Honoria and the Family Obligation

by Alicia Cameron

  ‘I suspect, Miss Fenton, that you are a minx.’

  ‘You knew that the first time you met me, Mr Highwayman.’ She turned away, ‘We’ll be waiting all day for those two,’ she said, standing on a log to remount, ‘Let’s go and join them.’

  It was obvious once more that Serena Fenton had no desire, unlike her companion, to extend their time together. It made his overwhelming desire for her seem like some form of madness.

  The only way to cauterise the wound was by offering for her sister.

  Benedict had his list. In Wilbert’s messy scrawl, he read: Rennie, Sutcliffe, Dawson. Start with Dawson, he’s a relative beginner - he might not notice that he has a cheat playing against him.

  A few visits to places about town, Carstairs’ club, a racing tavern, and another visit to Jackson’s, meant that Benedict went to Countess Overton’s again that evening in search of his quarry. Even though the town was thin of company, the grand salon was still near to full. Now, of course, his visit was very different to his first. Then he had known no-one, but now as he wandered around the room, he nodded to a number of acquaintances, very much the man about town. The Countess had pointed out Dawson to him, but with narrowed eyes. ‘I want no trouble here,’ she’d said. Benedict, abandoning his Brummel manner, gave her the look of a young innocent, trying it out for size before he took it to Dawson’s table. ‘You don’t fool me, young Fenton,’ said the Countess. ‘Your father gave me just such an innocent look before stealing a kiss behind a neighbour’s orangery.’ Benedict was riveted by the notion of his father as a budding rake, a fate his mama must have rescued him from. ‘Who could blame him, madam?’ returned Benedict, kissing her hand like an old fashioned gallant. The Countess laughed, and touched his face playfully. ‘Whatever you mean to do, please do it with discretion or far away from here.’ He took her hand from his cheek and kissed it again. ‘Your wish-’ She rolled her eyes at him, ‘Naughty boy!’ and she wandered off to her tables. But Benedict knew he would be observed.

  By the light of flickering candles, the faces of the gamblers were revealed. A table of the prince’s cronies, overdressed and pungent with perfume, looking lazily at cards, never for a second betraying the life altering amounts of money changing hands. At a neighbouring table, Dawson sat with a number of people that Benedict knew slightly, including an extremely tense young gentleman, the flickering candle illuminating the face of dawning horror at his predicament. Hubert Dawson esquire, a florid man with a shock of black hair, was wearing a slight smile which he tried to conceal whilst a pile of IOUs sat by his elbow amongst the bank notes. Benedict observed for a while, nodding at Tubby Danford, who was a friend of his and Carstairs’ from Cambridge. Dawson was dealing from the bottom of the deck, but so clumsily to Benedict’s accustomed eye that it was a wonder no-one saw him. He looked around the faces gathered there. Dawson’s slightly smug one in his round face, Danford, new in town and rich enough to be unconcerned with his losses, two drunken half-pay officers and the young country hick. Benedict drew up a chair beside Danford and began to chat in a rather more animated manner than normal. Danford said, under his breath, ‘How many have you had, Dickie?’ Even better. Benedict slurred his speech a little and then Dawson, with a large friendly smile, dealt him in.

  It didn’t take too long. Benedict fuzzed the cards enough to let Potts, the bumpkin, win back the majority of his IOUs. He left the table before he had them all, but was thanking fate for his lucky escape from ruin. Benedict liked to be thought of as fate. Dawson looked confused but not suspicious, Benedict’s clumsy fumblings made him an amateur in the man’s eyes. But Dawson’s incompetence was beginning to bore Fenton. How had he won 3000 guineas from Sumner? His Lordship must be an idiot. The memory of his own near ruin at the hand of Rennie chastened his arrogance. He grasped Dawson’s hand that was palming himself an Ace, rather in the manner that Lord Grandiston had grasped Rennie’s. But he did so under the table, where no one could see. He lent forward. And gave Dawson a piece of paper. ‘All of Sumner’s winnings to this address or I expose you now!’ he hissed into the man’s ear. Dawson tried to pull, but was suddenly very still as Benedict clasped his hand tighter. ‘Very well!’ said Dawson under his breath, ‘let me go.’ Benedict leant back, apparently in his cups and ‘That’s a good one!’ and laughed, almost toppling from his chair. Tubby Danford stood up. ‘I’d better get this man home!’

  The next morning, three thousand guineas were sent in large banknotes to him at Carstairs’ rooms. Since the man had fulfilled the bargain, Benedict could not in conscience expose Dawson, and he wondered at how many other innocents would fall under his cat’s paw. “I cannot save the world,” he concluded. But nevertheless, when he remembered the terrified Potts he believed that he was not yet done with Dawson.

  But he had to regroup before taking on Rennie or Sutcliffe - they might not be so easy. And might Dawson have talked to them? Was there a federation of cheats who swapped information on threats to their trade? On the whole, Benedict thought not. But he still needed to be cautious - to think things through for a couple of days.

  The next evening, he and Carstairs were heading for their club for a simple supper when they met the Honourable Charles Booth in Half Moon Street, looking dishonourably tipsy.

  ‘Fluff! Thank God!’ Booth said. ‘You at least are not a dashed follower of Oriana Petersham-’

  ‘You’re a little past go for this hour, old fellow. What’s Miss Petersham got to do with it? She didn’t refuse you?’

  ‘No, no.’ Booth ran his hands through his hair and frowned. ‘At least, not yet.’ He leant forward with his finger tapping his nose. ‘On a secret mission of Grandiston’s - only in town for a few days - been doing the rounds of the watering holes.’ Booth had leaned so far forward as to overbalance and Carstairs caught him, laughing.

  ‘Well come eat with us, Booth, and we won’t press you for secrets. You need some mutton in you.’ Benedict and Carstairs took an arm each and walked companionably to the club. They talked little because apart from the fact that Booth’s feet moved forward, with an occasional veer off in a different direction, his head was on his chest and he bore all the signs of a man taking a little nap. It seemed a shame to bother him.

  After the porters at the club had had the familiar task of pouring a young gentleman into a dining chair and bringing him some sustenance safe for his condition (soup, for example, would not be his first course), Booth began to chat familiarly once more.

  ‘Oriana Petersham is at Ashcroft,’ he announced.

  ‘Who is Oriana Petersham?’ enquired Benedict.

  ‘The Goddess Oriana!’ Carstairs sighed, ‘the unquestioned beauty of the season before last.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Benedict, interested, ‘I never was on more than a short visit to town before last season. I must have missed her. Was she very beautiful?’

  ‘Still is. Hair the colour of corn, eyes a heavenly blue,’ Booth looked speculatively at Carstairs, ‘But I don’t remember you dancing attendance.’

  His Lordship looked uncomfortable, ‘Certainly not. I asked her to dance once and she looked straight through me and said in the coldest possible voice that she was otherwise engaged. I still get chills thinking about it. I like my women warm and inviting.’

  ‘Like Rosa,’ Benedict reminisced. Carstairs shot him a warning look.

  ‘She’s an angel,’ said Booth. He leant forward confidentially, the escaped tail of his cravat dipping into the sauce Bearnaise ‘She’s at Ashcroft.’

  ‘You told us that before. Poor old Bosky Ashcroft’s pile: departed and best forgotten,’ he said, referring to the young Viscount Ashcroft who stood as a warning to young gentlemen that even a young body will succumb to an excess of dissipation. ‘What’s she doing there?’

  ‘Visiting a friend. That’s where she is - at Ashcroft.’

  ‘Ashcroft. Why do you keep telling us that?’

  ‘’S my mission.’

  ‘Your secret mission, is to tell us y
our secret,’ Carstairs recapped.

  ‘Yesh-’ he tapped his nose again. ‘Grandiston sent me.’

  ‘You’ll have all the fools in town bowling down to see her-’

  Booth tapped his nose again. ‘Zactly!’ Booth put himself to eating some dressed crab and seemed the better for it. ‘Tell everyone. She’s at Ashcroft.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll tell your secret everywhere we can.’

  ‘You’re a good fellow, Fluff. You don’t want to marry her.’

  ‘I do not. But you did as I remember. If you have the advantage of knowing her whereabouts, why the devil are you letting your rivals know?’

  ‘Grandiston.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Thank his lordship for me when you see him again, will you?’ said Benedict.

  Booth focused properly on Benedict for the first time. ‘You are young Fenton - got himself in trouble with old Rennie.’

  ‘That’s it,’ admitted Benedict. ‘Though I wouldn’t these days.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure,’ said Booth. ‘Heard he’s wrecked lives playing cards in the army.’ He lowered his voice again, ‘Cheat.’

  Carstairs was on his second bottle, ‘Don’t worry about Benedict. He’s been practising fuzzing the cards. Jolly good too.’

  ‘Fluff! Dash it all-’

  ‘Have you?’ The Honourable asked interestedly, ‘That’ll come in handy. But if you were to try him out on the tables, he’d probably notice. Dreadful scandal.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Benedict gloomily.

  ‘And he probably hasn’t got your money anymore - dreadfully expensive they say,’ Carstairs added.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. He has just fleeced young Silverton, I heard today.’ Booth said. ‘His father has had to bail him out. Took him for over two thousand guineas.’

  Benedict sat up. ‘That’s good news.’

  ‘Not for Silverton it isn’t’

  ‘No. But-’

  ‘If you think you can take him, best do it at a private card party.’ Booth said.

  ‘If I invited him, he’d think it was suspicious.’

  ‘I’ll invite him - we went to Eton together - we both like a wager. Used to have him over for card parties until my valet tumbled his lay. But it’ll have to be tomorrow night. I’m heading back to Ashcroft the next day.’

  Carstairs scratched his head. ‘If Benedict gets caught -’

  ‘Then he’ll be amongst friends. A peer of the realm,’ Carstairs bowed his head in acknowledgement, ‘my honourable self and Rennie. Who will anyone believe? It’ll be entertaining, too. Who’s the better card spinner? You’d better be good or we could all end up with our heads in the basket.’

  ‘Oh, he is,’ said Carstairs. ‘Frighteningly good.’

  ‘But so is Rennie,’ Benedict reminded them.

  Chapter 10

  A Card Party

  Mr Allison had planned their visit to town with the Fentons the next day. Sir Ranalph agreed that a trip to town would be a treat for the young ladies and at dinner the party discussed what entertainment might be had on their brief sojourn. The theatre, museum, Astley’s, and Vauxhall gardens were all discussed, and Lieutenant Prescott laughed. ‘If we add anything to that list, we might as well stay there for the entire summer.’

  ‘Of course you are right sir,’ said Lady Fenton. ‘London is not healthy in the summer heat. A brief visit will not be injurious, I hope. But an extended stay must not be thought of at this season.’

  ‘If we knew what Benedict’s plans were, we could bring him back with us,’ said Serena.

  ‘I will write tonight and apprise him of our arrival,’ Sir Ranalph said. ‘I must say, it is very good of you to open up your house again, just for the entertainment of my girls, Mr Allison. It will cause you a great deal of botheration sending servants ahead and suchlike.’

  ‘Not at all,’ shrugged their host. ‘Blake shall travel ahead with the needful servants. He is a magician. An unexpected occasion is his forte. He lives to be surprised by a project and then appear as though nothing is untoward in the slightest.’

  Serena was looking a little ashamed. It had not occurred to her that her request would put in motion a great deal of work and bother. Papa’s visits to the metropolis involved hotels or hired houses and these could be left behind with no thought. But of course, Mr Allison had a town house that was closed for the summer, with only a skeleton staff on the premises, and no doubt there were holland covers over the furniture and no linen in the bedchambers and her simple desire to see the horses at Astley’s Amphitheatre would involve no end of work for a great many people. ‘Perhaps we should not go!’ she said in a small voice.

  Honoria guessed from this that her sister was responsible for the proposed visit and though she appreciated how much Serena wished to visit the city, she too was grasping the scale of it all. Mr Allison’s position in society made it impossible to merely take simple rooms in town - he had a very grand house indeed. ‘Indeed, perhaps we should not.’

  ‘But you do wish to, Miss Fenton?’ asked the lieutenant. ‘It would be amusing to go as a party.’

  Honoria smiled into his kind eyes. ‘Oh yes, Lieutenant. If you think so.’ As she raised her eyes, they met the sober face of Mr Scribster. But his immobile expression was no mystery to her any more. His eyes declared his amusement and she looked at him crossly. A hint of a smile traversed his face.

  ‘If we leave on Friday, all should be ready for us. I give Blake a whole day. That should be sufficient, should it not Blake?’

  ‘Undoubtedly sir.’

  ‘But just think of the upheaval!’ Lady Fenton declared.

  ‘Her ladyship wishes to spare you, Blake. Let us say that we shall arrive on Saturday.’

  ‘As you wish sir.’ Blake almost shrugged.

  After dinner, the gentlemen remained in the dining room passing the brandy decanter, whilst the ladies withdrew. Sir Ranalph looked as though his good nature was struggling with his desire to ask Allison a direct question: do you intend to offer for my daughter? Allison knew the answer. He did, he was nearly sure he would. But nevertheless, he was glad to be spared the question by means of the twin figures of Scribster and Prescott. Good manners meant Sir Ranalph would not speak in front of them, but Allison was avoiding the discreet tap on the shoulder and a demand for a private chat. He used Darnley shamefully.

  ‘Is the fighting finished now, Darnley?’ he said. He saw Sir Ranalph retreat at this, for to be given an opportunity to hear what the state of play with the brave young men who were fighting under the Duke was of course a privilege.

  ‘Well, I’ve mainly been on Duncan’s staff, out of the fray, but now that Napoleon’s secured in Elba, we have little to fear.’

  After more of this, the gentlemen raised a glass to the Duke, and joined the ladies in the drawing room, where tea was being served.

  The arrival of a carriage stopped the conversation.

  ‘Oh, Lieutenant,’ said Honoria without thinking, ‘It cannot be that you are summoned back to Lisbon. Perhaps there is an emergency? I do hope not.’

  Mr Scribster leant forward to set his teacup down on a side table, thus bringing himself closer to Honoria’s ear. ‘An emergency that only Darnley could save us from? I sincerely hope not.’ She cast him a look of disgust and closed her mouth. Mr Allison, listening to the arrival in his hall, failed to see that look, which might indeed have given him another view of the parentally obliging Honoria, but her mother did not.

  She moved to the tea tray and said, ‘Honoria! Pray assist me to replenish my cup.’

  Moving forward automatically, Honoria suddenly noted her mama’s reproving eyes. ‘I know that Mr Scribster can be challenging, Honoria, but you will be pleased to keep your face from expressing its displeasure. It is not like you, my dear.’

  There did not seem to be any way to explain her bargain with Mr. Scribster and that he would not be at all offended, so she merely said, just as quietly, ‘Yes Mama.’

  She saw
across the room that the dratted man had a fair idea of their conversation.

  ‘I think it is Genevieve Horton - Lady Sumner, I mean,’ said Serena, who had also been listening to the noise in the hall.

  So indeed it proved. Lady Sumner, in an old cape and a plain stuff gown, with her bushy hair escaping from her bonnet and her long nose unattractively tipped in red from the cold, arrived in the midst of them.

  ‘Your ladyship!’ said Mr Allison, moving forward, ‘Did no-one offer to take your cape?’

  ‘Mr Allison,’ Lady Sumner said, shaking his hand more in the manner of a man than the lady she was. ‘So sorry to break in in this dreadful way, but I have an injured horse, you know, and I wanted a word with Miss Serena Fenton.’

  He hid his surprise very well, but begged her to be seated.

  Soon, as she had planned, she had agreed to send the remedy for the non-existent injury ahead to London with her groom, whilst she would stay here and go on to London with the party on Saturday. Only two days delay! She was cruelly disappointed, but she had bought herself some distance from her husband, that was the best she could do.

  Honoria and Serena sat at each side of her on the elegant settle, and as they talked and she answered automatically, she looked up and surprised a gaze of pity from Sir Ranalph’s kind eyes. Her own eyes misted. Surely he could not guess - but Benedict must have told him - she was ashamed. She looked quickly at Lady Fenton, but she was talking gaily to the lieutenant and Genevieve was perfectly sure she had no idea of her shame.

  At one side, Serena was prattling about the remedy, and at the other, Honoria’s small hand stole into hers. She turned to look at her. Honoria, too, guessed something. Surely Benedict had not discussed her plight with his entire family? No, but she had said too much to Honoria on the subject of marriage. She had given herself away again. She must be very careful. After giving her kind friend’s hand a squeeze, she retracted her own.