Certainly the girl was within her rights to be heartbroken over Darlington’s betrayal, as well as his callous disregard of her attempts to contact him in order to verify the truth of the rumors that he would soon wed Lady Charlotte, and to hear such confirmation from his own lips. That much—that little—he surely owed her. There had been a formal understanding forged between the pair of them, Percy and Cassandra, no doubt about it. Whether Cassandra’s extraordinary conduct this evening was out of turn was not for Lady Dalrymple to speculate upon. Her “niece” was as she herself had once been called—an original. And Euphoria was proud of the appellation—and proud of those who flew in the face of conventional behavior.
On the other hand, what if Cassandra truly were enceinte, as the young woman had hinted? Was it then her delicate condition that governed her outrageous performance this evening? The countess was determined to see the girl vindicated. But how?
RULED ENTIRELY by her feelings of shame and humiliation, C.J. had torn through the ballroom and the anteroom, dashing blindly past scads of aghast onlookers and out into the night. The moon was but a silver sliver in the sky, and her eyes had not yet adjusted to the darkness when she stumbled over a loose stone in the road. Down she went, face first, ripping her fine kid gloves, bloodying her palms and bare forearms, losing a slipper, and tearing the front of her gown. She let fly a string of well-known Anglo-Saxon invectives, which she continued to repeat while surveying the damage to her wardrobe and her person. Her bodice and bandeau were past all repair and she had neither shawl nor cloak with which to cover her now nearly bare torso. There was no question of returning to the Assembly Rooms. The only thing to be done was to locate her dancing slipper and limp back home.
DARLINGTON’S ATTEMPT to follow upon Miss Welles’s heels as she fled the ballroom had been impeded by his aunt and Lord Digby, as well as by several others in attendance. By the time he was able to breathe the night air, Miss Welles was nowhere to be seen, and there was no trace of her—no dropped reticule or mislaid shawl. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim glare of the streetlamps on Albert Street, he thought he could make out a figure hastily descending the hill. On the other hand, he could have been mistaken. Nevertheless, he increased his pace. If his intuition was correct, Miss Welles was the figure in question. If not, he was prepared to accept the attendant embarrassment of accosting a complete stranger. After all, his humiliation in the ballroom just moments earlier was the least of what he deserved.
The night was so quiet he could hear the sound of his own footsteps reverberating through the narrow lane off the façades of ashlar stone as his boots pounded the cobblestones.
It was a blessing that Mr. King was not as fastidious as his predecessor, Mr. Nash, in checking the patrons in the Upper Rooms for weapons. Darlington placed his hand on the hilt of his main gauche, which he had been able to conceal in a custom-tailored pocket within the lining of his dress coat. As far as Darlington was concerned, rules applied to others. There were always exceptions, always extenuating circumstances. For example, should the unchaperoned Miss Welles be accosted on her way to the Royal Crescent, he would be able to offer her his protection. Did he believe himself above the law? Unequivocally. He claimed it as the privilege of the aristocracy.
In that case, the nobleman thought, why had he allowed his aunt to convince him that Miss Welles was unworthy of him? That she had no portion coming to her upon marriage, and that Delamere must be saved at all costs? Lady Oliver had appealed to his sense of honor should it come to the necessity of discharging dozens of tenant farmers and their families. She had prevailed upon his vanity when it came to avoiding the disgrace of bankruptcy and the seizing of his lands by his bankers at Coutt’s. Retrenching was unthinkable for someone in his exalted position. Under the present unfortunate circumstances, there was only one option, which was to forge a respectable alliance with a young lady of means: an heiress whose dowry would not only ensure his continued ownership of Delamere, but whose person might produce the necessary heirs to continue the family line.
To be sure, there was a sacrificial lamb, as Lady Oliver had so caustically, even cavalierly, agreed. But Miss Welles would soon get over her disappointment and, if necessary, could be persuaded to accept consolation in the form of a modest financial settlement. The dragon was thoroughly convinced that the eccentric bluestocking who had turned her nephew’s head was not only expendable, but perhaps would even be more content to receive compensation in lieu of the match.
And his aunt, who had raised him and to whom he did acknowledge a great debt of gratitude, a woman who had such an unfortunate and disgraced history herself, had always merited his dutiful compliance, though many of his acquaintance firmly believed that as Darlington neared the age of forty, the debt of respect he had thus far accorded Augusta Oliver’s opinions and actions had long since been fully paid and that he had long ago squared his accounts with her. Whether or not this was the case, the earl still felt a duty toward the woman despite her ill treatment of him. It was not in his own nature
