by M C Beaton
The Comte was not yet dressed and was wearing a magnificent brocaded dressing gown. He turned with a smile of welcome when Charles was announced which faded when he saw the triumphant smile on the other’s face.
Charles waited impatiently until the footman had withdrawn and then said, “The day of reckoning has come, my dear de Chernier. I am here to pay back every penny I owe you!”
“Nonsense, dear boy,” said the Comte, cleaning his nails with an orange stick, “I would not dream of taking it from you.”
“What!” The smile was wiped from Charles’s face. “But you gave your word. You gave your word as a de Chernier.”
“So I did,” said the Comte languidly, “and I hope the de Cherniers appreciate it—or their headless ghosts rather. If I have it right, the complete line of de Chernier died out under the guillotine.”
“You are an impostor,” said Charles, his face turning ashen.
“That, yes, and a few other things too tedious to mention,” said the Comte, throwing down the orange stick and standing up.
“What is your real name?”
“None of your business, dear Charles. Come now! Enact me no Haymarket tragedies. This is real life. What is a country after all? What is patriotism? A myth. I work for money and so should you.”
Charles thrust his hand into the pocket of his frock coat and drew out a pistol which he pointed at the Comte’s head with a trembling hand.
“Oh, go ahead and blow my brains out if you must,” sneered the Comte. “But my papers will be examined after my death and your name is mentioned in them. Believe me. It is very much to your interest to keep me alive. Come now, only two months and you will be free.”
Charles let the pistol fall and sank into a chair with a groan and buried his head in his hands. “Two months! I don’t think I can live through another hour of it.”
“You will, you will,” said the Comte indifferently. “And now, dear boy, this is what I want you to do…”
“If my brother ever finds out,” interrupted Charles, beginning to cry in a hopeless, dreary way, “he’ll kill me. Anyway, Augusta Harvey knows about it. She was hiding behind that screen on the night of the Courtlands’ ball and heard every word.”
The Comte’s eyes narrowed into slits, and he crossed the room in a few quick strides and shook the sobbing Charles until his teeth rattled. “She has been blackmailing you, yes? What does she want?”
“She wants Roger to marry her nice. She wants to be accepted by society.”
“Vraiment! And that is all this woman demands in return for her silence?”
“Yes,” said Charles sulkily, wiping his streaming eyes on his sleeve.
“Then I shall call on her,” said the Comte softly. She is dangerous… and must be removed.”
Penelope and Miss Harvey had been invited to a party to be given at a Mrs. Skeffington’s villa that very evening. The villa was some way out of town on the Richmond Road with beautiful stretches of formal gardens running down to the brown and gray waters of the Thames.
It was a glorious evening when they arrived accompanied by Miss Stride. The air was very still and sweet and heavy with the scents of summer. A Viennese orchestra was playing waltzes under the trees, and a blackbird, silhouetted against the pale green sky, added a glorious counterpoint to the lilting music.
Penelope found herself trembling with anticipation. Perhaps he would be there. But one by one the guests arrived, and there was no sign of the tall figure of the Earl. She began to feel sad. Augusta was noisily and resentfully drinking tea, Miss Stride having forbidden her to touch anything stronger. Port wine had a nasty habit of bringing all Augusta’s horrible manners to the surface.
“If you sit there all night with a long face, nobody’s going to look at you,” said Augusta sourly to Penelope. “What is more, God will never forgive you for passing up your opportunities. He’s like that, you know. He strikes the sinner with a bolt of lightning from on high. Don’t ever forget it, Penelope. I don’t,” she added moodily, alternately picking her teeth with a tired goose quill and slurping her tea.
“Miss Vesey?” said a tentative voice at Penelope’s ear. She looked up and saw a stocky young man with a pleasant tanned face and merry blue eyes.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he went on. “The name’s Manton, Guy Manton, friend of Hestleton. Roger’s coming along later, but he asked me to take care of you. They are making up a set for the quadrille, and I wondered if you would grant me the honor of a dance, Miss Vesey?”
Penelope’s heart soared like the song of the blackbird. The Earl had not forgotten her. He had sent this charming young man to look after her and… wonder upon wonder… he would be here in person later.
She smiled her assent and rose gracefully from her seat and allowed Mr. Manton to escort her towards a marquee in the garden which had been turned into a flower-bedecked ballroom.
Augusta had fastened her gooseberry eyes on the large ruby winking in Mr. Manton’s stock and had given her assent with her eyes still fixed steadily on the jewel as if she were allowing the ruby rather than the wearer permission to take Penelope into the ballroom.
Mr. Manton danced the quadrille with more enthusiasm than finesse and made Penelope laugh, when the musicians struck the last chord, by saying he was glad the awful dance was over. “The quadrille’s more suitable for a caper merchant than a gentleman,” he said roundly. “But let me get you some refreshment, Miss Vesey.”
He led Penelope towards another marquee which contained a long buffet and a series of little tables. Unfortunately Augusta had not only found the buffet but the port wine as well. Port was drunk with everything, most of society still considering such wines as Burgundy and claret “wishy-washy stuff.” She came waddling up to them with her protruding eyes slightly glazed.
“Ah, Mr. Manton,” she smiled while her busy brain turned over the information she had received from Miss Stride—Guy Manton, country squire and soldier, comfortable income but nothing near as much as the Earl. “So you have been looking after my little Penelope. Pretty little thing, ain’t she. All the bucks is mad about her, ain’t they, my duckie?” Here she pinched Penelope’s cheek. “Why, even the Earl of Hestleton had taken such a fancy to her as never was. It’s the good Lord looking after the orphan, that it is. Although she owes everything to her auntie and she’ll never forget it for she don’t want to be struck dead from on high. People don’t, you know.”
Penelope’s face flamed crimson with embarrassment. Her aunt’s subdued behavior of the last few days seemed to have miraculously disappeared.
Mr. Manton was surveying Miss Harvey with amusement. “That’s a good Christian spirit you have there, ma’am,” he said gleefully. “I gather you believe strongly in divine punishment.”
“Of course I does,” said Augusta earnestly. “Do you know what happens to you when you go to hell?” She lowered her voice to a whisper.
“She’s mad,” thought Penelope wildly.
She’s glorious, thought Mr. Manton. Funniest old quiz I’ve met in years. “Go on, Miss Harvey,” he said out loud. “Do tell us all about it.”
“It’s like this,” said Augusta, moving close to Mr. Manton. “When you die, like, if you’ve been a sinner, they takes away all your clothes, the demons do, so you’re all naked. Then they lead you to the edge of this pit and down below it’s all fire and brimstone. Then they takes their pitchforks and they shoves them right up—”
“Miss Harvey!”
Augusta turned round sulkily and then looked like a guilty child as she met the blazing eyes of Miss Stride. Having now some money in the bank had brought out all Miss Stride’s latent and forceful personality, and Augusta, like all bullies, cringed before a stronger character.
“Miss Harvey,” said Miss Stride again in a very governess sort of voice, “I wish you to accompany me. You have not yet been introduced to Lady Skeffington.”
Rather in the manner of a jailer, Miss Stride led Augusta away.
Mr. Manton looked helplessly at Penelope. He tried to speak but could only manage a few choked sounds. Finally he gasped, “Excuse me, Miss Vesey,” and fled out into the garden.
The Earl of Hestleton, who had entered the Skeffington’s estate by a side entrance, paused in amazement. The most dreadful choking sounds were coming from behind a clump of rosebushes.
He peered round and found his friend, Guy Manton, doubled up in a paroxysm of laughter. Tears streamed down his face, and he chortled and gasped and snorted.
“Control yourself, Guy,” said the Earl, much amused. “What is the reason for all this mirth? Have the Skeffingtons hired Grimaldi for the evening?”
He had to wait several minutes before his friend could compose himself enough to reply.
“It’s that Harvey woman,” said Guy when he could. He told the Earl about Miss Harvey’s vision of hell, but the Earl was not amused.
“And you left Penelope standing alone,” said the Earl crossly. “I had better go and look after her.”
He strode off, leaving his friend to look after him in some amazement. Roger could not possibly be serious about the pretty Penelope. The girl was well enough but—oh, my stars—the aunt!
The Earl was thinking much the same as he went in search of Penelope. He could not possibly marry the girl! There was a certain amount, after all, that he owed to his name.
Penelope was not beside the buffet, nor was she in the ballroom. He diligently searched the house and gardens and at last, under the light of an enormous full moon, saw her sitting in a dark corner of the garden on a rustic bench. He could make out the pale aura of her hair.
He felt a little wrench at his heart as he leaned over her and saw that she was crying. He sat down beside her and gently drew her hands away from her face. He found himself murmuring silly nothings, the way one does to a hurt child. “There, there, Come now, silly little puss. What a fuss! Dry your eyes and tell me all about it.”
The fact that the stern Earl was talking to her in such a kind way helped to dry Penelope’s tears.
“Now,” he said, kissing her forehead, “what’s all this about?”
“I feel so silly,” wailed Penelope. “I can’t tell you.”
“I am your friend, Penelope,” said the Earl, using her Christian name for the first time. “Tell me.”
Penelope stared miserably at the toes of her slippers. How could she explain her muddled feelings about her aunt? Augusta often seemed like a summer’s day when a storm is approaching: serene and sunny calm with gathering black clouds of suspected cruelty lit with sudden lightning flashes of pure madness.
“It’s… it’s just that I am so ashamed of being ashamed of her,” said Penelope at last in a low voice. “I feel so disloyal. Mr. Manton was escorting me to the buffet and Aunt started talking some awful nonsense about hell and it made me miserable to hear her talking so wildly—so strangely.”
The Earl bit his lip. He longed to tell Penelope that he was sure Augusta Harvey was using her beautiful niece as a sort of calling card on the best houses but did not want to hurt her feelings. Instead he said gently, “Miss Harvey is a trifle eccentric, that is all. London is full of such eccentrics and no one thinks them strange. Also, you have my social patronage. I promised you.”
“You only promised me vouchers to Almack’s,” said Penelope, suddenly shy. “I was afraid I would not see you again.”
“I had to go to my estates. There was trouble with one of the tenant farmers. How else could I leave you?”
Penelope’s heart began to beat very quickly indeed, and she looked shyly up into his face; it was in the shadow as his back was to the moonlight. “I cannot see your face,” she whispered.
“Can you feel my lips?” he asked, bending slowly towards her until his head blotted out the moon and his warm lips closed on hers and all the world went flying away leaving her alone on a black plain of passion, held closely in the Earl’s arms.
They kissed with increasing ardor, Penelope innocently matching passion for passion, until he slipped her low gown from her shoulders and bent his mouth to her breasts and she began to tremble in his arms. “I go too fast, my darling,” he murmured, releasing her. “I must endeavor to wait until we are married.” He gently pulled her gown back on her shoulders.
“You will marry me, Penelope,” he said.
“With all my heart,” said Penelope softly.
“Then we shall announce our engagement,” he said. “Our very short engagement.”
But, oh Lord, thought the Earl as he led Penelope back towards the house. How Augusta Harvey will gloat!
Chapter Seven
The early days of Penelope’s engagement passed like a golden dream.
Augusta was ecstatic! She had vowed to fire Miss Stride should the Earl ever propose to Penelope. But now that that glorious day had arrived, she felt strangely reluctant to do so. It was almost as if Augusta, having very little conscience, felt it necessary to hire a social one. Also she was shrewd enough to note that when she followed Miss Stride’s strictures on decorum, society found her at least tolerable. There must be no more talk of hellfire, Miss Stride had told Augusta firmly. It was as well for Augusta that Mr. Manton was a gentleman and a friend of the Earl or she would be the laughingstock of London.
So Augusta had treated the surprised Penelope with a gentleness and kindness foreign to her cold and grasping nature, and Penelope returned this false warmth with all the gratitude of a very innocent heart.
The love match was the talk of the town. The Earl looked like a much younger man, the austere lines of his face softened with happiness. His young brother had given his blessing in no uncertain terms and the Earl did not know of Charles’s relief. Augusta could have no more hold over the Viscount now that he had fulfilled his part of the bargain.
Augusta planned a lavish wedding. She also planned to move into the Earl’s household as soon as he and Penelope were married, but she kept that part of the plan to herself.
One morning when Penelope was out driving with the Earl, Augusta received a caller in the shape of the Comte de Chernier. She clucked with irritation because Mr. Liwoski was just coming to the crucial part of the portrait.
She reluctantly ushered the Comte into a small study at the back of the house and then looked at him with shrewd hard eyes. The two blackmailers surveyed each other in silence for some minutes. The Comte was the first to speak.
“We have not been formally introduced,” he said. “But I know you have heard of me. I also know you were hiding behind the screen that night at the Courtlands’ ball.
“So Charles has done his part,” he continued. “And your niece is to be a Countess. You, I gather, think you can hang onto her petticoats and climb the social ladder.” He shook back the lace at his wrist and took a delicate pinch of snuff. “But that will not be the case, madam. Oh, dear me, no.”
“What d’ye mean?” grated Augusta.
“It is like this, Madame Harvey… I may be seated? Yes?” He sat down on a high-backed chair and studied Augusta insolently. “The young couple is very much in love and very much du monde.”
“Speak English,” snapped Augusta.
“Ah, well,” he sighed. “Tell me, has the so elegant and grand Earl shown any sign that he would wish your company after he is married?”
“Course he will,” said Augusta stoutly but experienced her first twinge of doubt. The Earl did indeed usually look at her as if she were something that had crept out of the back recesses of the kitchen stove.
“So little Charles has gone bleating to you,” said Augusta nastily, deciding to attack. “Well, you traitor, I shall report you.”
“You are a traitor yourself, if only by proxy,” he sneered. “If I thought for a minute you would betray me, I would shoot you dead.” He produced a long and lethal pistol and tossed it carelessly up and down in his long fingers.
“Pah!” said Augusta. “That toy don’t frighten me. If you shoot me, you’d have to shoot all
my servants as well. They know you’re here.”
“What is to stop me shooting you and leaving the country?” asked the Comte.
“’Cause if your dirty work was finished, you’d have left long ago,” replied Augusta. “You’re wasting my time. Why did you really come here?”
“Because I do not like to see such a clever woman work so hard to achieve social recognition—and then fail.”
“I’ll not fail,” said Augusta with grim echoes of Lady Macbeth.
“Oh, but you will, madam. The high and mighty Earl will drop you like a hot carriage brick as soon as his beloved Penelope is out from under your roof.”
“So?” said Augusta with a fake yawn.
“So, my dear lady, the only answer is for you to enter the ranks of the aristocracy yourself.”
“And how do I do that? Marry you?” sneered Augusta.
The Comte raised his hands, one of them still holding the pistol, in mock horror. “Heaven forbid!” he exclaimed. “But how would you like to be a Countess yourself?”
“Me! How?”
“You use your talents for snooping to good effect. The Earl has a great deal of high-ranking friends in the military. You supply me with little secrets, I supply them to the Bonapartistes and our very grateful Emperor will award you with a title and estates in France.”
Augusta’s eyes gleamed with a green light like a cat’s. Then she shrugged her fat shoulders, wafting a smell of stale patchouli and sweat towards the Comte who wrinkled his long nose fastidiously. “Bonaparte’s on Elba. He’ll never get off. I’d need more proof than your word.”
“Travel to France with me, tomorrow,” said the Comte, leaning forward in his chair, “and you shall have that proof. You shall even see the estate that will be yours!”
“What’ll I do with Penelope in the meantime? Not that I’ve said I’ll go,” said Augusta hurriedly.
“That’s easy. Tell the enamored Earl to take the girl to see his country home. She will have to learn to supervise a great mansion after all. Then you will be free.”
