She’d only come because it was Ophelia’s eighteenth birthday, and if she didn’t, they’d never let her hear the end of it. It would be the only invitation she’d receive for several months, since Ophelia’s coming out meant rounds of parties and balls at which she would not be welcome. Her reputation had stained the family name enough—the dowager would not want her underfoot during her sister’s first Season.
Taking a deep breath, she knocked, then stood back to wait for a footman to appear. She was admitted inside with the usual courtesies, her pelisse taken by the footman as the butler led her to the drawing room where the ladies of the house spent most mornings, lounging about and waiting for callers. This drawing room had the best light, the dowager often claimed—this, of course, being of the utmost importance for gentleman callers who needed to bear witness the full effect of the Lane daughters’ beauty.
She paused in the doorway as the butler announced her arrival, taking in the familiar scene with a bitter taste in her mouth. Pandora lay across the sofa in a most strategic fashion, a floral shawl draping her shoulders over a cream morning gown. Her golden hair had been swept up and pushed away from her face with a matching bandeau, a few stray curls left kissing her temples. She glanced up from the letter she’d been reading to meet Cassandra’s gaze, lips pursing into a pout, blue eyes showing clear disdain. Without a word, she went back to her letter without acknowledging her sister beyond that single glance.
Amaryllis sat in an armchair near the fire, her auburn head lowered over an embroidery hoop. She’d been the only one of the Lane daughters to inherit their father’s burnished red hair, often leaving many to compare Cassandra’s and find it lacking. The eldest of the sisters, Amaryllis had been the first to wed and now boasted three children—two of which were male, making her viscount husband quite happy.
In the center of the room, sharing a couch and poring over fashion plates and swatches of fabric, were the dowager duchess and Ophelia. The youngest Lane daughter still possessed a girlish face with rounded cheeks, limpid eyes, and the same fair coloring as Pandora. The young bucks would be after her in droves, a fact that thrilled their mother to no end.
Holding a lorgnette over her eyes, the dowager sat inspecting a fashion plate. Despite having heard the butler, she pretended as if she weren’t aware that her second-born daughter stood within the room.
“This will make a lovely ensemble for your debut,” she said to Ophelia. “Though, perhaps with fewer of those frills. You’re a young lady … not a table ornament.”
“Oh, I quite like the frills, Mama,” Ophelia said in a near whisper. “They look so … womanly.”
Cassandra fought not to roll her eyes. Her sisters had been trained to speak in low, soft voices that would be ‘pleasing’ to a man’s ear. It was the dowager’s opinion that everything a young lady did was to be, in some way, aimed at satisfying a husband, both before and after the wedding. Cassandra’s dissent had only been the first of many offenses to put her on the outskirts of her mother’s affection—her public scandal proving the very last straw. It had been made clear on multiple occasions that she was merely tolerated because it would be unseemly to shun her completely.
“With your slight figure, so many flounces will overpower you. Trust me, Ophelia … Mama knows best.”
“Of course, Mama.”
The dowager did not acknowledge Cassandra until she had set the fashion plate aside. Observing her through the lorgnette still held over the bridge of her nose, her mother inspected her from head to toe. As always, her puckered lips portrayed her disappointment.
“Cassandra. How good of you to come.”
She found an empty armchair near the hearth facing Amaryllis, who glanced up from her embroidery with a murmured ‘good afternoon’.
“I could hardly miss Ophelia’s birthday,” she said before offering her youngest sister a tight smile. “You look lovely, as always. How does it feel to be eight-and-ten now?”
Her sister sat up and squared her shoulders with a smug grin. “Ever so wonderful. We’ve been planning my wardrobe for the upcoming Season. I’ve already been measured for my court dress.”
Cassandra tried to muster excitement over it for her sister’s sake— but it proved difficult when thoughts of her first Season made her sick to her stomach. It had begun with white gowns and dreams of making of good match, and had ended in pain, blood, and humiliation.
“How wonderful,” she managed.
“Would you like to see the design? I’ve got the plate right—”
“As if such a thing would ever interest your sister,” the duchess cut in with a huff. “Honestly, Ophelia, you know how little Cassandra cares for fashion.”
This, she said while giving Cassandra’s carriage dress a critical gaze.
“Or anything having to do with her appearance,” Pandora murmured under her breath without glancing up from her letter.
Amaryllis giggled, head still lowered over her embroidery.
Cassandra stared back at the dowager, who seemed quite proud of her little barb, while Ophelia sat staring at both mother and sister with wide-eyed fascination. Her youngest sister did not possess as much venom as Pandora and Amaryllis, but was not without her own capacity for cattiness. It would only grow worse once she’d been introduced to the ton, taking on all those undesirable traits that left Cassandra at a loss for female friends. She hadn’t had very many to begin with, but after her public humiliation, even her fellow wallflowers had abandoned her to stand on the outskirts of every soiree she dared to attend alone.
“I’m sure you will look quite lovely, Ophelia,” she said without looking away from her mother’s piercing stare. “Of course you will have to forgive me for missing your presentation and coming out. But I am certain you’ll have a wonderful time.”
The dowager raised an eyebrow. “It is good of you to admit that your presence would be an unnecessary distraction at such an important event. By the time we reach Ophelia’s presentation, the talk ought to have died down completely. We wouldn’t want to do anything to resurrect it and overshadow your sister’s first Season.”
Cassandra gritted her teeth. She’d thought enough time had passed that it would stop hurting for her mother to care only about the impact of all this on her sisters. No one had ever cared about her anguish or her fears. No one had fought for her, so she’d been forced to fight for herself.
“While I can hardly control what the ton chooses to concern themselves with or gossip about, I can choose not to appear where I am not wanted.”
“You were hardly wanted to begin with,” Pandora muttered, this time daring a glance in her direction.
Cassandra met her sister’s stare, her jaw aching now from the strength it took to keep from blurting out every foul epithet on the tip of her tongue. That would only paint her as the villain, and her mother would have yet another reason to deride her.
Lifting her chin, she gave Pandora a sly smirk. “I can confess to not knowing how it feels to be as wanted as you are, sister. Your husband, your friends … the string of paramours you collect like flowers from a meadow. How … popular you’ve become over the years.”
Pandora gasped, while Ophelia choked on air and Amaryllis snickered into her embroidery. The dowager scowled, looking as if she wished to deliver a scathing set down. But, to do so would give credence to the fact that Pandora had wasted no time taking on a string of lovers after providing her husband with his heir. The girl wasn’t as discreet as she thought, and there were whispers aplenty about her. The hypocrisy of it all annoyed Cassandra to no end. Pandora was universally adored despite her escapades due to her status as an earl’s wife, daughter of a duke, and the beauty that would allow her to get away with murder.
Turning to Amaryllis, who smirked in amusement while staring back and forth between her and Pandora, Cassandra snorted.
“How fares the viscount, Amaryllis?” she asked, not bothering the temper the sharpness of her tone. “I hear he’s been seen about
town quite often with that woman—an opera singer, is she not? Oh, but you should not worry. She isn’t that beautiful, and despite what the rumors say her bosom isn’t really so exceptional.”
Amaryllis gaped like a fish plucked from a stream, her eyes widening as Cassandra’s jab struck true. Across the room, the dowager made a low sound of disapproval, while Pandora shook her head and murmured something about Cassandra being ‘an insufferable ingrate’. Ophelia flushed and pinched her lips together, and Cassandra couldn’t determine whether her sister wanted to giggle or utter something in Amaryllis’ defense.
The chiming of the long-case clock echoed through the cracked door of the drawing room, proclaiming the hour to be near three in the afternoon. Rising from her chair, Cassandra smoothed her hands over her skirts.
“Well, that was a lovely visit, wasn’t it? I regret to take my leave now, but I have a friend I must call upon today. Shall I see you all at dinner?”
Without waiting for a response, she spun and made for the door, unable to help a little smile as she breezed into the corridor. As she approached the staircase, she heard Amaryllis’ voice floating out behind her.
“As if the little witch has any friends.”
“Now, now, Amaryllis,” the dowager chided. “Let us not stoop to such levels of ill-mannered behavior. If she wants to …”
Her mother’s voice faded completely as Cassandra threw open the front door and rushed down the front steps. She was so grateful to be free of the house that she didn’t bother going back inside for her pelisse. It had likely been stored in her room along with the other items she’d brought from Suffolk. Lila would be busy hanging things up, airing things out, and doing her best to make Cassandra feel at home in what used to be her bedchamber. Despite the maid’s efforts, Cassandra would never feel at home within the walls of Penrose House ever again. Truly, she hadn’t felt she belonged since the death of her father, who hadn’t favored one daughter over the other.
Had he stilled lived five years ago, he would have been her ally instead of a tormentor twisting the knife in an already festering wound. If she’d come to him in tears with virgin’s blood staining her gown and her full account of what a young lord had done to her in the back of a carriage, he wouldn’t have asked Cassandra what she’d done to bring the attack upon herself. She wouldn’t have been chided for allowing herself to be alone with a male suitor, or berated for crying over something that had been, according to the dowager, entirely her fault. When the duke went to confront Bertram’s father about the incident, he would never have accepted a bank draft in exchange for his silence, nor would he have told Cassandra it was the best a girl of her plain looks ought to expect.
He would have pressed for charges to be brought against Bertram himself—if he could have kept himself from beating the young lord half to death, that is. He would never have allowed the ton to treat her poorly, would have given the cut direct to anyone who dared.
The current Duke of Penrose had been kind, doing everything he could to help ease her way ever since knowledge of Bertram’s misdeeds had become common knowledge. But, despite the title and all its power and influence, he wielded it with none of her father’s command or ruthlessness. He concerned himself too much with appearances, just like her mother, and there was only so much he would do to help her.
Papa, how I miss you.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she picked up the pace—partly to reach her destination faster, and partly to outrun the unpleasant thoughts of what life without her father had meant for her. It had hurt, losing him two years before her own coming out. Being without the man who had served as her confidant and champion when she’d needed him most had only exacerbated that pain.
She liked to think he would understand what she’d been forced to become, the mantle she had taken up as a defender of people who had no one to fight for them. If the duke would have used his influence to help those who needed it, then she could engage the tools in her own arsenal to do the same. Perhaps he would disagree with her methods, but in the end he would understand that there was simply no other way.
Glancing up, she found that she had neared her destination—the home of her friend, the Widow Dane, on Half-Moon Street. Amaryllis had not been wrong; she did not have many friends. In truth, there were only a handful—Lady Olivia Gibbs and the other women who had been victimized by Bertram, Millicent … Robert.
Robert?
Could she consider him a friend? Thus far, she’d fucked him twice and spent every hour of the past sennight thinking of when they might repeat the experience. Their conversations had been strained and filled with pregnant silences. She felt certain she confounded him as much as she aroused him, which must be quite the muddling combination. And, she ought to know, because she’d been wrestling with those same conflicting feelings since their night at the White Cock. Thus her reason for visiting Millicent in the middle of the day. She’d taken care to arrive hours after noon, as her friend was known to keep late hours and sleep straight through the morning. By now, she could expect Millicent to be up and dressed, perhaps preparing to set out for Hyde Park. The Ravishing Widow loved nothing more than to drive her open air barouche down Rotten Row during the fashionable hour and scandalize the ton with her presence. Unlike Cassandra, Millicent wore scandal like a badge of honor, eschewing the rules of polite society and doing as she pleased. While many hated her for it, others adored her, and she proved a popular figure amongst the beau monde, as well as a polarizing one.
Such a life wasn’t meant for Cassandra. She hadn’t enjoyed excessive attention before Bertram, and had discovered during the trial and resulting fallout that she was even more ill-suited for it. Retreating to Suffolk had been the best thing for her, and she’d come to enjoy the peace and quiet of the country, the invisibility it offered her.
Before she could climb the front steps of Millicent’s townhouse, the door swung open and Peter appeared on the threshold. He did not wear his footman’s livery, his dark hair covered by a hat, the hem of a greatcoat swirling about his legs. He smiled when he spotted her.
“Lady Cassandra, what a pleasant surprise,” he said as she ascended the steps. “Come for another sparring lesson? I was just on my way out to run an errand for my lady. But, I should return shortly.”
“Perhaps another time,” she said with a chuckle. “I’ve actually come to speak with Millicent. I assume she is in.”
“She is,” Peter replied, gesturing toward the half-open front door. “I just finished helping her dress, though there’s a bit of time yet before she’ll be on her way. I’ll send word for her to meet you in her drawing room.”
Cassandra didn’t bat an eyelash at Peter’s openness in allowing her to know he acted as a body servant of sorts to Millicent. Her friend’s eccentricities were known far and wide, though only her close friends were privy to all the scandalous details. Peter had come to Millicent as a servant, and despite their arrangement as lovers, he insisted on being allowed to continue serving her. And so, outside his duties as a footman, he dressed her the way a lady’s maid would—a convenient arrangement considering he spent most of his nights in her bed. While Cassandra couldn’t say she fully understood the mechanics of their relationship, she knew that her friend was happier with him than she’d ever been. In the end, that was all that mattered.
Peter ducked back inside to confer with another servant before turning back to her. “Go right in. Mistress will be down in a moment.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
With a tip of his hat, he was gone, his long legs carrying him down the steps. Cassandra made her way inside. Another footman in brilliant red and gold livery was there to greet her, a smile lighting up his handsome face. He was tall and well-built, his shoulders straining at the seams of his coat. Her friend liked to be surrounded by only the finest of things, and that included the best-looking footmen in all of London.
“Good afternoon, Lady Cassandra.”
The footman extended a gloved
hand toward the open door to Millicent’s favorite drawing room.
“Her Ladyship will be with you in a moment.” “Thank you,” she said.
The room had shocked her to no end the first time she had entered it, but now it only felt familiar with its red walls and erotic art. The paintings and statuettes depicted men with women, men with men, women with women, and all manner of orgies. Her favorite pieces, a white marble sculpture near the hearth contained so many bodies in various positions that the limbs appeared like writhing snakes winding through and around one another.
She did not remain alone for long. After a few moments of warming her hands before the fire, Millicent entered the room dressed for her daily ride in Hyde Park. The widow looked as ravishing as ever, wearing a military-style spencer complete with frog fastenings across the bust, and gold braid coiling over one shoulder.
The high collar of her carriage dress caressed her jaw, and its ruffled sleeves showed at her wrists. Stylish nankeen half-boots peeked out from beneath her hem, and she wore a man’s bi-corn hat with a large purple plume draping to one side.
“Cass, my love,” she said, closing the door and coming across the room to embrace her. “I had no idea you were in Town.”
“I’ve only just arrived,” Cassandra replied, bussing her friend’s cheek. “Penrose House was as miserable as ever, and I much prefer your company.”
Carefully pulling a gigantic hat pin free of her hair, she removed her headwear and laid both upon the seat of an armchair. “Can I send for tea and cakes? You must be famished.”
“I am not hungry, thank you, and I think I need something a bit stronger than tea.”
Moving toward the sideboard, Millicent lifted one of several crystal decanters. “Brandy it is, then.”
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