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Cassandra sighed. “I was afraid that working with a Neville would be like this. Have you no adventurous spirit? No interest in a treasure hidden for generations?”
“I have no interest in fairy tales,” he retorted flatly. “Really, Miss Verrere...surely you can see that this is a hoax. The journals—after all these years—happen to turn up in England, even though they’ve been in the United States all this time. And they happen to fall into the hands of Mr. Simons, who happens to be your father’s favorite book dealer. I am sorry, but you are asking me to suspend disbelief a trifle too much.”
Cassandra took a firm grip on her temper, reminding herself that she had known what it would be like to try to convince a Neville of her plan. She had hoped that Sir Philip would be less stodgy than his father, Sir Thomas, had been reputed to be. Cassandra’s father had, by turn, characterized that man as a “dull dog” and a “cold fish.” Certainly Sir Philip’s entrance into her room last night had been anything but dull, and she had hoped that it had indicated a more adventurous character, but it was clear to her now that his was a typical Neville mind.
Pleasantly, she explained, “I don’t find it at all odd. Mr. Simons said that an American, a descendant of Margaret Verrere’s, had brought the journals to him. The man is a merchant who sometimes sails to England on business, and when he decided to sell the journals, which had been kept in his family all this time, he thought that since Margaret was from England, the books would fetch a better price here than in America. Americans, I believe, haven’t as much respect for old things.”
“Mmm. No doubt they haven’t the imagination or the adventurous spirit for treasure hunting, either.”
Cassandra frowned repressively and went on. “Mr. Simons was not the only book dealer this man went to. He tried several. But Simons, you see, was more interested than the others simply because he was Papa’s book dealer. He knew that Papa would want to buy the journals, given his interest in Margaret and the dowry. So Mr. Simons was willing to buy the journals when other dealers were not.”
“Miss Verrere, I think it is much more likely that this Simons fellow or some crony of his made the journals himself, knowing that he would be able to sell them to your father.”
“Sir Philip!” Cassandra looked shocked. “Perryman Simons is a reputable London book dealer. My father traded with him many times in the past. Mr. Simons would not have tried to sell him a forgery! And even if he had, why would he put in all those things about the dowry? That makes him no money.”
“No? Tales of a hidden treasure doubtless made the journals easier to sell. I’ll warrant that he charged your father a hefty sum.”
“It was rather large,” Cassandra admitted reluctantly. “But these are historical documents of great significance to my family. Papa would have bought the journals even if there had been no reference to the dowry.”
“The dealer could not be sure of that. Miss Verrere, I am afraid that your father and you were the victims of an unscrupulous hoax.”
Cassandra’s mouth twisted in exasperation. “I hate to think what must have happened in your life for you to have become such a cynic.”
“Think back to last night, and you will know one of those things.”
Cassandra thought about her aunt’s and cousin’s trick to force Neville into marrying Joanna. “Oh.”
“I have simply seen more of the world than you, Miss Verrere. I fear you are too trusting, and probably your father was, as well. Scholars often are, especially where their special fields of interest are concerned.”
“My father did not have such a highly developed mistrust of people as you,” Cassandra admitted. “But he knew Mr. Simons. He had dealt with him for years.”
“I am not wedded to the theory that Simons forged the journals. He could have been an unwitting victim, also. Perhaps the man who sold them to him was the real culprit.”
“That would mean that this forger was so good at his work that he was able to deceive both my father, a lover of antique books and Mr. Simons, one of the country’s best dealers. Neither of them voiced any suspicion that the journals were anything but genuinely old—the paper, the ink, the bindings. Unless, of course, you are suggesting that the journals were forged a hundred and fifty years ago or more, so that someday one of their descendants could palm off this forgery on my father?”
“No. Of course not.”
“My father knew a great deal about books. Perhaps he was naive, but he was not stupid. He would have known if the journals had been written in the last few months. He would have noticed if the paper was not old or the ink not faded. Whoever forged the diaries would have had to work very hard to make the books look authentically old enough to fool Papa. I cannot imagine that it would have been worthwhile to do all that for the price Papa paid—let alone all the hours it would have taken making up and writing all the things that were in the journals. It would have been a mammoth task and would have taken a great deal of time. It is much more likely that these really are Margaret Verrere’s diaries.”
“I find it hard to believe that a woman writing in her journals would have laid out instructions on how to find a treasure. A journal is something one writes to oneself, and she knew were the treasure was.”
“She did not write out instructions, as you say. Her remarks about the dowry were spread throughout the book, and they were small, often indirect, things. You see, in the first journal, which she started soon after they arrived in America, she now and again would mention how worried she was because she had heard nothing from her father. She had mailed him a letter, and she had not heard anything back from him to indicate that he had received it. At one point she says something about the letter having the secret to the dowry. That was why she had sent it to him.”
“Then I would think it obvious that Chesilworth got the letter, followed her instructions and found the dowry. He just never bothered to write and let her know he had it. Probably still miffed over the fact that she had made his name synonymous with treachery.”
“Sir Philip, I am afraid that we are going to find it very difficult to work together if you continue to refer to what happened in that way. I should think that a modern man would be able to admit that a woman has the right to marry whom she pleases.”
“I have no quarrel with that, only the manner in which it was handled. Becoming betrothed, then scampering off the night before the wedding, is not what I would consider correct behavior.”
“Yes,” Cassandra agreed drily, “’tis far worse than breaking into young ladies’ bedrooms at night and mauling them.”
“I did not maul you!” Neville looked aggrieved. “And you know that was a mistake.”
“Then give poor Margaret Verrere allowance for making a mistake, too. You don’t know what was involved or how afraid she was of her father and Sir Edric. I do. I read the remnants of that fear in her journal entries months later. She still was concerned that her father might track her down to the colonies and try to force her to go back. Perhaps it was not all neat and tidy and polite enough for you, but Margaret Verrere was only a seventeen-year-old girl at the time, desperate and alone. She did the only thing she could think of to do.”
Neville looked into Cassandra’s face, animated with emotion for the long-dead girl, and he had to smile. Argumentative and stubborn she might be, but when her face was alight with enthusiasm, her gray eyes luminous, she was almost beautiful. No, something more than beautiful, he thought; she was intriguing...quite out of the ordinary. He thought about the taste of her mouth last night, and a shaft of pure desire speared through him. He wanted to taste her again, he realized—and this time alone in some quiet spot, where he could kiss her at his leisure. It occurred to him that they were in that perfect place, that perfect moment—except that the lady in question was obsessed with discussing lost treasure.
“All right,” he agreed, tamping down his burgeoning desire. “I will grant you that Bla—Margaret Verrere was not an evil person, merely a confused and frightened young girl. And I will even, for the moment, accept her journals as genuine. How are we to find this dowry?”
“Well, from what I pieced together, apparently she hid the dowry somewhere on the Neville estate. Then she hid instructions on how to find it in the Neville house and also sent instructions to her father in a letter. Since she never heard from him, she sent him another letter with the same information, and finally, much later in her life, a third. She didn’t receive a reply from him, but she was sure that one, at least, of the letters was bound to have reached him. She feared that he had not opened the letters because he was such a stubborn man and that, therefore, he would not have found the treasure.”
“Perhaps my Neville ancestor found it,” Sir Philip suggested. “Sir Edric or one of his descendants. You said she left instructions at Haverly House, as well.”
“Wouldn’t you know about it, then?” Cassandra argued. “I would think it would be part of your family lore.”
“Probably.” He shrugged. “But I have no idea what the man was like. He could have been a sneaky chap who never wanted to admit that he had discovered the treasure—afraid he might have to give it back to the Verreres, you know. He might have quietly sold the gems and so forth and pocketed the money.”
“No doubt you know your relatives better than I,” Cassandra responded dryly. “However, I doubt that he would have been able to. Whatever Margaret left at Haverly House was apparently not enough to lead one to the treasure.”
“But I thought you said—”
“Yes, I know. She did leave instructions, and she did send them to her father, but she indicated quite clearly in her journals that neither of the men would be able to find the dowry alone. That was part of her purpose, you see, in hiding the treasure. She wanted the two families to have to work together to retrieve it. She felt very bad about the rift that she knew her departure would create between the Nevilles and the Verreres. She wanted to make it up to them, to force them to cooperate. That was the other thing that worried her, that even if her father opened her letter, he might not be willing to work with Sir Edric and so would never find the fortune.”
“So you need both what she left at Haverly House and what she sent to her father in order to find the dowry?” Neville couldn’t keep from feeling a prickle of interest at the mystery, even though he knew that the whole story was in all likelihood made up.
“Yes. I think perhaps they are two halves of a map or something. I’m not sure what. But she seemed certain that one could not find the dowry box without both.”
“Intriguing.” Neville rubbed his forefinger thoughtfully against his lip. Cassandra watched, hiding the little smile of triumph that threatened to break out. He turned to Cassandra. “Where in Haverly House is it located?”
“I’m not sure.”
His eyebrows soared. “I thought you said the journals told you.”
“Only in a vague way. Apparently the instructions are hidden in a book.”
“A book!” he groaned. “Isn’t that a trifle vague? There must be thousands of books in the library. What if it’s been thrown away over the years?”
Cassandra frowned. The thought had occurred to her, also. “I think she would have tried to put it in a valuable book, one that would not be thrown away.”
“During the course of two hundred years?” he asked skeptically.
“Well, of course, she would not have expected it to take that long for someone to try to find it.”
“And that’s all you know? That it is hidden in some book?”
“She did not give a title,” Cassandra answered carefully. Her ancestor had been more specific about the book, but she was not sure that she was ready to tell Sir Philip exactly what Margaret had written. He was, after all, a Neville, and she was not entirely sure that she could trust him not to go off hunting on his own.
“Aha.” Neville apparently saw the flicker of distrust in her eyes, for he gave her a sardonic look as he crossed his arms. “So you know more than you are telling.”
“You can hardly expect me to tell you everything when you have not agreed to help me yet,” Cassandra said reasonably. “You haven’t even admitted that the journals are real. I can assure you that I will be entirely open and forthright with you once we have started our project. I have no taste for sly dealings.”
Sir Philip did not add unlike your aunt and cousin, but both of them were thinking it. He got up and began to pace, considering Cassandra’s madcap scheme. “So you are suggesting that if I agree, we will go to Haverly House, and there we will search the house for this book that you’re not exactly sure of in a location that you don’t know. And if by some miracle we should find it, then I am to help you find the treasure on my land and give it to you?”
“Half,” Cassandra corrected. “I thought it would be fair to split it.”
“My dear Miss Verrere, it would seem to me that the entire dowry should be mine,” he said, his golden eyes alight with amusement. “It is my land, after all, my house where you hope to find both the instructions and the treasure—which, I might point out, belonged to the Nevilles anyway.”
“Nonsense.” Cassandra bounced to her feet, hands clenched at her sides and color flying high in her cheeks. “Sir Edric never won the rights to the dowry, and you know it. There was no marriage. The treasure belonged to Chesilworth by rights.” She noticed then the laughter in his eyes and realized that Sir Philip was teasing her. She went on with an air of unconcern, “Besides, as I said, the instructions or map or whatever it is at your home is not enough. And I am the one who possesses the other half.”
He stiffened and stared at her in amazement. “Are you serious? You found one of these letters your ancestor wrote?”
“Well...not yet.”
The surprise dropped from his face and he grimaced. “I see.”
“But I will get it,” Cassandra insisted. “I would have waited to tell you until I had found the letter, but this opportunity to meet you dropped into my lap, and I had to take advantage of it. I didn’t know if I would ever have such a chance to talk to you again. I hardly move in Society, you see. But I am already working on the problem. I have been searching the Chesilworth attics for some weeks now. They are chock-full of old trunks with clothes and papers and, oh, all sorts of things. We are back to the time of the Prince Regent now, and there is plenty of attic left. I am sure we will be able to find it.”
“Indeed? And who are ‘we’? Is there some third party involved in this harebrained scheme?”
“My brothers and sister and I. They are helping me look. It is for them that I really want to find the dowry. Even half of the fortune would be worth a great deal today—imagine those large, uncut gems and the old coins, the golden leopard! I am sure it would be enough money to put Chesilworth back into shape, and then we would be able to stop living on the charity of my aunt. Crispin would inherit a house that is at least worth something. Maybe there would even be enough to help Hart start some sort of career when he is grown, and to give Olivia a proper season.”
“You have great plans, I see, for this fortune you have not found yet.”
Cassandra looked at him a little defiantly. “You, no doubt disapprove. Verrere dreams again.”
“You have an odd picture of me, Miss Verrere, one that I think I have done little to deserve. I have nothing against dreams. I am simply afraid that you will be sadly disappointed when yours do not come true.”
“Should that happen, I will have to deal with my disappointment. But, you see, I don’t believe that I am going to be disappointed. I am sure I will find the letters.”
Neville sighed, looking down at her. He found himself, quite badly, wanting to help her—but the whole idea was too absurd. “Miss Verrere, doesn’t this whole thing seem a trifle melodramatic? I mean, star-crossed lovers, feuding families, buried treasure, long-hidden maps...”
“Yes, it does.” Cassandra did not seem disturbed by the fact. Her eyes shone as she talked. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
He paused, nonplussed. “What I mean is, it seems too dramatic to be real, too much like a story. It sounds as if someone made it up.”
“But we know that most of it is true,” Cassandra protested. “Margaret did elope with another man on the eve of her wedding. She did have a fabulous dowry, which disappeared at that time and which no one has ever found. The two families have disliked each other ever since. The only things that have been added are the journals and the possibility of finding the treasure.”
“It is precisely that which strains credulity. Miss Verrere, I know you think I am a frightfully dull sort, but I have found that the simplest answers are usually the correct ones. Margaret Verrere did not hide the dowry and leave clues lying about for others to find it. She didn’t write journals that coincidentally wound up in Verrere hands two hundred years later. The answer is that she took the dowry and used it to start a new life in the colonies. All these recent developments are merely a scheme to sell a few books at a greatly inflated price to a man who was well-known to be obsessed on the subject.” He stopped, realizing that once again he had let his tongue run away with him and had stated the facts too baldly.
“Then you refuse to help me.” Cassandra’s face fell, and she stepped back. She had pinned all her hopes on this man, and he had turned her down. She was flooded with disappointment. “I am sorry that I wasted your time,” she said stiffly and started to turn away from him.
Sir Philip reached out and grasped her arm, holding her back. “No, wait. Don’t go yet.”
Cassandra turned, fighting back the tears that threatened. She refused to let Sir Philip see how his refusal had hurt her. She lifted her eyebrows in silent inquiry, striving to look cool and disinterested.
“Miss Verrere, ’tis only the authenticity of these journals that I question. The coincidence of them falling into your hands after all these years is simply too much for me to accept.”
“I explained that to you. It isn’t coincidence—it is a logical progression.” She felt a tiny spurt of hope rise up in her again at his attempt to explain. “Don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t,” he said softly. “I see a very lovely young woman whom a scoundrel has probably taken advantage of. A woman still sorrowing over her father’s death, hopeful that his dream might become a reality.”
“Oh!” Cassandra’s gray eyes flashed. “I am not some silly little girl who can’t spot a deception that’s right in front of her. My father was not a fool, and neither am I! Those journals are real, but you are simply too prosaic to see it.” She tried in vain to jerk her arm away. “I should have known that a Neville would find the whole thing too quixotic. Too romantic.”
“Miss Verrere, I assure you that I do not think you are a silly little girl. Indeed, I think you are a very intelligent, as well as beautiful, woman. I admire you greatly.” He paused, smiling faintly. “Nor am I unromantic.” He leaned closer, looking down intently into her eyes. “Indeed, I am having thoughts of quite a romantic nature at this very moment.”
Cassandra swallowed, unable to look away from his piercing golden-brown gaze. Her throat was dry, and it seemed suddenly difficult to breathe. She tried to speak, but found she could not.
Philip slid his hand up her arm and around her back, pulling her gently and completely against him. “Your story is the only thing I do not find appealing about you.”
“S-sir Philip...” Cassandra managed to stammer, washed with a weakness and confusion that were foreign to her.
He bent and brushed his lips against hers lightly, then more forcefully. Cassandra could feel the pulse suddenly pounding in her head, and her breath caught in her throat. The memories of her lascivious dream of the night before came flooding back, turning her knees weak and melting her loins. She sagged against him. His arms went more tightly around her, pressing her up into his hard body, and his lips sank into hers.
For one long moment she gave herself up to the pleasure, not thinking of her disappointment, her plans or anything, just feeling the liquid fire that sizzled through her veins.
“Cassandra...” he murmured, releasing her mouth long enough to trace her jawline with kisses.
Somehow the sound of his voice saying her name brought Cassandra back to reality. Through the haze of delightful physical sensation, she recalled where they were and how improper their conduct was—not to mention the fact that he had just dismissed her search for the Spanish dowry as a fraud and characterized her as a naive woman grasping for straws to relieve her sorrow over her father’s death.
Cassandra jerked back and slapped his face. Neville’s jaw tightened, and for a moment anger flared in his eyes, but then the usual cool, polite mask descended, hiding both the anger and the passion.
“I beg your pardon,” he began stiffly.
But Cassandra cut in on him, in no mood for polite apologies. “I should have known! It is so typical that it is almost laughable. You have no interest in anything I said. All you care about is trying to steal a kiss while we are secluded in the maze. No wonder you were so willing to listen to what I had to say. You knew that it would give you an excuse to get me alone and try to seduce me. I should have known that any man who spends his nights sneaking into young women’s bedchambers would only be interested in taking advantage of a woman. I suppose I am naive, as you said—not because I believe Margaret Verrere’s journals are genuine, but because I did not realize that the only thing you were interested in is lust! Oh, I knew that a Neville would be difficult to persuade, but I did not realize that an even worse problem would be having to deal with a libertine!”
“I did not try to lure you out here,” Neville protested, his own brows drawing together furiously. It occurred to him that Cassandra Verrere could be quite as annoying as she was attractive. “It was you who asked to speak to me, if you will remember, and it was also you who suggested that we talk privately in the maze.”
“Oh! So you are going to use that against me! I merely wanted to be able to speak in private. I did not mean it as an invitation to kiss me!”
“No,” he responded bitingly, “’twas your lips that provided that.”
Cassandra gasped. “You are insulting.”
“Only truthful. If you will think back on it, you returned my kiss quite willingly, at least until you remembered that you were supposed to react with maidenly outrage.” Neville found it supremely annoying that even while he was irritated with Cassandra, his wayward body was still thrumming with desire for her. Damn it! She had a most peculiar effect on him.
Cassandra ground her teeth, letting out a low and most unlady-like growl of frustration. “Blast you!” she snapped, her mild father’s favorite oath, and wished she knew something worse to say. “I was a fool to think that a Neville would help me. I wish I had never talked to you. I wish I had never even seen you!”
With those bitter words, she whirled and ran away from him.
“Wait! No, Miss Verrere...”
Neville started after her, but Cassandra had a good head start, and she knew the map of the maze, so she quite easily made her way out ahead of him. Once or twice she heard him calling her name behind her, but she paid no attention. She burst out onto the smooth expanse of the lawn and stopped. Her aunt and cousin were walking along the path leading from the garden to the wide lawn. They looked at her in surprise, her aunt’s eyebrows rising in disdain. Cassandra smoothed down her skirts and walked toward them at her usual brisk pace, hoping that her face would not give away her inner turmoil.
“Really, Cassandra, must you hurry about so?” Aunt Ardis complained as she drew near them. “You always are in such a rush. It is most ungenteel.”
“I am sorry, Aunt,” Cassandra responded automatically. “Good morning to you both.”
She started to pass them, heading back toward the house, but at that moment, Sir Philip burst from the maze entrance, saying, “Damn it, Miss Verrere!”
