The three were going to the ball anyway, though, because everyone else was going. And really one was interested to discover how the marriage was progressing. It would be surprising indeed if it were not under severe strain after three whole years. Though no doubt the earl and his lady would put on a show of amity for the duration of the ball.
Two of the ladies were /not/ going. One had a previous engagement, she was relieved to report. The other would not step over the doorstep of a house that contained the /Earl of Sheringford/ even if everyone else was willing to forgive and forget. Even if someone were to offer her a /fortune/ she would not go. It was most provoking that her husband positively refused to attend any balls when he knew that she loved to dance.
Better and better, Cassandra thought. The Countess of Sheringford lived under a cloud cast by the earl's reputation as a rake and a rogue. It was unlikely they would turn anyone away from their doors, even without an invitation. Though clearly the earl's reputation was going to bring more guests to the ball than it would drive away, curiosity being the besetting sin of the /ton/ – and probably of humanity in general.
The Sheringford ball would be it, then. It was tomorrow night. Time was of the essence. She had enough money left for next week's rent and for food for another couple of weeks. Beyond that there was a frighteningly empty void in which money would need to go out but none would be coming in.
And she had dependents as well as herself to house and clothe and feed.
Dependents who could not, for various reasons, provide for themselves.
Alice walked silently and disapprovingly at her side. Cassandra had shushed her as soon as they had started strolling ahead of the five ladies. It was a loud, accusing silence that she held, though. Alice did not like this at all, and that was perfectly understandable. Cassandra would not like it if /she/ had to stand helplessly by while either Alice or Mary plotted to prostitute herself so that she could eat.
Unfortunately, there was no alternative. Or if there was, Cassandra could not see it, even though she had lain awake for several nights looking for one.
She glanced around as they walked, feeling a little as though she were at a masquerade, her identity effectively hidden behind a mask and domino. Her black veil was her mask, her heavy widow's weeds her domino.
She could see out – dimly – but no one could see in.
It was surely as hot as hell beneath the black clothes and the veil. She waited hopefully for clouds to cover the sun, but they were few and far between.
The whole of the beau monde must be squashed into this really quite small segment of Hyde Park. She had forgotten what the fashionable hour was like. Not that she had ever been a part of it. She had married young, and she had never had a come-out or an accompanying Season. Her eyes moved over all the ladies in the crowd and noted their bright, fashionable, costly attire. But it was not upon them that she focused her attention. They meant nothing to her.
It was at the gentlemen that she looked closely and consideringly. There were many of them, all ages and sizes and conditions. A few of them looked back at her despite her disguise, which must be singularly unappealing. She saw none she particularly fancied. Not that she had to /fancy/ the man who was going to put money into her empty coffers.
Her attention caught and held upon two particular gentlemen, not just because they were both young and handsome, though they /were/, but because there was such a startling contrast between them that she felt she was looking at the devil and an angel.
The devil was the older of the two. She would put him in his middle thirties if she had to guess. He was very dark of both hair and complexion, with a handsome, rather harsh face and eyes that looked black. It seemed to her that he might be a dangerous man, and she shivered slightly despite the terrible heat in which she was enclosed.
The angel was younger – probably younger than she. He was golden blond and classically handsome, with regular features and an open, good-humored face. His mouth and eyes – she was sure they were blue – looked as though they smiled frequently.
Her eyes lingered on him. He looked tall and graceful in the saddle, well-muscled legs showing to advantage in tight buff riding breeches and black leather boots as they hugged the sides of his mount. He looked slender but well formed in his dark green close-fitting riding coat. It molded itself to his frame, and she knew that it must have taken all of his valet's strength to get him into it.
Angel and devil had both noticed her and were looking – the devil boldly and appreciatively, the angel with what looked like sympathy for her widowhood.
But then they were distracted by the sight of someone they knew – two people actually, a very fashionable lady on horseback and her companion, a man who was mockingly handsome.
The angel smiled.
And perhaps sealed his doom.
Something about him suggested an innocence to match his angelic looks.
He was no doubt a very wealthy man indeed – Cassandra had just realized that the women behind her were talking about him.
'Oh,' one of them said with a sigh, 'there is the Earl of Merton with Mr. Huxtable. Have you ever seen a more gorgeous man than he? And all that wealth and property to go with the looks. As well as the title. And golden hair and blue eyes and good teeth and a charming smile. It does not seem fair that one man should have so much. If I were just ten years younger – and single again.'
They all laughed.
'I think I would prefer Mr. Huxtable,' one of the others said. 'In fact, I know I would. All that brooding darkness, and those Greek looks. I would not mind if he set his boots beneath my bed one of these days when Rufus was gone.'
There were shrieks of shocked glee from her companions, and Cassandra noticed when she glanced at Alice that her lips had thinned almost to the point of disappearing altogether and that there were two spots of color high in her cheeks.
Angel and innocence and wealth and aristocracy, Cassandra thought. Could there be a more potent mix?
'I am either about to melt in a puddle on the path,' she said, 'or explode into a million pieces. Neither of which is something I would enjoy. Shall we leave the crowd and walk home, Alice?'
'Some people,' her former governess said as they set off across an almost deserted lawn, 'ought to have their mouths smacked and then washed out with soap. It is no wonder their children are so badly behaved, Cassie. And then they expect their /governesses/ to exert discipline without scolding or slapping the little darlings.'
'It must be very provoking to you,' Cassandra said.
They walked for a while in silence.
'You are going to go to that ball, are you not?' Alice said as they stepped out onto the street. 'Lady Sheringford's.'
'Yes,' Cassandra said. 'I shall be able to get in, don't worry.'
'It is not about your /not/ getting in that I worry,' Alice said tartly.
Cassandra lapsed into silence again. There was no point in discussing the matter further. Alice must have come to the same conclusion, for she said no more either.
The Earl of Merton.
Mr. Huxtable.
Angel and devil.
Would they be at the ball tomorrow evening?
But even if they were not, plenty of other gentlemen would be.
Cassandra was forced to spend some of her precious diminishing hoard of money on a hackney coach to take her to Grosvenor Square the following evening. It really would not do to walk the distance at night, dressed in evening finery, especially when she had no male servant to accompany her. Even so, she did not ride the whole way. She had the driver set her down in the street outside the square and then walked in.
She had timed her arrival to be on the late side. Despite that fact, there was a line of grand carriages drawn up outside one of the mansions there. The windows of the house blazed with light. A red carpet had been rolled out down the steps and across the pavement so that guests would not have to get their dancing shoes dusty.
