He had not expected to find the club crowded, and nor was it; still, there were several gentlemen present who were old acquaintances of either himself or his father. Chief among the former were four young men very nearly his own age. They had all been at Oxford together, and all were heirs to titles of varying degrees of preeminence. With the callousness of youth, they had dubbed themselves the Lads-in-Waiting, and had sworn an oath (with much pricking of fingers and mixing of blood, which had lent the business just that degree of solemnity and high drama sure to appeal to very young men of seventeen) that each one, upon succeeding to his father’s honors, would treat the others to a toast with the club’s best brandy. Three of the group had already made good on this promise, so Theodore, not wishing to appear behindhand in the matter, was quick to follow the precedent that had been set for him. The famed bow window overlooking St. James’s Street was vacant upon this occasion, since Lord Alvanley and his set were absent from Town—Alvanley being, of course, the acknowledged leader of fashionable Society since Brummell had decamped for France four years earlier—and so the three young lords seized the opportunity of ensconcing themselves there. From this lofty position, they offered Theodore their condolences upon his father’s death, adding (in the same breath and without a hint of irony) their congratulations upon his coming into the title, along with caveats that the responsibilities of such a position posed a serious impediment to such pleasures as they had envisioned during their Oxford days. As this information merely confirmed the discovery that Theodore had come to London to escape, he was not sorry when one of the group (the only one whose father still lived, and thus the only one who could contribute nothing to the conversation) suggested they pop into the card room for a look.
Here they found a game of whist in progress, and when one of the participants was obliged to take his leave, Theodore did not have to be persuaded to take his place at the card table. Alas, it soon proved he was no luckier at cards that evening than he had been at love earlier in the day. He soon found himself punting on tick, but as the only alternative was to return to that lonely flat, he was easily coaxed into playing one more hand, and then another, and another. His losses did not trouble him overmuch; after all, this was nothing like that occasion some four years earlier, when he had been duped into playing hazard with a villain who only wanted some hold over his sister. For one thing, this was cards, not dice, and the game was as much one of skill as it was of chance. For another, he was not dependent upon his wealthy brother-in-law for the money to cover his losses, but would have the funds himself as soon as the duke’s will was probated. Until then, his credit was good.
Still, when the game broke up he was a bit taken aback by the sum he’d managed to lose in a very short space of time. He stammered something about seeing his banker in the morning, after which he would do himself the honor of calling upon his opponent for the purpose of redeeming his vowels.
“No trouble at all, your grace,” the other man quickly demurred, and upon this reassuring note, Theodore took his leave.
ALAS, THE FOLLOWING morning it became abundantly clear to Theodore that there was one place in London where his credit was, in fact, not good. It was his misfortune that this place happened to be the Bank of England.
“But dash it, man!” he expostulated with the stoop-shouldered clerk on the other side of a metal grill that gave him the appearance of a mouse in a cage. “You know who I am! You’ve seen me a hundred times!”
“Yes, your lordship—that is, your grace—and I’m sorry I can’t oblige you, but there are rules—”
“Never mind the rules! Is old Dorry in? I’ll have a word with him, if you please.”
The clerk, caught between offending a very influential client and angering his superior—for the personage whom Theodore had so cavalierly dubbed “Old Dorry” was, in fact, Mr. George Dorrien, Governor of the Bank of England—wavered only a moment before coming to a decision.
“Yes, sir—er, your grace—yes, Mr. Dorrien is here. I’ll fetch him directly, shall I?”
As it was he who had suggested it, Theodore raised no objections to this plan. The hapless clerk escaped from his cage and hurried across the marble-tiled floor, disappearing through a door in the rear where, presumably, the bank’s senior officers might be found. He returned a few minutes later, trotting along at the heels of a tall man whose stern visage melted into smiles at the sight of his noble client.
“Well, well, I see we must accustom ourselves to calling you ‘your grace’ now,” he said, taking the hand Theodore offered and pumping it vigorously. “I was sorry to read in the Times of your father’s passing. Still, I have no doubt you will fill his shoes admirably. Now, how may I be of service to you?”
Theodore told him, and the ingratiating smile faded.
“Dear me, your grace,” he said fretfully, “I wish I could oblige you, but I’m afraid I can’t.”
“Dash it, Dorry, you knew my father,” Theodore reminded him. “You’ve seen me come in here with him since I was in leading strings!” This was an exaggeration, for the duke had never taken the slightest interest in babes in arms, even when the babes were his own. Still, the banker readily conceded the point.
“I have indeed, and you may be sure we have always valued the patronage of the Dukes of Reddington. You know, I daresay, that one of your ancestors signed the bank’s original charter. For that reason alone, I wish I could provide you with the advance you seek. Unfortunately, there are laws about these things—the shareholders, you know—”
Alas, none of Theodore’s arguments—and he put forth many—could move the bank’s governor from this stance. Eventually he was forced to take his leave, feeling very much like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. He returned to his flat, where his valet greeted him with the unwelcome news that the early post had been delivered—unwelcome because among the letters that had been forwarded to him from his father’s—no, his—estate in Devon were several requests for payment from various tradesmen in both London and Exeter. When Theodore cast these aside and picked up the Times, he discovered the reason for the inundation: there amongst the advertisements was a notice inviting all to whom the late Duke of Reddington had owed remuneration to submit their requests in writing within the next ninety days. It was signed, “Sir Ethan Brundy, executor.”
“Are you trying to bankrupt me before I even get my hands on the money?” Theodore grumbled under his breath. “Dash it, Ethan!”
Ethan . . . at the sight of the name printed in bold black type, a new plan began to take form in Theodore’s brain. Ethan, his sister’s husband and his own brother by marriage, who had towed his father out of the River Tick more than once during the past four years, and who was now executor of the duke’s will . . . Ethan, who was standing for Parliament, and who would be returning to London very soon for just that purpose . . .
Theodore discovered he could now face the more pressing of his obligations in a state resembling equilibrium. He left his flat and betook himself to the Reddington town house, where he made arrangements for taking up residence, the foremost of these being to send for the butler, the cook, and certain other servants from the country estate. Even the pile of bills that awaited him on a small table in the foyer had no more power to trouble him, for he had formed a plan, and as soon as his brother-in-law returned to his own town house in nearby Grosvenor Square, he would put this plan into action.
That night he enjoyed no better luck at White’s than he had the night before. Still, he slept soundly for the first time since the night his father died, convinced that his troubles would soon be at an end.
HIS SISTER, BY CONTRAST, was not of so sanguine a frame of mind. Seated with her husband at the breakfast table of their home in Lancashire, Lady Helen frowned thoughtfully at the letter in her hand.
“Bad news, love?” asked Sir Ethan, who had looked up from his newspaper to make some remark to his wife and noted her puckered brow.
“I don’t know,” she confessed
without looking up from her reading. “To be sure, some of it is very good news indeed. And yet—darling, when you reach London, will you oblige me by looking in on Teddy?”
“Aye, but I’d ’ave done so in any case. What’s troubling you?”
In answer, she handed him the single sheet of foolscap bearing the wax seal (now broken) of the Marquess of Cutliffe. “It seems he and that dreadful female they call La Fantasia are quite exploded.”
“I’d ’ave thought you’d be glad of that,” he remarked as he scanned the letter.
“Yes, but it appears there’s more. Evidently their break was quite—quite public, and since then the woman has been seen at the theatre sporting a shockingly vulgar necklace which she claims was a parting gift from the Duke of Reddington. Meanwhile, rumor has it that Teddy has been dipping rather deep at White’s. Ethan, you don’t suppose he’s reached point non plus already, do you?”
“Don’t fret yourself, love. When a single young man in’erits a dukedom, ’e’s bound to be the object of a certain amount of interest. I doubt it’s as serious as all that.”
“Yes, but this comes from Emily—Lady Cutliffe, you know,” she insisted. “It’s not just idle gossip.”
“I didn’t know there was any other kind,” he remarked, setting down his coffee cup and pushing back his chair.
“If you ask me,” said Lady Helen with some asperity, “what Teddy needs is a woman!”
“I thought ’e ’ad one,” pointed out her spouse. “In fact, I thought that was ’alf the trouble.”
She gave him a reproachful look. “I don’t mean that dreadful creature he’s had in keeping for the past two months—‘La Fantasia,’ indeed! No, I mean Teddy needs a wife. Not a schoolroom miss, mind you, but a sensible woman his own age. When I join you in London, I might introduce him to one or two likely candidates who might serve the purpose. It is a pity that our being in mourning will put a damper on our engagements—no dancing, certainly, even if there are any balls being hosted so late in the year, which I doubt—but we might make up a theatre party, and your Parliamentary bid might offer a few opportunities, as we will be obliged to host a few dinner parties.” As her husband failed to second this suggestion, she was obliged to solicit his opinion. “Well? What do you think?”
“I think ’e’s already got one big sister. ’e won’t be needing another.”
“Surely you cannot deny that marriage to the right woman might go a long way toward settling him down!”
“Oh, I’ll not deny that. But I never ’eard of any young man accustomed to a game pullet like La Fantasia suddenly brought to ’eel by a sensible female ’oo’s practically on the shelf.”
“All right, then,” retorted Lady Helen, stung, “what sort of woman do you think would suit him?”
He considered the question for a long moment before answering. “One ’oo’ll make ’im want to be a man.”
She gave a little huff of derision. “I thought that’s what women like La Fantasia were for.”
“I don’t doubt she makes ’im feel like one,” he said, laying aside his serviette and rising from the table. “ ’eaven knows she ought to, if ’e’s paying ’er even a fraction of what rumor claims she charges. But I’m talking about a girl ’oo’ll make ’im want to be one—the less pleasant parts included.”
“Oh?” she asked coyly, giving him her hand and allowing him to pull her to her feet. “And what parts might those be?”
“Tending to responsibilities when ’e’d rather concentrate on pleasures, for one thing. I wish you were going with me, love,” he added in a wistful tone.
“So do I,” she answered in the same vein. “But we agreed that it would be unwise to take William out until his sore throat is rather better.”
“And I know ’ow much you were looking forward to entertaining a bunch of Whig leaders’ wives to tea,” he retorted playfully.
“Deprived of my life’s ambition,” she agreed, shaking her head mournfully. “I promise, as soon as William is able to travel, I shall join you in London and play the political hostess as enthusiastically as you could wish.”
As his wife came from a long line of Tories, Sir Ethan recognized this as no small sacrifice, and expressed his appreciation so thoroughly that he was still in the act when the footman came to begin clearing the table. Releasing her with a sigh, Sir Ethan nevertheless kept his arm about her waist as she accompanied him to the front door, where the carriage awaited that would convey him to London and the launching of his Parliamentary bid.
“Never mind about your brother, love. I’ll see if I can discover what’s toward.”
With this promise, he kissed her again, expressed his hope that Willie’s recovery would not be long delayed, then climbed into the carriage and settled himself comfortably against the squabs.
“All right, Theodore,” he muttered aloud as the horses were whipped up and the vehicle started forward, “let’s see what devilry you’ve got up to this time.”
4
Submit to the present evil, lest a greater one befall you.
PHAEDRUS, Fables
“HALLO, ETHAN!” EXCLAIMED Theodore, rising from his chair as Sir Ethan Brundy was shown into the drawing room of his flat by his valet, the butler and the other servants having not yet arrived from Reddington Hall. “Deuced cold outside—come have a seat before the fire. Will you have a drop to take the chill off? There’s brandy in the decanter, but if you’d rather have something else—I don’t know exactly what Papa had laid down in his cellars, but I daresay we can find out. As they say, there’s no time like the present.”
Sir Ethan assured him that brandy would suit him very well, then sank into the nearest of two overstuffed armchairs and accepted the pot-bellied glass of brandy from his brother-in-law’s hand.
“Did you only arrive in Town today, then?” Theodore continued. “But where’s Nell? Does she not accompany you?”
If Sir Ethan had not already had reason to suspect something was amiss with the young duke, Theodore’s sudden loquaciousness would have been enough to inform him of it. “No, she’ll be coming later. Willie’s taken ill.”
“Poor little fellow.” Theodore grinned suddenly. “Or should I say ‘poor Nell’? Daresay Willie out of sorts is enough to overset the whole household.”
Sir Ethan swirled the liquid in his glass, then helped himself to a sip. “Now you know what really brings me to London,” he confided with an impish smile. It was not true, of course, but it struck just the right note to induce Theodore to exchange confidences with him.
“I should think so! Willie in a temper is enough to make any man turn tail and run.” In a carefully offhand manner that did not deceive his brother-in-law for a moment, he added, “Truth to tell, Ethan, I’m deuced glad you’re here. I’d be obliged to you if you can advance me something on my inheritance—just enough to tide me over until the will is probated, you know.”
Sir Ethan shook his head. “Much as I’d like to oblige you, I can’t.”
“You can’t? But—well, but dash it, Ethan! You’re the executor, aren’t you?”
“Aye, I am.”
“Well, then—”
“Theodore, all that means is that I’m charged with making sure the terms of your father’s will are carried out the way ’e intended—and that includes seeing to it that everything is done open and aboveboard.”
“But it’s my own money, dash it!” Theodore protested.
Sir Ethan nodded. “Aye, and you’ll get it, all in good time.”
“Good time for you, maybe!”
“Aye, and for you. After all, you’d not like it if I started doling out legacies to your father’s valet, or housekeeper, or butler, would you?”
“No, but—”
“But the money’s rightfully theirs,” he added with a look of bland innocence in his brown eyes. “It says so in the will.”
“It’s not at all the same thing!”
“It is so far as the law is concerned. If I wer
e to distribute so much as a farthing from your father’s estate before probate is granted, I’d open meself up to legal action.” In an attempt to ease the young man’s obvious distress, he added in a lighter tone, “A pretty fellow I’d look, standing for Parliament with that ’anging over me ’ead! I might as well ’and the election to Sir Valerian Wadsworth on a silver platter.”
Theodore, however, was not to be distracted. “But I would be the logical one to bring any such action against you, and it’s not like I’m going to prefer charges against you for giving my money to me!”
“You might not do so, but your father’s lawyer might,” his brother pointed out. “ ’e’d be within ’is rights, too. In fact, ’e might even consider it an obligation to ’is grace.”
“Crumpton is my lawyer now—and he’d do well to remember it!”
“Aye, that ’e is. And if you know ’e can’t be trusted to look out for your father’s interests, ’ow can you trust ’im to look after yours?” Seeing that this observation had momentarily deprived his young relation of speech, Sir Ethan added gently, “What’s the matter, you young fool? Surely you ’aven’t got yourself rolled up within a se’ennight of in’eriting the title?”
The Desperate Duke Page 3
