Carstairs shrugged. ‘You got what you wanted, as I recall,’ he said, with a scowl. ‘Went to a lot of trouble to get that invite to the Greshams’ ball.’ He had avoided telling her that he had actually accepted the highly prized invitation as payment of a long-outstanding gambling debt that the youngest scion of the house had been unable to honour. Tired of Lady Cunningham’s constantly badgering him to make use of his family connections on her behalf and, with his eye always on any possible benefit to himself, Carstairs had persuaded the young man to add his upstart relatives’ names to Countess Gresham’s guest list. In the event, Clarissa Cunningham’s subsequent marriage to the Earl’s eldest son had earned Carstairs far more in handouts from his grateful cousin than the original paltry sum he had been obliged to forfeit when he had accepted the youngster’s compromise.
Her face scarlet, his cousin pursed her lips. She did not care to be reminded of the fact that she had inveigled her way into the Gresham household and that both she and her daughter had been instrumental in setting the honey-trap into which the foolish young Gresham had so easily fallen, finding himself at the altar almost before he knew what had hit him!
‘Enough of all that,’ she glowered, shaking her finger at him. ‘That is all in the past. Surely you can see that we have more important matters to discuss.’
‘Can’t see what can be more important than you losing control of the doddering old stooge’s cheque book,’ said Carstairs peevishly. ‘How am I supposed to help you there?’ He glared at her, adding sarcastically, ‘Unless you want me to arrange for someone to do away with him, of course, and I assure you that that sort of thing is quite out of my league!’
‘Don’t be foolish, Gerald,’ she snapped. ‘What would be the point of that when he has already changed his will in favour of that parcel of urchins? I have a better idea—and, if I say so myself—one which is rather more up your street!’
She leaned forward and gave him a conspiratorial smile. ‘Sir Arthur seems mighty taken with the eldest girl, Gerald. He has settled a large sum of money on her, which she is to receive on her twenty-fifth birthday or sooner, if she chooses to wed. I have heard that you have a somewhat dubious reputation where young woman are concerned, so it shouldn’t be beyond your reach to come up with a plan to fleece the old fool out of several thousands. Better still, you could have her yourself and then you’d stand to inherit her share when he sticks his spoon in the wall!’
‘S’all very well, Edwina,’ replied her cousin suspiciously. ‘Dare say that if it suited me I could pull the thing off without any trouble but, for the life of me, I can’t quite see what you hope to gain out of it.’
‘Just the satisfaction of knowing that I’d helped to ruin his precious family,’ she said, her eyes full of malice. ‘I’ll teach him to make me look a fool in my own household—even the lowest parlourmaid has taken to carrying out my orders in a distinctly insolent manner and I refuse to stand for it! It would give me the greatest pleasure to see the treacherous swine cut down to size!’
Reaching over to Carstairs, she laid a hand on his arm, cajoling him, ‘Do say that you agree, Gerald. Marry the girl or abduct her and hold her to ransom, or just seduce her—whatever it takes to bring him to his knees! I just want it done—and the sooner the better.’
Carstairs, who was beginning to find his cousin’s obsessive behaviour rather tedious, was unmoved by her request. After all, he conjectured, it was unlikely that he could expect an immediate return for any effort he might be persuaded to make on her behalf, even if there were the possibility of a large windfall at some time in the distant future. Added to which, was the uncomfortable thought that this plan could end with the same disastrous finale for which the Harding chit had opted, availing him precisely nothing. What he really needed, he decided, was a more immediate and positive return if his cousin required his involvement in her plans. Covertly, he studied the numerous rings on his cousin’s claw-like fingers.
‘You’ve still got all your jewellery, I take it?’ he said suddenly. ‘You had a damn fine diamond necklace, if my memory serves me right.’
‘You’re not having my jewels, Gerald,’ she retorted sharply. ‘They’re all I have left and, as far as I can see, it is highly unlikely that I will ever be given the opportunity to acquire any more!’
‘Just a little on account, Edwina,’ he said in a wheedling tone. ‘If I’m to carry out this plan of yours there could be expenses—I might have to hire an accomplice or a carriage, at the very least.’
His companion regarded him in contemplative silence for a few minutes then, with a brisk nod, she rose to her feet. ‘You are quite right, Gerald, and it would certainly not do to spoil such a promising sheep for the proverbial “ha’porth of tar” now, would it?’
‘“Sheep”, my dear cousin? Surely you mean “ship”?’ said Carstairs, looking puzzled.
‘I’m reliably informed that it depends on whether one is a farmer or a seaman,’ retorted Lady Cunningham impatiently.
Carstairs sniggered. ‘Then “sheep” in this case may more aptly be termed “lamb”—as in “lamb to the slaughter”, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I most certainly hope so,’ she replied, her lips twisting into a thin smile of appreciation. ‘Now, you must accompany me upstairs and help me find you something suitable to sell. It will be up to you to obtain whatever price you can, of course, but I am reliably informed that you are quite used to dealing with such matters.’
By the time Sir Arthur returned from his highly successful visit to Westcotes, Carstairs had removed himself, taking with him several rather valuable pieces from his cousin’s jewellery collection.
As soon as he arrived home, Sir Arthur, whose joyful reunion with his late brother’s family had left him still feeling quite well disposed towards the world in general, enquired of Fisher his wife’s whereabouts and unhurriedly mounted the stairs to join her in the morning-room.
‘Ah, here you are, Edwina,’ he said benignly. ‘I trust that you have enjoyed your day?’
‘As well as any other in this godforsaken hole,’ was her bitter reply. ‘You are perfectly well aware of the fact that I detest this little provincial town of yours and can hardly wait until it is time for us to return to Berkeley Square.’
‘You have always known that I prefer to spend the summer months in my own home,’ said Sir Arthur, quite unmoved by his wife’s derogatory description of his favourite residence. ‘But you need fret no longer, my dear, for I have arranged for you to return to the capital forthwith.’
Her eyes lit up at once, but then a little frown creased her brow and a sulky, discontented look appeared on her face. ‘But there will be no one of note left in town at present,’ she complained. ‘Everyone who is anyone has gone either to Bath or to Harrowgate to take the waters. Berkeley Square will be quite empty!’
‘What you say is perfectly correct, dear wife,’ Sir Arthur agreed pleasantly. ‘But you need not concern yourself with the absence of Society in Berkeley Square because I have arranged to cancel the lease on the place!’
Lady Cunningham leapt to her feet with a shrill cry of dismay, her face a mask of fury, but he held up a hand in warning and his eyes grew cold as, totally unaffected by her vitriolic expression, he continued, ‘Be silent, Edwina! You will sit down and hear me out! I was about to inform you that since you are so desirous of returning to London, I have taken up the lease on a charming little town house in Hans Crescent for your sole use. You will return to London, my dear, and, as far as I am concerned, you will remain there indefinitely!’
‘Hans Crescent!’ she cried in horror. ‘But no one—absolutely no one of consequence chooses to live in Hans Crescent!’
‘Then you should be perfectly at home, dear Edwina,’ came his immediate retort.
Casting him a haughty glare, Lady Cunningham sat down. ‘And if I refuse?’ she enquired sardonically, banking her hopes on the fact that it would be totally out of character for her once passive husband to bundle h
er up against her will and ship her off to the ghastly little hovel to which he intended to banish her.
‘You will not refuse, Edwina,’ Sir Arthur assured her. ‘You will, for once, do exactly as I instruct you to do. I have it on good authority that the house in Hans Crescent is eminently respectable and perfectly adequate for a single lady’s occupancy—although, of course,’ he added hastily, ‘Mrs Stacpole will accompany you and, in addition, you are at liberty to persuade as many of the other servants as wish to join you, if you so desire—or you may hire afresh, just as it suits you.’
‘But how am I to live?’ she wailed. ‘You surely cannot be considering condemning me to spend the rest of my days eking out a wretched existence in some cold and draughty back-street dwelling-place simply because I was, perhaps, a trifle harsh in my remarks the other day! What will people think, Arthur! I am your wife, for pity’s sake!’
‘Pity was singularly absent when you elected to relinquish your wifely duties those many years ago,’ said Sir Arthur drily. ‘And, if I may say so, my dear, your remarks are more generally harsh than not—and, frequently, more than just a trifle.’
He sighed. ‘But let us not quarrel, Edwina—it will do your cause far more harm than good, I promise you. Please do not interrupt me again.’
As his wife sat in stony-faced silence, he proceeded to inform her of the rest of the arrangements that he had made for her foreseeable future.
‘In order that you do not find yourself shunned by the Society that you so esteem, you will be relieved to hear that I do not intend to divorce you. You will, of course, receive an allowance. I believe that you will find it a not ungenerous sum although, in order that you do not run up debts, it will be forwarded to you, in cash, on a monthly basis. I will pay the rent on the property and a more than adequate amount has been set aside for you to furnish it according to your taste and you may take whatever you wish from your own rooms here. You may also retain your jewellery—apart, that is, from my mother’s rings and brooches, which I bestowed upon you at the time of our marriage and which, in any event, you have never worn. I believe I will find a more suitable recipient, and one who will show me a great deal more gratitude than you ever have, dear wife!’
Lady Cunningham’s eyes narrowed as she considered his proposals. ‘And this house…’ she demanded. ‘You say that it is perfectly acceptable?’
‘It is, Edwina,’ he replied briskly. ‘I understand that it is a very fine town house at the Sloane Square end of the Crescent and that decent well-to-do families live on either side of the property. It would hardly be in my best interests to have you seen to be living in abject poverty, however much I may privately feel that you deserve nothing more.’
At this, she flinched and dropped her gaze. A feeling almost akin to pity entered her husband’s heart, but he instantly cast it aside, steeling himself to recollect all the years of neglect and dismissal he had endured and, at the same time, contrasting his own miserable existence with the warm, happy atmosphere he had recently encountered in his late brother’s household.
‘Very well, Arthur,’ she conceded abruptly, having suddenly realised the endless possibilities that a new life, unfettered by Sir Arthur’s mundane requirements, could afford her. ‘I accept your offer. I shall be ready to leave as soon as you have made the necessary arrangements.’
‘You are very wise, Edwina,’ replied her husband, somewhat relieved and slightly surprised that she had put up so little fight. ‘I truly believe that you will be a great deal more comfortable with your own residence. I will instruct Pickens to have his clerk organise your travel arrangements as soon as possible.’ He eyed her anxiously. ‘You do understand that this is to be a permanent separation, Edwina? There will be no reconciliation, my dear. As far as I am concerned, our marriage is at an end!’
‘As you say, Arthur,’ she answered, her sharp features quite impassive. ‘For once, I am inclined to agree with everything you have said—and now, if you will excuse me, I must find Mrs Stacpole and set about organising our speedy removal!’
With a worried frown he watched her depart, wondering if it could really be true that he was about to be free of her at last; he found it hard to believe that his wife actually intended to accede to his wishes without greater resistance.
In fact, Lady Cunningham was quietly hugging her little secret to herself as she left the room, her pale eyes glittering with unholy joy as she calculated that, with clever planning on her part, she would be well out of the way before her contemptible husband’s newly found self-esteem was totally crushed by the weight of the predicted scandal!
Chapter Twelve
Having engineered the opportunity to escort the two Cunningham sisters back to Westcotes with Sophie’s book, Latimer had then been obliged to rack his brains to conjure up an adequate excuse to pay a further call on the Cunninghams without invitation but when, later that same day, he had set off towards Westcotes once again, the feeble pretext of having mislaid his sketchbook was the best he had been able to come up with. He had just rounded the bend in the lane, however, when he had caught sight of Georgina at the front gate of the house, engaged in a deep conversation with the Reverend Mansell and, as far as he had been able to judge from that distance, she looked to him to be perfectly well! Dejectedly retracing his steps, the thought had then occurred to him that she might well have been feigning sickness all along, in order to avoid the possibility of coming face to face with him and, if she was so set on avoiding all future contact with him, how the devil was he ever to get the chance to explain his actions?
He spent the whole of the following day in pent-up inactivity, wandering restlessly from room to room as he struggled to resolve the problem, knowing that the longer he had to wait until he saw Georgina, the more likelihood there was of him encountering Eleanora Cornwell and therein lay disaster! He prayed that Mrs Jacklin’s daughter would manage to deliver his note in time to prevent that calamity but, above all, that the Cornwell girl would agree to meet him, as requested, for he was relying on his ability to persuade her to hold back from disclosing his true identity for a day or so longer—or, at least, until he had found an opportunity to confess his own subterfuge. In the meantime, he decided, his best course of action was to keep himself scarce and remain in the cottage.
The following evening, just as he was about to mount the stairs to his bedroom, he heard a tap on the back door and, upon opening it, he discovered Annie Jacklin standing outside.
‘Tweren’t that easy, you know’, she said, as she thrust a folded slip of paper towards him. ‘Our Lucy nearly got herself put off, when the housekeeper caught her comin’ down from above stairs!’
‘But she did manage to hand my note to Miss Nell herself?’ demanded Latimer, eagerly grabbing the proffered note which, he was relieved to observe, had no name on the outside. He waited anxiously for Annie’s reassuring nod before breaking the seal and quickly running his eyes down the contents of Eleanora Cornwell’s missive.
I was astonished and not a little perturbed to receive your request, she had written, but confess to finding myself somewhat curious to discover what you could possibly require of me, in view of our rather tenuous acquaintance. However, should you care to walk along the riverbank, past the old boathouse, you will come to the rear entrance of my home and, since you stipulated absolute secrecy, there is an old willow tree beside the wall, behind which you may care to conceal yourself. I shall do my best to meet you there at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon.
He looked up, suddenly aware that Annie was still waiting in the doorway. She was frowning and her eyes were full of suspicion.
‘It don’t seem right, Mr Latimer, what you’re doin’,’ she grunted. ‘Miss Nell is engaged to the Reverend and you told me yourself as how you was keen on Miss Georgina—plus, I can’t be doin’ with our Lucy gettin’ in trouble with any more of this hugger-mugger stuff, not for no one!’
‘There will be no more, Annie, I promise you,’ he assured her. ‘Now,
why don’t you step inside and make us both a nice cup of tea? I dare say you could do with one after your long walk from the village and there are a couple of little things I need to ask you, if you would be so good.’
‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t say “no” to a cuppa, sir,’ she replied, coming into the room and closing the door behind her. ‘I did pop in to Becky Harper’s kitchen as I passed but she didn’t have time to brew up, they’ve all been that busy today, so she says.’
‘Oh? And why was that, then?’
The little woman bustled about, lifting the kettle on to the hot plate on the range and placing a large brown earthenware teapot nearby.
‘Had two men down from Lunnon, she tells me,’ she said, as she brought two cups to the table. ‘Been packin’ up them there books of the late Reverend’s, it seems. Big Pickford’s wagon comin’ to take them all away in the mornin’, by all accounts.’
‘And has Miss Georgina recovered from her head cold, do you happen to know?’
‘Never developed, whatever it was,’ she laughed, as she scooped the tea leaves into the pot and lifted up the kettle. ‘Came downstairs after a couple of hours in bed—so Becky said. Seems Sir Arthur himself paid them all a surprise visit and intends to sort out all their money worries. Reckon they’ll all be mighty pleased about that.’
She poured out two cups of the strong, black brew and pushed one towards Latimer before sitting herself down opposite him. Taking a cautious sip of the scalding hot liquid, she eyed him enigmatically before enquiring, ‘Now, then, sir, what was all these questions you wanted to ask?’
Latimer pulled Eleanora Cornwell’s note out of his pocket and studied it. ‘Firstly, do you happen to know where I might find an old boathouse?’
‘That’ll be on the other side of the canal, sir. Cross over the bridge and walk along the towpath towards Willoughby—I guess you’re lookin’ for the Cornwells’ place?’
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