by Dorothy Mack
Cleone was spared an answer by the appearance of the gentlemen. The earl immediately commandeered her services, not deeming the return of his family sufficient reason to forgo the pleasure of his nightly chess game. In the interests of harmony she acquiesced readily, though it meant postponing a talk with Philip. Her eyes kept straying to that young man sitting morosely in a corner reading an issue of The Edinburgh Review. After a period of covert observation that played havoc with her chess game, Cleone concluded that Philip was giving a semiskilled performance of a man engrossed in reading, but she was persuaded his mind was in a far country, and not a happy country either. She was quite willing to concede defeat as the tea tray was brought in and still more willing to bid her great-uncle goodnight when he retired immediately after drinking his tea.
Lady Henley, pleading exhaustion, departed almost on the earl’s heels, shepherding her daughters before her. Philip rose to bid them goodnight, but sank back down in his chair when the door closed, disregarding his mother’s advice to go to bed early himself. Cleone remained behind on a pretence of selecting a periodical to take along with her. She sat in front of the fireplace across from her cousin, who remained unaware of her presence until a burned log snapped and fell with a crash. He glanced up and blinked in surprise before producing an ostentatious yawn.
“You still here, Cleo? I think I’ll go on up myself.”
“No, Philip, wait a bit. I don’t wish to pry, but it’s obvious something is troubling you. Can I help?”
“Not unless you have a small fortune up your sleeve.”
“It’s money, then? You’ve outrun the constable? I don’t have many expenses living here at Bramble. Would fifty pounds help till quarter-day?”
A bitter sound, half-snort, half-sob, burst from the viscount’s lips. “Ten times fifty wouldn’t help, but thank you for offering, Cleo.” He rose from his chair but was prevented from leaving the room by his cousin’s frantic clutch on his arm as she too jumped to her feet, her eyes wide with dismay.
“You owe more than five hundred pounds? How much more?”
“There’s no need to bring you into it, Cleo. It’s my problem. Please forget that I mentioned it. I never should have worried you. I’ll handle it myself.”
The fingers on his sleeve tightened and shook the arm beneath them. “How much do you owe?” she persisted, watching the convulsive movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed before replying reluctantly:
“Over nine hundred pounds.”
“Good heavens! How could you possibly get so deeply in debt? To whom do you owe this money?” As he stood silent before her, gnawing his bottom lip in indecision, a blinding revelation struck Cleone. “Philip, have you been gambling?”
The dark head nodded mutely.
“Oh, Philip, how could —” She broke off her reproachful echo. “Enough of that! We must consider what is best to be done. Can you pay it off in instalments? I could give you about a hundred pounds immediately and —”
“You don’t understand, Cleo. One doesn’t treat a debt of honour as though it were a tailor’s bill.”
“Then you’ll simply have to tell your grandfather.”
“No! My grandfather considers me a total loss as it is. You saw how he reacted to my being rusticated. He probably wouldn’t let me go back to the university at all. And that isn’t even the worst of it. I’ve pledged the Henley emerald as security. He’d have my head on a platter if he found out. You heard him go on about it tonight.”
“But what else is there to do? You’ll have to tell him eventually.”
“No! You must swear not to cry rope on me, Cleo! I’ll find a way to get the money. Promise me to keep quiet.” Philip was gripping Cleone’s shoulders, his eyes desperate.
“Very well, I promise … for now. Would your mother be able to assist you, do you think? Is there any jewellery she could dispose of?”
“Most of Mama’s jewellery was sold to help pay my father’s debts, and of course she can’t touch the Henley diamonds. In any case, I don’t want her to know anything about this. After my father, it would just about kill her if she thought I was a gamester too.”
“Are you a gamester, Philip?” Cleone’s dark eyes commanded his.
“No. I swear to you I’ve learned my lesson. I’ve always been lucky at cards, though I don’t even like ’em above half. When I got to London with my pockets pretty well to let, I thought I’d better get myself a stake for the long vacation, considering my grandfather’s nip-farthing ways. He keeps me on a beggarly allowance, you know.” He looked up, and Cleone nodded sympathetically.
“What happened? Did you go to one of the gaming hells?”
Philip laughed harshly. “Nothing so dramatic. I was with a friend who got me into White’s. All very polite and stuffy, but the play can be deep. It was my own fault. I was feeling lucky that night, and I guess I was dipping rather deep —”
“Drinking, you mean?”
“Yes, just wine, but more than I realized. It was just piquet too, and that lucky feeling never went away, so I kept playing.”
“And losing?”
He nodded.
“Philip, the man who won your money — was it one man?” He nodded again. “Couldn’t you go to him and explain, ask him to accept some money on account and give your ring back?”
The viscount’s face closed up suddenly. He gave his cousin a formal smile. “Perhaps. In any event, I’ll arrange something. I must get the ring back. Goodnight, Cleo.”
“Philip, wait,” Cleone protested, but he had already slipped out of the room. She stood in the doorway staring after his retreating back with a worried frown. It was several minutes before she shook her head as if to clear it and started slowly down the hall herself, conscious all at once of a great weariness. It had been an eventful day.
CHAPTER 3
There was an aura of excitement about Bramble Hall on the morning of Lord Altern’s expected arrival. Every last servant inside and out down to the youngest scullery maid and stable boy was fully primed on the advent of their titled guest, of course, and very likely the entire village too, Cleone thought in resignation as she flitted in and out of the kitchen a dozen times during the morning, supervising preparations for their guest’s initial meal with the family and, incidentally, breaking up little groups of gossipers wherever encountered. The London dailies might well envy the news-disseminating capability of a country house and its immediate locale. She did her best to quench the wildfire rumour that Miss Emerald’s intended husband was coming to stay at the Hall, but she recognized that it was indeed a poor best. She could only hope that parochialism among the servants would keep them from openly speculating in the presence of Lord Altern’s valet — at least until the betrothal was ensured.
There was, thankfully, the advantage that everyone was going cheerfully about his job — there hadn’t been so much excitement in all her time in Sussex. Cleone herself was only marginally affected by the expectant spirit engulfing her. The sobering knowledge that hers was the entire responsibility for the smooth functioning of the household during their eminent visitor’s stay contributed its share, but the major source of the persistent malaise that gripped her was an insidious worm of worry about her cousin Philip that was eating away at her customary serenity.
Indebtedness was something Cleone regarded with abhorrence. Her father had always lived within his small income, scrupulously paying all bills as they came due. Her mother’s marriage portion had been hers to use for whatever fripperies she might desire for herself or her daughter. Since hers had not been an extravagant nature, she had contentedly lived according to her husband’s means, her one extravagance being the modest season she had planned for her only daughter from the day of her birth. Her mother’s fortune had come to Cleone with the principal intact. She considered her resources sufficient to maintain a frugal establishment of her own after her great-uncle passed on, most likely rented lodgings in London. She would have her painting and hopefully a s
mall circle of friends to keep her from being lonely. She could scarcely credit that her young cousin had, in one evening of card play, lost almost twice the amount of her yearly income.
Gambling debts were debts of honour, she knew, payable in full on demand. Philip had said his pockets were to let — not a surprising circumstance, considering his age and the fact that he was wholly dependent upon his clutch-fisted grandfather for funds. Living at Bramble, Cleone had few expenses beyond her clothing. In a pinch she might perhaps scrape together about two hundred and fifty pounds, but that was still a drop in the bucket. It was going to be necessary to sell something to raise the money … but what? Jack’s horses had all gone to pay off his debts; Philip’s present mount was a loan from his grandfather’s stable. Her few pieces of furniture and jewellery were of more sentimental than actual value, and she refused to consider parting with her father’s library, at least not yet. Her forehead creased as she considered her cousin’s wife. Despite her reduced circumstances, Isabella dressed well, and the Henley diamonds complimented her costumes magnificently. Cleone dismissed the heirloom jewellery that was entailed, casting her memory back to the other pieces Isabella had worn in the past. Surely she still possessed costly jewels that could be sold to rescue her son? Philip had vetoed her suggestion of asking Lady Henley for help, but while she applauded his desire to shield his mother, the practical side of her nature, generally uppermost, foresaw the necessity of including Lady Henley in any repayment plan.
Cleone paused in her task of refreshing the floral arrangements in the great hall, in which the family would assemble before Lord Altern’s first meal. One of the first changes she had instituted on becoming her uncle’s housekeeper was to transfer the venue of predinner socializing from this beautiful but uncomfortably large room to a smaller reception room on the first floor, situated across the hall from the dining room instead of a day’s march away. At the same time, Oliphant, the earl’s longtime butler, had showed her the disused dumbwaiter a previous mistress of Bramble Hall had caused to be installed in the butler’s pantry next to the dining room. Fortunately, one of the grooms was of a mechanical bent, and he had been able to restore this contrivance to working order. This combination of actions had resulted in reduced work for the household staff and hot meals for the family. It hadn’t been an easy task to persuade her great-uncle to change the habits of a lifetime, but she had persisted in her arguments, pointing out with sly cunning that it would be a savings in fuel in the winter if the draughty great hall did not require constant attention to the inadequate fireplaces. Perhaps the two-storied chamber had been warm in the old days of an open fire in the middle of the room, though she doubted it, but certainly the two fireplaces that had been added on the long inner wall at a later date had never done the job properly. The most she could say for them was that they served as a frame for the examples of medieval weaponry displayed above them. The original tapestries were still in place on the end wall for which they had been designed over two hundred years before, and were still lovely, though undoubtedly a trifle threadbare.
Cleone stood back to admire the effect of the colourful floral arrangements on the massive side tables that alternated with the fireplaces on the wall opposite the enormous mullioned windows. She pulled the bell rope absentmindedly, casting a quick housewifely eye around the great room’s appointments for signs of dust. Like homing pigeons, her thoughts winged back to Philip’s dilemma while she awaited the maid she had summoned to clear away the debris from flower arranging. A glance at the watch pinned to her plain morning gown confirmed that it was nearly lunchtime. She tapped her foot impatiently, anxious now to remove some of the signs of a busy morning from her person, including some green stains from the floral stems on her knuckles. When Tilly the housemaid finally arrived in a breathless state, Cleone gave her precise instructions, firmly suppressing, albeit with a tolerant smile, the young girl’s attempts to discuss the interesting event about to take place.
A ghost of a smile remained on her lips as Cleone hurried up the branching staircase and down a series of corridors leading to the newer wing, where the females of the family were housed. Her own unheralded arrival almost four years earlier had initiated the destruction of the somnolent state into which Bramble Hall had gradually sunk following the demise of its previous mistress. Even though she had perforce fitted herself into her great-uncle’s style of living, she had shaken up the household, arresting, she hoped, the slide into neglect and decay that is almost inevitable when a house has no mistress for any appreciable length of time.
The wholesale incorporation of a family of six plus attendant retainers had been the main rejuvenating force, of course, and now here they were, preparing to entertain a houseguest. Small wonder the servants were all a-twitter. They probably had visions of great house parties to rival those at Oatlands.
Cleone’s first look in the giltwood mirror over her washstand brought her wandering fancy back from such dizzy heights of dissipation. She had five minutes to make herself presentable before lunch if she hoped to get to the dining room in time for a private word with Philip. A quick splash of water over heated cheeks cooled her down and removed the smear of dust she had acquired in her travels that morning. She didn’t dare take the time to redo her hair; a few extra pins shoved in to anchor the strands that were escaping from the soft knot would have to do. A pity it was unlikely that she would have the opportunity to refresh her appearance before Lord Altern’s scheduled mid-afternoon arrival, but it was of more importance to corner Philip to continue their discussion. He had eaten early and gone out riding before Cleone had entered the breakfast parlour this morning.
As it turned out, she had rushed her personal titivation to no avail, for Philip failed to put in an appearance at lunch. Avoiding her, she had no doubt. At some point in their discussion last night, her cousin had regretted the weakness that had caused him to confide in her. She had dimly perceived this at the time, and his behaviour today confirmed it.
Cleone schooled her features to a composure she was far from feeling as she pondered in vain over what scheme he might be hatching to repay the debt. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he had a friend, or friends, who might come to his rescue, but she could take little comfort in this faint hope. Philip’s look of reckless desperation when they parted stuck in her memory while she toyed with her food and tried to look interested in the talk flowing about her. Her only contribution was a calm denial in her turn of any knowledge of Philip’s whereabouts when Lord Brestwick cross-questioned everyone at the table. His testy reaction to his grandson’s unexplained absence boded ill for that young man when he next appeared.
Cleone was in the kitchen a couple of hours later giving Mrs. Willet, her uncle’s cook, a recipe for a special salad dressing her own father had always favoured, when Emerald burst into the room.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding!”
Cleone blinked at the suggestion of accusation in the shrill tones. “I would not call it hiding exactly,” she replied mildly. “Were you looking for me?” Her artist’s eye assimilated the lovely picture her cousin made in a dress of sheer white muslin sprigged in a tiny pattern of green leaves. Matching green satin ribbons tied under the bodice and floated down the skirt. A similar ribbon was threaded through the black curls and small green beads dangled from her earlobes. The second thing Cleone noticed was that Emerald’s petulant expression was at odds with her exquisite appearance, which had obviously been calculated to impress her suitor.
“Lord Altern’s groom has just arrived with a message that his master has been unavoidably detained. He won’t be arriving until after dinner this evening.”
“Well, I daresay you are disappointed, but it’s nothing to get all hot and bothered about,” Cleone advised, noting identical looks of avid interest on the faces of all the kitchen staff, who had paused in their tasks to give Miss Hardwicke their undivided attention.
“I cannot imagine what could have delayed him
,” Emerald persisted in an aggrieved voice, ignoring her audience.
“No doubt he will explain in due course.” Cleone turned to the cook with a thoughtful air. “Mrs. Willet, suppose we save the ham for tomorrow’s dinner. With your special cream-of-mushroom soup, the cutlets and turbot should be adequate, and we can make do with one less vegetable dish too, the new peas, I think. If the greens haven’t been washed yet, we can dispense with the salad for tonight since Lord Brestwick doesn’t care for salads.” Aware of Emerald’s simmering impatience, she smiled dismissal at the cook and took her cousin’s arm to usher her out, pausing at the entrance as another thought hit her. “Oh, the spice cake we were going to serve at dinner. Please send that up with the tea tray this evening after his lordship arrives, Mrs. Willet. Men are generally partial to a hearty cake.”
“Very good, Miss Cleone.”
“All you ever think about is food and dust,” Emerald accused, not bothering to lower her voice as her cousin followed her through the doorway.
“Someone has to.” Cleone shrugged. “Were you looking for me for any particular reason? Is there something I can do for you?”
Emerald had the grace to look slightly ashamed of her vehemence. “No, no … it is just that the messenger just came, the groom actually, and Mama is resting in her room at this time and…” her voice trailed off.
And her cousin needed an outlet, someone on whom to vent her disappointment, Cleone decided shrewdly. She was very young and more than a little spoiled and, thanks to her beauty and her huge success in London, unused to being thwarted in anything. “Well, I’m glad you told me in time to do some rearranging of the menus,” she said agreeably. “It is a real challenge to plan appetizing meals for a guest within your grandfather’s ideas of adequate expenditure.”
“Oh, who cares a fig about food!”
“Every gentleman of my acquaintance,” Cleone returned dryly, “including, I make no doubt, your expected guest. You know, my dear Emerald, once you are married, you will have to concern yourself with such mundane matters as running a household, and a large one, if Lord Altern is as wealthy as he is generally held to be.”
