Authors: Georgette Heyer
White's was crowded even at that hour of the morning, and the noise seemed to cut through his head. Men hailed him from all sides, offering him bets; someone tried to tell him some piece of scandal; they would not let him alone, and at last his jagged nerves would no longer support it, and he left the house to go further down the street to his other club, the Cocoa-Tree, which he hoped to find less rowdy. It was fuller than he expected, but many of the men had come as he had, to write letters and to be quiet. Very little gaming was as yet in swing.
Richard wrote steadily for perhaps an hour, and sealed his last letter preparatory to leaving. As he affixed the wafer, he was conscious of a stir behind him, and heard exclamations of:
"Where in thunder did you spring from?"
"Gad, 'tis an age since I've seen you!"
"Lord, 'tis O'Hara!"
Then carne the soft Irish voice in answer, and he slewed round in his chair to face them all. Miles O'Hara was the centre of a little group of interested and welcoming club-men, explaining his arrival.
"Sure, I was in town on a matter of business, and I thought I must come to the club to see ye all while I was here, for 'tis not often I get the chance—"
Richard rose, gathering up his letters and stared across at this man who had been Jack's greatest friend. He took a step towards him. As he did so, O'Hara turned and caught sight of him. Richard was about to hail him, when he suddenly noticed the change in his expression. The good humour died out of the Irishman's eyes and left them hard and scornful. His pleasant mouth curved into a disdainful line. Carstares stood still, one hand on the back of a chair, his eyes rivetted to O'Hara's face, reading all the reproach, the red-hot anger that Miles was trying to convey to him. O'Hara achieved a sneer and turned his shoulder, continuing to address his friends.
Richard's head swam. O'Hara was ignoring him, would not speak to him. . . . O'Hara knew the truth! He walked blindly to the door, and groped for the handle. . . . O'Hara knew! He was in the passage, on the front steps, in the road, shuddering. O'Hara knew, and he had looked at him as if–as if–again he shuddered, and seeing an empty chair, hailed it, bidding the men carry him to Grosvenor Square. . . . O'Hara despised him!–reproached him! Then Jack was in trouble? He had seen him and learnt the truth? God, but his brain was reeling! . . .
AFTER the encounter with O'Hara, whatever peace of mind Richard had had, left him. He knew not a moment's quiet; all day, and sometimes all night, his brain worried round and round the everlasting question: John or Lavinia? He had quite decided that it must be either the one or the other; the idea that he might conceivably retain his wife
and
confess the truth, never occurred to him. So often had Lavinia assured him that he had no right to expect her to share his disgrace, that now he believed it. He thought that she would elope with Lovelace, whom, his tortured mind decided, she really loved. Any attempt to frustrate such an action would, he supposed wretchedly, be the essence of selfishness. Of course he was not himself, and his brain was not working normally or rationally; had he but known it, he was mentally ill, and if Lavinia had thought to examine him closely she could not have failed to observe the fever spots on each cheek, the unnaturally bright eyes and the dark rings encircling them. Richard wore the look of one goaded beyond endurance, and utterly tired and overwrought. As he told Mrs. Fanshawe, when she exclaimed at his appearance–he could not rest; he must always be moving, thinking. She saw that he was not entirely himself, and counselled him to consult a doctor. His half-angry repudiation of all illness did not surprise her, but she was considerably startled when, in answer to her pleading that he should have a care for himself, he vehemently said: "If I could die, I should be glad!" She wondered what his wife was about not to see his condition, and wished that she might do something. But she was not acquainted with Lady Lavinia, and she felt it would be a piece of gross presumption on her part to speak to her of Richard. If she had thought his malady to be physical, she reflected, she might venture a word, but as she perceived it to be mental, she could only hope that it would pass in time, and that he would recover from his run-down condition.
Lady Lavinia was pursuing her butterfly existence, heeding nothing but her own pleasure, bent on enjoying herself. She succeeded very well, on the whole, but she could not help wishing that Dicky were a little more cheerful and wishful to join in her gaiety. Of late he was worse than ever, and although he supplied her wants uncomplainingly, she would almost rather he had refused her and shown a little life, than give way to her with this dreadful apathy.
Lovelace was out of town for a week, and Lavinia was surprised to find how little she missed him. To be sure, playing with fire was very pleasant, but when it was removed out of her reach, it really made no odds. She missed Harry's adulation and his passionate love-making, for she was one of those women who must always have admiration and excitement, but she was not made miserable by his absence. She continued to flutter round to all the entertainments of the season with one or other of her brothers, and when Lovelace returned he was disturbed by her casual welcome. However, she was undoubtedly pleased to see him, and soon fell more or less under his spell, allowing him to be by her side when Tracy was not near, and to charm her ears with compliments and gallantry.
To do him justice, Captain Harold was really in love with her and was quite ready to relinquish his commission if only she would run away with him. He had private means of his own, and promised her that her every whim should be satisfied. But Lavinia scolded him and shook her head. Apart from any ulterior consideration, Richard was, after all, her husband; he, too, loved her, and she was very, very fond of him, although she did plague him dreadfully.
Lovelace assured her that her husband did not love her nearly as much as he, and when she smiled her disbelief, lost his temper and cried that all the town knew Carstares to be at Mrs. Fanshawe's feet!
Lavinia stiffened.
"Harold!"
"I am only surprised that you have been blind to it," he continued. "Where do you think he goes every day for so long? White's? No. To 16 Mount Street! Stapely called there and met him; another day Lady Davenant saw him with her; Wilding has also met him at her house. He spends nearly every afternoon with her!"
Lavinia was a Belmanoir, and she had all the Belmanoir pride. Rising to her feet she drew her cloak about her with her most queenly air.
"You forget yourself, Harold," she said haughtily. "Never dare to speak to me of my husband again in that tone! You may take me at once to my brother."
He was very penitent, wording his apology most cleverly, smoothing her ruffled plumage, withdrawing his words, but at the same time contriving to leave their sting behind. She forgave him, yes, but he must never offend her so again.
Although she had indignantly refused to believe the scandal, it nevertheless rankled, and she found herself watching her husband with jealous eyes, noticing his seeming indifference towards her and his many absences from home. Then came a day when she caused her chair to be borne down Mount Street at the very moment when Richard was coming out of No. 16.
That was enough for Lavinia. So he was indeed tired of her! He loved another woman!–some wretched widow! For the first time a real worry plagued her. She stayed at home that evening and exerted all her arts to captivate her husband. But Richard, seeing John unhappy, reproachful, every way he turned, his head on fire, his brain seething with conflicting arguments, hardly noticed her, and as soon as he might politely do so, left her, to pace up and down the library floor, trying to make up his mind what to do.
Lady Lavinia was stricken with horror. She had sickened him by her megrims, as Tracy had prophesied she would! He no longer cared for her!
This
was why he continually excused himself from accompanying her when she went out! For once in her life she faced facts, and the prospect alarmed her. If it was not already too late, she must try to win back his love, and to do this she realised she must cease to tease him for money, and also cease to snap at him whenever she felt at all out of sorts. She must charm him back to her. She had no idea how much she cared for him until now that she thought he did not care for her. It was dreadful: she had always been so sure of Dicky! Whatever she did, however exasperating she might be, he would always adore her.
And all the time, Richard, far from making love to Mrs. Fanshawe, was hearing anecdotes of his brother from her, little details of his appearance, things he had said. He drank in all the information, clutching eagerly at each fresh scrap of gossip, greedy to hear it. If it in any way concerned John. His brain was absorbed with this one subject, and he never saw when Lavinia smiled upon him, nor did he seem to hear her coaxing speeches. When she remarked, as she presently did, on his pallor, he almost snapped at her, and left the room. Once she put her arms about him and kissed him on the lips; he put her gently aside, too worried to respond to the caress, but, had she known it–grateful for it.
His Grace of Andover meeting his sister at Ranelagh Gardens, thought her face looked pinched, and her eyes unhappy. He inquired the reason, but Lady Lavinia refused to confide even in him, and pleaded a headache. Andover, knowing her, imagined that she had been refused some kickshaw, and thought no more about it.
He himself was very busy. Only two days before a groom had presented himself at St. James's Square, bearing a missive from Harper, very illegible and ill-spelt, but to the point:
"Yr. Grace,
"I have took the liberty of engageing this Man, Douglas, in Yr. Name. I hope I shall soon be Able to have carrid out the Rest of yr. Grace's Instructions, and trust my Connduct will meet with Yr. Grace's Approvall.
Very Obed'tly,
M. HARPER."
Tracy confirmed the engagement and straightway dispatched the man to Andover, where the head groom would undoubtedly find work for him to do. He was amused at the blind way in which the man had walked into his trap, and meditated cynically on the frailty of human nature which will always follow the great god Mammon.
Not three days later came another letter, this time from Mr. Beauleigh, addressed to him at White's, under the name of Sir Hugh Grandison. It asked for the man Harper's character.
His Grace of Andover answered it in the library of his own home, and smiled sarcastically as he wrote Harper down "exceeding honest and trustworthy, as I have always found."
He was in the middle of the letter when the door was unceremoniously pushed open and Andrew lounged into the room.
His Grace looked up frowning. Not a whit dismayed by the coolness of his reception, his brother kicked the door to and lowered his long limbs into a chair.
"May I ask to what I owe the honour of this intrusion?" smiled Tracy dangerously.
"Richard," was the cheerful reply, "Richard."
"As I am not interested in either him or his affairs—"
"How truly amiable you are to-day! But I think you'll be interested in this, 'tis so vastly mysterious."
"Indeed? What is the matter?"
"Just what I want to know!"
Tracy sighed wearily.
"Pray come to the point, Andrew–if point there be. I have no time to waste."
"Lord! Busy? Working? God ha' mercy!" The young rake stretched his legs out before him and cast his eyes down their shapeliness. Then he stiffened and sat up, staring at one white-stockinged ankle.
"Now, damn and curse it! where did that come from?" he expostulated mildly.
"Where did
what
come from?"
"That great splash of mud on my leg. Brand new on this morning, and I've scarce set my nose without doors. Damn it, I say! A brand new—"
"Leg?"
"Hey? What's that you say?"
"Nought. When you have quite finished your eulogy, perhaps you would consent to tell me your errand?"
"Oh, ay!–but twenty shillings the pair! Think of it! . . . Well, the point–there is one, you see–is this: it is Richard's desire that you honour him with your presence at Wyncham on Friday week, at three in the afternoon exactly. To which effect he sends you this." He tossed a letter on to the desk. "You are like to have the felicity of meeting me there."
Tracy ripped open the packet and spread the single sheet on the desk before him. He read it through very deliberately, turned it over, as if in search of more, re-read it, folded it, and dropped it into the wastebasket at his side. He then picked up his quill and dipped it in the ink again.
"What think you?" demanded Andrew, impatiently.
His Grace wrote tranquilly on to the end of the line.
"What think I of what?"
"Why, the letter, of course! What ails the man? 'Something of great import to impart to us,' forsooth! What means he?"
"Yes, I noticed 'twas very badly worded," commented Tracy. "I have not the vaguest notion as to his meaning."
"But what do you make of it? Lord, Tracy, don't be such a fish! Dick is summoning quite a party!"
"You appear to be in his confidence, my dear Andrew. Allow me to congratulate you. No doubt we shall know more–ah–on Friday week, at three o'clock."
"Oh, you'll go, then?"