This final statement was pronounced with such deadly finality that even Carstairs dared not refute it.
“Of course, of course, my lord. However, I feel there is much that is still cloudy in this matter. The predawn attack which you state resulted in the capture of British soldiers—how did that come to pass?”
For the first time the earl displayed visible indecision.
“Lord Straeford, there is nothing in the record about such an attack. There is nothing in the record about the atrocities you describe. Our loss of some eighty men in the encounter at Nangore was attributed to casualties of battle. This is a serious alteration to the facts as written up by General Seton, and the record must be set straight. I’m sure you will agree.”
Straeford nodded curtly.
“Now, if this attack did occur as you claim, I cannot, for the life of me, understand General Seton’s intentions in bringing charges against you.”
The explanation was one the earl chose not to go into. Seton’s hatred of Straeford went back over many years, ever since Straeford’s growing success in battle began to overshadow the general’s record. As Seton’s blunders increased, Straeford was forced to assume more authority, which only served to further embitter the man whose career was eroding steadily.
The earl took up the recitation of the night’s events without preamble. “We had been on the march five days prior to our arrival at Nangore. General Seton, believing that an attack under cover of darkness would have the advantage of surprise, ordered a charge at midnight on the fifteenth. Unfortunately al Singhe was prepared and waiting for us. Our men were badly shot up and twenty-three taken prisoner before General Seton called off the attack and retreated.”
“Was there no reconnaissance of the area to determine the readiness of the enemy?” Lord Carstairs questioned.
“We arrived at sundown and attacked at midnight. There was no opportunity to reconnoitre the situation.”
“Excuse me, my lord,” General Belvoir, who was restraining himself with great difficulty, interrupted, “but I must ask Lord Straeford to repeat what he has just said. Did you in fact say that General Seton ordered an attack during the dark of night without first having sent advance patrols into the area to determine enemy strength?”
“It was as you say, General Belvoir,” Straeford replied without explaining that that had been exactly what he himself was preparing to do when the noise of the attack reached his ears.
“Infamous! That was an infamous piece of work,” General Belvoir sputtered. “By the lord of hosts, General Seton barely redeemed himself with victory the next day.” Then, as if further infamy dawned on him, “He did lead the counter-attack, did he not, Lord Straeford?”
A sudden silence fell on the near-empty chamber where the Earl of Straeford had been summoned to give an accounting of himself. The sound of wind fretted bare branches against the windows, and voices drifted faintly from the streets below. Finally, his reluctance apparent, Lord Straeford answered General Belvoir’s question.
“The entire expedition to put down the rebellion at Nangore was under the command of General Seton.” He hesitated. “If I may interject my thoughts here, gentlemen, the purpose of this inquiry is to investigate the execution of those twenty-three Indian rebels. I readily admit that the execution was carried out by my command when left in charge by General Seton. I also admit that our viewpoints differed sharply on the necessity of such action. However, I am… ah… surprised that General Seton’s deposition states that my actions contravened his orders. If I could have some time to read over that deposition, perhaps I could clear up the misunderstanding to the board’s satisfaction.”
“It is more than a mere misunderstanding, Lord Straeford. Your testimony has brought forth disturbing information which cannot be lightly cast aside. Perhaps it would be best to adjourn this inquiry until further study of the matter can be made. I suggest, gentlemen, that we call a recess of indefinite duration and reconvene when the facts are better known on all sides.”
Lord Carstairs’s suggestion was readily accepted and the hearing adjourned—the principal participants hastening to their clubs to speculate on the startling revelations brought forth by the afternoon’s testimony.
The earl pushed his way through a throng of journalists crowding outside the hearing room and ignored their determined questioning with grim silence. It was left to Lord Carstairs to quiet their clamor with a brief noncommittal statement.
The reporters scurried to their home offices to ready their accounts which, as usual, relied heavily on conjecture and libel to appease the appetite of a public eager for scandal rather than facts. Over the years, the fortunes of Lord Straeford and his family had been the source of much scurrilous entertainment of a people avid to enjoy the comedown of so mighty a house. “The Infamy of Nangore” was seized upon by working men and gentry alike as topic for heated debate.
The Earl of Straeford had been the target of journalistic assault before, but none had been so vicious and unremitting as the current affair over the rebels of India. They were represented in the popular press as ignorant natives suffering oppression and brutality at the hands of an unfeeling monster. Several years ago there had been a tremendous furor raised over Straeford’s treatment of the Bedloes boy, but fortunately evidence had proved that the then Major St. Clare had acted correctly in having the blackguard drummed out of the corps. And now it was vastly more satisfying to shred the reputation of that same St. Clare whose elevated station as the Earl of Straeford enhanced the sport. The earl suffered little at the hands of his detractors, however. He had long ago steeled himself against the barbs of public obloquy, and there was little the scandal mongers could say to wound him.
Once in his room at the Stephens, Straeford ordered a light supper to be sent him, preferring solituHe before a small fire to further contact with a world he scorned.
Ever since the estrangement from his mother and the consequent notoriety, Justin St. Clare had steadily removed himself from a society so eager to brand him an unprincipled villain. He had become a loner who cherished his isolation.
The solitary man sat regarding the brieht flames in the grate, musing at the red lights glinting from the ruby signet ring on his left hand. It should be Robert, not himself, wearing the ring of the Earl of Straeford. But Robert was dead too many years to allow that bitter memory to pain him further.
And yet the pain did not abate with the passage of time. Robert had been too close and loving a brother, and the bond between them had not been severed by death. Deep within, Straeford maintained a vigil of mourning he would never admit to anyone. In truth, he wished that his brother had married Adele and supplied the necessary heir to the earldom which now laid so heavy a burden upon him. He much preferred to steep himself in his life as a colonel of the Horse Grenadier Guards to a life circumscribed by the conventional duties that went with a title.
Reluctantly, the earl applied himself to the lengthy records containing General Seton’s charges. It would take a miracle to extricate himself this time from the tangle created by Seton’s folly. No doubt the old dog had sent off the deposition in a condition of alcoholic excess and was probably regretting it at this very moment. But what to do to salvage the situation honorably was Straeford’s burden, not the general’s. Just how long the board would delay until the next hearing was not possible to ascertain.
Whatever the board’s timing, Straeford decided he had had enough of the rebels of Nangore by the next evening and was ready to join Ed Harding in an excursion to the Golden Hazard, a discreet gaming hell. Entrée to the Bloomsbury establishment depended mainly on the size of the client’s purse, and many a well-heeled cit rubbed elbows with gentlemen from the upper strata of society under circumstances not prevailing elsewhere in such a class conscious world.
No-limit betting drew the inveterate gamblers of London to the Hazard’s tables, and extravagant sums were won and lost there. It suited the earl’s purposes perfectly, since he hoped to gai
n a fortune to restore Straeford Park through his efforts at cards. His cold control had served him rather well in past games of chance, and he saw no reason why he should not succeed in applying that same style now.
“My dear Lord Straeford! How uncommon surprising to find you patronizing such plebeian environs.” It was Harold Foxworth, an improvident fop whose supercilious manner placed him high on the earl’s list of fools to be avoided.
“I cannot say that it surprises me to find you here, Foxworth.”
The gentleman tapped Straeford lightly with his silver-headed cane and jeered, “You were ever quick on the uptake, Straeford. I should not have forgotten. But let me introduce you to Angus Loftus, the luckiest chemin de fer gamester in London.”
Straeford’s attention was instantly alerted. The middle-aged man before him was exactly the opportunity he was seeking. “Indeed sir, I trust your friend Foxworth speaks with authority on your gaming.”
“Aye, he does. I’ve won more than my fair share, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I hear you don’t do too badly neither, my lord. Care to match your game to mine?”
The earl’s eyes narrowed shrewdly as he realized the affluent cit with penetrating blue eyes was sizing him up too.
“Chemin de fer is not exactly my game,” Straeford drawled, dissembling his interest.
“If Dame Fortune smiles on you, it don’t matter what the game, I always say.”
Was this a frontal attack or merely a skirmish, Straeford wondered.
“Very astute, sir. I shall be delighted to join you in a game,” the earl agreed and followed Loftus to the table.
As he walked, his friend Harding whispered, “Lord, Justin, that’s not your game. Stick to Hazard. You’ve always been lucky with dice.”
“The big money tonight is at the chemin table.”
“But Angus Loftus wins more than he loses,” Harding warned.
“Did you not hear the gentleman’s notions about luck? If the lady grants me her favor, I may be able to reclaim the Van Dycks and jewels I pawned as collateral to the moneylenders and refurbish Straeford Park. I think the risk is worth it.”
Several hours later Straeford and Loftus were the only two players left at the chemin de fer table. Although they had attracted an interested crowd of bystanders, the room was very quiet. Cautiously and accurately they had gauged each other’s plays, but it was the earl who controlled the bank now with £ 15,000 at stake. Straeford had refused the opportunity of passing to his opponent after the last hand. He was gambling that Loftus would declare “banco” and match Ms £ 15,000. If the earl should win, Straeford Park was secure.
Betraying none of his inner feelings, he sipped calmly at his wine and smiled genially at the older man who was studying this imperturbable stranger.
“Banco,” Angus claimed, shattering the stillness and placing his money beside the earl’s. The winner would take all.
The operator handed the box with the cards in it to Straeford, who slid one card out and dealt it to Loftus face down. Then one to himself. A second card to his opponent, and finally another card to himself. Each man examined his hand with no change of expression.
Did Loftus have an 8 or 9, Straeford wondered. If so, it was all over for him because he held a total count of four.
“Pass,” Angus Loftus called. The earl sighed silently as he too passed, returning the play to Loftus.
“I’ll stay,” the sturdy cit claimed.
Straeford raised his cigar to his mouth and puffed on it before taking his cards. His opponent probably had a count of seven. If so, he must draw a 3 to tie or a 4 or 5 to beat him. Anything over a total count of nine and he would lose! He drew a 2 of clubs.
Harding shifted uneasily behind him although Straeford remained unflinching with defeat yawning before him. There was still one chance! Loftus had taken the option to stand pat at five points.
“Gentlemen?” the operator questioned.
Loftus studied his cards for one more moment, hoping to stir the younger man to some display of emotion, but the earl remained impassive. Exasperated, Loftus flipped his cards over one at a time—a 3 of hearts—a 4 of spades!
The earl did not hesitate in revealing his own hand. Although his face paled slightly, his hands remained steady as he tossed the cards onto the table—an ace of hearts, a 3 of spades and a 2 of clubs for a count of six.
“Mr. Loftus is the winner,” the operator announced.
There was a moment of confusion as the onlookers broke into a noisy babble, and the operator scooped up the money for the winner.
“Congratulations, sir.” Straeford extended a steady hand to his opponent as he rose.
“You play well, my lord. Perhaps a rematch at another time?” Loftus squinted up at him.
“I doubt that, sir. My blunt is spent.”
“You will oblige me by having a drink with me?”
“Of course,” the earl nodded and dropped into a chair beside him. “Harding,” he looked up at his friend who was frowning unhappily, “sit down and join us. I’m sure Mr. Loftus won’t mind.”
“Not at all, not at all. I think your friend needs a brandy more than you do, my lord. You too, Foxworth,” he motioned to the dandy and turned his attention to the earl. “You take your loss admirably.”
“Do I? And how else should a gentleman behave?” Straeford claimed arrogantly as he quirked an eyebrow at the older man.
“I have been witness to many gambling displays in my day, and your coolness surpasses them all.”
“I assure you I have no intention of cutting my throat—or yours, for that matter.”
The old man chuckled. “No, I’m sure you don’t.”
“That’s not the good Colonel’s way, is it, Straeford?” Foxworth cut in grinning slyly. “Don’t you know, Angus, this man never displays any emotion. Some claim he don’t have any. Do you, Colonel? Cool as a cucumber while your whole career hangs in the balance,” the silly man taunted.
“If I did have any emotions, you might be enjoying the back of my hand right now, Foxworth,” Straeford warned.
“Be quiet, Harold,” Angus spoke sharply, “or go away. No one is amused by your attempts at humor.”
Harold pouted angrily as he drew a lace handkerchief from his sleeve and touched it to his lips. “It does grow late, and I do have a morning engagement.” He looked meaningfully at Loftus. “So I shall wish you a pleasant goodnight, gentlemen. Of course, one wonders how pleasant the Colonel’s night will be…” he let the thought dangle. Then, pausing behind the earl’s chair, “Does tonight’s loss mean you will be forced to sell Straeford Park, Colonel? Such a pity, I’m sure. But you’ve spent so little time there it’s not much use to you, is it? Unless you plan to marry soon…” Again he let the thought hang in mid-air.
“Goodnight, Foxworth,” Loftus claimed sternly while Straeford ignored his antagonist.
Foxworth laughed affectedly and sauntered off.
“Pay him no heed, my lord,” Loftus suggested.
“The man’s a popinjay,” Harding added. “His points are so high he risks stabbing himself every time he tries to turn his head.”
This produced a spurt of laughter from the three of them. When it died away, Straeford and Harding rose and took their leave of Loftus, but as they turned to go the man called to Straeford.
“A word in private, my lord?”
Harding shrugged and left them while the earl eyed Loftus suspiciously.
“Don’t look so fierce, my lord. I have a slight proposition to put to you.”
The earl’s guarded look intensified but he did not speak.
“The sum you lost tonight—an inconvenient amount, I take it.” Loftus waited for the earl to acknowledge his statement, but Straeford did not reply. Shrugging his heavy shoulders, the merchant continued, “Perhaps a loan….” He waited again, letting his eyes rest on the taller man’s impassive face.
Finally Straeford spoke. “And for this loan… you would require some service.”
It was not a question but a statement.
“You come straight to the point, my lord. Yes, you might call it a service,” he temporized, “but it is late and we are both tired. Would you find it convenient to call upon me at my offices about three this afternoon?”
Straeford accepted the proposal. “So be it. Until three.”
After dropping Harding at his home, the earl continued to his hotel, all’ the while mulling over his dilemma. He was not a sentimental man, he told himself, and as Foxworth had pointed out, Straeford Park had not been his home for years; nevertheless he could not contemplate losing it. The pride of the St. Clares was too ingrained in him. The estates must be saved, and the line secured, whatever sacrifice, was demanded of him. He would have to marry, as his grandmother suggested, but he’d be damned if it would be some climbing cit. His will to sacrifice stopped short of that particular comedown—no matter how great the fortune of his grandmother’s particular candidate. He’d find an heiress from the ton.
If only Robert had married Adele and provided an heir. Ah well, that was a dead end, and Adele’s qualifications for Countess of Straeford left much to be desired. She had proved little better than a slut, coming to him the very night of Robert’s funeral and offering herself to him. At least he did not have to contend with that bitch!
Women! They were all alike. The meaning of loyalty beyond their perfidious natures. Best restrict one’s amorous pursuits to those ladies of the night who made no. pretense of their intentions.
Yet marry he must. And the lady would understand from the start that his only motive would be to secure an heir. There would be no romantic illusions clouding the picture. God grant he find some sensible female willing to accept the bargain he was girding himself to make.
Tender Torment Page 3
