“What interest? I merely asked where Mr. Newton might be and have received no answer, I might add.”
Shelley turned back to Lydia with a laugh. “Too true. Mr. Robert Newton has returned to Bath. Edward took him this morning. He was loath to go. Felt himself torn—wanted to see you safely escorted to Roseberry first—but it would seem there was a pressing issue with a gentleman by the name of Cassidy. He also mentioned Mr. Lynch, though I wasn’t sure in what context. Anyway, Mr. Newton, once assured by Edward that he and at least two footmen had every intention of accompanying you to—no, don’t protest. There is no question of your journeying out on your own. No, Lydia, close your mouth. I will brook no disagreement on this. Where was I? Oh, yes, having been reassured—several times—Mr. Newton quit Villers Manor and set off for Bath. I expect Edward back at any moment.… He will not wish to miss luncheon. Are you sure you do not want to try the sole?”
Lydia shook her head and sighed. She had so wanted Robert to see her in this new gown, but she had forgotten about the dire circumstances of Mr. Cassidy. Of course Robert had to go. Her hero had to be heroic. Off to save his friend, leaving her in Villers Manor, protected by the Dunbar-Rosses. It was a logical conclusion to their misadventure … but somehow it felt deflating … unfinished.
Shaking such selfish thoughts from her foolish brain, Lydia thanked Shelley for the beautiful gown, verifying that it was, indeed, a gift. One bought a month or so earlier as a souvenir in Paris.
Lydia smiled as Shelley launched into a full description of the vibrant city and tried not to be distracted by thoughts of brown caring eyes. And yet the sense of incompletion and disappointment did not go away. She had so wanted to implant a new vision in Robert’s mind: one of his friend Lydia, the elegant young lady in a Parisian gown, and not Lydia, the disheveled and thoroughly rumpled creature falling out of the Beyer barn.
Chapter 11
In which Mr. Newton rushes hither and yon while Miss Whitfield is inundated with doubt
“I’m afraid most of the family is still abed, Mr. Newton.” Cassidy’s, or rather Lord Tremont’s, sour-faced butler stood in the doorway, blocking the threshold as best he could.
Robert had no time for the antics of disobliging servants whose perception of dignity superseded all else. “Not to worry, Cranford, I do not plan to disturb most of the family.” He stepped past the man and into the generous hall of the three-story town house. The design was not that dissimilar to his own—though this one, of course, was much larger—and, as a consequence, Robert knew that he would not have too much trouble finding the bedrooms with or without Cranford’s help. “I’m just here to see Cassidy.”
He started toward the stairs as if he knew exactly where Cassidy slept, fairly certain that his bravado would carry the day—or rather the moment. Robert doubted Cranford would allow him to open the wrong bedroom door in his search. Intervention was imminent.
Robert had been heartily disappointed, upon arriving at his place on Boliden Street, to find … rather, to not find … Vincent Cassidy within. They had a lot to discuss and a limited amount of time to fashion a miracle.
Longdon had informed him that Cassidy had found it difficult to comply to Robert’s simple request—that of staying in residence until Robert’s return—despite Longdon’s excellent suggestions of reading, billiards, or solitaire. But Robert had left Cassidy high and dry for too long; he finally left.
At that point in his narration, Longdon had looked at Robert in such a way as to indicate that Longdon, too, wondered where Robert had been—but it was the type of implied question that could be ignored, if necessary. And it was necessary.
As it was still early in society terms, Robert planned to drag Cassidy from his bed—fill him with fortifying victuals, ply him with questions, and drag him about town looking for the answers. They had to learn as much as possible about the night his friend was challenged.
“Newton?” asked an incredulous voice.
Robert turned to glance down from the first-floor landing, where he had raced to. Below him, fully attired … looking alert and quite wide awake … was Vincent Cassidy. Robert was momentarily at a loss for words, though he swiveled, marching back to the ground floor.
“What are you doing here?” he finally asked when they were both on the same level.
“Me?” Cassidy’s baffled expression broke into a grin. “As it happens, I live here.”
“Yes, but I thought you were going to stay at Boliden Street until I returned.”
“If you had taken less than a day, I would have. Rather bad form to leave me twiddling my thumbs for an entire night.”
“Believe me, it was unintentional.”
“I do believe you. I spoke to Mr. Lynch.” These words were uttered in such a serious manner that Robert entertained a sense of foreboding.
“Oh?” he said as lightly as he could.
Cassidy made matters worse by looking over his shoulder at the glowering countenance of Cranford and then gesturing to a door in the corner.
It proved to be a study, albeit a small one, with just enough room for a desk and two chairs. The air was thick, as if it had not been aired, or used, in some time. Though there was, of course, no dust to speak of, not even on the mantel clock that showed it to be ten minutes before nine.
“What gets you up at such an early hour?” Robert asked, stalling. Girding himself for the questions about Mr. Lynch’s instability. But Cassidy surprised him.
Dropping into one of the chairs next to the unlit fireplace, his friend approached a different and even more sensitive subject. “Were you seized yesterday?”
“Seized?” Robert’s astonishment was not feigned. He had not expected the need to explain his absence. Playing for the time needed to organize his thoughts, Robert made a show of choosing his seating. Eventually he leaned against the windowsill; it gave him a higher vantage point. “Seized?” he asked again.
“Yes. That was the word Mr. Lynch used. Although it was used with great derision and mockery. I thought he was funning me, but … oh, have I put the cart before the horse? You are wearing a puzzled expression.”
“You are making little sense.”
“Let me explain.”
“Please do.” Robert sighed, giving up his vantage point in favor of the chair. His aches needed to be appeased.
“When I awoke—which, I grant you, was late afternoon—I was not in the mood to sit around waiting for you to finish your clerking duties. Really, Newton, leaving me idle for so long. Longdon kept trying to feed me. And I did not have the stomach for it.”
“Feeling better now?”
“Yes, indeed, thank you.… Don’t distract me.” Cassidy mugged a snarl and then continued. “Mr. Lynch was still at your office, despite the late hour. He was rather confused—you might have to look into that, my friend. Lawks, where was I?”