The Viscount’s Sinful Bargain

by Archer, Kate

  Mr. Longmoore was silent for some minutes and Tuttle had the idea he was thinking hard. “It was very terrible,” he said, “naturally, I could not overlook it.”

  “Overlook what?”

  Some further minutes passed, Mr. Longmoore gazing over Tuttle’s head as if he admired a far-off vista. Very suddenly, he cried, “She had engaged herself to another! No, two times! There were two other promises made!”

  “Good Lord, Mr. Longmoore,” Tuttle said, working hard to display the right amount of shock, “how did you find it out?”

  Mr. Longmoore stared hard into his glass of ale, as if he’d been told the bad news via that particular libation. He suddenly looked up. “We all arrived at the Viscount’s estate at the same time. Yes, that is how it happened. We met on the drive leading to the house and when we discovered each other’s business, well, you can imagine!”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Tuttle said. “And so, did the other two gentlemen break it off, too?”

  “Oh, yes, they certainly did.”

  “And may I presume that you informed the lady that relations were at an end at a local assembly, thereby leading to the slap on the face?”

  Mr. Longmoore looked as if he would challenge that idea, Tuttle held up his hands. “Dear Mr. Longmoore, there is no use denying that part of the tale—it is too well-known.”

  Seeing he would be forced to own the slap, Mr. Longmoore nodded sadly. “She was that put out about it, sir.”

  “Excellent, Mr. Longmoore. Now, if you will meet me here on the morrow at two o’clock and sign a sworn statement, that would be most convenient.”

  “A sworn statement? Well, I don’t know…”

  “I will bring fifty pounds in consideration, naturally.”

  “Fifty pounds?” Mr. Longmoore said in wonder. “Fifty?”

  “Not a pence less,” Tuttle said, smiling. He did not know if even half of what the blowhard had said was true, but a sworn statement would do for Lord Dalton. He would make his way to the Guildford Arms this very moment to relay the good news to his patron.

  Mr. Tuttle rose and muttered, “Lord Dalton shall be very pleased.”

  Chapter Five

  The following day, Lord Hampton sent a note to Dalton’s house to call off the manufactured rumors against Miss Knightsbridge. He’d waited nearly all the afternoon to hear word back and, when he did not, he made his way to the house.

  He was aware that Lady Marksworth’s house was just across the street and glanced surreptitiously at it as he mounted the steps. The more he’d thought of Dalton’s plan, the more he was bound to stop it.

  They had all been so casual about casting an aspersion on a lady’s reputation! He knew Dalton did not plan to paint her as scandalous. His friend hoped to dig up some other untoward habit of Miss Knightsbridge’s—just enough, taken together with riding out ahead of a groom and a penchant for shotguns, to set tongues wagging. For all he knew, it would be an unnatural understanding of kennels or that she owned an unusually large dog for a lady. It was not the sort of gossip that would ruin her, and yet it was the type that would be endlessly repeated. It was even the type that might cause a few invitations to dry up. There were those formidable ladies in London who would not tolerate a whiff of boldness from a female just out.

  He’d been the architect of it, having allowed his own pique to color his judgment. He had repeated Miss Knightsbridge’s words. To the others, it must be some far-off idea happening to an unknown person. But he! He had encountered the lady twice now, and the second time had been a deal more pleasant than the first.

  He thanked God the occupants of Lady Marksworth’s house could have no way to divine the reason for his visit to Dalton.

  As his thoughts ran this way and that, Dalton’s butler answered the door. Bellamy was as stooped and decrepit as ever. He’d been the old duke’s butler for twenty-five years, until he could no longer keep up with such a great estate. As he’d known Dalton since he had been a boy, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to take him on for Dalton’s London house.

  Dalton said he and his butler had a very convenient arrangement—Dalton gave him twice the footmen he really needed so he might do next to nothing, and Bellamy did not comment on his master’s activities, as he really could not care less about them. Bellamy wished for a comfortable bedchamber, a warm butler’s closet, and a general ease of life. He had all that, and so Dalton might bring home a cadre of actresses of an evening and Bellamy would not look askance.

  “Ah, Lord Hampton,” Bellamy said, clutching the doorknob for support. “Lord Dalton is not at home. Do you wish to come in and refresh yourself?”

  “That depends,” Hampton said. “When is he expected back?”

  “He said the day after tomorrow,” Bellamy said, “but as he’s gone to see his father, he may very well be delayed.”

  Gone to see his father? What for? He’d said nothing about going to Somerset.

  “Do you know if he read my note sent yesterday before he left?”

  “Oh, no, my lord,” Bellamy said. “It is still right here in the hall. If it is vital, I can send it on, but it might very well cross paths.”

  Hampton was thoughtful for a moment. He had no idea why Dalton would have gone to his father so suddenly. Especially at this moment, with the pact hanging over their heads. Though, perhaps it was lucky. Dalton had planned to go to Surrey with the seedy Mr. Tuttle to find something further on Miss Knightsbridge. Apparently, the project had been postponed.

  “Would you see that he is given my letter first thing when he returns?” he said.

  Bellamy nodded and clutched the doorknob ever harder. Hampton thought he’d better not delay the man another minute lest he fall over. He nodded, turned, and jogged down the steps to the waiting groom.

  Hampton thought it was a funny thing to have a butler who could barely stand at the door. It was his own opinion that Dalton really ought to pension the old fellow off rather than go on with such nonsense.

  *

  Bellamy shut the door behind him and smiled. There were some advantages to appearing as old as Methuselah. No matter how great a personage arrived at the door, they would state their business in all haste when they noted him clutching the doorknob. His footmen thought the whole thing a jolly bit of fun, and he did too.

  And then to be questioned on the doorstep as to his master’s location? He thought Lord Hampton rather naïve. Bellamy never gave away his master’s whereabouts. If his master was in Surrey just now, gathering information on the unfortunate Miss Knightsbridge, that was his master’s business.

  Bellamy could not say he fully understood the ins and outs of the whole thing, but Miss Knightsbridge had something to do with that God-forsaken pact. Whatever efforts could be made to thwart the demands of those inconvenient fathers must be made. Bellamy had no wish to find himself faced with a Lady Dalton. He and his lord had a most comfortable set-up, they didn’t even employ a housekeeper and had maids come in on a day basis. The house went on comfortably male—he, the cook, and the footmen had an endless amount of wine and little real work to accomplish. The grooms made certain the lord’s horses were well taken care of, and then lounged at their leisure. There was no room for a lady that might get ideas and attempt to change their way of going on. Or, heaven forbid, a housekeeper. Those awful persons had the unfortunate habit of peering into every nook and cranny and glaring at any lazing staff.

  *

  Cassandra and Lady Sybil sat cozy in the window seat at Marksworth House as Sybil described the courses at the Jennings’ dinner. Cassandra was not sorry to have missed that particular engagement, it sounded like an overly formal and stultifying affair. The only particular thing of interest was that two gentlemen of the pact had been there.

  “As there were sixty attending,” Sybil said, “I thought my chances of avoiding them rather good.”

  “And did you?” Cassandra asked.

  “I did,” Lady Sybil said, “and lucky I was. Lord Cabot and Lord
Grayson appeared very glum, as if they were both in a sulk. Mrs. Jenning seemed to notice, and not take it kindly. Poor Miss Danworth went into dinner with Lord Cabot and she looked as if she worked very hard to entertain, all to no avail.”

  “Well,” Cassandra said, “if Miss Danworth cannot entertain with all those marvelous blond curls of hers, the lord must have been very determined to sulk.”

  “She shook her curls around very charmingly, yet he was entirely unmoved,” Sybil said, laughing.

  Before Cassandra could answer, Sybil pointed toward the window and said, “Ah, look, there is Lord Hampton, going to see Lord Dalton.”

  Cassandra turned more eagerly than she had the first time the lord had been spotted on Lord Dalton’s steps. She would not say her conversation with the gentleman the evening before had been carefree, but it had got a deal more comfortable when they’d got on the subject of dogs. After that, they’d even discussed saddles and the modification she had made to her own to include a double girth. She had almost hesitated in mentioning it, but in fact the lord had seemed interested in the improved safety of it. His own sister had experienced a serious head injury in her youth from a slipping sidesaddle.

  Now, Lord Hampton leapt off his horse, as handsome as ever. Cassandra had begun to think that part of his attractiveness stemmed from his seeming carelessness of his appearance. Of course, he could not be careless, nobody careless was dressed as he was. Yet, his mode of dress was not over-studied. She had now met her share of dandies, their neckcloths tied in fabulous configurations, and she did not care for it.

  As the lord stood at the door, speaking to Lord Dalton’s butler, Cassandra said, “I have not yet told you that I was taken into dinner at the Sedways’ by Lord Hampton.”

  Sybil laid her hand on Cassandra’s arm. “My poor darling, how did you manage through it?”

  Cassandra reddened, seeing that she had painted such a grim picture of Lord Hampton that it must now be modified.

  “It was not as you think,” she said. “Remarkably, it was rather enjoyable. It began as awkwardly as you might guess, but somehow got a deal more pleasant when we got to talking of dogs.”

  “Dogs?” Sybil said, laughing.

  “Indeed, dogs,” Cassandra said. “As it happens, he owns a mastiff, too, and was quite voluble on the subject. And kennels. Oh, and then saddles. It turns out we are of the same mind on those subjects.”

  “Dear me, you almost seem as if you like him, Cass,” Sybil said in wonder.

  “Like him! No, I would not go so far as that,” Cassandra said hurriedly. Though, as she said it, she was mortified that it did not sound completely true. “I would say that I do not dislike him as much as I did, which is a very long way from liking.”

  “Let us hope it is a very long way,” Sybil said, “else you might find yourself an unhappy duchess someday.”

  Cassandra smiled at her friend, even as she felt the pink spread across her cheeks. “Now you are being ridiculous, Sybil.” She meant the words, it was just entirely unfortunate that Lord Hampton was so agreeable to look at, and now he’d begun to make himself agreeable to speak with.

  She watched the lord go back down Lord Dalton’s steps without being admitted. He leapt on his horse and clattered down the street.

  Ah well, it was true she had encountered the lord twice in short order, but London was a big place and the chances of encountering him so often in future were unlikely. Further, the rest of the dinners on her calendar would be a deal larger and so the odds were greatly diminished that she would be taken into supper by that gentleman.

  She could not ascertain whether that was a welcome idea or not.

  *

  Mr. Tuttle had earned his scratch on his most recent assignment. Lord Dalton had been well-pleased with the sworn statement from Mr. Longmoore. Tuttle had thought that had been the end of it. Though the point of the job had baffled, he’d eventually come to the conclusion that the information against Miss Knightsbridge was to be presented to one of Lord Dalton’s friends who thought of engaging himself to the lady. He’d managed other arrangements where a gentleman’s friends had taken measures to separate him from an unsuitable match.

  That had not been the end of it, though. It turned out Lord Dalton wished the information to be spread far and wide, and he did not wish to personally do it, as he did not want to be in any way connected to the scheme.

  It was to be Tuttle’s job to get the information spread throughout London.

  Tuttle had balked at the idea. He was not so certain that Mr. Longmoore had been completely honest. He rather felt Longmoore was a blowhard who would invent no end of fictions to protect the delicate ego that every blowhard proudly owned. Further, he had never involved himself in a public campaign to impugn the reputation of a lady. At least, not on such flimsy evidence.

  Still, Dalton had offered him such a sum that it could not be turned away. He could send that money to his widowed sister in Manchester and she might live comfortably with her two young boys, no longer taking in sewing or washing. If he were to weigh the fate of his long-suffering sister against a privileged miss from Surrey, he must always come down on the side of his sister.

  Tuttle could all too easily guess why Lord Dalton had offered such a handsome payment. It must seem to the lord a difficult thing to plant a story all over town with nobody quite knowing from whence it had come.

  Tuttle knew otherwise, of course. He did not have access to those places filled with the chattering women of the ton, nor did he need to. It was not in the elegant drawing rooms that the idea would put down roots. It was below stairs and in the attics. It was through a carefully curated labyrinth of connections.

  It was through the lady’s maids.

  Tuttle had made it his business to cultivate relationships with all manner of staff and there was not a well-heeled house in town he could not slip into via the servants’ entrance. Though he knew his share of housekeepers and butlers, it was lady’s maids who had those confidential conversations with the mistress that allowed for the spread of gossip. In truth, the ladies of the ton expected their maids to deliver whatever interesting chatter they’d heard from other servants.

  The lady’s maids would, for a few pounds, repeat the story. It would be impossible to know from where it had first arisen. It was only necessary that the first group of maids be given a copy of the declaration from Mr. Longmoore and become apprised of Miss Knightsbridge’s inclinations to ride without a groom and shoot like a man. They each would take bits and pieces to compose their own version until the story would swirl into the air like a whirlwind of veracity.

  All the hints and innuendos taken together, it would not be a week before Miss Knightsbridge was known as bolder than any Mary Wollstonecraft.

  *

  Cassandra curled up on her bed, just now in receipt of two letters from home. She had opened the one from her friend Lily Farnsworth first, and it was just what she had expected. Lily prattled on about ribbons and shopping for ribbons and thinking about what sort of ribbons she would design, had it been her business to do so. She asked that Cassandra write her in minute detail of any interesting ribbons she had seen in the London shops. After Lily had done examining the idea of ribbons, there was a lengthy paragraph on the decorating of a bonnet.

  Cassandra might have thought the girl shallow to have written such a long letter on the subject of ribbons and bits and bobs, but she knew the Farnsworths to be a fine family financially strained. Poor Lily’s father had inherited an estate badly managed and plagued with debt, and he’d made it his life to drag Farnsworth House out of that quagmire. He’d done a remarkable job, and put a respectable amount away for Lily’s dowry, but there were not extra funds for much else. Lily was not in the habit of acquiring new dresses and bonnets, and so freshening up what she already owned consumed her imagination.

  Cassandra was determined to bring home a basketful of interesting notions for Lilly so that she might refurbish to her heart’s content.

>   The second letter was from Cassandra’s father, and it contained all the usual news of the estate. The pigs did well on the new feed, the hunting dogs were in fine form, and her own dog, May, had shredded a volume of poetry, though the viscount did not suppose he would miss it. The viscount’s views on poetry were scathing—he condemned those persons who puttered around all day attempting to pretty up the English language as a bunch of layabouts. The sun was the sun and if a gentleman were to agonize over whether or not he should call it a giant orb or some other nonsense, that gentleman ought to join Brummel on the continent. Mayhem, if she had done anything at all, had rid his sanctum of a book that should never have had the audacity to be there in the first place.

  That idea was nothing less than what Cassandra would expect from her father. What was not expected was the news near the end of his letter.

  You will hardly be surprised, I think, as you have made your opinion known on the gentleman, that Mr. Longmoore appears to have taken a bad turn. Some say it is his habit of too much drink, others say he must have been hit on the head. He’s taken to talking to himself aloud on various street corners in town and they say his business does very badly as he is rarely there. Some of the lower elements of the neighborhood follow him into the Beef and Boar of an evening as he has got into the habit of buying ale all round. One wonders where he gets the money for such idiocy, as he does not tend to his business. Those that drink with him say he laments about a trickster’s bad dealings with an innocent man and how our heavenly father will no doubt understand the innocent man’s mistake. I am of the opinion that the fellow has lost his wits. I suppose we shall see how he gets on, though I expect things will only go downhill from here. (Once a rational mind is lost, it is not easily found again.)

  They say too much drink can permanently addle the mind, and so for myself I stick to only six glasses of ale and three glasses of port a day to avoid the state.