A Regency Scandal

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “I am to be a dresser to the great Astley Cooper,” he informed her, his eyes alight with enthusiasm.

  “It sounds famous, James! But what precisely is a dresser? I thought it was a lady’s maid!”

  He laughed. “A fine abigail I should make! No, Nell, a medical dresser’s a man who assists surgeons at operations, does dressings and so forth, and sometimes has accident cases confided to his care in the absence of his superiors. I shall learn something of surgical matters, you know, to add to the experience of physic and general practice that I’ve studied under Dr. Gillies. I’ll be attending lectures on Anatomy and the Practice of Physic, and at the end of my six months’ training I shall hope to become a Licentiate of the Society of Apothecaries. Then I’ll be a fully fledged medical man, and Dr. Gillies has offered to take me into partnership.”

  “Oh, Jamie, I’m so glad for you!” She pressed his hand affectionately. “It’s what you’ve always wished to do. And will you reside in the hospital?”

  “Not permanently, only when it’s my periodic week as dresser on duty. A bedroom and sitting room are provided in the hospital for that purpose. Otherwise, I shall need to find a lodging close by, so that I can be fetched quickly when needed. I may probably share rooms with one of the other students.”

  They continued talking on this interesting topic for a while longer; until James, who was by no means self-centred, said it was time Helen told him of her own concerns.

  “You’re leaving school at the end of this term, Nell, and I daresay you’ll not be sorry to be home again. You may miss your friends at first, though. The plump little girl’s a nice creature, isn’t she? Now I think of it, I realise that she’s the daughter of Father’s old Oxford friend, Sir George Chetwode. Been staying with you at times during the holidays, hasn’t she? Though we’ve never chanced to meet before, since I’ve so rarely been at home.”

  “Oh, James, don’t refer to poor Melissa as plump!” Helen pleaded. “She’s prodigiously sensitive about it.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t do so to her face, naturally. It’s a pretty face, too, and she’s not all that plump, after all. Nothing that won’t fine down in a year or so, mark my words.”

  “So I’m for ever telling her, but she won’t believe me. We intend to keep up our friendship by correspondence and visits, though. Talking of keeping up friendships, do you ever see anything of Viscount Shaldon these days? Cynthia Lydney was remarking earlier today that she hadn’t set eyes on him since she was a child, and I believe I was about twelve when last we met. But that’s scarce surprising, seeing how rarely he has visited Alvington Hall during the years since he first went up to Oxford. Mama says he always calls on them whenever he does chance to go there — but, of course, I’ve been away from home most of the time.”

  “Yes, we’ve met occasionally, though not very recently, I fear. My work with Dr. Gillies occupies me constantly, so that I can rarely get up to Town. But I’ve dined now and then with him at his rooms in Clarges Street, where he’s been living for the past three years, ever since he came down from Oxford. Now and then, we’ve been together to watch a cricket match or a mill, too.”

  “Is he” — she hesitated, then went on — “is he just as he used to be?”

  James pursed his lips. “Difficult to say. We’re still on easy terms together, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Well, no, not precisely. You see, Cynthia said” — Helen paused, finding it a little difficult to repeat exactly what Cynthia had said. “She implied that Lord Shaldon had become — something of a flirt.”

  “You females!” exclaimed her brother in disgust. “Must you prattle gossip even in the schoolroom? I should have supposed Mrs. Cassington might have found you something better to do with your time! As for Miss Lydney, you should know by now that she was always a rare one for stirring up mischief, and most likely she hasn’t changed, Gives her the excitement she craves, I daresay,” he added, percipiently. “You’d be a gudgeon to pay any heed to what she has to say.”

  “Oh, I do realise that, of course, but I just wondered if there might not be a grain of truth in it?”

  “Well, don’t exercise your curiosity. Always one of your strong points, Nell. Let the poor chap be. Small wonder if he did turn out all nohow, with a father who’s never shown the slightest interest in him, not to say positively disliking him, God knows why! But Shaldon ain’t a bad hat as far as I can tell, and I reckon I know him better than most.” He paused, then added reflectively, “He’s a trifle withdrawn perhaps, nowadays, and takes a cynical tone. A man don’t wear his heart on his sleeve, of course, but I reckon Tony’s is in the right place — metaphorically, as well as biologically,” he finished, with a laugh.

  “I’m glad to hear that for old times’ sake, though it’s extremely unlikely that he and I will ever renew our acquaintance.”

  James could not but agree with this, and the conversation drifted into other channels.

  CHAPTER XV

  In the early Spring of 1816 a group of four gentlemen stood in the bow window of White’s Club gazing idly down into St. James’s Street. They represented the very Pink of the ton, dressed in well-fitting tail coats of superfine fashioned by the most modish tailors such as Weston or Schultz, with light coloured waistcoats and extremely tight fitting pantaloons in yellow, buff, or grey. The effect of elegance was enhanced by the high starched shirt points framing their cheeks; supported by a broad, tightly wrapped cravat in snowy linen tied in one of the many intricate styles prevailing, chosen in accordance with the individual taste of the wearer.

  These four gentlemen were distinguished not only because of their elegant attire. They were sprigs of the nobility with fortunes to match their pedigree, and bachelors into the bargain; as such, they were among the most sought after of all eligible gentlemen by the Town’s matchmaking Mamas.

  From this point of view, Viscount Shaldon was undoubtedly considered the cream of the quartette, for none of the others could lay claim to an Earldom. Close on five and twenty, tall and well formed, with the Strattons’ classical features and rich auburn hair, he was a man to stand out from the crowd at any time. But his air of aloof cynicism gave little encouragement to young ladies determined to attach his interest in spite — or perhaps because — of the rumours that the Viscount was not a marrying man, but was scandalously addicted to less permanent liaisons such as that with the notorious courtesan, Harriette Wilson. He had been on the Town ever since coming down from Oxford four years since, so that every season represented a recurring challenge to hopeful mothers of nubile daughters. Occasionally he condescended to attend their various social functions, to dance with their offspring, and even now and then to indulge in a mild, short-lived flirtation with one of them. But although hope would inevitably rise in the breast of the young lady concerned and even in that of her more experienced parent, it was soon dispelled. No doubt about it, Shaldon was lamentably capricious. The girl who seemed to have caught his interest at one social function would be more or less ignored by him at the following one which he deigned to attend. And though there were a few original spirits who had essayed the different approach of trying to pique his interest by a pretended show on their part of indifference, this gambit, too, failed to counter his cool detachment. If a young lady appeared to wish to ignore him, it was all one to Viscount Shaldon. He could really manage quite well without any of them. Most of them were attractive enough, and he was far from being impervious to feminine attractions; but in his view they all bore the stamp of having been schooled for their purpose, like racehorses, and had nothing else in their pretty heads but winning the matrimonial stakes.

  The Honourable Henry Lydney was considered by many female aspirants to be a more likely catch, for there was no doubt that he was impressionable enough. A dark, virile looking young man of much about the same age as the Viscount, his roving eye constantly lighted on fresh objects of interest among female society, to whom he would for a time pay consistent court. But just when the you
ng lady concerned was beginning to feel that her suitor might at last be brought to the point, she would find herself cut out by a new arrival on the scene. It was exasperating, but as her Mama would be sure to explain, it was one of the setbacks in the game which must be taken philosophically. Gentlemen of Mr. Lydney’s stamp were common enough; they were not yet ready for marriage, but were looking about them. At some point they would see that a decision must at last be made; and when that time came perhaps Mary — or Jane — or Augusta — would reap the benefit; always supposing that another eligible suitor had not presented himself in the interval, which was more than likely. Thus soothed, the rejected ones would do their utmost to conceal injuries which for the most part were only to their vanity.

  The other two gentlemen in the group were Sir Jeremy Linslade, a wealthy baronet of three and twenty whose entire interest at present seemed focused upon sporting pursuits; and Mr. Philip Chetwode, eldest son of a baronet and known to be inclined, like his father Sir George, to be bookish. This presented a little difficulty, as few daughters were sufficiently in the bluestocking line to be able to interest him in their conversation; but the intrepid Mamas did not entirely despair. Every normal male must eventually think of marriage, however reluctantly he might reach that stage in his development.

  “You going to Newmarket, Jerry?” asked Henry Lydney.

  Linslade nodded. “Got a filly running — not much hope, though. The devil’s in the Turf, lately — I’ve dropped a packet. Still, the luck’s bound to change, sooner or later.”

  “I hear Brummell’s run aground,” put in Philip Chetwode. “All to pieces — he’ll most likely have to clear out of the country.”

  “Who is Brummell?” asked Viscount Shaldon in his most languid tone.

  Lydney laughed. “Doing it too brown, Tony! You can’t pretend not to know Beau Brummell, the onetime arbiter of fashion. Devil take it, if it hadn’t been for him, we wouldn’t all be wearing starched neckcloths now!”

  “And a deuced good thing, too,” replied Shaldon.

  “Trouble was, he got too big for his boots, didn’t he?” demanded Philip Chetwode. “Not very clever to make an enemy of Prinny, first by criticising the cut of his coat and then by following it up on a later occasion with a highly personal insult.”

  “Oh, you mean the occasion of that ill-fated ball at the Argyle rooms to which Prinny had been invited by Brummell, Alvanley, Mildmay and Pierrepoint?” said Lydney. “Highness greeted two of ’em but ignored Brummell and Mildmay, whereupon the Beau called out loudly to Alvanley, ‘Who’s your fat friend?’ My father told me of that — said at the time it would finish the Beau for good. Well, mean to say” — he lowered his voice — “a Certain Person may not be very popular in some circles, but he is the First Gentleman, after all.”

  “I fancy Old Moore must have told us that this is not a propitious month for those whose surnames begin with the letter B,” drawled Shaldon. “I saw a devilish scurrilous cartoon of Byron in one of the print shops yesterday.”

  “Well, no wonder,” said Jeremy Linslade. “Byron’s always set the Town by the ears. Trouble is, fellow’s an exhibitionist. There was all that dust about Lady Caroline Lamb, then worse” — he lowered his voice — “with his half-sister, Mrs. Augusta Leigh. And now his wife’s left him and is considering a legal separation. Damned if I can understand what the women see in him, let alone in that poetry of his — devilish stuff, in my view.”

  “No, I can’t agree with you there,” put in Chetwode, decidedly. “He has great energy of expression and a lyrical eloquence at times, particularly in his admirable pictures of the elements—”

  Linslade suppressed a yawn. “Oh, Lord! I’m not a literary man, Phil, so spare me your transports. Are you going to Newmarket, Tony?”

  Shaldon drew a gold and enamelled snuffbox from his pocket and thoughtfully inhaled a pinch of its contents.

  “Possibly. But I’m off to Alvington first.”

  “Don’t often go there, do you?” asked Lydney, incuriously.

  “I can generally resist its charms, certainly. But on this occasion, my parent has particularly requested the pleasure of my company.”

  His tone was heavy with irony.

  “My father’s there,” Lydney remarked. “Bringing m’mother and sister back with him shortly. Cynthia’s making her come-out this season. Lord, what a fuss these females make over the business! I’m thankful I’m not living under the same roof, give you my word.”

  Baron Lydney’s town house was in Berkeley Street, but his eldest son had taken rooms for himself in Bruton Street when he had come down from University.

  Chetwode nodded glumly. “You may well be. Truth to tell, I’m considering looking for a snug lodging for myself, now that my sister Melissa’s about to be launched into society. It was all very well while she was away at school, but things aren’t the same now there’s a young female to turn the house upside down.”

  In spite of this speech, the others knew Chetwode too well not to be aware that he was very fond of his young sister. Lydney was another matter; there seemed little love lost between him and Miss Cynthia Lydney, with whom so far no one except Viscount Shaldon was acquainted.

  The topic was soon put aside in favour of speculations about the chances of Linslade’s horse in the forthcoming meeting at Newmarket; and before long the Club betting book was produced to record each gentleman’s degree of optimism concerning a successful outcome for their friend.

  On the following morning, Shaldon took himself off for Alvington, driving his curricle drawn by four well matched bay horses.

  He arrived in mid-afternoon, having paused on the way to eat a nuncheon and rest his cattle. As he pulled up his team while the lodgekeeper opened the gates of Alvington Hall to admit him, a horseman approaching along the road drew rein and doffed his hat.

  “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  Shaldon looked round to find himself addressed by a personable man of about his own age dressed with care and taste, but without ostentation, in a brown coat and buff pantaloons fastened with a strap under the instep so that they were suitable for riding. He recognised the rider at once, even though they had not met for some years.

  “Good God, Durrant! How d’you do?”

  “Very well, I thank you, Lord Shaldon. And you — I trust I see you well?”

  Shaldon made a suitable reply, adding, “I daresay your errand is much the same as mine. You’ll have come down to visit your stepfather. How does Mr. Harrison go on these days?”

  “He’s pretty stout, my lord, considering all things. But I’m not here solely on his account. I came down a few weeks since with Lord Lydney.” He paused. “I daresay you may know that I have been his secretary for the past few years?”

  Shaldon nodded, gathering his team together as the lodgekeeper set the gates wide.

  “Yes, I did. Well, I’ll hope to see you again before I leave, Durrant. Good-bye.”

  Bertram Durrant removed his hat again, bowed and rode on. Shaldon continued on his way down the drive pulling up before the door and handing his reins to the groom, who jumped down from the perch behind the curricle. Shaldon himself alighted, mounted the steps and plied the heavy knocker.

  His knock was answered almost at once by the butler, a well preserved, superior looking man of sixty, who greeted his master’s son with the restrained enthusiasm proper to one of his lofty position. He at once summoned his minions to deal with my lord’s luggage, privately deciding that the present stay was clearly not intended to be long, as this consisted only of one portmanteau.

  “Is your man following, my lord?” he asked respectfully.

  “No, I didn’t trouble to bring him, Peters. The fact is, I may not be staying overnight, but my plans are uncertain at present.”

  Reflecting sagely that the one certain thing about the young Master’s plans would be a removal from the Hall as soon as possible, Peters conducted the Viscount to the small salon where the Earl usually sat. On the way,
Shaldon asked after those members of the staff whom he had known as a boy and who had not yet withdrawn to an honourable retirement.

  “He’ll make a good master,” Peters confided later to Mrs. Broadbent, the housekeeper. “He don’t forget those who served him once, and isn’t too puffed up in his own conceit to send them a kindly remembrance. He even gave me a message for his old nurse, Meadows, and she’s been pensioned off I don’t know how many years.”

  “Ay, he was always a good boy, Mr. Peters,” answered the housekeeper, shaking her grey head. “But small comfort he’s ever had from his father, and that’s a fact. What kind of father sends his only child to spend the school holidays with his grandparents, I’d like to know? But there, least said soonest mended — only no one can blame young Master if he don’t trouble to visit here as often as folk might expect.”

  The Earl was sitting in a wing chair, with one leg, much swollen and bandaged, extended before him on a footstool. The once bright colour of his hair had dimmed to a mottled grey and there was a drawn look about his face, but the resemblance to his son was still marked. The only differences in their features were that Anthony’s nose was longer, more in the style of his dead mother’s, and there was a firmer, more resolute set to his chin.

  “I’m sorry to see you in this case, sir,” said Shaldon, taking the Earl’s hand for a moment. “Gout, I collect?”

  “Can’t get rid of the devilish complaint,” growled the Earl. “Damned quacks are no good — tried enough of ’em. Sit down — over there, where I can talk to you without turning round. Well, you’ve been long enough in coming! Thought you couldn’t have had my letter. I wrote to you three weeks since. Where the devil have you been till now?”

  Shaldon murmured something about pressure of engagements.

  “Don’t try to gammon me,” returned his sire, irritably. “You could come soon enough if you wanted to, I’ll be bound.”