April Lady

by Georgette Heyer

  Mr Hethersett, gloomily pondering, had reached the conclusion that although it would be of some advantage if his cousin were to be put in possession of the facts by almost any agency, the only happy outcome to the affair would be for Nell herself to make the disclosure. But when he had urged her to do so she had recoiled from the suggestion, and had begged him in considerable agitation not to betray her to Cardross. The suspicion had crossed his mind that all might not be so well with that marriage as appeared on the surface. Thinking it over, it occurred to him that the couple were not as often in company together as might have been expected. It was not, of course, in good ton for a man to live in his wife’s pocket; but the cynicism which had prompted the higher ranks of the previous generation to regard marriage as a means of advancement or convenience was going out of fashion. Amongst his father’s contemporaries, Mr Hethersett knew of more than one man who could never be sure how many of his lady’s offspring had been fathered by himself; while the number of middle-aged couples of the first stare who never willingly spent as much as half an hour together was past counting. But that sort of thing was going out of fashion. Love-matches were being indulged in by persons of consequence; and public signs of affection, instead of being thought intolerably bourgeois, were even smiled on. Mr Hethersett, whose fastidiousness had lately been offended by the sight of a newly-married pair seated side by side on a small sofa with their heads together at an evening party, was inclined to think that the pendulum was swinging too far, and he certainly did not expect Cardross to behave with such a want of breeding. At the same time, he did sometimes wonder that Nell, married to a man who had not only chosen her, for love, from amongst a dozen more eligible ladies, but was also possessed of a charm which made him generally fascinating to females, should so frequently appear in public either unescorted, or with some quite inferior gallant at her side. There was nothing to take exception to in that, of course; and never anything in her manner towards her admirers to encourage the most inveterate seekers after crim. cons to suspect her of having formed a guilty attachment. Mr Hethersett was pretty well persuaded that she had no eyes for any man but Cardross: he had seen them light up when his cousin had unexpectedly entered a room where she was sitting. No: he did not think that if anything had gone amiss with the marriage it arose from any lack of affection. He recollected having heard it said that in love-matches even more than marriages of convenience the first year was often one of tiffs and misunderstandings, and decided that so much profound cogitation was leading him to refine too much upon the couple’s public conduct. But if there had been disagreements, Mr Hethersett, knowing just how formidable his cousin could be when he was angered, could readily understand the reluctance of his very young bride to confide her sins to him. It would be useless to press her to do so, he thought; but having reached this conclusion he found himself at a stand, for there was no one other than herself who could tell Cardross of the fix she was in without setting up his back.

  But just as he was about to leave the hazard-room, Dysart, who had been too deeply concerned with the fall of the dice to notice his entrance, happened to look up, and to see him. He called a careless greeting, and on the instant Mr Hethersett was smitten by his idea.

  If he could be persuaded to do it, Dysart was the one person who could tell Cardross, unexceptionably, even, perhaps, with advantage, the truth. Mr Hethersett had no doubt at all that Nell’s debts had been incurred on his behalf, and very little that a frank confession made by him of the whole would win plenary absolution for Nell, and in all probability pecuniary assistance for himself. It would be an easy matter for him to convince Cardross that Nell had yielded only to his urgent entreaties; and Cardross would be swift to recognize and to appreciate the courage that enabled him to perform so unpleasant a duty. Only, did he possess that courage? Mr Hethersett, joining the scattering of lookers-on gathered round the table, glanced speculatively at him, considering the matter. Physical courage he certainly possessed to a pronounced degree; but in spite of taking a perverse pride in being thought a Care-for-Nobody he had not as yet given anyone reason to suppose that he had any strength of moral character. Mr Hethersett, several years his senior and a man of a different kidney, was not one of his friends, and even less one of his admirers, but he did him the justice to acknowledge that although he was a resty young blade, decidedly loose in the haft, incorrigibly spendthrift, and ready at any moment to plunge into whatever extravagant folly was suggested to him by his impish fancy, he had never been known, even in his most reckless mood, to step over the line that lay between the venial peccadilloes of a wild youth and such questionable exploits as must bring his name into dishonour. He was both generous and goodnatured, and Mr Hethersett rather thought that he held his sister in considerable affection. He knew, too, that Cardross, better acquainted with him, and increasingly exasperated by his starts, by no means despaired of him. Without going to the length of forecasting for him a future distinguished by sobriety or solvency, he said that if a cornetcy could but be provided for him he would find an outlet for his restless energy, and might do tolerably well.

  ‘He may be a scamp,’ said Cardross, ‘but there’s no sham in him – nothing of the dry-boots! It would give me great pleasure to go sharply to work with him – but he’s pluck to the backbone, and I own I like that.’

  Mr Hethersett had a great respect for his cousin’s judgement, and, remembering these words, he made up his mind to have at least a touch at Dysart. Since the task was not one he looked forward to with relish, he thought that the sooner it was accomplished the better it would be, and decided that unless Dysart arose from the table a loser he would broach the matter that very day. From the flush in the Viscount’s cheeks, and the over-brightness of his eyes, he had at first glance supposed him to be a trifle foxed; but he soon realized that for once he had wronged him. The Viscount, whose exuberance could lead him to become top-heavy at almost any hour of the day, was by far too keen a gamester to join a gaming-table when in his altitudes. There was certainly a glass at his elbow, but the brandy it held sank hardly at all during the time Mr Hethersett stood watching the play, and from time to time making his bet on the odds monotonously declared by the groom-porter.

  The table broke up at a comparatively early hour, even the Viscount agreeing, after a series of throw-outs, that the game had become languid and boring. He did not rise a loser, but his winnings were not large. However, when one of the company joked him about his uncertain luck, saying that he would be obliged to go back to faro after all, he replied cheerfully that only a muttonhead could have been blind to the signs of reviving fortune that night. ‘Not a vowel of mine on the table!’ he said.

  ‘And upwards of forty guineas in your purse!’ added Mr Fancot encouragingly. ‘To my mind, that clinches it, Dy: stick to the bones!’

  ‘Yes, I think I shall,’ agreed Dysart. ‘Dashed if I won’t try my luck at this new house Jack was talking to me about! I remember my father’s telling me once that he often found it answered to shift one’s ground.’

  Lord Pevensey’s notorious unsuccess as a gamester notwithstanding, everyone, except Mr Hethersett, thought that the Viscount could hardly do better than follow his advice, only one slightly muddled gentleman demurring that no one should play at a hell who was not up to the sharps. But as he became hopelessly incoherent in his subsequent attempt to illustrate this remark by recounting the sad history of a flat who went from a nibble at a club to a dead hit at a hell, no one paid any heed to him.

  The morning light was faintly illumining the scene when the party dispersed on the steps of the club. Mr Hethersett, who knew that it might be days before he again found the opportunity to approach Dysart, considerably surprised him by suggesting that they should bear one another company on the way to their respective lodgings. ‘Duke Street, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Take a look in at my place, and play off your dust! All on our way, and the night’s young yet.’

  Dysart
looked at him, suspecting him of being slightly mellow. He showed no sign of it, but Dysart, perfectly well aware of his disapprobation, could think of no other reason to account for his sudden friendliness. Before he had had time to answer him, Mr Fancot, who lived in St James’s Square, and had sent the porter out to procure a hackney, generously offered to take both him and Mr Hethersett up, and to set them down again at their lodgings.

  ‘Very much obliged to you,’ responded Mr Hethersett, a shade of annoyance in his face. ‘Think I’ll walk, however. Devilish stuffy in the club tonight: need a breath of air!’ He met the Viscount’s alert, speculative gaze, and said curtly: ‘Got something to tell you!’

  ‘Have you though?’ said Dysart, considerably intrigued. ‘I’ll go along with you, then!’

  They left the club together, but were overtaken almost immediately by a gregarious gentleman, who fell into step with them, saying chattily that since his destination was in King Street he would walk with them. His company was accepted cheerfully by Dysart, and by Mr Hethersett, who foresaw that he would be difficult to shake off, with resignation. It would be a hard task to avoid the necessity of including him in his invitation to Dysart, but he was determined to do it, however much it went against the grain with him to appear inhospitable.

  He managed to perform this feat at the cost of standing patiently at the corner of Ryder Street and St James’s, while the Viscount and Mr Wittering maintained for twenty minutes an argument which had been started before the party had crossed over to the south side of Piccadilly. It was pursued with considerable animation, and it afforded Mr Hethersett, mildly contributing his mite whenever he was granted the opportunity, with a novel view of the Viscount. The victory of Bonaparte at Lützen over General Wittgenstein, commanding the combined forces of Russia and Prussia, had not long been known in London, and was still being much discussed. Shaking his head over the disaster, Mr Wittering expressed the opinion that there was no doing anything against Boney, and never would be. Since this pessimism was shared by many, such remarks having been heard for years past at any social gathering, Mr Hethersett did not think it worth while to reply. It was otherwise with the Viscount. He was ready to agree that none of the foreign generals could have the smallest hope of defeating Boney, but he recommended Mr Wittering to wait and see how quickly Wellington would knock him into flinders. Mr Wittering said disparagingly that a victory or two in Spain made no odds; the Viscount instantly offered to bet a monkey that the English army would be over the Pyrenees before the year was out; and the argument rapidly became heated. Mr Wittering, no supporter of the Wellesleys, was unwise enough to say that Wellington’s victories had been exaggerated; and within a very few minutes was not only being dragged relentlessly through the previous year’s campaigns, but was being given a lesson in strategy into the bargain. To Mr Hethersett’s surprise, the Viscount, whom he had always supposed to be perfectly feather-headed, not only appeared to be passionately interested in the subject, but had very obviously studied it with some thoroughness. Mr Wittering, on the retreat, acknowledged that Wellington was a good defensive general, but added that he was too cautious, and had no brilliance in attack.

  ‘No brilliance in attack?’ demanded the Viscount. ‘After Salamanca?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about Salamanca,’ said Mr Wittering unguardedly. ‘All I say is –’

  But the Viscount cut him short. Mr Hethersett, standing in patient boredom while armies manœuvred about him, and the Viscount drew invisible lines on the flagway with the point of his cane, reflected that it would henceforward be impossible for Mr Wittering to say (if there was any truth in him) that he didn’t know about Salamanca. When Dysart, passing from the general to the particular, spoke of Le Marchant’s charge, he did so with so much enthusiasm that Mr Hethersett was moved to say that he seemed to know as much about it as if he had taken part in it.

  ‘By Jove, don’t I wish I had!’ Dysart said impulsively.

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Wittering, preparing to take his leave, ‘what you ought to do, Dy, is to join! I shouldn’t wonder at it if you got to be a general. You go and tell old Hook-nose what you want him to do! There’s no saying but what it might make him break up from cantonments before the summer’s over!’

  With this Parthian shot, he went off down the street, leaving the Viscount to explain to Mr Hethersett that the lack of news from Wellington’s headquarters undoubtedly presaged some brilliant move, probably in an unexpected direction. ‘Everyone thinks he means to march on Madrid again, but you mark my words if he don’t strike north! He’s kept his plans mighty dark this time, but I’ve been talking to a cousin of mine. You know my cousin Lionel?’ Mr Hethersett believed he had not that pleasure. ‘Been serving on one of our frigates,’ said the Viscount. ‘Sent home a month ago, on sick-furlough. Plain as a pikestaff all those fellows have been warned to keep their mummers dubbed, but one thing he did let slip: we’ve been landing stores along the northern coast. You can say they’re for that guerrilla-fellow, Longa, if you choose, but it don’t look like it to me. No need to keep the thing so dark if that’s all it is.’

  Mr Hethersett did not avail himself of this permission, but said instead, glancing curiously up at his tall companion’s profile: ‘Why don’t you join?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know!’ replied Dysart, with a return to his customary insouciance. ‘I rather thought I should like to at one time, but I daresay I shouldn’t. Anyway, my father won’t hear of it.’

  Mr Hethersett did not pursue the matter. He could only be thankful that his question seemed to have cast a damper over the Viscount’s desire to fight past battles again. They had by this time reached his lodging. He ushered his guest into the comfortable parlour he rented on the entrance floor of the house, begged him to take a chair, and produced from a large sideboard a bottle of smuggled French cognac. ‘Eye-water?’ he enquired. ‘Mix you a Fuller’s Earth, if you like it better; or I’ve got a pretty tolerable madeira here.’

  The Viscount said he would take a drop of eye-water. He watched Mr Hethersett pour some of the cognac into two heavy glasses, and remarked with engaging frankness that he was damned if he knew what Mr Hethersett wanted with him. ‘Thought at first you must be a bit on the go, but you don’t seem to be,’ he said.

  Mr Hethersett handed him one of the glasses. ‘Got something to tell you,’ he replied briefly.

  ‘You haven’t had a tip for the Chester races, have you?’ asked Dysart hopefully.

  ‘No: nothing like that.’ Mr Hethersett took a fortifying sip of brandy. ‘Awkward sort of business. Been teasing me all day.’

  ‘It sounds to me like a dashed havey-cavey business!’ said Dysart, eyeing him in astonishment.

  ‘No, it ain’t exactly that, though I don’t mind telling you I’d as lief not break it to you,’ said Mr Hethersett, who was finding his self-imposed task even more difficult to accomplish than he had foreseen.

  ‘Good God, you ain’t going to tell me you’ve been set on to tell me my father’s slipped his wind?’ exclaimed Dysart, sitting up with a jerk.

  ‘No, of course I haven’t!’ said Mr Hethersett, irritated. ‘Is it likely that I’d be the man to break that sort of news to you?’

  ‘No, but if it comes to that you ain’t the man to invite me at half-past four in the morning either!’ retorted Dysart. ‘It’s no use bamming me you’ve got a sudden fancy for my company, for I know dashed well you haven’t.’

  ‘Never said anything of the sort. No objection to your company, mind, but it wasn’t that I wanted. The thing is, it’s a deuced delicate matter!’

  ‘Well, I can’t guess what the devil it can be, but there’s no need to skirt around it!’ said Dysart encouragingly. ‘In fact, I’d lief you cut line: I can stand a knock or two!’

  Mr Hethersett tossed off the rest of the brandy in his glass. ‘Concerns your sister,’ he said.

  The Vis
count stared at him. ‘Concerns my sister?’ he repeated. ‘What the devil – ?’

  ‘Didn’t think you’d like it,’ said Mr Hethersett, with a gloomy satisfaction in the accuracy of his prognostication. ‘Don’t like it myself. You know George Burnley?’

  ‘What?’ thundered the Viscount, setting his own glass down with such violence that he nearly broke it.

  Mr Hethersett winced, and protested. ‘No need to bellow at me!’

  ‘No need to – What has that ginger-hackled court-card to do with my sister?’ demanded the Viscount, a very dangerous light in his eyes.

  ‘Hasn’t anything to do with her,’ replied Mr Hethersett, faintly surprised. ‘What’s more, though I don’t say he ain’t ginger-hackled, he ain’t a court-card. Friend of mine. Dashed if I know why you should get into a miff just because you’re asked if you’re acquainted with him!’

  ‘You said it concerned my sister Cardross!’

  ‘Didn’t say anything of the kind. At least, not about poor George. And if you weren’t the biggest gudgeon on the town you’d know I wouldn’t have said a word about it, if he had been concerned with her!’ he added severely.

  ‘Well, what has Burnley to do with it?’ asked the Viscount, mollified, but impatient.

  ‘Gave him a look-in this morning. He lives in Clarges Street.’

  ‘Yes, I know he does, and if that’s all you wanted to tell me –’

  ‘Got a house opposite Jew King’s,’ said Mr Hethersett, contemplating his elegant snuff-box with rapt attention.

  There was a momentary silence. ‘Go on!’ said Dysart grimly.

  Mr Hethersett glanced up at him. ‘Well, that’s it,’ he said apologetically. ‘Saw Lady Cardross. Recognized her bonnet. Heavily veiled – no need to fear George knew her!’