Contrary Cousins

by Judith Harkness

  And so Serena was forced once more into a justification of Antonia’s behavior, which went unheeded.

  One thing, however, from which she had benefited, from the Viscount’s eagerness to tell her everything, was a clearer understanding of Lord Blandford’s character. While Rollins referred to that gentleman by turns admiringly and condescendingly—Serena suspected, for her benefit, he had let slip the fact that me Marquis had asked for, and been granted, several loans of considerable size by the Viscount. This, Rollins had conjectured, should hold him for a bit—but then he was constantly amazed at how quickly the fellow ran through his money. Serena had no way of knowing the whole truth of the matter, for Viscount Rollins’s disposition was so mercurial that he gave a different reading of his friend every day. One moment Blandford was “the best fellow upon earth”—the next, “an ungrateful swine.” The idea, however, that Lord Blandford was indebted to his friend for great sums, and yet treated him, as she had seen the Marquis do, so coldly and indifferently, made her uneasy and angry. For such a creature as she was, who never spent a penny without weighing the importance of the purchase thrice, flagrancy with money was reason enough to be mistrustful.

  But of all her reservations about Lord Blandford, none was so great as the one which had risen in her breast upon hearing Mr. Lytton-Smythe’s account of how the Marquis had mistreated Miss Ulridge. Such conduct, known by herself most painfully, could not be excused in anyone. That a nature so callous, so brutal, might be linked irrevocably with her cousin’s, made Serena, despite all her present worries, more frightened for her cousin than for herself. Antonia had, in the past few days, displayed every sign of being in love with the man; she would not listen to anything against him, and her reply to Serena’s several attempts to dissuade her was a toss of her head and a laugh—“Oh!” she would exclaim, “I know he is not what you would like, my dear, but he is everything I like best! Besides, you know, I cannot bear the idea of living a dull life. And Blandford, whatever you say, would never be dull!”

  Of this, Serena was all too painfully aware. Even if Blandford married her, what would her chance for happiness be, with a man who would not blink at breaking hearts? Their lives were sure to be crossed by his cold nature, no matter what. And so Serena had taken up her pen to plead for Mr. Lytton-Smythe’s advice in the matter, but, put to the point, she had shuddered, and drawn back. What would he think of her? Surely he would interpret such a plea as some sort of feminine connivance to make him love her. No—far better to try to speak to him in person. He would surely be at dinner tonight—she would endeavor to get him alone, but in such a way that he could not possibly misinterpret her desires . . .

  Chapter XXII

  The Duke of Clarence, leaning back in his chair, and holding his glass up to the light of the chandelier, observed to his hostess that he had not had Dom Perignon of this caliber for a good many years.

  “Not since I was a young man, my dear Winifred,” he declared, “when you were a devilish little flirt, and Roland was cutting me out at every step.”

  Lady Pendleton, more pink than usual, whether from the warmth of so many bodies, or the several tumblers of bubbly she had herself imbibed, or the Duke’s eyes upon her, beamed. “Nothin’ like, my dear Duke! You know you never fought back!”

  “Ah, but Winifred—you do me an injustice! Who could have fought back against Pendleton, in his regimentals, which are always far better suited to making a man look his best than the Horse Guard colors?”

  “True,” returned her ladyship complacently, with a recollecting sort of expression. “There never was anythin’ so fine as Roland in his crimson coat. You are drinkin’ his own best wine, you know—’76, saved only for my favorite dukes. I watched Bentley bring it up myself, and layer it in ice. Roland never liked it chilled, but I recollect you always differed upon that!”

  “What a marvelous woman you are, Winifred. Is there anything goes past you?”

  “Not much,” replied her ladyship, with becoming modesty, “though, to be frank, just now there is a bit of somethin’ I shouldn’t mind your advice upon.”

  His Grace swept an approving eye over the assembled guests, ranged downward from himself and Lady Pendleton at one end, and his brother with Lady Jersey at the other. The great table was swathed in Belgian lace, with little silver baskets of orchid and fern before every place, and the whole alight from the myriad twinkling of a hundred golden forks, knives, and spoons, and twice that number of crystal goblets. The opening course had been a jellied pheasant in cherries under glass; from there, with interjections of wine sherbet, the company had journeyed from lobsters and Scottish salmon, through sides of beef, suckling pig, and a saddle of lamb. They were now in the midst of that pleasurable intermission, between salty foods and sweet ones, so favorable to the asking—and the granting of favors. The Duke, himself a devotee of fine food and wine, was in a blissful state of mind. So replete from head to toe was he, that he gave barely a nod, and a small twinkle, in reply.

  “Advice, Winifred? After such a meal!”

  “Only tell me somethin’, Duke, if you will. D’you know anythin’ against that Blandford fellow?”

  The Duke’s eye roved toward that part of the table where Miss Antonia Powell—such a delight to see, all vivid cheek and sparkling eye!—was inclining slightly toward her left, as it seemed, to better hear some remark of the gentleman on her right. Blandford seemed to be saying something clever, for she raised her head, and laughed delightedly. At the same instant, the Marquis’s eye, drifting to the end of the table, encountered the Duke’s curious one. Blandford flushed slightly, and averted his gaze at once.

  “Why, my dear Winifred,” drawled the Duke, “why should I know anything against him?”

  Lady Pendleton cocked her head a little to one side, and her jeweled fingers commenced a slight impatient tapping upon the cloth. “Come, Your Grace! I know there is somethin’! More, I mean, than that business of Southington’s child. Only Freddy won’t tell me anythin’, and I think Antonia is fallin’ in love. It would be too bad to let her break her heart for a scoundrel, if he is one! After all, I am her guardian whilst she is in England, and I must treat her as I would my own child.”

  “She looks quite capable of taking care of herself, Winifred!” responded the Duke.

  “Ah! She’s pert all right—and lively! But I never knew that to prevent one’s fallin’ in love with the wrong man. Rather to the contrary, in my experience!”

  The Duke gazed down at his glass for a moment, with a crease in his brow. At length, he said quite slowly, “I do not know that it is my place to say anything against a peer of the realm, your ladyship. It does not seem quite fair play, as coming from me—”

  “It might be taken harder?” Lady Pendleton finished for him. “Bosh, Duke! I am not one of your ninny-brained Ministers, who shall go prattlin’ about town tellin’ tales! I am only tryin’ to save a young girl from any undue distress!”

  “Very well then,” said His Grace with a sigh. “There are certain things—I trust they shall not go any further than your own ears—which I have heard said about Lord Blandford. I must emphasize that they are all, so far as I am concerned, hearsay—”

  “Such as?” snapped Lady Pendleton, as a puppy might snap at a tossed bone, fearing it will get away.

  “Such as the fact that he has repeatedly incurred gaming debts which he is unable to pay—no worse, I might add, than half the peers of the realm, who have memberships to White’s or Boodles. Save that it is common, and chivalrous, custom, to allay such debts in one way or another, as soon as possible. I have known men who have sold half of all they owned, in order to do so. Blandford, however, appears to have gained the reputation of a man who does not care for his debts, nor his debtors. He went off to the Continent, they tell me, to escape them. Quite a few gentlemen have made such kinds of escape fashionable—not the least, my brother’s old friend Brummell. However, it is not a habit I should like to see become terribly popular, and a
s Blandford is so much admired by many of our young dandies, it may be taken up as a sort of stylish ruse.”

  “Well then—so he needs money pretty badly, does he?” muttered her ladyship. “I suppose he is lookin’ for a rich wife. They all seem to.”

  “There has been a rumor about to that effect,” agreed His Grace, fingering his glass uncomfortably. “Some say it was expressly for that he came back to England.”

  “And there is nothin’ else?” inquired Lady Pendleton rather sharply. “I cannot condemn him solely for playin’ away his fortune at cards, you know!”

  His Grace, looking more and more uncomfortable, frowned in silence for a moment, and then, as if having made up his mind to say the worst, burst out. “Well, that is not quite all, Winifred. Only I am afraid I mayn’t tell you anymore.”

  Lady Pendleton took on that keen look, peculiar in one so plump and jolly-looking, reminiscent of a hawk in sight of carrion. “Tell me, Duke, if you please!”

  “You are a lady, Winifred.”

  “Ah! So it’s that is it? Well, I dare say I shall not be too shocked by anything you can tell me, my dear Duke. I was married for a good many years, you know!”

  The Duke of Clarence turned his eyes upon his hostess, and gave one of those charming smiles for which he was rightfully famous. “I dare say, Winifred. But, although I’ll wager Roland would have loved to give you a spanking on a good many occasions, I am pretty sure he never actually struck you.”

  Lady Pendleton’s face grew suddenly stern. “Go on, Duke—tell me the worst!”

  “I shall go no further than this, Winifred. I believe Blandford kept a mistress for some years round about Piccadilly Terrace. There are stories—most unsavory—of his treatment of her. She was only a sort of urchin when he found her, but even so!”

  “Even so!” echoed her ladyship, beginning to look outraged. “Do you mean he liked strikin’ her? Blackguard!”

  “That, and rather worse, I am afraid,” was the Duke’s reply, made very softly, and with an expression of great distaste.

  Lady Pendleton, herself nearly overcome with outrage at the very idea, demanded, “Well, where is the girl now?”

  “I believe,” returned the Duke, “that she was fortunate enough to die.”

  No words can express the horror with which Lady Pendleton, accustomed to cheerfulness, luxury, and kindness, and herself a great believer in dispensing the forementioned qualities to those about her, took in this last fact, and the expression with which it was uttered. A glance at the Duke’s face was sufficient to convince her that no villainy upon earth could now be past the Marquis of Blandford, seated so cozily at her own table, in such intimate conversation with her young American relation. She scarce dared look in that direction, for fear that her expression would give her away. And yet to think, that she had put him in the way of stealing Antonia’s heart—oh, inadvertently, to be sure! But nonetheless, her ladyship felt all at once the weight of responsibility upon her small plump shoulders. With a sudden feeling of helplessness—an unusual sensation in that soft, warm bosom—she stole a glance from beneath lowered lashes at the pair. To be sure, Antonia was behavin’ for all the world like a silly goose! “All girls in love are silly gooses,” she told herself. And then, with a glance at Blandford’s handsome, polished figure, seated in so debonair and casual an attitude, with one elegant hand resting upon the tablecloth, his dark eyes fastened upon Antonia, she gave a small snort.

  “Well,” she murmured, “I shan’t have it! We must do somethin’, Duke!”

  His Grace looked mildly astonished. “What on earth can be done, my dear lady? I suppose young people must have their heads—I never knew a young lady in love to give up the object of her affections without a struggle! Besides—how do you know it is such an emotion? Your young friend appears to me the sort of young woman—rather like yourself, if I recollect aright—who falls in love five times a day, and out again as many. Surely this shall pass off?”

  “I cannot depend upon it,” returned Lady Pendleton, her mind busily at work.

  That mind, having done several astonishing somersaults, appeared to be set upon its course by the time a train of footmen, bearing silver platters laden with iced confections and hothouse fruits, made their appearance. Lady Pendleton, having secured the knowledge she required, refused to be drawn out by an anxious, and curious, Duke. With a bright little smile, and a pat upon his large hand, as if he were a schoolboy, she turned the conversation to lighter topics. But directly after dinner, when she led the ladies into the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their cigars and port, she contrived to get Serena off to one side.

  “I have heard some appaling things about Blandford from the Duke of Clarence,” she said, briefly noticing the pallor of the young woman next her upon the little divan. “Do you think this business of Antonia’s is quite serious?”

  “I am afraid so, Auntie—it has been worrying me most awfully. But what did you hear?”

  “Never mind, my dear—but believe me, it is beyond everythin’ I ever dreamed. The dinner’s goin’ along quite nicely, don’t you think? But we must do somethin’, my dear.”

  Serena expressed her belief that it was all but futile to try to dissuade her cousin. “She has got her head, Auntie—I can do nothing with her!”

  “That shan’t work, of course—provokin’! We must be clever, my dear—and sly—sly as anythin’!”

  Serena looked taken aback. “But, Auntie—how?”

  Lady Pendleton gave her young relative a keen glance. “Spoken to Mr. Lytton-Smythe yet, Serena? Ah—I didn’t think so! Well, this is what I have in mind: it appears Blandford is frightfully short of pocket, and needs to make a great match straight away. For some reason or other”—Lady Pendleton glossed over this point with admirable agility—“he seems to think your cousin is exceedin’ rich. It’s my belief he wouldn’t pay her any mind, if he didn’t think so—don’t look so horrified, Rena, ’tis done in this world, you know—so, what we must do, is to let him know the truth!”

  Serena considered this idea in silence for a minute. “But, Auntie,” said she at length, “if he truly wants nothing but her money, then he shall drop her!”

  “Just so,” returned Lady Pendleton, with a sharp nod.

  “But—but it would break her heart!”

  “Better now than later, my dear—mark my words! If only she sees through him once, I am quite sure she’ll give him up—and with pleasure!”

  Serena pondered the idea. It was sensible, certainly: but what might it not encompass of suffering for Antonia? Serena hated to think what her feelings would be! Still—would not it be a far cry better than later discovery? And, with a firmness which delighted Lady Pendleton, Serena nodded her head.

  “Well, then—that is what we must do. Only how?”

  Now her ladyship took on that look again, so reminiscent of hunting birds, and eyed her companion warily. “I thought,” she commenced slowly, “that we might let it be known that you are the rich one.”

  “I!” cried Serena, aghast. “But what can that avail?”

  “He’ll desert her for you upon the spot, if he is what I think he is—and then you may give him a lovely setdown, my dear. But in the meantime, Antonia will certainly have given up hope, and turned quite against him, if she is anything like as spirited as I think!”

  Serena had barely time to consider this suggestion, so daring in its scope, and demanding of her in its dimensions, before my Lady Jersey was glimpsed walking toward them with a purposeful gait.

  “Leave it to me, my dear!” whispered her ladyship urgently. “You agree then, good! Only let them think you like it, just for a bit. Good evenin’, your ladyship! Did you get enough of that lovely iced apricot? No? Why I shall have Cook send you some tomorrow! Serena, dear, you have been presented to my Lady Jersey, have you not?”

  And Serena was left to muddle out the rest by herself, between the remarks of the other guests, and the prattling of Aunt Winifred. Very shor
tly thereafter, however, the gentlemen came in for their coffee. Serena saw the first of them—including Viscount Rollins, with a sinking sensation. That gentleman, separated from her at dinner, now seemed bent upon renewing his possession of her. Glimpsing some other man heading toward the corner where she stood, he scurried thither with a determined look.

  “Ah, Miss Powell!” he proclaimed, taking up his post between herself and the rest of the room. “I was so awfully sorry to be away from you at table, for I have a great deal to say.”

  Serena heard this with dismay, for the Viscount seemed always to have a great deal to say, and her powers of listening usually could not compete with his powers of lecturing. Above his head, she saw Mr. Lytton-Smythe move quietly into the room, and glancing around, take his place beside the coffee table and a quiet-looking young lady. Oh! Now he is lost, thought Serena. I shall not get him aside all evening.

  But then, to distract her nerves still more, came the elegant figure of Lord Blandford strolling into the room and going straight toward Antonia. Serena, hardly hearing the effusions of the Viscount Rollins, watched their meeting with pain. Her cousin looked up as if the sun itself had come to sit beside her and hand her coffee! How was she to take the news that this paragon of excellence whom she so admired loved her only so much as the size of her fortune. Serena did not know. With half her heart she wished for all the world it would not affect him—with the other, she hoped it would, if it could prevent any further heartache for her young cousin!

  “As I was saying, Miss Powell,” came the voice of the Viscount Rollins through her meditations, “my father will have had the letter by now. I expect he shall take it hard at first, for you know he has never liked to think of our American relations. However I am quite determined he shall approve you, when last he makes your acquaintance—so much so, that I have proposed his coming to town earlier than is usual for him. He generally does not come up till February, for he says London weakens his health; I should be the last to wish to endanger it more, save for my keen desire to have him know you. Once the formalities are accomplished, we may proceed with all haste—”