by Mary Brendan
‘I feel...quite content,’ Beatrice said softly, gazing at her sister through dusk illuminated by a wall sconce and a stumpy taper burning on the hall table.
‘So do I,’ Elise breathed dreamily. Lifting the candle, she lit the way to the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-One
James Whittiker spat out a curse and slammed down his losing cards.
‘No luck?’ It was a question from a rival gamester seated on the opposite side of the baize-topped table.
James knew the fellow’s sympathy was as false as his smile: both held a hint of vicious satisfaction. The pot was large and many pairs of eyes were avariciously lingering on it. The atmosphere was becoming increasingly hostile as slowly individuals withdrew from the contest for want of funds, or courage to continue bluffing on a hand that lacked royalty.
James shoved back his chair, stalking off to find a steward to fetch him a cognac, hoping he wasn’t about to be embarrassed by a refusal because he’d not yet settled a long-overdue shot. An ugly grimace hiked up his top lip at the thought.
Not long ago he’d been confident that Blackthorne would come up trumps and protect Elise Dewey’s reputation with his cash. But Whittiker hadn’t received a penny. Neither had he received any response to the two coded threats he’d sent to Upper Brook Street so he had gone again in person. The insolent butler Blackthorne employed had told him the viscount was still out of town and when he might be back was unknown.
Robinson’s curt dismissal had prompted Whittiker to act rashly while fired by Dutch courage and a burning resentment. By the next morning the gossip he’d started in the Palm House—a den of iniquity for gentlemen who liked to gamble and whore under the same roof—had spread far wider than he’d anticipated. Despite his thumping hangover twinges of doubt had immediately set in...not from conscience, but because he questioned his own tactics.
He now knew he should have waited longer, allowing Alex Blackthorne to return so he might again inveigle him for cash. If nothing else, he’d hoped Alex might agree to give him a few hundred pounds simply to get rid of him.
Yesterday James had bumped into Dolly Pearson and Edith Vickers in Pall Mall and had deduced from twin despising stares that they’d heard the gossip and knew who’d started it. James realised there was now nothing left to gain from the débâcle other than revenge, and even that advantage was turning sour. Usually the beau monde loved nothing better than to topple heroes from pedestals and eject damsels from ivory towers, but it seemed Alex Blackthorne and Elise Dewey had steadfast friends who were dousing the flames of the scandal before it could spread. James had not been fêted, as he’d hoped, for unearthing a juicy titbit concerning the eminent viscount and the country miss, but rather shunned.
‘Whittiker...’
James pivoted about on hearing the shout. Hugh Kendrick was bearing down on him, a paper in one hand and a tumbler in the other.
Hugh clapped a hand on James’s shoulder. ‘Just the fellow I wanted to see,’ Hugh exclaimed, then took a swig of brandy.
James’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He knew very well that Blackthorne’s friend disliked him as much as the man himself did.
‘Have you heard the wonderful news?’
‘News?’ James parroted. But his mind was agile and he speared a glance at the gazette under Hugh’s arm.
‘Here, have my copy and read all about it,’ Hugh said, all generosity, whipping out the paper. ‘See...I’ve even turned it to the right page for you.’ Having despatched his drink in a single swallow, Hugh started on his way. ‘Can’t stop; I’m off to my tailor to see about a suit of wedding clothes. There’s bound to be a grand reception in due course.’ A gleeful bark of laughter flowed back over Hugh’s shoulder, but he didn’t turn around. Had he done so, he would have seen Whittiker’s teeth snap together in a snarl of frustration because he’d located and digested a paragraph Hugh had boldly circled in black ink.
James tossed the paper on to an empty table on striding to the door. He now knew what, or rather who, had been keeping Blackthorne out of town. He also knew where the viscount was sure to be found: St Albans in Hertfordshire because that was where the confounded chit he’d seduced lived with her father and her sister. Hugh Kendrick’s delight about the forthcoming marriage had been genuine and Whittiker felt livid at the idea that instead of causing Blackthorne great inconvenience he might have precipitated the fellow’s wedded bliss.
* * *
Whittiker wasn’t the only person to feel cheated on reading that Viscount Blackthorne and Miss Elise Dewey were shortly to be man and wife. The groom’s mother seized her lorgnette and employed it for several minutes, reading and rereading the notice that announced her son’s nuptials in a few days’ time. Finally she pushed the paper away and returned her attention to her buttered toast. ‘Well, really, Alex,’ she sighed, taking a dainty bite and swallowing. ‘Just because I told you I approve of the girl doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have liked an invitation to the wedding.’
* * *
Another woman was not quite so prepared to be philosophical about the whole affair. Celia Chase ripped the offending page in two on reading that Alex Blackthorne was to be married. Having screwed the newsprint into a ball, she hurled it as far as she could, then slumped into a chair and burst into furious tears.
Everything had suddenly become very clear to Celia. On the day Alex had left town she had received a short note from him ending their liaison. In the same post had come a letter from his attorney detailing her generous settlement.
Celia had been incensed to know she was being pensioned off, having only briefly enjoyed the advantages of being the mistress of the ton’s most popular bachelor. Not that she’d expected him to propose, but she would have been content to remain his paramour whether or not he took a wife. Now she wished she’d made that perfectly plain to him because she wanted back the life he’d shown her. She was young and ambitious. Pensions were all very well, but they didn’t provide intense sensual pleasure or an entrée to the circles where rich and influential people congregated.
Alex’s good looks and raw virility had drawn Celia to him like a moth to a flame. She’d been delighted in his skill as a lover. As equally satisfying had been putting out of joint the noses of ladies who were keen to impress on her their superior status. Her betters, maybe, but their contempt could never disguise their jealousy. Celia knew every one of them craved replacing her in Viscount Blackthorne’s bed.
Celia was sure Alex must still desire her voluptuous body and was hoping she could coax him to have her back. She’d heard the gossip, spread by one of Alex’s enemies, about the viscount compromising a lady, and had dismissed it as irrelevant. The reason why he’d ended their affair now became apparent to her. He’d feared her being hurt by him taking a wife...a wife he didn’t truly want, but had been burdened with from social graces.
Having been raised in straitened circumstances by her milliner mother, something as twee as etiquette was absurd to Celia. A pampered life and the respect and envy of her rivals were what were important to her. Many months ago, on the same day she had eagerly agreed to Alex’s proposition, she had turned down a similar offer from a coal merchant. She was confident she’d still have that fellow twined about her finger. So, to her mind, Alex Blackthorne owed her another chance to prove to him he’d no need to look elsewhere for his pleasure.
Celia dabbed at her tears with a handkerchief. Her pretty features hardened and a moment later she tossed the soaking linen towards the table where it landed on what remained of the crumpled newspaper. She was determined to get what she wanted just as she had when, at the age of sixteen, she’d escaped a miserable life as her mother’s apprentice by warming the bed of a local magistrate.
Springing up from her chair, Celia paced to and fro, her fingers clenching and unclenching as strategies darted in and out of her mind. All she needed wa
s an opportunity to tell Alex she could be trusted to be discreet and they could carry on as before. And she needed to do it immediately, before he got another woman to take her place. Like most men of his wealth and class he would keep a mistress, perhaps even before his little wife’s belly started swelling.
Celia took a deep breath, feeling quite better now she’d decided on a course of action. She knew who might be useful in her scheme and had no qualms about the method needed to persuade him to help her.
Having approached the mantelpiece, Celia clattered the little bell that reposed on its marble shelf. While waiting to be attended by her maid she studied her creamy complexion in the mirror that soared up almost as high as the ceiling. A plump white finger fussed at the dark curls on her forehead before she stared deep into slanting dark-blue eyes, lively with intrigue.
A tiny French woman appeared on the threshold and bobbed her mobcap.
‘I have an errand for you Paulette.’ Celia turned slowly about.
‘Madame?’
‘I should like you to discover the location of a certain gentleman. I wish to make his acquaintance, but unfortunately I do not have his whereabouts, you see.’
Paulette raised her thin face and frowned at her mistress. ‘’Ow shall I do it, madame?’
‘Make some enquiries,’ Celia answered a trifle impatiently. ‘The butcher’s boy, for example...he might know of the fellow’s direction if he is a resident in the neighbourhood. Or...try at a coffee shop...or tavern...the sort of places fellows frequent besides their fusty clubs.’ Celia clapped her hands. ‘Of course! The clubs along St James’s! He is a well-bred gentleman and a patron of one or other, I’m sure.’
‘I cannot enter...I will be thrown out, madame,’ Paulette whispered, scandalised at the very idea of attempting to breach one of those male bastions to pimp for her mistress.
‘Wait outside, then, and ask after him.’ Celia flicked an imperative finger, turning away to find a scrap of paper and a pen. Quickly she wrote her name and address, folded it and handed it to her maid.
‘And his name, madame?’ Paulette asked sarcastically, having looked at the parchment.
Celia pivoted about. ‘Ah...yes...his name is James Whittiker and when you find him you may give him the message that I should like him to call on me at his earliest convenience.’
* * *
Paulette was glad she’d had no need to traipse all the way to St James’s and loiter about accosting gentlemen like a trollop. The butcher’s boy had, after all, known of James Whittiker. The cheeky scamp knew the fellow because his older brother was a tailor’s apprentice and the tailor had been dunning for unpaid goods a certain James Whittiker. He was a little puffed-up fellow who lived on Cranley Street, the boy had told her. That information had made Paulette frown. Her madame liked distinguished gentlemen with plenty of money. It was a mystery to Paulette why she would be interested in a debtor living in a seedy district.
Paulette alighted from the cab, paid the driver then huddled into her cloak. She stood at the top of Cranley Street outside a pawnbroker’s shop, glowering and muttering to herself a promise that on the morrow she would go to the agency and seek a new position once she’d found this ugly fat fellow called Whittiker.
* * *
Celia covered her naked body with a silk robe, then slid off the crumpled bed. She walked away without a glance at the snoring fellow. Once she had washed and dressed she would wake him and eject him from her house. He had served his purpose; she now knew where Alex was to be found. She pivoted about, knotting the silk belt about her waist. With mild disgust she eyed James’s flabby torso displayed beneath crumpled sheets. His short soft body was nothing like Alex’s big, hard physique. The contrast in their looks and wealth made her ever more determined to get back the life she’d had. But bedding Whittiker hadn’t been such an ordeal; he had little stamina and the wine he’d drunk had quickly sent him to sleep after a thankfully brief performance. She had endured worse in the four years since she’d started her career as a courtesan. But Celia knew that she’d never improve on a gentleman like Alex and that was why she was not going to let him slip between her fingers...
* * *
‘I’ve heard that the Red Lion cater for parties. I’m sure they would gladly provide a small wedding breakfast.’ Colin grinned at Alex. ‘Would you like me to enquire and make arrangements?’ He thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘As you’ve done me the honour of asking me to be your groomsman, I feel I ought to make myself useful before the big day.’
‘I’ve already enquired,’ Alex replied. ‘The landlord is setting aside two rooms and will do his best to supply us with a good spread at short notice.’
The two men had met by chance in St Albans. Colin had been about to visit the apothecary shop when he’d seen Alex’s tall figure striding along the street towards his sleek vehicle. He’d quickly diverted to speak to him before he could spring into his curricle and race off.
‘You’re a lucky man,’ Colin congratulated gruffly. ‘I’ve not known the family very long, but have found them very nice people.’
‘I feel blessed to have Elise, but wish circumstances had been different so she might have had the celebration she deserves.’
‘Sometimes spontaneity can be a good thing,’ Colin murmured, looking thoughtful.
‘Indeed...’ Alex encouraged with a private smile. ‘A man should follow his instinct. You are not long in the area, then?’ he asked.
‘A matter of months only, but I think I shall like it here.’
‘I’m sure you shall.’ In Alex’s opinion it was obvious to all but a blind man that, short acquaintance or no, Beatrice Dewey liked the doctor and he was equally under her spell. Alex was glad Elise’s sister seemed to have quickly recovered from her ill-starred romance. Despite understanding Hugh’s predicament, he’d been annoyed to discover that his friend had started squiring the elder Chapman girl about town with indecent speed following Beatrice’s departure.
‘I must get going. I have to purchase a wedding ring for Elise.’ Alex sprang aboard his carriage, aware of the day passing.
‘There is a goldsmith in St Albans,’ Colin offered helpfully. ‘But I’m not sure if he has ready stock.’
‘I know of a fine craftsman in Enfield who keeps a good selection of pieces of jewellery. It is a bit of a trek, but I should be back by nightfall.’
* * *
‘Are you sure we will be welcome, Dolly?’
Edith Vickers leaned forwards to converse with her travelling companion as the vehicle bumped over a rut. A buxom matron seated beside her with a child on her lap used the opportunity to elbow some more room on the cramped seat of the mail coach.
‘Of course—my brother will be delighted to see us!’ Dolly Pearson flapped a hand and Edith squashed herself back against the upholstery.
‘I shall be glad to get off this confounded contraption,’ Edith complained. In her heyday, when her husband had been alive, she had been used to travelling in style.
‘We allus makes a stop just up ahead at the Crown at Enfield.’ The fellow wedged in the corner next to Dolly helpfully supplied that information in his country brogue.
‘Thank heavens!’ Dolly murmured as she eased a small space between her bombazine coat and his musty tweeds.
* * *
‘Are you certain it won’t be an imposition on your brother if we turn up without warning?’ Edith took a sip of her coffee. The two ladies were seated in the Crown tavern’s snug, enjoying some warming refreshment, while the horses and driver took a well-earned rest before the final leg of the journey. It was midsummer, but cloudy and with a brisk wind cooling the air, making people huddle inside.
‘Walter will be delighted to see me,’ Dolly asserted. ‘He will be glad that I have come to take charge. With no mother to advise the girls on such importa
nt matters as wedding day...and night matters,’ she mouthed delicately, ‘my brother will be grateful for my assistance.’
In truth, Dolly’s determination to attend the imminent nuptials of her younger niece was not quite so altruistic. The momentous occasion of one of her relations joining an important aristocratic dynasty was likely to present itself only once in her lifetime and she’d no intention of missing it.
‘Well...if you’re sure Mr Dewey will have the room to accommodate us.’ Edith sounded doubtful.
‘We might have to put up at a local hostelry. My brother doesn’t keep a large establishment,’ Dolly owned up. She had kept that vital bit of information to herself when persuading her friend to accompany her to Hertfordshire. She’d not wanted to travel alone and Edith had, at first, seemed keen to be part of the big day. But Dolly could tell that her friend was now having second thoughts about the wisdom of agreeing to gatecrash the rushed affair. To soothe her friend’s nerves Dolly exclaimed, ‘Oh...it is a grand adventure, Edith. You cannot say it is not.’ She clapped her gloved palms in excitement. ‘Not an auspicious start to the romance, I’ll agree. But look how it has ended! My dear Elise is to become a viscountess! I knew from the first moment I saw them together that Alex Blackthorne was utterly smitten by her sweet nature and pretty face...’ Dolly’s reminiscence faded as she noticed she’d lost her friend’s interest.
Edith was frowning through the square-paned window into the tavern courtyard. ‘Good heavens, Dolly...look! Celia Chase is alighting from that carriage.’ Edith’s chin was sagging in astonishment.
Dolly gawped through the window, her eyes becoming slits at the sight of a familiar brunette straightening her stylish velvet hat. ‘I think I can guess what the troublemaking hussy might be doing so far from home, on the road to Hertfordshire.’
Edith inclined towards Dolly across the tabletop to hiss, ‘You surely don’t think the groom’s mistress would try to spoil things for the bride?’ She blinked in astonishment. ‘But that would be so...uncouth.’
