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With shaking hands, she pulled out a single page, dated not a month before. She read of Eliott and his growing regard for Eliza Pennworthy, an attachment that Becky believed would lead to marriage after Eliott’s year of mourning. For an instant, she did not understand, until she realized that it was her death that Eliott was mourning.
She read hungrily for news of Edward, but found no mention of him until she opened the first letter, written some seven months before. “The viscount’s grief,” she read, “has given me many sleepless nights, though I know that we did only what was necessary. It is my understanding that he has already resumed his military career and is on his way at this very moment to join General Howe’s staff in New York. I trust that he will come to no harm amid the rabble fighting against England. In any case, it is for the best. He was never meant to have my Cassandra.”
Cassie scarcely comprehended the rest of the letter, filled with solicitous questions about her and her adjustment to her new life. Her eyes locked upon Becky’s terse closing. “You will not forget your promise, Anthony. Once Cassie is your wife, you will return her to England. Your loving cousin, B. Petersham.”
The letter floated unnoticed from her fingers to the floor. So many questions now had answers. Becky’s blatant disapproval of Edward. And Becky’s family, something of a mystery to Cassie and Eliott. The letters she received, foreign letters from someone whose name she had never mentioned. And Becky had even encouraged her to take her sailboat out one last time, the day before Cassie’s wedding. She had known of the earl’s intention, and between them, they had plotted her abduction.
Cassie forced her feet to move to a sofa on the far side of the library. She sank down into the soft velvet cushions and buried her face in her hands. Becky, the earl’s cousin, came to live with her when she was but five years old. Becky, whom she had loved like a mother, the earl’s agent. Cassie suddenly remembered something that had puzzled her, but so trivial that she had not thought of it again. When they were aboard The Cassandra, it had come as no surprise to him that she spoke Italian. She shivered. Had he even directed her education through Becky Petersham? What else that was part of her, which of her likes and dislikes, had he molded to his pleasure?
She looked out toward the blooming magnolia trees, the potted oleanders. Had he nurtured her, as would a gardener, raised her in the image that he himself had created for her? She felt silent tears sting her eyes. Her mother had died birthing her and he had wanted another Lady Constance. He had chosen her to take her mother’s place.
She felt crushed with betrayal, made all the worse by her realization that he had succeeded in molding her according to his wishes. She had come to love him. She began to tremble with self-loathing. He had done just as he pleased, and she, without causing him too much concern, had responded to him. Had she not lost the child, she would at this moment be his wife, and likely quite content with her fate.
“I will not love you!”
She thought of the contessa, and her claim that the earl was her lover. She knew that she did not believe Giovanna. But somehow, it no longer mattered. She had changed, she knew it now, but at the same time the earl had not. He still would not let her go. He would still give her no choices. She rushed over to the large globe and spun it about until she found the North American continent. Edward was in the American colonies—New York. She quickly found the port city. He was on General Howe’s staff. She did not imagine it would be difficult for her to find him. She straightened and looked grimly about the dark-paneled library. Everything about her was his. It was his library, his home, his country. Even she was his creation. She walked with a determined stride from the library, not looking back.
At first light the next morning, armed with all the money the earl kept in a strong box, and a sturdy portmanteau, Cassie stole quietly to the stable. She knew the men the earl had left to protect her were still abed, no thought in their heads that they needed to guard against her leaving the villa.
Her fingers froze suddenly on the saddle girth. She heard Paolo’s shuffling footsteps. She clenched her jaw in determination and grabbed a haying fork. When Paolo walked into the stables, she struck him upon the head. He fell where he stood. She quickly bent down and felt for his pulse. “I am sorry, my friend,” she said softly to his figure, “but you will have a great headache.”
She dragged him into an empty stall, quickly finished saddling her mare, and walked her to the great gates of the Villa Parese. She did not look back when she reached the dusty road.
* * *
“There is a young woman demanding to see you, Captain.”
Captain Jeremy Crowley raised his head from his breakfast and stared at his first mate, Mr. Thompson.
“Is this some kind of jest, sir?”
“No, sir. She is English, and a lady.”
“What the devil is an English lady doing in Genoa, wanting to see me, for God’s sake?” Captain Crowley knew his question was rhetorical. “Escort her to my cabin, Mr. Thompson, and keep the men from seeing her, if you can.”
“Aye, captain.”
Cassie did not need to be told to keep the hood of her cloak closely about her face. She had cursed herself more than once already for not having taken one of the earl’s pistols, for a woman alone, no matter the time of day at the harbor, was bound to attract unwanted attention. When she had seen a Union Jack fluttering at the jackstaff of a large frigate, she had ignored the obscene taunts, most of them incomprehensible to her in any case, left her mare on the dock, and marched up the gangplank. Luckily for her, it was Mr. Thompson who had first approached her.
Mr. Thompson obligingly relieved her of her portmanteau and escorted her down the companionway to Captain Crowley’s cabin. The frigate was more than twice the size of The Cassandra, and heavily armed. The narrow companionway was stuffy, and Cassie, whose heart was beginning to pound uncomfortably, breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Thompson finally drew to a halt and opened a cabin door.
Cassie stepped into a smallish room lined with dark mahogany paneling that was covered with swords and muskets and wrinkled maps. The furniture was simple and unadorned, set about the cabin with stark precision. She sniffed in the heavy odor of pipe tobacco.
“Captain Jeremy Crowley, ma’am,” Mr. Thompson said.
“You may leave us, Mr. Thompson.”
Cassie stared at a tall bewigged gentleman of considerable girth, whose full dress naval uniform of blue and white, although clean, had known better days. He was possessed of a large nose, a recessed chin, and the coldest gray eyes she had ever seen. She gulped uncertainly under his equally sharp scrutiny.
“Please be seated, ma’am.”
She nodded silently and seated herself on the edge of a black leather chair. Her eyes went toward the small table upon which sat the remains of a sizable breakfast, and she licked her lips.
“You would care, perhaps, for a cup of tea, ma’am?”
“Yes, sir,” she said simply.
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