Bething's Folly

by Barbara Metzger

  “Did the chap give you any idea of the man’s identity?”

  “Not definitely, but with a little golden reminder he was able to recall a certain French count. I’ve heard he’s on the lookout for an heiress, hanging around the gaming tables in the meantime. I’m sure you’ve seen him around. The dice are always against him. It would seem he has changed his luck, or his game, the dog.”

  “Will you call him out?”

  “What for? Hunting on my preserves? No, I’ve no proof. Besides, no wench is worth it. I’ve done with Yvette. They can both starve for all I care.”

  “So which rankles most, the idea of Yvette sharing her, um, favours, or sharing your money?”

  “Actually, what galls me the worst is the idea of that damned Frenchman drinking the last of my finest French brandy. Women, I tell you, Ferddie, are all Harpies.”

  So it was that the two gentlemen found themselves in the dark streets, having visited several more of their clubs to discuss the cunning strengths of the weaker sex, be they of the haute-monde, the demi-monde, or the baser haunts of the nobility.

  Carleton congratulated himself on his freedom, and Milbrooke happily anticipated the morning’s gossip. Pleased with their night’s activity and each other’s company, they finally reached Milbrooke’s front door.

  TWO

  “Well, here you are, Ferddie,” said Carleton outside the door to Milbrooke’s lodgings. “What are your plans for the morning? Will you attend the mill at Stuart’s?”

  “Um, what morning is that? Tuesday? Yes, I think so. Will you drive?” And the two continued walking a half block farther to Carleton’s townhouse, a handsome grey stone building. They paused outside the ironwork gates as Carleton invited his friend in for a parting drink. Ferddie declined, unsteadily pointing to the first lightening of the dawn, wondering how many hours away was the morning’s activity. So they walked back to Milbrooke’s, discussing the odds set for the day’s match and the company they could look forward to meeting. At last they parted and Carleton walked home alone, humming none too softly but carefully watching his footsteps so they stayed in a line.

  He hesitated when he reached the gates again, looking up with a fond, pleased smile at the lights left burning for him. The house came nowhere near the magnificence of his family’s London home, Carlyle House in Berkeley Square, nor the newer elegance of Yvette’s, but here was the Marquis’s private refuge. It was filled with his books, the smell of his tobacco, his dogs and, often as not, his cronies. There was nothing spindly or fragile in it, only good, sturdy stuff a man could be comfortable with. The house was staffed with a butler and a cook-housekeeper who had followed him from his father’s estates, leaving positions as under-servants to run a household of their own for the young master when he was just out of school. His valet had been born on the estate and had come to Carleton when the Marquis was only sixteen, a level-headed gentleman’s gentleman who hoped to have a restraining influence on the young lord. Other household help was hired when there was need, such as entertaining or major housecleaning, and the few cleaning girls who came in by day were never allowed to intrude on Carleton’s privacy—whether through the offices of Mrs. Henrys, his housekeeper, or their own mamas, he never knew. His secretary, a distant younger relative of his father, the Duke, also came in by day, to go over accounts, engagements and correspondence. Carleton, in fact, concerned himself not a bit with the daily workings of his household, only knowing himself comfortable, well-fed and vaguely grateful to be excused from such considerations as servants, budgets and menus.

  It was only moments such as these, his head already beginning to ache, his clothes a little disordered, that he wished to be surrounded only by strangers or, better yet, ignored, instead of seeing the concern and disapproval on the faces of old family retainers.

  Ah, well, he thought, he was home before dawn—just—and no one was expected to wait up for him. Nevertheless, he straightened his broad shoulders, put his head to one side and whistled the racy tune making the rounds of the clubs. Feigning jauntiness he was far from feeling, he entered his own gates.

  The moment the gates swung to, the front door was opened and light flooded the walk. Henrys was standing just inside, not showing any signs of anxiety or reproof, merely behaving as though butlers always welcomed their masters home at five in the morning. Carleton looked around enquiringly but nothing showed out of the ordinary. Henrys took his coat and asked, as he always did, if his lordship had had a pleasant evening and if there was anything he might wish. Then and only then, custom fulfilled, he coughed gently and mentioned that a letter had been delivered somewhat earlier in the evening.

  “A letter, Henrys? Don’t tell me you waited up to give me a letter! No, not now. Give it to Mr. Sebastian in the morning, or burn it. for all I care!”

  Henrys cleared his throat again, “Yes, my Lord, but I did feel you might wish to see it, sir. It’s from the Hall.” And he held out a thick page sealed in blue with the ducal crest.

  “From the Duke? Why didn’t you say so. man?” exclaimed Carleton. ripping open the page. All signs of weariness were suddenly gone, all the boyish merriment and even the flush of indulgence. He read through the short note and then absently folded it over again.

  “I have been requested to attend his Grace at my earliest convenience, which could only mean something urgent, or he would have put it in the note. What time did this arrive? Why wasn’t I sent for?”

  “It arrived about eleven, my Lord and I did consider it somewhat out of the ordinary, a messenger arriving like that. But the boy did not know of any, um, misfortune at the Hall. I called for Jeremy at the stables and sent him round to Lady Ashton-Milbrooke’s rout. sir. but you had left somewhat, um, early, he was told.” Henrys was choosing his words with care, being obviously more informed than his master knew or desired. “I sent him to Bank Street then, but he was, um, not admitted?” The question here was rather hopefully put. When no information was forthcoming, Henrys continued: “Finally Jeremy went round to Watiers, but you’d not been there, and White’s, but you had already left. Then we, Mrs. Henrys and I, sir, felt Jeremy could perhaps be needed here, when you returned. He’s waiting for your orders at the stable.”

  “Right, Henrys. You’ll have to go tell him to fetch my horse round in about twenty minutes while I change. Also, he’ll follow with the chaise as soon as Ainsley packs my bags. And make sure the boy from Carlyle is ready to go with them unless he has business in town. Yes, and I’ll need something to eat along the way. Do you think you could raid Mrs. Henrys’s pantry for me?”

  “Oh, there is no need, sir. She has a breakfast packed for you, and Ainsley is waiting upstairs with your riding clothes ready. Your valise is already in the chaise. And Mrs. Henrys can have tea laid out for you in just a moment, when you’ve done changing.”

  Carleton was momentarily stunned at the thoroughness of his employees. If they’d had to drag him unconscious from some gaming hell and tie him to the back of his horse, he was sure they would do it, yes, and see he was shaved and sober before greeting his father, to boot! He could only mutter words about his profound appreciation before bounding up the stairs. Ainsley was waiting for him as promised, ready with a hot basin of water to wash in, fresh clothes and shining riding boots. His greatcoat was laid out on the bed in case of an early morning chill, next to a saddle pack containing merely Carleton’s shaving equipment and a clean shirt. He had duplicates of everything he’d need at Carlyle Hall and could easily make do until his valet arrived.

  “I expect to be at Carlyle by midafternoon, Ainsley. I’ll only stop to change horses once, if I can manage. Do you get there as quickly as possible. I’ll look for you towards midnight.”

  Ainsley agreed, silently dreading the ride with only the groom at the ribbons. It would only be the care Jeremy took of his master’s horseflesh that would save Ainsley’s skin. He did not mention his own worries, of course, noting the grave concern on Lord Carleton’s face as he hurriedly fitte
d him into his riding jacket and pulled on his boots. He could not help a smidgeon of satisfaction, thinking how the young master would do Ainsley proud in front of Greaves, the Duke’s arrogant man. Thoughts of the Duke and his uncertain health returned to mind the gravity of the moment; Ainsley quickly draped the caped greatcoat over Carleton’s wide shoulders.

  Carleton strode down the stairs for a quick drink of something hot, some toast and jam, and a few final instructions to Henrys about sending a note round to Milbrooke and having Sebastian take care of other commitments.

  In precisely twenty-two minutes from his entry to the house, horses were heard at the gates. Carleton grabbed the appreciation once more and was off, almost running down one of the housemaids coming for her morning’s work. She jumped aside and clicked her tongue at the goings-on of the nobility. Almost every day she had to tiptoe round at her chores while the master slept; here it was, barely six o’clock, and he was careening around the town like he had an honest job to get to. Oh, well, at least now she might hum to make the morning go faster.

  THREE

  Noontime found Lord Carleton at a staging house, downing a tankard of ale while horses were brought around for his inspection. He certainly looked different from the polished London Dandy of the dawn, with his face covered with dust and his clothes and boots spattered with mud and grime. The grim lines around his mouth replacing the ready smile attested to the seriousness of his ride. He’d spent the last hours encouraging his tired mount and agonising over what amounted to a midnight summons to Carlyle Hall. “At his earliest convenience,” indeed! With no hint as to the reason for the message, only the worst could be expected. It must be his father’s health, he supposed, for the old Duke had had warnings of heart ailment in the past. Let him only be in time, he thought now, impatiently smacking his riding crop against his topboots as another sway-backed old hay-burner was led out of the stables. The Duchess, he recalled, had been in perfect glowing health just last month when he’d attended her at her visit to London for a rare two-day shopping excursion. The Duke had not accompanied her, claiming business on the estate, which now seemed suspect. But no, his lady mother had seemed untroubled, and surely any concern felt through her great love of the Duke must have been apparent.

  Carleton’s mouth relaxed as he recalled the two days he had escorted the Duchess, the sweetest, most feminine woman of his acquaintance. He remembered the pride he had felt at having such a lady on his arm at the opera’s doors. Some twenty years younger than the Duke, the Duchess was still a great beauty, but now with the assurance and calm poise which made her a great lady. Carleton had even to discourage a few middle-aged courtiers from making advances. The box had been full of them at intermission. The Duchess had laughed her chiming enjoyment and said what fun it would give the Duke to hear of her success.

  The Duke, Carleton thought, and the urgent need to get home swelled up again. He selected the only sound-looking horse in the lot, a wide-chested beast. He paid his shot while vowing never to patronize this particular hostelry again, and was off once the mount was saddled, scattering pebbles and stable help both.

  The Duke of Carlyle was indeed in his bed that morning, a massive four-poster hung with antique draperies. The tapestries were pulled back now, and the Duke was fretfully surrounded by his doctor, his man of business and the curate. His valet stood by the window, holding the curtains aside to watch for the Marquis’s arrival. He heard a muttered “Damn” from his Grace and anxiously turned to catch the pained expression on the Duke’s face as he tossed his cards down on the deal table pulled next to his bed.

  “I’ve no patience for whist today, gentlemen, my apologies. In truth, I dislike being around the house all day, to say nothing of wearing nightclothes when I should be out.” And he plucked at the white gown. “But what must be must be. Greaves, keep an eye to that window. It’s early yet, but he might arrive sooner than expected.”

  “Only if the Marquis was at home, your Grace,” soothed Mr. Campion, the Duke’s old friend and solicitor, called down from London to be accomplice, not altogether unwilling, in the Duke’s current scheme to get his son settled in life. “No, Lord Alexander would have had to leave London at eleven last night to arrive at the Hall soon.”

  “Which he damn well did not,” growled the Duke. “From what I hear and what the Duchess gathered, the damn cub never sleeps at home. He is leading a round of... of dissolution. And don’t look at me like that, Reverend. I may have been a wild youth, yes, and married late in life like the Carletons always have, but at least I had brothers behind me to insure the succession. Alexander has no one, so must do his duty—and soon, too. I’ll not have my brother Jack’s damn progeny sleeping in my bed!”

  Anger at the thought—though he would be long dead before it happened—mingled with regret in the Duke’s mind. There had been other children, a boy first, dark like himself but so sickly the second winter was too much for him. Then Alexander, with his mother’s blond looks and cherubic beauty, a good, sturdy lad. Then two infants dead at birth, a girl and another boy. After that the Duke had refused to allow his wife another pregnancy. Even the offspring of Jack and the ninnyhammer he had married taking his—and Alexander’s—place was preferable to endangering his lady-wife. No, she was more precious than even that consideration. But now Alexander, coddled and spoiled and loved beyond the share of any four children, must live up to the obligations of his centuries-old name. And soon, while the Duke could enjoy his grandchildren and the peace of knowing Alexander comfortably settled at last. Yes, this had to succeed.

  “What time is it, Campion?” he asked irritably.

  “Almost noon, your Grace.”

  “How about a small wager?” asked the doctor, also invited just for the show and enjoying himself immensely on the good food and good company. “I say he gets here within the hour, riding. Or do you think he’ll drive?”

  “No, I’m sure he will ride. You’re on! I say he would not receive the message till morning, and, leaving immediately, one change of horse, riding like the devil, he should be here by five.”

  “I had to put up overnight on my way down,” considered the solicitor. “That was in your Grace’s chaise, of course, but the roads were in deplorable conditions, what with the rain. Supposing you are correct and Lord Alexander leaves London at six or seven, for you must know his habits best, I still say it must take twelve hours. Seven this evening is my bet.”

  “The boy can do it in ten,” the Duke stated, positively and proudly. “I was known to make good time myself once. He’ll not stick to the roads, either. I’ll be bound he comes cross-country and shaves time that way.” The Duke spoke with assurance. He knew what was due him as the head of the family, but he also knew what would be freely given, out of love and concern. In fact, he was counting on it.

  The curate now entered the conversation for the first time. He was not averse to a game of whist and certainly not shocked at the suggestion of a wager. He had readily acquiesced to the Duke’s deception and was, in fact, pleased to be invited to join the company. Furthermore, the Duke had always been generous to the parish and would be, presumably, more so in the future. All material considerations aside, however, the curate’s sympathies were always with the underdog and now his sensibilities were bothered. “Your Grace, don’t you think it somewhat hard on the boy, asking him to travel all day, with no sleep, under uncomfortable and perhaps dangerous conditions, while suffering grave concerns over your Grace’s health?”

  “Nonsense. All that will merely lower his defenses! Do you think we could pull this off if the boy was rested and at ease to think about it? No, the timing and worry are a necessary part of the plan.” The Duke chuckled. “And I need all the advantages I can gather. So come, Reverend, your sympathies are becoming but wasted here. What is your wager?”

  The reverend politely and politically selected a time much later than the Duke’s guess, which he considered accurate, ready to compliment the Duke on the proof of his son’s
devotion when the Marquis arrived earlier. The curate was often, in this company, weighing wisdom against scruples, with the truth bending somewhat for convenience. He said a silent prayer for forgiveness while the wager was modestly fixed, Greaves holding the money.

  Next under consideration was how quickly a wedding could decently be staged without giving gossip a breeding ground once the Marquis had selected a bride. Which of course led to consideration of the local young ladies of standing, if no bride was forthcoming from London, which the Duke thought improbable.

  “No, if he was paying court to any of the debutantes we would have heard of it by now. These things get talked about, you know. I’d be surprised if he even knew any suitable females!” the Duke said with a scowl. Then not wishing to belabour the issue, he invited his guests to go downstairs to partake of what he hoped would be a satisfactory luncheon. “I wish I could join you, but mustn’t take the risk. Greaves, see the gentlemen out, then find me a tray or something. Mr. Campion, please make a toast to our success ... and, Reverend, do say a prayer.”

  When his guests had departed, the Duke did in fact get under the covers and lean back against his pillows. He closed his eyes and his face did look weary, with deep lines etched under the thick hair, still dark but with the temples almost white. Yes, he was getting old, he admitted to himself. It would be well to get this settled. Then one side of his mouth twitched upward in anticipation and the eyes snapped open, glittering, giving him a decidedly youthful, mischievous look—a look, in fact, which was very familiar to his son’s associates.

  There was a soft knock on the door and the Duchess entered, an exquisite portrait of stately blonde beauty with a bouquet of miniature roses in a crystal vase. When she caught the expression on the Duke’s face, her smile of welcome faded. The Duchess’s eyebrows came together and her lower lip was fixed with determination, but she held her peace while a series of footmen covered the deal table with white linen and Sevres china for two. The Duchess set the vase in the center of the table, putting it down with an audible thud.