Lisbon (55 page)

“Delighted.” Robbie’s eyes shone. “But I’m not sure Lady Stanhope will be. She’s grown rather accustomed to all the comings and goings that surround Cassandra. ” 

“She will have to learn to live without that excitement,” was Rowan’s dry comment. He eyed his daughter again. “I understand from Lady Merryfield that Lady Stanhope has taken you shopping."

“Yes, she has,” said Cassandra guiltily. “And bought quite a lot.”

“Tell her to send me the bills—and thank her for me.” Cassandra left with Robbie, looking rather dazed. She had not expected her father to take it all so well.

Watching them go, Rowan thought he had behaved rather handsomely too. He was tired, but it was not fatigue that had kept him from accompanying his daughter and the Scot on their mission. It was the sight of Cassandra wearing Charlotte’s face. Save for her coloring, she was so like, so like. It tore at him. He wondered if he’d ever be able to look at Cassandra without thinking of Charlotte, longing for her. It occurred to him suddenly that his daughter’s departure had been rather speedy.

Cassandra had indeed been eager to take her leave. She had adored her mother, wept for her, grieved for her—but she didn’t trust her father. She had early memories that disturbed her. She’d been told they were only nightmares, but she had never really been sure. In any event, Rowan Keynes was a hard man to love. And his daughter had never quite forgiven him for accepting Phoebe’s word over her own and forthwith exiling her to Colchester.

It had widened the rift between them.

On the eighth of March, exactly one month after the earthquake that had welcomed Cassandra to London, another earthquake rocked the city. And this one found Cassandra in a milliner’s shop where she had gone with Lady Stanhope and Mavis to buy Mavis a new hat.

There were several other ladies in the shop, but Cassandra’s view of them was obscured by the hats, which stood on the counter propped up by little stands or perched high on wig stands as well as sitting in rows upon the shelves that lined the walls.

“Do help us choose, Cassandra.” Lady Stanhope’s drawing room had declined in popularity since Cassandra had moved back home, and she was determined to bind such a star to her entourage at all costs. “Do you think Mavis would look better in this blue one or—” Her voice broke off in a scream as there was a rumble and the room seemed to sway back and forth, spilling hats from their shelves, causing tall wig stands to dance and overturn, and causing several of the ladies to shriek.

The milliner, whose face was pale with fright, added to the commotion with a hysterical burst of high uncontrollable laughter which seemed to come in waves. Cassandra, unsteady on her feet as the floor rocked, was trying to fight free of Mavis’ terrified grasp, for Mavis, who had been just in the act of setting a hat on Cassandra’s head to 
see how it would look when the quake struck, had knocked the hat off as she stumbled forward when the room swayed, and to save herself, had locked her fingers firmly in Cassandra’s blonde coiffure. Lady Stanhope was clutching the counter, while hats and stands surged past her, and shrieked anew as a sign outside crashed to the street.

At the far end of the room, one lady had lost her footing and fallen to the floor in a welter of wig stands and hats and was emitting a keening wail as her friends tried to help her to her feet.

And over all, the milliner was moaning and laughing as she dived about, trying to retrieve her precious merchandise, her inappropriate outbursts caused by a slight case of mercury poisoning from shaping the hats. Cassandra—who had heard that all hatters were mad and laughed uncontrollably—wished ardently that the milliner would stop making so much noise so that she could persuade a whimpering Mavis to unwind those clutching fingers from her hair.

And then as quickly as it had happened, it was all over.

The room stopped shaking and they were all left in a sea of hats and fallen hat stands. The milliner was biting a quivering lip to choke back her tears and whisking hats back to the shelves, and Cassandra was remonstrating with Mavis:
“Mavis,
you’re pulling my hair out!”

“Come, Cassandra.” Lady Stanhope was trying to retrieve her fallen dignity. “I do not think Mavis would care to try on hats that have been thrown to the floor and trampled!” She was about to shepherd the two girls into the street when Lady Scopes’—the former Katherine Talybont—malicious voice carried to them through the shop.

“I have heard that Rowan Keynes is back in town and I doubt not that it is he who has brought this earth-shaking upon us. You remember, dear Lady Crispin, that I told you Rowan caused the death of my former husband in Portugal. He ...”

Cassandra was never to hear Katherine’s last words, for Lady Stanhope literally pushed her out the door.

“You are not to listen to such nonsense,” she told 
Cassandra with a sniff. “Katherine Olney—she is Lady Scopes now—was betrothed to your father before she married Eustace Talybont. Eustace was set upon and killed in Lisbon, and I do think it must have affected Katherine’s mind, because she came back swearing that your father had somehow engineered his death—and yet all reports have it that your father was nowhere near Eustace Talybont’s inn when he was attacked at the door by some roving cutpurse.”

Despite this entirely reasonable explanation, Cassandra felt a little chill stealing over her. It was Lady Scopes who had asked her at Lady Merryfield’s ball if she had brought the earthquake with her. Plainly she was an enemy.

A young man erupted from a tobacconist’s shop across the street. He had hair as yellow as corn and a satin coat to match over buff-colored trousers. He came to a breathless stop before the ladies, bowed, and said, “Lady Stanhope, are you all right? And the ladies with you? The quake near destroyed the tobacconist’s shop. Tins falling off shelves and half of the lids coming off, and the tobacco spilled everywhere! The gentlemen who keep their special blends with him will have some surprises coming, I can tell you!” He sounded very merry; his eyes were on Cassandra and she could see that they were a vivid blue.

“Why, yes, we’re all right, thank you,” said Lady Stanhope, for once looking confused. “Do I know you, young man?’’

His grin was very engaging. “Perhaps you don’t remember. We met last year in Bath. At Aunt Abigail’s.”

“At Aunt . . . Oh, yes, Lady Dorsey. How is she? You’ll be . . . ?”

“Her nephew, Lance Riverton. She’s fine, thank you. May I get you a chair, Lady Stanhope? You look a bit pale.”

“A chair? No, suppose there’s another great shaking of the ground. I’ve no mind to have some wobbly chair carriers spill me out onto the cobbles. But you could call us a hackney coach, young man—that is, if any are to be found in all this!” She gestured down the street, where the bricks of a fallen chimney had raised a dust.

“I must go home,” said Cassandra. “I’m sure all this 
shaking will have broken the dishes and perhaps knocked some things from my dressing table.”

Lance Riverton turned from flagging down a hackney coach, which was even then coming to a smart halt. “I’ll be glad to escort you,” he said warmly.

Cassandra smiled and waved good-bye to Lady Stanhope, who leaned out the window and called, “You must call upon us soon, perhaps tomorrow for tea?” She pulled her head back from the window and spoke sharply to her daughter. “There was a chance for you, Mavis, and what did you do? You stood there like the green girl that you are and let Cassandra Keynes take him away from you! And I can tell you Lance Riverton is a very good catch!” Lance Riverton was at that very moment trying to impress that fact on Cassandra, whose beauty had sent him running across the street. He had just arrived in London at the very tail end, as it were, of the season, and he meant to make the most of it.

“My Aunt Abigail has a very elegantly appointed house in Bath,” he told Cassandra. “And when she comes to London she insists upon bringing with her a lot of her best china—she will be glad she did not come, when I write and tell her how the ground here has been shaken.” Cassandra was well aware that Lance was making what was called “a dead set” for her. At his urging she let him accompany her into the house “in case a beam has fallen, or a chandelier.” They found some books tumbled, fireplace tools knocked over, a picture or two fallen to the floor, and Cook grumbling in the kitchen over a couple of broken crocks, but in the main no damage. Cassandra laughingly refused his earnest offer “to survey every inch of the building” with her.

It occurred to her that Lance was both charming and persuasive and that Tony would be very jealous.

He was indeed. The two of them pursued her relentlessly, and as if to rebuff Tony for trying to rush her into marriage, she decided to show no favoritism between them.

“Which will bring on trouble, mark my words!” her friend Dolly Ellerby warned her when in mid-March

Cassandra celebrated her seventeenth birthday. “For Tony considers you his betrothed.”

“Nonsense, I never promised to marry Tony!” “Nonetheless, he has told everyone that you have.” Dolly shook her amber curls. “And if you’ve noticed a thinning-out of beaux lately, it’s because Tony is scaring them off. So watch out!”

Dolly was shrewd and her predictions had a way of coming true, but Cassandra, young and reckless, gaily ignored all warnings. She was up to her ears in social engagements, for as the London season drew to an end, routs and balls and parties sprang up all over the place as hostesses, desperate to repay all their social obligations at once, planned fetes and frolics. Indeed Cassandra threw back her lovely head and laughed when, midway in Lady Haverford’s crowded ball three days later, she was first told of the duel to be fought at dawn tomorrow.

“They’ll not do it,” she scoffed, and the candlelight from the chandeliers sparkled in the brilliants entwined in her blonde hair. “Neither of them cares overmuch for swordplay. Lance’s mother had all the swords thrown out of the house after her brother was killed overseas—and Tony can scarce carve a goose! Besides”—she shrugged—“why should they fight over me? I am but half-engaged to Tony and I danced but three dances with Lance at Lady Vanderley’s ball last night. ”

“And
flirted with him on the terrace,” added Dolly Ellerby, who had brought her friend this unwelcome bit of news.

“I was
not
flirting. Well, perhaps I was, but that isn’t enough to make Tony and Lance hack away at each other. ”

 “Well,
they
think it was. And this morning at White’s, Tony Dunn flung his glove in Lance Riverton’s face and Lance chose pistols and they’re meeting at dawn tomorrow under the dueling oaks at Lord Cloperton’s park just north of town. It’s a deep secret, of course, but I wormed it out of Ned,” she added with a flirt of her fan and a smug expression that implied she could worm any secret out of her betrothed, Ned Willoughby.

Cassandra smoothed out the white velvet of her ball 
gown. It seemed ridiculous that they should even
consider
fighting a duel over her. Still . . .

“Perhaps you can worm out of Ned where the two of them are tonight,” she said crisply. “For I have not seen either one of them all evening. Father insists that Robbie take me to parties.”

“Oh, I doubt Lady Haverford invited either one,” was Dolly’s cheerful response. “Her family is at odds with Tony’s over a steeplechase or something, and of course she wouldn’t have Lance because Lance broke off with her niece last summer. She’s cut him dead ever since. Won’t speak
to
him or
of
him.”

That was no help. Frowning, Cassandra looked around to see where she might turn. No one seemed readily available. “Well, do try to learn from Ned the whereabouts of either one of them. ”

“Perhaps they are saying their prayers,” suggested Dolly composedly.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Dolly! They aren’t going to
kill
each other over me!”

“Perhaps not.” Dolly shrugged. “I’ll see what I can find out,” she promised.

But Ned did not know, and as the evening wore on, Cassandra, dancing with first one young buck and then another across the shining candlelit floor in Lady Haverford’s long double drawing rooms, could learn nothing. They had both, it seemed, disappeared.

She would have left the ball at once and gone seeking them, but Robbie would have insisted on going along. He would have left her waiting in the coach while he searched out White’s and other likely places—and how could Robbie persuade them not to fight? No, this was something she must do herself.

Nor could she just go running off, leaving kindly Robbie to worry about her.

No, she would wait until she got home. Then she would slip out and find a hackney coach to take her to Tony’s flat in Dorchester Street. It was odd that he had not made some effort to see her this evening, but perhaps he had sent a message and it had been lost along the way.

There was plenty of time, she told herself. She would dissuade Tony. Perhaps by promising to marry him if he called off this duel. She toyed with the idea, her expressive green eyes changing to a deeper emerald as she thought about it. Tony would make a delightful husband—so would Lance!—but of course she was not ready for marriage just yet, she was having too good a time. Still, if worse came to worst and Tony balked, he might be willing to accept a long engagement. . . .