Chasing Cassandra Page 15

  Before going to the supper buffet, Tom went into one of the club rooms for a drink. Most of the chairs were occupied, as they always were this time of night. As he walked through the circuit of connected rooms, various friends and acquaintances gestured for him to join them. He was about to signal a porter to bring an extra chair when he noticed a minor disturbance a few tables away. Three men were having a quiet but intense discussion, tension clouding the air like smoke.

  Tom glanced at the small group and recognized Gabriel, Lord St. Vincent, in their midst. It was hardly a surprise to find St. Vincent here, since his family owned the club, and his maternal grandfather had been Ivo Jenner himself. In recent years, St. Vincent had taken over the management of the club from his father. By all accounts, he was doing an excellent job of it, with his customary cool and relaxed aplomb.

  At the moment, however, there was nothing relaxed about St. Vincent. He pushed his chair back and stood, and dropped a newspaper to the table as if it had just caught fire. Although he made a visible effort to compose himself, his jaw flexed repeatedly as he ground his teeth.

  “My lord,” Tom said easily, drawing closer. “How are you?”

  St. Vincent turned toward him, instantly assuming a polite mask. “Severin. Good evening.” He reached out to shake Tom’s hand, and proceeded to introduce him to the two men at the table, who had both risen to their feet. “Lord Milner, Mr. Chadwick, it’s my pleasure to introduce Mr. Severin, our newest member.”

  They both bowed and offered congratulations.

  “Severin,” St. Vincent murmured, “ordinarily I’d invite you to have a brandy with me, but I’m afraid I have to leave at once. I beg your pardon.”

  “Not bad news, I hope?”

  Looking distracted, St. Vincent responded with a faint, grim smile. “Yes, it’s bad. God knows what I can do about it. Probably not much.”

  “Can I be of service?” Tom asked without hesitation.

  St. Vincent focused on him then, his winter-blue eyes warming at the offer. “Thank you, Severin,” he said sincerely. “I’m not sure what’s needed yet. But I may prevail on you later if necessary.”

  “If you could give me an idea of the problem, I might have some suggestions.”

  St. Vincent contemplated him for a moment. “Walk with me.”

  Tom responded with a single nod, his curiosity growing by leaps and bounds.

  After retrieving the discarded newspaper, St. Vincent murmured to his friends, “Thank you for the information, gentlemen. Your drinks and dinners are on the house tonight.”

  They reacted with smiles and appreciative murmurs.

  As St. Vincent left with Tom, his pleasant expression vanished. “You’ll hear about this soon enough,” he said. “The problem has to do with my wife’s sister. Lady Cassandra.”

  Tom drew in a sharp breath. “What happened? Has she been hurt?” From the quick glance the other man sent him, he realized his reaction had been too forceful.

  “Not physically.” St. Vincent led the way to a spacious vestibule off the entrance hall. The room, fitted with nickel rods and mahogany shelves, had been crammed with overcoats and sundry articles.

  A porter approached them immediately. “My lord?”

  “My hat and coat, Niall.” While the porter disappeared into the vestibule, St. Vincent spoke quietly to Tom. “Lady Cassandra has been slandered by a rejected suitor. The rumors started circulating two or three days ago. The man described her to his friends as a heartless and promiscuous flirt—and he made sure to do it at his club, within hearing of as many people as possible. He claims she freely allowed him sexual liberties and then rejected him callously when he tried to redeem her honor with an offer of marriage.”

  Tom had always known rage as a scalding emotion. But this went beyond that … this feeling was colder than ice.

  There was only one thing he needed to know. “Who is it?”

  “Roland, Lord Lambert.”

  Tom went to the threshold of the vestibule. “I want my coat too,” he said brusquely in the porter’s direction.

  “Right away, Mr. Severin,” came the muffled reply.

  “Where are you going?” St. Vincent asked as Tom turned back to him.

  “I’m going to find Lambert,” Tom growled, “and shove a damned pole up his arse. Then I’m going to drag him to the front courtyard of the Guildhall and prop him up until he publicly retracts every lie about Lady Cassandra.”

  St. Vincent regarded him with forced patience. “The last thing the Ravenels need is for you to go out half-cocked and do something impulsive. Besides, you don’t know the whole of the story yet. It gets worse.”

  Tom blanched. “Sweet Christ, how could it be worse?” In the eyes of society, a woman’s reputation was everything. Everything. If there was any smudge on Cassandra’s honor, she would be ostracized, and the disgrace would fall on her family as well. Her chances of marrying any man of her class would be smashed. Her former friends would have nothing to do with her. Her future children would be snubbed by their peers. Lambert’s actions had been the height of cruelty: He had known full well his petty vengeance would ruin Cassandra’s life.

  St. Vincent handed Tom the newspaper he’d tucked under his arm. “This is the evening edition of the London Chronicle,” he said tersely. “Read the top column on the society page.”

  Tom looked at him sharply before lowering his gaze to the column, which, he noted with contempt, had been written by someone willing to identify himself only as “Anonymous.”

  It is time for us now to reflect on a species well known to London: the Heartless Flirt. Many such creatures have recently descended on society to renew the pleasures of the Season, but one in particular serves as the most notorious example of her kind.

  Collecting broken hearts like so many trophies is a game to this certain lady, to whom we shall refer as “Lady C.” She has received more proposals than a well-bred young woman should, and there’s no mystery as to why. She plays at lovemaking, having perfected the sidelong glance, the teasing whisper, and other incitements to the male ardor. It is her habit to lure a man to some quiet corner, inflame him with furtive kisses and wanton explorations, then accuse the poor fellow of taking advantage.

  Lady C will, of course, protest her innocence and claim her little experimentations are harmless. She will toss her golden curls and go on her merry way, leading more men to make fools of themselves for her private amusement. Now that her impropriety has been exposed, it is up to those in good society to decide what price, if any, she will pay for her shameless ways. Let their judgment be a warning to other young temptresses that it is wicked—nay, fiendish—to toy with the affections of honorable young men, and degrade herself in the process.

  In short, let Lady C serve as an example.

  Tom was dumbstruck by the sheer malice of the column. It was character assassination. He’d never seen nor heard of such a public attack on an innocent girl. If it was retaliation by Lord Lambert for having been rejected, it was so wildly disproportionate a response, one had to question his sanity. And now that the rumor had entered the public domain, it would be taken up by women in society, who weren’t generally known for showing mercy to their own kind.

  Before the week was out, Cassandra would be a pariah.

  “Why would the editor agree to publish this?” Tom demanded, shoving the paper back at him. “It’s bloody libel.”

  “No doubt he’s banking on the fact that Cassandra’s family won’t want to put her through the ordeal of a lawsuit. Furthermore, it’s possible this ‘Anonymous’ has some kind of leverage against him or the paper’s owner.”

  “I’ll find out who wrote the column,” Tom said.

  “No,” St. Vincent said instantly. “Don’t take the matter into your own hands. I’ll convey your offer of assistance to the Ravenels. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it. But it’s for the family to decide how to handle the situation.”

  The porter came with St. Vincent’s coat and h
elped him into it, while Tom stood there brooding.

  He couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Something inside him had been let out of its cage, and it wouldn’t go back in until he’d made the world pay for hurting Cassandra.

  When he thought of what she might be feeling, how frightened and furious and wounded she must be … a strange and terrible emotion twisted all through him. He wanted Cassandra in his arms. He wanted to shield her from all this damned ugliness.

  Except he had no right to do anything where Cassandra was concerned.

  “I won’t interfere,” Tom said gruffly. “But I want your word you’ll notify me if there’s something I can do. Even some small service.”

  “I will.”

  “You’re going to them now?”

  “Yes, I’m going to collect my wife and take her to Ravenel House. She’ll want to be with Cassandra.” St. Vincent looked simultaneously angry and world-weary. “That poor girl. It’s never been a secret that what Cassandra wants most is a conventional life. But with a few malicious words, Lambert has all but ruined her chances of having it.”

  “Not when the rumor he started is exposed as a blatant lie.”

  St. Vincent smiled cynically. “You can’t kill a rumor that way, Severin. The more facts you throw at a lie, the more people insist on believing it.”

  Chapter 14

  PUBLIC SHAME, CASSANDRA REFLECTED dully, was drowning in deep water. Once you disappeared beneath the surface, you kept sinking.

  It had been twenty-four hours since Pandora and Gabriel had called at Ravenel House. Ordinarily, the unexpected visit would have been a delightful surprise, but from the moment Cassandra had seen Pandora’s bone-white face, she’d understood something was very wrong. Life-altering wrong.

  They had all gathered in the family parlor, with Kathleen and Devon seated on either side of Cassandra. Pandora had been too agitated to sit, pacing around the room and occasionally breaking in with loud exclamations, while Gabriel had carefully explained the situation.

  As the realization of what Lord Lambert had done to her sank in, Cassandra had turned cold with shock and fright. Devon had brought her a brandy and insisted that she drink it, his large hands closing over hers to keep the glass steady as she raised it to her lips. “You have a family,” he’d said firmly. “You have many people to love and defend you. We’re going to fight this together.”

  “We’ll start by killing Lord Lambert!” Pandora had cried, storming back and forth. “In the longest, most painful way possible. We’ll take him apart bit by bit. I’m going to murder him with tweezers.”

  While her twin had continued to rant, Cassandra had gone into Kathleen’s arms and whispered, “It will be like battling smoke. There’s no way to win.”

  “Lady Berwick will be able to help us more than anyone,” Kathleen had said calmly. “She’ll enlist the sympathy and support of her friends—all influential society matrons—and advise us on how best to weather this storm.”

  But like most storms, it would leave wreckage in its wake.

  “You’ll have the support of my family,” Gabriel had assured her. “They won’t tolerate any slight against you. Whatever you require, they’ll provide.”

  Cassandra had thanked him woodenly, forbearing to point out that the duke and duchess, powerful as they were, wouldn’t be able to force people to risk ruin by mixing their reputations with hers.

  She’d sipped the brandy until she’d finished all of it, while the rest of the group discussed what to do. They’d agreed that Devon would enlist Ethan Ransom to find Lord Lambert, who had probably run to ground after the havoc he’d caused. St. Vincent would go to the offices of the London Chronicle in the morning and pressure the editor into revealing the identity of the anonymous columnist. Kathleen would send for Lady Berwick, who would devise a strategy to counteract the damaging rumors.

  Although Cassandra had tried to pay attention, a gloom of exhaustion had settled over her, and she sat with her head and shoulders drooping.

  “Cassandra’s feeling floppulous,” Pandora had announced. “She needs to rest.”

  Kathleen and Pandora had accompanied her upstairs, while Devon and Gabriel had continued to talk in the parlor.

  “I don’t mean to sound self-pitying,” Cassandra had said numbly, sitting at the vanity table while Kathleen brushed her hair, “but I can’t think what I did to deserve this.”

  “You don’t deserve it,” Kathleen had said, meeting her gaze in the looking glass. “As you know, life is unfair. You had the bad luck to attract Lord Lambert, and you had no way of knowing what he would do.”

  Pandora had come to kneel beside her chair. “Shall I stay here with you tonight? I don’t want to be far away from you.”

  That had brought the trace of a smile to Cassandra’s dry lips. “No, the brandy’s made me sleepy. All I want is to rest. But I’ll need to see you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll come back first thing in the morning.”

  “You’ll have work to do,” Cassandra had objected. Pandora had started her own board game company and was in the process of fitting up a small factory space and visiting suppliers. “Come back later in the day, when you’ve taken care of your responsibilities.”

  “I’ll be here by teatime.” Looking up at Cassandra more closely, Pandora commented, “You’re not behaving the way I expected. I’ve done all the crying and screaming, and you’ve been so quiet.”

  “I’m sure I’ll cry eventually. Right now, though, I only feel rather ill and gray.”

  “Should I be quiet too?” Pandora had asked.

  Cassandra had shaken her head. “No, not at all. It feels as if you’re crying and screaming for me when I can’t.”

  Pandora had pressed her cheek against Cassandra’s arm. “That’s what sisters do.”

  The atmosphere in the house this morning was ominously quiet. Devon had left, and Kathleen was busy writing a blizzard of notes and letters, enlisting friends’ support in the brewing scandal. The servants were unusually subdued, Napoleon and Josephine were listless, and even the usual noises of street traffic from outside were absent. It felt as if someone had died.

  In a way, someone had. Cassandra had awakened into a new life with a different future. She had yet to find out all the ways it had changed, and what the extent of her humiliation would be. But regardless of how people treated her, she had to admit her own responsibility in this mess. She was at least partly to blame. This was the reason for all Lady Berwick’s rules.

  All the minor flirtations and stolen kisses Cassandra had enjoyed in the past had now been cast in a different light. It had seemed like innocent fun at the time, but she’d been playing with fire. Had she stayed safely next to her chaperone or relations and behaved with decorum, Lord Lambert would have never been able to pull her aside and accost her the way he had.

  The only benefit to being ruined, Cassandra thought morosely as she dressed with the help of her lady’s maid, was that she’d lost her appetite. Perhaps she would finally lose the extra pounds that had plagued her ever since the beginning of summer.

  When teatime approached, Cassandra descended the stairs eagerly, knowing Pandora would arrive soon. Late-afternoon tea was a sacred ritual for the Ravenels, whether they were in Hampshire or in London. Here at Ravenel House, tea was served in the double library, a spacious long rectangle of a room, lined with acres of mahogany bookshelves and filled with cozy groupings of deep upholstered furniture.

  Cassandra’s steps slowed as she approached the library and heard Lady Berwick’s familiar crisp tones mingling with Kathleen’s subdued ones. Oh, God … facing Lady Berwick would be the worst part of this entire debacle. The older woman would be stern and disapproving, and so very disappointed.

  Cassandra’s face burned with shame as she went to the threshold and peeked around the jamb.

  “… in my day, there would have been a duel,” Lady Berwick was saying. “Were I a man, I would have called him out already.”

  “Please
don’t say that in my husband’s hearing,” Kathleen said dryly. “He needs no encouragement. His surface is civilized, but it only goes so deep.”

  Hesitantly Cassandra entered the room and curtsied. “Ma’am,” she managed to choke out. “I’m so very sorry, I—” Her throat closed, and she couldn’t speak.

  Lady Berwick patted the place beside her on the settee. Obeying the summons, Cassandra went to her. She sat and forced herself to meet the older woman’s gaze, expecting reproof and condemnation. But to her surprise, the steel-gray eyes were kind.

  “We’ve been dealt a wretched hand, my dear,” Lady Berwick said calmly. “You’re not to blame. Your conduct has been no worse than that of any other girl in your position. Better than most, as a matter of fact, and I include my own two daughters in that estimation.”

  Cassandra could have let herself weep then, except it would have made the older woman, who prized self-control, exceedingly uncomfortable. “I brought this on myself,” she said humbly. “I shouldn’t have flouted any of your rules, for even a second.”

  “Nor should Lord Lambert have abandoned all semblance of gentlemanly conduct,” Lady Berwick exclaimed with icy indignation. “His behavior has been dastardly. My friends and confidantes in society all agree. Furthermore, they know what position I expect them to take regarding Lambert.” After a brittle pause, she added, “That won’t be enough, however.”

  “You mean to save my reputation?” Cassandra managed to ask.

  Lady Berwick nodded. “Let us make no bones about it—you’re in trouble, my dear. Something must be done.”