“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 interest 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 spr
ead 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 six 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.”
“Well said,” Lord Hampton said quietly.
Sybil beamed; Lord Lockwood appeared both taken aback and amused. As nobody had a retort to Cassandra’s very definite and determined statements, the conversation turned to more usual topics.
She and the lord briefly touched on the subject of dogs again, but then blessedly landed on literature. As it turned out, Lord Hampton read as much and as widely as she did herself. As they spoke of botany, architecture, the Romans, and astronomy, Cassandra found herself speaking to a highly educated man who did more than recite facts. He had not just taken in information—he had thought about it. It was frighteningly attractive. Despite her own mental discipline on the subject, her mind kept presenting opposing arguments. Was it really so awful to be a duchess, after all? Might not a man involved in the pact have an interest that was not forced by his father? Was there another man in London with those eyes? It was not so much their color, which was very dark, but their habit of examining her as if they wished to know her secrets. She was very glad nobody could hear her thoughts doing battle with one another.
Cassandra also found herself glad she’d made her opinion known regarding the gossip going round about her. Her aunt had said it would be the worst thing to cut and run. She’d not run, she’d challenged whatever ridiculous ideas circulated about Miss Knightsbridge.
She could not have helped but notice that couples around her had been over-quiet during her forthright speech. Let them repeat her words in every drawing room in town if they wished.
Cassandra found herself, in the end, well-satisfied with the evening. It felt as if the heavy weight of the rock thrown through her window had begun to lift.
That the familiar shiver went down her spine more than once before the supper was over, she was determined to ignore for now.
Chapter Ten
Hampton sat in his library, the dying fire the only light in the predawn hours. At his feet, Havoc gleefully shredded the mask of a clergyman.
He had been surprised to see Miss Knightsbridge at the Blakeley’s ball. He’d given contingency instructions to his friends on what to do if she did appear, though he never truly believed she would.
His surprise gave over to astonishment at her spirited defense of herself at supper. She’d not said it particularly softly either. Plenty at the table would have heard of the London gossipers likened to insignificant mice who might be chased off with a broom.
What courage the lady had! To arrive as if nothing were amiss, and then to proclaim her opinion so forcefully as to any talk that had made the rounds. He doubted there were many females who could have girded themselves for such a trial. Certainly, none he’d encountered during this blasted season.
Thanks to his father’s demands, he’d danced with and spoken to an unending list of unmarried ladies. Those females made every attempt to display their beauty and wit, and then somewhere in the conversation, shyly present an example of their over-refined sensibilities. He was to know that they were easily shocked, that aspect of their temperament supposedly meant to be some hallmark of good breeding.
The idea nearly made him laugh. His grandmother was not easily shocked and, in fact, sometimes did the shocking herself. His mother routinely dispatched all manner of circumstances that might cause a blush in a less determined lady. Only a year ago, the duchess had discovered a housemaid in her household had been compromised and was with child. She’d wasted no time demanding to know the culprit’s name and to her great lack of surprise it had been a footman. In one curt and speedy interview with the man she demanded he marry the girl, which he did, and now the foolish couple had some little shop in the village. The duchess had been no more affected by the circumstance than she would have been over viewing a cup of spilled milk. He did not quite understand how any of these young, unmarried ladies proposed to run a large house if they needed to fan themselves over every difficulty.
Then there was Miss Knightsbridge. She had no need of a fan.
What, though, did she really know about what was being said? It was likely that what Bellamy had witnessed being thrown through the window was a satirical print—he’d s
een the one going round that showed her with shotgun aiming at three gentlemen floating above her, but he could not be certain that was what she’d seen. That she knew something was evident, else she would not have made such a pronouncement at supper. Whatever she knew, she did not know all. To know all would be to know his hand in it.
He’d felt such a fraud, sitting there so apparently above reproach while Mr. Conners’ inappropriate proposition had been alluded to. He’d done far worse. Far, far worse.
At the mask, he, Lockwood, Dalton, Ashworth, Cabot and Grayson had set out to quash any talk about Miss Knightsbridge, and there had been plenty to occupy them. The ridiculous story of three suitors still made the rounds, and sometimes four suitors or five. There was talk of her having shot a farmer she did not care for just for amusement. Now, there was even the suggestion that her own father was terrified of her and rued the day he’d allowed her to take up a gun.
One particularly acerbic little miss masked in dark feathers that very much resembled a magpie had even had the temerity to wonder aloud how a gentleman might be quite comfortable in marriage to such a lady. After all, she’d said, he might never know when he’d provoked her ire until shots rang out. He had informed that charming lady of her deficiencies in judgment and left her near tears. He’d not been sorry for it, though he realized that if such talk went on much longer, it would be no time at all before Miss Knightsbridge was known as a veritable Genghis Khan.
He’d hoped the words Miss Knightsbridge had spoken for herself might mitigate some of the worst ideas being passed round, as it had been clear enough that she’d been overheard. Rather, before he left the Blakeley’s he heard one lady say to the next, “Apparently, if she deigns not to shoot you, she will chase you with a broom. One wonders how there is anybody left alive in Surrey.”
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