The Trouble with Cassandra, page 1
The Trouble with Cassandra
Karen Lingefelt
Published by Karen Lingefelt, 2022.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE TROUBLE WITH CASSANDRA
First edition. August 16, 2022.
Copyright © 2022 Karen Lingefelt.
ISBN: 979-8201059378
Written by Karen Lingefelt.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
About the Author
Books by Karen Lingefelt
In loving memory of my father, Bert Fletcher.
I will always miss his wit and wisdom, his laughter, and his big heart.
Chapter One
London, November 1816
CASSANDRA FREY STOOD in the middle of her bedchamber, all dressed up and ready to attend the opera, when she heard the sharp banging of the doorknocker downstairs. She peeked out the window to see the carriage waiting below.
Her cloak and reticule were already downstairs. She checked her reflection in the mirror one last time, making a final adjustment to her purple turban and patting a blonde curl as if for luck. Footsteps rushed up the staircase and scurried straight to her doorway. She turned to see her maid, Jenny, who said, “Lord Kirtland’s here to take you to the opera, Mrs. Frey.”
Cassandra’s heart gave an ominous little jolt. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly. Who did you say is here?”
“Lord Kirtland.”
As if she still couldn’t believe her ears, Cassandra said, “Lord Kirtland is here? To take me to the opera?”
Jenny shifted her eyes from one side to the other, as if contemplating whether she should say what was surely dancing on the tip of her tongue. Cassandra decided to say it for her.
“I know. There are no other Mrs. Freys under this roof. But—Lord Kirtland? What happened to the Duke and Duchess of Bradbury?” She flew back to the window, but what did she see in the evening darkness? A carriage. From here it could be anyone’s carriage. She’d merely assumed it was Bradbury’s, because he and his new duchess had invited her to the opera this evening. She turned back to Jenny. “Are you absolutely certain it’s Lord Kirtland? He never comes to London.”
“Don’t know, Mrs. Frey. Never seen him before. Gill’s the one what let him in.”
Cassandra hesitated before asking, “Did you happen to notice if he walks with a limp?”
Jenny shrugged. “He has a walking stick, but then so do most gentlemen.”
True enough, but he couldn’t possibly be Kirtland, Cassandra thought wildly. He. Never. Came. To. London.
This had to be some kind of ruse. One of the fortune hunters pursuing her was pretending to be Kirtland in hopes of tricking her into coming downstairs. Cassandra supposed it was only a matter of time before one of them managed to oil his way across her threshold. She swore she couldn’t stay in London another night.
Maybe she should have remained on the Continent, but after Great Aunt Delilah’s death, she’d seen no point in staying there, especially since she was homesick, and maybe, just maybe, everyone in England had forgotten what a scandalous widow she was.
But that was before, thanks to Delilah’s bequest and the ensuing gossip, Cassandra became a wealthy, scandalous widow.
Life, her late husband had once told her, was all about trade-offs. You get to enjoy the protection of my name and I get to enjoy your body and dowry. That the trade-offs were seldom fair and balanced was entirely beside the point. Principle! That was all that mattered.
Cassandra settled herself on the stool in front of her dressing table. “Tell Gill that unless this caller can provide proof that he is Lord Kirtland, I shan’t come downstairs and receive him. At the very least, he shall have to provide a calling card. Preferably a card that looks a bit worn. How can I be certain one of those fortune hunters isn’t using a freshly printed, counterfeit card to gain entry? I mean, aside from the fact they can’t afford the extra expense?”
Jenny looked baffled, as she usually did whenever Cassandra went on such tirades, before nodding and bobbing and returning downstairs.
Someone was playing a prank. She should have known that no one would believe anything as outrageous as her recent claim concerning Lord Kirtland. Even the Prince Regent had been skeptical, but to fend off his advances, she had to claim an attachment to another man—one who couldn’t immediately refute her.
Jenny returned, this time panting for breath. She held out a calling card, and sure enough, it looked so fresh off the press that Cassandra didn’t dare touch the engraving for fear she’d get black smudges on her gloves. Edward Randolph, Earl of Kirtland, Frampton House, Berkeley Square, London.
Edward. Why did his name have to be Edward? What was it with men named Edward? How did Cassandra always get mixed up—not to mention in trouble—with men named Edward? First it was Lord Whidbey, then her late husband, and now this caller claiming to be Kirtland.
“Says his card’s new ’cause he just recently came to Town,” Jenny explained.
“Fancy my lack of astonishment.”
“Says he’d come upstairs but you, Mrs. Frey, of all people, should know why he’d rather not do that.” Cassandra’s eyes widened, and Jenny hastily added, “He said those words, not me.”
It seemed to Cassandra that any man other than Kirtland, and maybe Prinny, would not scruple to come charging up that staircase and straight into her bedchamber if it pleased him to do so. And to her dismay, she knew it would please a great many men. But Kirtland? Even if he was in London, he couldn’t be that desperate to see her. Not Kirtland. Certainly not Kirtland.
“Return his card and tell him that I do not believe him to be Kirtland, and if he does not leave this house at once, I shall have Gill put him out and, if necessary, send for the watch.”
Gill, alas, was pushing seventy and should have been pensioned off years ago. But upon her return to London, he had been all Cassandra could find in the way of a butler, despite the generous wages she offered. She knew she was putting him in a bad spot. But she also suspected a trap awaited her downstairs.
“Tell him,” she said again, and again Jenny nodded and bobbed and headed back downstairs.
Moments later, a loud thump echoed from below, and a man’s voice bellowed up the stairs, “Mrs. Frey! You heartless harridan!”
Cassandra sprang from the dressing table stool as if her derriere had just been pricked. “What? What did you call me?” She instantly berated herself for blurting out something so absurd. Of course she heard what he called her, just as she’d heard Jenny the first time she mentioned Kirtland’s name. And why should Cassandra be so affronted? She’d been called infinitely worse things.
Another thump, not unlike the blow of a hammer. “You haven’t changed a jot, have you, Mrs. Frey? You would make me come all the way up those stairs? You would prevail upon your butler, who’s old enough to be my fa—my grandfather were he still alive—to bodily remove me at the risk of harm to himself?”
It couldn’t be. That couldn’t be Kirtland. It had to be someone who knew about his...limitations. Then again, who in the ton didn’t know about those limitations?
She swept out of her bedchamber and planted both hands on the upstairs railing. “Who are you?” she called down.
“Did your maid not inform you? Did you not read my card? I’m Kirtland. And I’m standing right here at the foot of your staircase, if only you’d deign to flutter down from your high and mighty perch just a few steps to see for yourself.”
“And why should I do that, after the way you speak to me?”
“Oh, you’re a fine one to fire such an accusation at me, Mrs. Frey. You can’t deny that.”
No, she couldn’t. Still, “How do I know you’re not claiming to be Kirtland, just to make me come downstairs so you can seize me?”
“Seize you?” he said in disbelief, as if what man in his right mind would ever want to touch Cassandra Frey with the tip of his walking stick, let alone seize her in a forced embrace.
“The Earl of Kirtland never comes to London,” she declared.
“You haven’t been in London for two years yourself, so how would you know? If you will not come down, Mrs. Frey, then I shall come up. I suppose you still think I can’t go up and down stairs. That I can’t hear what you’re saying, as if I’m some kind of dolt.”
At those words, Cassandra felt a cold, sickening qualm squeeze her heart, and crimson heat flaming in her face as long-ago memories assailed her.
Memories that made her feel ashamed. Memories she regretted. For she knew Kirtland was no dolt, and he could certainly mount the staircase if he wished.
But why would he?
For that matter, why didn’t she ask him?
“Why do you wish to s
“On the contrary, Mrs. Frey. Why would I not wish to see my mistress?”
Heaven help her. He’d heard the rumor. And now he was here to contradict her—or was he here to take advantage of her claim?
She didn’t know what to say except, “Where did you hear such a thing? How can I be your mistress when you’re never in London?”
“Surely we’ve established by now that is obviously not the case. Did you not inform no less a personage than the Prince Regent that you enjoy some sort of attachment to me that makes you unavailable to him and every other rogue in Town?”
Cassandra tightened her grip on the banister. Surely his stepmother hadn’t betrayed her? “Where did you hear that? From Prinny himself?”
“No, I heard it from my cousin, the Duke of Bradbury—who heard it from Prinny himself.”
As long as he didn’t hear it from Lady Frampton. “So help me, I should wring Bradbury’s neck for that,” she muttered, before raising her voice again. “You were never supposed to know, because you never come to London.”
“Madam, would you kindly desist from your insistence that I never come to London when that is clearly not so? And if you’d like to wring Bradbury’s neck, then come downstairs already so we can join him and his new duchess before we’re late for the opera. Which is to say, lest we arrive after Prinny. Yes, I heard you muttering. You muttered just loud enough for me to hear. Are you going to say that means I can’t possibly be Kirtland, because everyone knows a man born with a clubfoot must be hard of hearing and blind as a bat and otherwise deficient in every other way imaginable? Do you still hold to such nonsense, Mrs. Frey?”
Cassandra preferred to think she didn’t. She loosened her grip on the banister as it finally occurred to her that maybe he really was the Earl of Kirtland—especially if he was here with Dane and Cecily, the Duke and Duchess of Bradbury. “Are they with you? That is, are they downstairs with you or are they waiting in the carriage?”
“They are waiting for us. Now do come downstairs, so we can get this over with and thereafter go our separate ways. After all—according to you—I should never be in London.”
Get this over with? What on earth did he mean by that? Again, why didn’t she ask him? She let go of the banister altogether and stalked to the head of the staircase. “You say that as if this is something you have no wish to do.”
“Rest assured it is something I have no wish to do. I’m only doing this as a favor to the duke and duchess. And I am weary of shouting at a disembodied voice on the next floor. We need only do this for one night, and then I shall plague you no more.”
She started down the staircase. “There’s only one tiny problem with that, my lord. You may well be the only bachelor currently in London who isn’t plaguing me—at least not in the manner the others are—unless you’re here for the same reason they’re now so doggedly pursuing me?”
“For your fortune? Oh, perish the thought, Mrs. Frey. I’m heir to the Marquess of Frampton, with a castle on the Borders and a townhouse in London and another belonging to my stepmother in Bath.”
Where Cassandra thought she might go after this night. She’d attended school there, and her late husband had been a vicar whose living was in the gift of the Marquess of Carswell on his estate not far from Bath. Maybe Lord Carswell had a vacant cottage she could rent. Otherwise, she thought, Frampton Castle might be the ideal place for her to hide from fortune hunters.
As she descended the staircase, she finally glimpsed the man who claimed to be the Earl of Kirtland. He bore no resemblance to any of the so-called gentlemen who’d been chasing her around Town since her return from the Continent. Still, she couldn’t say in all honesty that she recognized him immediately. She’d never noticed his eyes until now, a cold, piercing silvery blue. Certainly she recalled the raven hair and aquiline nose. But eight years had passed since their last encounter, and she could have sworn the Kirtland of eight years ago had been shorter and pudgier—not to mention more soft-spoken, giving rise to whispers among the ton that he couldn’t talk any more than he could hear or see or even form a coherent thought about anything.
Now he appeared to be as tall as Cassandra, who was taller than most men of her acquaintance, to include her late husband. He’d lost the pudginess and now appeared slender but muscular, as if he’d been exercising on a regular basis, working to overcome the weaknesses that had been the bane of his earlier youth. He still clutched a walking stick, and it was obvious that he needed it for something more substantial than because it was fashionable for a gentleman to carry one. She despised herself for letting her gaze drop to his right foot that still turned inward instead of—
“As you can see, it’s still the same,” he said crisply. “Now are you convinced that I’m Kirtland, the erstwhile butt of your jokes?”
She met his icy gaze. “I am, my lord. But I’m not convinced of why you are here.”
“I am here to take you to the opera. I believe the duke and duchess invited you to join them this eve?”
“Yes, but they said nothing about bringing you along,” she blurted, only to realize how horrid that sounded. “That is—what I mean is that they said nothing about having invited another person, in particular a gentleman—but I do not specifically mean you.” Or the Earl of Whidbey, she silently added. Imagine if they’d surprised her with him? Oh, what a mess she’d made.
Once upon a time, Kirtland had been the blurter. But not Cassandra. Never Cassandra Diana Payne Frey, who’d always been so confident and self-assured because of her golden beauty that she could make any man do anything she wanted. She’d even persuaded the Duke of Bradbury to end their arranged betrothal so she could pursue Whidbey. On second thought, she couldn’t make any man do anything she wanted, or she’d be married to Whidbey now, perhaps as miserable as she’d been with the man she actually did marry.
What she’d once possessed was the power to break men’s hearts. And she was acutely aware she’d broken the heart of the man standing before her now, as if he meant to give her another chance—as if he believed he was the one with that power now.
As if he hadn’t learned anything the first time.
He broke into her reverie. “Then you’re not disappointed it’s me instead of someone else?”
She nearly sighed in relief that he didn’t speak Whidbey’s name. “No. If anything, I’m bewildered. Why would you...” She was about to blurt something again, but this time she caught herself, “...agree to be my escort to the opera?”
He offered her a brittle smile. “I detect a gap in your query, Mrs. Frey.”
“I do believe I made myself quite clear.”
“Yes, you did, but you were going to say something else, were you not?”
She averted her gaze as she finished descending the staircase. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
As she reached the foot, she took great care to give him a wide berth as she swept past him, for she prided herself on her graceful sweeps past people, yet suddenly, for the first time, she feared stumbling as he always did, much to the merriment of her and certain, former friends.
“It was right there in your emphasis of the second person pronoun,” he said. “Yes, Mrs. Frey, you wish to know why I, of all people, wish to—”
“That is not what I said.” Suddenly she was flustered, but thankful she was no longer near the staircase.
“I agree that is not what you said. But you almost said it. As if you still consider me the last man in the world you would permit to escort you to the opera.”
She could recall quite vividly a time when that was very much the case, and for the worst possible reasons. “It might interest Your Lordship to know that these days I do keep a list of so-called ‘last men’, but rest assured you’re not on it.”
“Because I never come to London, is that it?”
“I didn’t say that, either.”
“You’ve said it several times already this evening.”
“And I’ve resolved never to say it again, since you are quite obviously here in London. Shall we go, my lord? We don’t want to keep Their Graces waiting.” By now, she couldn’t wait to get into that carriage where she might feel less flustered than she did now.
