Chapter 58

All she damned wanted? All the way down the stairs and out to the coach, Cass fought the clawing urge to kick and bite, the frustration that seared her veins, for perhaps the first time ever. At least he hadn't asked her to prove it. If only because Belle had walked in. Belle. After Cass had told her where to go too. Belle had knocked first of course. At least she swore she had.
Seeing her was the final straw in a hay load of last ones. Ridiculous when he meant to betray Cass, that the longing sizzling along her veins like lightning sparks should so undermine her, she'd been incapable of rational thought in that second.
But when it came to doors, to knocking on them, just how many had Belle listened at since Cass arrived here? Sufficient for Belle to stake her claim on him all the way down the stairs. Devorlane one, Devorlane two, Devorlane three bags full.
Dear God, it hardly mattered now that she should think maybe ... just maybe he wanted her to want him and her refusal had hurt his pride. No. Ruby was right. It was nothing Cass hadn't believed herself the first evening she'd ever clapped eyes on Devorlane Hawley in Chessington. She didn't belong in their world with its glistening treasures, its safety in the law, its capacity to count its silver spoons-a guinea the lot, the state his were in. At least, as a thief, she'd understood the value of things. So she also understood the value of what people like him and Belle begrudged. The papers? All she damned wanted? All she wanted was not to be spoken to like that. Treated this way. Bartered like a prize piece of meat when she'd sat up with him night after night.
Disdaining his hand-Belle was welcome-Cass had stepped into the coach, the words, 'you've made quite an impression on Devorlane,' haunting her. Yes. So much so he meant to hand her over to Colonel the sodding goat, Caruthers. A great impression that.
The coach rumbled to a halt outside Mistress Fan's dressmaking shop in the town square, and she stepped out of it again. In point of fact Cass wasn't going to step into Mistress Fan's. She hadn't stolen the Wentworth emeralds all those years ago to do that.
And no words about her only wanting these papers would make her, even though she didn't know Mistress Fan personally.
Everything had spiraled from her control. If Belle hadn't come in. If he'd not said what he had. If she'd not gone off like a mortar shell. So now, the appearance of normality, of serenity was still something she must aspire to, especially when Belle called,
"Come along, Cassidy. Is there some reason you're standing about there like that?"
Swallowing her ire, Cass gathered her skirts to hold them clear of the snow as she followed Belle and Eudora to the brightly lit, prettily festooned doorway between Mistress Fan's and the apothecary's. Then, ignoring their chatter, Belle's gushing interventions in particular, she followed them up the creaking wooden staircase, past the children larking on the landing, into the assembly rooms themselves.
Ladies, some fine as she'd ever seen, some as ordinary as Mrs. Pennycooke, sat on benches around the holly-garlanded walls. Men lounged against pillars, or discussed the latest turnip prices. On the floor, people danced to the tune of a quartet of fiddles. Lord Koorecroft held court by the steaming punch bowl scenting the air with aromatic lemon and cinnamon. His Christmas party, thrown for the benefit of gentry and poor alike. Ideal in ways she'd never dreamed would ever be possible. Surely?
Devorlane Hawley thought she was only interested in the papers, did he?
Well. Before this evening was over, he'd find out the truth of that. He'd find out exactly what she was interested in. Because, before this evening was out, she'd finally escape him.
He'd know exactly how much she refused to be owned.

***
"Thief! Oh, dear God! My stars and garters! Thief! Thief!"
If Cass was to give Belle marks out of ten for that, she wouldn't rise above five. Not so much the shriek. The shriek was enough to waken the dead. Belle's bony hand clutched to her nonexistent breasts too was a plus point. But to take so long to notice what had been in Cass's reticule since the coach? Five was probably being generous.
Ruby was right about these hoities. They did live in a different world.
"Oh, good lord, me snuff-box!" The white-haired gentleman she'd not allowed herself to look in the direction of since squeezing past him, felt down his waistcoat.
"The chutney spoon!"
Someone else must be at work here. She hadn't, so far as she recalled, been near the chutney spoon. But Ruby always said mobs were like that. Starkadder too. Give them an inch and they'd out-crucify Jesus.
Her palms prickled as she clutched her fan. She mustn't look with any betraying mannerisms, any fear, any trepidation. Anything that showed she was weak in any way. When she gained her victory, as she was about to do, she'd have the satisfaction of letting Devorlane Hawley know it all meant nothing. He'd stepped into one of the adjoining rooms-disappeared on his arrival. But she didn't doubt he'd hear these shrieks. She hoped he'd be arrested by them.
"It's ... it's ... " Belle leveled her finger through the parting crowd. A hush fell. "Her!"
Cass lowered her eyelashes.
"She's a thief!"
Well, of course she was. Must Belle state what Ruby would have called the bleedin' obvious-twice? And in a way guaranteed to cause damage to everyone present's eardrums? Still, thank God. Cass had begun to despair of anyone noticing how busy her fingers had been. Of course she was skilled, and it was nice to know she hadn't lost it, because she wasn't just any old thief was she? Devorlane Hawley was right about that.