The Rebellious Twin (3 page)

“Ah, Clarinda, you just haven’t met the right man yet. But you will, I promise you. He’s going to be tall — “

“Since you’re dreaming, you may as well make him rich, and exceedingly handsome.”

“Well, of course that, but more important, he will be his own man — “

“Whom I won’t be able to twist around my little finger, like I can Larimore?”

“Exactly.” Counting on her fingers, Sara Sophia continued, “He will honor his parents, be kind to animals, and, of course, adore horses. But most of all he will be so utterly masterful that you, my wild, independent Clarinda, will not be able to push him around.”

Clarinda took over. “And yet, he will respect me for the bright woman I am and not be bossy, and he will allow me to have whatever I want and to do whatever I want.”

“The perfect husband,” declared Sara Sophia.

Clarinda slanted a skeptical glance at her friend. “Such a man does not exist.”

Sara Sophia sighed. “I fear not. So you may as well marry that jellyfish, Lord Sufton, and make the best of it.”

*

Wisps of late night London fog swirled around the entrance to White’s Gambling Club as Robert, Lord Stormont, Earl of Marsett, stepped outside, followed by his good friend, Lucius, Lord Wentridge. Robert, a tall man with a purposeful stride, stepped to the curb and signaled his coachman. A frown crossed the handsome features of his thin, darkly tanned face as he turned to Lucius and said, “I’ve half a notion to give it back.”

“Are you daft?” Lucius, a fair-haired, slender young man of medium stature, dropped his usual cynical demeanor and regarded his friend aghast. “You won Hollyridge Manor fair and square, did you not? Lord Westerlynn knew what he was doing, did he not? I’d wager he’s been playing whist since long before you were born.”

“The old man’s close to eighty, if not eighty-five. What if he’s not of sound mind?”

“Preposterous,” scoffed Lucius. “It’s not like you to question yourself. As I recall, you attempted more than once to dissuade Westerlynn from risking his estate, but the old reprobate would have none of it.”

“True…. “Robert sunk into deep thought. Lucius was right, he should be ecstatic, winning such a huge estate, but somehow he felt less than joyful. Still deep in thought, Robert climbed into his coach, along with Lucius, and settled his lean, powerful body against the squabs. He leaned to signal his coachman, asking Lucius, “Where to? Shall we call it a night?”

“No late visit to Selina?”

“I saw her last night.”

“Don’t want to spoil her, eh?”

Robert’s deep, booming laughter filled the carriage. In truth, he was most pleased with his latest fille de joie, who excited him no end. Still, he had no need to see her every night. “She’s a lovely girl, Lucius, but I’ll soon be on to the next.”

“My word, you’re fickle.”

Robert sighed. “No long-term attachments, that’s my rule. Of course, when the time comes, I’ll see she has a sufficiency of trinkets to assuage her feelings.”

Lucius sniffed his disgust.

“But how often do I come to London?” asked Robert, trying to explain. “It’s not fair to tie any woman exclusively to me.”

“There are times I don’t understand you,” Lucius said, sighing in chagrin. “Here you are, a first son — rich, titled, not bad looking by half — have I left anything out? Yet you choose to bury yourself in the dreary depths of the countryside with naught but your horses for company. Astounding!” Lucius rolled his eyes. “How could you deliberately chose to live away from London? I shall never understand how you could miss all the fetes, routs, glittering balls — let alone all those twittering young chits throwing themselves at your feet in hopes you’ll marry them. Yet you won’t move back, and you even refuse any serious attachment to any of your ladybirds.”

“Don’t fret, Lucius,” Robert answered. “Strange as it may seem to you, my life is thoroughly comfortable without the joys of London. Rest assured I’m totally content to visit but occasionally.”

“Incredible,” Lucius muttered.

Robert remained silent. Lucius would never understand how content he was to spend his time at Oakley House, his estate in Kent, where he satisfied his passion for breeding horses — many said some of England’s finest. After his father died, and he received his title, he had played the popular London bachelor for a time. But he had soon grown weary of the marriageable chits and their eager Mamas. Now, as far as he was concerned, the best part of coming to London was gambling at the city’s leading clubs, visiting his current ladybird, and above all, examining the fine horseflesh at Tattersall’s. After such visits, he returned to Oakley House happy and content, delighted to be back with his cherished thoroughbreds.

“My rakehell days are over,” he remarked to Lucius. “I must be getting old.”

“At twenty-eight?” Lucius chuckled. “It’s more likely the time has come to settle down. You need a wife.”

“I detest the thought.” Robert shrugged. “My father warned me not to marry until I was at least forty, and that, my good fellow, is excellent advice. My parents bickered constantly when I was growing up. I hesitate to subject my own children to the same misery.”

“But surely you want sons.”

Robert shook his head adamantly. “It’s not worth the price, at least not for now.”

“But not all women — “

“Every woman I meet is flighty, full of artifice, with not a brain in her head.”

Lucius chuckled. “You want a woman who would simply be herself? Not likely! Not here in London with these silly, husband-hunting chits.”

“Well, then, don’t tell me I need a wife.” Robert was silent a moment. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sound so disagreeable. I hate to admit it, but you’re right. Long ago I found the London Seasons excruciatingly superficial and insipid. Still, I know the day will come when I shall be compelled to grit my teeth, plunge into the marriage mart, and chose a bride.”

“Dare I mention that if you marry, it might be for love?”

“Love? Ha! Love is an illusion. I shall never fall in love.” In the dimness of the gas lit street, Robert cocked his head and regarded his friend skeptically. You’re as old as I, Lucius. I don’t see you heading for the altar.”

“At least you don’t have parents breathing down your neck,” Lucius replied. “My parents grow ever more impatient — like you, the price I pay for being a first son. I must marry soon, but unlike you, I won’t worry one wit. After all, a man of sense only trifles with women — humors them — plays with them as he would a child. So it’s most certainly not required I love her, only that she possess a title and suitable dowry. After I marry, I shall take the time to beget an heir, then continue my fine life in London, just as before.”

“I am so relieved,” Robert answered sarcastically. “If ever there was a man who adores the bachelor life, ‘tis you.”

“Exactly,” answered Lucius, nodding his head vigorously. “‘Tis the only solution. I love all the girls and would have the devil of a time settling on just one.”

“Well said,” Robert answered offhandedly. “As for me, at the moment, my life suits me well enough. Some day I’ll get around to looking for a wife. I don’t expect her to be beautiful, and have no notion I could ever be in love with her. I would be content if I could find a woman with half a brain in her head who would just be herself. That will be many years from now, however.”

They rode in silence for awhile, Robert allowing his thoughts to drift back to old Lord Westerlynn and the game of whist that had ruined him.

Not fair…

Not right, taking advantage of an old man…

He could not do it!

Without warning, Robert poked his out the window and yelled, “Stop, Jeffers! Turn around. Go back.”

“What the deuce?” exclaimed Lucius.

“We’re returning to White’s,” Robert said firmly.

I’ve decided to deed Hollyridge Manor back to Lord Westerlynn.”

“You have lost your mind.”

“Perhaps, but I cannot in all good conscience take advantage of a senile old man.”

*

“Lord Westerlynn has left, sir,” said the uniformed attendant at White’s. “Climbed in his carriage a while ago — looked quite dreadful, if I may say so. I heard him tell his coachman to take him to his lodgings on Thayer Street.”

“Ah, well,” said Robert, “we shall catch him in the morning.”

*

The next morning, Robert, accompanied by Lucius, presented himself at Lord Westerlynn’s doorstep.

“You are too late, sir,” said the butler. “His lordship has left for Hollyridge Manor, quite hastily, I might add. Said he planned to return in a few days.”

“Damme!” said Robert. “Most likely he’s gone to retrieve his personal possessions.”

“Well, that’s that,” said a relieved Lucius as they climbed back into Robert’s carriage. “You’ve made your best effort. Obviously Westerlynn has resigned himself to the loss of his estate, so why not keep it?”

Robert clamped his jaw. “I have made up my mind. When he returns, Westerlynn will get the surprise of his life. Most definitely, I am giving him his deed back.”

Lucius opened his mouth to protest but quickly closed it again. He knew from experience that once Robert made up his mind, nothing on God’s green earth could make him change.

Fool, fool, fool!

Miserably uncomfortable from the rocking and jolting of his ancient oak coach, Arthur, Lord Westerlynn, felt short of breath as he leaned back against the musty seat and loosened his cravat. Hollyridge Manor lost. What idiocy had possessed him to gamble away the estate that had been in his family since James the Second?

Fool!

But it wasn’t so much the loss of Hollyridge that troubled him. These past years he had spent most of his time at his comfortable lodgings in London. Despite huge gambling losses, he still had enough blunt to keep him content the rest of his life, which, judging from those recent, nagging pains in his chest, might not be too lengthy a period or time.

But how could he have done such a dreadful thing to Sara Sophia?

It was of the greatest importance he return, at the utmost possible speed, to the girl who had lived at Hollyridge from the age of four. He must tell her the truth — give her the papers that would change her life. How negligent he had been! It was Louise’s dying wish that he tell all to Sara Sophia on her eighteenth birthday. Nearly a year ago! But he, snug in his cozy London lodgings, had put off the tiring trip, thinking he had plenty of time.

If I thought of it at all.

From his pocket, Lord Westerlynn withdrew the two ancient iron keys that he had retrieved earlier from the depths of his jewelry chest. No harm done, he decided as he examined them. He might have lost Hollyridge Manor, but when he gave Sara Sophia these keys — told her who she really was and what wealth she possessed — all would be well. He had a great affection for the girl. In many ways she had been like a daughter to him. She was not, of course, but still…

Damme! but it was getting hot in here. He brushed beads of perspiration from his forehead, loosened his cravat. The coach was half-way to Hollyridge, rolling through a small hamlet, when he noticed his left arm was somewhat numb. A few miles later, a stab of pain hit his chest.

Instantly Lord Westerlynn knew. Pounding his cane on the ceiling of the coach, he yelled at his coachman to hurry. He must reach Hollyridge — that was all that mattered now. But another pain struck, and another, and he knew he would never make it home.

But perhaps … Garnering his strength, he pounded on the ceiling again, and when the coachman yelled down, “What now, m’lord?” he ordered the man to take him to Graystone Hall, the nearest estate to Hollyridge, and closer. He must hang on. Clutching his chest, he slumped back on the seat and prayed his young friend, Clarinda, would be at home, or Lord Capelle, or even Lady Capelle, who had a heart of stone but could at least be trusted.

The minutes seemed endless. Lord Westerlynn lay back on the seat, fighting the pain, until finally the coach turned into the long, circular driveway of Graystone Hall. As it rolled towards the marble pillared entrance, a pain far worse than the others slammed into chest. He didn’t have long. Please, dear God, he prayed, let Clarinda be at home.

*

In her spacious, pink wall-papered bed chamber, Lady Clarissa Capelle stood back to view herself in her tall gilt mirror. Frowning, she plucked at one of the delicate golden curls that ringed her forehead. “This hangs down a farther than the others, Estelle,” she said to her middle-aged, French lady’s maid who hovered nearby. Do it better.”

“Sorry, m’lady.” Estelle fussed with the curl until, impatient, Rissa elbowed her aside and viewed herself again. Nodding favorably, she lovingly drew her hands down the sides of her blue silk visiting gown, trimmed at the hem and high waist with ribbon and embroidery. “Help me with my bonnet,” she ordered, and was soon admiring the delicate features of her face, set off by the adorable silk-covered bonnet of matching blue with a saucy ostrich plume and a tie that Estelle tied into a big bow, tilted beneath her chin. Rissa raised her skirt a few inches and pointed the left toe of her blue printed kid shoes. How dainty her foot looked! How darling the silk blue ribbon loops and ties around her ankle.

Estelle helped her slip on her long gloves of matching blue, then handed her the huge, matching silk muff, banded with strips of fur and decorated with silk tassels.

Rissa smiled with satisfaction at her reflection. Lightly she touched the gold chain around her neck with its gold filigree “R” pendant. “Does it go?” she asked, “or should I tuck it in?”

“Eet looks fine, m’lady,” assured Estelle. “You look seduisant.”

I do, thought Rissa, turning this way and that in front of the mirror. How she loved clothes and jewels and fancy coiffeurs! That her twin did not have the same fascination was beyond her.

“I had best see how Lady Clarinda ees doing,” said Estelle, turning to leave.

“If you must.” Rissa could not keep resentment from her voice. She hated having to share a lady’s maid. Mama and Papa were such misers. At least Clarinda made far less use of Estelle than she did, but that was small consolation. She deserved her very own lady’s maid.