The Viscount’s Sinful Bargain (The Dukes' Pact Book 1)

by Kate Archer

  She might even say the lord had looked embarrassed to see her again. She supposed she felt the same—she had thought it lucky that they had hit on the welcome subject of dogs at the Sedways’ dinner, but now she began to wonder what other topic might take its place. Certainly, they could not return to talking of dogs—she was rather afraid everything that could be said on the subject had been said.

  On the other hand, she felt strangely pleased that he would take her into supper. Or, if not pleased, then something she could not exactly identify. Some hint of nerves, she supposed.

  The opening of the ball had not passed as Cassandra expected. She had looked forward to Lord Burke’s amusing tales of his cook, but he told none. She had initially suspected he was under the weather and now she was certain that was the case. He was very subdued and not joking at all. She thought it a recommendation of his character that, feeling as poorly as he must, he was so entirely solicitous of her. He inquired how she did, and then nodded gravely when she said she did quite well.

  After the first, she was led round the ballroom floor by a variety of gentlemen she had not encountered before. She did not know if these new gentlemen were all friends, and therefore in the habit of landing on the same subjects, but down to a man they were all remarkably interested in Surrey. Was she indeed from that county? What sort of society did she keep there? How did Miss Knightsbridge spend her time there? Was she fond of horses? What did she think of the shooting in Surrey?

  She had answered all of their questions, careful to leave out any penchant for riding Juno like the wind on an early morning ride or standing by her father while he taught her how to handle a fowling piece.

  She had nearly lost her patience with Mr. Mumsford.

  “I only wonder, Miss Knightsbridge, how you find the general company in Surrey?”

  Good Lord. He had already asked if she had many acquaintances there and if the gentlemen to be found in that neighborhood were amusing.

  “The company is pleasant,” Cassandra said.

  “I suppose the shooting is very good?”

  And here they were back to shooting, a topic touched on twice already.

  In the end, she felt all of the gentlemen had read the same book on making casual conversation at a ball, and it was not a very interesting book.

  Her dance with Lord Hampton had felt as if they went back in time. He was just as grave and silent as he had been at the Bergrams’ ball. This time, however, she did not press him to speak. She had been speaking all night and had not the least inclination to discuss Surrey one more time.

  Lord Hampton led her into supper amongst looks all around. Cassandra supposed that was to be expected—all eyes were perennially trained on the gentlemen of the pact.

  After a long silence, the lord said, “Forgive me, I have not even asked the most civil of questions. How do you do this evening, Miss Knightsbridge?”

  “Very well, my lord,” she said, relieved he had chosen to say anything at all. “I presume you have fared well since the Sedways’ dinner?”

  “Well enough,” Hampton said. “I wonder, how do you find London these days?”

  How did she find London? How was she to find London? It was as it ever was, she supposed.

  “Town is of course different from home, though it is welcome in its own way,” she said. It was a nonsensical answer to a rather nonsensical question.

  “Home, yes, Surrey,” Lord Hampton said quietly.

  “Indeed, Surrey,” she said, confounded by the near constant allusions to Surrey this night. Seeing that it would be she who must find a subject to engage, and having had time to think about it and not coming up with anything other than dogs, she said, “As we did speak of kennels at our last meeting, I wonder, my lord, if you have given any thought to this latest idea of using fountains for drinking water, rather than troughs?”

  “Ah,” Lord Hampton said, seeming to shake off his gloom, “Bedford’s idea. He thinks the circulation of the water keeps it uncontaminated. I am inclined to agree.”

  “I, too,” Cassandra said. She noted that the couples around her had gone silent, as if they listened to her conversation. She could not say that she wished all and sundry to hear her views on a dog’s water fountain, but neither was she willing to allow the conversation to lapse into silence again.

  She said, “I have spoken to my father about it and he agrees, though it will be a large project to endeavor.”

  Lord Hampton was silent for a moment and Cassandra noted that he stared hard at a gentleman across from him until that gentleman turned away. Finally, he said, “I have in my possession written plans on how it may be accomplished in a kennel already built. Lord Trebly is most welcome to them.”

  And so they went on, speaking of kennels and their design. She did not know if the lord had any other interests, but if he did, she did not know what they were.

  There were moments when the lord seemed to forget himself. In those moments, Lord Hampton appeared at his ease. She supposed it was the way he looked at home, surrounded by his family, or sitting in front of a fire in his library.

  It was a deal more attractive than his original stiff way of going on. In truth, it was very attractive. It would be all too easy to forget the pact, though she made a concerted effort to remember it. There had been something in imagining the lord at ease in his house that had caused that now familiar soft shiver to run down her spine, as if a light touch traced it.

  *

  Edwin left the Montagues’ in a fury. It was all too obvious what had occurred. Dalton’s ridiculous story had made the rounds thoroughly.

  He’d noted the various ladies staring at Miss Knightsbridge, like so many cobras ready to strike. Dressed in silk and pretty they might be, but poisonous all the same.

  He’d noted the gentlemen who filled up Miss Knightsbridge’s card. Those gentlemen were, with the exception of Burke, the type who would find amusement in going to their club the next day and describing their encounter with the Miss Knightsbridge everybody talked of. Burke, at least, he thought he could trust not to be so callow. In truth, Burke had seemed more serious that was his usual wont, and Edwin got the idea he’d heard the rumor and was displeased by it. For all Burke’s levity, he was a practical and well-meaning gentleman and was unlikely to put much stock in the story. Edwin would be ashamed for Burke to discover how the rumor had begun.

  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 we
akness 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 all 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.”