The Westerby Inheritance

by M C Beaton

  James Bentley had at last agreed to meet him at the Mulberry Coffee House in Whitehall, neither of the gamblers wishing to advertise their game to the aristocratic stare of White’s.

  “So he has at last agreed to play,” commented Sir Anthony. “He must be very sure of you. You never told me, Charles, why you are going to all this trouble. One would think you had a personal vengeance against the man.”

  “Not I, foresooth,” drawled Lord Charles. “I am merely overcome by an altruistic desire to revenge all those young blades he has fleeced so mercilessly.”

  “And old ‘uns like Westerby,” said Sir Anthony, looking at his friend curiously as the tailor eased the coat from Lord Charles’s shoulders and promised to deliver the finished article by that evening.

  Lord Charles remained silent, even after the tailor had left the room, so Anthony went on, “What stakes are you playing for?”

  “My fortune and lands against Westerby’s.”

  “Oho!” cried Anthony, sitting bolt upright. “I have it at last. Lovelace—Lady Jane Lovelace, that pretty little thing. She’s Westerby’s daughter. Poor Charles. Struck by Cupid’s arrow at last!”

  “Stop giggling and winking,” snapped Lord Charles. “Oh, curse on my noisy head. I did not decant near enough brandy last night into my sleeves.”

  “Poor old Charles,” jeered Anthony, nearly beside himself with glee. “How amazing to see you smitten. How amusing. The stately Lord Charles Welbourne, that breaker of hearts, risks land and fortune for a schoolroom miss. Hey, ho! The merry-o! Shadow me with laurels. I did not hope to live to see such a fall.”

  “Zounds!” muttered Lord Charles, his hand flying to his sword, and his eyes beginning to flash. But Anthony had always admired and revered his friend in a jealous kind of way and had thought him above all tender feelings, and this sign of human frailty intoxicated Sir Anthony as much as the brandy of the night before. He began to sing:

  “Some gamble for money ’tis true,

  And some, because they can’t help it,

  And some lose their blunt on a screw

  Or drop their withal at the cockpit!

  But Welbourne, he sets us the fashion,

  And rattles the dice—for his passion.”

  And, overcome with glee and amazed at his own wit, Sir Anthony laughed until the tears coursed a channel through the white paint on his face, and did not stop until he found himself looking into Lord Charles’s furious face down two yards’ length of cold steel.

  “Anxious to leave the world, Anthony?” asked Lord Charles in a silky voice.

  “Put up your sword, man,” gasped Sir Anthony, mopping his eyes. “Cannot you see how funny it all is?”

  Lord Charles stared coldly down at his friend and then sheathed his sword, drew up a chair facing him, and leaned forward and said in measured tones, “You are mistaken. Do I make myself clear? I am simply playing Bentley because it amuses me.”

  “Oddso?” said Sir Anthony cautiously.

  “No whisper of that young lady’s name is to be mentioned in connection with this ploy. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, of course,” said Sir Anthony hurriedly. Charles was a worse case than he had at first thought. Poor man! Soon to be leg-shackled. Men in love were like madmen. Better to humor him.

  “I was only funning, Charlie,” he said awkwardly. “We’ve had such roistering fun these past weeks, I had forgot you could be so Methodist.”

  Lord Charles himself was wondering why he had reacted so violently to Anthony’s teasing. To prevent himself from thinking about it, he stood up and grinned at Sir Anthony. “Faith, I have a headache, and I confess I am blue-deviled. I have not thanked you either, my friend, for helping me to lure Bentley to the tables. We must be considered the worst drunks and wastrels in London by now. Come, we shall go to White’s and see if our luck holds, and I shall practice my skill for the evening to come.”

  They set out arm in arm, deciding to walk, through the clamorous streets of London. Lady Jane’s name was not mentioned again.

  But later that day, as the shadows of evening were beginning to lengthen, Lord Charles again found himself forced to examine his behavior.

  He found Lady Jane an attractive and impudent child, nothing more. He did not wish to marry her. His conduct as a gentleman, therefore, should urge him to cancel the game before it was too late. At last he decided that, to clear his conscience, he would call on Lady Jane before the game and release her from the contract. Then it would be his concern, and his concern only, whether he went ahead with it.

  Jane was in her bedroom, getting ready for a rout that evening. She thanked whatever gods look after lovesick young misses that she was looking her best and that the summons to give an audience to Lord Charles had not come in the middle of her toilette.

  She shyly pushed open the door of the drawing room. Bella had informed her in the hall that she was to be allowed ten minutes unchaperoned, but no more. Jane was tempted to tease Bella on her sudden concern for her welfare after having left her alone at Crocker’s, but Bella had been, like her mistress, awakened to the everyday world by that royal Drawing Room, and had behaved impeccably ever since.

  Lord Charles was standing on the hearth, staring down into the flames of a coal fire. He looked quite awesome in his severe black velvet coat and the stark whiteness of fine lace. His dark eyes were almost hooded, and his face was painted and patched. Not only was there that familiar black silk patch next to his mouth but there was another, high up on his cheekbone.

  He came forward and took her hands, looking down at her very seriously.

  She was wearing her dark hair unpowdered, and it gleamed in the candlelight. Her eyes were lowered, and her thick lashes fanned out over her cheeks. She was wearing a robe à la française in old blue taffeta. It was pleated at the back and had scalloped-edged ruffles. The bodice was trimmed with rose bows, as were the pagoda sleeves, which opened over cascades of lace at the elbow. Real roses decorated her hair, and she wore fresh flowers—pink roses on her shoulder. Her hooped skirts were very wide, making her appear more diminutive than ever.

  “I think you must know why I have come,” he said.

  She blushed faintly and nodded her head, not trusting herself to speak. She believed that he had come to propose marriage. And she was ready to accept him.

  His next words struck her like a wave of cold water. “I wish to break our contract,” he said.

  She jerked her hands from his and turned her back on him, the quivering tips of the roses peeping over her shoulder betraying her agitation.

  “The whole thing was madness,” he said gently. “Ecod! I would be a monster indeed to demand your share of the bargain.”

  Jane felt herself beginning to shake with rage. He had tricked her! All those weeks of whoring and drinking had been his normal conduct. And he had tried to pretend to her that it was to pull the wool over James Bentley’s eyes, when all the while he had been pulling the wool over her own. Not for one minute had he meant to play Mr. Bentley.

  In a voice that trembled with anger, she said over her shoulder, “I should have known you were not a man of your word. You never had any intention of playing Mr. Bentley. It was enough for you to pretend, so that you could laugh behind your hand at a silly girl. Well, sir, for your information, I am not releasing you from the contract if I have to ruin myself to do it. You will fulfill your part of the bargain, or I will take you to court.”

  Now he was as angry as she. She had never cared for him in the least. She had merely been coldly using him as an instrument for her revenge on the Bentleys, and no doubt she would offer her body to him in return as carelessly as a Covent Garden jade.

  “Very well, madam,” he said between his teeth. “For your information, I play James Bentley this night, and I shall not lose. But you shall lose your virginity, my sweet, and you will pleasure me in bed until I tire of you. You are heartless.”

  He walked forward and seized her by the shoulders
and turned her around. “Let me go, sir!” she cried out, suddenly afraid as his angry eyes burned down into hers.

  He bent his head and kissed her savagely and ruthlessly and insolently, holding her body pressed tight against his own, kissing her and kissing her until revenge and anger changed to a terrible desire, a terrible sweetness which threatened to unman him completely. He wrenched himself free and stood back a little from her. She looked at him, eyes blind with emotion, hand held out toward him, shaken and trembling. He swung on his heel and walked quickly from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  She stood for a long moment, unable to believe he had gone. Then she rushed from the house, calling wildly to him. He was climbing into his sedan. She would have run forward, but Bella hauled her back, clucking with distress.

  “Come into the house this minute,” said Bella. “Fie, for shame, Lady Jane, to be pursuing a gentleman into the common street. Why, it reminds me of young Miss Belmont, who—”

  “Oh, a pox on Miss Belmont!” cried Jane, bursting into tears and rushing up the stairs.

  Mr. Bentley arrived on time at the Mulberry Coffee House, with the timid Mr. Jennings as his “second.” Lord Charles was already waiting, seconded by Sir Anthony. It was as if he and Mr. Bentley were about to engage in a duel rather than a card game.

  Mr. Bentley eyed Lord Charles narrowly. His lordship looked formal in a sinister way, in his severe garb of black and white, but he staggered slightly before he took his chair, and he smelled strongly of brandy.

  “Servant, Bentley,” he slurred. “Want to lose those lands of yours on the first throw?”

  Mr. Bentley snapped his fingers by way of reply, and a small, dapper businessman in a bag wig appeared beside their table, seeming to materialize out of the gloom of the coffee house. “My lawyer, Mr. Brodie,” he said.

  “The devil he is,” remarked Lord Charles, raising his eyebrows.

  “Should I lose,” said Mr. Bentley, cracking his knuckles, “Mr. Brodie has on his person the deeds to the entire Westerby estate, which he will deliver to you. Should you lose, he has a document for you to sign.”

  “Demme,” roared Sir Anthony wrathfully. “You are obviously not in the way of playing with gentlemen, sirrah! His lordship’s word is his bond.”

  He jerked his sword halfway out of its sheath but was stopped by Lord Charles’s lazy voice. “Gently, Anthony. Let us humor Mr. Bentley. It shows good faith to bring the Westerby estate along with him. Mr. Brodie can keep it warm for me. We shall drink first. What is your pleasure, Mr. Bentley?”

  Mr. Bentley thought hard. He wanted to keep a clear head and yet was anxious to encourage Lord Charles to lose his. There was an endless choice of drinks with colorful names—purl, Old Pharaoh, knock down, humtie dumtie, stippleshouldrée, possets and punches in a hundred and fifty varieties, raw shrub, porter cup, cider cup, port-wine cup, egg flip, and rum-booze, among many others. French wines fortified with brandy by London merchants; port, Lisbon, canary, madeira, and gin.

  After some hesitation he settled for a bowl of rum punch. “Now,” said Mr. Bentley while Anthony was mixing the punch, his round face appearing through the steam like some chubby Bacchante, “I suggest we play a few hands of All Four for a little money, to warm up, so to speak, and then play one decisive game for our respective lands.”

  Sir Anthony glared at Mr. Bentley and strengthened the rum punch considerably. Mr. Jennings made a few bleating noises and waved his hands ineffectually in the air.

  The cards were dealt. Lord Charles picked up his hand and ran his long fingers gently over the surface of the cards, grinning inwardly as his sensitive fingertips located faint pinpricks. Mr. Bentley had marked the cards.

  Lord Charles proceeded to lose each game steadily. He drank a great deal of rum punch and began to bet even more wildly. His hands began to tremble, and he wrenched at the lace at his throat as if it were strangling him.

  Mr. Bentley smiled palely at all those familiar symptoms. Already, in his mind, the wing at the Chase was built and he was housing King George in a royal suite. For the first time in his life, James Bentley became overconfident and lost the next game, despite his marking of the cards.

  The other habitués of the coffee house, quarreled and gambled among themselves, unaware of the importance of the game between the two men at the corner table.

  The rum punch was very strong. Mr. Bentley had drunk more than he usually did and found to his alarm that he was beginning to feel very tipsy. But no matter. He won the next hand and the next, as Lord Charles’s voice became more slurred and his long fingers shook more than ever. Sir Anthony was lolling back in his chair, a long churchwarden smoldering in his hand, snoring lustily. Mr. Jennings was sleepily singing songs to himself, with a vague smile pinned on his face and his eyes unfocused.

  Mr. Brodie, the lawyer, sat a little apart. He had lost interest in the game long ago. There could be no doubt that Mr. Bentley would win. He was impatient to be home in his bed. After watching the play for some moments and noting Lord Charles’s fumbling movements, Mr. Brodie edged closer to the table and whispered to Mr. Bentley, “Make your killing now, before milord falls asleep or dies from fear, one or t’other.”

  “Quite,” muttered Mr. Bentley, and then, “Hem!” he said to attract his antagonist’s attention.

  Lord Charles stared blearily across the table. “What?” he asked stupidly.

  “The night draws to its close,” ventured Mr. Bentley with an ingratiating smile. “We should play our decisive game while we still have our wits about us.”

  “Very well,” said Lord Charles. “But I fear, Mr. Bentley, that these cards are against me. As a gentleman you will have no objection, I trust, if I ask for a new pack?”

  Mr. Bentley stared at Lord Charles, whose voice had suddenly sounded quite clear and decisive, but his lordship was slumped in his chair and seemed only half-awake.

  “I don’t see any reason—” began Mr. Bentley, but Sir Anthony had miraculously come awake.

  “I’ll get them,” said Anthony briskly and strode off before Mr. Bentley could protest.

  Mr. Bentley felt the first tremblings of unease. His own head felt fuzzy, but surely he was in nowhere near such a bad condition as Lord Charles.

  Sir Anthony returned with the cards and drew his chair up to the table.

  Mr. Bentley picked up his hand and looked across the table at Lord Charles—and his stomach gave a great lurch. His lordship’s eyes were clear, alert, and cold and seemed to bore into him across the wavering candle flames.

  “Play,” he said softly.

  Sir Anthony moved restlessly from one player to the other as the game commenced. The tension seemed to have permeated Mr. Jennings’ drunken stupor, for he came fully awake and sat nervously on the very edge of his chair.

  Mr. Brodie mentally consigned the legal form he had ready for Lord Charles to the devil. He realized his client had been tricked. But then, he had known Mr. Bentley had been using marked cards and found himself with little sympathy for his client.

  Finally the game stood thus: Lord Charles was five and Mr. Bentley eight. To Sir Anthony’s horror, Lord Charles begged a card, although he already held the ace, deuce, and jack of trumps, while Mr. Bentley had the king and trois. Lord Charles played his deuce, which was won by Mr. Bentley’s trois. Sir Anthony held his breath, and the sweat coursed freely down his face.

  Mr. Bentley gave a slow smile of triumph and threw down his king. The Chase, which had become his ruling passion, lay spread out in his mind, a place for all to envy.

  Then Lord Charles leaned forward and captured Mr. Bentley’s king with his ace. “All Fours,” he said quietly.

  There was a sudden terrible hush while Mr. Bentley stared white-faced at the table. “Oh, God,” he cried suddenly and buried his head in his hands. “Oh, my home. Oh, my life!”

  Mr. Brodie opened a large portmanteau and silently handed over a heavy pile of parchment, including a signed draft on Mr. Bentley’s bank
for the whole of the Marquess of Westerby’s personal fortune.

  “He is a drunk!” cried Bentley wildly, meaning Westerby. “He cannot appreciate the Chase as I do. Oh, the grottoes and gardens I have designed, the statuary, the elegance of the rooms!”

  “When young Carruthers wept over the loss of his estates, you laughed at him,” said Lord Charles coldly. “Take your defeat like a man. I am only giving back Westerby his due.”

  “Why should you give it to him and that slut of a wife?” wailed James Bentley, tearing at his hair so that powder rose in a small cloud in the flickering candlelight. “Why do you not keep it for yourself?” he begged, looking up into Lord Charles’s face with wet eyes.

  Lord Charles turned away from him, weary with disgust. “Come, Anthony,” he said. “I am suddenly in need of fresh air.”

  James Bentley ran after him and fell to his knees, clinging onto the stiffened skirts of his lordship’s coat. “I will give you the money,” he babbled, “but do not take Eppington Chase from me.”

  Lord Charles twitched his coat skirts from James Bentley’s frenzied grasp. Mr. Jennings, sobered with shock, stood making bleating, ineffectual noises.

  “Stop!” cried James Bentley as Lord Charles and Sir Anthony threaded their way through the now empty tables of the coffee house. “Stop, I beg, and listen! You did this for Lady Jane. Harkee, that one is as cold as her mother. Her mother drove men mad, used them for what power she could gain for her husband, and tossed them aside.”

  “Faugh!” muttered Sir Anthony in a low voice. “Come along, Charles. He is deranged.”

  And indeed it seemed as if all James Bentley’s cool and cunning manner had covered a twisted, violent, and passionate nature.

  Lord Charles shrugged and turned toward the door. There was a terrific explosion and a rabbitlike scream from Mr. Jennings.

  Suddenly sick at heart, Lord Charles turned round.

  What was left of James Bentley lay among the sawdust and oyster shells on the floor of the coffee house. He had not even risen to his feet. He had pulled from his pocket a pistol, which he always kept ready primed, and had blown his brains out.