Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection

by Mary Lancaster

  “It is true I do not relish the idea,” Cassandra said, “but it occurs to me that I have been hiding here. To be hiding means I must be frightened. That is an idea that does not suit. Cassandra Knightsbridge is not to be frightened off by wagging tongues. I can ride like the devil and shoot better than most men, I will not be cowed by words.”

  The viscount smiled with pride. Maidencraft was so struck by the speech that he stood motionless holding a bowl of peas.

  The dowager said, “Brava, Miss Knightsbridge.”

  *

  The following morning, Cassandra received a letter from Sybil. She curled up on the sofa with May on one side and George on the other.

  My dear Cass—

  In my prior letters I was careful not to write anything alluding to your misfortune as I did not wish to cause you further distress. Now, though, I may speak freely. You are the toast of the town! All anybody talks of is how Miss Knightsbridge was wronged, how bravely she faced it, how she saved the dowager duchess and how the Prince Regent and six dukes throw her a ball. An invitation to the ball is much sought after and much discussed. Some that have received it mention it everywhere as if it were a badge of honor. It is said that Lady Montague fumes in Yorkshire as she has received no such invitation. I have even heard that the Dowager Duchess of Carlisle has scolded the lady severely via a terse and condemning letter and many suspect Lady Montague of distributing that awful print that was thrown through your window. One wonders if she hired the urchin to throw it, though I suspect we will never know.

  I and my mother and father will be in attendance at the ball and ready to support you through it, as I imagine you must be in a state of nerves over it. My mother likens it to the Battle of Bosworth—it will be the decisive victory. For myself, I wonder if the six gentlemen of the pact will attend. Nobody seems to know, and there have been hints that they may have been snubbed. On the one hand, that would be quite right. On the other, I would be interested to see how Lord Hampton would conduct himself. Of all the gentlemen, he has been the most industrious in claiming fault. Further, he has seemed to go out of his way to speak to me about you—have I heard from you, how does Miss Knightsbridge do? I do not know whose very stupid idea this rumor was, and those things always do start with one before they are taken up by others, but he certainly appears the most sorry over it.

  Lord Lockwood has twice attempted to explain himself to me, but I will have none of it. I told him, most emphatically, that if I were a man I would meet him at dawn. I apprised my mother and father of this and they were most amused—my mother said she would provide the dueling pistols and my father said he’d load them. So that is an indication of their solid support for Miss Knightsbridge. Lord Lockwood may try all he likes to make himself pleasant, but I cannot overlook what he has been a part of.

  That is all for now, I find myself at the window often, hoping to see the carriage that brings you back to us.

  Your friend,

  Sybil Hayworth

  Cassandra laid down the letter. She could not help but be relieved that the truth was now known and widely accepted. She could not help but be grateful for Sybil’s staunch support, not to mention Lord and Lady Blanding’s. She also could not help feeling the light wings of a butterfly against her heart as she read of Lord Hampton. It was unfair that he should have any effect upon her at all, other than anger and disdain. He and his friends had hurt her badly and it was only through other’s efforts that she was being restored.

  She at once hoped he would attend the ball and dreaded it. What on earth could he say to her by way of apology? And yet, did she not wish to hear what he would say? But then, how could she countenance a gentleman who had so materially damaged her?

  The more she thought of the likelihood of seeing him there, the more she was convinced she would not. The ball was being held in her honor, it would be absurd for the very perpetrators of the scheme to be welcomed.

  She patted both May and George on the head. “Well,” she said, “I will be forced to meet their fathers, but I am fairly certain I will not see them.”

  *

  Cassandra rode in the dowager’s carriage as it barreled toward London; her father would follow them on the morrow. The dowager had chosen one of Cassandra’s dresses for the ball as being suitable, but she had in mind some small alterations and so was determined to set off earlier than planned.

  Cassandra hoped her letter informing Lady Marksworth of their imminent arrival had reached her in time. It was not only their changed schedule that need be communicated, there was also the fact that May accompanied her on this trip.

  The dowager very much approved of her little dog’s friendship with May and thought George should not be parted with his companion unnecessarily soon.

  Cassandra sat next to the dowager while on the seat across, George stretched out and May curled herself tight in the little room left to her.

  “You see how George takes up as much space in the world as he can manage?” the Dowager asked.

  “Indeed,” Cassandra said, “I have noticed his habit of it, while my own great beast of a dog squeezes herself into a corner.”

  “Precisely,” the dowager said. “Size, as we can see, has nothing to do with it. George takes what he believes is due him. May is convinced George ought to have more space than she because George is utterly sure of it. That is what you must do, my dear. Be convinced of your right to your place in the world. The talk now goes in your favor and you must cement it there by how you carry yourself and receive those who have offended.”

  “I pray you do not mean the gentlemen who have caused all this,” Cassandra said. “I am perfectly amenable to meeting with those who heard a story and passed it on, but not those who invented it. Have I been wrong to assume they would not be invited?”

  “Oh, they will not be guests, that I can assure you.”

  Cassandra felt a great amount of relief to have it confirmed. Though there was a part of her that wished to hear from Lord Hampton, there was a part of her that still wished to blow his head off. In any case, as the day of the ball grew near, she’d found herself dreading any sort of encounter with him. She would have enough to contend with on that particular evening.

  They had entered the confines of London and Cassandra thought of the dark morning she had left it. The streetlamps had glowed through the dawn mist and it had seemed as if there could never be sunshine again. Yet, here was town in all its bustle, the sun shining down upon it all.

  *

  Lady Marksworth had been most gracious in receiving the dowager. That she’d not got word of their early arrival was not evident, as the lady was too composed to let it show. That she’d not got word that there would be two dogs to contend with might also have been covered up, had not Racine stared so balefully at them.

  Cassandra thought the butler had been somewhat mollified at being told the dogs would sleep in their respective owner’s bedchambers, as he must have wondered what he was to do with them. Mollified, perhaps, but not exactly approving.

  Still, Racine had never foreseen that he might one day make arrangements for a dowager duchess and Cassandra imagined it was one of the crowning moments of his career. At least, the amount and diversity of cakes on the tea tray must hint at it.

  Lady Marksworth poured tea and said, “All of Cassandra’s friends are most grateful for your efforts, Your Grace.”

  The dowager waved her hands and said, “There is nothing to be grateful for, as my own wretched grandson was at the very heart of the scheme.”

  “Nevertheless,” Lady Marksworth said, “I have been waiting and hoping that the tide would turn and it has most decidedly. There is a stack of invitations in the hall, all wishing to host a dinner or a rout for Miss Knightsbridge.”

  “Please, Aunt,” Cassandra said, “do not accept them. I feel as if I have enough ahead of me in considering the ball.”

  “We need say nothing yet,” Lady Marksworth said. “We will see how you feel once you’ve been
through the worst of it. I know how little you like to be stared at.”

  Racine entered and said, “Lady Sybil to see Miss Knightsbridge.”

  Sybil had not waited in the hall nor sent in her card; she had been in the house so often that all ceremony had fallen by the wayside. She rushed in and Cassandra leapt to her feet.

  “Cass!” Sybil cried. Then, noting the dowager, she instantly halted.

  “Dear Sybil,” Cassandra said, crossing the room to her and clasping her hands. “How good it is to see you.”

  She took Sybil by the arm and walked her to the tea table. “Dowager Duchess of Carlisle, may I present my dear friend, Lady Sybil Hayworth.”

  Sybil deeply curtsied. “Your Grace,” she said.

  “Lady Sybil,” the dowager said, “I understand you are a stalwart and uncompromising ally of Miss Knightsbridge.”

  Sybil rose and said, “If I were a man, I’d have… well, it’s no matter what I’d have done.”

  “You’d have shot them all, I suspect,” the dowager said good-humoredly. “No less than they’d deserve, though for my grandson’s sake I am glad it will not come to it.”

  “Your Grace,” Sybil said hurriedly, “I did not imply any harm to Lord Hampton, I only meant that I—”

  “I comprehend you perfectly,” the Dowager said. “You are very like your mother—I see the Beaufort blood runs strong in your veins. Now do sit down, I understand you are fond of almond biscuits and Racine has brought enough to feed all of London.”

  A very merry tea followed, as Cassandra noted that the dowager had an uncanny ability to put one at ease. She supposed it was that the dowager herself was at ease and did not stand on ceremony. She had always thought that highly placed persons were as grim and staid as the marchioness—following strict rules of protocol. There was nothing grim or staid about the Dowager Duchess of Carlisle. Rather, the lady showed who she was, not who the world thought she should be.

  Cassandra had a mind to do the same.

  *

  The next days at Marksworth House had the same feeling of energy that Cassandra had felt during the preparations for her wretched ball. The door was forever being answered, sometimes to admit Sybil and more often to receive yet another invitation. Some of the invitations did not even come with a date—Miss Knightsbridge was to choose whatever day she deemed most convenient.

  The dowager had chosen a dress for Cassandra while they had still remained in Surrey, it was a white silk with very little adornment. Cassandra assumed the dowager chose it for its message of youthful innocence. Peggy had boldly suggested the pale blue gauze overlay, however upon noting the Dowager’s cold stare, had curtsied and bowed herself out of the room.

  Cassandra had not seen the dress since it had been unpacked. The Dowager had taken it from her and then a seamstress had arrived and various boxes along with her. What the alterations were to be, Cassandra did not know.

  To Racine’s dismay, George and May had firmly decided upon the sofa at the far end of the drawing room as being their own. Its blue velvet was continually covered in dog hair and as much as Racine ordered it cleaned, it was just covered again. Most of the shed hair belonged to George, as he maintained his dominance over May and claimed most of that piece of furniture. The two dogs spent their days thoroughly entertained—they relaxed on the sofa until somebody arrived at the door, then raced to the door practically knocking over Racine, then relaxed on the sofa again. To spice things up, there was always the diversion of launching at the windows to bark at passing carriages.

  The viscount had arrived, and Cassandra felt him to be a great calming influence over the house. Whether it was his steady temperament or his utter lack of care for the opinions of the ton she could not say.

  Cassandra had finally given in to her curiosity and sat down with the pile of invitations that had languished on a tray in the hall. Most she did not care about, one way or the other, but there was a very kind invitation from Lady Blakeley. She and her husband would be gratified to see them at a dinner on Tuesday next. That invitation she did tell her aunt to accept. Lady Blakeley’s kindness in making her a fawn and positing a defense of her at the Blakeley’s ball had been marked. There might now be dozens of people firmly on her side, but there was not then. Lady Blakeley had bucked the convenient current.

  As much as Cassandra wished the day of the ball would either not come, or come and go as speedily as possible, time ground on as it always had. It would not be hurried, nor would it be late.

  The day had dawned bright and Cassandra had forced herself to eat breakfast. It would seem an eternity before she was home again and the ordeal finally over and she must have the strength to face it.

  Sybil and her mother and father had arranged to leave the house at the same time Cassandra and her party left, and they would follow her carriage closely. All would arrive a united army to Carlton House, the dowager leading them all as an undaunted general. It gave Cassandra some comfort to think of, though she still felt a nervous fidgeting she could not rid herself of. How many awkward conversations would be got through? How many stares must she pretend not to notice?

  *

  Edwin stared at Havoc, who had utterly destroyed one of his boots and now looked back at him as if he had no idea how it happened. Fortunately, he owned a dozen pairs, as he was well-used to losing a pair whenever his dog managed to get into his dressing room.

  The ball was only hours away. He was to be humiliated, debased, and defamed in the worst manner. Though he could not say it was undeserved, he realized that he’d never been humiliated by anybody in his life. The eldest son of a duke was not often crossed.

  He’d not really understood his own power until the moment he was stripped of it. It gave him pause to imagine what it must be like to always be subject to others’ whims. It gave him a greater understanding of how people like Lady Montague did their business—she struck terror into already terrorized hearts. If the ton were a great sea, it was uncomfortable indeed to find oneself an inconsequential lamprey surrounded by fearsome pike. One mistaken move and one might disappear into the pike’s jaws, never to be heard from again.

  Of all those who would view his nearing humiliation, it was Miss Knightsbridge that preyed on his mind. Would she be satisfied that the debt was paid? Or would she simply find mirth in it and keep her anger as hot as it must now be.

  His grandmother had written to say there was, at this moment, absolutely no chance of her agreeing to marriage. Miss Knightsbridge was still inclined to shoot his head off and, through lengthy practice, her aim was much improved.

  He could wait, he could bide his time. Time might soften many a strong feeling. As long as she did not marry another, he could wait.

  But might she not marry another? She had become the reigning queen of the season; she would be invited everywhere.

  It would be a cold justice if he had ended up creating the very fame that led to numerous proposals for the hand of Miss Knightsbridge.

  *

  Cassandra had been in her dressing gown when the Dowager had entered her bedchamber. She’d been followed by Clara, carrying her dress wrapped in paper. Her maid Peggy had been sent elsewhere, as the Dowager found her an irritating sort of person.

  “Now, my dear,” the Dowager said, “we have a gown truly befitting you.”

  Clara laid the dress on the bed and unfolded the paper.

  Cassandra took in a sharp breath. The gown was not materially changed from what it had been, with one striking exception. Small diamonds cut in an unusual square shape had been affixed by crosses of silver thread to a white gauze overlay. It sparkled in the candlelight like all the stars in the sky.

  “Duchess!” Cassandra cried. “How can it be? I could not accept—”

  “Of course you can accept my modest little changes,” the dowager said.

  “But those are not real—”

  “My late husband was an interesting gentleman and made many investments I found bizarre, certain he should
ruin us. The one investment I never quibbled over was a diamond mine in Brazil. It has given me an endless supply of jewels and I have even employed a jeweler who invents new cuts. I’m very fond of this square cut.”

  “It is far too valuable…”

  “Trust me to have the sense to know where my own diamonds should go. Now, dear Miss Knightsbridge, it is time to dress for the most important ball of your life.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Cassandra rode in the carriage toward Carlton House, she felt almost in a dreamlike state. It was as if she existed somehow distant from those around her. Her dress sparkled in the darkness and all she could think of was that she sat on enough diamonds to buy her father’s estate.

  The dowager very kindly held her hand, her father was a comfort across from her, and her aunt nodded, as if to say, “All will be well.”

  Sybil and her parents followed behind in their own carriage and Cassandra occasionally glanced out the window to assure herself that they had not become separated.

  Carlton House was lit like blazes from within, though the drive itself was only illuminated by a few torches. Cassandra could see a cadre of footman waiting at the ready in the dim light. She took a long, deep breath. The moment she had been wishing speedily gone had now speedily come.

  The horses came to a halt, the door opened, and the steps were let down. The dowager was helped out first and Cassandra heard the lady say, “Quite fitting.”

  Lady Marksworth went out next, and Cassandra was certain she heard her aunt whisper, “Goodness.”

  As Cassandra took the footman’s hand to descend the steps, a deep voice said, “Miss Knightsbridge.”

  Cassandra would have known that voice anywhere, and yet she must be confused. She glanced up at the footman as she stepped onto the drive.

  It seemed as if all the air in the world had vanished and there was nothing left to breathe. The footman was Lord Hampton.