by Kate Archer
The dowager picked up George and settled the dog in her lap. She said, “Quite right, Miss Knightsbridge. Bar the doors.”
Cassandra breathed a sigh of relief. Lady Marksworth nodded and said, “Do tell Lord Hampton that, unfortunately, we are not at home.”
The few callers remaining in the drawing room looked on, their expressions filled with fascination. Cassandra thought that was well. Despite the prince’s admonition to avoid gossip only the night before, they would talk of Lord Hampton’s refusal everywhere. It would be known that Miss Knightsbridge was not eager to reacquaint herself with the gentlemen of the pact.
*
Edwin brooded in his study, while Havoc slowly and quietly shredded the pages of a book at his feet. He’d seen the dog stealthily take the book off a shelf and should have roused himself to rescue it, but he’d not had the will.
Lady Marksworth had refused him entry. She was not at home. He knew perfectly well that he’d been refused with his grandmother’s consent.
He’d not even meant to go, but somehow had been led there. First, it had been the idea of visiting Dalton so he might look out the window to Marksworth House.
Then, all of those carriages coming and going had seemed to beckon him. At that moment, Miss Knightsbridge was greeting people, just inside the doors.
He’d resolved to go over, though Dalton had done everything possible to stop him, including threatening to tie him to a chair.
Edwin had not been convinced that Miss Knightsbridge would even be civil to him, but he had expected to get inside.
And then, that butler of hers! Folding his arms like a potentate and seeming very satisfied that Lady Marksworth was not at home. He’d said, “Sadly, Lady Marksworth is not at home.” The man had said “sadly” as if he’d never been happier in his life. He supposed servants held all kinds of opinions, though he’d never considered the idea until he’d found himself a footman. Apparently, this butler had developed very firm opinions on those who had nearly ruined Miss Knightsbridge. He supposed he shouldn’t condemn the fellow, as he happened to be right.
All of these ideas prompted him to consider the rightness of attending Lady Blakeley’s dinner. The lady had fashioned it as a surprise, but would it not be more of an ambush?
Still, he did not see when else he might have the opportunity to speak with Miss Knightsbridge. He’d already become aware that numerous invitations had been issued to her that very pointedly excluded him and his friends. If he could not speak to her, he would never be able to even attempt to soften her views.
Those views, he knew, were hardened like lead at the moment. Though he’d placed himself nearby her as often as he could at Carlton House, he might have been an actual footman for all the notice she took of him.
He’d stared at her lovely hair, ignoring the butler attempting to direct him, while she kept her back turned. She’d acknowledged him no more than she would a fly beating against a glass.
*
With very few exceptions, Cassandra had declined the dozens of invitations sent to her. She and the dowager had been through them together, Lady Marksworth happy to leave it in their hands and the dowager in agreement with Cassandra that she was not to be paraded about like a prize cow.
Though the dowager had approved of her attending Lady Blakeley’s dinner, she would not do so herself. She had arranged for a quiet evening of cards with some old friends and considered that vastly superior to a formal dinner.
Cassandra had broached the matter of the diamonds twice, certain they ought to be removed from the dress and returned to the lady. The dowager would not hear of it, rather, she said that every woman should have some sort of stockpile of her own. That way, no matter the winds of fate, she would not find herself entirely without means. The dowager had kept her own cache of jewels in a locked case throughout her marriage, in case her lord made one speculation too many and they found themselves fleeing to the continent to escape the debt. Cassandra was to remove the diamond encrusted overlay and tuck it away somewhere safe, as her own little bank against financial difficulties.
Cassandra still could not feel it was right, but faced with the lady’s fortitude on the subject, she’d personally wrapped the overlay in paper and stored it away. There would be time in future to determine what to do.
Now, she was dressed in a charming pale pink silk with the palest overlay of blue gauze giving the skirt a lovely lilac color. Earlier, Peggy had begun to suggest the yellow satin dress but had stopped herself when she noted her mistress’s expression. Cassandra thought she had learned more than one thing from the dowager, she had finally learned how to quell her maid.
She’d not been out since the ball at Carlton House and had rather enjoyed her time in. She, Lady Marksworth, and the dowager had grown very comfortable together and spent many an hour in the drawing room. She and Lady Marksworth sewed, but the dowager said she’d given it up long ago. Publicly, she blamed her eyes, but she admitted she just did not like it.
Sybil had come every day, with various reports of her previous evening’s activities. Cassandra was still hailed all over town as the innocent victim of a plot and the heroic savior of the dowager. Sybil also mentioned that she had not seen any of the gentlemen of the pact and had the idea they were not yet welcome most places. Cassandra hoped that would hold, those gentlemen ought to go home to the country and trouble her no more. She willfully ignored the flutter inside of her when she thought of one particular of those gentlemen—her mind could not be held responsible for what her feelings insisted on doing.
During this time of peace and quiet, Racine had been a veritable magician—always coming into the drawing room at just the right moment with biscuits and fairy cakes. The dowager was particularly fond of York biscuits and Racine made certain they were offered in abundance. It was well he did, as George appeared equally fond of them and had no compunction over stealing them off the tray.
Racine had got in the habit of taking George and May out to the back garden for exercise. They followed him so dutifully that Cassandra was fairly sure there were York biscuits in his pockets. Cassandra sometimes watched them romp down the paths and around bushes, George attempting to run with an oversize branch in his mouth and May gamely trying to take it from him but rarely succeeding.
It had been days of peaceful domesticity, but now it was time to venture out once more. Cassandra took a deep breath as she stepped over the threshold of Blakeley House.
Lady Blakeley, dressed in a magnificent royal blue kimono, rushed to greet her and her aunt.
“Lady Marksworth, Miss Knightsbridge,” she said, “I am so pleased you’ve come. We are honored, as I imagine your front hall filled to the brim with invitations.”
“As it happens,” Lady Marksworth said, laughing, “but Cassandra wished to accept only a few and I happily obliged.”
“I was determined only to see my real friends,” Cassandra said.
Lady Blakeley nodded. “Indeed. Those that sway with the winds are not to be depended upon, though they may be pitied for their lack of internal fortitude. Now,” she said, taking Cassandra’s arm, “let me take you in. We are to be a fairly small party this evening.”
At the drawing door, Lady Blakeley leaned close to Cassandra’s ear and said softly, “Remember what I said at Carlton House—there is a difference between those that are thoroughly bad and those who have done a bad thing.”
At first, Cassandra did not know why Lady Blakeley should have chosen that moment to repeat her admonishment. She soon did, though.
Lord Hampton stood in the drawing room, staring at her intently. In fact, he was the only person there.
He made his way over to her. “Miss Knightsbridge,” he said.
The lord was as handsome as he had ever been, and once more Cassandra felt a pang that he could not be that lord she’d invented in her mind—selfless, kind and brave. That melancholy feeling gave way to the simmering rage that was as a boiling pot of water. It was the burning rage th
at was always there, if sometimes lurking under the surface of her thoughts. She worked to keep her expression neutral. She would not allow him to discompose her.
Lady Blakeley had disappeared back to the front hall. Cassandra turned to Lady Marksworth. “Aunt?” she said.
Lady Marksworth, having got to know her niece much better over the season, and holding her own personal opinions of the gentlemen of the pact, said, “You do not need to speak to him if you do not wish it. I will inform Lady Blakeley that he is not to take you into dinner.”
Cassandra nodded. Lord Hampton said, “If I might just have a word. That is all I ask.”
While Cassandra knew the proper thing would be to say nothing and take herself off to some corner of the room, the anger that had festered for all these weeks would not allow it.
“A word?” she said. “What possible word could you have to say to me that I would be remotely interested in hearing?”
“Please, I ask you to only give me a moment. Lady Blakeley was kind enough to give you the time as a half hour early so I might accomplish it.”
Cassandra was rather shocked that Lady Blakeley would be his conspirator. Rather shocked that she would have invited him at all.
“You have no need to ever look upon me again, if you would just allow me this moment,” the lord said.
Cassandra could see he was intent on being persistent. She could also feel that the lord might not be the only person with something to say. In truth, she thought she might have quite a few things to say before they parted forevermore.
She allowed herself to be led to the far side of the room. Lady Marksworth called after her, “I shall be right here for you, Cassandra.”
At the pianoforte, Lord Hampton said, “You must know how deeply sorry I am for what occurred. I have no excuse for it, except to say I had never imagined it would grow so serious and took every step I could think of to stop it.”
None of this was particularly striking to Cassandra. It was precisely what she imagined he would say.
“Before my grandmother went to you,” the lord went on, “I had resolved to go to Surrey and apply to your father… apply to you. You see, I had thought I might—”
“You thought you might gain absolution and go on your merry way,” Cassandra said. “It is fortunate you did not arrive, my lord. I was much in the company of a gun and might have removed your head from your shoulders.”
There. She’d said it. She’d got the opportunity to say what she really felt. All the burning rage that had sat in her like a stone, wrapped up in a very neat picture for him to consider. It felt as a great relief, as if she had been in danger of bursting if she did not give voice to it.
Lord Hampton appeared taken aback and Cassandra suppressed a smile. She very much doubted anybody had ever spoken to him of removing his head from his shoulders.
He quickly recovered himself. “I sought to propose marriage,” he said. “It would have restored you to your rightful place.”
Cassandra’s breath caught. It was as the duke had hinted, though the duke had been under the impression his son had already asked and been declined.
Still, as handsome as he was, and as genial as he had been in her imagination, the thought of tying herself to this villain… well, it was impossible. She would not be his alibi, his convenient exit from shame.
“My lord,” she said quietly, “thanks to your grandmother, the prince and a collection of embarrassed dukes, I no longer need restoring. Furthermore, if I had needed such a service, I would no sooner tie myself to the author of my travails than I would throw myself off London Bridge. Your vanity and conceit know no bounds. I once informed you that not every lady is eager to know you; I am surprised you did not heed the idea. That is all that need be said on the subject.”
Cassandra turned and marched back to her aunt, leaving the lord at the pianoforte.
Lady Marksworth whispered in her niece’s ear. “If you wish to leave, I will make our excuses.”
Cassandra said, none too quietly, “It is the gentleman who should remove himself.”
Lord Hampton hesitated a moment, then he bowed, and left.
Chapter Eighteen
Having gained her aim and driven Lord Hampton from the house, Cassandra thought she should feel more satisfied than she did. She had made her point and forced the man out and yet… she did not know what she thought about it.
The idea that he would offer himself up in marriage as a penance. It was precisely what she and Sybil had sought to avoid—becoming trapped in a loveless marriage and left behind in the country for all her days. Surely, that was what he’d intended. He might proffer his hand and then glory in the sacrifice he’d made and take congratulations all round while she idled alone in some cavernous house with no nearby neighbors.
Shortly after Lord Hampton made his exit, Lady Blakeley came in. “He has told me everything. Please do not be angry, he is so heartsick I could not help it, though you find you cannot forgive him.”
Cassandra stared at Lady Blakeley. Heartsick? He was not heartsick. Why should she say so? Lord Hampton, heartsick? No, certainly not.
Was he? Had she misread his intentions? She really assumed that he offered his hand as some noble gesture he could think upon with pride. Had it been otherwise? Would it matter if it had been otherwise? That, she could not answer.
“It is no matter, Lady Blakeley,” Cassandra said in the steadiest voice she could muster. “You did what you thought to be right, and so did I.”
“Very well,” Lady Blakeley said more cheerfully. “I hope then, that you can forget the little encounter that has just occurred and manage to enjoy the evening. Lord Burke will come, and I will have him take you into dinner. If anybody can amuse, it is him.”
Cassandra felt rather numb, as if she had fallen through the ice on a vast lake and somehow been pulled out. She sank down on a sofa, not particularly sure if her legs could hold her up at the moment.
She scolded herself for it. She must recover her spirits. It was true that Lord Burke could not fail to amuse anybody who wished to be amused. She must make a very great effort to be amused. She could think of Lord Hampton later. Or preferably, not at all.
*
Edwin did not go immediately home. Rather, he trotted his horse through the dark streets, the gloom suiting his mood.
Lady Blakeley had been so set on the idea that Miss Knightsbridge’s feelings must soften, but she had been mistaken. The lady’s feelings were as iron and included shooting off his head.
His father was right, he was an idiot.
He’d begun the season bemoaning the directive to choose a wife. He’d been determined to do everything in his power to outfox the old man and remain a comfortable bachelor.
Edwin laughed bitterly to think of how hard he’d been willing to work to avoid falling prey to a lady. Now, he’d worked equally hard to gain one, all to no avail.
His debasement as a footman had not been enough for Miss Knightsbridge. His apology had not been enough either. If he were honest with himself, there was likely not anything he could do or be that would be enough.
Some other lucky gentleman would win the lady. Someday, he really would have to marry and then he would be forced to look upon that unwanted lady, always comparing her to what might have been. His wife would be an ever-constant reminder of what he’d destroyed.
Still, he’d brought himself to this pass and could not blame another. He must just become accustomed to unhappiness. Perhaps it would fade to a dull regret over time.
A rat scurried underneath his horse and it startled, sidestepped and then reared, nearly forcing him off. Regaining control and coming back to the present, Edwin looked about.
He no longer traveled on cobblestone, but rather a wet clay squelched under his horse’s hooves. Narrow streets ran off in every direction, the houses that lined them seeming to lean toward one another as if ready to collapse. The air was heavy with the smell of refuse and smoke. No lamplighter had dared enter
the neighborhood to shed illumination on his surroundings, though if they had Edwin was certain he would have seen gaunt figures huddled in doorways.
He had wandered into the Seven Dials unarmed.
To find himself so foolhardy was as cold water on his face.
What was he doing, wandering into a thieves’ den as if he preferred to die by rusty knife? He was not a maudlin sort! He’d been through the war, for God’s sake. This was to be another war. He may have lost a battle, but he had not yet lost the war.
Edwin turned his horse and cantered toward home, passing lurking shadows who no doubt admired his purse and wished he’d slow down. There was no time to accommodate those wretches—it was time to devise a campaign.
*
Cassandra had worked hard to regain her composure after Lord Hampton had left Lady Blakeley’s house. At least, to regain the appearance of composure. That effort had been helped along by Lady Blakeley herself.
While the hostess may have mistakenly invited Lord Hampton to her dinner, the rest of the guests were all friendly faces to Cassandra. It was a small party and composed of those that she thought she could trust. Sybil and her parents, Lord Burke, and some others, in particular Miss Penny Darlington, that she did not suspect of glorying in gossip.
They were a cozy party of fifteen sat round a circular table in a smaller dining room. Cassandra presumed a sixteenth chair for Lord Hampton had been hastily removed and the place settings adjusted to the new number.
Lady Blakeley rose to make a toast.
“My dear friends, I bid you welcome to my table,” she said. “When you look about, you will notice how few real friends I think I have, as nobody but a true friend is allowed in here. This is my favorite room in the house, for it is where my husband and I gather the people we truly like. We are at once delighted to receive Miss Knightsbridge back to her proper place in the world, and thrilled that a certain Lady M has found her own proper place far to the north.”
