Kathleen might have continued, but Devon leaned forward to settle his hand gently on her knee. Not to check or interrupt her, but because he seemed to feel the need to touch her. His eyes were warm, dark blue as he stared at his wife. An entire conversation transpired in their shared gaze.

Cassandra knew they were both thinking about her brother, Theo … Kathleen’s first husband … who’d had a violent temper, and had often lashed out verbally and physically at the people around him.

“I was subjected to the Ravenel temper often during childhood,” Cassandra said quietly. “My father and brother even seemed proud of it at times … the way it made people nervous. I think they wanted to be thought of as powerful.”

Devon looked sardonic. “Powerful men don’t lose their tempers. They stay calm while others are shouting and blowing up.” He sat back in his seat, inhaled deeply, and let out a long breath. “Thanks to my wife’s influence, I’ve learned not to yield to my temper quite so easily as I did in the past.”

Kathleen regarded him tenderly. “The effort and the credit for self-improvement are all yours, my lord. But even at your worst, you’d never have dreamed of treating a woman the way Lord Lambert did tonight.”

Cassandra lifted her gaze to Devon’s. “Cousin, what’s to be done now?”

“I’d like to start by beating him to a pulp,” Devon said darkly.

“Oh, please don’t—” she began.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. It’s what I’d like to do, not what I’m going to do. I’ll corner him tomorrow and make it clear that from now on, he’s to avoid you at all cost. No visits to the house, no flowers, no interaction of any kind. Lambert won’t dare bother you again.”

Cassandra grimaced and laid her head on Kathleen’s shoulder. “The Season’s not even under way and it’s going to be ghastly. I can tell.”

Kathleen’s small hand came up to smooth her hair. “It’s better to have learned about Lord Lambert’s true character now rather than later,” she murmured. “But I’m so very sorry it turned out this way.”

“Lady Berwick will be devastated,” Cassandra said with a wan chuckle. “She had such high hopes for the match.”

“But not you?” came the soft question.

Cassandra shook her head slightly. “Whenever I tried to imagine a future with Lord Lambert, I felt nothing. Nothing at all. I can’t even work up the will to hate him now. I think he’s horrid, but … he’s not important enough to hate.”

Chapter 13

“SIR,” BARNABY SAID OMINOUSLY, having come to the threshold of Tom’s office unannounced, “they’re back.”

Tom’s gaze didn’t stray from the pages of masonry and bridging estimates in front of him. “Who’s back?” he asked absently.

“The chats.”

Blinking, Tom lifted his head. “What?”

“Bazzle’s chats,” Barnaby clarified, looking grim.

“Is Bazzle here with them, or did they decide to drop by on their own?”

His assistant was too distraught to find humor in the situation. “I told Bazzle he couldn’t come in. He’s waiting outside.”

Tom let out an exasperated sigh and stood. “I’ll handle it, Barnaby.”

“If I may point out, sir,” Barnaby dared to say, “the only way to be rid of the chats is to get rid of Bazzle.”

Tom shot him a sharp glance. “Any child, rich or poor, can be afflicted with lice.”

“Yes, but … do we have to have one in the office?”

Tom ignored the question and went downstairs with irritation needling all through him.

This had to stop. He couldn’t stand interruptions, vermin, or children, and Bazzle was all three combined. At this moment, other men of his position were attending to their business, as he should be doing. He would give the boy a few coins and tell him not to come back. Bazzle wasn’t his concern. The boy would be no better or worse off than thousands of other little ruffians who roamed the streets.

As Tom passed through the marble entrance foyer, he saw a workman on a tall ladder, festooning ledges and window sashes with swags of greenery tied up in red bows.

“What’s that for?” Tom demanded.

The workman glanced down at him with a smile. “Good morning, Mr. Severin. I’m putting up Christmas decorations.”

“Who told you to do that?”

“The building manager, sir.”

“It’s still bloody November,” Tom protested.

“Winterborne’s just unveiled their holiday window displays.”

“I see,” Tom muttered. Rhys Winterborne, with his unflagging appetite for profit, was singlehandedly starting the Christmas shopping season earlier than ever before. Which meant Tom would have to endure a full month of holiday festivities, with no possible escape. Every house and building would be choking with evergreens and silver gilt decorations, every doorway hung with a mistletoe kissing-bunch. There would be stacks of Christmas cards in the post, and pages of Christmas advertisements cluttering the newspapers, and endless performances of Messiah. Packs of carolers would roam the streets and assault innocent pedestrians with off-tune warbling in exchange for spare pennies.

It wasn’t that Tom hated Christmas. Usually he tolerated it with good grace … but this year he couldn’t have felt less like celebrating.

“Should I stop hanging the evergreens, Mr. Severin?” the workman asked.

Tom pasted a shallow smile on his face. “No, Meagles. Go about your work.”

“You remembered my name,” the workman exclaimed, pleased.

Tom was tempted to reply, You’re not special: I remember everyone’s name, but he managed to restrain himself.

The bitter wind cut down to the bone as he stepped outside. It was the kind of cold that shortened the space between each breath, and made the lungs feel brittle enough to shatter.

He saw Bazzle’s small, knobbly form huddled on the side of the stone steps, with a broom laid across his knee. The boy was clad in garments that could have been pulled straight from the ragman’s bin, his head topped with a threadbare cap. As he sat facing away from Tom, he reached up to scratch the back of his neck and head in an all-too-familiar gesture.

What a small, inconsequential wisp of humanity, clinging to the very edge of survival. If Bazzle suddenly vanished from the face of the earth, few people would care or even notice. Tom was damned if he knew why the fate of this boy should matter to him.

But it did.

Damn it.

Slowly he made his way to Bazzle’s side and sat on the steps beside him.

The boy started and turned to glance at him. There was something different about Bazzle’s gaze today, the pupils like the dark centers of broken windows. As the wind whipped across the stairs, he vibrated with chills.

“Where are your new clothes?” Tom asked.

“Uncle Batty said they was too lardy-dardy for me.”

“He sold them,” Tom said flatly.

“Yes, sir,” the child said through chattering teeth.

Before Tom could air his opinion of the thieving bastard, a frozen gust caused the boy to steel himself against a wracking shudder.