The Wolfe's Mate

by Paula Marshall

  He also stirred the pot vigorously by keeping the old gossip about Mrs Wolfe and Lady Exford alive.

  Ben’s defenders—who were not many, seeing that he was somewhat of an outsider owing to his strange career—were powerless to silence the uproar.

  ‘You could bring an action for slander against him,’ Lord Exford said, doubtfully, ‘but once one goes to law the outcome is always uncertain.’ He never ceased to believe in Ben, as did Jack Devereux who laughed scornfully at the very idea of going to law.

  ‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘By next season there will be another on dit to engage the ton and by then Babbacombe should be safe in the Marshalsea—or worse.’

  Ben, engaged in the preparations for his marriage to Susanna, was in agreement with Jack, although the whole rotten business distressed him, not for his own sake, but for that of his future wife’s. He also thought that Babbacombe and his claque would not let the matter rest.

  ‘It’s point non plus for me, I’m afraid,’ he told Madame and Susanna almost apologetically. ‘There’s nothing I can do to silence him, short of calling him out, and then he’s likely to refuse to meet me on the grounds that I’m not really a gentleman, just some nameless bastard masquerading as one.’

  ‘But Lord Exford says that you are the image of your father,’ protested Susanna, Madame de Saulx nodding her agreement.

  Ben grimaced. ‘Oh, that proves nothing. Someone made that point to Babbacombe and his answer was that I was Charles Wolfe’s bastard by a village girl who was conveniently handy for substitution. He has an answer for anything.’

  ‘And many believe him,’ said Madame sadly.

  ‘Well, I don’t.’ Susanna was robust. ‘You’re not to let it worry you, Ben.’

  But he did worry, all the same. He did not mind people giving him their shoulder, but it hurt him when they did it to Susanna.

  He knew that Susanna had met Amelia Western at Lady Leominster’s and that she had rudely accosted Susanna with, ‘Can it possibly be true that you are about to marry that impostor Ben Wolfe?’

  She shuddered delicately while murmuring, ‘You must know that if you do I cannot possibly continue to receive you when I am married. I am sure that you are aware that I am promised to Sir Ponsonby Albright, who has the strictest notions of propriety—as I do, of course. I trust to your good sense to cry off before you become a social pariah.’

  ‘Having been a social pariah once, and survived it, I don’t regard that state with quite the same horror that you do,’ returned Susanna drily. ‘And as I happen to be marrying Ben because not only do I love him, but trust him, your notion that I should cry off is repugnant to me.’

  Amelia sniffed. ‘You never showed much common sense about these matters when you were my duenna,’ she announced, ‘so one can’t expect you to display any when your fortunes are so unaccountably changed. We part, I fear, not to converse again.’

  And what a relief that will be, thought Susanna, but did not say so.

  ‘I don’t think that I ought to marry you until this is settled one way or another,’ Ben told her one afternoon in Hyde Park when a peer who had been one of his friends, and had dined with him several times, cut him dead.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she said. ‘I don’t value any of these people. Think how they all behaved towards me when I was in trouble.’

  ‘Nevertheless…’ He sighed.

  ‘No.’ Susanna was definite. ‘I will not have my life—and yours—at the mercy of a spiteful old man. I know that you need to live in London, but it is populous enough for us to choose for our friends those who do not believe these slanders.’

  She reflected for a moment. ‘In one way,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘it might be better if Lord Babbacombe were rich enough to bring a Writ of Ejectment against you. The whole thing would then be decided one way or another.’

  ‘Except,’ said Madame, her face troubled, ‘that it still might drag on for months or years and if the Writ by some mischance resulted in the court finding for Lord Babbacombe, Ben might end up in prison for personation for fraudulent reasons by falsely assuming the Wolfe name in order to gain The Den and the remainder of the estate. Worse, he might also lose much of his hard-earned wealth by having to pay Lord Babbacombe heavy damages for depriving him of his property and forcing him to go to law to recover it.’

  ‘Point non plus it is, then,’ Susanna agreed ruefully.

  It was not to remain so. The Duke of Clarence gave a great dinner for men only to which Ben, Lord Exford and Jack Devereux were invited. Lord Babbacombe was conspicuously not present. Before it, the Duke took Lord Exford on one side. ‘What’s this about my friend Ben Wolfe, what, what?’ he demanded.

  Lord Exford looked at him and wondered how to be tactful. Common sense took over. Nothing about His Royal Highness, William, Duke of Clarence, was remotely tactful. So as precisely as possible he informed the Duke of the rumours and slanders which Babbacombe was promoting, the possibility of his taking out a Writ of Ejectment, and the difficulty of silencing both him and his son.

  ‘Never liked the man,’ bellowed Clarence. ‘Played cards in an odd way—didn’t do to say so, what! So my friend is in trouble and no way out.’

  ‘He’s at point non plus, in this matter,’ agreed Lord Exford, echoing Ben.

  ‘And raising the old scandal about your poor mama. Can’t do anything about that, but the other, yes. Have Erskine to dinner, lean on him, eh? Don’t want any more noble scandals, eh, what? Public getting restive.’

  By Erskine he meant the law lord who had once been Lord Chancellor and was highly respected in consequence.

  Lord Exford betrayed his puzzlement. Clarence said, his rosy face beaming goodwill, ‘A private court of adjudication, what? If Erskine thinks that Babbacombe has right on his side—which I beg leave to doubt—then I shall help him with his Writ. If, on the other hand, he finds for Mr Wolfe, then Babbacombe must apologise and withdraw. Simple, ain’t it?’

  One thing was to be said for him, Lord Exford decided. Downright and slightly simple he might be, but he ordered himself and his life better than his much more clever elder brother, the Prince Regent, who lacked the unselfconscious and childlike honesty which was Clarence’s hallmark.

  ‘And will Lord Erskine agree to preside over such an unofficial court?’ asked Lord Exford.

  ‘He’d better,’ retorted the Duke with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Both parties would have to agree that his decision would be binding, of course. Otherwise, no point.’

  What he did not say was that if either party refused to agree to such a request their social ruin would be inevitable.

  ‘An impromptu court of law. Trust Clarence to think of anything so unlikely,’ was Ben’s first remark when Lord Exford told him of the Duke’s decision.

  ‘Aye, but on the other hand it could bring the whole matter to a head. You would do well to prepare yourself for it.’

  Susanna and Madame nodded their agreement. One way or another it would end what had become a constant irritant and would—if satisfactorily settled—mean that Susanna and Ben could be married without a shadow hanging over them.

  ‘Suppose Lord Babbacombe does not agree?’ Susanna asked Lord Exford. He shook his head before replying, ‘He cannot gainsay a Royal Duke. The only way out for him would be to apply for a Writ of Ejectment immediately and he cannot afford to do that.’

  ‘As for preparation,’ Ben said, ‘I have to tell you that I have had Jess Fitzroy and a couple of my most trusted men secretly investigating the servants and villagers who live around The Den to discover what they can about both the circumstances of my birth and the strange disappearance of my mother. I gather that Babbacombe has had a couple of Runners doing the same thing, but most of the local people are loyal to my family and have given nothing away. I ordered Jess to inform those whom he questioned that they must tell him the truth about these matters, however unpalatable it might be for me to learn it. I have no wish to be surprised by the revelation of events long gone eit
her in a true court of law or an unconventional one such as the Duke proposes. I wish to know the worst, as well as the best, of my case.’

  ‘Very wise,’ agreed Lord Exford.

  Susanna said to Ben when Lord Exford had gone, ‘You are not happy about this, are you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, walking restlessly towards the window to look out of it at the busy street below. They were in a drawing room on the first floor of Madame’s house near Regent’s Park. Madame was seated on the sofa before an empty hearth. She watched Susanna walk to where Ben was standing in order to take him by the hand.

  ‘Lord Exford believes that the Duke is doing this to help you. He calls you his friend, Mr Wolfe.’

  Ben gave a short laugh and turned to look down into her earnest, anxious eyes. ‘I am not sure whether he will help me. I believe in letting sleeping dogs lie. I do not think that Lord Babbacombe will be able to find any evidence substantial enough to help his cause in a court of law—should he ever get there. Given time the whole business would, I believe, have blown over of its own accord. It is thirty-four years since my birth and twenty-five years since my mother disappeared. During that time people’s memories have faded and become unreliable—my own included. In a sense the Duke, although he does not mean to, is indulging Lord Babbacombe and keeping the scandal alive.’

  ‘I know,’ she told him simply, ‘and I agree with you. Nevertheless, the thing is done, and there is, as Lord Exford told me yesterday, no gainsaying a Royal Duke, and perhaps Lord Babbacombe may not agree to submit to such a tribunal.’

  ‘Perhaps—but I think that he will. Looking on the bright side, our mutual friend, Lady Leominster, who was the direct cause of bringing us together, has invited us to dinner in order to demonstrate her faith in us. And the fact that Madame—’ and he turned to bow to Madame de Saulx ‘—as well as Lord Exford, continue to be my friend is a plus on my side.’

  ‘And your own character,’ added Madame rising to join them at the window, ‘which is that of an honest man. One thing is significant: there have been no more attacks on you since the failed one.’

  Ben smiled wryly. ‘Oh, there are two reasons for that. Babbacombe hopes to destroy me by spreading scandal, and the fact that I never move without a bodyguard has spiked his guns.’

  ‘And the Rothschilds are still dealing with you,’ said Susanna who was beginning to take an interest in Ben’s business affairs, ‘which must stand for something.’

  ‘Only that a good business deal takes precedence with them over the whim-whams of the ton,’ said Ben cynically. ‘Nothing must interfere with the making of money.’

  ‘Ah, that is truly a case of the pot calling the kettle black,’ commented Susanna, her face full of mischief, ‘since I believe that is your motto, too.’

  ‘Minx,’ exclaimed Ben, bending down to kiss her soft cheek, regardless of Madame’s presence—or rather because her presence meant that he could take his caresses no further. ‘I see that I shall have a useful helpmate. If the future Mrs Wolfe is going to be as keen a businessman as her husband, I shall have to find her an office!’

  ‘Which must wait until you are married.’ Madame smiled.

  ‘And that cannot be,’ said Ben firmly, ‘until this wretched business with Babbacombe is over. When I marry Susanna I want no cloud in my sky.’

  ‘Which means,’ said Susanna, ‘that you anticipate giving Lord Babbacombe a legal black eye in this odd arrangement which the Duke has set up!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Ben, kissing her again. ‘And now I must leave you both. I have work to do before I call on you to take you to Lady Leominster’s.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope that he is right to be optimistic,’ Susanna sighed to Madame when he had gone, ‘but I cannot help but feel that the Duke has made him a hostage to fortune.’

  ‘No need to repine,’ returned Madame, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘My instincts tell me that Babbacombe must lose. You see, I don’t believe that he ever intended to go to court—he simply hoped that he could drive Ben out of society by blackguarding him so much that he would turn the whole town against him. The Duke has forced his hand, and now he must prepare to back his slanders with evidence. That, I believe will be difficult—and almost certainly impossible.’

  Nevertheless, Susanna went off to dress for the Leominsters’ dinner with a heavy heart. It was for Ben that she feared, not herself. She had been through the fires of rejection and knew how much they hurt, and although she had come through strengthened, she knew that the fires had burned and changed her.

  Her love had had a hard life and it was time that he found peace. It would be her duty, once they were married, to see that he achieved it. She was only sorry that he would not marry her until the enquiry was over, for she wished to demonstrate to the whole world how much she loved him, and that no stupid slanders could affect that love.

  The Duke’s court of enquiry moved at a greater speed than the courts in which a Writ of Ejectment would have been debated. Lord Babbacombe asked for more time to prepare his case: Ben, having heard from Jess, allowed that he was ready at any time that the Duke commanded.

  The Duke, wishing to appear fair, gave Lord Babbacombe the extra time he asked for.

  ‘But no more, mind,’ he told m’lord sternly. ‘I have set this court up to bring matters to a speedy conclusion, not allow it to drag on. It does society—and the country—harm to allow these matters to be aired so publicly and so lengthily.’

  ‘Stretching it a bit, ain’t he?’ was one comment. ‘What’s Ben Wolfe’s legitimacy got to do with the country’s interests?’

  ‘Only,’ said Lord Exford severely, to whom the comment was made, ‘that in these troubled times when the Radicals are gathering again, anything which shows the aristocracy and gentry in a bad light adds fuel to the would-be fires of revolution.’

  Most of the cousinry—for the aristocracy and gentry were heavily inter-related—agreed with Lord Exford. The only thing which they lamented was that the enquiry was to be held in private.

  ‘Which means that we shall miss all the fun,’ was the complaint of many.

  Which was what the Duke intended. Later, when his brother’s marriage to Princess Caroline was dragged through Parliament, the courts and the press, it was generally agreed that the Duke had shown wisdom in his arrangements.

  Lord Erskine hummed and ha’d at this bypassing of the courts, but agreed with the Duke that since Babbacombe persisted in his slanders, and was not able to find the money to launch his Writ, this suggestion to end the matter was as good as any.

  ‘Why does not Wolfe bring an action for slander against the feller?’ he asked Clarence. ‘That would settle things.’

  ‘Pride,’ said the Duke simply. ‘I understand that he says that he will not waste his time bringing Babbacombe to book, for it would mean that he would be taking his accusations seriously. Since Babbacombe would certainly not agree to a duel with a man he claims to be a common impostor, then my friend Wolfe says, “To hell with him and his lies, I shall not demean myself by recognising him or them.” This wretched business must not be allowed to drag on, so my solution is what lies before you in the document which my secretary has prepared. Both parties have agreed to accept your judgement, and after it, whichever way it goes, will let the matter die immediately.’

  Lord Erskine was now an old man whose wits—honed by a lifetime in the law—were still undiminished by age. He fell in with the Duke’s wishes after some mumbling and chuntering.

  ‘Although I fear that you may find that the losing party will not keep to the agreement about letting the matter drop.’

  ‘Oh, as to that,’ said Clarence cheerfully, ‘he will face social ruin if he goes back on his word. It would not be well seen. You shall have a room at St James’s Palace and as many secretaries and aides as you please. You have only to say the word.’

  Lord Erskine said several words—as did the rest of society when the news of the enquiry became public—as it inevitably d
id. Lord Babbacombe, when questioned, looked noble, saying, his eyes rolling, ‘I could not but agree to anything which His Royal Highness might propose. We are each allowed a counsel to represent us and may produce our own witnesses. I could not ask for more.’

  Ben said nothing. ‘Better so,’ he told Madame and Susanna. ‘I shall save my remarks for the enquiry itself.’

  Clarence decided that it was to be held at St James’s Palace and that ladies were not to be admitted, only a few men who might be regarded as the cream of society and who would be there to see fair play. Lady Leominster was delighted that her Lord was to be among them, but annoyed that she might not be there to enjoy the fun, although privately Lord Leominster had informed her that it would be very dull. ‘Lord Erskine will make sure of that,’ he said.

  ‘You may be sure,’ she trilled at Ben, ‘that Leominster will see that you are not thrown to the wolves. And Lord Granville will be there, which is very proper, for all the world knows that he is not only shrewd but will, in his calm way, see fair play for all parties. The spectators will not be allowed to take part, of course, but their very presence will act as a useful check on folly. Leominster says that witnesses will be called and that both parties have handed in a list to Lord Erskine.’

  Her Lord, standing by her, added his own gloss on the matter. ‘The Law Lords have been saying that it is all most irregular but, seeing that Babbacombe cannot afford to go to court and that Mr Wolfe will not, they agree that it is the only way out of a dangerous impasse.’

  Which seemed to be the general feeling. Society, sharply divided as to who was right and who was wrong in the matter, agreed only on that—and the fact that the Duke had insisted that the matter be settled as soon as possible.

  ‘Bad enough for the Princess of Wales to be a thorn in everyone’s flesh,’ as Mr Canning said privately to Lord Granville on hearing that he was to be present, ‘without having this scandal hanging over us for months. The radical newspapers would fill their columns with screams about “old corruption”. That scoundrel, Leigh Hunt, has already been gloating over it, reviving the old mystery about Lady Exford and Mrs Wolfe.’