Page 27 of His Tempting Duchess

“No, nothing like that,” Richard said firmly, as if he could read Cassian’s spiraling thoughts. “Look, let’s just go and see her, shall we? I’d like to get to the bottom of this.”

“So would I,” Cassian murmured. “Well, lead the way, then.”

CHAPTER9

Cassian lifted his head, determined to ignore the eyes on him as he crossed the room.

Margaret Knight, the Dowager Baroness Rawdon, was famous for her beauty and talent. As the young and beautiful wife of the Baron Rawdon—a much older and less interesting man, but undoubtedly rich—she had burst into Society like a whirlwind. Even now, at almost forty years old, she was a breathtakingly beautiful woman. There was barely a streak of white in her golden hair, and what few wrinkles she had only seemed to accentuate her large, green eyes and soft, wide mouth.

She had taken up a place on a chaise lounge in the corner, her legs propped up, a glass of wine dangling from her fingers. A handful of gentlemen clustered around her, clearly hoping to draw her into conversation or perhaps tempt her onto the dance floor.

Since the baron’s death almost a decade ago, Margaret had been a target for fortune hunters all over the country.

They’d all met their match. She had no intention of marrying again, she said, and no handsome face or charming manners had ever managed to tempt her down the aisle again.

“You’re speaking to me, are you?” she said, once Cassian was close enough. She drained her wine glass in one gulp and lazily gestured for a footman to bring her another. “I am honored. Nice costume, by the way. Is it a tablecloth? It looks like a tablecloth.”

Cassian glared at the lurking gentlemen, and they wisely paled and shuffled away. He shot Richard a meaningful look, and his cousin tactfully melted into the crowd. He decided not to address her comment on his costume.

“Move your ankles—I’m going to sit down,” he announced, sitting down heavily on the end of the chaise, narrowly avoiding crushing her feet.

“Such a charmer,” Margaret muttered. “I hear you’re still pursuing that Belmont girl, despite herverypublic rejection of you at the altar. I would have thought you’d forgotten about her after that.”

“It’s not like that,” Cassian responded sharply. “I wrote to you and told you about the will, didn’t I? If I wish to inherit, I must marry and produce children. There’s really nothing to be done about it.”

“No, I suppose not,” Margaret sighed, sitting up properly. She rolled her shoulders, wincing at the audiblepops. “I never imagined I’d be so old, you know. When one is young, one imagines one will be young and beautiful forever. Don’t waste your youth, Cass.”

Cassian swallowed thickly. “I’m not a youth.”

“Hm. I’m honored that you actually chose to speak to me, you know. You never visit us. Frances tells me that she never receives letters from you. It’s most cruel. Family is an important thing. She only has one uncle, after all.”

Cassian swallowed thickly, glancing around at the crowd. “Hush, Margaret. You’ve drunk too much. I assumed Frances would be too busy with her studies for letters. And you know very well that you must not call me heruncle. Not loudly. Not if she wishes to inherit the Baron’s fortune as well as whatever I settle upon her.”

Margaret smiled mirthlessly. Somehow, a fresh glass of champagne was in her hand, and she took a genteel sip.

“She’ll inherit, I’ll be sure of that. And with you to care for her, she’ll have as good a start in life as she could have wished. If I had a start like that, perhaps my life would have turned out differently.”

Cassian swallowed, glancing away. He avoided paying visits to Margaret for exactly this reason. He preferred to push the past away and forget about it, while Margaret preferred to live in it. He suspected that they both made each other’s pain worse.

Frances was the spitting image of her mother, with large green eyes, flaxen hair, and a delicate, round face. Like her mother—once a renowned opera singer—she had a clear and beautiful voice. Cassian had wondered, more than once, whether the late baron had ever suspected something, considering that his daughter did not possess a single one of his features. Did he notice? Did he guess?

Did it matter?

“Do you know what today is?” Margaret whispered, suddenly leaning close to him. She smelled strongly of sweet perfume and alcohol. Not champagne, but something stronger. Brandy, perhaps.

Cassian closed his eyes. “Of course, I know. Today is… is the day they found him.”

“That’s right.” Margaret leaned back. “Today is the day they fished Matthew out of that river. He went missing overnight, and he was found on the evening of the following day. The papers loved it. There were dozens of stories and all sorts of nonsensical ideas. One paper claimed that he’d been attacked by a highwayman who had subsequently panicked and thrown him in the river, without bothering to relieve him of his valuables. But you and I know the truth, don’t we?”

“Stop it, Margaret.”

“Matthew was never pushed or thrown into the river. No, no.”

“Margaret…”

“Nor was it an accident.”

“That isenough,” Cassian snapped, rising abruptly to his feet. “I do not want to discuss this. You know this, Margaret. You know I don’t talk about it. Ever.”

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