burned in the hearth. The room smelled of beeswax and lavender, so clean and sweet it nearly brought tears to her eyes.
This was Alex’s home. Was it shelter, or a cage? Either was a possibility.
Nothing was what she expected anymore.
Anger choked her throat when she thought again of her mentor’s betrayal. She’dtrustedMartin. He’d thrown out their long history together like so much slop from a chamber pot, uncaring who got hit with the splatter.
Cassandra rubbed her face, then sat up. A pair of slippers—not hers, since she didn’t own any—waited beside the bed. She slid her feet into the slippers and was unsurprised when she discovered that they fit. They cushioned her feet perfectly, softness caressing her skin. They were of green satin, delicate little things never meant to touch the pavement outside. She’d never owned anything as fine as these tiny slippers.
Rising from bed, she tugged her patched robe on over her threadbare nightgown. It had never made sense to spend her money on good quality sleep things, since no one ever saw her in them. And, if by some chance a mark did see her in her nightclothes, it was explained easily enough by the widow Mrs. Blair’s chancy financial situation. With the money she was going to get from the gaming hell investment, Cassandra had planned to get lovely cotton nightgowns, a silk robe, even replace her underthings with fancy little pieces.
But that would never happen. Not unless she found Martin.
She strode to the window and drew back the heavy velvet curtain. Lemony sunlight poured into the room. The bedroom overlooked a giant garden with hedges and trees and flowers—it could have served as a public park, but instead it belonged to one man, and was for his personal enjoyment.
This kind of overflowing luxury could never be commonplace to her. But to Alex it was everyday.
She padded in her borrowed slippers to the washstand and poured some water from a china pitcher into a matching bowl. No chips in either piece, no cracks or spots from age. She quickly bathed, splashing cool water on her face and using a cloth to clean under her arms and behind her ears and neck. Her minimal luggage had been unpacked at some unknown point. Last night, she and Alex had returned late from her trip to the gaming hell, bearing her few bags.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Neville, had escorted her to this bedroom. A bath had been waiting, its warm steam smelling of roses.
“I didn’t ask for this,” she’d said.
The older woman had smiled kindly. “His Grace ordered it for you. There’s supper waiting, as well.” She’d waved her hand toward a table at the side of the room, laden with covered dishes, and the air smelled unmistakably of roast pheasant and potatoes. Only then Cassandra had realized she hadn’t eaten anything for a whole day. Had Alex known that? Did he know that the sight of a fresh bath brought a confusing wave of gratitude and anger?
Or was this his way of saying she was dirty, and that he didn’t want to dine with her?
