Page 48 of Impetuous

“I hope you have taken my warning to heart,” Aunt Ardis continued.

“Yes.” Cassandra tried to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach. “Don’t worry. There is nothing between Sir Philip and me, and there never will be.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CASSANDRA DRESSED FOR dinner in her best gown, but even so, she felt dowdy sitting at the elegant long table in Haverly House. The seemingly endless expanse was made of teak and polished to a mirror gleam. A silver epergne of fruit graced the center, so tall that Cassandra was grateful their small group did not go down so far, for it would have made conversation across the table impossible. All the dishes, silverware and crystal were of the finest, and from overhead in the enormous wainscotted room, crystal chandeliers showered them with soft light.

Chesilworth had once been such an elegant house, Cassandra knew, but it had not been so in her lifetime—or even that of her father. The best pieces of silver had all been sold, most of them long ago, and the ceiling of the Chesilworth dining room had become so stained from water leakage that they had given up eating there and taken their meals in a much smaller room nearer the kitchen. Even Moulton Hall, which her aunt liked to think of as being furnished in the best of style, could not compete with Haverly House’s ageless elegance.

Cassandra’s best dress, other than the ballgown she had worn the night of her aunt’s party, was a dark brown silk that she had made over from one of her mother’s dresses and had brightened up with new trimmings of beige lace. It was a nice material, of course, and she and Olivia had managed to make it look rather up to date in style. But it was not the best color for her pale skin and light blond hair, and nothing she had been able to do could make the neckline and shoulders of the dress fit right. Besides, she thought, it was the sort of color old ladies wore, a feeling which was confirmed when Sir Philip’s grandmother entered the drawing room wearing a gown of very similar color.

On Lady Neville, of course, it looked exactly right, especially given the blaze of topazes that encircled her throat and winked in her ears. It helped, of course, that the tobacco-colored gown had obviously been designed and sewn by a master modiste rather than created by a seamstress in Dunsleigh and altered by two less-than-accomplished girls.

Cassandra looked across the table at the formidable old Lady Neville. It had come a little as a surprise to find herself seated at Sir Philip’s right, with his grandmother on the other side, and his mother, Aunt Ardis and Joanna down the sides of the table. Then she had realized that in terms of nobility she outranked not only her aunt and cousin, but even Sir Philip’s mother and grandmother.

“Well, my gel,” the elder Lady Neville drawled in an aristocratic tone, fixing Cassandra with a bright eye. “So you are the one I wanted to see.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Cassandra answered dutifully, grateful that Sir Philip had filled his grandmother and mother in on the details of his lie—and, apparently, that they were willing to go along with it.

“Yes,” Aunt Ardis interjected. “I had forgotten—you were friends with Cassandra’s grandmother, weren’t you?”

“Yes.” The old lady sighed, looking out blankly across the room as if seeing across time. She was, Cassandra decided, something of a ham. “Dear Caroline.”

“Caroline?” Aunt Ardis asked, looking confused. “I thought your grandmother’s name was Emma, Cassandra.”

Cassandra gathered breath to explain away the discrepancy, but she need not have bothered. Lady Neville the elder obviously was quite capable on her own. She turned a cool stare in Aunt Ardis’s direction, one eyebrow slightly raised. It was a look she had used a few minutes earlier, when she had heard Joanna addressing her grandson familiarly as “Philip.” Joanna had turned pale and subsided, not speaking since.

“No doubt you are mistaken,” Lady Neville told Aunt Ardis, with a just a hint of gracious forgiveness in her voice.

“I believe Grandmama went by a different name when she was older,” Cassandra hastened to tell her aunt. “She, ah, came out with a cousin, I believe, whose name was also Caroline, and so she started using Emma, her second name, and of course that was the name by which Grandpapa knew her, so it hung on for the rest of her life.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right,” Lady Neville agreed. “I remember the cousin now. Not nearly as pretty as Caroline.” She turned her regard back to Cassandra. “It’s something I never thought I would live to see—a Verrere in Haverly House.”

“It was hardly a blood feud, Grandmother,” Philip commented with some amusement.

His grandmother glanced at him coolly. “Of course not, Philip. We are English, after all.”

“Yes, Grandmother.” Philip looked chastened, except for the twinkle in his eyes.

His grandmother obviously saw the wicked light in his eyes, for she added, “Don’t you laugh at me, young man,” and smiled in an affectionate way that took the sting out of her words.

“Me?” Philip managed to look indignant. “Never.”

“Don’t try to distract me, either. I was talking to Miss Verrere.”

She studied Cassandra for a moment, and Cassandra tried not to squirm under her regard. Finally she said, “You look like a very sensible young woman, Miss Verrere. I approve.”

“I, uh, thank you.” Cassandra was not sure exactly what Lady Neville was judging or approving her for, but she was grateful that she had not been found wanting.

“Did you tell Philip about the intruder, Violet?” the old woman went on, changing course once again.

“What?” Philip barked, sitting up straighter, and Cassandra leaned forward intently.

“I forgot,” the younger Lady Neville admitted. “It happened several days ago.”

“Three days. Scarcely a lifetime, Violet,” Lady Neville remarked acidly.

“Mother! Why didn’t you tell me? What happened? Someone entered the house?”