“You think not?” Edwin said. “Were you her father, might you not have this Longmoore fellow hauled in front of you? Ofcoursethe 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.”
“All right, Hampton,” Dalton said. “You’ve gone and painted a dire picture; we all regret poor Miss Knightsbridge and hope the local baker is not just now poisoning our bread. But what are we to do about it?”
“The only thing we can do about it,” Hampton said. “We will aim to fill Miss Knightsbridge’s dance card. We will engage her in conversation. We will speak to others of our admiration of the lady. We will conduct ourselves as if in a military campaign. We will send the clear message that whatever the world may think,wehold the lady in esteem. Mamas everywhere have very high hopes for their daughters just now, and they will stop their tongues if they believe they cross us.”
One by one, the men nodded in agreement. The growing resolve on their features gave Hampton every confidence that they would carry out his idea. Even Dalton, who of them all might be considered the least worried over a murderous baker, was engaged.
*
Cassandra had rarelybeen on horseback since she’d come to town. She’d been carried here and there in one of Lady Marksworth’s well-appointed carriages and had begun to feel very much like a bird in a cage, looking out the bars and yearning to take flight. Now, though, she’d convinced her aunt to allow her to ride in Hyde Park.
While Lady Marksworth had been convinced, she’d not thrown all caution to the wind. The lady followed her niece in a barouche with the top down and there were two grooms besides. Cassandra, having become more closely acquainted with her aunt’s modes of thinking, had broached the subject in a way she could not have devised when she’d first arrived. In those early days, she had mentioned fresh air and the glories of riding. This time, she’d mentioned her new riding habit and how many people they were likely to meet in the park. Her aunt’s goal was to see her well-settled, and so thoughts of her niece in a charming blue velvet riding habit, out and about for everybody to admire, had tipped the scales in favor of the scheme.
It was wondrous to be on horseback again, to be in absolute control of one’s direction. That the horse she sat upon did not equal Juno, Cassandra could not deny. Juno’s sire was a fleet and agile Arabian and her dam a steady Cleveland Bay. She was by turns strong and fast, and her temperament made her ready to seize any challenge in front of her.
The horse Cassandra rode now, Butternut, was as her name would suggest—calm to the point of lazy and far too fond of her oats. Nobody would bother with a gallop on Butternut, particularly not Butternut herself. Cassandra supposed that was one of the reasons her aunt approved of the horse so thoroughly—Butternut had never done an irrational or speedy thing in her life and was not likely to begin now. Still, shewasa horse, if only barely.
The only thing that disappointed Cassandra, aside from Butternut’s staid progress, was that the park was so crowded. Blessedly, many of the carriages they passed contained ladies happening to look in the other direction, otherwise she was certain they would be forever stopping.
Always attuned to everything around her when she rode, Cassandra heard the distinct sounds of a gallop behind her. She turned her head in time to see Mr. Conners wheel in his horse. He was one of the gentlemen she had danced with at the Montagues’ ball and she supposed he would pay his respects. Cassandra only hoped he had finally thought of something to say that was more interesting than inquiring about Surrey.
“Hey Ho, Miss Knightsbridge,” he called. “What’s say we race to the gate? I’ll put twenty pounds on it.”
Cassandra was momentarily taken aback. Was it the custom to make such jokes? Certainly, itwasa joke, as nobody would think poor old Butternut up to doing anything so outrageous. Cassandra herself would not think to do anything so outrageous. Perhaps in Surrey, on Juno and challenged by an intimate acquaintance, but with a near-stranger in Hyde Park? It was unthinkable.
Lady Marksworth did not appear to see the humor in the joke. “Sir?” she asked. Though it was one word, it was said in a tone containing so much condemnation that Cassandra perceived instantly that what Mr. Conners had just proposed bordered on insult.
Before Mr. Conners could answer Lady Marksworth’s one-word inquiry, Cassandra spotted Lord Hampton galloping toward them.
She felt a flutter at seeing him so, he sat on his fine Bay with such confidence and skill. She could almost envision him galloping across a field and into battle.
Lord Hampton reached them and reined in his horse. He tipped his hat to Cassandra and Lady Marksworth.
“Hampton, my good fellow!” Mr. Conners said.
Though he said it as if the two gentlemen were longstanding friends, Cassandra did not see an equal amount of familiarity on the lord’s side. Lord Hampton only nodded.
