Chapter Eight

R aven returned to the Crown after meeting Dawes to go over the plans he'd made for renovating key rooms. He was entirely satisfied with Dawes. The man worked regularly on several estates in the area. Raven wanted the work done quickly, if possible, but he meant to maintain the original character of the hall.

He found Jay at ease in a smoky corner of the taproom with the coachman and a pair of grooms from his grandfather's stables in town. Jay appeared to be in lively spirits, telling some anecdote to the others. He waved Raven over to their table, and had the tapster draw another pint.

"You'll be glad to know," Jay said, handing Raven the pint, "that things are in hand at Verwood for the introduction of your vehicles and horses to their new quarters."

Raven raised his mug. "Thank you. No complaints from Her Grace?"

Jay shook his head. "The spacing is good, and Snell, the head Verwood groomsman, says we can count on Dick Crockett to steady Hermes. Once he's settled, I expect the horses closest to yours will fall in line. I'll spend the week with them in the paddock, making sure, letting them get acquainted."

"That long? I thought you were eager to get back to town."

Jay grinned. "Turns out," he said, "that the village of Wormley has some unexpected charms."

Raven laughed. "And her name is?"

"Bluebell."

He almost choked on his ale.

Jay whacked him on the back. "Don't worry, she's definitely a two-footed lass, and not an earl's daughter. Independent and spirited."

"Where did you meet this spirited miss?"

Jay shook a finger at him. "Now that's my business."

"And she's agreed to see you again?"

"She's a bit standoffish, but my guess is that she'll be at Sunday services."

"You are smitten if you're thinking of going to church."

Jay flashed another grin. "Likely I'll wait outside and catch her as she leaves."

"And did you solve the mystery of Her Grace closing the stud?"

Jay took a pull on his drink. "I have Mrs. Crockett's theory. Have you heard that one?"

"Yes, that Her Grace's granddaughter had a riding accident." Raven was familiar now with Lady Cassandra's dipping gait.

"My money's still on Hermes as the key to the mystery, but I have to say there's nothing wrong with his formation or movement. I haven't seen any scars or marks indicating an injury. Still, I'll keep my ears open this week. I ordered our landlord's best dinner. You're paying, aren't you?"

*

A week after Cassie learned that Sir Adrian's friends called him "Raven" Raven sent a message with a boy runner that he had something to show her at the big house.

Cassie had not been able to let go of that little bit of information about him. The name was like a pebble in her shoe. She thought she'd shaken it out, but it returned to bother her. For one thing it suited him better than his title with his dark good looks and endless assurance. There was something cheeky about a raven. They did not scatter like lesser birds. A carriage could bear down on a raven in the roadway, and only at the last possible instant would a raven hop out of harm's way, as if it relished a brush with iron wheels. Raven struck Cassie as equally unflinching in the face of danger.

For another, the name came with a history she had not imagined for him. According to Jay Kydd, Raven had taken the name Adrian only to please his grandfather. As boys Jay and Raven had lived apart from their families in a rooftop gang of waifs in London. As Jay told the story their life was one of grand adventure, but to Cassie it sounded cold, uncomfortable, desperate, and dangerous.

She had not seen Jay Kydd again, though she'd heard of him from Grandmama, who, though she might not be susceptible to his charm, was an admirer of his way with horses.

In the drive, several drays waited to be unloaded, their contents covered with canvas, their drivers standing in a group, talking and sending curls of pipe smoke into the morning air. The hall's great door was open and the marble tiles covered in more canvas. She kept to the side for a pair of men carrying a load of planks, their voices and footsteps echoing in the empty hall.

The boy who'd brought her Raven's message earlier, jumped up from a stool just inside the door. "Miss, ye'll find 'im in the great hall. I'll show ye."

Cassie did not stop him or say that she knew the way, that it was her house. It no longer resembled her house. The walls were shrouded in canvas in addition to the floors. Male voices and hammering filled the air. The great hall, the largest room in the house, had been transformed as well. The arm chairs and console tables were gone, the paneling and windows hidden behind canvas, the great chandelier removed, its chain hanging bare from the high plaster ceiling, and underfoot more canvas. She wondered where the Aubusson carpet had gone. Scaffolding had been erected around the room to reach the ceiling. An open door on the north side of the house let in a rectangle of wan light. She stood for a moment, adjusting to the gloom.

Raven stood with Dawes, looking over a long roll of paper on a makeshift table to one side of the door. A lamp on the end of the table illuminated the white of his shirt sleeves. Dawes saw Cassie and cleared his throat. Raven turned, saw her, and said something to Dawes, who nodded and went out the terrace door.

Raven came to Cassie with his usual energetic stride. Without a coat, with his sleeves rolled up and a plain brown waistcoat, he still had that authority of bearing and manner.

"You're wondering what I'm up to, I expect," he said.

"A little," she said. "I did not think this room needed work."

"It's not the room itself. It's the ceiling." He pointed to the geometric pattern of plasterwork over their heads.

"The ceiling?" She looked up.

"I had it inspected. It's sixty years old according to Verwood's records. You might not have noticed any cracks or sagging because of the pattern, but Dawes tells me that it has pulled away from the lath in too many places to be repaired."

"It could collapse?" She looked up again. She had not noticed because they had not used the great hall in years.

"In the worst case, but we're going to take it down, and I want your opinion on a new design by Jackson & Sons. Care to advise?" He gestured toward the makeshift table with its roll of paper.

She nodded. "Do you plan to use the great hall much?" She couldn't help but ask. In her grandmother's youth it had been used for balls, but Raven was a single man with no acquaintance in Wormley. Of course, he could bring friends from London.

"Actually," he said with a smile, "I'm thinking of giving a ball."

"For friends from London?"

"For the neighborhood," he said.

"But you don't know anyone—" That smile of his stopped her. "Do you?"

"I might, but I thought perhaps I could count on your help in that matter."

"My help?" He would not ask for her help if he had any idea of her reputation in the neighborhood.

"I thought I might accompany the Verwood ladies to church."

"Oh, of course," she said. He was right about that. If he appeared in St. Andrew's, everyone in the neighborhood, high and low, would be curious about him and impressed. His good looks, his air of fashion, and his money would have everyone talking. And people were already talking about the work he was doing at Verwood, employing carpenters and masons, painters, and soon, apparently, plasterers.

Cassie looked at the airy design of garlands and fruits and flowers laid out on the makeshift table. There were great ovals, and overflowing baskets and the coat of arms of the Dukes of Verwood.

"How much is all of this costing you?" she asked.

"This bit, not so much, maybe eight hundred pounds. The rest, a great deal."

"Can you really spend so much?"

"Am I good for it? Yes."

"But," she sighed, "you don't own the house. You…"

"I am a temporary tenant? Are you trying to protect me from…"

"Folly and extravagance? I guess so. I have pinched pennies for so long, I can't imagine these grand expenditures of yours."

From somewhere above them came a resounding crash. Cassie started, and Raven reached out a hand to steady her. "Someone has dropped a load of planks."

Cassie drew in a breath. "When do you anticipate giving your ball?"

"At the July full moon. The work will be done by then."

His extraordinary confidence struck her again. And his freedom to spend. How opposite they were. He could decide to give a ball, and then lease a property and refurbish it no matter the cost to fill a room with mere acquaintances. She could not decide to buy a new gown without scheming to scratch together the means.

"You'll come to my ball, won't you?"

She looked up at him, resolved to tell him that her ball-going days were over, but she didn't know how to explain herself. The past was the past. What happened had happened. She had worked out a way of getting through her days, but until he leased Verwood, she had not thought of changing the pattern of her life. Now she was trying to figure out how to do it, waiting for an answer to her letter to her mother's cousins. But she could not dance, that was a step too far.

For once he looked boyish, less commanding, more eager. He could have no way of knowing that what he offered called to mind things lost and gone forever.

"You need not invite your… landlord…" she began when a sound like the first crack of thunder overhead made her look up.

Raven grabbed her hand and pulled her into his arms, falling back with her against the wall, under the scaffolding as the crack became a rumble, and a great patch of plaster hit the plank above their heads, exploding into fragments. Dust rained down and swirled about them.

"Close your eyes," he ordered. His lips brushed her ear. He pushed her head into his chest, and spun, so that she was pressed against the wall, her body covered with his own. Cassie huddled against him as the falling plaster became a cascade of broken chunks of lime and powdered gypsum, thumping on the scaffolding over their heads, shaking the framework around them, filling the air with dust and noise. The world contracted to a hollow of linen and wool that smelled of Raven, of bergamot and labdanum, spice and energy. Her cheek pressed against his chest. His heart beat steadily under her ear. His arms held her firmly against his solid warmth, offering protection. Around them the air shook and swirled. She kept her eyes closed and breathed in the scent of him with a little shock of recognition that their bodies fit together easily, and that over the past few weeks she had come to know how he smelled.

The thumping, shaking storm of falling plaster seemed endless until the noise subsided to a few plops of plaster hitting the scaffolding overhead. From beyond the great hall, voices shouted and footsteps pounded. Cassie stirred, pulling back in his hold, but he did not release her at once.

"Wait," he commanded, his body stiff and alert.

There came another loud crack , a swoosh , and a smash that sent dust and debris flying again. After a pause, he released her, stepping back a pace. His dark hair and brows were powdered white with plaster dust. It covered his shoulders and arms.

"You're unharmed?" His voice was low and full of concern.

"Perfectly," she said. It wasn't true. She had been held by him, and now the sheltering hold had been withdrawn. The air tasted of grit.

As she stared up at him, his expression tightened, the warmth in his eyes quickly turning cold. "Your dress is ruined," he said. "I'll get you another."

She shook her head. "You have other things to attend to."

"Sir Adrian," a man called, and Raven turned to him.

"We're unharmed. Give us a moment." He offered a chalk-covered hand and helped her climb over a pile of debris, the fallen plaster crunching under their feet. She stopped and looked up to the dark lines of exposed lath above them.

"We did mean to take the old ceiling down," he said, his face grim again.

"But not so quickly." She tried to make light of it. "You'll have your project done well in time for that July moon."

"That's the plan. Let me see you back to the dower house."

"No need."

"I insist."

"Very well." She picked her way around and over the piles of rubble. She did not understand him, but she recognized the pattern. He'd gone from warm concern to brusque coldness. His change of manner was just as well. She did not want to mistake the shelter of his arm in an accident for any other sentiment. The warmth he sometimes showed her was not personal. It came from his pleasure in the project and his anticipation of showing off the house in the future, not from any interest in her.

As they passed out of the great hall, more men arrived to stare at the exposed ceiling and piles of broken plaster. Raven stopped to speak to one of them about cleaning up the debris, then Cassie and Raven moved through the marble hall to the outside. On the porch she glanced at him and could not resist a smile.

"What?" He stood, brushing the dust from his shoulders.

"You've become quite the distinguished white-haired gentleman," she said.

"Your suitable tenant?" He laughed and shook his head, raking his hands through his hair, shedding more dust. "You have not fared any better." His face sobered, and he reached out and plucked a bit of plaster from her hair, took her hand, turned it palm up, and dropped a tiny bud of some past garland in her hand. "Seriously," he said, "can your gown be saved?"

"Oh, I think so." She started down the stairs. He would be surprised at how much could be saved if there were no funds for replacements. She glanced over her shoulder. It was the whiteness of his eyebrows that gave him the look of an actor in a play. "Come on," she said. "Walk me home, if you will, and get back to your grand project."

He was familiar with her limp by now, though they never spoke of it, and he adjusted his stride to hers. She wondered if he'd forgotten it when he'd asked her to come to his ball. Probably.

As they passed the edge of the lake, he gave the water a longing glance. "There are no rules against tenants taking a dip, are there?"

She laughed. "Be my guest."

Where the road veered off the main drive to the dower house, she stopped him. "Really, I can manage to get safely home on my own."

"Good," he said. "I'll let you go, but I will hold you to the plan for church on Sunday. And, I'll ask you to look at the new ceiling when it's safe to do so."

He bowed and turned back up the drive toward the big house. Cassie slipped into the woods.

*

Raven reached the edge of the lake in a very few strides. He dropped onto the grass, stripped off his waistcoat, and tugged off his boots, making a neat pile of them in the grass. He was a gentleman. His desires were well-regulated. He could only explain his reaction to unfashionable Cassandra Lavenham as a result of not exercising properly. In the weeks since he'd signed the lease for Verwood, he had had no daily run, no weekly sparring match with one of his friends. His waking hours had been occupied with meeting craftsmen, hiring workers, ordering materials, looking at plans.

Grit stuck to his neck and shoulders. In a flash he saw the white-laced edge of her bodice dusted with plaster. The water stretched out before him, cool and refreshing. He undid his cuffs, pulled his shirt over his head, and rubbed his face and shoulders. The lake, some three hundred yards across, stirred memories of the river at Daventry Hall where he'd learned to swim. He added his shirt to the little pile, stood, and waded out through the reeds. Cold mud oozed between his toes. Then he plunged in. The water closed over his head, cool and bracing. He surfaced and began to stroke for the far side. He made himself think of the old days when Wenlocke had been Daventry.

In the summer after his marriage, Daventry had insisted that his boys learn to swim. Once they'd got the hang of it, they had spent most days in the river. At the end of that summer, Dav, as he was then called, gathered them together up on their roof to ask permission to search for their families. He told them that someone somewhere missed them as his mother and brothers had missed him. He listened as they complained and doubted and got angry. He reminded them of things about themselves that they'd quite forgotten, clues that would help him find their true origins. He told them the decision was theirs. Whatever the search yielded, he would help them establish themselves in the world.

For days they talked of nothing else, lying at the edge of the river, arguing and shivering from hours in the water. Jay had been the first to claim that he remembered his people. They had horses. The others, even Raven, scoffed at him. They knew what they were—the refuse of London, its surplus population, the unwanted, passed from one parish to another, sold for climbing boys, trained to be pickpockets, or sent to the workhouse. Lark and Rook had left the gang to live in London again. All of them knew the pair would end up picking pockets. None of them was like Dav, the kidnapped grandson of the Duke of Wenlocke. The truth about their families would not come with a title and a grand hall. But Jay had been willing to take the risk. In the end they had all chosen to seek their families, all except Robin.

Raven slowed his stroke and lifted his head. The far shore was close now. He rolled to his back and looked at the sky, his heart pounded, his breath came in gusts. He had come a long way from the day he'd agreed to the search for his family. He knew who he was. He had a plan. His goal was hardly farther than the shore of the little lake. Inconvenient feelings for his quirky landlady would not sway him now. The Raven of his London youth had been glad of the things that came his way, damaged or broken, not Sir Adrian Cole. Sir Adrian Cole would give a dazzling ball at Verwood and claim his perfect bride before the end of the summer.

He swam the last few yards of the lake in a flurry of strokes and kicks and stood on the shore, catching his breath, and shaking water from his head, his body plaster-streaked. Lady Amabel Haydon was the woman for him. He would stick to his plan, meet his neighbors, finish his renovations, and invite the world to Verwood.