like a raging fever in his blood.
It simply would not do. He needed to /do/ something for her and then resume the normal, perfectly happy course of his life.
Young's valet opened the door and took Stephen's card. He asked him to wait in a downstairs visitors' room – typically dark and gloomy – while he saw if Sir Wesley was at home, a sure sign that he was. If he had not been, Stephen would have been turned away at the door.
Young came in person within a few minutes, looking both surprised and mystified. He was dressed as though he had been about to step out.
'Merton?' he said. 'This is an unexpected honor.'
'Young?' Stephen inclined his head.
He was auburn-haired and good-looking, though he had none of the vivid beauty of his sister. The family resemblance was unmistakable, though.
He had a pleasant, good-humored face, a fact that irritated Stephen.
There was an awkward silence.
'Would you care to step up to my rooms?' Young asked, breaking it.
'No, thank you,' Stephen said. He had no wish to engage in small talk either. 'I have given the matter much thought during the past few days, and I have come to the conclusion that there are absolutely no circumstances under which I can imagine myself riding past one of my sisters in Hyde Park and giving her the cut direct.'
Young seated himself in an old leather chair without inviting his guest to sit too. Stephen sat anyway in a lumpy chair opposite him.
'Especially,' he said, 'if she were friendless and destitute.'
Young flushed and looked annoyed – not without reason, perhaps.
'You must understand, Merton,' he said, 'that I am not a wealthy man – or perhaps you /cannot/ understand that. It is important to me that I make an advantageous marriage, and this year I am – /was/ – close to doing just that. It was selfish of Cassie to come to London now of all times, especially when I had specifically warned her not to.'
'Selfish,' Stephen repeated as Young got restlessly back onto his feet and crossed the room to gaze into the empty fireplace. 'Where else was she to go?'
'She might at least,' Young said bitterly, 'have lived quietly here so that no one would have noticed her. But I have heard since that afternoon in the park that she had already appeared at Lady Sheringford's ball and at Lady Carling's at-home. And somehow she persuaded you to take her driving in the park at the very busiest hour.
She has to understand that after what she did she is fortunate to be alive and free. She certainly cannot expect decent people to receive her. She cannot expect me to – But why am I explaining all this to you? I scarcely know you, Merton. And it is none of your business how I choose to treat my own sister.'
Stephen ignored the rebuke, though Young was quite right, of course.
'You believe what you have heard about her, then?' he asked. 'Did you know Paget well?'
Young frowned down at the grate.
'He was the most amiable fellow you could hope to meet,' he said. 'And generous to a fault. He must have spent a king's ransom on jewels for her. You ought to have seen them all. I went to Carmel a few times to visit. I was disappointed in Cassie. She had changed. She had lost the warmth and sparkle of humor she had always had when we were growing up.
She scarcely spoke. She clearly regretted having married a man who was no younger than our father, and I thought that very unfair to Paget, who doted on her. She knew his age when she married him, after all. Did she kill him? Well, /someone/ did, Merton, and I cannot think anyone would have had any motive except her. She wanted to be /free/. She wanted to come back here and behave just as she is behaving. She obviously has you besotted, and everyone knows you are as rich as Croesus.'
'Would the sister you remember actually /kill/ a man,' Stephen asked him, 'in order to be free to enjoy life again?'
Young crossed back to the leather chair and dropped heavily into it.
'She was mother, sister, and friend to me when we were growing up,' he said. 'But people change, Merton. /She/ changed. I saw it with my own eyes.'
'Perhaps,' Stephen said, 'she was made to change. Perhaps all was not as it seemed in that marriage. Your visits, I take it, were infrequent and not lengthy?'
Young frowned at his own boots and said nothing.
He knew, Stephen thought. He had probably always known – or strongly suspected, anyway. Sometimes it was easier not to know, though, to shut one's mind to the truth.
'I was very young,' Sir Wesley said, as if reaching for an excuse.
'You are past your majority now, though,' Stephen said. 'She needs a friend, Young. She needs someone of her own who will love her unconditionally.'
'Miss Haytor – ' Young began. He had the decency not to complete the thought.
'Yes,' Stephen said. 'Miss Haytor is her friend. She is not family, though. Neither is she a man.'
Young moved restlessly in his seat, but he would not look at Stephen opposite him.
'The young lady who was with you in the park,' Stephen said. 'I do not have an acquaintance with her, I'm afraid.'
'Miss Norwood,' Young said.
'Do you still have hopes of marrying her?' Stephen asked.
'She was indisposed when I arrived to escort her to a garden party yesterday afternoon,' Young said with a twisted smile. 'She was expected to be indisposed for some days to come. I saw her at Vauxhall last evening, though, looking in perfect health. She was with her parents and Viscount Brigham.'
'Then I would say,' Stephen said, 'that you had a fortunate escape.
There will be those members of the /ton/ who will respect you far more if you stand staunchly by your sister than if you pretend you do not even know her. And of course there will be those who will not. Which group would you rather impress?'
He got to his feet to leave.
'What is your interest in Cassie?' Young asked him, keeping his seat.
'Is she your mistress?'
'Lady Paget,' Stephen said, 'is in dire need of a friend. I am her friend. And although I know from her own lips that she had motive more than sufficient to kill the bastard who was her husband, something tells me she did not do it. I know nothing about the circumstances of his death beyond the fact that he was shot with a pistol, /not/ hacked to pieces with an axe. But I will tell you this, Young. Even if at some time I discover beyond all doubt that it /is/ true, that she /did/ shoot him, I will still be Lady Paget's friend. He /was/ a bastard. Did you know that she had two miscarriages and one stillbirth, none of them necessary?'
Young looked directly at him then, the color draining from his face.
Stephen did not wait for him to say anything. He took up his hat and cane from just inside the door and let himself out of the dingy parlor and out of the rooming house.
Well, how was /that/ for interfering in lives that were really none of his business?
He found his steps leading him toward Portman Street and Cassandra's house. He had no idea why. Perhaps he needed to confess what he had just done. She would, he suspected, be furious with him, and she had every right to be. But was he sorry? He was not. He would do it again given the chance.
And did he /really/ believe Cassandra was innocent of murder? And even of the lesser crime of killing in self-defense? Was it just wishful thinking on his part?
She was not at home. It was almost a relief.
'She has gone out with Miss Haytor, my lord,' the maid told him.
'/Ah/,' he said. 'Some time ago?'
'No, my lord,' she said. 'Just this minute.'
But there was no sign of her in either direction along the street. She would not be back soon, then.
'Mary,' he said, 'may I have a word with you?' /Now/ what the devil was he up to?
'With me?' Her eyes grew saucer-wide, and she touched a hand to her bosom.
'Can you spare me a few minutes?' he asked her. 'I will not keep you long.'
