The late Lord Aveson was a martinet and Ranelaw could easily imagine the old man banishing the girl without a moment’s hesitation. But Henry, Henry had been a different sort. Gentle, tolerant, an independent thinker. A man with a scholar’s open curiosity, not a tyrant’s urge for control. It seemed uncharacteristic of him to consign his only sister to almost certain degradation.
Ranelaw’s secretary entered with the post. The staff had returned about an hour ago. The man bowed, obviously surprised to find his employer lurking in the gloom, but he knew better than to comment. After the fellow left, Ranelaw wandered across to the desk and lit a lamp. The usual thick packets from his various estates. Once he’d learned to live with his failed pursuit of Antonia, he might muster interest to open them.
A handful of invitations he didn’t bother reading.
A letter from Ireland. . .
His hand closed hard on the paper. He couldn’t face Eloise’s lying attempts to assuage his conscience. Not tonight.
With bleak clarity, he surveyed his life. Antonia was lost to him. He couldn’t lure her back. Not unless he sparked a scandal that destroyed her. Not unless he risked the bond they’d forged through their long night together.
He’d always considered himself a ruthless man. He wasn’t quite that ruthless.
Antonia had escaped. He must live with that reality, even if his gut clenched in savage denial.
What was left?
Eloise’s letter arriving at this precise moment seemed a message from heaven. Or hell.
He’d started this season seeking vengeance. His craving for Antonia had diluted his resolve.
But no longer.
It was time he pursued overdue justice against Godfrey Demarest. He refused to wallow in self-pity because the woman he desired refused him. Nor would he allow a sneaking compassion for Cassandra to restrain him. She was innocent of her father’s sins, but she was too perfect an instrument of revenge for Ranelaw to permit her escape.
Antonia hadn’t destroyed him with her desertion, she only made him stronger. Even though he’d never spoken the words aloud, he’d made a solemn vow to his sister when her lover betrayed her twenty years ago. He’d wasted weeks pursuing the foolish illusion that one woman might offer something more profound than
fleeting physical pleasure. The only truth he believed in now was that Demarest must pay for Eloise’s suffering.
Last night in Antonia’s arms, Ranelaw had felt remade, renewed, redeemed. Today he realized he was the same miscreant he’d always been. Or at least he would be, once he came to terms with never seeing Antonia again. He would become that callous, driven man or die trying.
That man lived for vengeance. His will was iron. His heart was stone. His determination was unshakable. That man wouldn’t care how he damaged Cassandra Demarest or what anguish he caused Antonia Hilliard. He’d promised Eloise recompense and he’d see she got it.
He crushed the letter as if it were his enemy. He was grimly aware what Cassie’s seduction would cost him. He’d always known. By destroying Godfrey Demarest through his daughter, he eternally ended all hope of reconciliation with Antonia.
But he had no hope of reconciliation now. He was realist enough to recognize nothing would reunite them. She’d left him. She intended to stay left.
All that remained was his chance to offer his sister some measure of peace.
Locating Cassie the next night was simple. In spite of Ranelaw’s reputation, he had entrée to all the ton gatherings. There were two or three likely possibilities, half a dozen more if those proved unfruitful.
At the third ball he visited, he discovered Cassie ensconced in the Merriweather party. Automatically he sought Antonia, although he was stupid to expect her. She wouldn’t risk encountering Benton. Bitter disappointment shafted through him before he reminded himself he’d become impervious to regret.
Ignoring the weight in his heart, Ranelaw forced himself to concentrate on the Demarest chit. He’d spent too long panting after her chaperone.
Unfortunately his magic seemed lacking. Though Cassie granted him two dances, a sign of favor in spite of his neglect, he couldn’t get her alone. She was popular with the other debutantes and more so with the unmarried males. The prowling wolf found himself frustrated.
The next two evenings, he met the same difficulties. For God’s sake, isolating Cassie hadn’t been nearly so troublesome when she’d been under Antonia’s watchful eye.
No matter. Both he and Cassie attended the fête champêtre that the Sheridans hosted at their mansion on the Thames. The party continued most of the day and was always among the season’s most popular events.
Ranelaw arrived at the crowded, happy festivities and quickly ascertained Cassie was present, along with the ubiquitous Merriweathers. His plan today was foolproof and abetted by a well-compensated footman. He might feel like the specter at the feast, but his path was set. He would not deviate from his scheme.
With so many people spread across the substantial grounds, it should be easy to lure the chit away from her friends. His arrangements also offered the added advantage of daylight travel to Hampshire. He was all for making this abduction as convenient as possible. Which spoke volumes for his commitment.
He struggled to no avail to relish the misery Demarest would suffer when he learned his daughter was irreparably ruined. Even for a scoundrel who forsook every principle and lived only for vengeance, compromising Cassie felt more like duty than pleasure.
“Toni?” Cassie skittered down the narrow path, overgrown with stalky camellias. They served Ranelaw’s nefarious purposes, making this corner dark and unfrequented. The day was fine and the Sheridans’ guests preferred strolling on the lawns or playing silly giggly games in the famous maze.