A Regency Scandal

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  Only Helen Somerby, he thought, smiling as he recalled the vivid imagination that had peopled the wood where they played as children with fairy-tale figures, gallant Princes rescuing beautiful maidens from wicked ogres and the like. Evidently she had not changed so completely as her outward appearance — and vastly charming, too! — might suggest. But she was now trying to reverse the time-honoured formula of the fairy story in making the beautiful maiden come to the rescue of the Prince. He must remember to quiz her about that when next they met.

  Arrived at the Lydneys’ house in Berkeley Street, he was shown up into the drawing room, an elegant apartment in white and gold with crimson hangings. Lord Lydney and Henry were already sitting there and invited him to join them in a glass of sherry wine while they awaited the arrival of the ladies. Although Henry Lydney and Shaldon were frequently together, it was seldom that they met in Baron Lydney’s town house, the younger men naturally seeking the society of their contemporaries. On this occasion, Shaldon suspected that he had been asked to dine there so that he might meet Miss Cynthia Lydney informally before she emerged upon the London social scene in all the glory of a coming-out ball. It was only to be supposed that his father had made some tentative approach to Lord Lydney concerning the possibility of a match between Miss Lydney and himself; and no doubt, he reflected cynically, the lady wished to look him over.

  Which she did, very prettily, when she and her Mama entered the room a while later. She saw some resemblance to the schoolboy she remembered in this tall, personable gentleman with the Stratton features and auburn hair; but the coltish look had vanished with the years, giving way to an air of easy assurance that at times bordered on the cynical. There was nothing cynical at present in the look he bestowed on her as he made his bow, a look compounded of surprise and approval. Cynthia Lydney had been a pretty child, but she had developed into what he would unhesitatingly have declared a stunning girl. He had seen plenty of pretty girls in his years on the Town, but there was a striking difference in this one. Those dark, provocative eyes, that seductive way of moving as if she never for a moment lost consciousness of her femininity, belonged more to the females of the demimonde than to a gently reared young lady of Quality.

  The usual polite nothings passed between them until the small party went into the dining room, where he found himself seated beside her.

  “By the way, I was in company with some friends of yours earlier today,” he remarked, as the soup was being served.

  She raised her brows. “Male or female, sir?”

  “Oh, young ladies. Miss Somerby, Miss Chetwode, and one whom I had not previously met — a Miss Horwood, I believe.”

  “Oh, those friends.” Her tone was a trifle disparaging. “I haven’t seen them since I came to Town, although I was aware that Helen Somerby had arrived to stay with Melissa Chetwode. But then, one is so busy, don’t you find?”

  He agreed shortly, and turned to address a remark to Lady Lydney, who sat on his other side.

  “And which of them do you admire the most?” asked Cynthia with an arch smile, when he could give her his attention again.

  “Like most young ladies one meets, they are all prodigiously charming.”

  “Do you find me charming, sir?”

  “But of course. How could it be otherwise?”

  His tone was cool and amused. She saw it as a challenge and determined to alter it before she had done with him.

  “I am flattered.” She gave him one of those provocative glances which men found hard to resist. “Tell me, did you find Helen Somerby much changed since last you met? Oh, but I forget. I believe you saw her when you were in Alvington a month or so since.”

  “That is so. She’s certainly changed in appearance, of course, for she was only a schoolgirl of thirteen or so on the previous occasion when our visits to Alvington chanced to coincide. But in disposition, she is very much what she was as a child — or so it seemed to me.”

  “She’s quite a well-looking girl, is she not?” asked Cynthia, with an air of magnanimity. “Though I did caution her about allowing her fair skin to become too weather-beaten — she’s careless in such matters.”

  “No doubt that’s because she likes outdoor pursuits such as walking and riding. But in any case, I think that light suntan becoming to her.”

  “I do trust you told her so,” replied Cynthia, with a laugh. “I’m sure she would be vastly gratified.”

  “I scarcely see why she should value any opinion of mine,” he said carelessly.

  “Do you not? Then you must have forgotten how she used to toadeat you when we were children. It was vastly touching to witness.”

  He glanced at her with a hint of steel in his grey eyes. “I would not put it in quite that way,” he said, bluntly. “The two Somerbys and myself were brought up almost as one family. But all that is a long time ago, in any event.”

  “Yes, of course, and no doubt you’ve quite lost touch with her brother — a medical man moves in a vastly different world from ours.”

  “On the contrary, I value my association with James Somerby, as I do with all his family. We meet as often as he can spare the time. Regrettably, that is not very frequently.”

  She looked a trifle incredulous at this, as though she believed him to be offering excuses for a lapse in friendship which anyone in his social position would naturally find expedient. A member of the peerage could scarcely be expected to remain on terms of intimacy with a humble doctor; it was the way of the world.

  “You did not honour us with a visit when you were in Alvington,” she said, reproachfully.

  “Unfortunately, there was no time. My stay was limited to one night.”

  “Then I must forgive you, which I do most readily.” She flashed an enchanting smile at him which somewhat abated the hostility he had been feeling at her recent remarks. “And I daresay you were much occupied in business affairs with your father at that time, for a day or two afterwards Lord Alvington despatched Durrant on some errand to Sussex, which was no doubt connected with them.”

  She was every bit as curious as Helen about this errand; for in spite of her easy contempt of Durrant, she could not altogether avoid taking some interest in the secretary’s concerns. But if she had hoped to learn something from Shaldon about it, she soon saw that she was to be disappointed; for he turned the subject neatly, and afterwards the conversation became general.

  When the ladies presently rose from the table to leave the gentlemen with their wine, Shaldon’s eyes followed Cynthia to the door. Undoubtedly she was the most provocative female he had ever met in his own social sphere; a woman whose eyes invited and who knew to a nicety how to employ all her physical attractions to endorse the invitation. She was feline, he thought suddenly, with a cat’s warm, seductive movements and purrings — yes, and with a cat’s cruel claws. She would make the most delightful mistress — but a wife? Heaven forbid!

  Lord Lydney, watching his guest narrowly for his own reasons, saw without surprise that Shaldon was exhibiting signs of some attraction towards Cynthia. It would be a cold fish indeed, reflected the father, who could not feel the girl’s magnetism. This was all to the good, since a match was being planned between the two. But there was that other matter, about which so far Shaldon knew nothing; and which might — though for his part, Lydney did not seriously believe it would come to anything — throw a hitch in the way.

  Durrant, when questioned about his progress in the investigation, had been reticent — admirably, Lord Lydney reluctantly conceded, since the fellow had promised to proceed with the utmost discretion. He did admit to having unearthed some faint clues as to Mrs. Lathom’s destination when she had quitted Rye twenty-six years ago, but had stated that so far he was still following these up without any definite results. It was to be hoped, thought Lord Lydney fervently, that the results would remain negative and the whole affair be buried once more in oblivion.

  He would have been prepared to wager that by now Alvington himself was ech
oing these sentiments, and almost ready to abandon the quest. Neville had never been retentive of any purpose for long, and more sober reflection must have shown him that nothing but unwanted trouble for himself could come of this one. He had been motivated solely by spite against his son. It was possible that should Anthony return home and attempt to make his peace with his father, Alvington would call Durrant off and allow the investigation to lapse. But before that could occur, Anthony would need to be warned; at present, he was in total ignorance of what was happening.

  All these thoughts passed through Lord Lydney’s mind while he talked smoothly on various topics with his son and their guest over the wine, for he was not a politician for nothing. Gradually the determination came over him to drop some kind of hint to Shaldon, though how much ought to be said was a point on which he felt uncertain. It was not so much a matter of his reluctance to break confidence with Alvington; he considered there were times when a sensible man must decide to overlook these finer points of honour. But to relate the whole story to the son might prove to be but another way of ensuring that the investigation was continued. From what Lord Lydney knew of Shaldon, he was not likely to take a pragmatic approach, and would insist on discovering the truth even though it should work out to his own disadvantage.

  Not the whole truth, then; but some hint, something to make the boy attempt a reconciliation with his father.

  His opportunity came when Henry left them alone together for a few minutes as they were about to go into the drawing room. He laid a hand on Shaldon’s arm to detain him; the other looked at him inquiringly.

  “I understand from your father, my dear fellow, that when you two last met, you did not part on very good terms?”

  Shaldon shrugged ruefully. “Afraid so, sir. We always do seem to come to cuffs, and the gout doesn’t help my father’s temper.”

  Lord Lydney inspected his nails thoughtfully, then nodded. “Just so. And in a moment of passion, one often performs actions which are later regretted. I have known you almost all your life, my boy, so may I presume to offer you some advice?”

  Shaldon raised his eyebrows, but nodded.

  “I believe you should go at once to Alvington and use your best endeavours to make your peace with your father,” Lord Lydney continued, in a grave tone. “I do not put this view forward for the usual moral reason of filial duty, but for the more worldly one of self-interest. If you remain estranged from him, I fear the outcome for you both.”

  “Fear the outcome!” repeated Shaldon, in a puzzled tone. “What can you mean, sir? Pray, give me a plain tale!”

  “Unfortunately, I am not in a position to do that. Any further information must come from your father. But I trust you will heed my advice.”

  Shaldon thanked him, and would have tried to press the subject further, had not Henry rejoined them at that moment; although he could judge from the finality of Lord Lydney’s tone that there would have been small chance of success.

  As he walked home later to his rooms in Clarges Street, he pondered on this strange communication. Coming as it did so close on Helen Somerby’s warning, it really did begin to look as if something was afoot at Alvington which might cause him some trouble. He had discounted Helen’s story as the fabrication of a romantic, imaginative mind which must always try to find an interesting explanation for incidents which seemed at all mysterious. But Baron Lydney was a very different case — a hard-headed politician, and one, moreover, who knew the Earl as few people did.

  Was it conceivable that his own father could be plotting something to his disadvantage? He had to admit that it was. He knew his father to be a weak man; and in moments of spite, weak people sometimes lash out unexpectedly. What the Earl could possibly do, though, to harm his son in any way, was more than Shaldon could envisage. He was independent financially, so the traditional measure of cutting him off with a shilling did not apply. The estate was entailed, and he was heir to it. So what remained? Brewing scandal broth? Bah, there was nothing that had not already been whispered in the London drawing rooms and circulated in the Clubs — the affair with Harriette Wilson, flirtations, and the like. The ton made light of such matters; they were a commonplace. He had never run into debt, put his name to vouchers he could not meet, or cheated at cards. His life was an open book for those with a taste for such literature, and for his own part he did not give a damn who should read it. As for Sussex, though he had passed a few months at Brighton now and then, he had left no secrets there; Durrant’s errand to that county could not possibly concern him. He could not deny, though, that it was certainly odd for the Earl to have sent Durrant on business to a county where the family had neither property nor connections. And why Durrant? The Earl had plenty of trustworthy staff of his own to employ on any business he wished to execute. Lord Lydney must have given his consent, too, or Durrant could not have been employed by the Earl. This was surely strange, in view of his warning tonight? Or perhaps the visit to Sussex was unconnected with the outcome which Lydney said he feared, an irrelevance capable of a simple explanation.

  Hell and the devil! thought Shaldon, impatiently. He disliked mysteries. To solve this one, he must obviously confront his father, and that meant a visit to Alvington. He might go tomorrow. But he must certainly return to Town by the following day, for he had a very important engagement to keep in the evening.

  The morning after his visit to the Lydneys’ house, Shaldon accordingly set off for Alvington. He was impelled by curiosity rather than the motive of self-interest which Lord Lydney had suggested. He had no intention whatever of submitting to his father’s domination, either in the matter of his marriage or of any other personal concerns. He could feel no affection for a parent who had never shown him any; a close association now was impossible after so many years of neglect and indifference on his father’s side. Nevertheless, he would have preferred not to have been constantly at loggerheads with the old man — to have met, on the rare occasions when they did come together, with civility and a reasonable amount of forbearance. But the mere sight of his heir always seemed to arouse in the Earl a mood of bitterness that found vent in criticism and reproaches which, thought Shaldon wryly, even a saint would have found difficult to endure for long. He had never quite been able to account for his father’s unnatural antagonism towards him, but so it was. Any paternal interest and affection he had known had been supplied by his grandfather, with whom he shared an excellent relationship.

  He was to be disappointed in his hope of discovering what lay behind Baron Lydney’s veiled warning, however; for when he reached Alvington Hall, the butler informed him that the Earl had departed for Bath in the preceding week.

  “His lordship is still much afflicted with the gout and hoped the waters might alleviate his condition,” said Peters. “We don’t look to see him back for some weeks, but if your business is urgent, my lord, I will furnish you with his direction. Will you be staying? If so, I’ll instruct the housekeeper to have your room made ready.”

  “No, don’t trouble, Peters. I’ll be leaving almost immediately,” Shaldon replied, as he settled himself in an armchair. “Can you manage a cold collation, do you suppose? And I’ll take a glass of madeira.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  The man withdrew, to reappear presently with the liquid refreshment and a promise of something more solid to follow in a few minutes.

  Shaldon meditated as he sipped the wine. He had no desire to make the long journey to Bath, a place he disliked at the best of times. It would mean staying overnight, and he had several engagements tomorrow, one of which at any rate he was determined to keep. Was this little mystery worth so much effort? He was inclined to think not. One thing he could do, he resolved, was to have a word with the Earl’s land agent. If there was anything brewing that concerned the estate, he was the man who would know of it.

  Mr. Harrison had been replaced some five or six years ago by a younger man called Fowler, whom Harrison had carefully instructed in all the affairs w
hich would henceforward be in his charge. Harrison himself, then in his late sixties, had gone into an honourable retirement in a small house in the village, leaving his previous quarters to the new man. After Shaldon had eaten his nuncheon, he strolled over to the house fronting the stableyard to hold a lengthy interview with Fowler, who was very glad of this opportunity to discuss estate matters with someone who was ready to take a keen, intelligent interest. Of late years, the Earl had been somewhat lacking in this regard; and privately Fowler considered it high time that the Viscount, as future heir to Alvington, should begin to take the reins into his own hands. Without the assurance of long service, he did not like to say as much, instead contenting himself with hints.

  “I’ll look in upon you for a chat from time to time,” Shaldon conceded, tacitly acknowledging his understanding of this technique. “By the way, do you know if my father has any business interests in Sussex, or has lately acquired any property there?” he added, in a careless tone.

  “Sussex?” Fowler sounded as though the Viscount had mentioned the moon. “No, my lord, most certainly not. Why do you ask?”

  Shaldon nodded. “Just a notion — I see it was absurd. Think no more of it. Well, my thanks to you, Fowler, for acquainting me with the state of things at present, and for keeping the estate in such good order.” He rose, extending his hand. “Be sure I shall be consulting with you again before too long.”

  After leaving the agent, he made his way to the cottage occupied by Harrison. As he walked up a flagged path through a neat garden to the pleasant stone building with its thatched roof and trellised porch, he reflected that a man might pass the twilight of his days in many a worse place. The door was opened to him by Mrs. Harrison, who was Harrison’s second wife and the mother of Bertram Durrant. She dropped a quick curtsey when she recognised her visitor, and whipped off the apron she was wearing. After exchanging a few civilities with her, Shaldon was shown into the parlour, where the pensioner was sitting with a large tabby cat at his feet on the hearthrug.