Fortune's Lady by Patricia Gaffney Page A

the goodness to point out a number of times that any hopes I might have had for a respectable position in society are unrealistic.” She held out her hands in honest perplexity. “Why do you expect Wade or anyone else to believe he would want me?” she asked baldly. She threw a glance at Riordan, who was looking at her with an expression she’d never seen before and couldn’t name. She turned back to Quinn, who was standing behind his chair, his thin arms folded across the back.
    â€œBecause you won’t be the only one playing a role,” he told her matter-of-factly. “Philip has been playing one for months. For reasons that don’t immediately concern you, we’ve gone to a great deal of trouble to establish a reputation for him in fashionable society as a drunkard, a gambler, and an indiscriminate womanizer.”
    â€œOh, I see,” she said softly, sitting back. “No wonder, then.”
    â€œOliver, for God’s sake,” Riordan muttered.
    Now she understood the look in his eyes. Pity. “The profligate peer and the gay grisette,” she mused with a tight smile. “Very clever. And very believable.”
    â€œYes, I think so,” Quinn nodded seriously. “I agree with you, Philip—in some ways this will be more to our advantage than the first scheme. Wade won’t have any trouble believing Miss Merlin would enjoy the attentions of two men at once.” He began to pace back and forth across the Turkish carpet, oblivious to the taut quality of the silence in the wake of his words. “And when she confides to him that she misses France and feels bitterness toward England because of her father’s execution, with any luck the idea of using you will come from him first. But if not, we’ll pass some innocuous bit of intelligence to him through Miss Merlin in an offhand way, and that will give him the idea.”
    Cass thought she’d insulated herself against Quinn’s insults; it must be because she wasn’t alone this time, that other people were hearing them too, that made the barbs seem so piercing. She carefully unclenched her hands. “One thing puzzles me,” she said when she could speak in a normal tone. “If I’m such an enemy of the English, why would I associate with a man who represents the very government I profess to despise?”
    â€œBecause he’s rich,” Quinn answered promptly. “You’ll have to make Wade believe your desire for a wealthy protector is even stronger than your hatred of England.”
    â€œAh, of course. Greed over patriotism.”
    â€œPrecisely. Greed and revenge, Miss Merlin, those are your two motivations. In that order.”
    â€œYes, I think I’ve got it. It should be easy, shouldn’t it, Mr. Quinn? In the theatre I believe it’s called type-casting.” She stood up. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to leave now.” Riordan stood too, but she didn’t look at him. “I expect I’ll be hearing from you quite soon.”
    â€œNot from me anymore,” said Quinn, “at least not publicly. Philip is your contact from now on. He’ll contrive your first meeting with Wade. I’ll go back to my role as merely an old friend of Philip’s, a drab government drone with some vague, unimportant job in the ministry.”
    Cass took his outstretched hand stiffly, absorbing this news with mixed feelings. She turned away, anxious to be gone.
    Riordan’s voice stopped her. “Wait, Cass. Before you go.” He crossed the room to a wide shelf of books on the far wall and ran his hand slowly along the top row. He halted at a thin volume and extracted it. “Here,” he said, coming back and handing it to her. “Read it.”
    She looked down at the title and felt her face grow warm. Contrat Social , by Jean-Jacques Rousseau.
    â€œI’ve lent my English copy to a friend. Can you read it in