Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection

by Mary Lancaster

  *

  It was not more than a half hour before Jimmy returned with Lady Marksworth. He’d somehow got her out of the house and then informed her of events as they made their way home, no doubt jogging alongside her window.

  Cassandra’s aunt blew into the room like a north wind, took in the cloth covering the window and her niece sitting on the far side of the room with Sybil.

  “Cassandra, are you quite all right?”

  “I am unhurt,” Cassandra said. To claim being quite all right felt too much to own.

  “And dear Lady Sybil,” Lady Marksworth said, “how good of you to stay with her. You must have been frightened out of your wits.”

  Sybil rose and said, “Not terribly so and Cassandra was terrifically brave. In any case, as my father always says, the Hayworths stand their ground.”

  Sybil curtsied and took her leave amidst Lady Marksworth’s thanks and Cassandra’s grateful looks. Her aunt came and sat beside Cassandra. She picked up the print and stared at it.

  “You will only understand part of it, I think,” Cassandra said. “The three gentlemen are Lords Hampton, Lockwood and Ashworth.”

  “I see,” Lady Marksworth said. “So the gossipmongers would make something of three gentlemen escorting a lady home. Entirely ridiculous.”

  “The gun, though,” Cassandra said, determined that her aunt should understand it all. “That is my fault. At the Bergram’s ball, Lord Hampton said something provoking and somehow I carelessly mentioned I’d been in the habit of shooting birds.”

  Lady Marksworth’s forehead wrinkled. “Why should you invent such a bizarre account of yourself?”

  “It was not an invention,” Cassandra said.

  “Not an invention? Do you mean to say? No, certainly your father would not… he would not have allowed his daughter. Good Lord. He did.”

  “He did,” Cassandra confirmed. “I ought not to have mentioned it and regretted it as soon as I said it.”

  Lady Marksworth appeared pensive. “Well, a girl with a shotgun is strange, there’s no getting round it. Though I have heard that Lady Rentworth has been known to shoot bird.”

  Cassandra was cheered by that idea. “So it is not entirely unknown,” she said.

  “Perhaps not. But the reason I have heard of it is because people speak of it and Lady Rentworth is a middle-aged spinster who has always been known as a great eccentric.”

  “And I am young and here for my first season,” Cassandra said quietly.

  “Just so,” Lady Marksworth said.

  The full weight of what had occurred, and what might be the result of it, seemed to come over Cassandra all at once. Was she to be stared at everywhere? Was she the subject of jokes? Was her name spoken in jest in the gentlemen’s clubs? Were there those that might snub her? Of course there must be. At least one person in town had paid a boy to break her window with the news.

  A tear rolled down her cheek and she said, “I ought to go home, Aunt. I have disappointed you and caused talk that will reflect on you. It is not right that I stay.”

  Lady Marksworth took her niece’s hand. “You will do no such thing, my dear. The very worst idea is to cut and run, it would be like air to the fire. No, we shall keep to our schedule and if anybody has the nerve to stare while I am in the vicinity, they will wish they had not. In any case, while the depiction of you is odd, it in no way impugns your innocence. You have been painted as having facility with a gun and having three dashing admirers. That is not ideal, but that is all.”

  Cassandra thought that was quite enough but was encouraged by her aunt’s stance on the matter—Lady Marksworth was all cool head and commonsense.

  “In any case, if there is blame to be shared, I must take my part in it,” Lady Marksworth said. “I thought it perfectly acceptable that the lords should escort us on our way if it pleased them. Together, we shall face down the talkers with grace and aplomb.”

  “I wondered what we should do about the Blakeleys’ ball this evening,” Cassandra said.

  “Wonder no more,” Lady Marksworth said firmly. “We will arrive as expected and let anyone dare say a word about it. You could not hope to arrive at a friendlier house. In the meantime, I will write your father of this idiocy. He will not put much stock in it, but better he knows of it if the print reaches as far as Surrey.”

  “Could it reach as far as Surrey?” Cassandra said in alarm. She was not worried about her father, he did not rattle easily, but she would not like to think of all her friends viewing such a thing.

  “One never knows,” Lady Marksworth said. “I suppose it depends upon how amusing the illustrator considered it and how much he thought he might gain by it. As you are relatively unknown, I don’t expect it will go far. A print of the Regent might be recognized in the furthest reaches of England, but not so with you.”

  Cassandra found herself somewhat mollified by the idea. Of course, the prints must be sold to make them worthwhile, and who would pay for a print of an unknown and unnamed girl? She began to hope the pieces of paper would be few and of little interest.

  *

  Until a rock had sailed through her window, Cassandra had looked forward to the Blakeleys’ ball. They were a young couple, Lord Blakeley known for his outspoken politics and Lady Blakeley known for her forward-looking wardrobe. The lady was often in the newspapers, with breathless descriptions of some outfit or other. The last had been a red silk Japanese Kimono that she’d worn to a reception for the Persian ambassador.

  There were some circles that wondered if the couple were not a little too fast for the best society, but Lady Marksworth was fond of them both. She’d known Lady Blakeley as a girl, having been friends with her mother, and had always found her lively and vastly entertaining.

  Now, Cassandra was very much less looking forward to the Blakeleys’ mask. She had felt on pins and needles all through the day. A rock had shattered a window, she was the subject of a joke, and she waited to see how Lady Blakeley had depicted her character via the choosing of her mask.

  It was with both great relief and great trepidation that the boxes containing their masks had finally arrived. Lady Marksworth opened hers and moved aside the delicate tissue to find the face of an owl, done in feathers.

  “I am thought to be wise, it seems,” Lady Marksworth said smiling. “Either that or I am exceptionally cruel to mice. Now let us see what you are to be.”

  Cassandra gently removed the mask from the box. It was covered in a soft taupe velvet with rounded ears outlined in a cream silk ribbon. The holes for her eyes were outlined in a black silk and there was a small black nose slightly protruding.

  “A fawn,” Lady Marksworth said. “Both charming and appropriate. Nothing could be more innocent, gentle and deserving of care than a fawn. Well! Lady Blakeley has made her opinion known and all will see it.”

  *

  Lord Hampton had sent a note to all of the gentlemen of the pact after receiving an alarming communication from Dalton. The lord wrote that his butler, Bellamy, witnessed a street urchin throw a rock through the windows of Lady Marksworth’s house and that rock appeared to have had a paper tied round it. The lady’s footmen had given chase but returned empty-handed. Lady Marksworth had arrived to the house some time later and nothing else had been seen.

  It had not taken much thinking to guess what had been done. Some person had decided it was time to send a stern message to Miss Knightsbridge. It was not unknown that a satirical print would be delivered via rock to some poor soul’s address, though it was usually a politician who could expect such discourtesy. If the lady had been at home as the glass shattered, she must have been terrified.

  He very much doubted Miss Knightsbridge would venture out to the Blakeleys’ ball after having a rock thrown through her window. He was certain she and her aunt huddled together, attempting to work out the meaning of the print. If they had not been apprised of the rumor of the three engagements so far, and he did not think they had been, they would be mightily
confused and alarmed by it.

  In case his assumption that she would not attend was wrong, he had conferred with Lady Blakeley on the matter and convinced her he ought to know what mask Miss Knightsbridge wore. He had been well-pleased to discover it was to be a fawn, and further pleased that the hostess had heard the gossip and tossed it aside as rubbish.

  After that meeting, he had sent what amounted to military orders to the gentlemen of the pact—they had all been invited and were therefore all to attend, they were to split up and do reconnaissance, and they were to challenge every scrap of gossip they heard. If Miss Knightsbridge made an appearance, she would be identified as the lady masked as a fawn and her dance card was to be filled.

  He was well aware that none of the gentlemen wished to go to the mask; they had an abhorrence for such things. Especially the masks that Lady Blakeley might choose for them, as she could have quite the acerbic wit. However, he had made it their duty and they would go.

  Hampton did not particularly wish to go himself. His mask this year was of an old and serious-looking clergyman, replete with a band. He supposed that was some comment on his lack of levity. Dalton was to be a pirate, and well-pleased by it. God only knew what the rest of them would be.

  No matter, they were duty-bound to make every possible exertion on behalf of Miss Knightsbridge.

  Chapter Nine

  The Blakeleys’ house in Mayfair appeared quite usual from the outside, with its stone façade and many windows. However, Cassandra was just now hearing from her aunt that the inside was less than usual.

  As the carriage came to a stop in the line, Lady Marksworth said, “Lady Blakeley has always been fascinated with anything foreign, fortunately her lord indulges her fancy. I understand she’s recently added a sarcophagus to the drawing room and her children are fond of hiding in it.”

  “Goodness,” Cassandra said. “I presume it arrived empty.”

  Lady Marksworth laughed at the remark and said, “I am glad you are in good spirits.”

  “I cannot say in what spirits I am,” Cassandra said. “I will perhaps have a better idea after an hour or two. However, I decided that I ought not allow myself to be defeated. I have not done anything shameful. Shocking to some sensibilities, perhaps, but nothing truly shameful. I should not blush at anything my father or my aunt have approved.”

  “True, though I suspect even your father cautioned you to forgo mentioning shooting birds.”

  “That he did,” Cassandra admitted, “and perhaps this has been a valuable lesson to me. I have been in the habit of saying all my thoughts and have now discovered that only thinking them is often sufficient.”

  “I believe that is a lesson we all learn at some point,” Lady Marksworth said. “In any case, you are right to understand that you did nothing shameful and it will not be overlong before some new idea about someone else is setting the tongues wagging. Hold your head up and go forward—after all, it was only a silly illustration. Ah, here we are.”

  Footmen had opened the door and they helped Cassandra to the ground.

  *

  Lord and Lady Blakeley were a dashing couple—he tall and lean and she nearly as tall as he. They had both removed their masks to greet their guests, though Cassandra could see two footmen standing nearby, ready to hand them over. They both went as lions, his with a great mane and hers as the more delicate female. She supposed the couple wished to declare themselves king and queen of the jungle and the thought made her smile. London was a jungle, when it came down to it.

  Lady Marksworth was greeted in all genial familiarity. Lady Blakeley said, “And this must be your charming niece, Miss Knightsbridge.”

  Cassandra curtsied and Lady Blakeley rose her up. Loudly, she said, “You are always welcome to my house, innocent fawn.” Then she leaned in and whispered, “Ignore the cobras, they will eventually turn on each other and devour themselves.”

  Lord Blakeley had nodded vigorously at that sentiment. “They always do,” he said.

  Cassandra did not know what was in her future, but she was comforted by the idea that whatever was to come, Lord and Lady Blakeley had very publicly made it known that they were firmly in her camp.

  *

  For all her comfort upon being introduced to the Blakeleys, Cassandra fairly quaked upon entering the ballroom. It was one thing to know that one did not commit any serious crime, and to know that the host and hostess felt the same. It was another to wonder if others present might hold a different opinion.

  She could not escape the idea that at least one person had made the effort to hire a boy to throw that ridiculous print through her window. That person might well be in attendance, but how would she know? She also could not escape the idea that many people, even if they’d not seen the print, would have heard some version of what had occurred in the park. Mr. Richards certainly had heard of it only hours after the event, though she still was not clear on why the gentleman thought Sybil ought to break with her over three gentlemen escorting her home. Perhaps her facility with a shotgun had been shocking enough for the man.

  Cassandra searched desperately for Sybil. Though her aunt remained at her side, she felt Sybil to be her life raft in a stormy sea. It would be hard enough to locate her friend at a ball this large, and here everyone wore a mask. How would she ever find her?

  She was suddenly tapped on the shoulder. Sybil said, “I know that is you, Cassandra, I recognize the chain of white roses embroidered on the hem of your dress.”

  Cassandra turned and found Sybil, masked as a dove in soft grey feathers.

  “Sybil!” Cassandra practically cried out, relieved to be united with her friend. “You are a dove, Lady Blakeley could not have chosen better for my friend.”

  “And you a fawn,” Sybil said. “I believe we have done very well on that front. I have heard that the Montagues are not attending this evening because Lady Montague received a mask very much resembling a snake.”

  “Goodness,” Cassandra said. “It would appear Lady Blakeley did not wish her to attend, as who would don such a thing?”

  Cassandra found herself markedly relieved that the lady would not attend. She could not know if anything about her had reached Lady Montague’s ears, but she could guess that if it had, the lady would be condemning.

  On the other hand, she was rather embarrassed by her own delight at Lady Montague’s misfortune. If Sybil had heard of the mask of a snake, it must be talked of widely. She was ashamed to feel relief at another suffering at the hands of gossip, even if that person was the stern Lady Montague. It was as if gossip and rumor were hunters and the ton was a timid herd of deer—each deer secretly hoped it would be another singled out for shooting.

  Lady Marksworth had stepped away to speak with a friend and Cassandra and Sybil gazed around the ballroom.

  “It is almost off-putting,” Sybil said, “to not know who anybody is.”

  “At the moment,” Cassandra said, “I find myself rather glad of it as no prying eyes know who I am.”

  “Do be cheerful, Cass,” Sybil said. “I told everything to my mother and father and they stand with Marksworth House. My father said if everybody is to reshuffle their friends because of some ridiculous print going round, England is sunk. My mother stood and quite wonderfully vowed to do battle alongside Miss Knightsbridge’s forces. She’s got Margaret Beaufort back in her line somewhere and is quite happy to engage in an extended campaign.”

  “I am so grateful,” Cassandra said, “you must tell them.”

  A gentleman masked as what appeared to be a stern old clergyman approached them and they could talk no further on the subject.

  “Miss Knightsbridge,” he said, holding his hand out for her card.

  Cassandra had no doubt of the voice, it was rich and deep. “Lord Hampton?” she asked, handing it over.

  He nodded as he put down his name for the dance before supper. Why that dance? Was he not aware of the talk? Had he not heard of the print? Would not this cause even further tal
k?

  He handed the card back to her and bowed before moving away.

  “He must not have heard that he has caused you trouble by escorting you from the park,” Sybil said. “I suspect it is not as widely spoken of as you feared. Now, I wonder why Lady Blakeley masked Lord Hampton as an old vicar?”

  “I wonder how Lord Hampton addressed me by name before we had even spoken. How did he know it to be me?”

  Before Cassandra could speculate on how Lord Hampton knew her as the fawn, a fierce-looking pirate approached and requested her card. He hastily filled in his name, quickly followed by a gentleman wearing a mask of a savage-faced boar, another wearing a mask of gold coin, then a knight, and finally a replica of a Waterloo medal. Though her card was filled in rapid succession, none of the gentlemen stayed to speak with her, though some had put down their names on Sybil’s card too.

  There was finally a pause and Cassandra glanced down at her card to see who they were, almost terrified she would find Mr. Conners in the mix.

  She did not find Mr. Conners, but the list of names left her cold. Hampton, Dalton, Lockwood, Ashworth, Grayson and Cabot. Every single gentleman named in the pact.

  Was she the subject of some joke between them? How else to account for it? She’d never even been introduced to Lords Dalton, Grayson or Cabot, and they’d not bothered to accomplish that nicety before writing their names down.

  Cassandra scanned the room and noted Lord Hampton’s vicar in conference with a man masked as a jester. The jester looked back at her and she turned away.

  They spoke of her, she knew it. She could feel it in her bones. Perhaps she ought to seek out her aunt and they might claim an illness and leave. Whatever transpired here, it felt dangerous. She felt a sense of impending doom, though had she been asked to explain it she did not know what she would have said. Many a lady might be delighted to find such illustrious names on her card, but in light of recent events…

  The jester had crossed the room in a moment and stood before her. “Miss Knightsbridge? It is Burke, of course you must have guessed the jester’s mask would be my own. It seems my blasted cook and the stories I tell of him have made a fool of me.”