by Archer, Kate
For some weeks, Lady Marksworth’s letters held nothing of particular note, excepting that most people were very much relieved that the Montagues had gone home. Lady Marksworth said that while nobody would claim it outright, the general feeling was that all wished Lady Montague’s cough to be rather serious.
Then, on a bright and sunny morning, a letter arrived that turned Cassandra’s thoughts on their head.
My dear niece,
As I have written your father, the investigator here still has not tracked down where this terrible rumor began. However, a most interesting development has occurred. The gentlemen of the pact all now claim that it was they who invented it. They say it was to take scrutiny away from themselves. A flimsy story, at best. Nobody believes them for a moment, but all the talk revolves around how admiring they are of Miss Knightsbridge to attempt such a rash scheme to explain away the gossip. It is said that Lord Hampton is particularly vocal with the story and has been announcing it to all and sundry.
Though the idea is not considered creditable, I will say that I think it has softened opinion toward you. After all, how is a baron’s wife or an earl’s daughter to condemn a lady held up as blameless by six gentlemen who will one day be dukes of the realm?
It also does not hurt that Lady Montague is away from the scene, as many are better able to form their own opinions when she is not nearby to correct them.
I would not say the tide has turned in your favor, but I think it ceases to rise.
All my Love,
Aunt Catherine
Cassandra dropped her aunt’s letter, then swiftly picked it up again before May could chew it to bits.
If the gentlemen came to her defense, then they could not have arrived to her ball simply to observe a blossoming disaster. Perhaps they’d seen the disaster coming and came to support her side?
But why should they defend her so vigorously? Why should Lord Hampton do so?
She could only think of one reason, and it gave her a shiver to think of it. Might it be true that he had some interest in her that was marked?
Since she had been home, the lord’s face had been somewhat relentless in presenting itself to her mind. She had all but given up attempting to chase it away. Rather, if she were never to marry, surely there was no harm in living a romance in her imagination. Nobody should know of it but herself, it might be her own private world she could retreat to when she felt too alone. In fact, it might be the best of all worlds, as an imaginary gentleman could never disappoint her. He would act just as she wished and they would always be in the first blush of love.
She’d tried the idea on any number of faces she’d seen in London. Lord Burke had seemed a likely candidate, but she found her thoughts always going to jokes and stories, there was no romance in it. Lord Lockwood was too… something. Others were… not quite right. It was only the imaginary Lord Hampton that caused a flutter. And, the more she thought of him, the more she felt it.
It had all been a pleasant dream. As she reread her aunt’s letter, she determined she should not see anything in it. She must not begin to hope for some reality that would begin to match her wild imagination. Daydreaming was perfectly fine, but she would set herself up for even more heartache if she allowed herself to hope for anything in the real world.
For all that, though, it was gratifying to know that she was defended.
*
Cassandra’s father had hired two investigators who worked together—one canvassing London and the other making inquiries in Surrey. The viscount was determined to discover who had launched the rumors against his daughter.
Cassandra wished he’d give it up. She did not think he would ever find success and each time he met with Mr. Cringle or read a letter from Mr. Shanks it brought all the first bursts of outrage back upon him.
Mr. Shanks had written a rather victorious letter about the gentlemen of the pact confessing their crime against Miss Knightsbridge, only to have to be told that it was a ridiculous fiction that nobody believed. The viscount began to question Mr. Shanks’ judgment—if the man could not see through such a ludicrous account, how was he to recognize the truth when he found it?
Mr. Cringle turned up every Wednesday, his meetings with the viscount were not long and her father was never happy at the end of them. Everybody in the neighborhood had heard the rumor and it seemed agreed upon that the notion had begun in Surrey. Different theories floated about the environs of Trebly Hall with no more sense in them than ducks bobbing on a lake. There was much finger pointing and the circumstance began to be used whenever a person wished to accuse an enemy. It had devolved to such ridiculous degrees that two elderly women having a dispute over a basket of washing had accused each other of having invented the tale. Cassandra’s friend, Lily Farnsworth, did her best to hush the talk, but with little success.
Lily visited and did her level best to cheer Cassandra but did not have much success. Cassandra had determined that she would not rejoin local society. At least, not yet. Dinners and balls held little attraction just now and she had no wish to find herself the object of interest at a neighbor’s table.
If there were any little thing that had given Cassandra pleasure, it was the gifting of two of her evening dresses to Lily. With very little alteration, she’d already worn one to a local assembly. It pleased Cassandra to know her friend wore new dresses, instead of refurbishing old ones with various bits and bobs.
Lily had been hesitant to take such a gift, but Cassandra reasoned she’d have little use for those gowns now. Privately, she thought all hope of redemption was lost and she’d best accept her lot, such as it was. There would be no schedule of London balls needing dresses.
Her father did not at all agree and would persist with the investigators.
Aside from his dealings with the investigators, the viscount had made every effort to see that his daughter was comfortable. He suggested outings but acquiesced when she declined. She spoke to him of never marrying and he took the news with seeming equanimity, though Cassandra did not think he believed in the idea. She told him she was done attempting to be a proper little miss and would return to her old ways of going on, shotgun included. The viscount was highly approving of that idea, as he’d never disapproved of her ways and felt that at least it would draw her from the house, shotguns being known for their unsuitability indoors.
She had then begun to go out, though only on her father’s estate. Some mornings she slipped out at dawn and rode Juno as wildly as she liked over the grounds. Flying over fences, it made her laugh to think of poor old Buttercup plodding her way through Hyde Park. There was something rejuvenating about feeling the wind on one’s face on a windless day, the breeze created by one’s own speed.
Other days, she went out in the afternoon with two grooms and practiced her aim. They’d devised a target practice by using dried balls of clay launched out of a slingshot from the top of a hill while Cassandra aimed from the valley. They brought two guns and once Cassandra had fired one, she’d toss it to a groom who’d in turn toss her one loaded. The footman at the top of the hill shot off the clay balls rapid fire and it was a thrill to see how many she could take down. Her already good aim had improved markedly and when pheasant season came, she would take more than any man.
That particular afternoon, she’d been out riding most of the morning and sat pleasantly tired with May on her designated sofa by the window. As it was a Wednesday, she was not at all surprised to see Mr. Cringle’s coach lumbering up the drive.
It sometimes amused her to examine Mr. Cringle’s expression as he descended the stairs from his coach. He was a long and thin man with pinched features, always looking as if he were pained by something. He usually paused and looked at the house before knocking on the door, and if Cassandra imagined his thoughts, they must be along the lines of “let us get this over quickly.”
The coach came to a halt and to her surprise, Mr. Cringle leapt down from the carriage with an expression she thought might be glee. The co
rners of his lips had turned strangely up and he had a very animated look about him.
Mr. Cringle turned and pulled another man from the coach.
Cassandra sat back from the window. It was Mr. Longmoore. What on earth was that scoundrel doing at Trebly Hall?
Whatever this conference was to be about, it was nothing usual. She was determined to hear what was said.
Maidencraft let the two gentlemen into the house and Cassandra heard them announced. She suppressed a smile: Maidencraft had said Mr. Longmoore’s name as if he had just apprised the viscount that a virulent plague had arrived at his doors.
Cassandra tiptoed to the north drawing room, May following closely behind and bumping into her skirts. The north room was not much used as it was generally cold, but it shared only a wall of bookcases with her father’s library. She would have no trouble hearing what was said from that vantage point.
“He is the author of it all!” Mr. Cringle fairly shouted.
“He?” the Viscount asked. “How could a drunken shopkeeper have created this misery?”
“I am not always drunken,” Mr. Longmoore said quietly. “Only often.”
“Tell him, man,” Mr. Cringle said. “Else I’ll make good my threats against you.”
There was silence for some moments. The Viscount said, “If you have anything to say, Mr. Longmoore, I bid you say it. Though, Mr. Cringle, I am becoming weary of these goose chases.”
“This is no feint, my lord,” Mr. Cringle said. “And you will know it when you hear what he has done, why he has done it, and how he has done it.”
Cassandra pressed her ear harder against the wood. Could it be true? Could Mr. Longmoore have really had anything to do with her situation? It seemed as incomprehensible to her as it did to her father.
Cassandra paused. A sudden memory flashed across her mind. The slap to his cheek at the assembly in Guildford.
If Mr. Longmoore did have something to do with the rumors, then she could not know how, but she could very well guess why.
“Speak, Mr. Longmoore,” the Viscount said gravely.
“Dash it,” Mr. Longmoore said, “she slapped me. Did she tell you that?”
“Do not propose to excuse yourself before you have even admitted what you have done,” Mr. Cringle said sternly.
“All right!” Mr. Longmoore cried. “A man plied me with drink and encouraged me to tell a story of Miss Knightsbridge and then somehow it got away from me. I might have mentioned we were engaged, and then I had to call it off on account of there being two other gentlemen in the same condition.”
“To the tune of fifty pounds,” Mr. Cringle said.
“That’s all gone now!”
Cassandra nearly lost her breath. That drunken sot had ruined her for fifty pounds! She briefly considered retrieving her shotgun and blowing his head off, but then decided she would not hang for the scoundrel.
“Tell him who the man worked for,” Cringle demanded.
“He said he was in the employ of a highly placed gent,” Mr. Longmoore said. “As he was leavin,’ he mentioned a Lord Dalton, though I don’t think he knows I heard it. I committed it to memory in case…”
Cassandra sank down on the sofa. Lord Dalton?
“Never mind what that case might be,” Mr. Cringle said, “as I am certain it would have something to do with blackmail when you found yourself once again short of funds.”
“And you believe this account, Mr. Cringle?” the viscount said. “I enquire because I do not think Mr. Longmoore has been in his right mind as of late.”
“It was the guilt that drove me mad!” Mr. Longmoore cried.
“I do believe his account,” Mr. Cringle said. “I have had corroborating evidence from our man in London. He has confronted Mr. Tuttle, the gentleman who approached Mr. Longmoore and one we both know well, and Tuttle refuses to confirm or deny. If it were not true, he would most certainly deny. Further, the gentlemen of the pact are putting the story about themselves. They have not been believed, but they should have been. Those gentlemen sought to divert gossip from themselves and Miss Knightsbridge paid the price for it. It seems they now attempt to rectify their villainy with little success.”
Could it be true? She had been ruined because six gentlemen did not wish to be talked about?
Of course it could be true. All the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. They had seen they’d gone too far and so suddenly they filled her dance card and they arrived early to her ball. It had not been kindness or admiration; it had been shame.
She had been such a fool to believe that they showed her such marked attention because the gossip had been about three of them escorting her from the park. She’d realized she had not grasped something when she understood the real gossip that made the rounds. She could not understand why they had rallied round her then. Now, she understood.
She felt tears sting as she remembered all her ridiculous imaginings of Lord Hampton. All along, he’d known the truth. He’d presented himself as a gentleman, all the while betraying her in the worst fashion. It had been a betrayal of Leviathan proportions, there was nothing worse that could be done to a lady beyond ruining her reputation and standing in the world.
In a terrible voice, the viscount said, “If this is so, Lord Dalton will answer for it at a dawn not too distant.”
Cassandra jumped from the sofa. Whatever was to happen next, she could not allow her father to fight a duel. She could not lose her father, and if he challenged Lord Dalton, she most certainly would. The man was hardened from the war, he’d be an expert shot.
She ran from the north room and burst into the library. “Father, please!” she cried. “Do not let the end of this be that I am here alone. I could not bear it.”
She crossed the room and threw herself into her father’s arms and sobbed.
The viscount stroked her hair and said, “Do not cry so.”
“But I must,” Cassandra said, nearly choking on her words. “I cannot stand to think of it!”
“My dear,” the viscount said softly, “what else am I to do? I am a man of honor, I cannot let this pass.”
Cassandra pulled away from her father and glanced at Mr. Longmoore. She said, “First, we will deal with that person. Later, we will decide what to do about Lord Dalton. In any case, it will not be just Lord Dalton. All of the gentlemen of the pact orchestrated this disaster and you cannot fight them all.”
“Miss Knightsbridge speaks the truth,” Mr. Cringle said. “Lord Dalton might have done the paying, but they all had a hand in this despicable business.”
Cassandra turned to Mr. Longmoore and said, “You, sir, will pack up your things and go to I know not where, nor do I care. If you do not absent yourself from this county, I will shoot you myself.”
Mr. Longmoore looked pleadingly at Mr. Cringle. “She would not!”
“She very well might,” Mr. Cringle said. “Then I would be forced to claim witness to the tragic accident.”
“But it would not be an accident!” Mr. Longmoore cried.
“So says you, though as you bled into the ground you would have no ability to claim it. Go and wait in the carriage, you sinner.”
Mr. Longmoore fairly fled the room. Cassandra had no doubt that he would leave as he was bidden.
“I must have justice,” the viscount said. “If I am not to kill them all, what am I to do?”
Chapter Thirteen
Mr. Cringle rubbed his chin upon considering what the viscount might do, excepting killing all the gentlemen of the pact. “The gentlemen have owned to the misdeed. If only there were some way to convince society of their veracity. If that were accomplished, Miss Knightsbridge might go back to town with her head held high while they would be castigated. I have already got a sworn statement from Longmoore recanting everything he said.”
Cassandra reined in her roiling thoughts. It was a moment for practicality. She must attend the situation at hand. Whatever was to be done, she must ensure that her father remaine
d safe. Those idiot gentlemen might have taken her reputation, but they would not take her father.
“I do not particularly wish to return to town,” Cassandra said. “Though I do not like the idea that I am prevented or that people still have my name on their lips. I would be satisfied if those gentlemen are recognized as scoundrels, and you must be too, papa.”
“One powerful person taking up the position that the gentlemen speak the truth might sway the rest,” Mr. Cringle said. “I do not suppose you could call upon the Prince Regent?”
The viscount rubbed his eyes. “I would not call upon that fat bumbler to lace my boots.”
Poor Mr. Cringle appeared deeply shocked by the sentiment. Cassandra supposed he was not so used to the viscount’s opinions on royal persons who did not appear to accomplish much aside from spending coin in the most profligate manner possible.
“Though,” the viscount said thoughtfully, “there is one person who might wield such power. Delilah Weston, the Dowager Duchess of Carlisle.”
“But, is that not—” Cassandra sputtered.
“Lord Hampton’s grandmother,” the viscount said. “Even if she cannot lend assistance, I am determined she understand what her grandson has wrought upon this family. If I know Delilah, that stupid young man will pay a heavy price.”
Cassandra could not say she was against causing Lord Hampton and his friends any little amount of trouble, but most importantly, the idea had turned her father away from thoughts of a duel.
She must keep that imperative at the forefront of her efforts. She could not allow her father to slip back into the idea of a duel. She must dwell on that, and not on the knowledge that she had daydreamed of Lord Hampton, unaware that he’d been her undoing. She felt her heart slowly turn to stone against him, bathed in hardening rage.
*
Hampton sat in his library, sharpening a quill and pondering what to do next. He’d told everybody he’d come into contact with that the gentlemen of the pact had been the authors of the lies spread about Miss Knightsbridge. He’d sought to convince that none of what had been said was true and the lady was entirely innocent.
