Cupid's Mistake (Cupid Regency Romance) (2 page)

Chapter
1

"Heavens, Cassandra, could you not have held your tongue?" cried Lady Hathaway. She pulled her shawl fretfully about her shoulders and eyed her oldest daughter with deep discontent. "I devoutly pray that you do not speak so—so unbecomingly when we go to the musicale tonight as you did just now!"

"
But, Mama, I could not let people speak so harshly of Miss Matchett. Granted, Miss Matchett's style of dress is slightly dowdy, but she cannot help that. She does the best she can on the income she receives." Miss Cassandra Hathaway moved gracefully into the parlor with her mother and draped her own shawl upon the back of a chair before she sat down.

"
I do not know how I shall show my face at Lady Amberley's ball next week," replied Lady Hathaway mournfully. She gazed at her daughter and sighed. At three-and-twenty, Cassandra was all that a mother could want in a daughter: accomplished, modest, good-hearted, and lovely to look upon. But she was also painfully blunt, and it was already bruited about that she was a bluestocking. It wanted but a week to the Season, and already Cassandra had attracted some male attention—from afar. Lady Hathaway greatly feared that Cassandra's impetuous speech and lack of dissembling would keep them there.

A concerned look crossed Cassandra
's face, and she leaned over and patted her mother on the arm in a comforting manner. "Never fear, Mama. I shall apologize for speaking so forwardly, and you may hold up your head with the best of them."

"
And say you were much mistaken, too?" Lady Hathaway asked tentatively.

Her daughter looked at her, and a crease formed between her brows.
"Whatever for? I believe I am not mistaken at all, and to say so would be a lie."

"
Yes, well, my dear, sometimes one must make allowances—"

Cassandra
's gaze turned reproachful. "Must I make allowances for cruelty? Have you and Papa not said many times that lying is wrong and cruelty worse?"

"
Yes, of course, Cassandra, but, but . . ." Lady Hathaway drew to a faltering stop in the face of her daughter's attentive and inquiring expression. She sighed. How did one explain the need for discretion in society? It was not something her daughter had learned in the country or in all the lessons taught at her father's knee. "Well, I suppose I should be grateful that you remembered not to talk of your climbing boys."

Her daughter shifted in her seat and looked away.

"Oh, Cassandra! You have not taken in yet another one?"

Cassandra rose and her hands twisted together anxiously.
"But, Mama, he was so little, and so hurt! He had sores on his feet and could hardly walk!" Tears formed in her eyes and she swallowed. "I have only sent four to the Dower house at home. Only four! And it does not take a great deal to feed and clothe them, I am sure."

Lady Hathaway gazed at her daughter, exasperated.
"You have no idea how much it takes to feed children, especially boys! Why, I often feared your brother would eat us out of house and home when he was a child!" She pulled her shawl closer around her and sighed. "I suppose you are completely out of your pin money this quarter, too?"

Cassandra looked up at her mother and smiled.
"Oh, no! I have thought of a famous scheme! I wrote to our vicar last month and enlisted his aid. He was very approving of it, and so has got up a collection for the boys. So I only spent what it took to send little Tommy home."

Lady Hathaway groaned and sank into a chair.

"Is there something the matter, Mama?" Cassandra asked, a worried frown creasing her brow.

"
No, of course not," Lady Hathaway replied, and she could not help the irony that crept into her voice. "Only that Vicar Thomason is one of the worst gossips in our county. I can depend upon him to spread the news of your generosity all over the village, and everyone will think you more of an eccentric than before. Heavens, why do you do these things, girl?"

Cassandra looked at her mother earnestly.
"But if you had only seen little Tommy, Mama! He was so thin, and shaking with cold and pain. And that monster of a chimney sweep! He asked the most exorbitant price for him, and then he
hit
Tommy when the child did not come to me straightaway!"

Lady Hathaway
's heart melted, though she kept her face stern. "Well . . . well, I suppose in this instance it would have been difficult to ignore. But, Cassandra, do try not to be so impulsive! And don't mention your activities to anyone in the
ton
, if you please!"

"
But I do not see—"

The door opened, and Sir John wandered in, spectacles at the end of his nose, brandishing a dry quill. He looked vaguely about, and then his gaze sharpened as he spied his quarry.
"Ah! Thucydides! Now how did it come to be in the parlor, and on this table? I know I had the book in my study yesterday." He gazed severely at his wife and daughter, as if somehow they had stolen into his inner sanctum and taken it for some nefarious purpose.

Lady Hathaway felt bewildered, but Cassandra smiled fondly at her father.
"Papa, you know you brought it down this morning. You were looking for Euripides, and exchanged Thucydides for it."

"
Oh, is that how it was?" Sir John's brow cleared, and his smile encompassed both Lady Hathaway and Cassandra in its beam. "Well, then, I shall be more careful, and not leave my books laying about." He put down his quill on the table, and picking up the book, he opened it. "Yes. Here it is. . ." he mused, and walked in the direction of the parlor door, leaving his quill behind.

"
Oh, my love!" Lady Hathaway called to him.

"
Eh?"

"
I wish you would speak to your daughter!"

Sir John looked at his wife over his spectacles.
"But I just did speak to her, my dear," he said reasonably.

"
No, no! About her forwardness! Her lack of discretion!"

"
What is this, my girl? Have you been seeing some man clandestinely?" He turned to Cassandra, his voice stern.

"
Heavens, John!"

"
Oh, no, Papa!"

"
Well, what is it, then?" Sir John said impatiently.

"
She is so . . . so impetuous in her speech!" Lady Hathaway said.

"
And—?"

"
Papa, I have taken in another climbing boy," Cassandra confessed. She looked at him earnestly and told him of her encounter with the chimney sweep. 'Truly, I could not ignore his plight!"

Sir John
's brow creased as he bent his powerful brain to the question. "Of course, you could not!" he said at last, and smiled proudly at his daughter. "That's my good girl!"

"
But what of her reputation? Do you really think a well-connected gentleman would wish to marry a young woman who spends all her money on such things? It is not as if Cassandra's dowry were a fortune, after all!" Lady Hathaway protested.

Both husband and daughter looked at her with clear incomprehension.

Lady Hathaway let loose a sigh that was almost a moan of despair. How was she to tame Cassandra's impulses when Sir John agreed with her? There were a number of reformers amongst the ton, but they were people with a great deal of money and could afford such things. If it came to anyone's ears that Cassandra spent her allowance on climbing boys as if she considered them her sole responsibility, she would not only be seen as an eccentric but possibly a liability. Who would wish to marry a girl who would no doubt insist on bringing her charity cases along with her? Face, figure, and a good dowry would be as nothing compared with the burden of the climbing boys. It would be worse than marrying a young woman with a poverty- stricken family. Certainly it would be seen as a drain on the estate and the future of one's own family.

"
Oh, heavens!" Lady Hathaway said, irritated. "You may do as you like, Cassandra, with your charity cases. But
don't
speak of them, if you please. It is not considered . . . polite conversation." Inspiration suddenly struck her and she smiled triumphantly. "Indeed, it would seem much like boasting of one's virtues, and you cannot think that would be at all becoming!"

Cassandra blushed and stared at her mother in consternation.
"Oh, no! I would never, never wish to puff myself off in that manner!"

"
See that you do not, then," Lady Hathaway said sternly. She sighed in relief. Thank goodness! It was one less thing to worry about in company. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and rose from her chair. "We will need to be at the musicale in the next hour. Do go up and ready yourselves for it—hurry! And don't forget your quill, husband, for you will come wandering down again and lose yourself for at least a half hour looking for it."

An hour later her irritation faded completely when she gazed at her eldest child. Cassandra
's green eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed, and her lips were parted with eagerness. And nothing could have been more demure or ladylike than her demeanor upon entering Mrs. Bostitch's house. Lady Hathaway bit her lower lip anxiously. Perhaps this time all would go well. Cassandra's bluntness and scholarship were only known at home, around and about Tunbridge Wells, and not yet in London. Surely, she had talked stringently enough with Cassandra so that she would guard her tongue and not speak with such alarming forthrightness. But Lady Hathaway remembered how her daughter had reprimanded Lady Amberley and could not dismiss her uneasiness. Well, Cassandra had not precisely
reprimanded
—perhaps "corrected" was the more accurate word. Lady Hathaway winced. "Corrected" was no better.

But there had been sympathetic looks from some of the other ladies. Perhaps the display of Cassandra
's warmth of heart and sense of Christian charity for Miss Matchett had found favor with a few of the ladies who were Lady Amber- ley's equals. Who, after all, could fault a generous impulse?

Lady Hathaway sighed and could not help the uneasiness that lodged itself in her heart. She knew London society far better than either her husband or her daughter, and well knew that diplomacy often took one farther than honesty and good-heartedness.

The first faint sounds of the musicians tuning their instruments floated down the hall as the Bostitchs' butler led her, Sir John, and Cassandra to the conservatory. Cassandra looked up at her mother, anticipation clearly in her smile, and Lady Hathaway smiled in return. Perhaps it would not be so bad, she thought. Perhaps Cassandra would occupy her mind with the music and keep her comments to musical appreciation and away from any other subject.

Lady Hathaway sighed again. One could always hope.

* * * *

Paul, Marquess of Blytheland, brushed the air in front of him with his hand, as if brushing away an annoying fly. He frowned. This had happened before. It was as if a warm draft of air briefly blew upon his face. Sometimes it was accompanied by a soft sound, like the fluttering of wings. He would not have thought much of it had it occurred out of doors, but it had lately happened indoors, at night, and now mostly just before a performance. Perhaps someone had opened a window. He shrugged and bent his attention upon his violin again.

An odd, sharp ache suddenly struck his chest, a sudden weeping agony, and the image of Chloe flashed before him. He drew in a long, slow breath, and then it disappeared. This was another thing that had happened before. He knew what this was, however. Every once in a while, when he was preparing to play his violin, the anticipated emotion of the music opened the wounds of the past, and painful memories of his wife would try to surface once again. He had always been successful in suppressing them—better now, for she had died more than two years ago. But that was the danger of playing music, was it not? Music was an emotional thing, after all. In fact, he had lately been very successful at using that emotion and putting it into his performances. That was the secret of an artist, a great musician once told him: using one's own pain and making it sing in one's music. Lord Blytheland smiled and raised his eyes to the guests waiting in front of him.

And his fingers failed on the strings of his violin. The instrument let out a small moan at being so mishandled, but the marquess ignored it.

She was not the most beautiful lady he had ever seen, but she was, indeed, very lovely. The lady caught him staring, blushed, then looked away. Blytheland recovered himself. He concentrated on tuning his violin, and accidentally twisted a pin too far. He cursed under his breath and glanced toward the lady again. She walked into the room with a slightly familiar, graying gentleman and a middle- aged lady who bore a strong resemblance to the young woman—her parents, no doubt. He would recall the name of the gentleman if he gave himself time to think of it. He twisted the pin again, and now it was too loose.

"
May I be of assistance, my lord?" asked one of the musicians politely.

"
What? Oh, no, my good man, just a little nervous."

The musician smiled as he bowed in assent. Blytheland at last tuned his violin correctly and tried not to look at the young woman in the audience.