A Regency Scandal

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “I’ve already told you I care nothing for being the subject of one of the London on-dits! I never go to Town nowadays. This damned leg,” he groaned as he moved the bandaged member to what he hoped might prove a more comfortable position. “How can a fellow get about with an encumbrance like this? What have I got to lose? I daresay I shan’t last much longer, so I may as well set matters straight before I go.”

  “Well, if you’re not scared off by the thoughts of a scandal for yourself or even for Anthony, surely you have some regard for the family name?”

  “Devil a bit! The Strattons were never Puritans, as my father always reminded me. Besides, who’s going to be shocked? With adultery and bastards abounding in high society, not to speak of incest, if what they say of that chap Byron is true, who will exclaim over a secret marriage? Didn’t Prinny himself contract one? Bah!”

  “There’s far more to it than a secret marriage,” Lydney reminded him caustically. “If the full facts became known, they wouldn’t look pretty. While you were married to one woman, you were courting another under the guise of honourable intentions. Moreover — I am sorry to be blunt, but I’m endeavouring to show you what will be said by others — you not only neglected your first wife, but you abandoned your child.”

  The Earl’s face suffused with anger. “Damn you!” he roared, following this with a vivid oath. “You think to preach to me now, do you? You know very well how matters stood — how helpless I was in the face of my father’s insistence that I should wed Maria—”

  “Yes, yes,” Lydney replied, soothingly. ‘I know how matters stood, right enough. I was merely trying to show you how the facts would appear to others.”

  “Then don’t, damn you! And damn them, too, for a set of scandalmongering, whited sepulchres!”

  Lydney shrugged. “It’s the way of the world.”

  “Yes, well, thank God I’m out of it!”

  “But I’m not,” retorted Lydney, deciding to play what he hoped would prove to be his trump card. “I feel bound to inform you, Neville, that if you persist in dragging all this out into the light of day, any thoughts of an alliance between our two families must be at an end.”

  “You mean your daughter Cynthia and my son? Well, that’s as you choose, of course. But who says,” demanded the Earl, in a milder tone, “that anything need be made public at present? A discreet inquiry by my family lawyers was what I had in mind, as a beginning. Afterwards, if it proves that the child died, no one need be any the wiser. And since you seem strongly of the opinion that matters will turn out in that way, there can be no occasion to call off the arrangement between us for the time being.”

  Lydney considered this for a few moments in silence. He was very set on a marriage between Cynthia and Viscount Shaldon. Even with her advantages of beauty, birth and fortune, there could scarcely be a more brilliant prospect for her. It would be a pity to abandon it without a struggle. But he had done his utmost to persuade Neville against this hare-brained notion of his, without success. The Earl had become obstinate nowadays and opposition only made him worse. Supposing, though, the investigation could be carried out with the utmost discretion, so that not a word about it ever leaked out? Lydney felt convinced that the child of that secret marriage had died long since, and that therefore Anthony’s position would remain secure as the rightful heir of Alvington. Since the Earl was undoubtedly determined to carry out an investigation, the only way to save the situation was to make quite sure that it should be done by someone completely trustworthy, who would not talk.

  “Not your lawyers, Neville,” he said, aloud. “You know how it is in such a case. They employ clerks to assist them, and in the end a score of individuals are privy to your secrets. And who’s to say that one of ’em won’t blab to one of these damned scandalmongering journals that circulate in the Town? No, I’ve a far better notion than that. Entrust your inquiry to one man alone — a man who’s dependent on our patronage, yours and mine, for a living; who already owes us a great deal, and can be relied on to consider our interests. Moreover, I can tell you confidently that he’s a devilish clever fellow — shrewd enough to be a match for any sharpster, and well up to snuff in everything.”

  He saw at once that this time he had made some impression. The Earl hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

  “Well, you may be right about the lawyers,” he said, a shade grudgingly. “I might instruct Watson to handle matters himself, but there’s no guarantee that he wouldn’t pass some things over to an underling to deal with, hoping I would never know. If we could keep it to one man for the time being, it would certainly be an advantage, but whom have you in mind? I must confess I don’t quite follow you. Someone who depends on our patronage for his living, you say? Oh,” as illumination came, “I suppose you mean my agent’s stepson?”

  “Exactly — my secretary, Bertram Durrant. He’s the very man for the job. But you will be obliged to tell him the whole, keeping nothing back.”

  The book room at Askett House was very quiet, its silence broken only by the faint sound of a pen travelling industriously over paper. The young man who wielded the pen looked up from his work for a moment as the door opened, then sprang to his feet as he saw who the intruder was. Miss Lydney, the soft folds of her stylish green morning gown swishing about her ankles as she entered, smiled at him apologetically.

  “So sorry for disturbing you, Mr. Durrant. I left my book from the circulating library in here somewhere, I think.”

  “Permit me to help you find it, Miss Lydney. Pray, what was the title of the book?”

  He stood poised helpfully, awaiting her answer. She moved over to stand beside him at his desk, lifting one or two books lying there and glancing carelessly at them.

  “Oh, I’m not sure,” she answered, laying the volumes down again with a shrug. “Some tedious novel or another.”

  She was standing very close to him and now she looked up into his face, her dark eyes provocative. He tried to prevent his own from following the white curve of her neck beneath the transparent muslin which formed the yoke of her gown, but without complete success. She was a lovely creature and he found her nearness disturbing, a fact which she knew very well. Life was dull at Askett House, and baiting Bertram Durrant provided a welcome diversion.

  “Do you read novels, Mr. Durrant?” she asked. “Or do you find your entertainment in real life?”

  His cravat, which was faultlessly arranged, suddenly seemed too tight. He put up a hand to loosen it. She smiled bewitchingly, revealing twin dimples in her cheeks.

  “As to that, ma’am, I fear I cannot devote very much time to the reading of fiction.”

  She gave him a deprecating smile. “A pity. And so you’re obliged to look for your romance elsewhere, is that it?”

  “I — er—”

  She laughed, a low musical sound that he found entrancing.

  “Oh, pray don’t be too bashful to confess it! Even a studious gentleman such as yourself must have some diversions. I venture to think that beneath that sober exterior beats as warm-blooded a heart as any to be found in the pages of the most romantical novel!”

  He took a firm grip on himself, moving back a few paces in the pretence of arranging some papers on his desk so that he could avoid the challenge of her eyes.

  “I am no match for your ready wit, Miss Lydney.”

  “Ah, I see you mean to be odiously discreet, sir. But you may trust me with your secrets, you know.”

  Her tone was still one of light raillery, but he felt more in control of the situation now that he had increased the distance between them.

  “You do me too much honour, ma’am,” he replied with a bow. “Nevertheless, I have no secrets of sufficient interest to disclose, I fear.”

  “No?” Her eyebrows arched in a pretty gesture of surprise. “Oh, dear, I find that prodigiously sad! What a dull life it must be, with nothing to be gloated over in privacy, no circumstance which may not be freely revealed to the world at large! I most sincer
ely commiserate with you, Mr. Durrant.”

  “You need not, ma’am. I consider myself most fortunate in my situation here.”

  “You mean as my father’s secretary? Ah, but that is work, sir, and I was speaking of diversion. You know the saying, ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’? You would not wish that to be true of yourself, surely?”

  “I should be sorry to think that you considered me a dull dog, indeed, Miss Lydney,” he retorted, with some show of spirit.

  She smiled complacently, and he saw she knew that she had scored a hit at last. Damn the girl, he thought, why must she choose to flirt with him, knowing full well that he was not in a position to take his part freely in her game? If he were once to step out of line, say one ill-chosen word, his livelihood would be in jeopardy. She knew this as well as he did; no doubt it added spice to her performance.

  “A dull dog? Oh, no. How could you ever impute anything so uncivil to my account? Indeed, if you must know, I consider you to be more interesting than most of the gentlemen of my acquaintance.”

  He looked up quickly at that, an unguarded expression in his eyes for a second. Then he lowered them again to his papers. When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled.

  “I am indeed honoured, Miss Lydney, but I fear the compliment is undeserved. I cannot suppose your male acquaintance to be very extensive as yet.”

  “Oh, how odiously reserved you are, to be sure!” she exclaimed, pouting. “I say something which I hope will please you…”

  “As it does, assure you, ma’am—”

  “…and you can do nothing but turn my poor compliment this way and that, saying it is not much of one, after all! Bah! I am out of all patience with you, Mr. Durrant!”

  He could not restrain himself from looking up into her eyes again. Seeing the mischief in them, he averted his gaze.

  “I am very sorry to hear you say so, Miss Lydney. Possibly I should try to redeem my character in your eyes by helping you to find the mislaid book? I can at least be of some small service to you.”

  He moved away from the desk with a purposeful air, beginning to search the room. She was about to join him when the door suddenly opened to admit her father.

  Lord Lydney paused just inside the door, a frown gathering on his brow as he saw Cynthia in the room.

  “And what the devil are you doing here?” he began, ominously.

  She ran to him, taking his arm in hers and looking up appealingly into his face.

  “Oh, dear Papa, you do sound most odiously cross! I beg your pardon for intruding, but I came to find a book which I’ve mislaid, and Mr. Durrant was so good as to assist me in the search. But it isn’t here after all, so I’ll go away at once if that will make you happy.”

  He smiled down at her fondly. “Silly puss, you know I can never be cross with you, but you really mustn’t waste Durrant’s time on trivialities. You could have sent one of the housemaids in to look for your book. And now run along, dear” — he patted her hand — “as we have certain business matters to discuss.”

  He shepherded her to the door, closing it firmly behind her. Then he motioned Durrant, who had remained respectfully standing, to a chair.

  “I have a most delicate commission for you, Durrant,” he began, seating himself. “It requires the utmost discretion, as it involves no less a personage than the Earl of Alvington, but I am confident that no one could handle it with greater tact and skill than yourself. I think I need scarcely emphasise that no word of the story I am about to relate to you should ever on any account be divulged to any other person? I have guaranteed his lordship the utmost confidentiality.”

  “I am grateful for your good opinion, my lord, and shall put forth my best endeavours to serve you.”

  “Splendid, my dear fellow. Well, now, let me give you the gist of the matter and make plain what is required of you.”

  Some time later Durrant was walking along the main street of Alvington village as Viscount Shaldon swept through in his curricle. Shaldon raised his hand in a cheery salute and Durrant responded by removing his hat respectfully. Once the vehicle had passed in a swirl of dust, however, his mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. Viscount Shaldon, indeed, heir to the Alvington estates — or was he? It would be a fine take-down for that self-assured young man to find himself only a younger son, after all, to lose both his title and his primogeniture. And not only to lose that, but also his chance of marriage with the lovely Miss Cynthia Lydney. Durrant knew all about the arrangement which had been made between his employer and the Earl for this desirable match — desirable only if Anthony remained his father’s heir. But if not, if this mission with which he, Durrant, had been entrusted perchance should end in the discovery of one with a prior right, what then?

  He gave some thought to this as he strolled along, unconscious of his surroundings. Presumably Lord Lydney would look elsewhere for a husband for his daughter, settle upon some other sprig of the nobility. Whoever it was, Durrant thought resentfully, it certainly would not be himself. That would be to indulge too high a flight of fancy. Yet he had strong hopes of being able to improve his position in time. Lord Lydney had hinted at a seat in Parliament for him as the Earl’s reward for undertaking this investigation; and once there, among men of wealth and influence, he could trust himself to find the means of material advancement. He knew how to get on in the world, if any man did, for the simple reason that he possessed neither birth nor wealth and therefore must rely solely on his wits. He could outwit them all, he thought, and laughed aloud at this reflection.

  The next morning he had sobered again. These plans were all very well, but they would take time. While they were coming to maturity, his lovely girl would have been married to someone else. His jaw tightened at the thought. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in a life clouded always by envy of those better born and wealthier than himself. Even when the Lydneys and Shaldon had played with him as equals in boyhood, the rancour had been there. He had never been able to forget their differences in station; James Somerby, too, though not of equal rank and wealth with the others, had still been at a social remove from Bertram Durrant, who was a mere nobody. He thought with contempt of his stepfather Harrison, content to be the Earl of Alvington’s agent, happy in his work for the estate, his modest home and income and now equally contented in his retirement. He had never sought or even desired anything better, thinking himself fortunate to have so much. He had told his stepson this many times in the past, adding that it was a great thing to be cock on one’s own dunghill; and so he had been, for the Earl had left the management of the estate largely in his hands. To which Bertram had replied that he had no wish to manage some other man’s estate, but to possess his own.

  There had been no time for women in Durrant’s life, but he was a man of strong feelings. During these past weeks he had been privileged to be a good deal in Miss Lydney’s company, and her provocative beauty had quickly fired his senses. He was far too shrewd not to realise that she was merely amusing herself with him to pass away the tedium of her stay in the country. Once the family returned to Town, it was unlikely that she would seek out his company in the same way. But at present scarcely a day passed without her coming on some pretext or another into the book room where he was working, to flirt with him in the most seemingly innocent way possible. It was becoming almost more than he could bear, lately, to keep his place and behave as if he were stuffed with cotton wool, instead of having hot blood coursing through his veins. Perhaps it was a fortunate thing that he would be obliged to go away for a time now, in quest of the Earl’s lost heir. No advertisements, no noise about the business, Lord Lydney had instructed him. That would mean retracing the incredible story from the point where it had started, at Rye in Sussex.

  Cynthia was becoming an obsession with him. Her bold dark eyes, her inviting mouth, the curve of her breasts beneath the thin material of her gown, her shapely ankles — all these delights when brought, as so frequently, at close quarters t
o him, made his senses swim. He must have her. How, he could not at present conjecture. But if he could prevent Shaldon from having her, that, at any rate, would be one step forward on the way. He promised himself grimly that he would spare no possible effort to trace this firstborn son for the Earl of Alvington.

  He heard someone addressing him and came to with a slight start, to realise that he was at that moment going past the Rectory and that Miss Helen Somerby was standing at the gate bidding him good day. He paused, responding civilly.

  “I won’t say a penny for your thoughts, Mr. Durrant,” she said with a friendly smile. “Judging from your expression, they were too sober to be worth the price. But then, as Lord Lydney’s secretary, you must carry a deal of responsibility.”

  “I fear so, Miss Somerby, at times. I passed Viscount Shaldon a little way back, tooling his curricle along as though he hadn’t a care in the world, and thought how fortunate he was.”

  “Oh, did you?” asked Helen brightly. “He has been staying overnight with my parents and has just parted from us. As for not having a care in the world — well, I cannot say about that.”

  “How should you, indeed, ma’am? I suppose nowadays you and he are comparative strangers. But a man in his position can have few cares.”

  She shook her head. “I scarcely think a man’s position makes any difference in that regard. But whatever problems are vexing you at present, sir, I hope you may soon resolve them.”

  His mind was still partly occupied by the thoughts which he had been revolving before she spoke to him, and for once he made an unguarded remark, speaking in the bitterness of the moment.

  “Oh, I will, ma’am, never fear. But I’ve a matter in hand at present which may bring some far more inflexible problems to Viscount Shaldon’s address.”

  He stopped suddenly, realising his indiscretion.