The Georgian Rake

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “What is it?” he asked. “There’s something troubling you, Mandy.”

  She seemed ill at ease. “Oh, nothing: only it did occur to me that — that he bears no love to his cousin.”

  “By all accounts that feeling is reciprocated.”

  “Yes, but —” again the hesitation — “I fancy that Mr. Barsett is not exactly looking to do his cousin an injury.”

  “And you feel that Thurlston might be?”

  She nodded uncomfortably. “It is only a notion of mine, and must be wrong, by all we have heard. Anyway, what do his motives matter to us? The thing is, he is willing to get me into the Abbey — how, I know not — to see for myself what goes on there, and the part taken in it by Mr. Barsett, so that I can report to Bella.”

  “Well, I don’t like it,” said John, emphatically. “And what’s more, I’ve a good mind to put a stop to it.”

  She looked at him in horror. “John, you could not — you don’t mean to peach on me? Surely you could never be so base!”

  “It might be the best thing,” he said, his face grim.

  Two hands seized his arm urgently, and a pair of blue eyes gazed imploringly into his. “John, you would not.”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Never fear, I could never bring myself to give you away. But I’ve a mind to have a word with this fellow Thurlston.”

  “You had much better not,” she said quickly. “I’m not perfectly certain that he wishes you to know of his part in the affair.”

  He frowned. “How does he know so much? He tells you that what goes on at this Abbey is a closely guarded secret, yet he himself seems to have a reasonably exact knowledge concerning the doings there. How does he manage it?”

  “He said something about having sources of information,” replied Amanda dubiously.

  “Sounds like spying. Egad, Mandy, I don’t know that I care much for the sound of this Thurlston fellow. Barsett may be a rake, and a thought wild, but he doesn’t strike me as the kind of chap to spy on another.”

  “All the same, he’s not going to marry my sister,” stated Amanda, firmly. “And unless I am to think you a craven for the rest of my days, you are going to help me prevent him.”

  “Put like that, of course —”

  He was reluctantly persuaded, and they parted on the understanding that she would get word to him when the moment was ripe for putting their plan into execution.

  On the evening following his visit to the theatre with Isabella, Charles Barsett received a letter. It did not come through the post, but was delivered to him by a pot-boy from a tavern in Covent Garden; and the manner of its delivery was unusual. Charles had taken a chair to the house of a friend who was expecting him for an evening of cards. As he alighted, having paid off the chairmen, a youth came flying round the corner of the street, all but colliding with him. With an oath, Charles Barsett put out his hand to restrain the lad; a folded paper was thrust into it, and the boy vanished.

  Only one person whom Charles knew was at all likely to have a note delivered in such a melodramatic style. He smiled wryly, and stowed the paper away in his pocket, to be read later. He had almost forgotten it by the time he returned home in the small hours of the morning. A moth fluttering at his candle for some reason recalled it to his memory; he drew it forth, and read the brief message.

  ‘The most noble Order of St. Francis is to assemble as usual for the Summer Solstice, in the place of which you know. All Friars of the Superior Order are asked to attend, and each may introduce a Lady of cheerful, lively disposition to join the ranks of the Nuns. Look that you fail not your Holy Prior.’

  His smile changed to a frown. He tossed the paper carelessly on to a side-table. Typical of Francis, this dramatic message delivered in a roundabout way: he was a strange fellow, with his odd pranks and mysteries, and all the mummery of this secret society of his.

  What drove him to it, a man of taste and intellect? For that matter, thought Charles Barsett with a shrug, what drove himself to it?

  The question pulled him up short. He was not normally the man to indulge in introspection. Long ago, he had put by the temptation to do so, fearing what he would find. Certain essentials of life had failed him, and he had tried to distract his attention from the gaps by filling his time with any diversion that offered, however wild. For some years now, the Order of the Monks of Medmenham had tickled his impish fancy. Why then did the thought of it suddenly fill him with impatience, almost a sense of shame?

  He decided that he would not attend this meeting. He was done with all that. He was soon to marry a lovely lady, who — he paused in his reverie — who undoubtedly despised and loathed him. There was no disguising the fact that this was so: Isabella Twyford had shrunk from his embrace in horror. On a sudden, he thought of the other sister, the little hoyden who had struggled in his arms some few days since, in her dreadful stable-boy’s disguise. She, too, had said that she hated him; but there had not been the shrinking disgust, the sense of outrage in her repulses, which had been shown him by his bride-to-be.

  The past had offered Charles Barsett no affection: it would seem that the future was to be equally barren.

  He stood up, and took his way to his bedchamber, on his face the look which Amanda detested. His mind was quite up; he would attend the Summer Revels of the Order, after all.

  He had been gone some time, and the house was dark and quiet, when presently a footman came by, soft-footed. He was about to extinguish the solitary candle which had been left burning in the room when his eye chanced upon the paper lying on the table.

  He carried it to the candle, and scanned its contents with some labour. Not for the first time in his life did he thank the relentless mother who had forced him to Sunday School as a lad, so that he might have the advantage of learning to read. It had seemed to be a useless accomplishment until these last few years, when fate had put him in touch with someone who had need of a spy in the service of the Honourable Charles Barsett. Since that time, his early toil over the alphabet had been amply rewarded.

  He pocketed the paper, and stole softly away, bearing the candle with him.

  Chapter XIV: Amanda Prepares for Action

  “What urgent family business can he possibly have that will take him from the side of his affianced bride for more than a se’enight?” asked Lady Twyford, scornfully. “It is what I warned you of, Isabella; you have not been sufficiently oncoming, and now he grows tired of you even before you are wed.”

  “Pray, hush, Mama,” implored Isabella, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes suspiciously bright. “Mr. Barsett and I do not want to be for ever living in each other’s pockets!”

  “Small danger of that, it seems,” retorted my lady tartly. “But did he not tell you where exactly he was going?” she continued, after a pause, evidently unwilling to let the subject drop.

  “I believe he said Buckinghamshire, but I cannot be sure,” replied Isabella, casually. “Mama, should we not call upon Brownie and our aunt in Richmond, one day soon? Amanda, you will like to see Brownie again, I know.”

  Amanda, thus appealed to, readily assented, willing to aid her sister in changing a distasteful subject; but her thoughts were upon this information concerning Charles Barsett’s movements, which Isabella had that moment divulged. So the gentleman was to go into Buckinghamshire, was he? It was possible, she thought, with a stirring of excitement, that he had in fact gone to the Abbey, and this might be the moment for which she had been waiting so eagerly.

  “Oh, yes, to be sure, we will go over to Richmond one day soon,” promised my lady. “Amanda, do not frown so, child. I declare, I do not know what is to be done with my daughters! One is determined to wreck all her chances of marriage by unpretty behaviour, while the other has not wit enough to hold a suitor when she finds one!”

  “Mama, I think you should try one of those powders that Mrs. Thurlston was recommending to you the other day,” remarked Amanda, her tongue in her cheek. “You seem sadly out of sorts; it must be the
heat.”

  “Nonsense!” snapped her mother, moving over to the window. “Though I must confess that this sudden warmth does take one unawares — and, of course, it seems more oppressive in London than in the country. Well, I declare!” she exclaimed, breaking off — “if it isn’t Mr. Thurlston calling upon us again, and you and I, Amanda, not fit to be seen, dressed in our morning wrappers! You must entertain him, Isabella, until we shall have changed into something more suitable — unless we deny ourselves to him.”

  “Oh, no, don’t do that!” exclaimed Amanda hastily. “He may have something I mean, he must realise that we are within, for he cannot have failed to see you standing at the window, Mama. After all, it is wide open.”

  Lady Twyford gave her daughter a keen glance, then, with a shrug, decided that she probably had imagined the eagerness in Amanda’s tone.

  “Come away, then, child, since we are to admit him. We shall not be long away, Isabella.”

  She whisked Amanda before her out of the room. Scarcely had they left than Roger Thurlston was announced.

  Isabella had not seen him for a few days, though he was a very regular caller, and they were always encountering him at social events. She greeted him warmly, for he was quite a favourite with all the family, and for a few moments they chatted of the weather and other trivial topics of the day.

  “I have heard something today which I can scarcely credit,” he said, after a time.

  “What is that, sir?” she asked.

  Her glance was easy, merry, interested. She did not often look so at Charles, he thought, with a little surge of triumph. His look was sober, however, when he answered her.

  “I heard that my cousin was to leave Town for an indefinite sojourn in the country.”

  “And so?” She gave him a challenging glance.

  “It cannot be true? He does not leave you so soon after your betrothal?”

  Isabella tossed her head carelessly.

  “Oh, as to that, our betrothal is full a month old, Mr. Thurlston! We are become quite accustomed to it now.”

  He looked at her gravely. “You speak lightly,” he said, in a low tone, “but I fancy I know what you feel.”

  “Indeed, sir?”

  Her voice had a slight edge to it. Isabella might like Mr. Thurlston, but she would permit no one to take a liberty with her, and she considered that his present remarks bordered on the impertinent.

  He paused, sensing her antagonism, and weighing what was best to do. But such an opportunity as this might not come again for a long time: he could not afford to be too circumspect, and must risk a throw.

  “Believe me, Miss Twyford — may I say Miss Isabella? — you cannot realise how I suffer with you. To be so slighted —”

  “Enough, sir! This is rank impertinence!”

  “Do not say so,” he implored, in a passionate tone. “If you could only know the depth of my feeling for you —”

  She gasped, and put her hands before her face.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Charles does not love you,” he said quickly, while she was still too stunned by his outburst to interrupt, “nor you him. I have watched you both, loving you as I do, and it is all too plain. But, in spite of this, you cannot care to be humiliated and neglected for his gross pleasures. Break off this shameful engagement, I implore you. Isabella — dearest — there is one who has a true heart to offer you, one who would gladly die in your service —”

  “Hush,” she hissed, her face pale, her eyes glittering. “I hear Mama and Amanda on the stair. Do not speak of this again. I wonder that you should dare — it can never be.”

  She turned away to the window to compose herself a little before facing her mother and sister. He, consummate master of dissimulation that he was, began at once a light-hearted commentary upon the passers-by, which was soon interrupted by the entrance of the other members of the family.

  He did not stay long afterwards.

  Amanda tried hard to manoeuvre an opportunity to be private with him, but she was not successful. She watched his back retreating down the street with strong feelings of frustration. She had been so sure that he had called for one purpose only.

  Her disappointment remained with her throughout the day, and a musical evening which she attended with the others seemed inexpressibly tedious. She was undressing in her bedchamber, with many yawns and expressions of impatience, having dismissed her maid to bed, when there came a gentle tap upon the door. She opened it, half expecting to see her sister, who had been unusually silent all evening: but it was one of the abigails standing outside, a pretty little girl who had a fondness for Tom, the stable-boy.

  She bobbed, and handed her mistress a note, carefully sealed.

  “Tom gave it me for you, Miss,” she whispered. “A gentleman gave it ‘im.”

  Her brown eyes were sympathetic: she fancied she scented romance.

  Amanda thanked her, and softly closing the door, went over to the candle. She tore the note open impatiently.

  ‘Tomorrow at seven in the park.’

  That was all it contained, and it was unsigned; but she never doubted for one moment who had sent it. At last events were coming to a head. With a feeling of elation, all her tiredness and boredom gone, she carefully held the paper in the candle flame until nothing was left but a tiny heap of ash. She was an altogether more accomplished conspirator than Charles Barsett.

  As she had expected, Roger Thurlston was awaiting her the next morning in the same secluded spot as before. She felt a little thrill of excitement as she recognised him. He did not appear to share her feelings, however, and seemed as ill at ease as on the former occasion, and just as anxious to come to the point without delay.

  “You may perhaps have guessed,” he began, once the brief formal greetings were over, “that my cousin has left Town in order to be present at a meeting of the society in Medmenham. He will be there for close on a fortnight. Now is the time for you to make your attempt to gain an entry to the Abbey. I have formulated a plan for doing this, and managed to obtain a disguise that should serve to keep you reasonably safe from discovery. But you alone can find a way to absent yourself from your home for a space without alarming your parents. Have you any notion how this may be done?”

  “A disguise!” exclaimed Amanda, much struck by this. “Pray, whatever can it be? It does sound exciting, to be sure.”

  He handed her a parcel which he was carrying. “You will find it in there. It is the robe and mask worn by the — ladies of the society. Pull the hood well down over your head, and on no account remove the mask. You will find yourself in no way remarkable there — every female present will be dressed in this way.”

  “Whatever can this society be, sir? ’Pon rep, it sounds the queerest affair I ever heard of.”

  “It is indeed, but you will see for yourself shortly, I trust. At present, the most vexed question is how to spirit you away to Medmenham. Your absence from home for more than a few hours would, I imagine, raise the alarm, and it is possible that you may have to stay away for a night. Is there any possibility of your parents spending a night out of Town at any time during the next two weeks? I suppose it is scarcely likely; they would not leave their daughters unchaperoned — and then, there is your sister to think of —”

  Amanda frowned, deep in thought. “No, I fear it is not at all likely. What can we do? There was some mention made yesterday of a visit to my aunt at Richmond, but I suppose we should all go there. Indeed, I should like to see my old governess who is now there, and Mama would scarce believe me if I said that I did not wish to accompany her. Indeed, I cannot think of anything.”

  “Well, something may turn up,” he said soothingly. “Very often in these affairs chance is more valuable than arrangement. If an opportunity should present itself, you may get word to me by way of your stable lad. I shall use the same method to convey a message to you. Do you still intend to take your friend Webster with you on this expedition?”

  Amanda
nodded. “Yes. I — I would prefer to have a companion, and it won’t be the first time that John and I have adventured together. Besides, he is more nearly concerned in this than anyone, as I explained to you before.”

  “Very well, but I advise you to keep him outside the Abbey grounds. I have no disguise for him, and I imagine that a male spy might meet with short shrift there.”

  Amanda nodded again, and tried not to look alarmed at this remark.

  “And now I must leave you. Take care that no one sets eyes on your disguise until you need to use it, and inform me at once when your chance comes to slip away from home.”

  “Suppose it doesn’t?” asked Amanda, in sudden doubt.

  “Then we must contrive something; but I’ve often found in the past that opportunity will play into one’s hand if only one is patient enough.”

  In the event, he was proved to be right. When Amanda returned home, she found her mother prostrated with the headache. Lady Twyford put the blame for her indisposition on the sudden heat which had fallen over London in the past week. All day long, the sun poured down out of a cloudless sky, parching the gardens and turning the leaves of the trees to a shrivelled brown; heat shimmered over the stone buildings, and the cobblestones of the streets burned into the feet of the pedestrians.

  “Lovely weather for the country,” said one to another, and some left Town early for their residences in the shires.

  At midday, the doctor called to see my lady, and prescribed a similar course of action for her. Lord Twyford announced his intention of taking her back to Berkshire on the following day, and his daughters with her.

  Alarmed, Amanda protested. Once safely back in the country her hopes were lost indeed. “Papa, I am only just arrived in Town! And surely Isabella and I may be trusted alone for a few days.”

  “If you ask me, I should say that you couldn’t be trusted alone for a few minutes,” replied her father, with a grin. “However, I’ll speak to your Mama about it.”