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the
entry. She lived in opulence and she doubted there were many who
lived better. So what was the advantage of her sudden promotion to
the nobility?
    Besides, Cassandra accepted her position in
society, was comfortable with it. She was privileged among those of
her class and that had always been enough. Only once had she felt
her lack of status, and an egotistical marquess had been the
reason. A sly thought made her pause, and a sudden smile curved her
lips. Wouldn’t Lord Sutherfield be surprised?
    As she began her descent, she remembered
other times she had made her way down this regal staircase. Often
an attractive young man had been at the base of those steps,
watching her with admiration in his eyes. It would be an untruth to
say she had not thoroughly enjoyed those moments.
    Cassandra had received more than her share
of offers. But she had not been tempted to take that final step
because she’d never been quite certain how much those offers had to
do with her and how much they had to do with her father’s wealth.
Papa had been cautious as well.
    She thought of her father’s ravaged face
when she had left him hours before, and she felt a stab of remorse.
She ought to be angry with him for letting this happen as it had,
but in reality he was as much a victim as she.
    What should he have done ten years ago when
he had discovered the truth? His wife had just died and he feared
losing his child. And even if he knew about Lord Whittingham’s
attempt to find her, he no doubt believed Cassandra would be taken
from the only life she had ever known and he would never see her
again.
    Reaching the foyer, she turned toward the
kitchen, but a light under the doorway to the library caught her
eye. Who was about at this hour? It was really not a question, for
she knew who it must be.
    Cassandra knocked. “Papa? Are you in here?”
The door was not latched and so, pushing it open, she entered the
room.
    Quintin James sat in a wingback chair facing
the fireplace. His body was concealed from view except for his left
arm which lay on the armrest, a brandy glass held loosely in his
fingers. He did not move but his voice drifted in a hoarse whisper
across the room.
    “Come in, lass.”
    Cassandra tiptoed to his side and kneeled
down beside him. She reached for the glass and gently eased it from
his grasp. He did not resist instead turning on her bleary eyes
full of sorrow.
    “I’m drunk,” he croaked, stating the
obvious. “I didna’ mean to, but I couldna’ help myself.”
    The slight brogue he had spent so many years
erasing from his speech had slipped back with the alcohol. It was a
sign of his vulnerability, and it pained her terribly.
    “I know,” she consoled him in a broken
whisper. Placing her face against his shoulder, she patted his
arm.
    “I should not be allowing you to make this
sacrifice for me,” he said, “and then I worry that you will
consider it no sacrifice at all. Can you forgive me for being
selfish?”
    How did she address that? Either way would
make him feel awful. Truthfully, this trip was more than a
sacrifice, but telling him that would not make him feel any better.
She settled for answering the question he had asked.
    “You’re not selfish, dear, just a worried
father.”
    “I am your father, am I not?”
    “Always and forever,” she said fiercely,
gritting her teeth with the intensity of her feelings.
    He laid his head against the back of the
chair and closed his eyes as though her words had offered him some
comfort. “I feel to blame for what has happened. I should have been
able to protect you from this. Though I’m at a loss to know what I
could have done.”
    Cassandra felt the old familiar catch in her
throat. “I don’t blame you, Papa. You’ve been hurt by this just as
I have.”
    “I’ve let your mother down.”
    She much suspected that sentiment was at the
heart of his pain. “How can that be? I loved her dearly, but she
did not leave you with an easy task.”
    “When she