Gayle Buck (3 page)

He greeted the duke and his grace’s companion. “Your grace; ma’am.”

The Duke of Alton stared at the viscount from under bushy white brows. There was no softening friendliness or welcome in his hard expression. “It’s you, is it, Weemswood? Well, we’ve enough tea to spare another cup. I know why you’ve come and I warn you that I’ll not countenance any of your tempers.”

“Your graciousness never fails to surprise me, sir,” said Lord St. John. He seated himself and accepted the cup of tepid tea that the woman poured for him.

The duke chuckled reluctantly. “Aye, I surprise myself. But these days I am mellowed, and all due to my sweet duchess.” He squeezed the woman’s arm possessively.

Lord St. John froze for an infinitesimal second in the act of touching the cup to his lips, then proceeded to sip the tea as though with the greatest calm, even through his thoughts had slipped with shock. “Your duchess, sir? I had no notion.”

“Then why the devil have you come down, if it was not in response to the announcement I sent to the
Gazette?”
asked the duke irritably.

“My lamentable filial duty, I suppose,” said Lord St. John.

He was not looking at the duke, but at the woman, Lord St. John could not believe that the duke had been so lost to good sense that he had actually married the grasping doxy.

The woman smiled with a hint of smugness, as though reading Lord St. John’s mind. “The ceremony was done quite sudden-like, my lord. But there was no stopping his grace once he had gotten out of me the truth.”

Lord St. John’s gray eyes narrowed. “The truth, madam?” he asked softly.

“Aye!” The duke laughed and flung his arm around the woman’s softly rounded shoulders. “She carries my whelp, Weemswood. What think you of that, eh?”

Lord St. John felt the room tilt from under him. He held himself perfectly still, his face totally expressionless. “Indeed! I must felicitate you, then.”

The duke laughed again, but maliciously. “Oh aye. I will accept your felicitations, Weemswood. You are a gentleman to the bone. Not a hint of the bitter disappointment of losing sight of all this.” He waved a gnarled hand to indicate this once sumptuously decorated room that was now faded and dusty and hopelessly out of fashion.

Lord St. John set down the cup and rose from the chair. He sauntered to the mantel, saying, “Quite right, your grace. It is a bitter disappointment indeed to be freed of the responsibility for this decaying pile.” His voice was mocking, as was his expression.

The duke’s face mottled purple. “Out! Get out! You will not spend this night or any other under my roof! Get out!”

“Well spoken, your grace. I am held at once in admiration of your hospitality as well as your foolishness. I suppose it has not occurred to you that the woman may be lying about the child?” asked Lord St. John.

The woman jumped up and pulled her dress close against her stomach. The undeniable evidence was starkly displayed. “There, my lord!
That
for your wicked disbelief,” she said triumphantly.

“I never doubted that you are increasing, dear lady, merely the paternity,” said Lord St. John dryly.

The new duchess flushed. A flicker of fear flashed in her eyes. “How dare you, my lord!”

“Aye, that will be insult enough! You’ll leave now, sirrah, or I shall have you horsewhipped from the grounds!” the duke swore.

“Never more gladly, your grace,” said Lord St. John, his lips twisted in a contemptuous smile. He strode out of the parlor, shouting for his bags and his phaeton.

Chapter 3

The announcement of the Duke of Alton’s marriage to his ill-bred mistress came out in the
Gazette
on that same day. When Lord St. John returned to London, he read it for himself when he sat down at dinner.

The viscount’s swift, unexpected return from the country had thrown the kitchen into an uproar because his lordship’s exacting tastes were a byword in his household. Lord St. John had been known to return dishes not to his liking accompanied by a biting remark, and the cook waited with trepidation the reception of the ragout made from slivers of roast and various cooked vegetables, the barley soup, and fish cakes. There was, in addition, a tolerable tart and it was hoped that this particular item might go long toward reconciling the viscount to such a poor outlay.

After setting aside the newspaper, Lord St. John’s eyes were so cold and his expression so forbidding that the footman serving the hastily prepared dishes did not dare to inquire what his lordship’s preferences might be. In any event, the viscount seemed to have little appetite, eventually waving away everything but the wine bottle. As the various dishes were returned to the kitchen, the cook took consolation that his lordship had not sent down a blighting message but instead had taken a few bites of everything.

One of the manservants casually removed the discarded newspaper along with the rejected tart and carried it away to the kitchen so that the cause of his lordship’s unholy humor could be determined by those of the household who could read. It was not long before the offending item was discovered and exclaimed over.

Lord St. John drank steadily as the black hours progressed, calling for a servant only when he wanted another bottle. His unseeing gaze did not see the darkening shadows, nor that a servant came in to light a few tapers. He sat sprawled in his chair, a brooding scowl heavy on his face.

Elsewhere in the house the servants whispered and speculated, somewhat anxiously, over what the viscount’s change in fortune meant for themselves. The servant who had tiptoed into the dining room to light the candles reported that the master appeared to be caught fast in the throes of one of his freak tempers, except that he was unnaturally quiet. This, it was agreed, was a very bad sign. The viscount’s tantrums were short and violent in character, as quickly over as they had arisen, and otherwise he was an easy and generous employer.

Though Lord St. John was considered a better master than most, it was felt that it would not prove possible for his lordship to maintain the same style of living that he had kept up in the past. Perhaps better than the viscount himself, the servants knew what it cost to run an establishment and they had also a fairly shrewd notion of what straits the viscount had gotten himself into over the years. The casual gossip that was always exchanged among household servants and tradespeople had made that information readily accessible. As one pert housemaid put it, they had all better look to their own skins; and though the butler and housekeeper both reprimanded the girl, the now-spoken thought remained uppermost in all their minds. It was not an easy night’s rest for any of the household, and some resolved to begin looking for new employment the very next day.

When Lord St. John rose at last from the dining table, the tapers had long since burned down and guttered. The dining room was cloaked in darkness except for a stripe of waning moonlight shining through a crack in the drawn drapes, but it was enough to allow him to make out the dim bulk of the furniture. He carefully maneuvered himself out of his chair, swaying slightly as he left the room and crossed the entry hall to the stairs.

“My lord? Is there anything I can do?”

Lord St. John looked round. He blinked before bringing into focus the form of his butler, who held aloft a flickering candle. The resulting play of shadows lent the butler a peculiarly pitying expression.

Lord St. John gave a bitter bark of laughter. “I’ll do, Craighton. Go to bed.” Clutching the balustrade and without waiting for acknowledgment of his order, he stumbled up the stairs and on to his bedroom. When he had safely reached his room, he sprawled across his bed fully clothed, already unconscious to the world.

* * * *

The news of the duke’s marriage had repercussions that reached far beyond Lord St. John’s own household. The news spread with such rapidity that Lord St. John’s tailor and his bootmaker, his clothier and his hatmaker, his glovier and his jeweler knew of the ill tidings before nightfall. The coachman, the butcher, the grocer, the chandler; the stables that housed his lordship’s horses and carriages; the gentleman who struggled with the viscount’s business accounts; and the ladies who had occasionally enjoyed the viscount’s patronage—in short, anyone who had ever had any sort of dealings with Lord St. John greeted the news of his tumbled fortunes with dismay.

All the tradesmen who had ever extended credit to Viscount Weemswood were suddenly stricken by their own stupidity. They all knew that the viscount lived beyond his means—didn’t their own books reflect the high-running tab that he had developed over the years and never paid? They knew that noblemen believed that tradespeople were the last that should be paid—had they not all learned that to their sorrow in their dealings with the aristocracy? But they had gambled on Lord St. John longer than they might have on another gentleman because he was heir presumptive to a dukedom of some means. It was well-known that the Duke of Alton had hoarded virtually every groat he could squeeze out of his estate and had thus undoubtedly amassed a tidy fortune. The tradesmen had thought of it as an investment, if not in monies, at least in prestige and goodwill.

Now, however, things had changed. Lord St. John was no longer heir to anything. All he had were his own mortgaged estates, his town house, his phaeton and horses, and his debts. Those tradespeople who had so eagerly extended his lordship credit just the day before were now anxious that the outstanding balances be paid in full, at once. Everyone knew that the viscount hadn’t a feather to fly with on his own and so it behooved those who considered themselves savvy in business to get their own out of him before his funds were completely dried up.

The next morning an avalanche of bills descended upon the town house. Lord St. John’s man of business and sometime secretary, Mr. Witherspoon, was unsurprised by the reaction to the announcement of the duke’s marriage, but he was stunned by the steadily mounting totals owed by his employer. There were also some rather unpleasant confrontations between himself and others of the staff with a few of the more aggressive tradespeople who deemed a personal visit to be in order to collect what was due them.

Lord St. John was spared the majority of these embarrassments by the zealousness of the most loyal of his staff. When he came downstairs shortly before noon, however, he was instantly hailed by an individual in the entryway who was resisting being manhandled out the door by two sturdy footmen and the butler.

“I demands a hearing, I say! Your lor’ship—”

The manservants succeeded in thrusting the burly individual out the door, shutting it on his continued demands to be heard.

The butler, breathing rather harder than usual, bade the viscount a good morning.

Lord St. John, who had paused on the last stair to watch the outcome of the struggle, raised his brows and snapped, “If that is your notion of a good morning, Craighton, I shudder to imagine a bad morning.”

“Yes, my lord. Will you want breakfast, my lord?”

Lord St. John was certain that his head was splitting open behind his eyes. His mouth tasted foul and his guts seemed to be tied in knots. He felt the very devil, but he willed himself to consider the suggestion of putting food in his mouth and of actually swallowing it. The prospect was not pleasing.

He said harshly, “Coffee, black; a small steak and some toast. I will be in my study. Send for Witherspoon.”

A short while later Mr. Witherspoon and breakfast were ushered together into the study.

Lord St. John did not acknowledge with a single glance the tray that was put before him on the desk by the butler. Instead, his nostrils gave a barely perceptible quiver. His expression was sardonic as he addressed the gentleman who approached him. “Ah, Witherspoon. I am glad that you were able to join me.”

At the viscount’s gesture, Mr. Witherspoon sat down in a chair placed in front of the desk. He said gravely, “I was anticipating your summons, my lord.”

Lord St. John allowed his mouth to twist into a singularly bitter smile. “Of course you did. Everyone in the world must know about that damnable marriage by now. I saw a ruffian thrown out of my house this morning, Witherspoon. I assume that incident was but the tip of the iceberg.”

“Aye, my lord,” said Mrs. Witherspoon unhappily.

Lord St. John turned deliberately to the coffeepot on the tray. The fragrant aroma of hot coffee rose on the air as he poured for himself. His head pounded abominably, but that was not the reason he sought refreshment. He found that his courage was failing him and though he despised himself for the weakness, he much preferred turning his gaze on the unpalatable food and drink than meet his secretary’s mournful eyes a second longer. “Will you join me in coffee, Witherspoon?”

“Thank you, no, my lord. I breakfasted some hours ago,” said Mr. Witherspoon. “But pray do not allow me to interrupt your own.”

Lord St. John lifted his cup to his lips. The coffee was scalding hot, but he steeled himself against the burst of pain. His rage at himself was such that he almost took pleasure in it.

He lowered the cup, and without looking at his secretary, he abruptly asked, “How bad is it, Witherspoon?”

Silence greeted his question. He looked up swiftly. The expression in his secretary’s eyes told him all that he had feared.

Lord St. John felt his own face stiffen. He set down the cup very carefully, trying to control the slight tremor in his hand. “I see.”

“I am sorry, my lord. I wish that I had better tidings. Naturally I shall do all in my power to preserve your interests and retire some of the more urgent debts, but—”

Lord St. John threw up his hand. Savagely he said, “Spare me the details, Witherspoon! Answer me just this one question. Is it to be Fleet Prison?”

Mr. Witherspoon hesitated. He had always prided himself upon the strict honesty of his dealings with his sometimes difficult employer, but never had he found himself put into the position of dealing what must surely come as a deathblow. “I ... trust not, my lord. I have learned that India is not altogether barbaric in its amenities.”