She was going to be sick. She pressed a hand to her abdomen as if she could push back the nausea welling there.
“Sarah.” Margaret glanced at Hattie. “Perhaps the less said about Cassian’s antics, the better.”
“Yes, of course. I beg your pardon.” Sarah hastily folded the letter and stuffed it into the pocket of her dress. “I’m certain it’sall lies in any case, or at the least a wild exaggeration. One can’t trust what one reads in the scandal sheets.”
It was no lie. They all knew it, but none of them had the heart to say it, and a heavy silence descended on the drawing room.
What was there to say? Not a word, and there was even less she could do about it. It wasn’t as if she could rush off to London. She wasn’t fond of society. She despised the dirt and noise of Town and avoided it like the plague. She hardly ever ventured outside of her quiet little corner of Kent.
“I believe I’ll go for a walk.” She jumped to her feet, tipping the table askew in her haste to get away. “It’s a lovely day.”
It wasn’t. The sky was overcast, and a chilly wind had arisen in the last hour, rustling the treetops, but neither Sarah nor Margaret contradicted her. Margaret said only, “Wear your cloak, won’t you, dear?”
“I will.” Hattie dropped the broken larkspur into the pocket of her dress. “I’m just going to the east garden. I won’t be long.”
This reassurance did nothing to erase the anxious furrow from Margaret’s brow. Hattie hated worrying her sisters, but all at once the walls of the drawing room were closing in on her, and she couldn’t bear to sit still for another minute.
The fresh air would set her right again. Of course, it would. A few deep breaths would chase Cass’s ghost out of her head.
But she hadn’t taken more than a half dozen steps down the corridor before Margaret’s low murmur made her pause. “Cassian’s situation seems to grow worse with every day that passes. One can’t pick up a scandal sheet without seeing his name on the front page.”
Hattie eased closer to the drawing room door, pressing against the wall so she wouldn’t be seen if Sarah or Margaret happened to glance toward the corridor.
Shewasn’teavesdropping. No, nothing so low and tawdry as that. She was merely curious, that was all.
“Yes, I’m afraid that’s so.” Sarah let out a heavy sigh. “He’s become the spitting image of his father, hasn’t he? It’s such a pity. It hardly seems possible such a lovely boy as Cass could have become such a disappointing man.”
“On the contrary, it’s entirely possible, especially with such a father as he had. Even before he inherited the title, Cass had too much money, too much freedom, and a father who set the worst possible example for him.”
“Indeed. He really had no chance, did he?”
“No, and though I hate to be a harbinger of doom, with the way the aristocratic gentlemen carry on in London, I’m afraid it will only get worse.”
Worse? Hattie hovered in the corridor, her heart crowding into her throat. How could it possibly get worse than gaming and bloody, drunken brawls? But then Margaret was right. London was full of temptations, especially for a gentleman who had a title and plenty of gold coins in his pockets.
At least, he did for now. The Windham coffers were deeper than most, but more than one young, reckless aristocrat had lost their fortune at London’s gaming tables, and if the scandal sheets had the right of it, Cass spent an inordinate amount of time wagering.
How long? How long would it take before he was utterly ruined? How long before he wasn’t Cass anymore? NotherCass, the Cass she remembered, who’d once brought her handfuls of wildflowers and sat with her under the beech tree. The boy who’d spent hours stringing daisy chains with her, and who’d written her letters from Eton, and then later from Oxford.
How long would it take before there was nothing left of that sweet, sensitive boy? Had his father bled every ounce of tenderness and compassion from him?
She had no answers. Just the darkening sky above her, the patter of raindrops on her head, and the whispers of Cass’s ghost in her ears.
The wind grew sharper, yet she wandered on until the hems of her skirts were soaked, and her slippers were ruined.
“Hattie? Hattie, wait!”
She turned to find Margaret hurrying toward her, holding her hat down with one hand, her skirts whipping in the wind. “My goodness, Hattie! Didn’t you hear me? I’ve called your name a dozen times.”
“Did you, indeed? I beg your pardon. I was distracted, I suppose.” She mustered a smile for her sister, but it was a poor, thin thing, stiff and awkward on her lips.
“Why are you walking in the rain?” Margaret came to a breathless stop beside her. “You’ll catch your death out here.”
“Is it raining?” She glanced up into the gloomy sky. Fat raindrops fell from the clouds and spattered her cheeks. “I didn’t notice.”
“Come inside, Hattie. It’s time for tea.”
Teatime, already? It was much later than she’d thought. Despite her promise not to linger outdoors, she’d been wandering the gardens for hours.
