She was far from fluent in philosophy, but her father had taken the time to explain Occam’s Razor. The simplest answer, that Westbridge really wanted to marry her, was the most logical one. But she suspected the Duke had been taught the same lesson and was using the rule to trick her. He was up to something, and she had to be on her guard around him.
But whatever he was plotting, he had set it aside last night, when she needed his help. She wanted to see him again, if only to thank him.
She rose and dressed, and at the last minute pinned the ant inside of her sleeve, where it could be close to her and unnoticed by others. It felt right to have a secret, a little bit of her old self to carry with her as she swanned about London acting like some kind of second-rate heiress. Then, she went downstairs to start another day of pretend.
That evening, they were to go to a rout at the home of the Dowager Duchess of Ashton. ‘It will be tiresome,’ Julian said. ‘Routs always are.’
‘But she has an excellent cook,’ Portia said as the got into the carriage. ‘And a good cellar. And I like rout cakes.’
‘It is hardly a difficult recipe,’ Julian grumbled. ‘Ask Cook to make you a batch for tea.’
Cassie laughed behind her hand. Then, she asked, ‘Why did you accept the invitation?’
‘Everyone is going,’ Portia said. ‘And we want you to be seen at the best places.’
She was tempted to tell them that they could stay home and she would not be bothered. But the carriage was already moving and she had never been to a rout before. When they arrived, it appeared that Portia was right about the number of guests. They were forced to walk the last block to the townhouse, since the driver could not get any closer due to the traffic in the street.
When they reached the door, the footman let them into a foyer that was crowded with people elbow to elbow, chatting amiably and ignoring the press around them. Portia pointed to the left. ‘The food is likely to be in that direction. The Duchess is probably to the right.’
Julian, who was tall enough to see over much of the crowd, approached the party as if planning a military campaign. ‘Strategically, it would be best to begin at the buffet and let the flow carry us to the Duchess. From there, we can make our farewells and return here. Come, let us get you that rout cake.’
He pushed forward through the throng, and they followed in his wake. Eventually, they reached the food and drink, which they ate while standing, as nearly all the furniture had been removed to make space for more people. Then, they trekkedback across the house, stopping occasionally to chat with friends.
Eventually, they arrived in what appeared to be the main receiving room, and the divan at the back where a beautiful woman of uncertain years was holding court over her guests. When she saw Julian, she waved a languid hand, encouraging him to come forward. ‘Septon, my dear! And your lovely wife. So good of you to come visit with us.’
Cassie glanced around them to see who she might mean, for there did not seem to be anusin residence. Just the Duchess, stretched out on the couch and showing an inappropriate amount of ankle.
‘Francesca,’ Julian said, bending down to kiss her on both cheeks.
Cassie glanced at Portia whose smile seemed to tighten into something less than genuine, then relax again as her husband stepped away from the Duchess.
Their hostess did not seem to notice, looking past Portia and holding out a hand to Cassie. ‘And you must be the lauded Miss Fisk. Come here. Let me see you.’
She stepped forward and curtsied. ‘Your Grace.’
‘I am soooo sorry,’ the Duchess said, shaking her head. ‘It must have come as a great shock to you.’
This was baffling. Cassie looked from the Duchess and back to her brother, waiting for an explanation.
Francesca registered her puzzlement and smiled, her eyes glittering. ‘You have not heard? Oh, my dear.’ Her expression seemed to flicker as if she knew sympathy was called for but could not hide the glee of sharing such a juicy bit of gossip.
‘You obviously know something we do not,’ Portia said, with exaggerated patience. ‘Tell us the news.’
‘It is about Mr Andrew Rutland,’ she said in a stage whisper that carried halfway across the room. ‘His father has gottenwind of his gambling debts and sent him home immediately.’ Her eyes grew round. ‘Apparently, he owes upward of ten thousand pounds and is dependent on the Earl for his allowance.’ She snatched Cassie’s hand and patted it vigorously. ‘I understand that he was courting you, dear. It is hard, but you have made a narrow escape.’
‘Thank you for the information,’ Cassie said, drawing her hand back as gently as she could. ‘I have indeed avoided catastrophe.’
Then, she looked past them at her next quarry. ‘Westbridge! Join us. We are just speaking of Rutland. You have heard, haven’t you?’
Cassie turned around to see the Duke approaching. He wore the same guarded smile that Portia did and greeted the Duchess with a shallow bow instead of kisses. ‘Francesca.’
‘Sebastian,’ she said, shifting her leg to reveal a bit more stocking. ‘It has been years since you have accepted my invitation.’
‘Six,’ he replied.
‘Have you heard about Rutland?’ she said in another loud whisper.
‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘A very bad business, that.’ As Cassie watched, the duke and her brother exchanged glances. Then, they both turned back to the Duchess as if nothing had happened.
