The Corinthian

by Georgette Heyer

  Sir Richard sighed. ‘Rid yourself of the notion that I cherish any villainous designs upon your person,’ he said. ‘I imagine I might well be your father. How old are you?’

  ‘I am turned seventeen.’

  ‘Well, I am nearly thirty,’ said Sir Richard.

  Miss Creed worked this out. ‘You couldn’t possibly be my father!’

  ‘I am far too drunk to solve arithmetical problems. Let it suffice that I have not the slightest intention of making love to you.’

  ‘Well, then, I don’t mind accompanying you,’ said Miss Creed handsomely. ‘Are you really drunk?’

  ‘Vilely,’ said Sir Richard.

  ‘No one would credit it, I assure you. You carry your wine very well.’

  ‘You speak as one with experience in these matters,’ said Sir Richard.

  ‘My father was used to say that it was most important to see how a man behaved when in his cups. My cousin becomes excessively silly.’

  ‘You know,’ said Sir Richard, knitting his brows, ‘the more I hear of this cousin of yours the more I feel you should not be allowed to marry him. Where are we now?’

  ‘Piccadilly, I think,’ replied Miss Creed.

  ‘Good! I live in St James’s Square. Why do they want you to marry your cousin?’

  ‘Because,’ said Miss Creed mournfully, ‘I am cursed with a large fortune!’

  Sir Richard halted in the middle of the road. ‘Cursed with a large fortune?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes, indeed. You see, my father had no other children, and I believe I am most fabulously wealthy, besides having a house in Somerset, which they won’t let me live in. When he died I had to live with Aunt Almeria. I was only twelve years old, you see. And now she is persecuting me to marry my cousin Frederick. So I ran away.’

  ‘The man with a face like a fish?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You did quite right,’ said Sir Richard.

  ‘Well, I think I did.’

  ‘Not a doubt of it. Why Holborn?’

  ‘I told you,’ replied Miss Creed patiently. ‘I am going to get on the Bristol coach.’

  ‘Oh! Why Bristol?’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to Bristol precisely, but my house is in Somerset, and I have a very great friend there. I haven’t seenhim for nearly five years, but we used to play together, andwe pricked our fingers – mixing the blood, you know–and we made a vow to marry one another when we were grown-up.’

  ‘This is all very romantic,’ commented Sir Richard.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’ said Miss Creed enthusiastically. ‘You are not married, are you?’

  ‘No. Oh, my God!’

  ‘Why, what is the matter?’

  ‘I’ve just remembered that I am going to be.’

  ‘Don’t you want to be?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But no one could force you to be married!’

  ‘My good girl, you do not know my relatives,’ said Sir Richard bitterly.

  ‘Did they talk to you, and talk to you, and talk to you? And say it was your duty? And plague your life out? And cry at you?’ asked Miss Creed.

  ‘Something of the sort,’ admitted Sir Richard. ‘Is that what your relatives did to you?’

  ‘Yes. So I stole Geoffrey’s second-best suit, and climbed out of the window.’

  ‘Who is Geoffrey?’

  ‘Oh, he is my other cousin! He is at Harrow, and his clothes fit me perfectly. Is this your house?’

  ‘This is my house.’

  ‘But wait!’ said Miss Creed. ‘Will not the porter be sitting up to open the door to you?’

  ‘I don’t encourage people to sit up for me,’ said Sir Richard, producing from his pocket a key, and fitting it into the lock.

  ‘But I expect you have a valet,’ suggested Miss Creed, hanging back. ‘He will be waiting to help you to bed.’

  ‘True,’ said Sir Richard. ‘But he will not come to my room until I ring the bell. You need have no fear.’

  ‘Oh, in that case – !’ said Miss Creed, relieved, and followed him blithely into the house.

  A lamp was burning in the hall, and a candle was placed on a marble-topped table, in readiness for Sir Richard. He kindled it by thrusting it into the lamp, and led his guest into the library. Here there were more candles, in chandeliers fixed to the wall. Sir Richard lit as many of these as seemed good to him, and turned to inspect Miss Creed.

  She had taken off her hat, and was standing in the middle of the room, looking interestedly about her. Her hair, which clustered in feathery curls on the top of her head, and was somewhat raggedly cut at the back, was guinea-gold; her eyes were a deep blue, very large and trustful, and apt at any moment to twinkle with merriment. She had a short little nose, slightly freckled, a most decided chin, and a pair of dimples.

  Sir Richard, critically observing her, was unimpressed by these charms. He said: ‘You look the most complete urchin indeed!’

  She seemed to take this as a tribute. She raised her candid eyes to his face, and said: ‘Do I? Truly?’

  His gaze travelled slowly over her borrowed raiment. ‘Horrible!’ he said. ‘Are you under the impression that you have tied that – that travesty of a cravat in a Wyndham Fall?’

  ‘No, but the thing is I have never tied a cravat before,’ she explained.

  ‘That,’ said Sir Richard, ‘is obvious. Come here!’

  She approached obediently, and stood still while his expert fingers wrought with the crumpled folds round her neck.

  ‘No, it is beyond even my skill,’ he said at last. ‘I shall have to lend you one of mine. Never mind; sit down, and let us talk this matter over. My recollection is none of the clearest, but I fancy you said you were going into Somerset to marry a friend of your childhood.’

  ‘Yes, Piers Luttrell,’ nodded Miss Creed, seating herself in a large arm-chair.

  ‘Furthermore, you are just seventeen.’

  ‘Turned seventeen,’ she corrected.

  ‘Don’t quibble! And you propose to undertake this journey as a passenger on an Accommodation coach?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Miss Creed.

  ‘And, as though this were not enough, you are going alone?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘My dear child,’ said Sir Richard, ‘drunk I may be, but not so drunk as to acquiesce in this fantastic scheme, believe me.’

  ‘I don’t think you are drunk,’ said Miss Creed. ‘Besides, it has nothing to do with you! You cannot interfere in my affairs merely because you helped me out of the window.’

  ‘I didn’t help you out of the window. Something tells me I ought to restore you to the bosom of your family.’

  Miss Creed turned rather white, and said in a small, but very clear voice: ‘If you did that it would be the most cruel – the most treacherous thing in the world!’

  ‘I suppose it would,’ he admitted.

  There was a pause. Sir Richard unfobbed his snuff-box with a flick of one practised finger, and took a pinch. Miss Creed swallowed, and said: ‘If you had ever seen my cousin, you would understand.’

  He glanced down at her, but said nothing.

  ‘He has a wet mouth,’ said Miss Creed despairingly.

  ‘That settles it,’ said Sir Richard, shutting his snuff-box. ‘I will escort you to your childhood’s friend.’

  Miss Creed blushed. ‘You? But you can’t!’

  ‘Why can’t I?’

  ‘Because – because I don’t know you, and I can very well go by myself, and – well, it’s quite absurd! I see now that you are drunk.’

  ‘Let me inform you,’ said Sir Richard, ‘that missish airs don’t suit those clothes. Moreover, I don’t like them. Either you will travel to Somerset in my company
, or you will go back to your aunt. Take your choice!’

  ‘Do please consider!’ begged Miss Creed. ‘You know I am obliged to travel in the greatest secrecy. If you went with me, no one would know what had become of you.’

  ‘No one would know what had become of me,’ repeated Sir Richard slowly. ‘No one – my girl, you have no longer any choice: I am going with you to Somerset!’

  Three

  As no argument produced the least effect on Sir Richard’s suddenly reckless mood, Miss Creed abandoned her conscientious attempt to dissuade him from accompanying her on her journey, and owned that his protection would be welcome. ‘It is not that I am afraid to go by myself,’ she explained, ‘but, to tell you the truth, I am not quite used to do things all alone.’

  ‘I should hope,’ said Sir Richard, ‘that you are not quite used to travelling in the common stage either.’

  ‘No, of course I am not. It will be quite an adventure! Have you ever travelled by stagecoach?’

  ‘Never. We shall travel post.’

  ‘Travel post? You must be mad!’ exclaimed Miss Creed ‘I dare say you are known at every posting-inn on the Bath road. We should be discovered in a trice. Why, I had thought of all that even before you made up your mind to join me! My cousin Frederick is too stupid to think of anything, but my Aunt Almeria is not, and I make no doubt she will guess that I have run away to my own home, and follow me. That is one of the reasons why I made up my mind to journey in the stage. She will enquire for me at the posting-houses, and no one will be able to give her the least news of me. And just think what a bustle there would be if it were discovered that we had been travelling about the country together in a post-chaise!’

  ‘Does it seem to you that there would be less impropriety in our travelling in the stage?’ enquired Sir Richard.

  ‘Yes, much less. In fact, I do not see that it is improper at all, for how can I prevent your booking a seat in a public vehicle, if you wish to do so? Besides, I have not enough money to hire a post-chaise.’

  ‘I thought you said you were cursed with a large fortune?’

  ‘Yes, but they won’t let me have anything but the most paltry allowance until I come of age, and I’ve spent most of this month’s pin-money.’

  ‘I will be your banker,’ said Sir Richard.

  Miss Creed shook her head vigorously. ‘No, indeed you will not! One should never be beholden to strangers. I shall pay everything for myself. Of course, if you are set against travelling by the stage, I do not see what is to be done. Unless –’ she broke off as an idea occurred to her, and said, with sparkling eyes: ‘I have a famous notion! You are a notable whip, are you not?’

  ‘I believe I am accounted so,’ replied Sir Richard.

  ‘Well, supposing you were to drive in your own curricle? Then I could get up behind, and pretend to be your Tiger, and hold the yard of tin, and blow up for the change and –’

  ‘No!’ said Sir Richard.

  She looked disappointed. ‘I thought it would be exciting. However, I dare say you are right.’

  ‘I am right,’ said Sir Richard. ‘The more I think of it, the more I see that there is much to be said for the stagecoach. At what hour did you say that it leaves town?’

  ‘At nine o’clock, from the White Horse Inn, in Fetter Lane. Only we must go there long before that, on account of your servants. What is the time now?’

  Sir Richard consulted his watch. ‘Close on five,’ he replied.

  ‘Then we have not a moment to lose,’ said Miss Creed. ‘Your servants will be stirring in another hour. But you can’t travel in those clothes, can you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘and I can’t travel with that cravat of yours either, or that abominable bundle. And, now I come to look at you more particularly, I never saw hair worse cut.’

  ‘You mean the back, I expect,’ said Miss Creed, unresentful of these strictures. ‘Luckily, it has always been short in front. I had to chop the back bits off myself, and I could not well see what I was about.’

  ‘Wait here!’ commanded Sir Richard, and left the room.

  When he returned it was more than half an hour later, and he had shed his evening-dress for buckskin breeches, and top-boots, and a coat of blue superfine cloth. Miss Creed greeted him with considerable relief. ‘I began to fear you had forgotten me, or fallen asleep!’ she told him.

  ‘Nothing of the sort!’ said Sir Richard, setting a small cloak-bag and a large portmanteau down on the floor. ‘Drunk or sober, I never forget my obligations. Stand up, and I will see what I can do towards making you look more presentable.’

  He had a snowy white cravat over one arm, and a pair of scissors in his hand. A few judicious snips greatly improved the appearance of Miss Creed’s head, and by the time a comb had been ruthlessly dragged through her curls, forcing rather than coaxing them into a more manly style, she began to look quite neat, though rather watery-eyed. Her crumpled cravat was next cast aside, and one of Sir Richard’s own put round her neck. She was so anxious to see how he was arranging it that she stood on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror hanging above the mantelpiece, and got her ears boxed.

  ‘Will you stand still?’ said Sir Richard.

  Miss Creed sniffed, and subsided into dark mutterings. However, when he released her, and she was able to see the result of his handiwork, she was so pleased that she forgot her injuries, and exclaimed: ‘Oh, how nice I look! Is it a Wyndham Fall?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Sir Richard replied. ‘The Wyndham Fall is not for scrubby schoolboys, let me tell you.’

  ‘I am not a scrubby schoolboy!’

  ‘You look like one. Now put what you have in that bundle into the cloak-bag, and we’ll be off.’

  ‘I have a very good mind not to go with you,’ said Miss Creed, glowering.

  ‘No, you haven’t. You are now my young cousin, and we are wholly committed to a life of adventure. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Penelope Creed. Most people call me Pen, but I ought to have a man’s name now.’

  ‘Pen will do very well. If it occasions the least comment, you will say that it is spelt with two N’s. You were named after that Quaker fellow.’

  ‘Oh, that is a very good idea! What shall I call you?’

  ‘Richard.’

  ‘Richard who?’

  ‘Smith – Jones – Brown.’

  She was engaged in transferring her belongings from the Paisley shawl to the cloak-bag. ‘You don’t look like any of those. What shall I do with this shawl?’

  ‘Leave it,’ replied Sir Richard, gathering up some gleaming scraps of guinea-gold hair from the carpet, and casting them to the back of the fireplace. ‘Do you know, Pen Creed, I fancy you have come into my life in the guise of Providence?’

  She looked up enquiringly. ‘Have I?’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘That, or Disaster,’ said Sir Richard. ‘I shall know which when I am sober. But, to tell you the truth, I don’t care a jot! En avant, mon cousin! ’

  It was past midday when Lady Trevor, accompanied by her reluctant husband, called at her brother’s house in St James’s Square. She was admitted by the porter, obviously big with news, and handed on by him to the butler. ‘Tell Sir Richard that I am here,’ she commanded, stepping into the Yellow Saloon.

  ‘Sir Richard, my lady, is not at home,’ said the butler, in a voice pregnant with mystery.

  Louisa, who had extracted from her lord a description of Sir Richard’s proceedings at Almack’s on the preceding night, snorted. ‘You will tell him that his sister desires to see him,’ she said.

  ‘Sir Richard, my lady, is not upon the premises,’ said the butler, working up to his climax.

  ‘Sir Richard has trained you well,’ said Louisa dryly. ‘But I am not to be put off so! Go and tell him that I wish to
see him!’

  ‘Sir Richard, my lady, did not sleep in his bed last night!’ announced the butler.

  George was surprised into indiscreet comment. ‘What’s that? Nonsense! He wasn’t as foxed as that when I saw him!’

  ‘As to that, my lord,’ said the butler, with dignity, ‘I have no information. In a word, my lord, Sir Richard has vanished.’

  ‘Good Gad!’ ejaculated George.

  ‘Fiddle-de-dee!’ said Louisa tartly. ‘Sir Richard, as I suppose, is in his bed!’

  ‘No, my lady. As I informed your ladyship, Sir Richard’s bed has not been slept in.’ He paused, but Louisa only stared at him. Satisfied with the impression he had made, he continued: ‘The evening attire which Sir Richard was wearing yesterday was found by his man, Biddle, upon the floor of his bedroom. Sir Richard’s second-best top-boots, a pair of buckskins, a blue riding-coat, his drab overcoat, and a fawn coloured beaver, have all disappeared. One is forced to the conclusion, my lady, that Sir Richard was called away unexpectedly.’

  ‘Gone off without his valet?’ George demanded in a stupefied tone.

  The butler bowed. ‘Precisely so, my lord.’

  ‘Impossible!’ George said, from the heart.

  Louisa, who had been frowning over these tidings, said in a brisk voice: ‘It is certainly very odd, but there is no doubt some perfectly reasonable explanation. Pray, are you certain that my brother left no word with any member of his household?’

  ‘None whatsoever, my lady.’

  George heaved a deep sigh, and shook his head. ‘I warned you, Louisa! I said you were driving him too hard!’

  ‘You said nothing of the sort!’ snapped Louisa, annoyed with him for talking so indiscreetly before a palpably interested servant. ‘To be sure, he may well have mentioned to us that he was going out of town, and we have forgotten the circumstance.’

  ‘How can you say so?’ asked George, honestly puzzled. ‘Why, didn’t you have it from Melissa Brandon herself that he was to call –’

  ‘That will do, George!’ said Louisa, quelling him with a look so terrible that he quailed under it. ‘Tell me, Porson,’ she resumed, turning again to the butler, ‘has my brother gone in his post-chaise, or is he driving himself ?’