Lord Iverbrook's Heir

by Carola Dunn

  When they arrived at the crowded Rooms, a cotillion was in progress. The viscount was dancing with Jane Russell and Clive with Selena. Lady Whitton had met several acquaintances among the chaperones and was enjoying a comfortable cose. It was too late for the newcomers to take their places on the floor, so Mr. Hastings escorted Delia to her mother’s side and begged the honour of the next dance.

  The cotillion came to an end. Lord Iverbrook left his demure and rather speechless partner in Lady Whitton’s care and went in search of Selena. A glance flashed between Delia and Mr. Hastings. He must have missed Mrs. Parcott’s arrival: best not to mention it.

  Sir Aubrey appeared and with a flourishing bow requested Miss Russell’s hand for the country dance, which the musicians were just striking up. Clive came up just in time to watch both his sister and Delia being led onto the floor. With a disconsolate face he wandered away, but his circle of friends in the neighbourhood was large, and he was soon provided with a partner.

  Lord Iverbrook danced with Selena. He found it hard to take his eyes off her, but the figures of the dance sometimes separated them and during one such moment, glancing about the room, he noticed Bel. She was standing at the side of the room, talking to a pair of gentlemen who seemed to be old acquaintances.

  The viscount groaned, eliciting a surprised look from the lady standing next to him. He had not enjoyed a ball so much for years and the wretched female had to come and spoil it for him. He made a silent vow that he would not ask her to dance, no matter what wiles she employed against him. His neighbour’s elbow nudged him back into the dance, and he found himself promenading arm in arm with Selena.

  “You are looking very fierce,” she whispered.

  “Am I? I am minding my steps, you see. It takes a deal of concentration, for I renounced country dances years ago!”

  “Had you rather sit it out?”

  “No; it would spoil the set. Besides, I think I am doing splendidly.”

  She laughed. “Unlike Clive, you have not yet stepped on my feet!” She gave him a slight push and skipped to the left, so he hurriedly skipped to the right.

  Amabel did not approach him all evening. She danced only three times, once with Sir Aubrey, once with a stranger and once, Iverbrook was amused to note, with young Mr. Russell. Clive seemed very much épris; the typical callow youth with an older, experienced woman, he thought wryly. As the night advanced and she did not seek to speak to him, he relaxed his guard.

  He took Selena to supper, and later stood up with her for a waltz. It was the first time, he confided, that he had found a partner tall enough to waltz with comfortably. As a result, he did not have to watch his steps but surrendered to the music and to her hazel eyes, and drifted round the floor in a dream.

  Still dreaming, he gave her up to her next partner and sought out Lady Whitton.

  “I am glad to see you, Hugh,” she said. “I think we had best leave after this dance, for we have a long drive ahead of us. Do you not agree, Aubrey? That we must leave soon?”

  The baronet, who came up just then, acquiesced. “As you w-wish, Aunt.” His stutter seemed to be growing worse. “B-but I have been meaning to ch-challenge Lord Iverbrook to a hand at piquet. Will you p-play, my lord, before we go?”

  Iverbrook had no desire whatever to play cards, but he was in an amiable mood. He followed Sir Aubrey into the card room, sat down, and watched benignly as the Bart made inept efforts to attract the attention of a waiter. At last Sir Aubrey stood up and went to fetch some cards.

  He returned bearing a tray with a fresh pack and two glasses of brandy. While he shuffled, the viscount sipped at his glass. They settled the odds and began to play. Sir Aubrey proved as inept at piquet as he was at calling for service, and Iverbrook wondered why the devil he had issued the challenge if he meant to discard at random.

  His lordship took the first rubber without difficulty. He took a swallow of his brandy and was about to suggest that they return to the ballroom to find the ladies when a wave of nausea swept through him.

  Unsteadily he stood up. The room whirled about him and he sank insensible to the floor.

  Two waiters rushed over, but Amabel was there before them. She laid her hand on his forehead and felt his pulse.

  “Too much of your odious brandy!” she diagnosed. “He should not be moved far. Surely you have an unoccupied chamber here?”

  The Blue Boar’s landlord bustled in, tut-tutted, and directed the servants to carry the inert viscount above stairs. Sir Aubrey accompanied them into the lobby and watched as they carried him up, Amabel following and urging them to take care. Then he returned to the ballroom.

  The dance was over and Lady Whitton had gathered her party together, Delia hotly protesting that it was too early to leave.

  “Oh there you are at last, Aubrey,” she said. “Who won your game? And where is Hugh? We are all ready to go."

  “I do not think we should wait for Lord Iverbrook,” said Sir Aubrey solemnly. “I saw him not five minutes ago going upstairs with Mrs. Amabel Parcott!”

  Chapter 14

  Lord Iverbrook did not return to the Manor until midday on Sunday. There was no one in the stables and the barouche was missing. He entered the house by the side door. Bannister emerged from his pantry to greet him frostily with the information that the family was at church.

  “They’ll be back soon, my lord,” he added more kindly, noting the pallor of his lordship’s face. “Oh, a letter came for you last night; brought by a special messenger, it was, my lord. Here, I’ll get it.”

  He popped back into his room and returned with a sealed paper.

  Iverbrook leaned against the wall, opened it, and read it. He closed his eyes for a moment and ground the heel of his hand into his temple, as though to still a throbbing headache.

  “I have to go to London at once,” he said harshly. “Where is Tom?”

  “He went to church with Cook, my lord.”

  “I cannot wait. It is past noon already. I must write a word to Lady Whitton.”

  “There’s paper in the library, my lord.”

  The viscount’s note to his hostess was brief:

  “My lady, I am called away urgently to London on legal business. I hope to return on Tuesday. You will not, I know, judge me without a hearing. Hugh.”

  He folded it, wrote her name on it and, after a moment’s thought, took another sheet of paper.

  “Hasty,” he scribbled, “I know not what you saw or were told. I fell into a dead faint after drinking some brandy and when I came round it was morning and Mrs. P. was at my bedside. She said bad brandy but I suspect foul play. I must go to London to put a stop to this damnable suit against Miss W. Tell them what you see fit. I.”

  “L. Hastings, Esquire,” he wrote on the outside, and left both letters on the desk.

  * * * *

  Mr. Hastings was acutely uncomfortable. He had entered the Whitton household under the auspices of his friend. His friend was now in disgrace, a disgrace so deep as to be unmentionable. Mr. Hastings’s lifelong savoir faire deserted him and he had no idea how to extricate himself from the situation. He went to church.

  He returned from church none the wiser. The butler met the family at the door and handed him a letter. He retired to his chamber to peruse it, dismissing Dimbury who was waiting to rid his master’s coat and boots of any speck of dust or lint inadvertently picked up during the morning’s devotions.

  The reading took a few seconds. It took him the better part of half an hour to decide what to do. He emerged from his chamber into a house as silent as a tomb and went in search of Lady Whitton.

  Her ladyship was in her stillroom, not usual on the sabbath but the place to which she invariably escaped when troubled in spirit. Mr. Hastings had not previously penetrated this sanctum and he was startled to find his hostess enveloped in a stained apron, grinding something aromatic with her pestle and mortar in a way which suggested that she wished it was Iverbrook’s bones.

  “Ahem,�
�� said Mr. Hastings weakly.

  She looked at him with uncharacteristic severity and went on grinding.

  “Iverbrook’s letter,” he went on. “He said to tell you what I think fit.” She put down her pestle and, regarding this as encouragement, he continued. “I’ve known Iverbrook forever, ma’am, and I’ve never known him run sly. He wouldn’t have done it, I’d stake my last farthing on it. He seems to think he was drugged.”

  “Drugged?” Lady Whitton was intrigued.

  “In the brandy. He didn’t wake till morning, and the Merry Widow was there.”

  “The Merry Widow?”

  “Mrs. Parcott. That’s how she is known in town. She was Iverbrook’s light-o’-love.” Here Mr. Hastings paused, horrified to find that his unruly tongue had once again escaped his control. He rushed on. “But that’s all over now, of course. At least, it is as far as he is concerned, but she is fishing for a wedding band and a title and it’s my belief she’s caught on he's in love with your daughter.”

  “Do you think so? I own I have suspected it.”

  Mr. Hastings was relieved to find his unintentional revelation met with such composure. Perhaps my lady had suspected that too. He hurried to reassure her about his friend’s present feelings.

  “Why, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. Positively mooning over her, I’d say. So Mrs. P. wants to put a spike in his wheel and it looks as if she’s succeeded!”

  “He suspects her of drugging him? I wonder what she used. Though I find the whole story hard to credit, I confess.”

  Mr. Hastings drew himself up in superb indignation.

  “Iverbrook,” he stated flatly, “does not tell lies.” He spoiled the effect by adding, “I’m not saying he don't have his faults, mind, but I would take his word against any gentleman in the land.” He pondered. “Except my father. Have to take my father’s word, you know.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Mr. Hastings, for being so frank with me. I shall have to consider what to tell Selena, for I cannot possibly reveal all that you have said. I think she had best await Hugh’s story from his own lips, since we know so little. She has misjudged Hugh by jumping to conclusions before now, so perhaps this time she will give him the benefit of the doubt. Only it does look so very damning, his running off to London like this.”

  “He has done it for her!” Mr. Hastings placed his hand on his heart and declaimed, “‘I must go up to London to halt this devilish suit against Miss. W.’ His very words, ma’am.”

  “I must suppose it was of the utmost urgency. He hopes to return on Tuesday, he says.”

  “On Tuesday? Then I have a suggestion to take Miss Whitton’s mind off her griev. . . off her sorrows. I promised Miss Delia to get up an expedition to Abingdon Abbey so, if you do not object, we will go tomorrow. I do not think Hugh will regret missing the ruins.”

  “You mean to invite the Russells?”

  “I suppose Delia will expect me to,” sighed Mr. Hastings.

  “Then you had best go and propose your outing at once, or it will be too late to warn them. In fact, I think it an excellent scheme, and I will come with you to support you. They are all in the drawing room, I believe.”

  Delia greeted the scheme with delight, Sir Aubrey with a return of his extraordinary nervousness, and Selena with a listless refusal that she changed to a reluctant acceptance on meeting her mother’s eye.

  Mr. Hastings penned a polite note to the Russells in which he begged the pleasure of their company on the morrow. Sir Aubrey, expressing a desire for exercise, offered to carry it down to the stables for Jem to take to Bracketts.

  “I should not call the walk to the stables exercise,” said Delia scornfully, as soon as he shut the door behind him.

  Judging by the excessive length of time that passed before the baronet returned, the distance was more than sufficient for him. Jem also was unusually dilatory, taking more than two hours to run the errand, but when they read Clive’s reply to the invitation Delia thought she knew the reason.

  “Jane’s mama will not let her go!” she said in disappointment. “I expect Jem had to wait while they tried to persuade Lady Anne. I am glad that you are not such a fussbudget, Mama!”

  As always when Lady Anne disapproved, Lady Whitton had qualms. After due consideration, however, she could see no harm in a party of young people lunching at a respectable hostelry and exploring ancient ruins. Though “fussbudget” was not precisely the phrase she would have chosen, Lady Anne Russell was undoubtedly a high stickler.

  Clive was expected at eleven the following morning, but the half hour passed and there was no sign of him, nor had Sir Aubrey yet put in an appearance. Mr. Hastings requested Lady Whitton’s permission to go ahead in the barouche in order to arrange their luncheon.

  “I had forgot that it is market day,” he pointed out. “The inns will be busy and I would not have my guests forced to wait, or worse, ill fed.”

  Delia insisted on going with him, “to be sure he orders good things to eat.”

  Mr. Hastings drove off with every intention of demonstrating his prowess as a first-rate whip.

  When Clive arrived at last, it was plain to Selena that he was far from happy to find that half the party, or rather that particular half of the party, had already departed. He seemed to be in two minds whether it would be preferable to follow as fast as possible or to abandon the expedition, but he was by far too polite to suggest the latter course. Selena herself had no wish to go, though a long talk with her mother had left her feeling less despairing. However, she could not disappoint her sister and Mr. Hastings, and Sir Aubrey was anxious to go. They set out at noon and were soon enjoying a delectable repast in the coffee room of the Crown and Thistle.

  Clive devoted himself to entertaining Selena, glancing now and then at Delia to see if she was aware of his defection. If she was, she gave no sign of it. She and Mr. Hastings were discussing the romances they had read in which sinister abbeys, ruined or otherwise, played a part. Neither Clive nor Selena had even heard of most of the titles they mentioned, and Sir Aubrey did not attempt to join in either conversation. He seemed to be trying to watch the door of the coffee room, no easy task as he was sitting with his back to it.

  It was after two by the time Mr. Hastings called for the reckoning. While he paid the shot, the ladies donned their pelisses, bonnets, and gloves, for though sunny the day was distinctly chilly.

  As they left the inn, they came face to face with Mrs. Parcott. Selena paled and nearly turned her back, then remembering what her mother had said about misunderstandings and premature judgments she nodded frigidly.

  Mrs. Parcott was not in the least dismayed.

  “What a charming surprise!” she cried gaily. “Are you walking down to the river? I will go with you, I vow, for I have finished my errands in the town and I cannot leave for some hours yet.”

  Sir Aubrey was clearly delighted to see her; Clive was torn between disapproval and admiration; the others found it impossible to tell her outright that she was not welcome; so she accompanied them to the abbey.

  They quickly discovered that the ruins were far more extensive than was visible from the road, stretching along the river bank for several hundred yards in various stages of dilapidation. Delia bemoaned the sunshine. A storm, she said, or a thick fog would provide a far more mysterious atmosphere. She and Mr. Hastings wandered off, deep in their literary discussion.

  Clive watched them go, then turned and offered his arm to Mrs. Parcott. Selena declined to take Sir Aubrey’s arm.

  “I prefer to trust to my own feet,” she said coldly, wishing with fervour that she had not come.

  They strolled across the grass, among tumbledown walls. Clive, who had been there before, explained that the stones nearest the bridge had been used for building elsewhere in the town after Henry VIII's dissolution of the monasteries. He pointed out the area where the chapel had supposedly stood, and told a story of a young monk who, having been reprimanded for missing matins, had kil
led himself at the altar and whose ghost was said to haunt the place.

  “Naughty boy!” exclaimed Amabel with a giggle. “I shall never be able to pass by at night without a shiver.”

  “Come and see the monks’ cells,” he said. “They were in here, right on the river. They were tiny, and must have been fearfully cold and damp.”

  They followed him into a building which seemed once to have had an upper story, of which little remained. The ground floor was in comparatively good condition, though well lit by holes in the ceiling. There was a wide, stone-flagged corridor running parallel to the river, with evenly spaced doorways along each side. In several places the remains of heavy oak doors still hung.

  They picked their way around fallen beams, black with age, some of them leaning against the walls in a most precarious fashion.

  “I wonder why the doors opened outwards,” said Selena, puzzled. “The monks must have all left their cells at once to proceed to services, and the doors would have blocked the corridors.”

  “I told you the cells are tiny,” Clive reminded. “There would have been no room at all for furniture if they had opened inwards.”

  “Let us go into one with a door and close it,” suggested Amabel. “Then we will see how it felt to be a monk.”

  “This door is very well preserved.” Clive paused in a doorway. “I wonder if it will move.” He pushed on it. The rusted iron hinges creaked but the door moved quite easily. He went in.

  Selena went after him, but Amabel hung back and spoke softly to Sir Aubrey. Then she said aloud, “La, it makes me quite nervous. I suppose there are no skeletons in there?” She and Sir Aubrey joined the others inside.

  The cell was crowded with four people in it. While Clive pulled the door shut, Selena and Sir Aubrey stood by the small high window. Sir Aubrey peered out, and remarked that the wall rose directly from the river, eight or ten feet below.

  The ceiling of the closet-like room was unbroken, so with the door closed they were plunged into a dim twilight. Mrs. Parcott emitted a ladylike shriek and clutched at Clive’s arm.