He’d noted Lady Montague’s glare at Lady Marksworth when the lady’s back was turned and considered it lucky she and her charge were even let in the door. Lady Montague was an ill-tempered and opinionated creature, and if anybody would have had the temerity to refuse them entrance, it would have been her.
He’d taken the dance before supper to send a message—whatever talk went round, Miss Knightsbridge was not shunned by a gentleman who would someday be a duke. He’d never been in the habit of flaunting his standing, but in that instance, he felt it might serve well.
At dinner, he could hardly think what to say. His shame at the coming storm was too deep and cut him like a sharpened sword. The lady had gamely suggested fountains and he found it a subject he could speak on without much concentration. Though, he could not ignore the unnatural silence around him. Everybody wished to overhear what Miss Knightsbridge would say. How else would they have something to repeat in the morning?
My God, when would she discover what was being said? How would she discover it?
It was bound to be some sort of public humiliation.
He wondered if he should not write an anonymous note and send it to Lady Marksworth to give them warning.
But what then? Would the lady whisk her niece back to Surrey? Was that wise? He could not be certain whether Miss Knightsbridge would be better served to disappear or stand firm in front of the thing. He did not know if she would be better served to know it or go on oblivious. To return home might be to validate all that had been said. To know it might cause her to do just that, or if not flee, then wear her feelings on her sleeve. Any sign of weakness would be as a deer to a wolf, and the ton’s predatory instincts would lead them to go in for the kill. If she went on as she did now, might she weather it? Might there be another story about another person that would capture society’s imagination?
How to unsay what was being said? Though he had thought long and hard and come up with nothing, he felt he must do something. They must all do something.
He resolved to call a meeting of the gentleman of the pact. Six heads were better than one, even if some of them were blockheads. They must do something for Miss Knightsbridge.
My God, they were to be dukes of the realm someday. They had responsibilities. They must show themselves to be above reproach, not the sort of base creatures who put their own comfort above all else. As the whole world had seen, a nobility forgetting those things was a nobility violently ended.
Edwin paused. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps that was the idea that would spur his friends to action—a reminiscence of what had happened in France.
As he thought of it, Edwin began to develop what might be a persuasive argument. At least, he hoped so. It was the only idea he’d had so far.
*
The breakfast room was filled with sunlight. It was perhaps the cheeriest of Lady Marksworth’s rooms—it had none of the formality of the public rooms nor any of the restraint of the carefully composed decorations of the bedchambers. It had the friendly feel of dark wood and worn cushions that reminded Cassandra of home.
“I am certain tongues will be wagging today,” Lady Marksworth said.
“Are you, aunt?” Cassandra asked. “What will have captured the ton’s imagination this time?”
“My dear,” Lady Marksworth said, “did you not note the looks when Lord Hampton took you into dinner? People positively stared.”
Cassandra began to feel uneasy. People had stared.
“I do not wonder at it,” Lady Marksworth said. “Here is Lord Hampton taking Miss Knightsbridge into dinner for the second time.”
Cassandra wrinkled her brow. “But surely nobody who was not in attendance would know that Lord Hampton took me in at the Sedways’.”
“Everybody who was not in attendance would know it. Little remains unknown in this town, my dear.”
“Well, if they did know it, they would certainly know that at a dinner it is the hostess who directs such things.”
“I suspect that fact has been conveniently put aside,” Lady Marksworth said. “The looks you received last evening were too marked to be ignored. In any case, it was entirely the lord’s choice last night, and he chose you. Of course, it will be remarked on.”
Cassandra had wondered why Lord Hampton had taken her in, but she had decided the lord wished to secure himself a dinner partner who was not in the least a danger in regard to the pact. Whatever the reason, she could not be comfortable in the idea that her name was mentioned in somebody’s drawing room, and certainly not in any conversation to do with the pact.
“Do not look so grieved, Cassandra. Many a girl would welcome the idea that she has been noticed.”
Many a girl might, but Cassandra Knightsbridge did not. Her cheeks were pink just thinking of it.
Or, perhaps her cheeks were pink because she realized she had not been suitably unhappy to be escorted into dinner by Lord Hampton. He was inscrutable, and not the easiest gentleman to converse with, and they had far too many awkward moments. And yet, she had not been entirely unhappy.
She found it was becoming hard to resist gazing upon that handsome face when it did not condemn her. When he spoke at ease, he was interesting and interested. She very much would have wished to have such a brother.
Cassandra paused her runaway thoughts. It would not do to lie to herself. A gentle fib, perhaps, but not an outright lie. When she looked upon Lord Hampton, she did not see a brother. When she heard the timbre of his voice, she did not hear a brother. He did not, on occasion, stare into her eyes like a brother.
Chapter Seven
The gentlemen of the pact had convened at Lord Dalton’s house once more, by the urgent request of Lord Hampton. Aside from Dalton, the rest of the men looked uncomfortable. Sheepish, even.
Edwin had no trouble divining why—they all would have heard the circulating rumors by now, and how wildly those rumors had grown. Worse, he’d been sent a copy of a satirical print by his sister. She’d thought it amusing, but would like to know who it was about, as she remained in Derbyshire and was not privy to all the London talk.
The print depicted a young lady on a rearing horse, aiming a fowling piece at three gentlemen flying overhead.
Edwin laid the print on the table and said, “We have done this. It will not be a week before the lady’s initials are in print too.”
Cabot tented his fingers and said, “Nobody ever knows the meaning of the initials. At least, not usually.”
“Ah, yes,” Ashworth said. “That is true.”
“There might be no end of ladies with the same initials,” Grayson said.
Edwin had thought the men would attempt to rationalize their crime. It was the way of men and their deeds—an awful thing must be bargained down to manageable proportions. They had done it in the war, they had done it as children telling a lie to avoid trouble. He’d done it himself when first this blasted idea had been discussed. There was only one way round such an inclination, and the only idea he’d had so far—appeal to their finer natures and their care for their own necks.
“Before we enumerate all the reasons we have not injured Miss Knightsbridge,” Edwin said, “let me point out the obvious. We have, and there is further damage yet to come. I do not believe the lady or her friends are even aware of the rumors, but they will be.”
He noticed some squirming around the table and that was well. A gentleman who could not help shifting in his chair had just heard an idea that stung with the uncomfortable ring of truth.
Now, he would roll the dice on a gamble. “Further, gentlemen,” he said, “we have unknowingly caused a far greater danger to ourselves in going on with this scheme.”
“To us?” Grayson asked.
“What danger can there be to us?” Ashworth asked. “Even if we are known to have taken the shot, it was Miss Knightsbridge herself who provided the gun.”
“That sworn statement from Longbottom or Longmoore or whatever name he calls himself is absolute rubbish and you a
ll know it,” Edwin said.
“Still,” Cabot muttered, “it is sworn. That is on his head, not ours.”
“And that is where you have gone so far wrong in your thinking,” Edwin said. “You believe your rank protects you, but it does nothing of the sort—it exposes you. Think of how the common people will consider it when they hear of six men to be dukes of England who have sunk so low as to malign a young lady for their own amusement. Six gentlemen who have paid off a scoundrel to swear to a lie.”
“It wasn’t amusement,” Ashworth said. “We wanted people to turn from talking of us to somebody else. You suggested her.”
Dalton laughed. “Come now, Hampton,” he said. “The thing won’t be traced back to us.”
“You think not?” Edwin said. “Were you her father, might you not have this Longmoore fellow hauled in front of you? Of course the whole scheme will come out in time. Though, whatever the viscount thinks to do about it will be nothing compared to the butcher and baker down the road.”
“We are now to worry ourselves over what a baker or butcher thinks of us?” Cabot said.
“You had better,” Edwin said darkly. “If there is one stupid thing you ought not be guilty of, it is ignoring what has gone before. Do you think the noblemen of France had a care for the baker’s opinion? Not until the baker was happy to watch their heads roll on the guillotine.”
The gentlemen at the table fairly recoiled at the idea. It was a thought that every man and woman with any sort of rank had considered in the dark hours of the night, though the idea was little discussed for fear of bringing it to life.
Englishmen prided themselves on being ever so much more civilized than the French. It could not happen here. And yet, might not it? Might there not come a time when commoners decided they did not care a fig who inherited what title and land from who? Might they not sit up one day and take a hard look at the Regent and his profligate spending and appetites? Might there not come a time when tenants simply decided not to pay their rents?
When would they all know when such a thing had begun to take hold? Would they be out one day, and some person would call them mister, rather than my lord? Or worse—citizen.
The Americans, and then the French, had sent a chilling message through the great houses of England and the continent—the privileged served at the pleasure of the common man. When the common man decided, en masse, that they preferred not to be ruled, the rule was ended.
“To be seen as abusing our power is to invite comment and scrutiny,” Edwin said. “We, of all men in England, must act above reproach. We have not done so in this case.”
Lockwood, who had so far been silent, said, “I have nothing against Miss Knightsbridge, but what’s done is done. In any case, we hardly need worry that your baker is poised to storm our estates.”
“No,” Edwin said. “Not today. But let me ask all of you—if your doors were stormed, what defenses do you have? The days of moats and murder holes and personal armies are long gone. The truth is, your houses would fall in less time than it takes for tea.”
Nobody countered that idea, as they all knew it to be true. They’d left their estates in the hands of their aged fathers and aged butlers and middle-aged stewards. Footmen were many, but not likely to risk their own person. It would not take ten determined men to seize control of any of their properties.
“We retain our privileges because all of England thinks it is right we do so. Or, if they do not feel that, they do not feel the sort of hatred that would galvanize them into action. If they ever have cause to change their minds, we will be helpless against it. We had better start acting as if we deserve such a courtesy. Revolutions do not occur because a man is run through with a sword, they begin because too many men have suffered a thousand small cuts. Do not let this circumstance become one of the cuts.”
“All right, Hampton,” Dalton said. “You’ve gone and painted a dire picture; we all regret poor Miss Knightsbridge and hope the local baker is not just now poisoning our bread. But what are we to do about it?”
“The only thing we can do about it,” Hampton said. “We will aim to fill Miss Knightsbridge’s dance card. We will engage her in conversation. We will speak to others of our admiration of the lady. We will conduct ourselves as if in a military campaign. We will send the clear message that whatever the world may think, we hold the lady in esteem. Mamas everywhere have very high hopes for their daughters just now, and they will stop their tongues if they believe they cross us.”
One by one, the men nodded in agreement. The growing resolve on their features gave Hampton every confidence that they would carry out his idea. Even Dalton, who of them all might be considered the least worried over a murderous baker, was engaged.
*
Cassandra had rarely been on horseback since she’d come to town. She’d been carried here and there in one of Lady Marksworth’s well-appointed carriages and had begun to feel very much like a bird in a cage, looking out the bars and yearning to take flight. Now, though, she’d convinced her aunt to allow her to ride in Hyde Park.
While Lady Marksworth had been convinced, she’d not thrown all caution to the wind. The lady followed her niece in a barouche with the top down and there were two grooms besides. Cassandra, having become more closely acquainted with her aunt’s modes of thinking, had broached the subject in a way she could not have devised when she’d first arrived. In those early days, she had mentioned fresh air and the glories of riding. This time, she’d mentioned her new riding habit and how many people they were likely to meet in the park. Her aunt’s goal was to see her well-settled, and so thoughts of her niece in a charming blue velvet riding habit, out and about for everybody to admire, had tipped the scales in favor of the scheme.
It was wondrous to be on horseback again, to be in absolute control of one’s direction. That the horse she sat upon did not equal Juno, Cassandra could not deny. Juno’s sire was a fleet and agile Arabian and her dam a steady Cleveland Bay. She was by turns strong and fast, and her temperament made her ready to seize any challenge in front of her.
The horse Cassandra rode now, Butternut, was as her name would suggest—calm to the point of lazy and far too fond of her oats. Nobody would bother with a gallop on Butternut, particularly not Butternut herself. Cassandra supposed that was one of the reasons her aunt approved of the horse so thoroughly—Butternut had never done an irrational or speedy thing in her life and was not likely to begin now. Still, she was a horse, if only barely.
The only thing that disappointed Cassandra, aside from Butternut’s staid progress, was that the park was so crowded. Blessedly, many of the carriages they passed contained ladies happening to look in the other direction, otherwise she was certain they would be forever stopping.
Always attuned to everything around her when she rode, Cassandra heard the distinct sounds of a gallop behind her. She turned her head in time to see Mr. Conners wheel in his horse. He was one of the gentlemen she had danced with at the Montagues’ ball and she supposed he would pay his respects. Cassandra only hoped he had finally thought of something to say that was more interesting than inquiring about Surrey.
“Hey Ho, Miss Knightsbridge,” he called. “What’s say we race to the gate? I’ll put twenty pounds on it.”
Cassandra was momentarily taken aback. Was it the custom to make such jokes? Certainly, it was a joke, as nobody would think poor old Butternut up to doing anything so outrageous. Cassandra herself would not think to do anything so outrageous. Perhaps in Surrey, on Juno and challenged by an intimate acquaintance, but with a near-stranger in Hyde Park? It was unthinkable.
Lady Marksworth did not appear to see the humor in the joke. “Sir?” she asked. Though it was one word, it was said in a tone containing so much condemnation that Cassandra perceived instantly that what Mr. Conners had just proposed bordered on insult.
Before Mr. Conners could answer Lady Marksworth’s one-word inquiry, Cassandra spotted Lord Hampton galloping toward them.
; She felt a flutter at seeing him so, he sat on his fine Bay with such confidence and skill. She could almost envision him galloping across a field and into battle.
Lord Hampton reached them and reined in his horse. He tipped his hat to Cassandra and Lady Marksworth.
“Hampton, my good fellow!” Mr. Conners said.
Though he said it as if the two gentlemen were longstanding friends, Cassandra did not see an equal amount of familiarity on the lord’s side. Lord Hampton only nodded.
“I was just challenging Miss Knightsbridge to a race to the gate, I wagered twenty pounds. Should you like to join in? Jolly good fun, eh?”
Lady Marksworth coldly stared at Mr. Conners. Lord Hampton looked infuriated. Now, Cassandra had no doubt that Mr. Conners sought to insult her. But why? What had she ever done to the gentleman? She had only suffered through a dance with him and if he had noted that she suffered, it might have taught him to become more amusing, rather than seeking to insult his victim.
“I would have a word,” Lord Hampton said to Mr. Conners. The lord took the reins from Mr. Conners’ hands and led him away from the carriage.
Cassandra looked toward her aunt, but Lady Marksworth still had her gaze locked on Mr. Conners. Cassandra could not hear what the two men spoke of, but could see that whatever it was, Mr. Conners did very little of the speaking. The one phrase she did hear was the last one. She was certain Lord Hampton had said, “Now clear off,” before dropping Mr. Conners’ reins.
For Mr. Conners’ part, he spurred his horse and cantered away without taking his leave. Lord Hampton watched him go and then turned his own horse and trotted over to the carriage.
“Lady Marksworth, Miss Knightsbridge, I would apologize for my uncouth acquaintance.”
Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection Page 100