She had then begun to go out, though only on her father’s estate. Some mornings she slipped out at dawn and rode Juno as wildly as she liked over the grounds. Flying over fences, it made her laugh to think of poor old Buttercup plodding her way through Hyde Park. There was something rejuvenating about feeling the wind on one’s face on a windless day, the breeze created by one’s own speed.
Other days, she went out in the afternoon with two grooms and practiced her aim. They’d devised a target practice by using dried balls of clay launched out of a slingshot from the top of a hill while Cassandra aimed from the valley. They brought two guns and once Cassandra had fired one, she’d toss it to a groom who’d in turn toss her one loaded. The footman at the top of the hill shot off the clay balls rapid fire and it was a thrill to see how many she could take down. Her already good aim had improved markedly and when pheasant season came, she would take more than any man.
That particular afternoon, she’d been out riding most of the morning and sat pleasantly tired with May on her designated sofa by the window. As it was a Wednesday, she was not at all surprised to see Mr. Cringle’s coach lumbering up the drive.
It sometimes amused her to examine Mr. Cringle’s expression as he descended the stairs from his coach. He was a long and thin man with pinched features, always looking as if he were pained by something. He usually paused and looked at the house before knocking on the door, and if Cassandra imagined his thoughts, they must be along the lines of “let us get this over quickly.”
The coach came to a halt and to her surprise, Mr. Cringle leapt down from the carriage with an expression she thought might be glee. The corners of his lips had turned strangely up and he had a very animated look about him.
Mr. Cringle turned and pulled another man from the coach.
Cassandra sat back from the window. It was Mr. Longmoore. What on earth was that scoundrel doing at Trebly Hall?
Whatever this conference was to be about, it was nothing usual. She was determined to hear what was said.
Maidencraft let the two gentlemen into the house and Cassandra heard them announced. She suppressed a smile: Maidencraft had said Mr. Longmoore’s name as if he had just apprised the viscount that a virulent plague had arrived at his doors.
Cassandra tiptoed to the north drawing room, May following closely behind and bumping into her skirts. The north room was not much used as it was generally cold, but it shared only a wall of bookcases with her father’s library. She would have no trouble hearing what was said from that vantage point.
“He is the author of it all!” Mr. Cringle fairly shouted.
“He?” the Viscount asked. “How could a drunken shopkeeper have created this misery?”
“I am not always drunken,” Mr. Longmoore said quietly. “Only often.”
“Tell him, man,” Mr. Cringle said. “Else I’ll make good my threats against you.”
There was silence for some moments. The Viscount said, “If you have anything to say, Mr. Longmoore, I bid you say it. Though, Mr. Cringle, I am becoming weary of these goose chases.”
“This is no feint, my lord,” Mr. Cringle said. “And you will know it when you hear what he has done, why he has done it, and how he has done it.”
Cassandra pressed her ear harder against the wood. Could it be true? Could Mr. Longmoore have really had anything to do with her situation? It seemed as incomprehensible to her as it did to her father.
Cassandra paused. A sudden memory flashed across her mind. The slap to his cheek at the assembly in Guildford.
If Mr. Longmoore did have something to do with the rumors, then she could not know how, but she could very well guesswhy.
“Speak, Mr. Longmoore,” the Viscount said gravely.
“Dash it,” Mr. Longmoore said, “she slapped me. Did she tell you that?”
“Do not propose to excuse yourself before you have even admitted what you have done,” Mr. Cringle said sternly.
“All right!” Mr. Longmoore cried. “A man plied me with drink and encouraged me to tell a story of Miss Knightsbridge and then somehow it got away from me. I might have mentioned we were engaged, and then I had to call it off on account of there being two other gentlemen in the same condition.”
“To the tune of fifty pounds,” Mr. Cringle said.
“That’s all gone now!”
Cassandra nearly lost her breath. That drunken sot had ruined her for fifty pounds! She briefly considered retrieving her shotgun and blowing his head off, but then decided she would not hang for the scoundrel.
“Tell him who the man worked for,” Cringle demanded.
“He said he was in the employ of a highly placed gent,” Mr. Longmoore said. “As he was leavin,’ he mentioned a Lord Dalton, though I don’t think he knows I heard it. I committed it to memory in case…”
Cassandra sank down on the sofa. Lord Dalton?
“Never mind what that case might be,” Mr. Cringle said, “as I am certain it would have something to do with blackmail when you found yourself once again short of funds.”
