Page 24 of The Raven’s Lady

Cassie had not been able to let go of that little bit of information about him. The name was like a pebble in her shoe. She thought she’d shaken it out, but it returned to bother her. For one thing it suited him better than his title with his dark good looks and endless assurance. There was something cheeky about a raven. They did not scatter like lesser birds. A carriage could bear down on a raven in the roadway, and only at the last possible instant would a raven hop out of harm’s way, as if it relished a brush with iron wheels. Raven struck Cassie as equally unflinching in the face of danger.

For another, the name came with a history she had not imagined for him. According to Jay Kydd, Raven had taken the name Adrian only to please his grandfather. As boys Jay and Raven had lived apart from their families in a rooftop gang of waifs in London. As Jay told the story their life was one of grand adventure, but to Cassie it sounded cold, uncomfortable, desperate, and dangerous.

She had not seen Jay Kydd again, though she’d heard of him from Grandmama, who, though she might not be susceptible to his charm, was an admirer of his way with horses.

In the drive, several drays waited to be unloaded, their contents covered with canvas, their drivers standing in a group, talking and sending curls of pipe smoke into the morning air. The hall’s great door was open and the marble tiles covered in more canvas. She kept to the side for a pair of men carrying a load of planks, their voices and footsteps echoing in the empty hall.

The boy who’d brought her Raven’s message earlier, jumped up from a stool just inside the door. “Miss, ye’ll find ’im in the great hall. I’ll show ye.”

Cassie did not stop him or say that she knew the way, that it was her house. It no longer resembled her house. The walls were shrouded in canvas in addition to the floors. Male voices and hammering filled the air. The great hall, the largest room in the house, had been transformed as well. The arm chairs and console tables were gone, the paneling and windows hidden behind canvas, the great chandelier removed, its chain hanging bare from the high plaster ceiling, and underfoot more canvas. She wondered where the Aubusson carpet had gone. Scaffolding had been erected around the room to reach the ceiling. An open door on the north side of the house let in a rectangle of wan light. She stood for a moment, adjusting to the gloom.

Raven stood with Dawes, looking over a long roll of paper on a makeshift table to one side of the door. A lamp on the end of the table illuminated the white of his shirt sleeves. Dawes saw Cassie and cleared his throat. Raven turned, saw her, and said something to Dawes, who nodded and went out the terrace door.

Raven came to Cassie with his usual energetic stride. Without a coat, with his sleeves rolled up and a plain brown waistcoat, he still had that authority of bearing and manner.

“You’re wondering what I’m up to, I expect,” he said.

“A little,” she said. “I did not think this room needed work.”

“It’s not the room itself. It’s the ceiling.” He pointed to the geometric pattern of plasterwork over their heads.

“The ceiling?” She looked up.

“I had it inspected. It’s sixty years old according to Verwood’s records. You might not have noticed any cracks or sagging because of the pattern, but Dawes tells me that it has pulled away from the lath in too many places to be repaired.”

“It could collapse?” She looked up again. She had not noticed because they had not used the great hall in years.

“In the worst case, but we’re going to take it down, and I want your opinion on a new design by Jackson & Sons. Care to advise?” He gestured toward the makeshift table with its roll of paper.

She nodded. “Do you plan to use the great hall much?” She couldn’t help but ask. In her grandmother’s youth it had been used for balls, but Raven was a single man with no acquaintance in Wormley. Of course, he could bring friends from London.

“Actually,” he said with a smile, “I’m thinking of giving a ball.”

“For friends from London?”

“For the neighborhood,” he said.

“But you don’t know anyone—” That smile of his stopped her. “Do you?”

“I might, but I thought perhaps I could count on your help in that matter.”

“My help?” He would not ask for her help if he had any idea of her reputation in the neighborhood.

“I thought I might accompany the Verwood ladies to church.”

“Oh, of course,” she said. He was right about that. If he appeared in St. Andrew’s, everyone in the neighborhood, high and low, would be curious about him and impressed. His good looks, his air of fashion, and his money would have everyone talking. And people were already talking about the work he was doing at Verwood, employing carpenters and masons, painters, and soon, apparently, plasterers.

Cassie looked at the airy design of garlands and fruits and flowers laid out on the makeshift table. There were great ovals, and overflowing baskets and the coat of arms of the Dukes of Verwood.

“How much is all of this costing you?” she asked.

“This bit, not so much, maybe eight hundred pounds. The rest, a great deal.”

“Can you really spend so much?”

“Am I good for it? Yes.”

“But,” she sighed, “you don’t own the house. You…”