The Golden Songbird

by Sheila Walsh

  The Golden Songbird

  Sheila Walsh

  Copyright © 2017 The Estate of Sheila Walsh

  This edition first published 2018 by Wyndham Books

  (Wyndham Media Ltd)

  27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX

  First published 1975

  www.wyndhambooks.com/sheila-walsh

  The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Cover artwork images: © Period Images / Apostrophe

  Cover artwork design © Wyndham Media Ltd

  Regency Romance by Sheila Walsh

  from Wyndham Books

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  The Incomparable Miss Brady

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Preview: Madalena by Sheila Walsh

  Preview: Four Riddles for Jane Austen by Gabrielle Mullarkey

  Preview: The Queen’s Midwife by Lozania Prole

  Preview: Promises by Catherine Gaskin

  Preview: Victoria Four-thirty by Cecil Roberts

  Preview: Wonder Cruise by Ursula Bloom

  Preview: Founder of the House by Naomi Jacob

  Preview: A Shaft of Light by John Finch

  Preview: Wyndham Books

  If you build a nest in your heart,

  the singing bird will come.

  Chinese Proverb

  Chapter One

  In the heavily curtained little salon a solitary pendant lamp spilled light on to the baize-covered table near the window.

  If there was tension in the air, Hugo, 4th Marquis of Mandersely, seemed unaware of it. He sprawled in his chair with the indolent ease of one born to command ‒ the complete man of fashion from his dark hair styled à la Titus to the long legs stretched out before him encased in pale yellow skin-tight pantaloons. An exquisitely cut coat of dark blue superfine was thrown carelessly open, to reveal a half-buttoned waistcoat of richly striped white satin.

  His chin was sunk in the intricate folds of his cravat and the pale, saturnine features wore an expression of acute boredom. Between long, slim fingers an empty wine-glass rotated gently.

  Toby Blanchard knew that expression of old ‒ and sighed. The evening had been a sad mistake from the outset and would undoubtedly earn him one of Hugo’s stinging set-downs.

  For he it was who had first become acquainted with their host Mr Jasper Franklyn some days earlier. He had been with old Lord Brancaster who, though known to be a trifle touched in the upper works, was still fly enough to spot a wrong ’un, or so Toby had thought. When Mr Franklyn had learned that the Marquis of Mandersely, that noted Nonpareil, was Toby’s cousin, he had insisted that he should bring him round to Bruton Street one evening for a hand of cards, and Toby, being an amiable, easy-going young man, had agreed readily enough.

  Glancing now at their host, slumped untidily across the table, an unfashionable rumpled wig masking his balding head and his face an unhealthy shade of purple as he fixed Hugo with an unwavering stare, Toby was forced to admit that he had been sadly taken in. Mr Franklyn had spent the best part of the evening trying to out-drink Hugo, and his fine manners had degenerated inevitably into coarseness.

  A log stirred in the grate and settled, sending up a shower of sparks.

  Lord Mandersely raised his head and set the glass upon the table. ‘Well gentlemen?’ he drawled. ‘Are we all agreed to call it a night?’

  Mr Franklyn glared resentfully at the pile of gold and slips of paper casually heaped in front of his lordship ‒ much of it Mr Franklyn’s own money. He was a reckless gambler, but a poor loser. Moreover, he could not bear the thought of all that money leaving his house in the pockets of one already over-endowed with worldly goods.

  Things were not working out at all as Mr Franklyn had envisaged. He was a man of almost fanatical single-mindedness, a quality that had enabled him to amass a considerable fortune from his ever-growing chain of mills in North Yorkshire. In his fiftieth year, he had decided to take a house in London and live in a manner befitting a man of his wealth and stature.

  To this end he had married a beautiful and much-travelled foreign lady, a widow, who had intimated that she could smooth his path into Society. But she had proved a bitter disappointment, succumbing to a fever within a very short space of time and leaving him with the encumbrance of a young stepdaughter who despised him as much as he disliked her.

  He had made some progress, however. That old fool Brancaster had put him up for one or two of the better clubs. He had even acquired a thin veneer of culture and with a steadily mounting fortune at his back he was convinced that all he needed was a stroke of luck. Meeting Captain Blanchard had seemed just that; this cousin of his was everything that Franklyn most envied and desired to emulate.

  But the evening had proved a trying one from the start. He had discovered his lordship to be damnably top-lofty and in an effort to puff himself up he had resorted too often to the port bottle, to the detriment of both his character and his judgement. His play grew wilder and more ill-judged as it became apparent that the Marquis was enjoying a phenomenal run of luck, until by now he was in no condition to think straight.

  ‘You can’t leave yet, my lord,’ he grumbled. ‘Why, it’s scarcely past eleven o’ the clock! You must give us a chance to win back some of our money.’

  Mandersely raised a languid hand to stifle a yawn.

  Toby eyed him nervously; any minute now he was going to be devilish unpleasant! He said hurriedly, ‘Not I, Franklyn! My pockets are all to let!’

  The fourth member of the party, an insignificant little man named Thane, piped up in thin, reedy tones that he also found the play quite above his touch.

  Enraged, Franklyn slapped a dice-box on the table. ‘Right Mandersely ‒ Whatever’s there, I’ll double it … throw you for the lot! One throw apiece ‒ highest wins!’

  There was a gasp of disapproval from Thane. Toby stared, incredulous.

  The Marquis merely raised one eyebrow a fraction. ‘You do realize how much is here, my friend?’ he murmured softly.

  ‘I should do; most of it’s mine!’

  ‘And are you really prepared to cover it?’

  Franklyn began to curse. Toby cut in wi
th forced joviality, ‘Best call it a night, my dear fellow; we’re all a bit the worse for wear and Hugo’s had the devil’s luck all evening! Can’t hope to overturn it at a stroke.’

  ‘Keep out of this, Blanchard! I don’t need any pretty soldier boy to hold my hand! I ain’t got so much in the house, Mandersely, but I can cover that amount ten times over! You’ll take a note?’

  Lord Mandersely sighed. ‘I think not. I already appear to have a considerable number of your I.O.U.s. Another time, perhaps?’

  The insult was so thinly veiled that Toby held his breath. Franklyn pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, his face livid. Out in the hall a door closed. A look of cunning flickered for a moment in his eyes. ‘Wait!’ he muttered thickly. His lurching progress was hampered by a chair, which he kicked and flung aside.

  ‘My dear Toby,’ drawled his lordship, refilling his glass and leaning back to regard the glowing liquid through narrowed eyes, ‘army life is ruining your powers of discrimination! If this is how you are now choosing your friends, I shall be forced to deny myself your company.’

  Mr Thane glared and Toby, incensed by this slur upon the 95th Rifles, opened his mouth to utter a stinging retort ‒ and paused. Hugo had that devilish glitter about the eyes, and no one but a congenital idiot would risk provoking Mandersely when he’d broached his third bottle. So he only muttered, ‘Do be quiet, Hugo! If you want to give me a trimming, do it later. He’ll hear you!’

  ‘I wish he might, dear boy. In fact I wish profoundly that I had obeyed my earlier instincts and refused the invitation. The fellow’s a damned cit!’

  A high, complaining voice cut in. ‘Lord Mandersely! It ill becomes you, I think, to speak so of one who is your host.’

  My lord lifted cool eyes to regard Mr Edwin Thane.

  He raised his eye-glass and allowed it to travel very slowly over that gentleman’s person. It took in the puce satin coat which so ill-became his sallow skin and lingered for a long, unbelieving moment over the cravat. Under this silent scrutiny Mr Thane quickly turned the same colour as his offending garment. Satisfied at last, the Marquis turned back to Toby.

  ‘What the devil is the fellow about now?’

  Franklyn had flung open the door and was bellowing like a bull. ‘Lucia ‒ is that you girl? Come here damn you!’

  Toby frowned. ‘Ain’t that the stepdaughter? The one we met earlier?’

  His cousin smiled thinly, recalling the knowing way Franklyn had led her forward to be presented to him as ‘my little Lucia!’

  There was nothing ‘jeune fille’ about the vivid emerald gown cut too low across the bosom and clinging to every slim seductive curve. True, she was uncommon enough to warrant a second glance, though blondes were not to his taste. It was an interesting face, delicately formed, dominated by luminous green eyes fringed with dark lashes and dark, finely-arched brows which flicked up at the outer corners to lend a certain elfin charm. Her hair was of a pale gold, unusually shaded and dressed elaborately high.

  The girl’s function was so obvious that he almost laughed aloud! They should have known that he had been pursued by far cleverer women than this chit of a girl who lifted her chin so imperiously when he put up his glass to inspect her. At the age of thirty-one he was too much a veteran to succumb to so blatant an attempt to cast out lures.

  A heated argument was in progress in the hallway; a low, agonized whisper filtered in through the open doorway.

  ‘Sir, I cannot! I have retired for the night! I merely slipped down to the library for a book.’

  There was a bellow of rage.

  ‘Don’t argue with me, my wench! You know what that’ll get you! You’ll do as I bid you!’ Franklyn lurched back into the room, half-dragging the girl. She was clad in a dressing robe which she was desperately trying to clutch around her.

  Franklyn pushed her roughly towards the lighted table and slumped back into his chair.

  ‘Now, my lord. Since my signature don’t please you, I will offer you a more tempting wager. My stepdaughter against your winnings!’

  There was a sharp cry from the girl ‒ followed by a stunned silence. Toby’s chair crashed backwards. ‘It’s monstrous! You can’t do it, man!’

  Thane rose also ‒ adding his own querulous objections.

  The Marquis alone appeared unmoved. Only his eyes widened a little, watching the girl’s reactions. A brilliant flush had died away leaving her deathly pale. She made an instinctive movement to draw her robe more closely about her slim figure, and stood very straight and with remarkable composure as his eyes slowly raked her from head to bare pink feet.

  She looked much younger and very vulnerable with her lovely hair brushed straight and loose about her face. The eyes were enormous dark pools, but they stared back at him with defiance. Only the rapid rise and fall of her bosom betrayed her.

  Egad! You’re a cool one! thought Hugo with a flicker of admiration.

  Toby was addressing himself to the girl. ‘Beg you, Miss Mannering ‒ do retire ‒ all a ghastly misunderstanding … should never have happened …!’ He swung round. ‘Hugo ‒ tell the man you’ll have no part of this nonsense!’

  The Marquis was about to do so when the girl spoke in a low clear voice with just a suspicion of a tremor. ‘It is good of you to show so much concern, Captain Blanchard, but there is no misunderstanding. My stepfather has proposed a wager. Does his lordship wish to accept it or not?’

  There was an unmistakable challenge in the words ‒ and in the look that accompanied them. Right, my fine Miss! thought Hugo. If that’s the way you want to play it! It’s a sharp lesson you’re needing!

  He took from his pocket a fine enamelled snuff-box. Without taking his eyes from the girl he flicked it open. With a delicate turn of the wrist he took a pinch, inhaled, snapped the box shut and returned it to his pocket.

  There was a touch of malice about his smile. ‘His lordship accepts. How could any man resist such a … proposition?’ He had the satisfaction of seeing the wild colour flame in her cheeks. He turned to her stepfather. ‘When you are ready, Franklyn.’

  The other man wavered ‒ snatched up the dice-box and threw.

  ‘A three. Hardly enough I feel,’ mused his lordship.

  He took his time, picked up the dice and returned it to the box. The tension became unbearable. Suddenly the dice rolled and came to rest under Mr Franklyn’s nose. The spots danced dizzily before his eyes ‒ he stared stupidly. Lord Mandersely’s eyebrow rose.

  ‘That, I think, concludes that little charade!’ He lifted a mocking triumphant glance to the girl.

  Lucia Mannering gave him back a long steady look, her underlip caught between small white teeth, the pulse in her throat beating furiously. Without uttering a word, she turned and, directing a glare barbed with pure hatred at her stepfather, she left the room.

  Toby rushed to open the door, stammering sympathetic apologies, but she only shook her head. He came back to the table. Jasper Franklyn still sat as though carved out of stone, whilst Hugo, with an air of cool indifference, fastened his waistcoat and adjusted the set of his coat.

  ‘You’re mad, Hugo! That girl ain’t like the stepfather ye know. She’s old Colonel Mannering’s granddaughter, even if he don’t own her. There was a frightful scandal ‒ only son Freddie married some little Italian opera singer ‒ cut him off, just like that …’ Toby flicked his fingers and rattled on. ‘Don’t know how you could do it anyway ‒ subjecting that poor child to such ignominy!’

  Hugo looked pained. ‘That poor child deliberately challenged me!’

  ‘Nonsense! Why would she do a cork-brained thing like that?’

  ‘How should I know, dear boy. I long ago gave up trying to fathom the workings of the female mind.’ He ran his fingers thoughtfully down the ribbon that held his glass. ‘I do know, however, that you gave her every opportunity to withdraw ‒ and yet she deliberately provoked me. So if her pride is smarting, don’t lay it at my door!’

  Toby eyed his cousin ba
lefully. ‘D’ye know you’ve a damned nasty way with you sometimes, Hugo. Still, no harm done eh? I vote we call it a night and toddle along.’

  Lord Mandersely rose languidly to his feet. ‘My dear Toby ‒ I have been more than ready to leave this hour past.’

  He ignored their host who was by now collapsed across the table and paused beside Mr Thane.

  ‘A word, Thane,’ he said softly. ‘No hint of this evening’s events will be bandied abroad.’

  Mr Thane looked contemptuous. ‘Your reputation will not suffer on my account, my lord.’

  The Marquis was mildly amused. ‘It is not my reputation that concerns me, my friend.’ He nodded and walked from the room with Toby.

  In the hallway they came to a sudden halt. Beside the front door, wrapped in a dark cloak, stood Miss Mannering; a fur-trimmed hood emphasized charmingly the pallor of her face; at her side were piled several band-boxes.

  ‘What the devil!’ ejaculated Lord Mandersely. He strode towards her. ‘What new nonsense is this, ma-am?’

  ‘No nonsense, my lord.’ She displayed that same infernal composure. ‘I did not wish to keep your lordship waiting. I have ordered your carriage to be brought round.’

  ‘Have you indeed?’ The words were snapped out.

  Toby was spluttering incoherently ‘… all a hum, ma-am! … do retire, I beg of you … never thought for a minute you’d taken it seriously …’

  She listened to him patiently and then turned to Lord Mandersely.

  ‘Oh ‒ go to your bed, child!’ he snapped. ‘The game is played out.’

  Those clear eyes never wavered from his face, though her words were addressed to his cousin.

  ‘Captain Blanchard ‒ I am very ignorant. Was there something wrong with the wager? It was perhaps not properly conducted?’

  Toby blustered ‘… as to that, ma-am ‒ the wager was in order … but it don’t signify, d’ye see … Hugo ain’t pressing his advantage.’

  ‘But I am!’ she insisted.

  Toby dashed off, muttering something about rousing her stepfather.

  Lord Mandersely, faced with Lucia Mannering’s stubbornness, felt his anger rising by the minute. He longed to tear away that demure hood and wrap his fingers around her lovely white throat.