“Well if that’s all it is,” Lord Dalton said, “I would not worry your head over it. Nobody will know we had anything to do with it, Tuttle has seen to that.”
*
Edwin had leftDalton in a daze. He carried a deep sense of shame from the house and it was a feeling he was not accustomed to. He had done things in the past that he’d considered not quite right, but this! To be part of such a low scheme! And why? Because his pride had been stung. It had been childish and not worthy of a gentleman.
The only bright spot in the whole thing was that he was certain if he just had time to think of a solution, he would find a solution.
He’d sat all evening in his library, Havoc happily gnawing on his boot, as he thought of possible actions he might take. At least he’dtriedto think of actions he might take. That none occurred to him had come as a shock—no matter how badly a thing unfolded, there was always something that might be attempted. His shock began to fade as he considered the nature of slander and gossip. It was an enemy that could not be caught. It wafted through the air invisible and all that could be seen of it were those who had been laid waste by it. It could not be subdued, nor struck down, nor chained. In that way, it was more deadly than any Napoleon.
Miss Knightsbridge was about to encounter a disaster she had not earned, and he was the author of it. It was unlikely anybody would ever discover he was behind the stories told of her, but what matter? He would know it, and it would sit on his shoulders like an uncomfortable friend.
But then, the story Dalton had related, an engagement to three gentlemen and one of them a tradesman to boot, was so outlandish. Might it not be taken as such and dismissed by all who heard it?
Edwin’s mood was buoyed by the idea, though the feeling did not last. It was just as likely that various gossipers would glory in the tale and gleefully embellish it. Only last year, Prinny had been reported on his deathbed when in fact he’d been jolly at the theater and Lady Cattrail was reported to have left her husband when she’d only gone off to care for a sick niece.
As the moon hung full outside of his window, he was forced to conclude that Miss Knightsbridge would not come through unscathed.
The only question left was what he could do about it.
Lady Montague’s ball was on the morrow, and if ever there was a condemning woman it was her. If Lady Marksworth and Miss Knightsbridge remained unaware of the tale that swirled around them, they might just attend and find it out there.
Edwin did not see how to stop it, but he was determined to go and do what he could.
*
Cassandra finally hadthe determination to challenge Peggy on which dress she would wear. She had been decided on wearing a cream silk with lovely rose-colored flowers embroidered around the hem. Peggy had been equally determined on the white satin with a pale-yellow gauze overlay, going so far as to claim the cream dress had been mysteriously misplaced.
After a half hour of arguing that dresses do not fly off on their own and then finally hinting that if the dress had really disappeared, Peggy would be responsible for it, the cream-colored gown had been produced.
Peggy had not accepted defeat with any sort of grace and for the hundredth time Cassandra thought she was the most confounded girl alive. She was certain other people did not wrestle with their maids in such a fashion.
Nevertheless, she was in the cream with the pink rosettes and in the carriage, on her way to the Montagues’ ball.
“Lord Montague is a friendly enough fellow,” Lady Marksworth said, “though Lady Montague is a bit of a beast.”
“A beast?” Cassandra asked.
“Do not be frightened by her,” Lady Marksworth said. “I knew her as Miss Harriet Wellburne in our youth. She was forever putting herself forward as the arbiter of how one should go about things, a bit of a prig, actually. I remember her whispering all over town about poor Miss Jumble and that lady’s lack of a wardrobe. It was Harriet’s opinion that if one could not afford a suitable range of attire, one should not come for the season.”
Cassandra felt very badly for Miss Jumble, as the lady reminded her very much of her friend Lily Farnsworth. Poor Lily thought a new ribbon would mask an old dress, but Cassandra supposed that was not to be when one entered the confines of London.
“Do not pity Miss Jumble, however,” Lady Marksworth said. “She is the Duchess of Somerston now and can have as many dresses as she likes.”
“The Duchess of Somerston?” Cassandra said, both glad and amused. “Is that not Lord Burke’s mother?”
“Just so,” Lady Marksworth said. “For all Harriet’s complaining on the subject, Miss Jumble’s very modest wardrobe did not show her to disadvantage. She was a darling girl and the duke could not have cared less about her dresses.”
Cassandra was much cheered by the tale and would be sure to tell it to Lily Farnsworth. Though, she did feel a flutter of nerves to encounter a woman such as Lady Montague, despite Miss Jumble’s success.
“As for Harriet and I, when I discovered she was impugning Miss Jumble’s right to a season, I told her in no uncertain terms that she’d gone wrong. I am not so certain she has ever forgiven me for that. Though we both invite each other to large parties, I have never been asked to dine here, nor have I askedherto Marksworth House.”
“Goodness,” Cassandra said.
“Never mind,” Lady Marksworth said. “It is the way of the world. One may not adore all of theton,but they’re what we’ve got and so we must make the best of it. What else are we to do? Sail to Massachusetts and have tea with some awful Americans?”
Cassandra did not know, but she wondered if awful Americans might be a deal less frightening than Lady Montague.
*
