The Viscount’s Sinful Bargain

by Archer, Kate

  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 talk?

  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.”

  “Lord Burke!” she said, not quite knowing what to make of it.

  “May I?” he asked.

  She handed over her card and Lord Burke filled in his name for the last dance that had not yet been taken. Her evening was claimed, and it was claimed by every gentleman in the room who would be a duke someday.

  Cassandra did not know the meaning of it, but she was beginning to be terrified of discovering it. If it had caused talk to be escorted home by three gentlemen of the pact, what would be the result of this? It would not go unremarked. She might hide behind her fawn’s mask for now, but it would come off at supper.

  *

  The evening had seemed interminable to Cassandra. She had opened the ball with Lord Dalton. He seemed a rather intense sort of person and she began to see how he might be styled as a pirate. He did not explain himself, other than noting that had he been born without funds he might very well have taken up the profession. She had asked him if he liked masked balls, that seeming an entirely innocuous question. He’d said he did not like them but should, as it was a kindness to others that his disfigured face remained hidden. She had stayed silent after that.

  Lord Lockwood had been rather frightening to behold, his mask composed of some sort of rough fur that stuck out at all angles, and frightening tusks protruding. His conversation had been far more lighthearted than his appearance. He speculated he’d been made a boar for his penchant of barreling ahead before thinking. It had nearly got him killed in the war and he still hadn’t rid himself of the habit. On the other hand, he’d rather be known as a boar than a bore.

  Aside from those comments, he’d asked her a few questions about Sybil. Cassandra speculated that she might even divine some int
erest on his part and felt sorry that Sybil was determined to avoid the gentlemen of the pact, and that Sybil’s father had a hatred of his own father over a long past card game. If Lord Lockwood did have some partiality for Sybil, it was an entirely lost cause.

  Lord Ashworth accounted for his mask of gold coins by claiming he was a keen gambler. His father had been dead set against it until he saw how much money his son had brought back into the estate.

  Lord Cabot had appeared reluctant to account for his mask being the Waterloo medal, until finally admitting that he perhaps talked of the war and its battles a bit much for the female taste. He had seemed vastly grateful when she remarked that the impact of war could only be rightly felt by those persons who had participated in it and everybody else should not presume to comment.

  Cassandra had not expected Lord Hampton to account for being portrayed as a vicar. In truth, she was rather surprised he’d come at all. Very like Lady Montague’s snake, she would have thought he’d have looked at it, tossed it aside, and then sent his regrets.

  As they waited their turn to move through the steps, he said, “It seems each year Lady Blakeley sets out to teach me a lesson. I suppose I am to know that I am too serious this time.”

  “Do you mark yourself as such?” Cassandra asked, rather surprised that she’d not had to initiate the conversation and rather relieved it was not on the subject of dogs or kennels.

  “Perhaps,” Lord Hampton said. “Perhaps more so since the war. Too many lives wasted in battle for any sort of frivolity to feel entirely comfortable.”

  “My father would agree regarding the lives wasted,” Cassandra said. “He says it’s all well and good to be blindly patriotic, but that is cold comfort for a farmer who’s lost his only son.”

  “One of the tenants on my father’s estate had three sons and lost them all. It makes one wonder over the rightness of having survived.”

  Cassandra was struck with the lord’s words. She had become used to various gentlemen speaking of the war in heroic terms of this or that battle as if it were a story, or Lord Burke making it all sound like a joke.

  “I suppose you do no great service to the dead by failing to enjoy that which was not taken from you.”

  The lord appeared thoughtful over that idea, or at least as thoughtful as one could seem while wearing a mask. Or perhaps it was the mask itself, looking thoughtful all on its own. Cassandra could not be sure. She could also not be sure how she might inquire about the various names on her card. It could not be a coincidence, and yet what could be the meaning of it? She had worried it was some sort of joke, until she thought of how unlikely it would be for Lord Hampton to joke. Still, what could she say without seeming either odd or accusing? Or worse, appearing as if she’d gone fishing for some compliment to herself?

  As it happened, no further conversation was had on any subject, as it was their turn to execute the steps.

  *

  It seemed Lady Blakeley did everything her own way; the entrance to supper was done in strict order by rank of the gentlemen and organized by her butler who appeared to be a regular Debrett’s on who was who behind each mask. As Lord Hampton was to be a duke, they were near the front of the line. Dear Sybil was being taken in by Lord Lockwood and stood directly behind them—Cassandra had great hopes of being placed next to them at table. Lady Marksworth was escorted by a Marquess who was a dear old friend and lined up not so far behind them. If she were fortunate, she would find herself surrounded by friends and allies.

  The Blakeley’s dining room was a sight to behold—its length was enormous and had no trouble accommodating sixty couples. Lady Marksworth had told Cassandra that Lord and Lady Blakeley had done extensive renovations and had removed a wall adjoining a large sitting room so that the dining room now ran the length of the house. However, it was the room’s decoration that struck.

  An exotic silk fabric lined the walls, depicting maharajahs sitting on gold thrones under palm trees, fanned by small boys wielding marvelously large feathers. The chairs of the endless table were covered in striking red satin. The chandeliers dripped with colored glass in amethyst, amber and cobalt, hundreds of candles casting their glow through them and giving the room an air of drama and mystery. Even the plates were unusual, with a rim of vibrant red and a center depicting a multi-colored star, said to be Russian porcelain.

  Cassandra was seated near the head of the table and to her great approval, Sybil and Lord Lockwood were directly across. While that was a comfort, she knew that the time would soon come when everybody was to remove their masks and that was a less comfortable idea. She’d noted the looks, particularly toward the end of the dancing, as she was led by one would-be duke after the next. She did not think her own identity particularly known, but she had the feeling that the gentlemen’s identities were less secret. It would not surprise her to know that there were those who would be interested to see who the girl was that had accomplished such a feat. For that matter, she did not know herself why it should be so.

  She felt her trepidation growing as the table filled, it was impossible to ignore the various glances made in the direction of the fawn.

  Lady Blakeley had risen, and the table quieted.

  “Good evening, my friends,” she said. “As always, my dear husband has given over the pleasure of bidding you welcome as he knows well my fondness for talking.”

  There was gentle laughter up and down the table.

  “As those of you who have attended this little soiree in years past know, it amuses me to choose the masks for my guests. Some are gentle teasing, some a small compliment, and very few a light jab. This evening I am most gratified to see such wonderful creatures as a fawn, a dove, a kitten, and a canary.

  Cassandra blushed beneath her mask. Why should the lady reference so few, herself included? There were so many different masks at the table.

  “Gentle creatures such as those depend upon our kindness and reward us with their innocence. One does not like to think of, or even to countenance, the individual who would be cruel to those defenseless beings.”

  Cassandra felt her cheeks must burn through her mask. The lady was making a point about the rumors regarding her, she was certain of it. She was scolding the diners lest one of them think to believe them or spread them.

  She noted Lady Marksworth’s owl nod approvingly and the idea was entirely confirmed. While it was embarrassing in the extreme, she could not help but be grateful for Lady Blakeley’s pointed defense.

  “Of course, we have fiercer miens amongst us and I will thank Lord Lockwood to have a care for those tusks near my china.”

  Laughter erupted at the table. After it died down, Lady Blakeley said, “Naturally, there are the very few who do not care for my commentary. But then, I do not particularly wish to have a snake in my house.”

  The laughter at that was widespread, though more hushed. It was as if those amused also worried that Lady Montague might make an appearance and strike as deadly as the snake she was meant to be.

  Cassandra was in awe of Lady Blakeley’s daring. She had grown used to the careful conversations of society and yet here was a woman who maintained strong opinions and would make them known. Here was a woman not the least bit afraid to take on the formidable Lady Montague.

  While Cassandra knew she was not of an age or sufficient authority to dare the same herself, she could not help but admire it.

  “Now, my lovelies, and you are all lovely in my eyes,” Lady Montague said gaily, “reveal yourself to be who you are in the rest of your life.”

  Masks were slowly removed and, as Cassandra had expected, quite a few people watched her remove her own. Their attention was diverted by Lady Blakeley clapping in appreciation of the faces turned to her. She motioned to her butler, who motioned to his footmen, and an immense variety of dishes began to make their rounds like a much-practiced ballet.

  As the dishes came round, Cassandra was pensive. She would very much like to ask Lord Hampton how it was that all si
x gentlemen of the pact had ended up on her card. She had thought it through backward and forward and yet there seemed no casual way to bring it up.

  “You will be pleased to know, Miss Knightsbridge,” Lord Lockwood said from across the table, “that we do not see a particular Mr. C. here this evening. One does not dare show one’s face when one has discovered one’s face was to be masked as a rat.”

  Cassandra looked down at her plate, hardly knowing how to answer the lord. There were so many thoughts swirling in her mind at once. Of course he referred to Mr. Conners. Had Lady Blakeley gifted a mask of a rat to Mr. Conners because she’d heard of his behavior in the park or for some other offense? If it had been due to the insult to herself, then did all of London know of it? If they did, then would it not have been more understandable that the three lords had escorted her home?

  She did not know what to make of it.

  Lord Hampton answered for her. “I think we need not expend any time discussing that particular gentleman.”

  Lord Lockwood seemed surprised but nodded.

  “Though,” Cassandra said, desperate for any bit of information, “I would like to know the cause, if the gentleman was indeed given such a mask. Was it to do with his behavior in the park, or is he in the general habit of offending?”

  “The park,” Lord Lockwood said, albeit reluctantly now that his friend had made clear he wished to dismiss the subject.

  Cassandra did not believe she could persuade Lord Lockwood to say any more, though perhaps he’d said enough. She could not directly address the offensive illustration or the talk that went round about her, but she thought she could obliquely communicate her stance on it. And, truthfully, if she did not say something in her own defense, she might burst.

  “Were it up to me, I would have painted Mr. Conners as a mouse, rather than a rat—his efforts being so weak and feeble,” Cassandra said. “Though, I doubt he is alone in his ill-considered opinions. It matters little, all the mice in London may go round chattering, they will not attract my notice.” She paused and then said, “Other than to pick up a broom and chase them out to the street where they belong.”