A Noble Man

by Anne Ashley

  "Oh no, sir. He hasn't done that," Figgins responded, completely unruffled. "And I can assure you, sir, that I would never have permitted him to set foot inside the house, let alone provide him with supper and a glass or two of wine, if it hadn't been for the fact that he informed me that he had news concerning your brother."

  "Oh, he has, has he?" Nicholas was decidedly sceptical. "Well, his tidings had better be worth the food and drink he's consumed already at my expense," he ground out, throwing wide the parlour door, and striding purposefully into the room to discover the shabbily dressed individual sprawled at his ease in the most comfortable chair in the house. "Otherwise he'll find himself helped on his way by the toe of my boot!"

  A slow and lazy smile tugged at the corners of the visitor's well-shaped mouth, but the eyes remained firmly closed as he said, "I shall take leave to inform you that I consider that a most impolite greeting to offer someone you haven't seen for several years, dear brother."

  Nicholas stopped dead in his tracks, once again powerless to prevent his jaw from dropping perceptively when the lids of dazzling blue eyes finally opened and the visitor rose to his feet in one graceful movement. "Benedict?" he murmured, taking a hesitant step forward. Then, "Ben, by all that's wonderful!...It is you!"

  Figgins, hovering in the open doorway, experienced a sense of pride as he watched the two men clasp each other warmly. It was comforting to know that his instincts had not played him false and that the very welcome visitor, taller than his brother by an inch or two, and noticeably broader, had turned out to be what he had suspected from the start—a gentleman of quality.

  He coughed delicately, thereby indicating his continued presence, and the brothers loosened their hold. "Do you wish me to fetch brandy, m'lord?"

  "Yes. Yes, of course," Nicholas answered, still somewhat bemused by his sibling's unexpected arrival. "And make sure it's the best brandy, Figgins. This calls for a celebration."

  After his servant had departed, Nicholas busied himself for a minute or two by going about the room lighting more candles, and then joined his brother by the hearth. He was quite unable to forbear a smile as he watched Benedict piling more logs on what was already a substantial fire. Evidently the British climate no longer agreed with him, which was hardly surprising after spending so many years abroad. This, however, was by no means the most obvious change in him.

  No one viewing him now would ever have supposed for a moment that Benedict had once been considered a dandy, rivalling the famous Beau Brummell himself in dress. Nicholas recalled quite clearly watching his brother on numerous occasions, sitting before a dressing-table mirror, patiently tying intricate folds in a highly starched cravat until he had it just so. Yet here he sat, now, with a gaudy red kerchief tied about his throat, his long legs encased in a pair of rough homespun trousers, and a slightly soiled and heavily creased shirt encasing that broad expanse of chest. Why, he looked little better than a vagrant with that mass of golden-brown hair almost touching his shoulders. And the weeks of growth on and around his chin did absolutely nothing to improve his appearance!

  "By that disapproving look," Benedict remarked, after raising his striking blue eyes in time to catch his brother's frowning scrutiny, "I assume my appearance does not meet with your approval."

  "Good gad, Ben! You resemble nothing so much as a rascally vagrant."

  "I am relieved the hard-working soul who gave me these clothes isn't present," Benedict responded, with more than a hint of wryness. "He would have been most offended. This shirt, I am assured, was his very best. Though it isn't strictly true, I suppose, to say that he gave me these clothes," he corrected. "We struck a bargain. I exchanged them for a suit of my own. And was heartily glad to do so! I was sick and tired of my own apparel after several weeks at sea."

  "Do you mean to say you exchanged all your clothes for those... those deplorable rags?" Nicholas did not believe a word of it. "You must take me for a half-wit if you think I'll swallow that one."

  "True as I sit here, dear brother," Benedict assured him. "Except I only gave him the clothes I stood up in. They were all I had, you see. Pirates deprived me of the rest."

  Once again Nicholas found himself gaping. "Pirates? What pirates?"

  "The ones we unfortunately encountered two days after setting sail from Port Royal." Benedict smiled at his young brother's decidedly sceptical look. "Sailing through the Caribbean is not the same as taking a boat trip down the Thames, dear boy. It is still a dangerous place. Many people of varying nationalities, fleeing from the law, seek refuge there. Piracy is still quite common, believe me."

  "What happened?" Nicholas prompted, suddenly resembling an excited schoolboy, and Benedict was of a mind to be indulgent.

  "The captain of our ship, being a Christian soul, could not find it within himself to blithely ignore what appeared to be a vessel in distress, and gave the order to heave-to. Grappling-hooks were thrown with remarkable speed, and before the captain and crew realised what was happening we were being boarded by a horde of cut-throats. The captain and crew of our ship gave a good account of themselves, as did a couple of the passengers, and we soon had the rogues returning to their own vessel, but not before they had deprived us of some of the food on board, and several other items of worth, including my trunk, which contained not only my clothes, but my valuables, too. Consequently all I was left with were the clothes I stood up in. And, as you can imagine, by the time we had docked in Liverpool, I was heartily glad to be rid of them, even to exchange them for the ones I'm wearing now."

  Nicholas could well understand this and smiled, until a thought suddenly occurred to him. "How on earth did you manage to reach London without money? Surely you didn't walk?"

  "Thankfully, I wasn't reduced to that, though it could hardly have been more uncomfortable than travelling by the common stage. I have grown accustomed to doing without many creature comforts during my time in Jamaica, but sitting for hours in a vehicle that smells of perspiration, onions, and various other unpleasant odours was almost more than I could bear."

  His pained expression almost had his young brother writhing in laughter. "No, I still retained my pocket watch, which I was able to sell for half its real value. I swear the rogue who purchased it in Liverpool thought it had been stolen."

  "I can't say I'm surprised," Nicholas responded when he had gained sufficient control of himself. "No one would take you for a member of the peerage!"

  "That isn't strictly true," Ben corrected. "Your estimable butler, unless I much mistake the matter, managed to penetrate the disguise." He glanced round as the door opened, his face brightening. "And here he is, and armed, I see, with more of that delicious apple tart."

  "I thought, perhaps, you could manage another mouthful, your grace," Figgins said, placing the tray containing the food and brandy down on a convenient table near his master's chair. "Will there be anything else you require, sir?"

  "Yes, you'd best make the bed up in the spare room, and look out one of my night-shirts." Nicholas turned his attention back to his brother as soon as Figgins had left the room. "There's only a skeleton staff now at the house in Grosvenor Square. The place hasn't been used since Father died."

  He searched in vain for a sign of remorse on his brother's handsome face, and yet he knew how fond Benedict had been of their father. "He passed away peacefully in his sleep. He didn't suffer," he assured him, and this time Benedict responded with a softly spoken, "I'm glad," and then promptly changed the subject by enquiring after their sister.

  "Oh, Connie's in fine fettle. Put on some weight since the last time you saw her. Still," he shrugged, "only to be expected at her age. Increased the progeny by three since you've been away. Five of the little blighters she's produced now. Which says something for Lansdown, I suppose. I have a deal of respect for our dear brother-in-law. Poor chap must possess the patience of a saint to put up with our bird-witted sister."

  Benedict, willingly accepting a further slice of the apple tart and a full
measure of the brandy, could not suppress a smile. No doubt Constance continued to treat Nicholas as though he were still a mischievous schoolboy,
  "I perceive a great change in you, Nick." He took a moment to study the very fashionable attire. "Apeing the dandy yourself now, I see."

  "One must dress, dear brother." The pained expression returned as his attention was drawn to that gaudy neck decoration once more. "Just as well you did come straight here. Wouldn't do to let people see you looking like that, you know. There's the name to consider, and all that," he remarked with quaint snobbery. "We'll rise early tomorrow and pay a visit to a tailor... Or perhaps several."

  *

  The following morning Benedict discovered that his brother's idea of rising early was not quite the same as his own. So, after he had consumed a hearty breakfast of ham, eggs and buttered rolls, washed down with several cups of freshly-brewed coffee, and there were still no signs that Nicholas was ready to leave the comfort of his bedchamber and face the new day, Benedict decided to pass the time by exploring the metropolis to see what changes had taken place during his years away.

  He stepped outside to discover a morning that was both dry and bright, and blessedly free from the evil choking fog that often shrouded the city even at this time of year. His athletic, long-striding gait quickly brought him to the end of the street and into a wider thoroughfare, where hordes of people were now busily going about their daily work.

  This was the part of the city that he knew best of all, where pretty girls in white pinafores and black taffeta bonnets were parading the fashionable streets and squares dispensing milk from the buckets they carried, their cries mingling with those of other hawkers, eager to sell their wares. This was where he had happily frittered away his time, and money, paying visits to friends and enjoying the many pleasurable activities the capital had to offer any young gentleman of wealth and rank. This was what, five years ago, he had very much resented being forced to leave behind.

  He remembered clearly the bitterness he had felt when his father had insisted that he travel to Jamaica and learn to respect the value of money by taking charge of the family's plantation out there. Their parting had been an unpleasant one, with many biting recriminations uttered on both sides. Not many months had passed, however, before Benedict had come to realise that his father's actions had been totally 'justified, and he could only be thankful that the majority of letters exchanged during their years apart had been full of warmth and understanding; his only real regret now being that he had not returned to England in time to see his father one last time before his death.

  Yes, those years in Jamaica had changed him completely. He was no longer that care-for-nobody, that frivolous, pleasure-seeking fribble whose only ambition was to cut a dash in society, and who squandered vast sums of money without a thought to whose hard work financed his pleasures or from whence the money had come. Older and, hopefully, wiser now, he believed he could take his father's place and carry out his duties as head of the family in a responsible and caring manner. The cut of a jacket, the set of a cravat and a looking-glass shine on a pair of boots were no longer important to him. A sigh escaped him. Nevertheless he supposed it behoved him to take his brother's advice, and attire himself as befitted his station in life before returning to the fashionable world, a world that, if the truth were known, he had little desire to re-enter.

  The stink of rotting refuse and equally unpleasant odours suddenly assailing his nostrils induced him to take stock of his surroundings. Without being aware of it, he had walked ever eastwards into those areas of the capital where most people of his class rarely or never ventured. The distinction between rich and poor could not have been more marked. There were no fine mansions here, no crossing-boys to clear away the filth from the streets, and no ladies and gentlemen, dressed in their finery, taking the air. Which was hardly surprising, he decided, ripping the kerchief from his neck and putting it to good use by placing it over his nose and mouth.

  The air was foul, polluted by filth and grime which oozed from the tightly-packed hovels, and half-starved children, dressed in rags, or nothing at all, were grubbing round in the dirt. What it must be like here when the weather became warmer he dreaded to think. Little wonder these areas of the city harboured the constant threat of typhus. To the poor wretches living here disease and starvation were commonplace, a way of life from which there was little hope of escape.

  He knew, of course, that it was the height of folly to remain in these noisome streets, where vice and corruption abounded on every corner, and yet he found his interest well and truly captured. So engrossed did he become in the heartrending wretchedness surrounding him that it was not until almost noon that he ventured back to the more affluent part of the city, and was greeted none too politely when he did eventually return to his brother's house.

  "Where the deuce have you been?" Nicholas demanded to know. "Figgins informed me that you left the house hours ago."

  "That is correct." Benedict joined him at the table, and helped himself to a cup of fresh coffee. "I decided to occupy my time while waiting for you to rise in exploring the capital."

  "Expect you discovered some changes, eh?"

  "Can't say I took much notice of the area round here. Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, Shoreditch and Smithfield certainly proved most interesting, though."

  "Good gad, Benedict!" Nicholas was beginning to wonder whether those years spent under a tropical sun might not have had some adverse effect on his brother's mental state. "What on earth possessed you to venture to those spots? They're all notorious havens for every form of low life. Even the Runners won't enter those places alone, not even in broad daylight." A disturbing possibility suddenly occurred to him. "Dear Lord! You didn't go there to find a woman, did you?"

  One ducal brow arched. "Credit me with some intelligence. Not that I didn't receive several offers, but I have far too much respect for my health."

  "Well, thank the Lord for that!" his graceless brother responded, audibly sighing with relief. "Though I'm rather surprised you managed to return totally unscathed."

  "Dressed as I am, I no doubt appeared one of their own and, therefore, not worthy of accosting."

  This candid response returned Nicholas's thoughts to what for him was the most pressing problem besetting him at the moment and, after hurriedly finishing his meagre repast, he wasted no further time in taking the first steps in putting his brother's deplorable appearance to rights.

  It rather amused him to see the appalled expressions on those famous Bond Street tailors' faces when his brother entered their superior establishments in his wake. Benedict did not appear to take offence at the unenthusiastic reception he received wherever he went, and certainly displayed praiseworthy self-control when he was pulled this way and that, and measured with ruthless efficiency. Nicholas soon discovered, however, that beneath that veneer of complacency was an iron strong will, for nothing would induce Benedict to have his coats made fashionably tight, nor tempt him to select anything other than the plainest of colours for his clothes.

  "Damned unimaginative! That's what I call it," Nicholas remonstrated, as they emerged into the sunlight once more. "Yellow-and-black-striped waistcoats are all the fashion this Season."

  "I do not doubt you are correct, brother. But I have no intention of going about the capital resembling something that spends most of its life collecting pollen."

  Nicholas was about to cast further aspersions on what he considered a deplorably unimaginative taste, when he caught sight of one of his degenerate friends on the opposite side of the street, and took evasive action by concealing himself in a doorway.

  "I have no intention either of wearing coats so close-fitting that one cannot breathe, or breeches so tight that they're in danger of splitting every time one sits down," Benedict announced before he realised he was conversing with fresh air and, glancing round in an attempt to lo
cate his sibling's whereabouts, promptly collided with something soft, slender and totally feminine emerging from Hookham's Library.

  Benedict was powerless to prevent several books cascading from slender hands and ending up on the pavement, but managed to prevent the lady herself suffering the same fate by reaching out a steadying aim to encircle a very trim waist. "I'm so very sorry," he apologised, silently cursing his clumsiness, and was about to relinquish his hold when the head beneath the fashionable bonnet was suddenly raised:

  For several moments it was as much as Benedict could do to stop himself gaping like some lovelorn fool as thickly lashed eyes, with a spark of mischief in their beautiful green depths, twinkled up at him, and perfectly moulded lips curled into the sweetest of smiles. Beauties he'd known by the score, but never before had the sight of a lovely face and trim figure held him so totally captive, mind and body under some hypnotic spell, quite unable to function. The sights and sounds around him slowly began to fade, and he was conscious only of her, and the ever-increasing desire never to relinquish his hold.

  Nicholas, on the other hand, stepping out from the convenient hiding-place, was instantly aware of the interest his clumsy brother was arousing in several passers-by, and promptly took command of the situation by treading none too gently on one roughly shod foot. "Don't just stand there like a dolt!" he ordered, sublimely ignoring the flashing look of annoyance he perceived in a pair of masculine eyes. "Help this lady's maid to pick up those books!"

  Very reluctantly Benedict did as bidden, and Nicholas wasted no time in escorting the young lady in question to her waiting carriage. "Can't apologise enough. The clumsy brute might have done you a serious mischief. I trust you're none the worse for the encounter?"

  "No, not at all, sir," she assured him, her gaze momentarily wandering in the tall man's direction as he handed her maid the books. "And please do not blame your servant. It was as much my fault as his. I was not attending where I was going either."