Authors: Cupboard Kisses
With her murmured concurrence, he bolted, recalled to the fact that he was in his undress. Gads, he could feel her disapproval like a cold draft. No woman had made him feel so foolish or so out-of-countenance small since one of his cousin’s governesses had reprimanded him for some boyhood prank.
“Sparling,” he bellowed. “Fall out. I need you for some errands, on the double.” The captain strode across the hall toward the stairwell—and tripped over the harp.
“What in blazes now?” he yelled, throwing off Miss Swann’s arm. He groped at the instrument’s shape, then scrambled back to his feet with one hand. (The other clutched his robe together.) “What kind of addle-pated fool leaves a damned harp in the middle of the floor?” A string of curses filled the air then, describing the improbable parentage of the person responsible.
Luckily, Miss Swann did not understand the half of them, only enough to know this ill-bred savage was storming at
her.
She was also exhausted and sick, and sick at heart, or she would be if she let herself think about it, so she answered more or less in kind: “I left it there, you…you profligate, because there was no one in this ill-run house to direct me. And it wouldn’t have been in your way if you had waited for help instead of going off all half-cocked. Furthermore, I’ll thank you not to use such language in my presence, although I suppose it’s only to be expected from such an unmannered wastrel and womanizer.”
“Half-cocked, is it?” Chase ranted, furious at his clumsiness, the blasted bandages, and most of all the dratted female who was witness to this debacle, if not the cause of it. “Ma’am,” he said, knowing he was wrong again, “a dried-up old prune like you wouldn’t know—”
Cristabel gasped. “I never—”
And Captain Chase shouted, “Well maybe you should!”
A great many similar pleasantries were exchanged, hers in a raspy, straining screech, his in a booming quarterdeck baritone. Luckily they were shouting too loudly to hear the other’s remarks, beyond rakehell, muckworm, and basket-scrambler on her part, and shrew, shark-bait, and self-righteous marplot on his.
When they ran out of breath, the captain headed toward the stairs again, this time carefully feeling his way by lightly touching the familiar objects along the walls. Tables, chairs, the harp. Aha! He stepped around the instrument, tossing Miss Swann a triumphant smirk. And tripped over her portmanteau.
A man desperate enough over his debts to kill himself is not likely to leave his kin in much better straits. So Cristabel reasoned after hearing the dismal news from the housekeeper, sometime later. She’d been sitting huddled and forlorn, forgotten by everyone, it seemed, though she could hear that madman’s shouted orders and stompings. Doors slammed and servants scurried by, but if it wasn’t her house, Cristabel would starve before she’d presume to ask one of the servants for something to eat, if that man hadn’t offered. She would just sit, waiting for Mr. Worbigger to arrive to tell her that there was something, anything, for her in her uncle’s will.
“He didn’t even leave a will,” the housekeeper, Mrs. Witt, told Cristabel, “didn’t make one provision for the staff. Lord knows he hadn’t paid them in months anyway, so they oughtn’t to have been surprised. Still, it were up to the captain to make good, which he did, pensioning the lot off with the game’s winnings and starting fresh, so to speak, so you mustn’t judge him by today, you know.”
They were sitting in the kitchen, Cristabel sipping some blessedly hot tea with honey to soothe her throat, and eating scones. Mrs. Witt had been horrified to find a damp, distressed lady sitting in the hallway, for who knows how long, and had whisked her off to her own tiny sitting room, “for I don’t think the master’d be any pleased to meet you in the upper halls right now, from the sound of things, begging your pardon.”
Cristabel grimaced. “If I had my way, I would never meet with that bounder again. A more discourteous, shameless…why, I don’t know how you can tolerate such immorality. This very afternoon—”
“Well, it’s not what a body could want in a proper household, but he did give most of the staff the afternoon off, you know. It’s not as if he treats this as bachelor’s quarters, in the way of things, not fouling his own nest, so to speak. But a gentleman must have his pleasures, you know. Why, Mr. Witt what were—”
Cristabel put the cup down, hard.
“No, I don’t suppose you do. But the master can’t get out and about, naturally, and him being so resty right now, having that nasty surgery and so long recuperating, it’s no wonder he’s a mite rackety. We’re all hoping he’ll settle down a bit, now that he’s got so many new responsibilities.”
Cristabel was doubtful. Tigers didn’t change their spots, did they? Or was it leopards? It didn’t matter. The blackguard had stolen
her
inheritance, honestly if not honorably, and it was doubtful Mr. Worbigger was coming to refute the dastard’s claim. No, she only had to wait for the pittance the lawyer would likely bring, then she would never have to see the arrogant, immoral cad again.
* * *
“Nothing? There is nothing?”
The lawyers had arrived, Mr. Worbigger with a secretary and a sheaf of papers, and a Mr. Gould, of Gould, Gould, Woods, and Gould. They were seated in her uncle’s library, where the men were immediately offered refreshment. The contrast to her own treatment only added to Cristabel’s hostility and humiliation. The captain was dressed presentably, although his clothes were as loose as his morals, Cristabel noted disdainfully, and he was still scruffy and unshaven beneath the bandages. Mrs. Witt had mentioned an operation, however, so she charitably reconsidered and acknowledged that her criticism was partly based on resentment. The swine was able to look respectable despite his activities, while she had been unable to do much to improve her own appearance. She had tried to neaten up, with Mrs. Witt’s help, but there wasn’t a lot to be done. She couldn’t very well wash her hair, and her other dresses were just as rumpled, from being packed, and just as dowdy. There was nothing for it, except to be thankful that one of the men, at least, couldn’t see her sorry state.
Mr. Worbigger “ahem-ed” for her attention, though how it could wander at a time like this was beyond her. Maybe she was delirious with the fever and this was all a bad dream. It must be, with the solicitor’s droning voice explaining debentures and rights of entailment.
“You must see that the, ah, final dispersal of his lordship’s estate was determined almost before the fatal card game. There were so many creditors that the sale of Harwood House itself would not have satisfied them. Lord Harwood must have decided that gambling with his only remaining asset was preferable to fleeing the country. Deplorable situation, but there it is.”
“But if there were so many debts, how does it happen that Harwood House was not sold to pay them?”
It was Mr. Gould’s turn to be patronizing: “My dear young lady, debts of honor must naturally precede those to merchants and bankers.”
He didn’t hear Cristabel’s raspy mutter: “Naturally,” but Captain Chase did. “Many of the debts were to moneylenders. Your uncle had been punting on tick for quite some time. I would have returned the property to him had he lived, but I saw no reason to benefit the usurers. Furthermore, it suited me to have a London residence.” Chase was thinking of how glad he’d been to escape Perry’s fussing during his long convalescence and the feeling of being a burden to his friend in the cramped quarters at the Albany. Cristabel was thinking of his using Harwood House for his raking. It was a good thing he couldn’t see her face.
“But if…if my uncle had not made me a bequest, why did you send for me? You did not just inform me of his death, you know. You specifically mentioned an estate.” Oh dear, her words made her seem like a vulture come to prey on the dead. She hadn’t felt so mercenary, back in Bath. She hadn’t been so poor, back in Bath.
“Ah yes, the little misunderstanding.” Cristabel and the captain were in agreement for the first time that day. They both would cheerfully have boiled Mr. Worbigger in oil.
“‘Little misunderstanding,’ like hell,” mumbled Chase, none too softly. It had been enough to bring a ranting harridan to his doorstep.
“‘Little misunderstanding,’ “ Cristabel snorted, encouraging her to bank her future on an empty account.
Mr. Worbigger loosened his collar. “Yes, well, ahem, I did need to contact you concerning the entailment.”
Cristabel sat straighter.
“No, no. It would not have benefited you in any case, the Harwood barony not having a distaff clause. That is, neither title nor properties could have passed through the female line. Lord Harwood broke the entailment at the occasion of your father’s death, in any event. With no further possibility of a male heir, the Crown granted his petition.” The solicitor cleared his throat. “I believe the baron was a gaming partner of the king’s. Notwithstanding the entailment, I wished to apprise you that the title could be reinstated for your son, or at such time you had a son, pursuant to a request to the proper offices, which I would be happy to undertake on your behalf.”
“And the country estates? Harwood Hall?”
“Gone. Years ago, I’m afraid.”
“Dashed basket-scrambler.” For the second time that day Cristabel agreed with her host. Her host, for pity’s sake.
“That’s it, then?” Cristabel asked weakly, her voice almost gone with her hopes. “You requested my presence in London to discuss an unclaimed title and an unborn heir?”
“Ah, not entirely. There were those other debts, you see. I had no current knowledge of your situation and felt duty-bound to ascertain your circumstances.”
“Why thank you. I appreciate your concern, though I could have wished you’d written—”
“Yes, there was the possibility that you had married well and your husband would be desirous of settling the debts. Family honor and all that. I see that I was mistaken.”
“What?” Cristabel gasped; the captain chuckled. He was finally beginning to enjoy this, hearing the greedy, managing female get her comeuppance.
“You are fortunate,” he told her now, destroying whatever easing of hostilities there had been. “In less enlightened times the heirs could be imprisoned for the family’s debts. Your school in Bath must be preferable to the Fleet.”
Mr. Gould tut-tutted. “Now, now, your lordship. You mustn’t let Miss Swann think an unfortunate niece could be held to account for her uncle’s debts. Not legally, at any rate.”
“Quite the contrary,” Cristabel rasped, glowering at her unseeing tormentor. “I’m sure the captain would enjoy having a helpless female imprisoned despite her innocence.”
The joke wasn’t quite so amusing. Chase held up his hand. “Enough, Miss Swann. I am tired of trading insults with you. You must be satisfied with the legitimacy of my claim to the house by now, and it seems Lord Harwood’s man has no further business with you. With your permission, I’ll have my carriage brought around, to convey you to a hotel. Gentlemen?”
It was too much for one to bear, it truly was. Not only hadn’t her dreams come true, but her worst nightmares had! Cristabel was destitute, homeless, jobless, and friendless—and had to admit as much before this despicable scapegrace. She sniffled, whether from the head cold or the devastation she faced, she didn’t know. “Thank you, Captain Chase, but I…I cannot afford the night’s lodging.”
Without even seeing the handwringing, he was embarrassed for her. He gruffly told her, “No matter. I can advance you the cost, and your fare back to Bath.”
“I couldn’t—”
“Don’t be foolish, Miss Swann, I did more for your uncle’s servants.”
“You don’t understand. I cannot go back to Bath. I lost my position by coming to London without permission.”
“Of all the cockle-headed females! And you found fault with
my
behavior?” Chase exclaimed, loudly enough to cause Cristabel to wince. He was truly astounded that such a proper spinster could act so imprudently. If this was an example of the educators, it was no wonder young women were such featherbrains! “If you will not return to Bath, is there a friend to whom I might escort you?” He did not quite say “ship you off to.”
“No sir, there is no one, I’m afraid.”
“Then just what in bloody tarnation do you intend to do now?”
It was a good question, loud but good. Cristabel only wanted to leave London, with all of its dirt and smells and rakish, distempered gentlemen.
“I…I shall sell my harp,” she announced into the silence after the captain’s furious demand, “and travel to…to Brighton, perhaps,” she improvised, “and seek a new position. Except I have no references.”
The new silence had the sound of dismay, horror, disbelief, depending on the gentleman hearing her last words. Brighton, where the Regent and his cronies summered? A single woman, out in the world on her own, with no references, no money, no position? Unthinkable! Impossible! Absurd!
“Damn!” The last thing in the world Captain Chase wanted was another ball of shot in his head. The second-to-last thing he wanted was another dependent. Heaven knew it wasn’t the money; he could pension off any number of indigent relations or old servants. But Miss Swann was neither relation nor servant—and she wasn’t, by Jupiter, going to be his responsibility! The hundred and twenty men who had gone down with the
Invicta
had been his responsibility, and fighting the Admiralty, Parliament, and the War Office for help for their widows and orphans,
that
was his responsibility. All the tenants and their families at Stokely, those were his to worry about, not some acid-tongued, moralistic old maid with no more sense than a seasick cabin boy. So what in the world was he to do with Miss Swann and her blasted harp? He’d as soon consign the instrument to a watery grave, but Harwood’s niece? Kenley’s sweet, gentle mother didn’t deserve such a fate as having this priggish female foisted on her as companion, nor could Chase think of anyone he disliked enough to inflict such a dreary burden on. But deuce, she was a lady, and every bone in his body, and his sorely aching head, reminded him that a gentleman could not turn his back on a damsel in distress, no matter the provocation.
“Mr. Gould? Mr. Worbigger?” It was a plea for help, man to man. The solicitors, gentlemen both, were thinking similar thoughts: What was going to happen to this frail, innocent child with her pretty, blue eyes and tired, valiant smile? She’d be swallowed alive in London, and finding her references for a position—forged if need be—would only commit her to a life of drudgery. They had no solutions.
Miss Swann herself was almost too numb to think, except that she had no wish to be beholden to Captain Chase. “Children in London must need music lessons. If you could direct me to an employment office…”
“Without references? Pigs would fly sooner.” Perhaps Perry knew someone with a parcel of brats whose already nasty little minds couldn’t be soured by such a prude.
Worbigger’s spotty-faced young secretary had properly contributed nothing to the discussion beyond a deal of paper ruffling whenever his employer had mentioned clauses or creditors. No one else had any suggestions, though, so he tapped the solicitor on the shoulder.
“What is it, boy? No, don’t whisper. If you know of a position or something, speak up.”
Embarrassed, the youth stuttered: “C-couldn’t she stay here? This p-place is so large.” He waved his hand around to express endless rooms and space, and all the pages fell on the floor.
There were four vehement “No’s.” The lawyers deemed the idea so vastly improper that Mr. Gould frowned at Mr. Worbigger, who none so gently kicked his aide in the ankle, under cover of helping to retrieve the documents. A young gentlewoman sharing rooms with a confirmed bachelor? Never! Miss Swann was horrified at the thought; she wouldn’t get a night’s sleep, wondering if she were safe in her bed, in the same house with such a satyr. His lordship was visualizing the end of his days of peace and pleasure—before they’d nearly started. No, it would have to be his mother’s, after all.
“What now, boy?” The assistant was too mortified to speak. Red-faced, he held out a paper. Mr. Worbigger read it, said “Hum,” and handed it over to Mr. Gould. Mr. Gould settled his spectacles, read, and said “Hum.”
“Hum? What is ‘hum’? Have you found something?”
“Do you recall a bit of property in Kensington, my lord, er, Captain? I brought it to your attention when you were ill.”
“Something, vaguely. You said there was a question but I needn’t trouble over it for some time.”