Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection

by Mary Lancaster

  She said nothing, as she was incapable of words. Why was the lord dressed in livery?

  As her father exited the carriage, Cassandra noticed the line of footmen standing stiffly on the drive. All six of the gentlemen of the pact were in livery.

  Was it a joke? Was there some further joke to be played against Miss Knightsbridge?

  In an instant, Cassandra realized it was not so. She remembered questioning the dowager about whether the lords would attend. The lady had been very precise in her answer—they would not be guests. Then, when the dowager had seen her grandson dressed as a servant she’d said, “Quite fitting.”

  This was no joke on her, it was a punishment for the gentlemen.

  Cassandra was not certain what she thought of it. She was at once pitying of their ridiculous state, and not at all sorry for them. Perhaps it was well they feel the sort of sting they had been so careless to inflict on others. She supposed it would sting—their dignity was just now thrown to the four winds.

  “My dear?” the viscount said, holding out his arm, “shall we go in?”

  Cassandra shakily took her father’s arm, realizing he would have no way to know that these footmen were the very men who’d caused his daughter so much grief. She did not know what other shocks might be ahead of her, but she would soon find it out.

  The distinguished butler of Carlton House, a man starched from head to toe, announced them with all the pomp that only a royal household could carry off. Before her stood the Prince Regent and a line of six formidable-looking gentlemen that could only be the dukes.

  Cassandra curtsied low to the prince.

  He raised her up and said, “Miss Knightsbridge, the heroine of the hour. We are most grateful for your assistance on that terrible day when our dear Duchess found herself in peril.”

  “It was nothing, Your Highness,” Cassandra said.

  “You see,” the dowager said to the Prince Regent, “Miss Knightsbridge is not only brave, but modest, too.”

  “Charming,” the prince said.

  Cassandra felt the introduction had come off well and, as she made her way down the line, she kept an ear open for her father’s encounter. She was much relieved when nothing along the lines of “fat fool” came up in their blessedly brief conversation.

  The dukes were all very civil and complimented her without directly mentioning what she had suffered at the hands of their sons. Did they know their sons were out of doors, dressed as footmen and helping guests from their carriages? Cassandra could not be sure, but it pleased her to think they did.

  The last in the line was the Duke of Carlisle, Lord Hampton’s father. Cassandra could not but help feel more of a curiosity toward him than the others.

  “Miss Knightsbridge,” the Duke said.

  His voice was very like his son’s—low and deep, and only a bit scratchier from age.

  “Your Grace,” Cassandra said.

  “Address me as Duke, if you will,” he said.

  Cassandra knew that to be the honor it was intended to be—she was in no way on an equal footing with a duke, but he would make it so.

  “I am determined to be direct, Miss Knightsbridge,” the duke went on. “My son and his friends are idiots. They know it and we know it. I am not in the least surprised you rejected him. One cannot be expected to tie oneself to a gentleman with so little sense. Perhaps if he reforms himself you might reconsider. In the meantime, they are tasked with a role they highly deserve—may they be run off their feet this evening.”

  Cassandra felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She was gratified that the duke condemned his son, and that he approved of their punishment. But, what did he mean, that she had rejected Lord Hampton? No offer had been made. No offer had even been hinted at. Surely, he was misinformed.

  “Perhaps you are determined to be too direct, Henry,” the dowager said behind Cassandra. “Now come, my dear, we do not wish to hold up the line and I believe there will be quite a queue. Everybody lucky enough to be invited will attend.”

  Cassandra was led off by the dowager, all the while attempting to work out what the duke had alluded to.

  They passed a remarkable set of stairs that swept up as if floating in the air and were led to a cloakroom. Cassandra was handed her dance card and saw with trepidation that the prince had taken the liberty of filling in the first. She had thought her interaction with royalty would begin and end at the door, that a successful introduction would be all that was required. Now, she was to open the dance with the Regent?

  A footman who was blessedly not one of the gentlemen of the pact led them into a large, rectangular room decorated in an ornate fashion. Its walls were red silk and its vaulted ceiling an ornate plaster done in cream and gold. For all it spoke of wealth and splendor, Cassandra could see the telltale demarcation where wood not protected by a carpet had been lightened by the sun. A royal personage might live a very different life from the rest of England, but they must roll up their carpets for a ball, just as the rest of the nation did.

  The musicians were smartly dressed and looked as serious as undertakers while they tuned their instruments. Cassandra thought they must take their part in the evening to be a high honor.

  All of Cassandra’s party had arrived to the room, and Sybil was not far behind. She joined her friend and clasped her hands.

  Cassandra had much to say to her friend and so pointed at a picture on the far side of the room and led Sybil there.

  “The dress, Cassandra,” Sybil said. “It is the most marvelous gown I have ever seen. Really, it is fit for a princess.”

  Cassandra had almost forgotten it. She looked down and took in a breath once more. It truly was remarkable, the jewels catching the candlelight and shimmering at her slightest movement. Still, she had more weighty ideas than diamonds to discuss with Sybil.

  “You have seen them?” Cassandra asked. “The gentlemen of the pact?”

  “I have,” Sybil said, “Lord Lockwood helped me out of my carriage. I nearly fell over. What is the meaning of it?”

  “I believe it is meant as a punishment,” Cassandra said.

  “Ah! Yes, that would explain it. And richly deserved, in my opinion.”

  “But Sybil,” Cassandra said, feeling in a rush to say all she would say before they were interrupted, “the Duke of Carlisle said he did not blame me for refusing Lord Hampton.”

  “Refusing what?” Sybil asked. “Oh, refusing his apology, of course. But, has he made one? Was he so bold as to speak to you on the drive?”

  “No, he has not apologized and that was not what the duke spoke of. He said I could not be expected to tie myself to a gentleman of so little sense.”

  “Tie… you mean he thought Lord Hampton had proposed?”

  “Yes. No. I do not know. It was a remarkable thing to say.”

  “Indeed it was,” Sybil said thoughtfully. “Though if his father is not entirely mistaken, then perhaps Lord Hampton plans to. What shall you say? Would you consider it?”

  “Certainly not,” Cassandra said with perhaps more finality than she actually felt.

  “Well, then, I suppose it matters little what the duke thinks or what Lord Hampton plans to do. In any case, I suppose the lord will be too busy opening doors and taking coats to inconvenience you.”

  “I do not know how we are to act,” Cassandra said. “Do we ignore them?”

  “I plan to,” Sybil said, sticking out her chin, “they are nothing to me.”

  Cassandra was inclined to agree with her friend, though she could not claim the gentlemen were nothing to her. Particularly not one of the gentlemen.

  The idea that he’d planned to propose! If it were true, it was both thrilling and horrifying. How was she to agree to wed a man who had done such damage to her? If he had truly paid for his misdeed, she might soften somewhat. However, she did not believe acting as a footman for one evening would quite suffice.

  And yet, there was that Lord Hampton that had lived so pleasantly in her imaginatio
n. What she would not give to marry that Lord Hampton, if only he were real.

  No matter, she was at Carlton House at a ball given in her honor. She must do everything she could to get through it creditably and she would simply ignore any footmen milling about.

  Now that she had resolved upon a point of view, she turned to look at the room. Lord Burke entered and made his way to her.

  “Miss Knightsbridge!” he said, approaching them. “Lady Sybil. Miss Knightsbridge, I could not be happier to see you here and in good spirits.”

  Cassandra said, “My aunt and I owe you quite the debt, Lord Burke.”

  Seeing he looked confused while glancing at Sybil, she said, “My dear friend knows everything of that awful evening and the great service you provided.”

  “Ah, I see. For my part, I have discussed it with nobody but my mother. She is delighted that you are to be honored this evening, and even more delighted that Lady Montague has been run out of town.”

  Cassandra could not but help laugh at the notion. Though she had resolved to pity anybody coming under threat from gossip and further decided she would never be the means of spreading it, Lady Montague had been the lynchpin of her near destruction. Cassandra might wish to be good, but she did not aim to be a saint.

  “May I?” Lord Burke said, holding his hand out for her card.

  As he wrote his name in, he said, “I see you open the ball with the prince. An honor indeed, if your toes survive the experience.”

  “I shall remain watchful of heavy feet coming in my direction,” Cassandra said, laughing.

  In a lower voice, Lord Burke said, “I have heard the gentlemen who caused you such distress will not be among the prince’s guests this evening.”

  Cassandra glanced at Sybil, who pressed her lips tightly together to hide a smile.

  “Goodness, Lord Burke, did you not note the footmen lingering out of doors and helping guests from their carriages?” Cassandra asked.

  “Footmen?” Lord Burke asked, clearly puzzled.

  “Indeed,” Sybil said. “All six of them. There is one, just standing at the door.”

  Lord Burked turned and took in Lord Dalton, scowl on his face and dressed in livery.

  “Now that is a joke,” he said softly.

  The room began to fill with chattering guests and it seemed as if Cassandra were their north star. All began to drift toward her and the next half hour was filled with conversation. Some complimented her dress, some referred obliquely to what had occurred, though they claimed now to have never believed a word of it, others congratulated her on her daring rescue of the dowager.

  Cassandra felt as if she were surrounded by friends, though she did not forget how quickly they had once turned from her.

  It was with relief and pleasure that Cassandra was approached by one she was certain she could count on as a real friend—Lady Blakeley.

  “My dear Miss Knightsbridge,” she said. “How charming you look. If I must guess, I would say the dowager has been raiding her diamond mine again.”

  “Indeed, she has,” Cassandra said, “though I did protest it was too dear.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Blakeley said. “The dress is fitting for the times, I think. An innocent has been washed clean and sparkles like the sun. Meanwhile, the cobras have turned on each other. I understand a certain snake in Yorkshire has been firing off letters in every direction, and yet most of those letters go sadly unanswered.”

  Cassandra knew this to be a reference to Lady Montague and her precipitous loss of influence.

  “One hopes, though,” Lady Blakeley went on, “that forgiveness can be found for some others. It is one thing to be thoroughly bad, and another to have done a bad thing.”

  Though Lady Blakeley did not explicitly say so, Cassandra guessed this was in reference to the gentlemen of the pact. She supposed she would be expected to at least pretend that their having been forced to act as footmen had been enough. She was not convinced it was. When what had befallen her played out in her mind, she thought she might only be satisfied if they were all made footmen forever.

  “It is rather remarkable that the dowager should have come personally to see you in Surrey and taken such a marked interest,” Lady Blakeley said. “It is not everybody who could inspire her to part with so many diamonds.”

  “Oh,” Cassandra said, “well I suppose it is due to her friendship with my father—they have long been correspondents.”

  “Ah, and that is all, you think?”

  With that enigmatic question, Lady Blakeley drifted away without waiting for her answer and a new crowd circled round her.

  What did the lady hint at? Cassandra did not know but had little time to think of it. She was besieged with questions on the happenings the day the dowager’s carriage had been attacked.

  It was not at once that the people in the room began to realize that the gentlemen of the pact acted as footmen. It would perhaps have taken more time than it did, had not Lord Dalton’s scar and his obvious contempt for his situation given them all away.

  If Cassandra had wondered about how the rumors regarding herself had made their way around London, now she had a direct view. Once the true identities of the six footmen were known, there were glances and whispers and subtle pointings out. There were heads together and stifled laughter and rushes to tell a newcomer who may not have heard. The news of the gentlemen’s fates blew through the room like a brisk autumn breeze.

  Cassandra laid a hand on Sybil’s arm and whispered, “I’d best tell my father about the footmen before he hears it elsewhere.”

  Sybil had nodded and Cassandra made her way across the room. “Papa,” she said, taking his hand. She leaned close to his ear and whispered the facts of the case.

  The viscount’s brows knitted. “Serves them right,” he said. “They will be lucky if I do not run them off their feet this night.”

  “Quite right you should do so,” Cassandra said. “It is just what the Duke of Carlisle hopes for.”

  The room had now thoroughly filled and Cassandra watched as the Regent entered, followed by the six dukes. The newly-made footmen were lined up on either side of the door and their fathers appeared fairly contemptuous of them as they walked past.

  The Regent and the dukes made their way to the top of the room, the prince kindly offering his arm to Cassandra. The footmen were left at the door, presumably to cater to anybody’s needs. Should fingers snap, they would be expected to come running.

  The crowd hushed as the Regent stood facing them.

  “Welcome, my dear guests,” the prince said. “It is my privilege to host a ball in honor of our own Miss Knightsbridge, accompanied by her father, the esteemed Viscount Trebly, and her always charming aunt, Lady Marksworth. One hopes, with this circumstance before us, that we have all learned a valuable lesson on the nature of gossip and will refrain from that unsavory activity. Though, if one should wish to natter on about the state of my footmen on the morrow, that particular subject has my royal approval.”

  Laughter spread across the room. Cassandra noted the gentlemen of the pact appearing stoic at the jab, with the exception of Lord Dalton, who looked on his way to murderous.

  Lord Hampton seemed the most stoic of them, and the least offended. Cassandra supposed he’d decided to take his lumps. Why should he not? It was a rather easy payment for having almost ruined a lady. He might flush a few times before the night was through, but he’d wake up as a lord, whole again as if nothing had happened. Society might laugh at his expense tonight, but they would give him his due on the morrow.

  “Miss Knightsbridge embodies all the best of England,” the prince went on. “With courage and a true heart, a combination nobody can best, she prevailed over dangerous highwaymen to rescue our dear Dowager Duchess of Carlisle.”

  “Hear, hear,” the crowd murmured.

  “Now,” the prince said, “before we open the ball, I believe the dukes may have something to say.”

  The prince led Cassandra to
the side and the dukes stepped forward.

  The Duke of Gravesley said, “I speak for all of us when I say that we are honored that Miss Knightsbridge has consented to be our guest this evening. We are grateful that the viscount does not cut us or plan to meet our offspring at dawn. We are embarrassed by the actions of our own sons and we propose to make amends at the Viscount’s convenience and preference.”

  “Hear, hear,” the crowd said louder.

  The Duke of Carlisle stepped forward and said, “The Duke of Gravesley has expounded on our sentiments eloquently. For myself, I am not gifted with speeches and so will only say a word to the ridiculous footmen in the back of the room—you are idiots, down to a man.”

  Laughter and clapping rose up in the room and dozens turned to see how the gentlemen of the pact would receive the condemnation.

  Cassandra could not help but look. That the gentlemen had been humiliated was not in doubt, even Lord Dalton had the good grace to stare at his boots.

  “Miss Knightsbridge?” the Prince Regent asked, holding out his hand.

  Cassandra took it and the musicians struck up.

  It became apparent, as they began the steps, that she and the Regent would execute the first steps alone.

  She felt her cheeks flame to see so many people with their eyes trained squarely upon her. She was comforted by the idea that this moment, which would pass, was likely the worst of the evening.

  Remarkably, the prince was nimble on his feet. Though he looked ponderous, he moved with a lightness that did not seem to match his size.

  As Cassandra danced, her eyes took in the surrounding faces. Her father, Lady Sybil, the Dowager, Lady Blakeley. And then, among them, the approving looks of the others. All of those others who had mercilessly laughed at her and pretended to be shocked by her. They were all her friends now.

  She would accept their friendship for what it was, hollow and convenient. She thought she had learned two hard lessons from the trial she’d been through—one could not place one’s opinion of oneself in the hands of others, and society was comprised of frightened people terrified of losing their place. The terror ran so deep that it was a relief to them to understand that it was someone else in peril and not themselves.