Fortune's Lady Read Free Page B

seemed as if happiness might still be possible if she could only be in England again. What she’d never foreseen was that the public trial and execution of her father would be the occasion of her homecoming.
    She stood up and took her tea to the window. It still hurt that he hadn’t let her visit him in Newgate in the final weeks, no matter how she pleaded with him in her letters. It seemed he was pushing her out of what remained of his life, as he had kept her out of the past twelve years. She wrote to him every day, pages and pages filled with love and sadness and terror. He never wrote back. Anger and a sense of injustice wrestled with her fear as the long days dragged past, days so full of anguish she couldn’t even remember them now except as a blur of suffering.
    Then, on the very last day, a note had come. The sight of the familiar scrawl had wrung her heart.
“My dear Cassandra,
    â€œSo. The gamble did not pay off, and now I must forfeit everything to satisfy the wager. Forgive this conceit, my dear, but gaming metaphors come easily to me nowadays. They say a man dies the way he’s lived. I shall try to take to the scaffold what’s passed for forty-four years as a sort of reckless bravery, though there are many who would call it cheap bravado. But it no longer matters what it was.
    â€œI wish I were leaving you in better hands than Elizabeth’s, but that’s only one of my innumerable regrets. She’s a vain and selfish woman, and yet she has a knowledge of the world which may prove useful to you. Heed her advice sparingly. Try to be happy. Forgive me for leaving you with nothing, not even memories. All that consoles me now is that I did truly believe in the Revolution. I die for the one honest act of my life.
    â€œI trust your threat to attend the hanging was only that—a threat. Don’t come, Cassie. If I believed in the immortal soul, I would tell you ours will one day be together—but alas, I never could. Good-bye, my beautiful child.”
    â€œWell, fer the lord’s sake, she’s startin’ in again. Here, now, dry ’em up, yer caller’s in the sittin’ room. There, there, it ain’t so bad.”
    Cassandra stared down at the filthy handkerchief Clara had thrust into her hand. Through the tears, she couldn’t help laughing. “I’ll use my own, thanks,” she snuffled, wiping her eyes.
    â€œSuit yerself, Miss Priss. An’ by the way, it ain’t Mr. Frane a’tall, it’s a bloke named Quinn.”
    â€œQuinn?” frowned Cass.
    â€œQuinn. Said as how he wanted ter speak with you about yer father. Yer want me ter bring in some food? Biscuits er wine, like?”
    â€œThat would be nice, Clara. Then go away, and no listening at the door.”
    â€œHmpf,” answered the maid, flouncing off.
    A man was peering at the framed portraits of Cassandra’s parents on the fireplace mantel. He straightened at her quiet “Mr. Quinn?” and turned to greet her. They studied each other during this formality, and Cass saw a tall, thin man of about forty-five, with lank black hair combed straight back from a high forehead. He struck her as a mixture of schoolmaster and priest, with glowing black eyes that seemed to see everything. His face was bony and intelligent, the face of an ascetic, or a fanatic. He had a high, reedy tenor voice and a bulbous Adam’s apple that bobbed when he spoke. There was nothing foolish or laughable about him, though; if he were a schoolmaster, there would be no tricks played while his back was turned.
    â€œYou’re younger than I thought,” he said.
    â€œI’m—”
    â€œNo, not younger.” He raised a finger as if testing the wind. “Fresher. May I sit down?”
    â€œOf course.” She gestured toward the sofa and took the wing chair beside it for herself. “Were you a friend of my father’s, Mr. Quinn?” Before he could