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 corners 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 remained 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.
He could not be certain what effect it had, but for the most part he’d not been believed.
He and his friends admitted to being the worst sort of scoundrels and only kept getting congratulated on their chivalry for attempting to defend the lady!
He really was not certain what to do now, though he thought he ought to go to Surrey and attempt an interview with the viscount. He would own what he did, what attempts had been made to rectify it, and then offer his hand to Miss Knightsbridge.
He could not guess how he would be received, but if the gentleman was of a practical turn of mind, he might see the marriage as a solution.
Would she forgive him, though? Even if he managed to get past the father, would his daughter accept him?
He did not know, but over the days he’d become more and more determined to win her over. In truth, over the days, he’d realized that there would be no other for Edwin Weston.
She no doubt knew by now that they’d owned their crime, but could she find a way to look past it? Then, even if she could, did she even like him a little? She did not even wish to become a duchess, she’d said so the first night they’d met.
It felt a steep mountain to climb, but climb it he would.
Dreyfus softly knocked on the door and opened it. “The dowager duchess to see you, my lord.”
Edwin dropped his quill. His grandmother? Here?
Before he could gather his wits, the dowager stormed the room. “You reprobate! You absolute reprobate!”
“Duchess,” he said.
“Silence!”
*
The next hour of Lord Hampton’s life was filled with the sort of vitriol and condemnations that one would expect from a judge to a murderer.
The dowager, as it turned out, was a particular friend of Miss Knightsbridge’s father. They had kept up a correspondence for going on twenty-five years. The viscount had recently apprised her of Miss Knightsbridge’s misfortune and who was to blame for it.
Edwin attempted to speak once or twice, but it was all for naught.
His grandmother would hear of no excuse, no explanation, no justification. He must bear the full weight of the crime on his shoulders and he should carry it with him all of his days. Once a soul had been stained in such a manner, it could not be washed clean again.
Finally, Edwin stood and yelled, “I’ll marry her!”
The dowager paused in her diatribe. “What did you say?”
“I’ll marry her, if she’ll have me,” Edwin said. “That is the only reparation that I can think of.”
The dowager examined him with a critical eye. “I see. So, heaped upon what you have done already, you would propose to lock the poor girl into a loveless marriage in order to assuage your conscience.”
Edwin did not answer, though he was certain his face flamed red.
“Or is it,” the dowager said thoughtfully, “that you do love her?”
“As it happens,” Edwin said stiffly.
“Good God, man,” the dowager said. “It is bad enough to impugn a lady’s honor but why on earth would you so damage a lady you admire?”
Edwin looked down at his desk and muttered, “It was all rather complicated.”
“Apparently,” the duchess said, drily.
“I was planning to go to Surrey and speak with the viscount. Own everything, and then offer my hand.”
“There is hardly a need to explain anything to the viscount at this point,” the dowager said, “the man is already perfectly aware of your part in it. As for a marriage proposal, you may cool your heels here for the time being. It is I who will go to Surrey.”
Edwin did not know what his grandmother intended to accomplish, nor whether it was right for her to go, rather than himself. It mattered not, as once the dowager had set her mind on something, everybody else must just jump out of the way.
*
The afternoon being bright and warm, and Jimmy having spent days rolling up and drying a respectable-sized stack of clay balls, Cassandra determined to go out for shooting practice. The more she used her shotgun, the more she liked it. In most other things she was powerless, but with a shotgun she felt the mistress of her own destiny. She found it rather pleasant to s
ilently name the clay balls before she shot them out of the sky, and she had blown the head off Mr. Longmoore, Lady Montague, and all six gentlemen of the pact repeatedly. Perhaps none more so than Lord Hampton.
She rode Juno down the country road that led to their usual hill and dale, that bit of land well-suited to get the balls high in the air for her to shoot. Johnny jogged along with two baskets filled with the balls on either side of a stick resting on his shoulders. He would set up the slingshot on the ridge. Jimmy trotted on a sturdy pony, carrying the guns.
They’d set up in good time, both Jimmy and Johnny so well used to the activity that they did not need to be directed. Cassandra thought they were rather fond of it, as it got them out of the house and away from Maidencraft’s stern and watchful eye.
Cassandra had already shot half of the balls they’d brought along when she heard the distinct rumblings of a carriage approaching. She held up a hand to Johnny at the top of the hill to pause him in his launches and motioned for Jimmy to follow her in stepping behind the wide trunk of an old oak tree.
Though she was determined to live as she pleased, she would not give any nosy passerby the satisfaction of being able to go round telling the tale of having seen Miss Knightsbridge shoot.
A well-equipped carriage came into view. It was driven at a reckless speed and Cassandra thought they’d better slow to make an upcoming turn or they might well tip over.
She squinted and saw the driver madly whipping the horses. What an idiot! Nobody should treat their horses so. She supposed some thoughtless young buck had given his coachman the impossible task to be somewhere they could not be if they were to drive sensible.
Suddenly, three riders came into view, gaining on the coach.
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