‘He offers—by Jupiter, I have never heard of such a thing!—the choice of a contest over the old Beacon course at Newmarket—that’s something over four miles, if I remember aright—or a race from the Crown House at Newport to the Ram Inn at Newmarket!’
‘Which is nearer to twenty-four miles,’ supplemented Mr. Derwent.
‘He explains—and deuced lucid he is for a man in prime and plummy order not twelve hours since!—that it will be necessary to get permission to race over the course should that be your choice,’ pursued Mr. Dacres, ‘but he leaves it to you to name a date. Damned accommodating, ain’t he? Not at all in Wayleigh’s style.’
‘Timeo Datiaos ft dona ferentes,’ remarked Mr. Derwent, half-humorously.
‘Wouldn’t go so far as to call him a Greek, but I don’t trust him either,’ said Mr. Dacres, displaying an unlooked-for scholarship. ‘As I recall, the bets are doubled if the loser comes in more than three minutes behind the winner. In a lengthy race that is no time at all.’
‘He might almost be tempting me to choose the other,’ pondered Mr. Derwent.
‘ ’Tis said Davenport’s not got a feather left to fly with,’ commented Mr. Dacres with apparent irrelevance.
‘In Dun Territory, is he? By heaven—his blacks! If Wayleigh’s got his hands on ‘em they could have the heels of my bays over the shorter distance! But I’ll not believe it. Davenport would liefer part with his estates than his cattle.’
‘The story as I heard it,’ said Mr. Dacres, closely examining his immaculately pared fingernails, ‘was that Davenport lost close on forty thousand pounds at a hell in Pall Mall t’other day. Wayleigh was with him at the time.’
Mr. Derwent glanced at him in question. ‘The hell would get his losings, surely?’
‘Wayleigh’s a regular visitor there, and he’s no pigeon for the plucking.’
‘Meaning he leads the lambs to the slaughterhouse?’
‘And gets his price for his trouble.’
‘In this case, the blacks. What a damnable fellow he is!’ remarked Mr. Derwent almost affably.
‘None of my business, of course,’ Mr. Dacres was still much engaged with his fingernails, ‘but it’s going to be an awkward thing if you near ruin him. The Duke might not care for it.’
Mr. Derwent took his meaning perfectly. ‘That’s another pair of shoes, Augustus, but how the devil did you know?’
Mr. Dacres chuckled. ‘They’ll be opening a book on it any day!’ he promised. ‘Win the race and lose the lady or vice versa!’
‘Oh, no!’ Mr. Derwent put the letter securely away in his pocket. ‘I shall hate to disappoint Wayleigh, but I feel he is counting on my being more of a gentleman than I am! Good day to you, Augustus. I can rely on your discretion in all this?’
Mr. Dacres assured him that he would be as dumb as the proverbial oyster and watched his friend’s elegant figure threading its way through the crowded room, pausing every so often to exchange a word or a greeting.
‘Whole thing’s confoundedly smoky,’ he grumbled. ‘If Wayleigh hadn’t been as drunk as a wheelbarrow, I’d swear he’d set a trap to queer Lysander. Ah, well, back to the tables!’
Mansell, the Elizabethan mansion which had been the chief residence of the Barons of Glendower for close on two centuries, lay near to the town of Guildford. Though not a vast building when compared with some of its stately neighbours, the old house was beautifully situated in the bend of a stream against a background of dark pine woods. The gardens were laid out in the most tasteful way and the local guide-books had a kind word to say about the exquisite linenfold panelling in the dining-room and the gracious entrance hall, supported by columns, leading to a fine staircase which was enlivened by an intricate wrought-iron balustrade.
Though the previous night’s snow had almost completely disappeared, Mr. Derwent drove with care, having no mind to risk injury to his impetuous young pair, baiting them at Wimbledon and again at Wisley Pond before the last stage of his journey through the pleasant village of Ripley.
He was gratified to find Lord Glendower out of his bed and reclining upon a chaise-longue in the book-room. There he presently joined his brother to sample his excellent Madeira, and to listen once again to his lordship relating every small detail of his accident.
Tool that I was to have set old Hereward at that fence!’ Lord Glendower beat on the floor with a crutch to emphasise his point. ‘I could have gone through the bullfinch with the rest of the hunt and taken no harm.’
‘Well, I am glad at all events to see you on your feet,’ said Mr. Derwent equably.
His brother grimaced. ‘Hardly that, but at least off my back. I’ll not bestride a horse for a time yet.’
‘Mama proposed coming with me today.’
‘God forbid! I mean—think of it if she had taken a cold or—or something!’
Mr. Derwent grinned, undeceived. ‘I agree, she’d fuss over you like a wet hen and be about as much use. Very tolerable Madeira this, Jack.’
His lordship nodded, holding out his glass to be refilled, and the brothers sat in companionable silence for a time until the elder said abruptly: ‘About that business I spoke to you of when last you came down, have you thought any more of it?’
‘I discussed it with mama yesterday. I carried a letter from her to Jane, by the way.’
‘What was her view? She’s usually pretty needle-witted on anything that concerns wedding and bedding.’
‘She approves my choice, with reservations.’
‘So you’ve come to a choice, have you?’
‘Again, with reservations.’
‘Who is the fortunate lady?’
‘Sophia Trennick.’
‘Good God!’ said his lordship and drained his glass.
‘You don’t care for the connection?’
‘Can’t say I know the girl, but she comes from a bad stable. Why did you pick on her?’
‘She is a lady of breeding and some dignity.’ Mr. Derwent spoke slowly in the manner of one enumerating his intended’s good points as much for his own satisfaction as for any other. ‘If her address is at times more formal than is generally pleasing, I believe the fault to be one of shyness rather than an undue regard for her own consequence.’
‘She may be all you say, but Wayleigh’s a rake and that crack-brained young brother of his no better than a Captain Sharp.’
‘And last night’s happenings have not helped matters.’
‘Good God!’ said his lordship again when he had been told of the wager. ‘All the more reason for you to hedge off. You are not committed?’
‘No,’ allowed Mr. Derwent. ‘Though my attentions to her when last we met might have—er—raised hopes. But I doubt even Wayleigh could force a challenge on me on that head.’
This interesting discussion was brought to an end by the entry of her ladyship, holding the Dowager’s letter in her hand. Lysander liked his sister-in-law. Having been subject all his life to his brother’s amiable bullying, he admired the way this composed little woman managed her large, boisterous spouse, winning her own way in all matters of importance while apparently deferring to his slightest whim.
‘We have been forewarned about this goddaughter from the Cape,’ she said, settling herself in a chair and arranging the skirts of her tricot de Berlin walking dress about her. ‘I chanced to call in to the Talbot today to enquire how the innkeeper’s younger lad goes on—the one who fell off the farm wagon and crushed his foot—and there I found Miss Honeywell and her entourage. It appears the vessel carrying her letters of introduction had met with some misadventure and had berthed only the day previous to her own, so she thought it inadvisable to descend upon Mama Glendower without some forewarning.’
‘Oh? She sounds to be a sensible young female.’
‘Indeed, yes, and a most unusual one.’ Lady Glendower hesitated, then resumed on a different theme. ‘But what of you, Lysander? Mama Glendower hints that you are on the point of offering for Sophia Trennick
.’
‘I am of the opinion that Lady Sophia and I could deal very comfortably together,’ said he, a trifle impatiently. ‘What more can one ask in a marriage of this sort?’
Her glance softened as it dwelt upon his handsome person. ‘You could ask much more, Lysander.’
‘Would it not please you to have a Duke’s daughter for sister-in-law?’ he teased her.
“It is not I who requires to be pleased,’ she pointed out. He smiled at that and rose to his feet.
‘I must away and pay my respects to Mrs. Venables. Don’t worry your pretty head on my account, Jane. I could name you half-a-dozen ladies who would be happy to oblige me.’
‘Lysander!’ she cried out in reproof. ‘You sound like a—a—’
‘Coxcomb?’ he suggested. ‘But however many my physical shortcomings, you must allow that fifteen thousand a year is not a difficult pill to swallow!’
‘You know, Glendower,’ said his lady when her brother-in-law had left them to call upon their housekeeper, who had known him since he was in shortcoats, ‘devoted though I am to Lysander, there are times when I wish some female would deal him a rousing rebuilt.’
His lordship considered this possibility for a moment then shook his head decisively. ‘Thai ain’t likely, m’dear. Trouble is, he’s too damned eligible.’
‘Trouble is, he’s too damned attractive!’ snapped Lady Glendower with unwonted asperity.
Among the other qualities that went to make up Mr. Derwent’s character was a strong streak of obstinacy. To be thwarted or turned away from something to which he had set his mind was sufficient to arouse this not wholly desirable attribute, and while he had the good sense to allow it to be a fault, yet he rarely felt obliged to do anything to check it. Clearly his immediate family did not approve of his choice of bride. Well, they would have to be brought around to his way of thinking, that was all.
Had he been less engrossed in this particular circumstance, he might have suspected that his sister-in-law had not been entirely open with him concerning Miss Honeywell. They were sitting together at dinner that evening. Lord Glendower having been returned to his bedchamber, from whence issued stentorian bellows for attention at frequent intervals, when she reopened the subject.
‘I do agree that Mama Glendower cannot do other than receive her godchild,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘but I am less happy about her committing herself to launch the girl upon the ton.’
Mr. Derwent, hesitating between the relative merits of a crème Francaise a Bananas and a whim-wham, gave this intelligence scant attention.
‘Is she not quite up to the trick, then?’ he enquired.
‘I understand there are complications,’ said Lady Glendower. ‘Thank you, Hever, that will be all.’
‘What complications?’ asked Mr. Derwent, coming down in favour of the whim-wham. ‘So much cream, my dear Jane, is going to do nothing for my outline.’
‘Your outline is enviably trim, Lysander, as well you know!’ She waited until the door had closed behind her butler before adding quietly, ‘Your mama informs me that through her father, Miss Honeywell is in some sort cousin to Lord Bredon.’
Mr. Derwent, in the act of conveying a spoonful of luscious trifle to his mouth, set it down again and eyed her in some concern. ‘But no one has heard of Timothy Bredon for—it must be close on three years,’ he objected.
‘It is possible that Miss Honeywell may have. Apparently he visited her parents some years back in the Cape. She was only a child then, of course, but she may still have a kindness for him. What exactly happened to him, Lysander? I never did know the ins and outs of it.’
Mr. Derwent hesitated. ‘Briefly, young Jeremy Draycott was badly scorched at a gaming party at Bredon Hall. The boy lost everything, the deeds of his estate as well as his entire fortune, to Decimus Cantwell.’
‘But if he was only a boy?’
‘Unhappily he had just turned twenty-one. No one could stop him doing as he pleased with his inheritance. Bredon was very concerned about it—felt responsible because it had happened in his house, no doubt—and tried to remonstrate with Cantwell to be generous to the lad. The next morning—or rather that same morning, for the party did not break up until the small hours—Cantwell was found by a gamekeeper, clinging to his horse in a dying condition. He tried to utter something of which the only intelligible word was ‘Bredon’. Young Draycott’s vowels were still on his person, but not the deeds of the estates. Not that it did the lad any good, for he never got home that morning either. He blew his brains out in remorse for having ruined himself and his family.’
‘Could he not have shot Cantwell first?’
‘No, the only bullet fired from his pistols was that used on himself.’
‘But surely the fact of Cantwell’s uttering his name was not sufficient to condemn Bredon?’
‘There was another witness in the house who testified to Bredon’s going after Cantwell, in the hope of making him change his mind. In any case, Bredon did not deny it, only claimed he did not shoot the fellow.’
‘You were no friend of Cantwell’s?’ she asked shrewdly.
Mr. Derwent pushed his empty plate away. ‘He was a Queernabs, a despicable creature so to deal with a greenhead like young Draycott. If anyone deserved shooting, he did.’
‘But not in cold blood?’
‘But not in cold blood,’ he agreed.
‘What happened to Lord Bredon?’
‘His friends hustled him out of the country and his place was sold up. There was mighty little left when all his debts were discharged.’
‘Did you believe him guilty?’
Mr. Derwent sipped his wine thoughtfully. ‘He was a gamester, but I’d not have named him murderer. Miss Honeywell, however, would do well to forget him. ’Twould be putting his head in a noose for him to set foot in England.’
‘Were the deeds to Draycott Hall ever found?’
‘No, but Cantwell’s widow, who was as clutchfisted as he, claimed the place nonetheless. Mrs. Draycott insisted that her son’s debts be honourably discharged and let her have it.’
‘And poor Elizabeth Draycott was forced to marry that odious Harveston man in order to save herself and her mother from penury! That I well remember, for she was the most delightful girl, still in her first season and one of the Toasts, so I’m told.’ She paused, then went on resolutely, ‘It was whispered that Lady Sophia and Bredon might have made a match of it had not the tragedy prevented it.’
‘More like the Duke prevented it.’ Mr. Derwent sampled the Stilton and found it to his liking. ‘He’d not have welcomed another gamester with pockets to let into the family.’
‘I believe I heard that Harveston broke his neck hunting before Christmas.’ By her tone Lady Glendower clearly considered the gentleman’s unhappy end to be no great cause for regret.
‘Always was a thruster with no thought for the hounds or his mount.’ Mr. Derwent got up to draw back his sister-in-law’s chair as she prepared to leave him to enjoyment of his port.
‘By-the-by,’ she asked casually, ‘who was the person who testified against Bredon?’
‘A guest in his house, one of the party.’
Something in his constrained tone made her look up as she passed him. ‘Who was it, Lysander?’
‘The Marquis of Wayleigh,’ he said, holding the door for her.
‘I suggest,’ she remarked after an imperceptible pause, ‘that it would be a nice gesture if you called at the Talbot on your way back to’ London tomorrow and made Miss Honeywell’s acquaintance. Then you could warn the girl not to stir up a scandal-broth about Bredon and bring Mama Glendower a first-hand report on her goddaughter.’
He bowed but made no reply. She laughed, putting up a hand to pat his cheek.
‘And don’t look as sulky as a bear about it, dear brother-in-law!’
‘Your lightest wish is my command, ma’am,’ he responded gallantly.
‘I have no doubt Miss Honeywell will be charmed t
o see you,’ she called back over her shoulder as she went off to solace her afflicted husband, smiling to herself as if at some private source of amusement.
In this assumption she was shown to be perfectly correct, as Mr. Derwent discovered when he called at the Talbot Inn on the following afternoon. The hostelry had stood upon the Portsmouth Road for close on two hundred years. Its fame as a coaching inn had been greatly augmented by the fact of England’s Hero, Lord Nelson, having used it as a trysting place to meet his Emma on his journeys to and from Portsmouth. The innkeeper was no stranger to Mr. Derwent, and greeted him with the information that the young lady had accepted the offer of a mount to go riding: could he suggest some refreshment while awaiting his return.
Mr. Derwent, while a shade impatient at the delay, declared his preference for a glass of sherry, and was standing savouring it, and looking out of the window to where the first bright blaze of daffodils showed under a sheltering hedge, when he heard a vibrant female voice call out from somewhere in the building.
‘Where is he? In the coffee-room, you say?’
Then came the sound of quick, light footsteps approaching the door. Tossing back his sherry, Mr. Derwent resigned himself to making conversation with an unknown young lady. Nor could he immediately bring to mind any topic that might be of mutual interest to two people of such dissimilar backgrounds as he and Miss Honeywell. Setting down his glass, he turned as the door opened and stood as one transfixed for, facing him, was the most striking-looking female it had ever been his good fortune to behold.
His first coherent thought was that his mother would be a shade concerned about her goddaughter’s complexion, for though it could not be described as brown by even the most captious of critics, it was by no means the accepted pink and white of an English miss. It was, in fact, a warm glowing gold, admirably set off by rich dark brown hair, simply dressed, with heavy ringlets falling over one shoulder. Eyes of a peculiarly vivid deep blue were almost on a level with his own, for Miss Honeywell was tall above the average, and her brilliant green riding habit, decorated with black a la militaire, did much to enhance her magnificent, full-bosomed figure.
Lysander's Lady Page 3
