She’d been so overwhelmed and pleased with receiving the pearls, she’d not cared if Helen had kept the emeralds. The pearls were what was precious to Cassandra. When she had been a child, she’d sat on her mother’s lap and stroked the pearls, fascinated by their creamy color and smooth surface.
Cassandra now walked over to her nightstand table. It had a false top held by a hinge. She removed the candlestick. The candle had never been lit, a sign it had been recently replaced.
Cassandra lifted the lid. Like her valise, the inside was lined in black velvet. She’d liked looking at the jewelry against rich material.
The sapphires were not there now.
Cassandra let the lid slam shut. She moved purposefully to the door. She must speak to Soren, to warn him.
“I did not tell him, my lady. I promise I didn’t.” Abby was openly crying now.
“It is not your fault.” Indeed, it didn’t make any difference whether she believed her maid’s story or not. The jewels were gone.
Soren’s earlier concerns now became hers.
Just as she opened the door, she heard Soren shout her name. She rushed for the stairs. He was at the foot of them, his hat already in his hand. “It’s gone,” he said. “Your father stole your money.”
“What?” She was confused. She started down the stairs. Her father stood off to one side, the set of his jaw mutinous, his body rigid. There were deep shadows under his eyes, and his clothes looked as if he’d slept in them. Bevil had returned to his post by the door.
Soberly, Soren said, “You have no inheritance, Cass. He spent it all. There is nothing left.”
She paused halfway down the stairs. “Nothing? That can’t be true. Papa—?”
At that moment, there was a pounding on the door.
Her father jumped to life. “Those are your creditors, Dewsberry,” he said. “I sent for them. They want the money you owe them or they want Pentreath. Let them in, Bevil.”
The butler obeyed.
Chapter 12
“No.” Cassandra charged down the stairs as if she could stop the door from opening but Soren blocked her way by catching her in his arms and gently setting her back on the step.
“Stay out of this, Cass. It will be all right—”
Before he could say more, three men marched through the door. One had the distinct look of a bailiff, including the silver badge of his office pinned to his plain wool jacket. The other two appeared prosperous. They did not remove their hats.
The bailiff looked around. “Lord Dewsberry?”
Her father pointed a finger. “There he is. That is your man.”
Soren calmly said, “I am who you seek.” To the other gentlemen, he said, “Hello, Brock, Lloyd.” He did not introduce them to Cassandra.
They ducked their heads in a semblance of a bow. “My lord,” one of them said. “We didn’t want to do this, but your note is past due.”
“Huggett could extend it,” Soren answered.
The one Cassandra believed was Mr. Brock agreed, “He could; however, he will not. He says you knew the terms. He has already been patient long enough. The bailiff has a letter from the court. Once you have signed it, your estate will transfer into his hands.”
Soren was going to lose Pentreath Castle.
And he said she had no money. There was no inheritance. Cassandra was having trouble grasping what all this would mean. “Soren, what is happening?”
“These lads work for one Jeremiah Huggett. He is the man I owe. Where is the paper I am to sign?”
The bailiff was carrying a leather portfolio. He removed some papers. “Mr. Holwell, may we trouble you for a pen and ink?”
“Actually,” her father said, “I wish you would take your business someplace else.”
