The Westerby Inheritance

by M C Beaton

  Lady Comfrey and her maid, Bella, actually engaged in a heated argument—strange in two women who did not normally listen to each other. Bella had picked up some court gossip. Everyone knew, said Bella, that the old King hated the English and always had done.

  Lady Comfrey had accused Bella of treason. His Majesty, George II, was above reproach.

  Made stubborn by the heat and important by having laid hold of a genuine piece of high gossip, Bella would not let go. His Majesty, said Bella, had said to Lady Swandon that he had to distribute his favors here in England very differently from the manner in which he bestowed them in Hanover, that there he rewarded people for doing their duty and serving him well, but that here he was obliged to enrich people for being rascals and buy them not to cut his throat. And what did my lady think of that?

  Now King George’s hatred for all things English was well known. He thought everything German was vastly superior and said so, and had been saying so for some considerable time. But Lady Comfrey had taken against Bella and found her overfamiliar, and so she dismissed her as she had dismissed her many times before. And Bella threw her apron over her head and burst into tears, as she had done so many times before.

  And Lady Jane Lovelace fled to her room, as she had done so many times before.

  And looked out of the window.

  There was yet another party in the house across the square. She leaned her now dimpled elbows on the sill and stared hungrily at the silks and jewels and laughter. If it had not been for that house, Jane would have left London after her first week. She had learned it was the home of a certain Mr. Osborne, a member of the untitled aristocracy.

  He was much given to holding parties and routs, and so, all unwittingly, he supplied the lonely Jane with a picture of what life could be like if one were not chained to Number Ten by an elderly and eccentric godmother.

  Suddenly there was a blinding flash. Jane looked up.

  Great black clouds had massed up in the evening sky, and now the storm had broken. Rain came thudding down, drumming on the roof and gurgling in the lead gutters and pouring out from the waterspouts into the square until the whole world seemed to be filled with the sound of water. The servants roused themselves from their summer torpor and began to open windows and let the smell of sweet, wet, cool air through the rooms.

  Downstairs, Lady Comfrey forgave Bella and rehired her. Upstairs, Lady Jane Lovelace hung onto the windowsill as if hanging onto the rail of a ship, as the world seemed to heave and plunge under the buffets of the storm.

  Jane shivered in the suddenly cool air and turned from the window. All at once, ambition came flooding back with a strength and purpose it had never had before.

  “If only I were a man!” thought Jane bitterly. “Someone like Lord Charles Welbourne, the gambler that Bella keeps talking about. If only I were rich, I could pay him to gamble for me. It will soon be the start of the Little Season, and the Bentleys will be coming to town. But I have nothing to offer a man like Lord Charles.”

  And then, loud and clear, Hetty’s voice sounded in her brain. “We h’an’t got nothing left to sell. Except ourselves.”

  She quickly shut out the voice, but it refused to go away. At least, thought Jane, I can ask Bella a little more about this Lord Charles.

  She dressed quickly and made her way downstairs. Lady Comfrey was snoring in a corner of the drawing room, and Bella was sitting with her lace cap bent over her workbasket.

  Bella looked up at the sound of Jane’s light step. “There now,” she said, biting a thread with strong yellow teeth. “It’s a mercy that terrible weather has broken at last. Why, only the other day I was—”

  “Bella!” cried Jane urgently. “Do listen, please. What do you know of Lord Charles Welbourne? Where does he live?”

  Fortunately for Jane, Bella was fascinated by the tales she had heard of Lord Charles and so decided to answer her instead of rambling on in her usual way.

  “Well, let me see,” began Bella, her sewing lying idle on her lap, and screwing up her plump face in concentration. “They do say he’s Satan himself, although that was when he was wilder—in his youth, you know.”

  Jane’s spirits rose. An elderly gentleman! “How old is he?” she demanded urgently.

  “Well, now, let me see. About nigh on five and thirty, I should say. Very tall and proud he is, and very handsome in an evil kind of way. ’Tis said when he was but twenty-two, Lady Hampton did kill herself on account of him.”

  Jane brushed away this triviality. He was unfortunately not quite old enough. Still, thirty-five was middle-aged.

  “Is he as lucky at the tables as they say?”

  “Lud bless you, Lady Jane, they say there’s none can beat him! You was asking where he lived. In Hessel Street, I believe, quite near here. But you don’t want to have anything to do with the likes of his lordship. He eats virgins for his breakfast.”

  “How can I have anything to do with anyone?” asked Jane sadly. “I never go out into the world.”

  “Ain’t you happy with her ladyship and your old Bella?” asked the maid.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” lied Jane. “But it is so quiet.”

  “Well, now, my lady, that’s a good thing in this rumty old world, ain’t it?” said Bella comfortably, picking up her sewing. “There’s noise and strife enough without you bothering your head about it, that’s for sure. Now take some of them young ladies who come up from the country looking for a husband. Why, I ’member when young Miss Johnston, her that was related to the Duke of Belmont, ran off with the second footman ’cause her mama had arranged a marriage for her with old Lord Crummers what had the gout and was given to being twitty on account of it—”

  “But Bella,” interposed Jane, “is Lord Welbourne in London just now?”

  “—and it wouldn’t ha’ been such a bad marriage, for truth to tell she got the smallpox off of the footman’s third cousin and died of it,” went on Bella, relapsing into her customary habit of conversing with herself.

  Jane sighed and looked out of the window. The storm had rolled past, and she could smell the wet, sooty grass of the gardens in the square.

  All in that moment, as Bella rambled on with her reminiscenses and the clocks ticked away the seconds and Lady Comfrey snored gently in the corner, a mad idea took hold of Jane’s imagination and would not go away.

  What if she, Jane, should ask this Lord Charles to play James Bentley at cards and win her father’s estates back? Would it be so terrible to simply ask?

  Had Jane known more of the ways of the world, she would not even have entertained such an idea. But the more she thought, the more reasonable, in an insane way, the idea seemed. Chafing against her long inactivity and the boring tenor of her days, she would suddenly have tried anything.

  Now how could she venture into the streets unescorted? It would not be so bad during the day. And Bella had said Hessel Street was quite close. “But if I wait until tomorrow,” thought Jane desperately, “I will never do it.”

  She murmured her excuses to Bella and made her way upstairs on shaky legs. Perhaps she would just put on one of her new gowns and pretend she was going. There was no harm in that. And… and… she could just ask Sanders, the butler, how to get to Hessel Street. As she halted on the landing, irresolute, Sanders crossed the hall with the teatray.

  “Sanders!” she cried, running lightly down the stairs again. “Where is Hessel Street? Bella said it is quite close to here!”

  Some two hours later, a heavily cloaked figure scurried out of Huggets Square. Jane had bravely dressed herself in her best and had powdered her hair. The parish lamps flickering in their glass shades threw odd shadows running before her. Faint strains of music reached her ears from the tall houses on either side. A party of roistering bloods came roaring down the street in front of her, and she quickly shrank back into the shadows until they had passed.

  Time and again, she spurred herself on with the reminder that Hessel Street was only a little way a
way. It was fortunate that the streets had dried quickly, for she was not wearing her pattens. Her new silk shoes with their high red heels gave her added height and some badly needed confidence.

  After what seemed an age but in fact was only some ten minutes or so, she turned into Hessel Street and began to look for Number Five, which was Lord Charles’s residence.

  At last she was outside Lord Charles’s town house, and her heart nearly misgave her. It seemed a very imposing mansion, standing set apart a little from its neighbors, and with a wide flight of shallow marble steps leading up to a gleaming door.

  “This is madness,” thought Jane. “I cannot do it. I must return home.” She wheeled about.

  Just then a noisy cry from the end of Hessel Street heralded the return of the roistering bloods. Their leader spied Jane’s feminine figure standing irresolutely on the pavement and let out a loud “Halloo!” Jane now had no choice. She took a deep breath, marched up the steps, seized the large brass knocker, and rapped smartly on the door.

  The door was opened almost immediately by a small, wiry butler. Jane made as if to move past him, but he deftly barred her way.

  “Your business, miss?” he demanded severely.

  “My business is with Lord Charles Welbourne,” said Jane in as businesslike tones as she could muster. “He is expecting me,” she added, made bold by the presence of the young bloods waiting in the street behind her.

  “My lord said nothing to me about it. He is not at home,” replied the butler. “So, if you—”

  “Oh, please,” begged Jane, indicating the young men in the street below. “You cannot be so cruel as to shut the door on me. I am Lady Jane Lovelace, and Lord Charles does expect me.”

  She shook back her hood as she spoke, revealing an impeccably coiffed and powdered head. The butler eyed the sheen of fine silk revealed under the cloak by her gesture, and reluctantly opened the door wider.

  He could not risk leaving a lady to the tender mercies of those young bucks. Nonetheless, he was sure she had no business whatsoever with his master. Some years ago, ladies had tried every trick in the book to gain entry to Lord Charles’s residence, but recently Lord Charles’s unsavory reputation and rakehelly ways had daunted all but the boldest.

  “I shall let you wait a little in the morning room, my lady,” said the butler, ushering her into the hall and shutting the street door on her disappointed followers. “When these young rowdies have gone, then I simply must ask you to leave, my lady. If you know his lordship, as you say you do, then you should know that he don’t favor any lady calling at his home. You should also know he is never at home at this hour.”

  He led the way into a small morning room on the ground floor and left, after lighting the candelabra.

  Jane sat down, for she felt her trembling legs would no longer support her, and stared about her. The room was richly paneled in primrose silk, and a fine Oriental rug covered part of the floor. Baroque William Kent chairs, their rich red and gold upholstery gleaming in the wavering candlelight, were stationed against the walls. A small console table with a silver tray containing several decanters stood in front of the black cave of the fireplace, which was flanked on either side by two Chippendale armchairs.

  The door opened, but it was only the butler, bearing a plate of cakes and some ratafia. Jane seated herself on one of the armchairs, grateful that it was commodious enough to allow space for her hoop. The butler arranged the plate of cakes on the console table and lit a fire in the grate. He had decided it would do no harm to look after the young lady’s comfort for a little while. It was only one in the morning, and his lordship would not be home before the dawn. He could then assure his lordship of having shown hospitality to the lady, should she indeed turn out to be a friend, and if not—well, he would have got rid of her well before my lord came home.

  Jane thanked him in a clear voice, pleased that it did not waver, and tried to look as if she were in the habit of calling unescorted on a gentleman at his town house. But she was grateful when the butler retired, for her hands were shaking and her heart was beating hard. Now was the time to admit her folly and beat a retreat, but somehow she could not. Having come so far, she knew she would never forgive herself if she went back without seeing Lord Charles. So she drank a little of the ratafia, gritting her teeth, and set herself to wait.

  Lord Charles Welbourne stood on the steps of White’s Coffee House and stared absently down St. James’s Street. He had been playing brag with his friends of the Old Club in the coffee house when he had been assailed with a restless feeling of tedium. The English weather had again returned, to indulge in its normal mercurial changes, and the night air was cold and smelled of smoke and whale oil from the parish lamps.

  He did not know what he wanted. Certainly he did not want wine, women, or cards. All he wanted was something to remove this recurring feeling of lethargy and world-weariness.

  This malaise was of recent date. Never before in his charmed life had he suffered from it. He had been spoiled by fortune from the day of his birth. He was handsome and possessed of vast wealth. He had traveled widely and studied hard. He excelled at every sport and was a first-class swordsman. He had thought himself in love at one time, but his passion had soon burned out, and, since then, he had preferred to pay for his pleasures.

  He had never been able to care for anyone very deeply. He cared for the tenants of his estates, in that he was a good landlord, meticulously fulfilling all his obligations in that direction, but apart from that, he did not really care what happened to any of them.

  His servants were well paid and well housed, but he barely noticed them as human beings. He liked his friends to be easygoing, hard-drinking, and not given overmuch to introspective thought. He was noted for his personal cleanliness in an age when one did not even bother to wash one’s wig when it became dirty or full of livestock, but simply applied another coating of powder. He chose his wardrobe with care; his snuff, his jewels, and his horses were of the finest. He was amused to be designated a rake, for he considered himself to be a rather quiet man and a law-abiding citizen.

  He had certainly killed two men in duels, but he had not instigated either challenge and, had he not killed his assailants, then they would most certainly have killed him.

  It was unusual for him to leave the card tables so early, and, although he was exceedingly drunk, he carried his drink well and betrayed his condition only by a certain glitter in his dark eyes and a certain lazy drooping of his heavy lids.

  He dismissed his coachman and decided to walk home, picking his way catlike through the filth of the streets and handling his clouded cane with an expertise that would have been the envy of Lady Jane Lovelace, could she have seen him at that moment.

  He reached Hessel Street without incident. He decided the best thing he could do was go straight to bed and banish his restless, fretting disgust of the world in sleep.

  His butler, Anderson, opened the door and stared at his master in amazement. “I-I d-did not expect my lord home so soon,” he stammered.

  “Zooks, man,” drawled Lord Charles lazily. “Why so pale and trembling? You have a kitchen wench in your bed, you old rascal, and I am come home at this ungodly hour to spoil your pleasures.”

  “My lord,” cried Anderson, wringing his hands, “a young lady awaits you in the morning room. I did not expect you before dawn, and so I gave the lady some refreshment and planned to be rid of her shortly.”

  “My dear fellow,” said his lordship in silky tones, “you have obviously taken leave of your senses. Since when did I receive any female in my home?”

  “But she said she was a friend of your lordship,” cried Anderson. “She says she’s Lady Jane Lovelace!”

  “Lovelace? One of old Westerby’s brats, I should think. Get rid of her.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “And don’t let it happen again.”

  “No, my lord.”

  Lord Charles stood frowning. Perhaps this Lady Jan
e might provide some sport. If she had come into the lion’s den, then she was no innocent miss.

  “Stay, Anderson,” he said. “I will see her.”

  “Very good, my lord,” said Anderson in hollow accents. “But, my lord, I don’t think she’s that kind of female.”

  “Any female who calls on me at this hour is certainly not respectable, dear Anderson, and therefore interesting. I shall see her.”

  Anderson rushed forward and threw open the door to the morning room, and his lordship stood on the threshold and raised his eyeglass and haughtily surveyed the small person sitting beside the fire.

  Lady Jane Lovelace stared back and suddenly realized the enormity of what she had done. She had envisaged someone charming in a devilish way who would merrily accept her mad proposal. She had not for a minute imagined anything like the grand and glittering figure framed in the doorway.

  Lord Charles Welbourne must have been at least six feet tall. His Ramillie wig was as white as the driven snow. His yellow satin coat with its gold frogging was fitted tightly across his broad shoulders, and the whaleboned skirts of his coat were opened to reveal a magnificent waistcoat and white satin knee breeches, white silk stockings, and black shoes with high red heels and jeweled buckles. The lace at his throat and wrist was as fine as white cobwebs. Diamonds blazed on his long white hands and at his throat.

  His eyes were dark and mocking and restless, reminding Jane strangely of Lady Comfrey, since they seemed the only things alive in the white, immobile sculpture of his face. He wore a small black patch at the side of his mouth, which seem to accentuate the cynical curl of his lips.

  Lord Charles Welbourne looked appreciatively at the diminutive figure facing him. Jane had dressed in her best, a pale lavender taffeta gown with pagoda sleeves. The edges were ruched in flower shapes, and it was worn open over a lemon silk petticoat with rows of ruching and flouncing. It had white neck and sleeve ruffles, and the bodice was trimmed with dark lavender satin bows. Her face was almost as white as her powdered hair, and her strangely tilted eyes were dark with fear.