Page 25 of Impetuous

“Why, the one Mama and I are having tomorrow night. We were just saying this morning how lucky it was that you came to visit when we have a party in the offing.”

Cassandra, to whom the news of a party was a surprise, raised her eyebrows but refrained from saying anything.

“Of course, it is merely a small thing. We live so retired in the country, you know—nothing like the season in London. But, still, we must have our little amusements now and then,” Aunt Ardis explained with a girlish smile.

“A small dinner with a few friends,” Joanna added. “Do say you will come, Sir Philip. Everyone will be so disappointed if you do not.”

“Of course.” Sir Philip gave them a strained smile. “I will be happy to attend. But for now, I am afraid I really must go.”

He bowed over each of their hands, politely going to Aunt Ardis first, then to Joanna. Lastly he turned to Cassandra, taking her hand and bending over it.

In a low voice he murmured, “Ten minutes. The well we passed yesterday.”

Cassandra blinked, surprised. Sir Philip straightened, looking questioningly into her eyes.

She smiled and nodded. “Good day, Sir Philip. I look forward to seeing you soon.”

CHAPTER SIX

SATISFACTION FLICKERED BRIEFLY in Sir Philip’s face and was gone, then he turned and strode out the door. As soon as he was gone, Joanna and her mother burst into an excited babble, trying at once to arrange the dinner party, crow over their good fortune and everyone else’s envy at having such a prize as Sir Philip Neville at their dinner, and also speculate over the extent of Sir Philip’s interest in Joanna, the amount of his wealth and the size of Haverly House. They scarcely noticed when Cassandra slipped out of the room.

She dashed upstairs and grabbed a bonnet and the stack of Margaret’s journals. Then she scurried down the servants’ staircase and out the back door, flying across the garden and down the path toward the old well. She carried her bonnet by the ribbons, not taking the time to put it on, and so she arrived at the well bareheaded, with soft, windblown tendrils falling about her face.

Sir Philip, waiting for her, straightened, smiling at the sight of her. The sun glinted off her hair, as pale as moonlight, and he thought with a kind of fierce delight that her hair was every bit as lovely in the daylight as he had thought it would be.

“Miss Verrere. You are on time. I admire that in a woman.”

“Indeed? Well, I am glad I pleased you,” Cassandra replied tartly. “I take it you do not mind if men are late?”

He looked slightly startled by her words, then let out a laugh. “I stand corrected. I should say it is an admirable quality in anyone.” He reached out and took the journals from her. “Here, let me carry those. Would you like to sit?” He gestured toward the wooden bench running around the trunk of a large oak tree. “I noticed this seat yesterday when we were walking back from your home. Somehow I suspected we might have need of a clandestine meeting place.”

“I am so sorry. I must apologize for my aunt and my cousin.”

“It is only reasonable to assume that I have some interest in someone, to be calling here on such a flimsy pretext. It takes no great skill to see that Dunsleigh is hardly on the route to my estate.”

“I know. And you must think me foolish to have hidden my plans from my relatives.”

“Oh, no,” he responded quickly, sitting down with her on the bench. “I understand perfectly, and I suspect that you are following the correct course. I would say that the fewer people who know what you are about, the better.”

Her eyes glimmered with amusement. “To spare me embarrassment when it turns out to be a hoax?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. Who knows what people might say or do? The talk of treasure seems to do extraordinary things to people.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Look at me. I would have said I would never be chasing after old letters in an attic.”

Cassandra smiled and pointed to the books he now carried. “After you look at these, perhaps you will feel better about what you are doing. I brought Margaret Verrere’s journals.”

“Ah.” He picked up the top volume from the stack, which he had set down on the bench beside him. He turned it over, examining the binding, then carefully thumbed through the yellowed pages. He looked through each book with the same care and said finally, “I must admit that they appear authentically old.”

“You see?”

“Not that I am an expert, of course. Still, if this is a forgery, I must say it was skillfully done—and would have taken a great deal of time, as well as talent.”

“I can assure you that my father did not pay enough for them to make it worth the effort. He was not a wealthy man.” She paused, then added, with a triumphant smile, “Another argument against Mr. Simons’s forging them—aside from his excellent reputation, of course—is that I have met the man who sold them to him.”

“What?” Sir Philip, who had been languidly leaning back against the tree trunk, sat bolt upright.

Cassandra nodded, pleased at the effect her words had had. “He came here to visit. His name is David Miller, and he is a distant relative of mine.”

Sir Philip’s brows knitted into a black frown. “How do you know he is a relative?”