Chasing Cassandra (The Ravenels 6)

“Oh no,” Bazzle groaned, “not ’im too!”

Barnaby, to his credit, managed to recover his composure, but his face was infused with heightened color that electrified his wild curls until they seemed to radiate out from his head. “My lady,” he said, and bowed nervously, with a stack of ledgers and papers clutched in one arm.

“Is this the indispensable Mr. Barnaby?” Cassandra asked with a smile.

“It is,” Tom replied for his assistant, who was too befuddled to reply.

Cassandra moved forward, with Bazzle still hanging from her hip, and extended her hand. “How happy I am to make your acquaintance at last. According to my husband, nothing would be accomplished around here if it weren’t for you.”

“Is that what I said?” Tom asked dryly, while Barnaby took Cassandra’s hand as if it were a sacred object. “Barnaby,” Tom continued, “what is that stack you’re holding?”

Barnaby gave him an owlish glance. “What … oh … this stack.” He released Cassandra’s hand and hefted the pile of materials to Tom’s desk. “Information on the Charterhouse Defense Fund, sir, as well as the local businesses and residents, a summary of the pending report of the Royal Commission on London Traffic, and an analysis of the joint select committee that will vote to authorize your bill.”

“What bill?” Cassandra asked.

Tom drew her to a map of London on the wall. With a fingertip, he traced a line that went under Charterhouse Street toward Smithfield. “I’ve proposed a bill to build a connecting underground railway line to an existing one that currently ends at Farringdon.

“The proposal is currently being examined by a joint select committee of the Lords and Commons. They’ll meet next week to pass a bill that will authorize me to proceed with the line. The problem is, some of the local residents and tradesmen are fighting it.”

“I’m sure they dread all the inconvenience and construction noise,” Cassandra said. “Not to mention the loss of business.”

“Yes, but they’ll all eventually benefit from having a new station built nearby.”

Barnaby cleared his throat delicately from behind them. “Not all of them.”

Cassandra gave Tom a quizzical glance.

Tom’s mouth twisted. Resisting the urge to send Barnaby a lethal glance, he indicated a spot on the map with his fingertip. “This is a remnant of Charterhouse Lane, which was left after most of the thoroughfare was converted to Charterhouse Street. Right here, there are a pair of tenement slums that should have been condemned years ago. Each one was designed to house three dozen families, but they’re crammed with at least twice that number of people. There’s no light or air, no fire protection, no decent sanitary arrangements … it’s the closest thing you’ll find to hell on earth.”

“They’re not your slums, I hope?” Cassandra asked apprehensively. “You don’t own them?”

The question annoyed him. “No, they’re not mine.”

Barnaby spoke up helpfully. “Once the bill is passed, however, Mr. Severin will have the power to buy or underpin any property he wants, to make the railway go through. That’s why they’ve organized the Charterhouse Lane Defense Fund, to try and stop him.” At Tom’s slitted glare, Barnaby added quickly, “I mean, us.”

“So the slums will become yours,” Cassandra said to Tom.

“The residents will have to move,” Tom said defensively, “regardless of whether or not the railway line is built. Believe me, it will be a mercy for those people to be forced out of those hellholes.”

“But where will they go?” Cassandra asked.

“That’s not my business.”

“It is if you buy the tenement buildings.”

“I’m not going to buy the tenements, I’m going to acquire the land beneath them.” Tom’s scowling gaze softened slightly as it fell on Bazzle’s upturned face. “Why don’t you fetch your broom and do some sweeping?” he suggested gently.

The boy, who was bored by the conversation, seized on the suggestion eagerly. “I’ll start on the outside steps.” He hurried to Cassandra and tugged her by the hand to one of the front windows. “Mama, look down there and watch me sweep!”

Barnaby looked stunned as Bazzle ran from the office. “Did he just call her Mama?” he asked Tom blankly.

“She said I could!” called Bazzle’s retreating voice.

Cassandra sent Tom a troubled glance as she remained by the window. “Tom … you can’t make homeless outcasts of all those people.”

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

“Because—in addition to your natural sense of compassion—”

A peculiar snort came from Barnaby’s direction.

“—it would be disastrous from the standpoint of public relations,” Cassandra continued earnestly, “wouldn’t it? You would appear completely heartless, which we know you are not.”

“The residents can apply for help from countless charities in London,” Tom said.

She gave him a chiding glance. “Most of those charities won’t be able to offer real help.” After a pause, she asked, “You want to be known as a public benefactor, don’t you?”

“I’d like to be known as one, but I wasn’t necessarily planning to become one.”

Cassandra turned to face him. “I will, then,” she said firmly. “You promised I could start any charity I wanted. I’m going to find or build low-cost housing for the displaced Charterhouse Lane residents.”

Tom regarded his wife for a long moment. The flash of newfound assertiveness interested him. Excited him. He approached her slowly. “I suppose you’ll want to take advantage of some of the undeveloped lots I own in Clerkenwell or Smithfield,” he said.

She lifted her chin slightly. “I might.”

“You’ll probably rook some of my own people into working for you … architects, engineers, contractors … all at cut-rate fees.”

Her eyes widened. “Could I?”

“I wouldn’t even be surprised if you forced Barnaby, who has access to all my connections and resources, to act as your part-time assistant.”

As Tom stared into his wife’s beautiful face, he heard Barnaby exclaim in a heartfelt voice behind them, “Oh, must I?”

“Do you think I could succeed?” Cassandra whispered.

“Lady Cassandra Severin,” Tom said quietly, “that you’ll succeed is not even a question.” He gave her a wry glance. “The question is, are you going to spend the rest of our marriage trying to make me live up to your standards?”

Her eyes flickered with impish humor. She was about to reply, but she happened to glance outside at the front steps several stories below them, where Bazzle’s small figure stood waving up to them.

At that moment, a huge, hulking form ran up to the steps and grabbed the child, lifting him off his feet.

Cassandra let out a cry of panic. “Tom!”

He took one glance and bolted through the office as if the devil were at his heels.

BY THE TIME Tom had reached the front steps, the stranger had made it halfway down the block with the wailing child, and had shoved him into a dilapidated hackney cab driven by a skinny, whey-faced young driver.