Лиза Клейпас - Chasing 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 helped 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.