The Importance of Being Wicked (9 page)

“Sir Bernard, what a pleasure,” she said. His moist breath on her hand made her shudder.

“My very dear Mrs. Townsend . . . Caro. I didn't get the chance to talk when I called. Your cousin was there.”

She'd made sure of that, grabbed Anne's hand in a vise when her cousin had looked like heeding their visitor's hints that he had business alone with her.

“And you have a couple of dukes dancing attendance on you. Such distinguished protectors.” His stress on the last word was a question. Was either Denford or Castleton her lover? She'd claim either or both of them if it would get rid of Horner. But he'd expect a generous lover endowed with ducal strawberry leaves to pay her debts.

“Not protectors but friends.”

“Generous friends? May I expect payment soon? Within the week, perhaps?”

“You always hurry me, Sir Bernard. A lady needs time to arrange her affairs.”

“And if her affairs are not to be arranged, what then?”

“Affairs may always be arranged.”

“My feeling entirely. I can afford to be generous. I'll give you ten days. I'm going out of town for a while, but I shall call next Saturday and expect to find you in a position to make arrangements. Please do not fail me. I am loath to treat a lady unkindly, but I labor under certain exigencies. And it's so uncomfortable having bailiffs in the house.”

Exigencies, my eye! Horner didn't need the money. Investigation had revealed that he had plenty. He likely dropped more than she owed at hazard three or four times a week. She was the one familiar with the humiliation of debt collectors invading her home and assessing her possessions. Horner offered a not-so-subtle threat of what would happen if she failed to appease him, either with money or—she shuddered—her person.

“I admire you, Caro. I tremble with anticipation of our mutual satisfaction.”

Ugh! What on earth was she to do? She didn't have a thousand pounds or any sum like it. Neither was there a chance of finding it by the end of next week. Where could she get it? Oliver, of course, had nothing. Even if he could pay her what he owed for rent, it would be a grain of sand in the desert of her debt. Julian was short of ready money until he worked out the legal complications of his inheritance. None of her friends had any money, save Cynthia and Anne.

She doubted Cynthia could lay hands on that much. Her absent husband's steward paid her bills, and she had some pin money, but no access to a capital sum. Anne was in the same position. Morrissey would have to agree to any large disbursement. Even if he wasn't in Ireland, he'd never agree to help
her.
Instead, he'd drag Anne home to Camber and away from the polluting influence of her cousin. Come to think of it, Morrissey and her mother would make a fine pair. He and Mrs. Elizabeth Brotherton would find plenty to talk about.

It was ironic that she housed one of the wealthiest women in England yet found herself penniless. It was too late now to curtail her extravagance. She should have told her friends of her troubles instead of handing out money as though she were still rich. Pride and an unwillingness to face unpleasant truths had brought her to this pass. Of course, if Robert hadn't been addicted to gaming . . . She wouldn't think of that since there was no point.

The other resort was the moneylenders. At that imprudence she drew the line. The interest on Robert's loans had accumulated to frightening amounts. Anything was better than getting into their hands. As usual since her widowhood, or, if she was being honest, for some time before Robert's death, she would have to solve her own problems. Or rather beg for further assistance from the one man who would help.

Chapter 8

A
t seven o'clock the next evening, Caro boarded the Norwich mail coach on her way to the Quintons' house near Newmarket. It was her first trip outside London in almost a year. That journey, too, had been by mail. When it became clear what a mess Robert had left, she'd returned to her mother's house to beg for money, and been refused. The only thing she'd got out of the visit had been damaged pride and a further hole in her purse from the cost of the coach ticket.

So now she sought the help of Robert's former guardian, Max Quinton. He owed her nothing, less than nothing. Robert had always disregarded his counsel. Because Mrs. Quinton was a cousin of Caro's mother, Quinton had agreed to untangle the snarl of debt to which Robert, in the six short years of his majority, had reduced his handsome estate. Max disposed of the heavily mortgaged lands and other assets, paid off what debt he could, and negotiated the schedule of repayments that left Caro in possession of her house and a modest income. An income she never managed to quite make cover her expenses. Already, she was behind with her current tradesmen's bills.

Caro didn't know what Max could do about the thousand pounds Horner demanded, apart from giving her a well-deserved scolding. The Quintons were comfortable but by no means wealthy and had a growing family. Who would have thought that Eleanor, wed at the same time as her charge, would now have three children while Caro had none?

A tear seeped from the corner of her eye at the recollection of the tiny boy, born too soon, who'd barely lived long enough to take a breath. Poor little infant. He would have been nearly four years old now. Caro hadn't conceived until three years into her marriage, and had never done so again. It was probably just as well that such a feckless pair as she and Robert had never given a hostage to fortune. She could not help sometimes thinking of her son, wondering whether he would have inherited his father's charm of manner, his intelligence and wit. And his talent for self-destruction.

A woman sitting across from her in the coach noticed her distress. “Are you all right, madam?” she asked in a kindly way.

“Thank you, I am quite well.”

“I hope it's not bad news that brings you on your journey.”

“Nothing like that,” Caro said. “Merely a matter of family business in Newmarket.”

“Business and family don't always mix well.” The speaker, a neatly dressed woman of middle years, had a sensible, humorous air about her.

“There, madam,” Caro replied with a smile, “you are entirely correct. In my present errand, I pray you may be wrong. What brings you on this road?”

“I'm returning home to Norwich after a visit to my niece in London.”

“Prosperous family business?”

“Happy but not prosperous. She just had her sixth child. Another healthy boy making two lads and four little girls for them to keep. Her husband has a good place as a clerk, but that's a lot of mouths to feed.”

Another traveler, a man huddled in a heavy coat fastened to the neck with large buttons, joined the discussion.

“Girls are expensive. I have three sisters. They help in my father's factory, but we'd like to find them good husbands so they need not work for a living.”

The woman nodded her approval. “Helps if you have a little money. Mr. Ransom, my husband, made sure he was beforehand with the world and set aside a hundred pounds apiece for my two girls. My Mary's betrothed to a grocer with his own shop in Norwich.”

“A good man you have, if you don't mind my saying, Mrs. Ransom. Joseph Peabody, at your service, of Peabody & Son's Buttons. You won't find a finer button in the kingdom.” He also nodded at Caro, who answered his obvious invitation to introduce herself, as did the fourth occupant of the coach, a white-haired gent in clerical garb, Mr. Foster.

“One of the Lancashire Townsends, perhaps, ma'am?” he asked Caro. “I am kin to that family.”

“My late husband was a Somerset man,” Caro said.

“I'm a little surprised to find a lady such as yourself traveling at night.” The curious looks on three faces told her everyone wondered the same thing.

“I'm in a hurry,” she replied, “and post charges are so high.” A chorus of assenting murmurs greeted this statement, followed by a spirited discussion of the shocking cost of just about everything.

She'd never see any of these people again, but for a few hours, huddled together in the enforced intimacy of the coach, Caro had found friends. Company to make her forget her troubles.

By the time the coach pulled up at Clampton, the four of them were on splendid terms.

“Pity there's no time for refreshments while the horses are changed,” Caro said. “I would love a hot drink.”

Mr. Peabody winked at her and ran through the drizzle into the inn.

“Here you are, ma'am,” he said, returning just in time and producing a firkin from under his coat. “A little ale warms the blood on a damp night. I hope you'll all share a drop with me to make the time pass quicker.”

An hour later, the coach contained four merry souls, including the parson. Some of Robert's less risqué jokes found an appreciative audience, and Mr. Foster was revealed as having a nice line in animal imitations. They were all sorry to see the affable man of the cloth leave them at Sawbridgeworth. He said a particularly fond farewell to Caro. “Thank you for the entertaining company. I shall think of you with pleasure and imagine we are related through the Townsends.” But Peabody, Mrs. Ransom, and Caro soon cheered up and started singing, to the shock and chagrin of a new passenger who boarded a stop later. Since it was by now almost midnight, they all settled down to get as much sleep as was possible in the rapidly moving coach.

Around three in the morning, Caro murmured a quiet good-bye to her new friends and alit at Newmarket. The efficient staff at the Greyhound Inn saw her straight to a bedroom, where she slept late into the morning. Before she retired, she wrote a note to Max Quinton, asking for it to be delivered, first thing, to his house a mile or two from town.

The chambermaid brought her tea and bad news at about noon. The Quintons had been called away suddenly a few days before. They weren't at home, and their servants didn't know when they'd return.

T
homas planned to invite Miss Brotherton for a stroll or a drive in the park, to see if they could find common ground that didn't involve anything antique. He'd ended up having to hear the talk about barrows and shuddered to contemplate a lifetime of such entertainment. Until he thought of Maria and Sarah and their future and the thirty or forty thousand pounds he needed to find to dower them respectably. For the sake of his sisters, he could put up with ancient tombs at meals, especially if the conversation was occasionally varied with more congenial topics.

He could do this. There was nothing wrong with Miss Anne Brotherton, nothing at all. And everything right about her fortune.

It rained all day, but the next dawned bright and sunny. In London, one couldn't call on ladies at a sensible hour, so he left his hotel and headed east for a walk around Leicester Square. All London seemed to appreciate the change in the weather. There was a cheerful liveliness in the air and on the faces of people in the streets: shoppers, delivery boys, and street sellers. A pretty young girl, little more than a child, tried to sell him some violets, and he promised to buy them on the way home. Wooing was supposed to be done with flowers. Mrs. Townsend would like them too. She was just the kind of woman to appreciate a simple posy.

He enjoyed this particular route, its mixture of shops and residences giving him plenty to look at while he took the air. After a brisk twice around the square, he caught sight of a picture in a window, a view of Odiham Castle. He'd never paid any attention to this particular establishment. Glancing up, he saw that it wasn't really a shop but more like a private house, quite a substantial one, with pilasters dividing the window bays on the upper floors. A discreet brass plate bore the words
Isaac Bridges, Picture Seller
.

On impulse, he knocked at the door and was admitted by a liveried servant, who directed him upstairs to a large rectangular room, unlike any Thomas had seen. Full two stories high, it was ingeniously designed to admit as much daylight as possible, from the double row of windows on the street front and others set into a raised ceiling. Like Mrs. Townsend's drawing room, framed pictures covered every inch of the walls. The furnishings were also like a drawing room, with sofas and chairs upholstered in red velvet and marble-topped tables of various sizes, some bearing bound folios and loose prints. Additional works were displayed on easels. A servant served tea to a pair of gentlemen who occupied places in front of a large canvas depicting a scene of sword-bearing Romans. They spoke in tones of respectful solemnity, but Thomas, seeing the expressions of exaggerated nobility worn by the toga-clad subjects, wanted to laugh.

His exploration of the gallery was interrupted by a fellow with the dress and manner of a gentleman but just enough servility of air to place him in the tradesman class. He asked, very politely, if he could offer his assistance.

“I am Castleton,” Thomas said. “I'm interested in the picture of Odiham Castle in your window.”

Though not a well-known figure in London, his title was sufficient to identify him to a merchant who doubtless made his living catering to the aristocracy. The man's bow perceptibly deepened.

“A watercolor by Mr. Sandby, Your Grace. A charming little work. Your Grace will be interested in a view so close to your own house.” Thomas wondered whether a study of the peerage, and perhaps
The Seats of the Nobility and Gentry,
was a necessary qualification for employment by Isaac Bridges. “I'll have the piece brought up for you and inform Mr. Bridges of your presence.”

A tall figure in black, minutely examining one of the larger canvases, had escaped his attention until the man turned around. He and Denford recognized each other, and the other duke walked over.

“Good morning, Colton,” he said to the attendant. “How are you?” Thomas had never seen Denford behave as affably.

“Very well, thank you, Mr. F—, Your Grace.”

“Bridges said he'd let me know about the Guido Reni this morning. Is he in yet?”

Colton seemed flustered. “Indeed. I was about to let him know His Grace had arrived. I'll tell him
Your
Grace is here too. Thank you, Your Grace.” He bobbed his head twice, toward each duke, backed away, then turned and positively scurried through a door in the corner of the room.

“Poor Colton,” Denford said. “I've been buying and selling pictures here for years, and he doesn't know how to deal with my elevated status. When I was a callow youth, Bridges would have him make insultingly low offers for my pictures, or refuse me credit when I wanted to buy. It pains him very much to think he treated a future duke so rudely.”

“Fond of dukes, is he?”

“They are his very favorite thing, aside from van Dykes. He'd be in ecstasy to have two in the gallery at the same time if one of them wasn't me.”

“He finds it hard to forget you were formerly in the trade, then?”

“Formerly! I'm still in the trade, Castleton. How else am I to live? This cursed title comes with many responsibilities but very little income, until the question of half a dozen instruments of entail, going back almost a century, emerges from Chancery. In principle, I could end up as rich as Beckford or Devonshire. In practice, I expect only the lawyers will prosper.”

Thomas wondered again why Denford wasn't pursuing Miss Brotherton or some other heiress. Yet he felt an inkling of admiration for the fact that he had a gainful occupation. If he himself were suddenly to lose most of his estate, he feared he'd be in a bad way, lacking any useful skills.

Colton returned, accompanied by Mr. Bridges, who greeted the two dukes with much greater poise than his junior colleague. He was a man of about fifty, attired with discreet elegance and with an air of command to match. He welcomed Thomas with a subtle blend of confidence and deference, such as a trusted man of business might use. He then graciously commended him to Colton, who had brought the picture of Odiham Castle up from below, and stepped aside to converse with Denford.

Colton enumerated the virtues of the piece, then set it on a small easel and invited him to sit and peruse it at his leisure. Thomas refused his offer of refreshment and pretended to ponder his purchase of the Sandby. He didn't really want to buy the watercolor, agreeable as it was, and wondered what he was doing in the place. Rather than having any real interest in pictures, he was if anything averse to them. His father's expenditures on works of art were not the main cause of Thomas's less-than-flush finances, but they'd contributed to the problem.

A view of Venice caught his eye, remarkably similar to one he owned. He walked over to see if he could spot any differences between them and overheard Denford and Bridges, who were standing behind the protection of a large picture on an easel. He gathered Denford wasn't having much luck persuading the dealer to buy the picture he'd offered him.

Bridges kept his voice low, but Thomas had acute hearing. “I'm sorry, Julian,” he was saying. “I can't see paying that much for the Guido Reni without the immediate prospect of a buyer. I have too many similar pictures on hand.”

“And no doubt the harvest was bad, your ship went down in the Bay of Biscay, and your wife wants a new carriage. I've heard every excuse and used them myself in turn.”

“Very true, except that neither one of us has a wife.”

“Mistress, then, and in that case she'd be asking for a diamond necklace. The fact remains, you don't want to buy a picture that I need to sell. How inconvenient.”

“There is something that would interest me very much. I heard a rumor the Farnese Titian has reappeared. Or rather that Townsend never let it go. It's one of the great regrets of my career that I never possessed the Venus. I came close in '93, but Townsend beat me to it.”