“Cass!” Sybil cried. Then, noting the dowager, she instantly halted.
“Dear Sybil,” Cassandra said, crossing the room to her and clasping her hands. “How good it is to see you.”
She took Sybil by the arm and walked her to the tea table. “Dowager Duchess of Carlisle, may I present my dear friend, Lady Sybil Hayworth.”
Sybil deeply curtsied. “Your Grace,” she said.
“Lady Sybil,” the dowager said, “I understand you are a stalwart and uncompromising ally of Miss Knightsbridge.”
Sybil rose and said, “If I were a man, I’d have… well, it’s no matter what I’d have done.”
“You’d have shot them all, I suspect,” the dowager said good-humoredly. “No less than they’d deserve, though for my grandson’s sake I am glad it will not come to it.”
“Your Grace,” Sybil said hurriedly, “I did not imply any harm to Lord Hampton, I only meant that I—”
“I comprehend you perfectly,” the Dowager said. “You are very like your mother—I see the Beaufort blood runs strong in your veins. Now do sit down, I understand you are fond of almond biscuits and Racine has brought enough to feed all of London.”
A very merry tea followed, as Cassandra noted that the dowager had an uncanny ability to put one at ease. She supposed it was that the dowager herself was at ease and did not stand on ceremony. She had always thought that highly placed persons were as grim and staid as the marchioness—following strict rules of protocol. There was nothing grim or staid about the Dowager Duchess of Carlisle. Rather, the lady showed who she was, not who the world thought she should be.
Cassandra had a mind to do the same.
*
The next daysat Marksworth House had the same feeling of energy that Cassandra had felt during the preparations for her wretched ball. The door was forever being answered, sometimes to admit Sybil and more often to receive yet another invitation. Some of the invitations did not even come with a date—Miss Knightsbridge was to choose whatever day she deemed most convenient.
The dowager had chosen a dress for Cassandra while they had still remained in Surrey, it was a white silk with very little adornment. Cassandra assumed the dowager chose it for its message of youthful innocence. Peggy had boldly suggested the pale blue gauze overlay, however upon noting the Dowager’s cold stare, had curtsied and bowed herself out of the room.
Cassandra had not seen the dress since it had been unpacked. The Dowager had taken it from her and then a seamstress had arrived and various boxes along with her. What the alterations were to be, Cassandra did not know.
To Racine’s dismay, George and May had firmly decided upon the sofa at the far end of the drawing room as being their own. Its blue velvet was continually covered in dog hair and as much as Racine ordered it cleaned, it was just covered again. Most of the shed hair belonged to George, as he maintained his dominance over May and claimed most of that piece of furniture. The two dogs spent their days thoroughly entertained—they relaxed on the sofa until somebody arrived at the door, then raced to the door practically knocking over Racine, then relaxed on the sofa again. To spice things up, there was always the diversion of launching at the windows to bark at passing carriages.
The viscount had arrived, and Cassandra felt him to be a great calming influence over the house. Whether it was his steady temperament or his utter lack of care for the opinions of thetonshe could not say.
Cassandra had finally given in to her curiosity and sat down with the pile of invitations that had languished on a tray in the hall. Most she did not care about, one way or the other, but there was a very kind invitation from Lady Blakeley. She and her husband would be gratified to see them at a dinner on Tuesday next.Thatinvitation she did tell her aunt to accept. Lady Blakeley’s kindness in making her a fawn and positing a defense of her at the Blakeley’s ball had been marked. There might now be dozens of people firmly on her side, but there was not then. Lady Blakeley had bucked the convenient current.
As much as Cassandra wished the day of the ball would either not come, or come and go as speedily as possible, time ground on as it always had. It would not be hurried, nor would it be late.
The day had dawned bright and Cassandra had forced herself to eat breakfast. It would seem an eternity before she was home again and the ordeal finally over and she must have the strength to face it.
Sybil and her mother and father had arranged to leave the house at the same time Cassandra and her party left, and they would follow her carriage closely. All would arrive a united army to Carlton House, the dowager leading them all as an undaunted general. It gave Cassandra some comfort to think of, though she still felt a nervous fidgeting she could not rid herself of. How many awkward conversations would be got through? How many stares must she pretend not to notice?
*
Edwin stared atHavoc, who had utterly destroyed one of his boots and now looked back at him as if he had no idea how it happened. Fortunately, he owned a dozen pairs, as he was well-used to losing a pair whenever his dog managed to get into his dressing room.
The ball was only hours away. He was to be humiliated, debased, and defamed in the worst manner. Though he could not say it was undeserved, he realized that he’d never been humiliated by anybody in his life. The eldest son of a duke was not often crossed.
He’d not really understood his own power until the moment he was stripped of it. It gave him pause to imagine what it must be like to always be subject to others’ whims. It gave him a greater understanding of how people like Lady Montague did their business—she struck terror into already terrorized hearts. If thetonwere a great sea, it was uncomfortable indeed to find oneself an inconsequential lamprey surrounded by fearsome pike. One mistaken move and one might disappear into the pike’s jaws, never to be heard from again.
Of all those who would view his nearing humiliation, it was Miss Knightsbridge that preyed on his mind. Would she be satisfied that the debt was paid? Or would she simply find mirth in it and keep her anger as hot as it must now be.
His grandmother had written to say there was, at this moment, absolutely no chance of her agreeing to marriage. Miss Knightsbridge was still inclined to shoot his head off and, through lengthy practice, her aim was much improved.
He could wait, he could bide his time. Time might soften many a strong feeling. As long as she did not marry another, he could wait.
But might she not marry another? She had become the reigning queen of the season; she would be invited everywhere.
It would be a cold justice if he had ended up creating the very fame that led to numerous proposals for the hand of Miss Knightsbridge.
