Fortune's Lady by Patricia Gaffney Page A

had let herself be painted in her chemise. Still, it set a style for liberating, egalitarian garments.” There, she thought with satisfaction. He could pursue that or not, but she’d made a beginning in the portrayal of herself as a woman of the people.
    â€œWas it the violence in Paris that brought you to England, Miss—”
    â€œMerlin. Cassandra Merlin.” She watched his face for a sign of recognition, but at that moment a waiter came out of the shadows with two glasses of wine on a tray. Riordan took them and handed one to Cass. This time their fingers made contact. She’d read in a dozen cheap novels about the stupefying effect a casual touch of hands could have, and had always dismissed the phenomenon as absurd, exaggerated. Until now. She took a hasty sip of claret and nearly choked. Eyes watering, cheeks blazing, she set the glass down on the grass beside her and folded her hands in her lap. A moment passed before she remembered his question. “No, Mr. Wade, it wasn’t the violence that brought me. It was the arrest and execution of my father for treason.”
    There was no sound but the distant din of gambling from inside the club. Riordan looked into the wide, guileless, slightly challenging gaze of the woman seated before him and gave her high marks for boldness. “I knew him,” he said slowly. “Slightly.” The last thing he’d expected to feel was a reluctance to lie. The next words he spoke from the heart, surprising himself. “I’m deeply sorry for your father’s death. It must have been terrible for you.”
    Cass heard genuine sympathy, and felt like a fool when tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked them back briskly. “Thank you. But he died in the service of a cause he believed in, as many others are doing today in France, sir. I expect there are worse ways to meet one’s end.”
    Riordan congratulated her again on her directness, and decided it was time for some of his own. “And do you share your father’s…enthusiasms, Miss Merlin?”
    She let a noticeable pause fall before she answered. “If I did, I would be very foolish to say so, wouldn’t I, Mr. Wade?”
    â€œI expect that depends on to whom you said it.”
    Cass stared up at him, trying to think of a suitable response. Things were moving too fast. Mr. Wade was disconcertingly tall and broad, and his wide shoulders blocked the moon, making it difficult to see his face. His dress was conservative, yet the tailoring of his black breeches and rust-colored coat was immaculate and obviously expensive. He gave the impression of a man who paid tailors and valets a fortune to insure he made a proper turnout in society, then forgot all about it himself. She remembered with a queer feeling that he had a wife. An invalid, Quinn had said, living in Bath. Was that why he took mistresses? Did he have one now? She looked away, then started when she saw he was holding out a hand to her.
    â€œDo you care to walk?”
    She rose. He tucked her hand under his arm and they began to amble along a thin, hard-packed path beside a thorn hedge. There were no rush-lights here, but the moon illuminated the way sufficiently to see. Beyond some shrubbery to their right a woman’s shrill laugh sounded, and the moment of apprehension Cass had felt at their seeming isolation vanished. They moved well together, she couldn’t help noticing, in spite of the fact that he was probably six stone heavier and a foot taller. It was strange, she reflected, that she could think of him as an adversary, but not yet as an enemy. But Quinn said he’d betrayed her father and sent him to his death. For the first time, it occurred to her to wonder if Quinn was telling the whole truth.
    â€œWhy didn’t your father send for you when living in Paris began to be dangerous?” Riordan wondered aloud. It wasn’t a calculated question; it was something he was curious