The Viscount’s Sinful Bargain

by Archer, Kate

  Lady Sedway guided the two gentlemen to Cassandra and her aunt. “I do not know if you have been introduced—Lord Hampton, Lord Ashworth, may I present Miss Knightsbridge and Lady Marksworth.”

  The gentlemen bowed. Lord Hampton said, “We met at the Bergrams’ ball, I believe.”

  Cassandra knew that to be the snub it was intended to be. To say he “believed” they had met was to say she had not made much of an impression. She supposed she was meant to be insulted by it, but she was far from it. She would be very grateful to be forgettable, including all she had said, in the lord’s mind.

  Lord Ashworth said, “Miss Knightsbridge.”

  Cassandra thought he said it almost as a question. He had such a quizzical look that she began to wonder if Lord Hampton had seen fit, after all, to repeat her unique views expressed over supper.

  Lady Sedway led the gentlemen away to introduce them to Miss Darlington.

  “Well,” Lady Marksworth said softly, “I see the pact gentlemen have taken their fathers seriously. They will attend everywhere they are invited. I imagine a small dinner such as this would not generally attract their notice.”

  Cassandra did not answer and Lady Marksworth went on.

  “Of course, I believe Lord Hampton is a cousin to Lord Sedway somehow or other so that might account for it. In any case, the circumstances are fortuitous for our hostess; it is often hard to balance a table for a dinner.”

  Cassandra did not particularly concern herself over whether the table was balanced. She only concerned herself with the wish that Lord Hampton be seated far away from her at that table.

  Lady Sedway had left Lord Hampton and Lord Ashworth speaking to Miss Darlington. She glided by Cassandra and whispered in her ear. “I will have Hampton take you in, you may thank me later.”

  Cassandra felt the blood drain from her cheeks and had a great urge to run after her friend and somehow convince her to have things changed. It would be far more convenient to have Lord Hampton take in Miss Darlington.

  She did not do so. She could not do so. Nobody would dare trifle with a lady’s dinner arrangements. Worse, she was all but certain that dear Anne had put careful thought into the matter and viewed herself as doing a great favor for her friend. Lady Sedway could not know that Cassandra and Lord Hampton had got off on the wrong foot. No, that was an understatement. They had got off on the wrong two legs.

  “Did she say Hampton?” Lady Marksworth said softly. “Well done, Lady Sedway.”

  *

  By the time dinner was announced, Cassandra had steeled herself to be taken in by Lord Hampton. Further, she’d decided that it was not very sensible to make an enemy of him, despite her personal opinions. It appeared she was to be encountering him everywhere and so it would be more comfortable to smooth things over in some manner.

  He had taken her in silently, gravely even, and now they sat next to each other. It was becoming apparent that the lord would not initiate a conversation so, just as she had been forced to do at the Bergrams’ ball, she would need to say something.

  “How do you know Lord and Lady Sedway, my lord?” she said. Nothing could be more commonplace and guaranteed not to offend.

  “My father is second cousin to Lord Sedway’s father,” Lord Hampton said. “And you?”

  At least he had followed his answer with a question, which was a deal more than he’d done when they’d danced at the ball. “I have known Lady Sedway since I was a child,” Cassandra said. “Her father’s estate is very nearby my own father’s in Surrey.”

  Lord Hampton nodded, but did not reply. Cassandra supposed that was to be the end of any light conversation between them.

  She said, “My lord, I really must apologize for my remarks at the Bergrams’, both in the ballroom and at supper. They were ill-conceived, to say the least.”

  There. She’d said it. Now, if he were any sort of gentleman at all, he would accept the apology and they would go on as if nothing had ever occurred between them.

  “Ill-conceived? Do you say, then,” Lord Hampton asked, “that you do not ride without a groom or shoot birds?”

  Truly? He would wish to go on with it? Why did he not simply nod in acknowledgement of her regret? She had no wish to expound on anything she’d said, nor would she outright lie by denying any of it.

  “I say, my lord,” Cassandra said cautiously, “that I regret what I said. Perhaps that may be deemed sufficient?”

  Lord Hampton did finally then nod his assent, though it perturbed Cassandra that he should still be wondering what she did on her own estate. She supposed the idea of shooting off a shotgun was particularly surprising. Other ladies had been known to ride at a gallop through Hyde Park, their grooms falling somewhat behind. They were perhaps looked at askance, but it did not rise to the level of shock. The shooting birds, though. Even her father had said she ought not mention it and her father did not bow to convention very often.

  Much to her relief, Lord Burke on her other side had turned to her, and Miss Penny Darlington had turned to Lord Hampton.

  The dinner went on in such a manner. On her one side, voluble Lord Burke and his war stories, not the least of which was a horrifying tale of his cook refusing to even name a dish, and then when forced, calling it Un cheval que vous avez peut-être vu récemment, otherwise understood to be ‘a horse you may have seen recently.’ It had completely put her off her beef.

  On her other side, a stilted conversation with Lord Hampton. She had tried asking him of the war, but he was not as eager to speak of it as Lord Burke. She had asked him about his county, but it appeared that Derbyshire was an uninteresting sort of place with little to mention. Finally, at a complete loss, she had asked him if he were fond of dogs. That topic, of all others, seemed at least mildly interesting to the lord.

  “I am fond in the usual way,” he said. “My father’s master of the hounds and I have just designed new kennels in the modern style.”

  “My own father’s hounds live better than some people, I think,” Cassandra said. “He’s been very careful to put drains low, keep their beds off the floor and ensure they are warm in winter. He takes great care matching their food to the season.”

  “I am not surprised by it,” Lord Hampton said, “anybody wishing their hounds in good form must do all of those things.”

  “I suppose so, and while I admire the whole operation exceedingly, I must admit having a particular affection for my own mastiff. He does nothing useful and ought to be in the stables, but I prefer to keep him in the house. I am certain he rather prefers it as well.”

  In an instant, Lord Hampton looked truly interested. “I, too, own a mastiff. His name is Havoc and he spends the majority of his time in my library, gnawing on my books.”

  Cassandra laughed, and it was not a forced laugh. “My own is named Mayhem, May for short. She will happily chew up anything she suspects has any amount of value.”

  “I had been under the impression that most ladies preferred a lap dog,” Lord Hampton said. “My mother has some kind of little dust ball—a Pomeranian, I think.”

  “I find larger breeds have a better temperament,” Cassandra said. “Perhaps because they do not spend all their time worrying about being stepped on. May, when she is not destroying something, is generally ranged out in front of the fire and fast asleep, as comfortable as if she were the master of the house.”

  Lord Hampton nodded. “I do believe the larger breeds are more content with their lot. My mother’s dog is forever yapping at the air.”

  “Yes,” Cassandra said. “I suppose their bark is meant to make up for their lack of size.”

  Suddenly, both seemed to note that they’d had a civil exchange for once and both looked away in embarrassment. Cassandra could not say why in particular she should be embarrassed over it, except for perhaps the meaningful glance coming from Lady Marksworth from the other end of the table.

  They had one further interesting conversation before the dinner ended. Cassandra had mentioned h
er father’s interest in safety measures for his farm workers. Lord Hampton had commented that his own father routinely ordered sick hands to stay abed, as it had been his observation that one sick hand would lead to all sick hands unless the first to come down with the sickness was separated from the rest. That had led to a conversation on safety practices in general, and Cassandra had noted that nothing could be more prone to accident than the sidesaddle and she’d added a second girth to her own to mitigate the risk of sliding.

  After she’d said it, she worried that she’d wandered dangerously close to the subject of riding without a groom, but the lord did not allude to it. Instead, he had appeared to view it as good sense and had even hinted he might pass the idea on to his sister.

  It occurred to Cassandra that while their conversations were commonplace, his words somehow managed to make Lord Hampton even more attractive than she had originally thought him. When he was engaged in a subject, his features were more lively and his strong jaw softened. When he looked at her with interest, she felt a soft shiver run down her back.

  It was a ludicrous thing to feel a shiver while a man talked of dogs. And it was also a shame he was to be a duke and involved in that ridiculous pact.

  In any case, it appeared the rift between them was mended and for that she was grateful.

  *

  Lord Hampton left the Sedways’ dinner in some internal consternation. That consternation had evolved quite significantly over the course of the evening. At first, he had been confounded to find Miss Knightsbridge in attendance, and then further aggravated that he was to take her into dinner. Despite her looks, and they could slay any man with eyes in his head, he had no wish to hear of anymore of her bizarre habits. He already carried a touch of guilt over Dalton’s plan to dig up gossip, even though he tamped it down by convincing himself she’d earned it.

  But then, she had apologized for her remarks at the Bergrams’. She’d not rescinded them, which he’d thought odd, but she regretted them. He had begun to feel sorry that he’d allowed Dalton to take what the lady had said and attempt to make something of it. It began to feel shabby to cause a lady trouble, no matter how little, in an effort to move the attention away from the gentlemen subjected to the pact.

  That regret only grew the more they spoke. When they’d talked of dogs, there had been a real ease to it, very unlike his usual conversations with a lady. She’d even understood the importance of drains in a kennel, a subject he’d spent months discussing with his father’s master of the hounds.

  And who would have guessed a gentlewoman would prefer a mastiff over a puff of fur meant to be carried round the house like a bad-tempered reticule?

  Then, of course, she’d modified her sidesaddle to make it safer. He would only see the good sense in that and was determined to write his sister about the idea.

  All that, and there was that pretty face to contend with as well.

  Though Lockwood knew he had a weakness for a heart-shaped face, his friend did not know the beginnings of the inclination. When Hampton had been eight years old, he’d fallen hopelessly in love with Jenny, one of the dairy maids on his father’s estate. He’d even thought of how he would convince his father that they ought to marry. He’d hung around the barn when she milked the cows and one day finally worked up the nerve to tell her of his undying love.

  He blushed to think of it now. The girl had laughed as if it were the greatest joke in the world, called him a goose, and told him she planned to marry a young farmer down the road.

  It had taken him months to recover from being thrown over for a farmer, and he never did recover from his attraction to a heart-shaped face. He supposed now that his preference had been there all along and Jenny had only been the first female with such a face who’d crossed his path.

  Hampton reined in his horse, leapt down and handed it over to a groom.

  Here was another such heart-shaped face to cross his path, and far more complicated than Jenny had ever been. Miss Knightsbridge was unusual, that could not be denied. He still could not resign himself to approving of a lady wielding a shotgun. But then, he’d felt far more favorably about a lady knowing something about a well-built kennel. And, of course, she was a lady and not a dairymaid.

  Was that all, though? There was something about her that drew him in despite having no inclination to be drawn in. Each time he had turned to talk to Miss Darlington, half his attention had stayed directed toward Miss Knightsbridge and her conversations with Burke.

  His opinion of her felt in flux. What was not in flux was his determination to see Dalton and call off the scheme to use Miss Knightsbridge as a decoy for the convenience of him and his friends. That, he was now decidedly against.

  *

  Mr. Tuttle had found no difficulty at all in making his way round Guildford and its environs, gathering information for Lord Dalton on a certain Miss Knightsbridge. He’d been managing such clandestine forays for high and mighty gentlemen for two decades and Surrey was very like every other county in England—express interest in its doings and there was no end of folk who wanted to talk about it. Particularly, those on the low end of the stick delighted in talking about those on the high end of the stick.

  It was true that this particular business was not like his usual jobs. He’d been in the habit of tracking down a fellow’s wife, invariably that lady found with some ridiculous paramour or other. Or sometimes, locating a gentleman who’d run out on a debt. He’d even collared a clergyman who’d skipped off with the parsonage’s silver and brought him back to face his accusers. This was different. It had taken him quite some time to understand Lord Dalton’s meaning, but it seemed this lady did not cuckold a husband nor owe anybody a vast sum of money. She was to have broken more delicate rules, like riding her horse without a groom and shooting pheasant.

  He wondered what England was coming to, now that the high and mighty spent their time on such inane matters. Nevertheless, Lord Dalton had said he had reason to believe there was something more seriously amiss about the miss, and Tuttle was to discover it.

  Through his many conversations in various taverns, and the hours of useless information he’d gathered, there had finally been a diamond in the ashes. A man down on his luck, having been fired as the master of ceremonies at the Guildford Assembly Hall, had told him a remarkable story. He’d seen with his own eyes a certain Mr. Longmoore in heated conversation with Miss Knightsbridge. From what the man could overhear, the conversation had been of a personal nature. The old sot had even winked and said, “Very personal, if you understand. The lady hit him right in the face.”

  Tuttle did not understand precisely the meaning of what the unemployed master of ceremonies had witnessed, he’d not enough facts to go on, but he’d managed to find Mr. Longmoore and watch the man’s movements carefully. Finally, the gentleman in question had taken himself into the Beef and Boar, and Tuttle had followed him in.

  It was never any great trouble, when one insisted on buying one’s quarry a considerable amount of ale, to become fast friends within an hour. Within two hours, Tuttle had guided the man to the event in question and hinted at a large payment if the information was sufficiently interesting. Eyeing Mr. Longmoore’s rather frayed cuffs, Tuttle guessed any sort of unexpected funds would be most welcome.

  “I only say,” Longmoore said, “well, blasted, you know.”

  Of course, Mr. Tuttle did not know, and was becoming irritated with the gentleman. He’d run into his sort before—a man in the habit of saying a lot of words while saying nothing.

  “Mr. Longmoore,” Tuttle said smoothly, “my patron is very highly placed and has particular reasons for knowing what there is, if anything, against Miss Knightsbridge. He is prepared to pay handsomely for such information. Now, had you any sort of encounter with the lady that might prove interesting?”

  Mr. Longmoore drained his ale and Tuttle signaled the barkeep to bring another. Mr. Longmoore said, “She’s a dashed evil little miss, if you ask me.”


  “I am asking you,” Mr. Tuttle said. “My patron requires specifics, if you please.”

  Mr. Longmoore took a long swig of the ale that had just been placed in front of him. “I have a lot to offer, you know. Steady business and all that. She would have been comfortable, is all I say.”

  “I see,” Mr. Tuttle said, praying to the Gods that they were finally getting somewhere. “May I infer that you proposed to the lady and were declined?”

  The word “declined” seemed to strike Mr. Longmoore as a glove whipped across his cheek.

  “Declined? Me? Declined?” Mr. Longmoore said, pounding his fist on the table. “See here, good fellow, Ignatius Longmoore is never declined.”

  “No, of course not,” Mr. Tuttle said. “May I ask, then, when is the happy day to take place?”

  “Oh, uh, well, as to that…”

  Mr. Tuttle sighed. They were back to saying words with no meaning.

  “The day, Mr. Longmoore. If you please.”

  Tuttle watched with interest as Mr. Longmoore searched his mind for the day. The man finally seemed to find what he was looking for and said, “There will be no day, sir. As it happens, I broke it off. She was all too happy to accept, but I broke it off.”

  “You surprise me, Mr. Longmoore!” Mr. Tuttle said, fairly delighted with this development. “What reason could you have to call off the engagement? It must have been serious, indeed, if the viscount failed to kick up a fuss over the break.”

  Mr. Longmoore seemed rather perplexed by that question.

  “Come now, Mr. Longmoore,” Mr. Tuttle said. “It must have been terrible indeed. Of course, some things are well known, the lady’s habit of riding in an unseemly manner—”

  “She rides to the hunt on a specially-made saddle!” Mr. Longmoore cried. “Everybody knows about that!”

  “And the lady has been known to handle a shotgun,” Mr. Tuttle said.

  “She shoots birds with it!” Mr. Longmoore exclaimed. “Everybody knows about that.”

  “Yes, yes,” Mr. Tuttle said, motioning the barkeep to bring yet another glass of ale. “It seems everybody knows quite a few things about Miss Knightsbridge. What I wonder is, Mr. Longmoore, what is it about the lady that everybody does not know? What terrible thing was revealed that caused you to end the engagement?”