Authors: Elizabeth Mansfield
“I’d say it wasn’t true.”
“But how could you say that? The magistrate would point out to you that you had not been a witness to the act.”
“I’d say that I know you. I’ve known you for years, and you couldn’t have done it.”
Drew nodded. “That’s it, you see.
You
could not believe me capable of murder. But
she
can.”
“But she hasn’t known you very long, Drew. Grant her that at least.”
Drew smiled bleakly. “I grant her that. But I thought that love was beyond time. Lovers are supposed to understand in an instant what others take years to learn, isn’t that so?”
“So the poets say,” Wys agreed sadly.
Drew sat down on the bed wearily. “Take her home, Wys. There’s nothing else to do.”
Wys nodded and turned to the door.
“By the way, does the boy go with her?” Drew asked suddenly.
“I don’t know. Why?”
“The poor lad deserves
something
for his pains. He’s had a dreadful time. Tell her to leave him with me. I’ll give him a few days of riding, at least.” He gave a rueful laugh. “Tell her I promise not to teach him to shoot.”
After Gwen and Wys had left, the weather cleared. For the next few days, Tom and Drew spent many hours together riding over the downs. Tom, having grown up under the care of an invalid father, and having no brothers, blossomed under Drew’s attention. Unconsciously, he copied Drew’s walk and his manner of speech. Consciously, he copied Drew’s way of sitting a horse and the way he tied his cravats. He kept up with Drew’s pace and did whatever he could to win Drew’s approval. On his part, Drew was grateful for the boy’s company. Keeping busy and active in the brisk autumn air cleared his head of the many misgivings he had felt about letting Gwen go, and cleared his spirit of the doldrums that so often threatened to overcome him.
But Hetty was thoroughly bored, and before long she had coaxed the little party of men to agree to return to London. On their last evening in Suffolk, Tom had excused himself early and had gone wearily to bed. Selby, Drew and Hetty sat comfortably before the drawing room fire, too somnolent or lazy to push themselves out of their chairs and mount the stairs to their bedrooms. “By the way, Hetty,” Drew said suddenly, “I have not yet taken the opportunity to give you a good scold.”
“Scold?” asked Hetty, all innocence. “Whatever for?”
Selby snorted. “Minx! You know perfectly well what for!”
“Oh, that!” said Hetty carelessly. “Drew knows I meant it all for the best.”
“Nevertheless,” Drew said firmly, “I’m very angry with you. A few days ago, Tom told me that Lady Hazel had given you the push, and then he asked me a very interesting question. He asked why I was
pleased
with Lady Hazel and
furious
with you.”
“That is a good question,” Hetty said promptly. “You ought to be fair, after all. If I did no worse than
she
did, why be angry at
me?
”
“I’ve thought about it since,” Drew went on. “Do you want to hear my answer?”
“Will I like it?” Hetty asked.
“No.”
“Then don’t tell me.”
“Shameless wench,” said her husband sternly. “You should be on your knees begging his forgiveness instead of giving him pert answers. Tell her, Drew. Whatever it is, I’m sure it will teach her a lesson.”
“Shall I, Hetty?” Drew asked kindly.
Hetty glanced up at her husband’s stern face and nodded sheepishly. “Yes, please, Drew. I know I deserve whatever you have to say to me.”
“Well, then, here it is. Lady Hazel did what she did because her daughter-in-law is blinded by grief, guilt, all sorts of complicated things, and needs someone to help her. Lady Hazel tried to help. I love her for it—”
“But …
I
tried to help, didn’t I?” Hetty asked plaintively.
“
Whom
did you try to help?”
“Why,
you
of course.”
“That’s just it. That’s what makes me angry. Am
I
making a muddle of my life? Am
I
blind and prejudiced and in an emotional turmoil? Is
that
what you think of me?”
“Oh, Drew! Of course not.”
“You admit that I’m capable of conducting my own affairs adequately?”
“Oh, more than adequately,” she assured him.
“Then I don’t need your help, do I?”
“Well, I … I … guess not.”
“Be
sure
, Hetty. You weren’t helping me with this scheme of yours if I didn’t need your help. You were
meddling
. If you have any respect for me at all, you must let me handle my own life from now on.”
Hetty’s eyes filled. “Oh, Drew, I
am
sorry.” She got up and ran to his chair, dropping down on the floor in front of him and embracing his knees in humble contrition. “Please, please forgive me. I’m a complete fool, but I promise I’ll never,
never
do such a thing again,” she said, tears running down her cheeks.
Drew looked across at Selby in dismay, then looked down at his sister. “Hetty, do get up! Please. I didn’t mean to make you cry. Of course, I forgive you. Hetty, please! Selby, do something!”
Selby shook his head and laughed. “Don’t upset yourself, Drew. You know Hetty’s tears. Talented little minx, I’ve always said so. If she’s play-acting, there’s no harm in it. And if those tears are real, they’ll probably do her a world of good. So let her cry, my boy. Let her cry.”
Chapter Eight
I
T WAS AFTER TWO
in the morning, and Sir Lambert Aylmer was no closer to being repaid than he had been when the evening began. He, Lord Warrenton, and Sir George Pollard sat over their brandies in Pollard’s rooms, facing each other in discouragement. Sir George was in debt to Lambie for more than a thousand pounds, and to Richard Warrenton for a sum much larger than that. Even Sir George did not know the full extent of his indebtedness to numerous other creditors throughout London.
“Are you telling us, George,” asked Richard Warrenton incredulously, “that you’ve not a feather to fly with?”
Sir George reached for the brandy bottle and refilled his glass. “I’ve been punting on tick for months,” he said carelessly.
“If that don’t beat all,” said Lambie in disgust. “I thought we’d come here tonight to settle accounts. Instead, you sit there calm as summer noon and try to bamboozle us out of another role of soft!”
“I hate to admit this, George, but for once I have to agree with Lambie here. You know I stand your friend, but you can’t expect me to untie my purse strings for you again without any hope of recouping.”
“Or me either,” Lambie added, shaking his head vigorously in agreement.
Sir George frowned at them. “You needn’t worry. I’ll come through in the end. Haven’t I always done?”
“Don’t know anything about that,” said Lambie dubiously. “You ain’t ever been this badly dipped before, have you?”
Warrenton helped himself to the brandy absently. “You’re counting too heavily on the cards, old boy. I know you often have the devil’s own luck, but cards are a fickle mistress. Wouldn’t care to advance you
my
blunt with your talent at the card table as my only security. Too chancy by half.”
“Well, what security would you care for? My estates are mortgaged to the hilt already. I
do
have a rich uncle, of course…”
At this, Lambie and Warrenton perked up and leaned forward. “Ah! A rich uncle!” said Warrenton. “Is he old? Is he sick?”
Sir George favored them with a sardonic smile. “He is old and sick and he despises me.”
His friends leaned back, defeated. “I’ve always suspected you have a fortune hidden in that cane of yours. Diamonds or some such thing,” Lambie suggested as a last, desperate hope.
“Whatever made you think that?” asked Warrenton.
“Well, he carries it with him everywhere. Mighty smoky, carrying a thing like that wherever you go.”
George laughed mirthlessly. “Would you like to see what’s inside it?” His guests watched interestedly as George unscrewed the handle and pulled the handle from the stick. Attached to the handle was a thin-bladed, deadly-looking sword.
“Good heavens! What an evil-looking thing!” muttered Lambie, crushed.
“But useful from time to time, I imagine, eh, George?” said Warrenton, running his fingers over it in admiration.
“From time to time,” George agreed, sheathing the blade with the hollow cane. “So … there’s my treasure.” He placed the cane, as always, well within reach, and the three men lapsed into silence.
“There’s nothing for it, then, George. Except one thing,” said Warrenton at last.
“And what’s that?”
“Marriage. As soon as possible.”
“You’re out there,” said Lambie, speaking with the authority of one whose familiarity with the social scene was beyond dispute. Lambie might be a fop and a court-card, but his disposition was cheerful, his clothes in the latest mode, and his fortune substantial; therefore, he was on every hostess’s list of desirable guests. There was not a party or ball given in London to which Lambie was not invited. His foolish prattle irritated some and bored others, but most people were quite entertained by his ondits and steady flow of gossip. There was very little going on in London that did not come to Lambie’s ears or go out on Lambie’s tongue.
Richard Warrenton, therefore, turned to Lambie with interest. “Why am I out?” he asked. “I see no reason why marriage is not a good idea. Look at George, now. Not bad looking, is he?”
Lambie regarded George with a professional eye. “If you don’t count the scar on his cheek and his heavy eyebrows, yes, I suppose you could say he’s not bad looking,” Lambie conceded.
“Thank you,” said George drily.
“And he has a good leg, hasn’t he? Stand up, George, and show us a leg.”
“Oh, go to the devil,” said George, turning away in disgust.
“I’d say he has a good leg,” Lambie said, ignoring George.
“And good address. You’ve got to admit he has excellent address,” Warrenton added.
“Oh, yes,” agreed Lambie, “no doubt about that.”
“Well then, what else would a lady want?” Warrenton declared, self-satisfied at having made his point so well.
“He has no fortune,” Lambie said, unmoved by Warrenton’s logic.
“Pooh. Rich young ladies can manage without. Young ladies don’t care for that.”
“Their
mammas
care for that. And every mamma of every heiress in London knows that George is a loose screw,” Lambie said with authority. “Sorry, George, but there it is.”
George snorted. “Don’t restrain your remarks on my account. You’ve said nothing that I haven’t said myself.”
“You see, Dick? He admits he’s no prize on the marriage mart. Besides, everyone knows he’s been in hot pursuit of Gwen Rowle ever since Rowle was shot.”
“Yes,” agreed Warrenton. “That’s a mistake, George. There’s no money
there
, you know.”
“I don’t need you two to tell me that,” growled George. He filled his glass again and passed the bottle down the table. Warrenton filled his and Lambie’s, and the three men drank in silence.
“I
will
get married,” George said suddenly. His eyes glittered with the effect of brandy and inspiration. “One more loan, gentlemen, and you shall have your money back—every penny I owe you—in less than six months.”
“Foxed,” said Lambie to Warrenton confidentially. “Not a bit surprised. Feeling a bit well-to-live myself.”
“I’m not foxed, you fool!” George snapped.
Lambie blinked at him. “Mus’ be. Can’t get married. We jus’ settled all that.”
“Do you think your society heiresses are the only rich women in the world? I tell you, I’ll marry a girl with more blunt than even Bella Arbuthnot.”
“Impossible,” declared Lambie.
Warrenton regarded George closely. “What are you thinking of, George? You’re not thinking of selling yourself to a
cit?
”
“Why not? I’ll find some nabob who wants my title for his daughter.”
Lambie, on whom the liquor was beginning to have its effects, nodded drunkenly. “Good idea. Marry a cit. ’S done all the time.”
“I don’t know, George,” said Warrenton dubiously. “Your title can’t be worth very much, can it? A mere baron—?”
“True enough,” agreed George with a sneer, “but I also have some other selling points, have I not? You said so yourself. I’ve a good leg, excellent address and I’m not bad looking, if one doesn’t regard the scar and the eyebrows, isn’t that right?”
Lord Richard Warrenton laughed and got to his feet. “Well said, old boy, well said. I suppose I can invest some blunt on your title and … er … other assets. What do you say, Lambie? Shall we stake him?”
Lambie looked up at Warrenton with bleary eyes. “Wha’ever you say, ol’ f’llow. Jus’ get me home to bed.”
Warrenton smiled at George. “You have your stake, George. Lambie and I seem to be agreed once more.” He turned and helped Lambie to his feet. When they had donned their hats and coats and stood at the door saying their goodnights, Warrenton gave Sir George a last warning. “This is the very last time, George. I hope you realize it. Remember, you have only six months.”
Gwen had walked all the way from Hookham’s library, and by the time she reached home her nose and fingers were tingling with the cold. She handed her pelisse to Mitching and was about to remove her bonnet when she noticed an enormous vase of fresh flowers on the table near the drawingroom door. “Oh, how lovely!” she exclaimed. “Where did those beautiful flowers come from, Mitching?”
“From Lord Jamison, my lady,” the butler said impassively. “He gave them to Lady Hazel.”
“Oh, I see,” she said shortly. She stared at them, frowning for a moment, and then walked quickly up the stairs. She found Lady Hazel in the small sitting room, seated near the west window, a pair of spectacles perched precariously low on the bridge of her nose. Hazel was trying valiantly to catch the last of the daylight to illuminate the slipper she was crocheting for Tom. Gwen came into the room and almost slammed the door behind her. Lady Hazel looked up over her spectacles. “Oh, Gwen! How was your walk?” she asked cheerily.
“Never mind my walk,” Gwen said furiously. “How could you
dare
to permit Lord Jamison into my house? And to accept his flowers! You knew very well that I would
never
have permitted it, had I been here!”