The Westerby Inheritance

by M C Beaton

  “Perhaps you would care to promenade with me, Lady Jane,” said Lord Charles. “I am sure Sir Anthony will excuse us.”

  “Hey, what! No, I won’t,” cried Sir Anthony. But Lord Charles had already risen and was offering his arm to Jane.

  “I say, Lady Jane,” said Anthony desperately, “tell you what. I’ll come too.”

  “Do not trouble,” said Jane, to Anthony’s horror. “We will not be above a few minutes, and my godmother would appreciate your company.”

  “Demme, she can’t even hear me!” expostulated the dismayed Anthony. But Lord Charles and Lady Jane had already made their escape.

  They walked in silence, Jane too nervous and anxious to notice that he was leading her from the rotunda into the grounds of Ranelagh. At last the chill, smoky air brought her to an awareness of her surroundings.

  “We should not be here unescorted, my lord,” said Jane, stopping firmly and taking her hand from his arm.

  “No,” he agreed in that now familiar mocking voice. “But then, you should not have visited my home last night, either.”

  “Oh, do not remind me of that,” said Jane bitterly. “I must have been mad. I wish to withdraw from the contract, my lord.”

  “What happened to my courageous little fighter who told me she would not draw back?” he teased. “What happened to the young lady who told me she loved me?”

  “I should not have said it. It wasn’t true,” pleaded Jane. “I don’t love you. I only said that to make things more—well, more conventional.”

  “My poor child,” he laughed. “I am going to see James Bentley tomorrow, for I am intrigued to meet this villain who brings ruin and despair wherever he goes. I have a fair chance of winning your father’s estates for you, should he wish to play me.”

  “I’m s-sorry,” stammered Jane, and he caught a hint of tears at the back of her trembling voice. “I did not realize at the time what I was doing. You—you see—well, that is, you have met my godmother and—and Bella. You see, life at Huggets Square is a trifle strange, and I am on my own quite a deal, for Lady Comfrey often holds conversation with herself, although—although she is very kind and generous. I have nothing to do but dream. And oh! I do so hate the Bentleys. I do so want revenge. So you see…”

  Her voice trailed miserably away.

  “I see,” he said quietly. “What seemed like an ordinary plan, in the strange surroundings of your godmother’s house, appeared madness when exposed to the reality of the outside world.”

  “Oh, you do understand!” cried Jane thankfully. “So now you can let me have that contract, or tear it up, and we will say no more about it.”

  He looked at her, reluctant, for some reason he could not fathom, to put an end to the game.

  Instead he said, “I thought you did not go out into society.”

  “I don’t—that is, we don’t—but for some reason—Oh, I remember, Miss Fanny Bentley and her mother called. And Fanny said something about me never going anywhere, and Lady Comfrey heard her, although I could swear she had been talking to some of her imaginary friends at the time, and so—and so, I am here.”

  “So you are,” he said pleasantly, “and looking very pretty indeed.”

  “Me! Pretty!” cried Jane.

  “Yes, indeed, a certain gentleman told me so.”

  “Who?” cried Jane, clapping her hands in delight.

  He smiled and led her back toward the lights of the rotunda. “Now, you would not have me betray the secrets of my friend’s heart.” What a child she was! he thought indulgently and how easy it would be to make her fall in love with him.

  He held her back a little at the entrance, holding her wrist lightly. “No more kisses, Jane?” he said softly.

  “Don’t mock me,” she replied in a low voice.

  She looked up into his face, and in the failing light she could make out the firm outline of his mouth as it slowly descended to her own.

  “Jane! La! You bold girl,” came the voice of Fanny Bentley. Lord Charles swore under his breath and jerked his head round. Fanny was escorted by the ever-faithful Mr. Jennings. “You must take the round with us. Come! You shall walk with my so dear Mr. Jennings, Jane, and I shall take the arm of Lord Charles.”

  For one split second, Lord Charles was about to give Fanny a set-down. Then he recollected that it would be more amusing to see if little Jane could be made at all jealous—she who had claimed to love him and who had kissed so passionlessly.

  He accordingly swept Fanny a bow and walked with her into the rotunda. He glanced back once, over his shoulder, and saw to his surprise that Jane was laughing and chatting with Mr. Jennings as if she hadn’t a care in the world. He was amazed. He would have been even more amazed had he known that Jane, with a wisdom beyond her years, had realized exactly what he was about and was determined to give him no satisfaction.

  But Jane was jealous nonetheless. Why could she not fall out of love with him as easily as she had persuaded herself to fall in?

  And Fanny looked so charming and feminine. “The art of fashion is a wonderful thing,” thought Jane viciously. “Her figure is made by her corset, and her complexion from a series of pots. And I swear her hair is not all her own.”

  None of this showed on her face, however, and she chattered and sparkled with Mr. Jennings to such effect that that lovelorn young man almost forgot about Fanny. He was a tall, gawky youth with a pockmarked face and a wig that seemed to have been designed for someone with a larger head. But his doglike eyes were kind, and he was pleased to point out various notables to this charming Lady Jane who looked at him with such sparkling interest and laughed at all his mildest witticisms.

  Underneath the silk, Jane’s bosom throbbed and burned with jealousy. Fanny had so much. She had the Chase, she had the Westerby town house, she had the Westerby money—added to the Bentley money, which was reputed to be considerable. Now, it appeared, she had Lord Charles Welbourne.

  All at once as she watched Lord Charles’s attractive mouth parting in a singularly sweet smile (“Oh, God! He never smiled at me like that!”) as he looked down into the silly, empty face of Fanny Bentley, Jane decided she would hold him to their contract.

  Jane was very innocent, still very much a schoolgirl, and she was sure he would not make her his mistress. He would marry her instead. It would cause too much of a scandal if he made a gently bred virgin his mistress.

  Then, all at once, Lord Charles was back at her side, pointing out that he must rescue Sir Anthony. He bowed to Fanny, who simpered and said, “I look forward to your call tomorrow. We shall continue our most interesting conversation then.” Her eyes languished at him, and Lord Charles quickly looked down at little Lady Jane to see how she was taking all this, but she seemed to be engrossed in studying the passing, shifting jeweled throng without a care in the world.

  He felt a stab of irritation. He racked his brains for the last occasion when any woman had ignored him but could not think of any.

  The little chit deserved to be taught a lesson. Furthermore, it was his duty to protect her in case she put her scheme before some other gentleman less chivalrous than himself.

  As they walked toward the box where Anthony could be seen staring dully into space while Bella and Lady Comfrey nodded their heads and chattered over the teacups, Lord Charles said in a low voice, “Do you still wish to withdraw from the contract, because, if so, I—”

  “No!”

  “What!”

  “I said, ‘No,’” retorted Jane, sticking out her chin. “I trust you are a gentleman of your word.”

  “Word of a Welbourne,” he said smoothly. What had made her change her mind? Could she have been made jealous after all? But those strange eyes of Lady Jane’s, now dark, now silver, gave nothing away.

  “Zooks!” cried Sir Anthony wrathfully. “You have been gone this age, and I am awash with tea. Take pity on me, Lady Jane. ’Fore George, you’re the loveliest thing at Ranelagh. Pray walk with me, and don’t let this rogu
e Charles Londonize you too much!”

  “How can I refuse such a gallant proposal, Sir Anthony?” laughed Jane, flirting with her eyes over her fan.

  Seething, Lord Charles watched his friend walk off with Jane on his arm. Little minx! He smiled automatically at Lady Comfrey, who was talking at rather than to Bella, and turned his mind inward to study the rage that consumed him. Then suddenly he began to laugh. A startled Lady Comfrey stopped her monologue and held up the teapot, as if to ward off this madman.

  Lord Charles laughed and laughed as he watched Jane’s small, dainty figure dwarfed by the bulk of Sir Anthony as they leisurely walked the round, bowing and nodding to Sir Anthony’s many friends.

  At last Lord Charles took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his streaming eyes. “I’m jealous!” he thought with great amusement. “I, Lord Charles Welbourne, am jealous! It is quite remarkable to feel something so intensely!”

  Chapter Seven

  It is hard to break the pattern of ten years, and no doubt Lady Comfrey would have returned to her isolation, had not Bella moved into the attack.

  Bella was convinced that “all this racketing around” (one evening at Ranelagh) would be the death of her mistress, and so wanted to secure her own future. Seeing that her mistress’s eyes were bright and alert, a sure sign that Lady Comfrey was in one of her rare moods of paying attention to what was said to her, Bella seized her chance as the two women were sitting in the morning room on the following day, and Jane was out walking Wong in the square.

  “Have you made your will, my lady?” asked Bella, abruptly.

  “Lud!” cried Lady Comfrey. “Old vulture, you! There is no need to make my will, you monster of ingratitude.”

  “Who gets your money an you die intesticles?” demanded Bella and then blushed. She had meant to say “intestate,” but for the life of her she couldn’t remember the right word.

  “If you mean who gets it if I don’t make a will, you illiterate old fool,” snapped Lady Comfrey, “I should think, my nephew Giles.”

  She frowned at the recollection of her nephew, a weedy young man with an irritating simper.

  “Exactly,” said Bella, avidly watching her face.

  “Well, I ain’t going to leave it all to you,” retorted Lady Comfrey.

  “But you’d leave your old Bella something as to keep her old bones warm, now wouldn’t you?” wheedled Bella. “Then there’s Lady Jane. She could marry a fine lord, given a bit of a dowry, and give you lusty grandchildren.”

  “I don’t want grandchildren,” said Lady Comfrey pettishly. “I don’t like children, nasty, sticky, messy, greedy little things. And for your information, Bella, I am not yet in my dotage nor in my grave.”

  “You will be, my lady, if you go on keeping these wild nights,” grumped Bella.

  “Stop rattling the teacups in that nasty way. Shooo! You make my head ache. Wild nights indeed! Tea at Ranelagh, ’fore George. I tell you what, Bella. I shall go to the play for the Italian opera tonight. So there!”

  “That you won’t,” said Bella with much satisfaction. “Drury Lane and Covent Garden don’t open until the end of the month, and the Italian opera don’t open till October. Mr. Osborne’s housemaid says as how there’s a masked ball at Crocker’s in Oxford Street tonight,” added Bella with gleeful sarcasm. “Why don’t you go along to that?”

  “A good idea,” said Lady Comfrey, watching with satisfaction the dismay on Bella’s face. “Tell Lady Jane to make herself ready for this evening.”

  “What?” squeaked Bella.

  “You too,” added Lady Comfrey with acid enjoyment. “We shall see you trip a measure.”

  Bella made one last stand. “Costs a guinea apiece,” she sniffed.

  “I am sure it will be well worth it, Bella. It will be three guineas less for my nephew to enjoy.”

  Bella went gloomily out. But her idea had taken root in Lady Comfrey’s brain. Of course, she would not die for a long time yet. And yet, she did not want Giles to get her money. And old Bella should have something.

  Lady Comfrey crossed to the window and peered out into the square. Jane was walking Wong, the sun shining down through her jaunty straw hat and glinting on the lemon silk of her skirt and on the powdered head of the footman walking behind her.

  “Funny,” mused Lady Comfrey, “I did not find her pretty at all—rather dull, in fact. But how the men seem to notice her! She has an odd charm, I’ll admit. And that old fool Bella is right. With a dowry, she could make quite a suitable marriage, and I should have done something for someone else, and perhaps they’ll take note of that in the hereafter.”

  Feeling quite virtuous, Lady Comfrey decided to take a nap to fortify herself against the evening to come. She might even go to church on Sunday instead of sending Bella along with her shilling fine for nonattendance.

  At that moment, Lord Charles Welbourne was preparing to leave his house in Hessel Street to pay a call on the Bentleys.

  He was magnificently attired in a green wool coat edged with gold braid, worn over an embroidered satin waistcoat. A black felt tricorne lavishly ornamented with gold braid was perched on top of his bag wig, and his tall walking cane was ornamented with a black silk bow.

  He paused on the top step of his mansion. The day was cold and clear, with fluffy clouds chasing each other high above the grit of the smoky London sky. The leaves on the trees were already turning color. His two burly chairmen stood waiting beside the poles of his sedan on the street outside.

  “Anderson!” he called over his shoulder.

  “My lord?”

  “Anderson, you never told me why you admitted Lady Jane Lovelace t’other night, but I trust it is a fact that you have conveniently forgot. Not a breath of scandal is to be attached to that young lady’s name, do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, my lord, if your lordship pleases.”

  “But you can make yourself useful in that direction. Find out, if you can, if a certain Lady Comfrey, who resides at Number Ten, Huggets Square, plans to visit anywhere in town tonight. Get to know one of her servants. I am desirous of news about that household. Be discreet.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  “Do not discuss this with the other servants. If you fail in your mission, do not be afraid to tell me. No convenient visits to the wine merchant? Good!” He pulled on his leather gloves and walked down the steps and climbed into his sedan chair.

  The chairmen picked up their burden and began to run along the pavement, warning passersby with their usual harsh cry of “Make way!”

  The Bentleys were all lined up to greet his lordship. Many stratagems had been discussed as to how they could contrive to leave Fanny alone with Lord Charles, and all had been dismissed as too blatant. It was decided, however, that Fanny should entertain his lordship by singing and accompanying herself on the harpsichord.

  Lord Charles surveyed Mr. Bentley with interest. He decided that James Bentley looked more like a nervous clerk than the devilish gambler he was reputed to be. He bent over Mrs. Bentley’s hand and gave Fanny a magnificent bow.

  They were no sooner seated in the drawing room than Fanny was urged to the harpsichord. She made a great show of blushing and declining.

  “Odds fish!” drawled Lord Charles impatiently. “If you don’t want to play, then don’t.”

  Fanny threw him a baffled look, but Mrs. Bentley let out a trill of laughter. “Be not dismayed, my child,” she called. “His lordship was only funning. He is panting to hear you perform.”

  “Stap me! I’m panting for something to drink,” said Lord Charles with calculated rudeness. He wondered just how much the Bentleys could take.

  “A dish of tea, my lord,” said Mrs. Bentley brightly. “Don’t just stand there, Fanny, my love. Play!”

  “Have you any brandy?” asked Lord Charles.

  “Yes, yes,” said James Bentley, suddenly eager. “You have such a reputation of being a successful gambler, my lord, that I thought you would k
eep a clear head at all times. Heh! Heh! But brandy by all means.”

  He handed a generous glassful to Lord Charles, who drained it off in one gulp, sprawled back in his chair, and waved his now empty glass insolently under Mr. Bentley’s nose.

  “More!” he said, his languid voice cutting across Fanny’s shrill singing.

  “Certainly! Certainly!” said Mr. Bentley, hastening to oblige and flashing a look of warning at his wife, who had compressed her lips in disapproval. “Talking of gambling—” began Mr. Bentley.

  “I wasn’t. You were,” said Lord Charles coldly. Again he drained his glass and waved it under Mr. Bentley’s face.

  “Oh, what! Ha! Ha! Very funny,” cried Mr. Bentley, slapping his knee.

  “I wasn’t joking,” sneered Lord Charles, his voice beginning to slur.

  Fanny sang louder to try to catch his attention, but apart from a slight wince as she murdered a high note, he paid her not the slightest heed. She had been instrumental in furnishing him with an excuse to meet her father. Now he was no longer interested in her.

  “Well, since you brought up the subject, do you still play for high stakes?” demanded Lord Charles.

  “No, my lord,” said Mr. Bentley, his pale eyes noting his lordship’s slurred voice and the slight slackening of his mouth. He hastily filled Lord Charles’s glass again. “But it has long been my ambition to test my skill against yours.”

  “Don’t play with amateurs,” drawled Lord Charles. “What happened to all those portraits that used to hang here? Used to come here when I was a boy, and I distinctly remember the place being chockablock with family portraits.”

  “Oh, the Lovelaces,” put in Mrs. Bentley. “Ah, well, my lord, the Lovelaces are not our ancestors precisely, although we are related. So we took them down.”

  “Giving them back to Westerby?” demanded his lordship.

  “Oh, no, I think I shall auction them. Some of them should fetch a pretty penny,” said James Bentley, cracking his knuckles.