Chapter Eight
With the air of an army general, Aunt Valentine laid a piece of parchment on the table between Jasmine and Cassandra. With her mouth around the rim of her teacup, Jasmine grinned at Cassandra as if to say, I told you so.
“Don’t make faces like that.” Aunt Valentine huffed. “You’ll develop wrinkles.”
The chirping of birds and the buzz of conversation filled the air as guests mingled on the terrace before the range competition.
The mid-morning sun warmed the top of her bonnet.
White tablecloths fluttered in the slight breeze, anchored by silver teapots and tiered tea trays with tomato and cheese sandwiches cut into squares, lemon scones, crowned by colorful macarons.
Cassandra reached for a tomato sandwich and took a bite.
The juice of the tomato moistened the bread and it all but dissolved in her mouth.
In three even rows on the far side of the lawn stood Mr. Nott, Colonel Bishop, Matthew, and Mr. Reeves.
To their side, display tables covered in red cloth held the contestant’s rifles, rounds, and ramrods, and in front of the men, three white targets with black centers waited at one hundred yards.
Duke Kendall flittered between the contestants, stopping to ask questions while a fawn-like man in a tan suit followed him with a notebook and pencil, rapidly jotting notes.
Mr. Nott’s rifle must have been a sight to behold as the surrounding crowd obscured him from view.
Colonel Bishop held the interest of several gentlemen.
His chest out proudly, his confident voice echoed to where she sat as he explained a feature of the sights to Lord Dorchester.
The Marquess tucked the rifle into his shoulder and aimed downrange.
Swirling engravings of dozens of feathers adorned a black and slender barrel fashioned from high-quality steel, glinting darkly in the sunlight as Lord Dorchester returned the rifle to its display.
Matthew was going to lose.
How could their work possibly compete with better craftsmanship and Duke Kendall’s garishness? Matthew’s rifle may as well have been a child’s plaything in comparison. Were they here simply for the amusement of others, as Colonel Bishop said?
Cassandra reached for Aunt Valentine’s list. Jasmine scooted her chair closer to her as she read the first name.
“Colonel Adam Bishop.” Cassandra frowned.
“The two of you seemed to be getting along last night. Like old times.” Jasmine wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and reached for a scone. “Some things never change.”
“He hasn’t changed at all,” Cassandra agreed.
Conversation with Colonel Bishop was simple enough, even if he was a bit too bold with his touch and his speech.
She could settle into old habits far too easily, if only it didn’t feel…
wrong. The way he talked about Mr. Reeves, with the words pet and the help thrown around casually.
For a former comrade, no less! But should she be surprised?
Most of the ton held similar opinions of the lower classes.
On the far side of the lawn, Mr. Reeves stood stoic, staring toward the targets.
All night Cassandra laid in a ridiculously comfortable bed, after an utterly exhaustive day, enveloped in total darkness and silk, and all she could think about was Mr. Reeves on the other side of the wall.
For hours, she fought the urge to go to him, to provide the comfort that she knew he needed.
But what would she have said? The last thing he would want was her sticking her nose into his business, even if a friendship of sorts had formed between them over these past months.
Throughout the night, she heard his footsteps pace the floor, and she thought surely her company might be welcome, but it wasn’t proper.
As three o’clock rolled around, her inner dilemma solved itself when his door opened, closed, and his heavy steps echoed down the staircase.
He hadn’t returned when dawn had arrived.
She had been awake for that, too.
“I daresay it won’t take much convincing to coax a proposal from the Colonel. With how he looks at you, he’s quite interested.” Aunt Valentine brought her teacup to her lips.
“I agree,” Jasmine crooned. “He was undressing you—”
“Jasmine!”
“With his eyes, Mama! With his eyes! I swear, you never let me finish a sentence—”
“Crudeness aside, there is an obvious attraction, and prior history.” In a deliberate motion, Aunt Valentine set her empty teacup on its saucer.
She poured herself another cup, plain, but did not bring it to her lips.
The steam lifted and swirled between them.
“He’s still unmarried, and even without the contest he has considerable means, it would be the simplest choice. ”
“He’s in competition with Matthew.” Cassandra worried her thumb along the handle of her teacup. Matthew promised not to interfere, but it would still feel like a betrayal, and society would see her as a woman who hedged her bets.
“Competition and rivalry can be wonderful motivators,” Aunt Valentine said. “As long as he treats you well.”
Jasmine took the list from Cassandra.
“Lord William Lancaster, Earl Worthing, or Mr. Ryan Lancaster.”
“I’m unfamiliar with them,” Cassandra admitted. “Where are they?”
“Behind us,” Aunt Valentine slowed her voice, “three tables to the left—discreetly Jasmine!”
But it was too late, Jasmine rotated her entire body in the direction her mother indicated, Cassandra discreetly looked around the lawn, as if taking in the scenery, but the show of it was pointless with Jasmine’s directness, and so Cassandra turned half of her body.
She needed to show some semblance of propriety.
“Lord Worthing is a recent widower with a considerable fortune, but no heir. I hear that he is eager to find a wife and sire a son as soon as possible to secure his line of succession.” Lord Worthing was slight of body and hair, so thin and frail that he looked light enough that the breeze could take him at any moment.
He appeared to be on the later side of seventy, if not the early side of eighty.
“Is he capable of siring a son?” Cassandra asked.
“Perhaps not. Which leads to the young gentleman sitting next to him, his younger half brother, Mr. Lancaster. If Lord Worthing fails to produce an heir before his death, Mr. Lancaster will inherit.”
Lord Worthing looked more like a grandfather than a brother to the young man next to him.
Mr. Lancaster was the young gentleman that pestered Colonel Bishop and Mr. Reeves with questions during dinner the night before.
He looked rather overwhelmed with the attention from—Cassandra noted miserably—Lady Samantha Penrose, Lady Honora Bradford, and Miss Georgiana Davenport.
The unholy trifecta itself.
Lady Honora sprinkled Lord Worthing with flirtatious giggles, moving her fan about her bosom.
Miss Georgiana had a vacant smile plastered on her face, appearing lost as the conversation continued around her.
Lady Samantha’s gaze met Cassandra’s with a smile that was soft, sweet, and thoroughly inauthentic.
She waved gently before she returned to her friends and started chatting, and a round of laughter ensued.
They leaned in closer to the two gentlemen, sending a clear message.
That territory was firmly claimed.
“Either option seems like a gamble.” Cassandra pursed her lips.
“If given an option, the younger one will be more malleable,” Aunt Valentine said. “Four years of an age difference is nothing compared to fifty but the words young dowager can have a certain ring to it, if one is patient.”
Lord Worthing was out. Cassandra couldn’t endure another minute of mourning and isolation.
Would she lose three years of her life to black dresses and veils, or would she take a risk on the younger Lancaster, hoping that another woman didn’t have the same qualms about marrying an older man?
She found her answer in the money-hungry gleam in Lady Honora’s eyes.
Cassandra returned her attention to the next name on the list apprehensively. “Lord Adrian Hollingsworth, Viscount Blackmoor.”
Adrian Hollingsworth stood next to his father like a bodyguard.
If the portraits on the wall and his own bone structure foretold the future, he would look exactly like Lord Bolderwood in twenty years, with his square features, black hair, and brooding scowl.
If his expression changed, or his mouth moved at all, Cassandra hadn’t noticed.
“Next!” Jasmine exclaimed. “I can tell you right now that is not the man for me. A fern has more personality. And you would be lucky to get within ten feet of him without turning into a block of ice. I can only imagine how cold the marital bed will be.”
“Jasmine,” Aunt Valentine warned.
“Moving on.” Cassandra lightly steered the conversation back to the list. “Commodore Sebastian Leopold.”
“He’s the tall man talking with Matthew,” Jasmine said.
With his blue uniform with gold buttons and long blond hair tied in a ponytail, the Commodore possessed a gentle beauty and smile.
“I spoke to him yesterday. He’s a man of few words, but polite, and he seemed sincere.
Only recently returned from the Peninsula. He likes music and spicy food.”
“When was this conversation?” Aunt Valentine raised a brow and examined her daughter.
“Before dinner, while you were scheming with Cassandra.” Jasmine sat straight and met her mother’s gaze with an identical one of her own. “I thought that you would be proud of me for being proactive.”
Returning her attention to the list, Jasmine yanked the parchment from Cassandra, held it up to her mother, and pointed at the next name with such force that the ink smudged and coated the fingertip of her glove.
“I am not marrying Matthew Cooper.”
“What were your requests again? Oh yes,” Aunt Valentine counted on her fingers, “witty conversations, intelligent, attractive, ‘fine-smelling’—"
“It’s important!”