The Forthright Lady Gillian, The Fickle Fortune-Hunter

by Amanda Scott

  Crawley held out his hand. “May I? Mongrel told me what it said, but I have not actually read the thing myself.”

  Thorne handed him the paper, casting a speculative glance at Dawlish as he did so.

  That young man hastened to reassure him: “I had nothing to do with it, I swear to you, Josh. I only told Crawler and Andy. Not that it matters, though,” he added. “Nearly everyone in town will have read it by now, except—one hopes—my uncle.”

  Another of the club servants approached the table with grave dignity, bearing a silver salver in his outstretched hand.

  Thorne said grimly, “I think perhaps your faith in my esteemed parent’s choice of reading matter is about to be proved faulty, Peregrine.” When the servant held out the salver to him, Thorne took the folded missive and grimaced when he saw the ducal seal. Breaking it, he scanned the message briefly, folded it again with exaggerated care, and tucked it into one pocket of his heavily embroidered waistcoat. Only then did he seem to become aware of the avid curiosity on his companions’ faces. “I am bidden instantly to Langshire House. Perhaps, Peregrine, you will be kind enough to arrange for my obsequies. Nothing too gaudy, I beg. You must allow Andy to advise you.”

  Corbin smiled amiably at him. “Damme, but I think I might just exert m’self to do it, too, Josh, for you. Daresay you’re having a game with us, though, for if you cannot string the old gentleman ’round your thumb again, you ain’t the man we all know.”

  Dawlish, not taking his eyes from his cousin’s face, said abruptly, “It ain’t funny, Andy. This is dashed well just the sort of nonsense my uncle meant. You ain’t going to try to tell him you knew nothing about it, are you, Josh? I’ll lay you any odds you like that he knows the whole, even if we do not.”

  “Then he knows a deal more than I do,” Thorne said, “and I shall beg him to enlighten me.”

  “But you must know the girl at least,” Dawlish exclaimed. “Ten to one she misunderstood your intentions or some such thing. Well, it stands to reason, don’t it, but one simply don’t announce a marquess’s betrothal without his permission, no matter what sort of a misunderstanding there might have been.”

  “There was no misunderstanding,” Thorne said.

  “There must have been,” Corbin insisted. “Surely you can’t marry the chit. She don’t even have your name right.”

  “That was certainly an error in judgment,” Thorne agreed.

  “Yours or hers?” Crawley demanded, his dark eyes narrowed.

  “Mine, I’m afraid.”

  “Good Lord, coz,” Dawlish said, “surely you must know better than to play fast and loose with a girl of our own station, let alone to pretend to be someone else when you do so.”

  Thorne looked at him and said softly, “You have mistaken the facts, Peregrine. I believe, if you will take a moment to think for once, you will realize that you are very much mistaken.”

  Dawlish flushed, glanced at the other two, both of whom remained silent and unhelpful, then looked back at his cousin. “To be sure,” he said hastily. “I am anything you like.”

  “So long as you are silenced,” Thorne said. “I should not like to hear that you have discussed this business with anyone. Not with anyone at all.” He flicked a glance at Crawley, another at Corbin. “Nor you two. I should be rather put out, you see.”

  Corbin said, “Owe you that much for a fine dinner, Josh. We shall be as close as oysters, the lot of us. You do know the chit, though. Can’t be mistaken about that.”

  “No, you are not mistaken. I have met her. Once.”

  “Unfortunate,” Crawley said. “Is it possible you did say something she misconstrued, or is she simply a lass who—like my humble self—keeps an ear cocked for opportunity’s knock?”

  “I thought she had cause to be grateful to me,” Thorne said, getting to his feet. “You must forgive me, gentlemen. I have been commanded not to tarry, and I’ve a stop to make on the way.”

  Crawley said wryly, “South Devon is some distance out of your way to Langshire House, Josh.”

  “The offices of the London Gazette are not, however.”

  He left them, making his way past other tables to the doorway without pausing to talk with anyone else, but unable to ignore completely the curious glances of several others who had obviously seen the notice in the paper. His temper was rising, but he had had a great deal of practice concealing the signs, and there was nothing in his demeanor or casual stride to indicate that he was anything but mildly amused by his own thoughts. At the top of the stairway, he paused to exchange a word with Mr. Fox, who was on the point of entering the card room. Then, nodding to another acquaintance, he descended the stairs, claimed his hat and cane from the porter, nodded to the club secretary, and stepped outside into fading sunlight and the clatter of traffic in St. James’s Street.

  He had a house of his own in Brook Street, and he paused briefly to weigh the merits of repairing there first to change his attire to something less likely than the pantaloons and florid waistcoat he presently wore to inflame his sire’s temper even more, but he dismissed the notion. The duke was a greater stickler for promptness than for sartorial perfection, and Thorne did not want to face him before he knew more about the matter at hand than he presently did. Therefore, he went back inside the club long enough to scrawl a message and request that the porter have it delivered at once to his house. Then, since he had walked to Brooks’s with the others, he also asked for someone to hail him a hackney coach.

  Giving his order to the jarvey, he climbed inside and settled back against the shabby leather to do what he could to calm his temper. Finding that the offices of the Gazette were still open soothed him a little; however, he was kept waiting for some time only to learn that the sole person who might prove helpful to him was not on the premises. That combination of events set a muscle high in his cheek to twitching.

  The young clerk who had given him the unwelcome information said, “I am very sorry, my lord, that Mr. Thistlethwaite was so unexpectedly called away, but if you would care to have him wait upon you at a future time, I will certainly inform him of the fact.” The man’s eyes were wary. He had clearly heard of the Marquess of Thorne, and what he had heard stirred him to speak with extreme courtesy.

  “You can tell me nothing of how this notice came to the paper?” Thorne’s voice was gentle, even mild.

  The young man colored up more furiously than ever. “Only that it was Mr. Thistlethwaite who made the decision to print it, my lord. He does, now I think of it, have a cousin or a brother in Honiton, who is on the paper there. Perhaps that is how word came to him. If you like, I—”

  “You may tell Mr. Thistlethwaite that I look forward to making his acquaintance,” Thorne said in the same mild tone. “He must do me the honor to call upon me at his earliest convenience. You will remember to tell him that, will you not?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord. Certainly, my lord.”

  “See that you do.”

  The young man, pale now, agreed fervently that he would, and Thorne left him. His own carriage appeared some moments later, as he had commanded in the message sent to Brook Street, and he permitted himself a small sigh of relief at the sight. He did not mind hacks, and the distance from Fleet Street to Langshire House was not so great that comfort was a factor, but since he was certain he would need every ounce of his dignity to face what lay ahead of him, he was glad to see not only the elegant crested carriage but the liveried driver and footman who accompanied it.

  He considered what little he could tell his father. The duke would not be interested in the business that had taken him to Braunton Burrows, for he had already made it clear that he wanted no part of Thorne’s interference in anything having to do with the Langshire estates, giving it as his opinion that Thorne should practice patience and wait until the estates were his own before he meddled with their management. And since Thorne had not the least notion what might have been in Lady Gillian’s mind to have done what she had, he was at someth
ing of a loss.

  He smelled the Thames before he saw, through the dusky twilight, the tall, blue, gilt-trimmed iron gates of the house. Langshire House, nearly two hundred years old, was tall, massive, imposing, and was surrounded by extensive, well-tended grounds that overlooked the busy river. When the carriage rolled briskly through the gates into the walled, torchlit forecourt and drew up at the entrance, the footman jumped down from his perch and moved swiftly to open his master’s door and let down the step.

  Thorne emerged, twitched a cuff into place, brushed a bit of lint from the lapel of his coat, and firmly suppressed the recurring wish that he had chosen a less flamboyant waistcoat. Taking a deep breath, he turned toward the wide, shallow stone steps leading to the arched entrance. Both doors opened as he approached, but hearing his carriage roll away toward the stables at the rear of the house, he felt strangely forsaken. Reminding himself sharply that he was nine and twenty and not a ruddy schoolboy, he nodded casually to his father’s porter, handed his hat and cane to a starched and heavily powdered footman, and said casually, “His grace is in the library, I expect.”

  “No, my lord,” the porter replied. “His grace requested that you attend him in his dressing room.”

  These words conjured up childhood memories that, under the circumstances, were most unwelcome, but when the footman moved to a side table to set down his things, Thorne turned in his wake to cross the huge hall. Behind him the porter cleared his throat.

  Thorne looked back to see the man grimace sympathetically and roll his eyes toward the cross-vaulted ceiling. A moment later the expression was gone, and the wooden countenance of the perfect servant had fallen into place again, but this time when Thorne turned away, his step was lighter.

  He did not have far to go, for his parents’ private rooms were on the ground floor. He had only to cross the great hall and pass through the formal dining room to reach the nearest door to his father’s dressing room. Short though the journey was, however, his lighter spirits did not survive it, and his expression was grim again when, with the lightest of scratches to announce himself, he pushed open the door and entered the room.

  The curtains had long since been drawn, but the room was lit by a multitude of wax tapers in wall sconces and in candelabra set upon nearly every piece of furniture that would bear them. A fire roared in the marble fireplace, reflected in a red glow on the fender and in flickering highlights on the marble hearth.

  His grace sat in a caned armchair beside a dressing table of exquisite floral marquetry, his right hand held out to a servant who knelt to pare his nails. The duke still wore his wig, but he had removed his coat and replaced it with an elegant dressing gown of sapphire-colored silk that matched his still brilliant eyes. He was a man of regal bearing, who had been handsome in his youth and had retained his youthful figure. He looked up when Thorne entered, and his demeanor was stern, but he did not speak for several moments. The servant continued with his task as though there had been no interruption.

  Thorne reminded himself that he was at least two inches taller than his father now and nearly a stone heavier. The mental reminder had much the same fleeting effect upon him that the porter’s grimace had had, but the longer the silence continued, the more conscious he became that he was standing like the schoolboy of whom he had been reminded earlier. His palms were damp enough to make him want to wipe them on his pantaloons, but he was damned if he would do so. He was sorely tempted to offer his father a casual greeting and stride as casually across the room to take a seat in one of several other caned armchairs. Well aware, however, that to do so would be a grievous tactical error, he remained standing where he was and held his peace.

  At last the duke said to his servant, “That is all. You may go.” The man disappeared through a jib door that led to the servants’ passage, and when the door had been closed again, Langshire said coldly, “I must suppose from your attire that my message found you in a gaming hall, though in my day, we dressed properly even to honor with our presence such low places as that.” Imperiously he held out his right hand.

  Thorne stepped swiftly forward and knelt to kiss it. There was no welcoming squeeze of the hand for his own, however, and when he looked up, there was no softening in the eyes that gazed sternly into his. He stood up, deciding that it would be unwise at this stage to request permission to sit. He stepped back toward the hearth but stood straight, making no move to rest his arm upon the mantelpiece.

  The duke said, “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  “Since I have no doubt that you are already several steps ahead of me, sir,” Thorne said evenly, “I should be most unwise to speak until I know at least as much as you do.”

  The gleam in Langshire’s eyes told him instantly that he had hit the mark, and it was with increased confidence that he added quietly, “I must assume that you have made the acquaintance of one Mr. Thistlethwaite of the London Gazette.”

  “Ah, yes, a most enterprising old fellow. May I ask how you knew that I had had that honor?”

  “My knowledge of your methods, sir, and the information recently given me that Mr. Thistlethwaite had been called away from his office. Since I appear to be a step behind you, may I ask what information that gentleman was able to provide?”

  “Certainly you may ask. It seems he has a cousin who prides himself upon having memorized the genealogy of every duke, marquess, and earl in the country. When the young lady gave the notice to the South Devon paper—one must suppose with her father’s knowledge and consent—Thistlethwaite’s cousin, recognizing the title, took it upon himself to apprise his relative here in London of his conclusions. One does wonder, however, just what action of yours prompted the young woman to believe herself betrothed to Baron Hopwood. Perhaps you will be good enough to explain that part of the business to me, Josiah.”

  The chill that entered the duke’s voice with the last sentence was sufficient to stir a prickling sensation along Thorne’s spine, but he replied with commendable calm. “I cannot explain, sir, since I have never indicated an intention to link myself by that name or any other to any young woman.”

  “You are very casual, sir,” Langshire said grimly. “So casual, in fact, that I believe you do not comprehend the serious consequences of this latest folly. No, don’t attempt to deny the term. I do not doubt that you have concocted a glib explanation, but glibness will do you no good. This is Marrick’s daughter, Josiah, the daughter of a belted earl, not some scrub from the stews or member of an opera chorus. She is a lady, and whatever one’s opinion might be of her father, her maternal uncle is Vellacott of Deane, scion of a wealthy and distinguished family even older than our own. Indeed, Josiah, if you had made this connection in the proper manner, I should be pleased, for Lady Gillian must be a considerable heiress. But you did not do the thing properly. You have niggled in the wrong pond this time, sir, and this time you will pay the consequences.”

  Thorne’s teeth grated together, but with an effort he held his temper. After a short silence he said, “Am I to understand that you desire me to marry the young woman, sir? I must warn you that she told me her father now has a male heir.”

  “Damme, sir, I know that, but if you have led her down the garden path, of course you must marry her! What manner of man are you, that you think you can dally with ladies of quality as though they were but common trulls?”

  Thorne flushed. “If that is what you think of me, sir, there is nothing left to say. I will bid you good night.”

  The door opposite the one through which Thorne had entered crashed back upon its hinges, and a round little pink-cheeked lady in a lavender silk dress and a lace-trimmed mobcap stumbled into the room. “Oh, my goodness,” she exclaimed, recovering herself and bestowing a blinding smile upon first Thorne and then the duke, “that door does stick so! We must have someone see to it, my love. But why did you not send to tell me that dearest Josiah was here?” She turned back to the marquess, holding out her hands and hurrying toward him, still talki
ng away. “How are you keeping yourself, my darling? ’Tis an age since you visited, and I have missed you prodigiously. Whatever is the use of our both having houses in town if you do not come to see me?”

  Thorne found himself hugging a generous armful of lilac-scented lady, and grinned in spite of himself, not believing for an instant that his mother’s impetuous entrance was due to coincidence. He was as certain as he could be that she had had her ear pinned to the door from the moment of his arrival, and catching sight of his father’s face, he saw that he was not the only one who understood the duchess’s motives. The duke was visibly annoyed by the interruption, but mixed with that emotion was another, warmer one, and a hint of resignation as well.

  Thorne held his mother away and looked down into her plump, pretty face. There was anxiety in her hazel eyes, and pain as well. The latter emotion struck him with greater force than his father’s displeasure had. He said gruffly, “It is not what you think, Mama. I have done nothing wrong this time.”

  “Oh, no, of course you did not, my darling. You could not!”

  The duke snorted. “The devil he couldn’t! He has done any number of disgraceful things these past ten years, and well you know it, madam. It will do no good to pretend otherwise.”

  The duchess said firmly, “Not disgraceful, my love. Josiah had never done anything to disgrace our name. To be sure, he has been naughty at times, even thoughtless, as for example when he encouraged that distasteful young woman last year to believe that he could provide her with a castle, and then sent her one made of spun sugar. But he had been merely funning all along, for we’ve no castle to give to anyone, and so she ought to have known.”

  Since Thorne had assumed that his mother knew nothing about that particular episode, he was struck speechless. The duke had no such problem, however. “The young woman this time, my dear, is no such unfortunate. She is a lady and an heiress who somehow has got the notion that a certain Baron Hopwood has offered for her. Since she seems entirely unaware that Baron Hopwood—”