What was hard for some to understand was why this member of the nobility was not attending Princess Lieven’s rout, not being lionised at the Prince Regent’s salon, not being fawned over by every matron and macaroni in the ton. The solution was simple: Cheyne did not trust himself in polite society. When he’d first returned, there were the unavoidable family homecoming dinners, the obligatory royal receptions. The men all wanted to congratulate him on the smashing victory at Quatre Bras—later to be known as Waterloo—and the ladies wished to gossip about the Duchess of Richmond’s battle-eve ball... at which all the young lads had their last dance, their last stolen kisses, before marching off to war, some still in their satin breeches and silk stockings, to be found days later, their bodies rotting on muddy fields. Hundreds upon hundreds, and only the lucky had died quickly. The horses were more fortunate—details were sent out to despatch the wounded and dying, to stop the awful screaming.
... Heroic victory, scintillating ball ... the worst nightmare that Wesley, Lord Cheyne had ever seen, would ever see, for all his days on earth. No, he’d go no more to listen to the chitchat, to smile while his gut wrenched, to dance with all the pretty little girls who wanted to know the man of the hour. Here, in Willy’s and his friends’ company, Cheyne could forget it all, even if it took a bottle of Blue Ruin to do it. And these men would not bother him for battle facts, not these grown boys who’d stayed home. Some were embarrassed that they hadn’t done their duty, while others envied him the chance to go. They all respected him ... and everyone but his own cousin feared him.
It was Willy, William Richardson, Baronet, who teased him, who chivvied him with swaggering bravado, to bring the laughter back to those tired eyes. And it was Willy, best loved and almost-brother, who still resented not being able to join up when his hero Wes, at twenty-three five years Willy’s senior, went off to war.
Willy’s father had still had two years of control over his nephew before Cheyne came into his full inheritance, and Viscount Richardson was bound and determined to keep his cherished nephew out of danger as long as he could. The young marquis, even then strong-willed and steady of purpose, was just as resolute about buying colours and fighting for his country. It took him a long time to convince his Uncle George, but he succeeded, after getting up to every rig and row in Town—and letting Willy tag after him. There’d been duels and demi-reps, nights when poor Uncle George had to stand bail for both his wayward charges, and days when he had to listen to his wife’s weeping.
When it came to Cheyne, the viscount bowed to the inevitable, but not for Willy. Oh, no, Willy was too young, Willy was the heir, not just to his father’s considerable estates but to Cheyne’s vaster holdings and titles. Willy had to finish school. Willy had to console his mother for her dear nephew’s absence, after she’d raised the boy from childhood to be her other son. So every time in the seven years of his service that Cheyne returned on leave, or to be reassigned, or was sent to plead before Parliament for more funds for the struggling armies, Willy tried his best to prod his cousin to battle. He wanted the chance to whip old Wes at fisticuffs, to outshoot him, outride, or outdrink him, even out-argue him. Sometimes he even managed to do it, too, which made Willy feel a lot better about things in general. It was that kind of night. For his part Cheyne seemed to sympathise with Willy’s need to prove himself. He enjoyed crossing wits or swords with his cousin, and just as cheerfully lost as won, cementing a friendship begun when Willy was still gurgling in his cradle.
Occasionally Cheyne had even been known to goad the quick-tempered Willy, just out of a quirky humour. It was that kind of night, too.
* * * *
“No, bantling, I still say there’s no such thing as an honest woman; they’re all selling something. Take a whore, now”—ribald laughter from the company—”she at least sets a price and gives fair value.” The marquis smiled at his companions, a lopsided grin that took years off his age. “But your so-called virtuous woman—hah! She’s only holding out for higher stakes! A man’s name, his title, his money, his home. And what does he get? Some sweet young thing to warm his bed at night? To see to his comfort? No, he gets a headachy shrew or a watering pot ‘doing her duty’!”
Willy was no more in the petticoat line than the other young men present, yet just to contradict his cousin, he felt he must defend the fairer sex. After all, his mother was a woman, and his sister. “Beg to differ with you, Wes, but you’ve been out of the country too long. Maybe your senoritas and mademoiselles can’t be trusted, but English girls—”
“Englishwomen? They’re the worst! They’re bred to be warm-blooded mistresses or coldhearted ladies, and they’ve never understood the two could mix. Not that you’d want to marry your mistress, but damn, these ‘ladies’ your mother trots out for me every time I’m home are like ice maidens!”
While Willy was thinking of a rebuttal, even his wine-fogged head saw the trap: he was going to be forced to defend the institution of marriage itself. The next thing he knew, he’d be getting legshackled instead of Wesley. He’d known his cousin too long.
Then Ferddie Milbrooke, notoriously mild-mannered, tried to change the subject. “But what of affection, Cheyne? Haven’t you ever been in love?”
The marquis tossed the dice in the air. “Love? Why yes, I’ve been in love,” he drawled. “Sometimes thrice a night.”
At the other men’s laughter, Willy reentered the discussion. “And what of the lady you’ll marry someday? Shan’t you love her?” he asked curiously.
“If you are thinking of the little northern heiress your father’s picked out for me, there’s a greater chance I’ll grow wings and fly to Yorkshire. Those country girls are the worst of all, rigid morality and no social graces to compensate. No, halfling, just because I’ll put a ring on some girl’s finger doesn’t mean she’ll put one through my nose.”
Willy had in fact been thinking of Miss Felicia Fullerton, a girl he’d known for years. He recalled a tiny china doll— certainly not some cloddish milkmaid—and it didn’t suit his new-found ideas of propriety for Wesley to be bantering about his intended like this. With inebriated belligerence, Willy demanded, “Then why in blazes are you going there?”
“Why, to look over the merchandise, of course.”
Now, the real reason the Marquis of Cheyne had acquiesced to his uncle’s wishes, after listening to innumerable lectures on his duties and responsibilities, how he owed it to the ancient and honourable name to settle down, etc., was because the trip to Yorkshire fit his plans. There was a bit of business the War Office wanted him to look into, some loose ends to tidy up, and here was the perfect alibi for leaving town. He had no intention of offering for the girl, of course. He’d see to his errand, then he’d politely suggest to Miss Fullerton’s father that she should know more of the world before making a choice, then he would excuse himself. As he explained to his Uncle George, perhaps he was ready for a little peace and comfort, learning to manage his estates and be a country gentleman. But not with a seventeen-year-old schoolgirl bride. He had nothing against Miss Fullerton, of course—he’d never even heard of the chit before—and he actually had nothing against marriage—for the right fellows!—and women he thoroughly enjoyed. No, his words were mostly the result of the wine and his desire to rile poor Willy. They had the intended effect, of course.
‘To look over the merchandise, you cad! To speak of Miss Fullerton like that is insulting and degrading. I won’t have it, do you hear?”
“But my dear William, I’m sure I never mentioned Miss Fullerton by name. You did! And if she’s my intended, or shall we say intended-to-be-seen, I don’t see what you can do about it.”
“Well ... well,” young Richardson sputtered, “she’s to be the head of my household, so I have the right to defend her honour! And I will and I do! You’ll meet me for this!”
As the other men laughed, Cheyne called for another bottle. “But of course, cuz, I always do! What’s it to be this time? Pistols or swords?”
“So you did. Well, my poor battered face don’t need another scar, and I’m too foxed for swords, so let’s try pistols. They’re quicker anyway.”
Chapter Nine
There were rigid codes for Affaires of Honour. Seconds for both sides would meet and discuss conditions and select a secluded location. A surgeon was hired for the injured; a carriage often stood waiting to whisk the victor out of the country in case his man stuck his spoon in the wall. Being illegal, duels were secretive, hushed affairs. All parties would gather at dawn in formal dress, the seconds would make a last pro forma effort at conciliation, the weapons would be inspected, the ground marked out....
In the trash-heaped, snow-blotted back yard of the Goose and Garter Tavern, Sir Fenton Crestwicke was making bets with a pickpocket and a rag merchant while the attics-to-let Richardson cousins staggered outside, holding each other up and singing the fifth chorus of “The Mermaid from Dover.” So much for Affaires of Honour. The Marquis of Queensbury be damned. All of Willy and Cheyne’s friends, all more than slightly on the go, were having a delightful time, laying odds, clearing a space of rubbish, setting out torches in the snow. It was just another exhibition of skill as far as they were concerned, by two of the best shots in England. Usually the Richardsons shot each other’s hats off, though once Cheyne had managed to pop Willy’s new beaver while aiming upside down and backwards between his own legs. That was the stunt which finally got him his army commission. That was also why Wesley and his cousin now simply struck while the iron was hot, as it were, before Uncle George got wind of anything, before Aunt Wilhelmina could develop palpitations.
The pistols were primed. It was to be seven paces, turn and shoot, no dropped handkerchiefs or “Gentlemen, take aim.” Back to back, Cheyne, the taller by some inches, told his cousin, “Loser buys breakfast,” and Willy answered, “As always.” As they took the first step, however, Cheyne was telling himself that maybe he really should think of settling down and stopping such tomfoolery. So at the third step he called “Hold.” He bent down, as though to remove an obstacle or adjust a bootstrap. It was hard to tell, in the shadows, and Cheyne’s greatcoat hid his actions from Willy and the observers. In a moment he straightened, said, “Sorry. Let’s continue.” Four steps ... five, six and seven.
Cheyne turned, raised his right arm, and fired—a snowball, which hit Willy smack in the face!
“Wesley Richardson, you blackhearted shabster! Of all the low-minded—” Willy squawked, his friends hooting. Then Willy bent low, dropping the pistol in order to gather his own like weapon for counterattack. A primed and loaded dueling pistol, however, is not the type of inanimate object that can be so casually treated, which the young baronet would have recalled if he weren’t so castaway, or so anxious for revenge.
The pistol exploded, the noise echoing off the buildings facing the lot, deafening in the sudden silence. “By all that’s holy, Wes, I think I’ve shot m’toes off!”
* * * *
It could have been worse, Cheyne realised. Hell, a dropped pistol could have taken the fool’s head off. Instantly cold sober, Cheyne found himself shaking. So many friends lost, and now this most precious of all almost killed without even the pitiful excuse of a war. Never again, he vowed. As they got Willy back to their shared lodgings where Farrow, Cheyne’s ex-batman, was competently slicing Willy’s boot off, Cheyne kept repeating, “No more chances.” His uncle was right, they were too old, they had to settle down. Life was suddenly much too valuable. When Farrow declared that Willy’s foot was one bloody mess, but not like to be serious at all, barring fever or infection, the marquis made his decision: Willy’d go with him to Yorkshire. He couldn’t be left to face the viscount’s lectures alone—even Cheyne wasn’t that hardhearted—nor to have Lady Richardson fuss over him. No, first they’d make excuses to the family, then travel to Suffolk where Willy could recuperate and Cheyne would take care of his errand. Then it was on to Yorkshire: settling down, matrimony, securing the succession and all that—for Willy. Cheyne vowed to see his cousin safely settled and out of harm’s way by the new year. Naturally, he didn’t tell Willy. Handing him a glass of port while Farrow sprinkled basilicum powder over the now-cleaned foot before bandaging it, Cheyne told his cousin to drink up.
“We’ve got to appear thoroughly foxed if we’re not to make mice feet of getting by the governor.”
Willy would have fallen right off the couch, laughing so hard, if Farrow hadn’t held on to his foot. “Damn, Wes, if I weren’t thoroughly foxed now, do you think I’d be here like this?”
* * * *
The two cousins staggered up the front steps of Richardson House, Grosvenor Square, holding each other up, singing the sixth chorus of “The Mermaid from Dover,” very loudly. Since it was now four o’clock in the morning, it was very loud indeed. They let themselves in with Willy’s key, and stood in the entranceway, arms around each other, beginning the seventh verse. The eighth verse did it. Doors opened up and down halls, servants came running. But it was the governor himself. Viscount Richardson, in his nightcap, who outdid his son and nephew in volume.
“This is the finish! I’ve had my fill of the two of you! I’ll disinherit you both, see if I don’t! Get out! Get out and don’t let me see your faces till you’ve learned some respect. Do you hear me?”
There must have been no one in Grosvenor Square who didn’t hear him. Willy grinned and nodded foolishly, but Cheyne, worried for his uncle’s health—the viscount was turning red and quivering with indignant rage—was politely reassuring. “Yes, shir. We jusht came to say g’bye—off to Yorkshire, don’t ya know, to get reshpectable. Takin’ Willy for courage.... He’s always been up in the boughs when I didn’t take him before, don’tcha know.”
“Yes, yes, get out! ‘Tho I wouldn’t let a daughter of mine marry either one of you! Now go before the whole household is awakened.”
Even the dead, of course, were nearly wakened, so loud was the prior discussion, but it sufficed. The door was almost slammed in their faces and Farrow and Cheyne could half drag, half carry Willy to the coach. Farrow bundled him in with fur rugs and hot bricks, amid the hurriedly packed bags, while Cheyne checked the horses led behind. When the marquis walked around to the front to take the ribbons, Willy leaned out of the still open door.
“Say, Wes, are we really going to Yorkshire?”
“Yes, you clunch, and maybe you’ll be sober by the time we get there!”
Chapter Ten
Friday morning was grey: grey overcast sky, Isabelle’s grey good-works dress, grey face powder over her own peach complexion, a grey, grey mood. Miss Markham was so rarely out of sorts that she had no patience now for her own ill humour. Surely she wasn’t missing the empty-headed frivolities of Town, nor the adulation of her prosy admirers. She couldn’t be that shallow. Nor would she own that her Great Adventure was turned into a tedious, frustrating interval. No, it must be the weather that had her in the mopes, and she chided herself. The sun was sure to come out sooner or later, and something just had to relieve this idle waiting. If not, she decided, in a few days she’d move the whole ménage, except Molly, up to King’s Mark, resume her own identity, perhaps even invite some guests for a country visit. Bennett could keep an eye on the inn, and Jasper could pull his own coals out of the fire. That’s what she’d do—in a few days. This morning after breakfast, however, she’d tackle Jasper’s accounts, what smidgens of bookkeeping she could find, to see if they told her anything. Just having a constructive course of action cheered her spirits. Something was bound to happen.
Mrs. Bennett was singing to her fresh dough, encouraging the loaves to rise. Obviously there were no clouds on her horizon, except Molly, of course. There would be girls from the village coming to help clean this morning, some apples she’d found put up to make into pies. Her man was content gossiping with the tradesfolk and farmers, though he mentioned hav
ing to obtain better horses, if they stayed. And the boy had mumbled the whisperiest—and sweetest— “Thank you” she’d ever heard, just for some slab bacon and eggs. If only Miss Lyndy would forget her notions about smugglers and spies, take the pretty little miss with her back to London so Mrs. Bennett didn’t have to worry over them, then everything would be just perfect. Except Molly.
“That ... the trollop must go. Miss Lyndy! Why, last night she pinched Mr. Bennett’s cheek!”
“Sarah, I think you’re jealous!”
Although the older woman’s face reddened, she denied it with vigour. “Fustian! At his age? But it isn’t right, what with that sweet Miss Felicity to see such havey-cavey carryings-on.”
Lyndell was spreading jam on a bun. She paused to lick her fingers before reassuring Mrs. Bennett. “I misdoubt Molly could teach Felicia anything! That girl could smile at a grandfather clock and have it skip an hour! Molly has to stay a while longer, you know, in case our London beau ever arrives. So we can tell if she knows him or not. Don’t worry, pet, it can’t be long now, something’s bound to happen!”
Another futile session with Ajax—he was weakening, but not in his distrust—forced her to admit that time was shortening there too, without much to show. Her only hope was that by the next day he’d be too sick to struggle.
Jasper’s books, what there were of them, were more enlightening than Lyndell had expected. Sitting at Jasper’s desk trying to decipher his crabbed hand, she first attacked the ledger, and discovered why any gentlemen ever came to such a backwater inn. In amongst “J. Anthony, locksmith” and “T. Phutts, merchant” were interspersed entries like “Lord F. and Lady T.... Sir J. and Miss L.R.... Lord H-M. and companion.” All those couples ... all those unmarried couples! Jasper was allowing the inn to be used as a trysting place! Goodness, let them try it with Mrs. Bennett in charge! Lyndell chuckled, until she realised what a great opportunity this gave the spy to be where he shouldn’t. No one would think it remarkable if just another London swell was at King’s Pass, waiting for his “companion” to arrive.
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