But when they were deep within the maze, Cassandra drew a deep breath and looked up at Sir Philip earnestly. “I did not tell you my last name.”
“No, so you didn’t.” He had noticed the omission and wondered at it. Now his curiosity grew even stronger.
“Well, as I said, I am not a Moulton. That was my mother’s name. My name is Verrere.”
He stopped abruptly, startled, and looked at her. His eyes grew a little wary, and he said in a soft voice, “Ah...a faithless Verrere.”
Cassandra planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “A ruthless Neville,” she responded.
For a long moment they simply stood, looking at one another. Finally Sir Philip started forward again, saying only, “And what does a Verrere want with a Neville?”
Cassandra cast about in her mind for exactly the right words to say. She had been waiting for this moment for months now. It was the only opportunity she was likely to have, and she had to get it right.
“I know that our families have for some years now been, well...”
“Enemies?” he suggested.
“I would say that enemies is rather a strong word to use,” Cassandra demurred. “It has been over a hundred years since a Verrere or Neville tried to kill each other.”
“Mmm. A remarkable achievement.”
At one time the two families had, indeed, been constantly at the point of drawing swords. Any comment by a Neville about a Verrere was immediately interpreted to be a deadly slur and vice versa. Over the years the hard enmity between them had declined to a social one-upsmanship, with each striving to outdo the other in terms of parties, carriages and racehorses. During this century, even that degree of rancor had died down, so that hostesses became able to invite a Neville and a Verrere to the same function without fearing that neither would ever speak to her again.
Cassandra suspected that the intense rivalry had diminished largely because the Verreres’ fortunes had declined, while the Nevilles’ had kept on growing, as always. The Verreres had simply been unable to compete any longer in any comparison of possessions or parties, leaving them with little to lord over the Nevilles except the Verrere title, Chesilworth. Indeed, during Cassandra’s father’s lifetime, the Verreres had retired from the lists, socially speaking. Cassandra’s grandfather had long ago had to sell the London house to pay debts, and the expense of clothes and rent for a London season was beyond them. Her father, Rupert, had been a bookish man, anyway, and he had been more pleased than not to give up the season in London each year. He had preferred to spend what money he had on his books and art.
“I trust that you are not so narrow-minded as to hold my name against me,” Cassandra continued, looking up at Philip challengingly.
His mouth quirked sardonically. “I was taught as a child that if I was bad, the Verreres would get me. However, I do trust that I will be able to hold my own against this particular Verrere.”
“I have come for your help, not to fight.”
His brows soared. “My help? A Verrere asking a Neville for help?”
Cassandra frowned. “Do you plan to continue playing the fool in this fashion? I came to this house party specifically to talk to you, but I can see that I have wasted my time if you are unable to drop your petty prejudices long enough to listen.”
He could not help but grin at her tart words and tone. “I beg your pardon, Miss Verrere.” He pulled his face back into somber lines. “I will endeavor to be serious, since my levity displeases you. However, I have to tell you I find it bizarre that a Verrere would even think of asking me for help, let alone believe that I would be willing to extend that help.”
“Well, as for your helpfulness, I have no way of knowing that, of course. But I would hope that you are a reasonable enough man to see that it would be profitable for both of us.”
“I am afraid you have lost me before we have even started. What would be profitable?”
“That is what I am about to tell you. Ah, here is the center of the maze. Isn’t it a tranquil spot? Why don’t we sit down on the bench, and I will explain myself?”
“By all means.”
Neville politely dusted off the bench with his handkerchief, and they sat down. They looked at each other assessingly. Finally Cassandra began. “I am searching for the Spanish dowry.”
Neville gazed back at her blankly. “The what?”
Cassandra frowned. “Surely you have heard of it. It was what started the whole bitterness between our families.”
Late in the seventeenth century, the Nevilles and Verreres had decided to ally their families by marriage. Sir Edric Neville was contracted to marry the daughter of Richard Verrere, Lord Chesilworth. The girl’s name was Margaret, and she, rather than marrying Sir Edric, had stolen out of the Neville estate on the eve of her wedding and run off with the man she truly loved. It had been a scandal of immense proportions, heightened by the fact that the substantial dowry which she had brought to the Nevilles was missing, as well. The incident had set the two families at odds for the next two hundred years.
“You mean Black Maggie’s dowry?” Philip exclaimed.
She gave him a disapproving look. “If you mean Margaret Verrere, then, yes, it is her dowry I am speaking of. A collection of Spanish treasure seized by Colin Verrere in the late sixteenth century.”
Philip snorted. “Stolen, you mean. Colin Verrere was an out-and-out pirate.”
“He sailed with letters of marque from Queen Elizabeth herself,” Cassandra retorted hotly. “He was a patriot, as well as an excellent sailor and fighter.”
“Legalized piracy. I suspect that the Spanish sailors he killed had some difficulty telling the difference.”
“It was a war,” Cassandra reminded him coldly. “Spain was our enemy, and any damage done to her economy was a blow for England and the queen.”
“Yes, and was it not convenient that Lord Chesilworth’s own pockets were so well-lined by his ‘patriotism’?”
Cassandra regarded him with irritation. “I fail to understand why an Englishman should have so much sympathy for a country that tried to invade his own.”
Neville shrugged. “I have no particular love for Spain, Miss Verrere. However, I do believe in telling the truth, rather than masking ordinary, everyday greed with a patina of ‘God, queen, and country.’”
She looked at him for a long moment. “Frankly, Sir Philip, I think it is more that you simply enjoy being difficult.”
Her words startled a chuckle from him. “Perhaps you are right.” He paused, then added, “It doesn’t matter, anyway. There is no dowry. It is only a legend.”
“A legend! Of course it’s not a legend. The Spanish dowry was real. Why else would your Neville ancestor have pursued the matter so assiduously in and out of court? Why did he keep insisting that the dowry by rights belonged to him, if there was not really a dowry?”
“Oh,
