Greg drew a satisfied breath. Mingled with the cigar smoke, he caught the reek of Algy’s fear. He knew what would happen next. Instead of bailing out and cutting his losses, Algy would continue playing, telling himself he had nothing to lose. He was that sort. Greg didn’t permit the tiniest facial muscle to flicker as he planned the kill. Algy had a wad of banknotes at his elbow, but if he was as desperate as Greg believed, that must be all he possessed. Soon it would belong to a certain Mr Rawley.
Quite right, too. The only reason he was attending this cursed house party was to skim as much money as possible off his fellow guests. His luck hadn’t changed for the better in Paris and he had been tempted by Moira’s promise of dud players. Easy money was what he needed, though the thought made his heart sink. There were those who adored Moira’s house parties, but he wasn’t among them. Too loud, too brash. Still, needs must.
He pushed up the bidding and watched others pull out. Algy couldn’t afford to, poor bugger. He clung on to the bitter end, the scent of his blood vivid in Greg’s nostrils, until his eyes went blank with shock as Greg scooped the pot amidst congratulations as the tension broke.
Later, he counted his winnings into the secret compartments in his portmanteaux. Others might send their luggage off to the box room, but not Greg. A couple more wins of this magnitude and he could pack his bags and hotfoot it to the railway station before you could say ‘lapdog’.
Mungo was right. He was fed up of Moira’s meaningful glances and her attempts to brush against him oh-so-accidentally.
He glanced at the time. Almost one in the morning. He had no desire to socialise, but success pumped through his veins. He needed a nightcap.
As he went downstairs, music and laughter floated from the ballroom – and was that a distant splash? Who had been chucked in the lily pond this time? Leaving the sounds of revelry behind, he entered the same secluded room where once he had shared a quiet though alarmingly informative interlude with that fellow Bassington – Barrington?
He helped himself to a drink and was about to open the cigarette box on the table when a voice offered, ‘Have one of mine.’
How the devil had this fellow sneaked in? Or had he been here all along, in which case why hadn’t Greg noticed? He eyed the man narrowly. He was tall, well built … well-muscled. His hair was thick and dark, slicked down with a quantity of oil that suggested curls. His moustache was thick and dark, too, and needed a trim.
‘Thanks.’ He helped himself from the proffered case. ‘Greg Rawley.’
‘Tom Varney.’ He took one as well.
‘Can’t say I’ve seen you about, but then Moira does tend to fill the place to the rafters.’
‘To put it mildly.’
Then it hit him – Christ almighty, that confounded smell. Turkish cigarettes: the smell of Jonas. His gaze flew to meet Varney’s.
‘You bagged a good scoop tonight,’ said Varney. ‘Mr Jonas will be gratified that you’re working hard to settle your account.’
‘Now see here—’
‘Don’t make trouble, Rawley. You know what happens to men who kick up – or maybe you don’t – but believe me, it’s not a good idea to find out.’
He weighed up his chances. Outright refusal? A punch-up? But Jonas made an evil enemy. Even so, it went against the grain to hand over his winnings.
‘In case it helps you decide …’ Varney produced a pistol with a mother-of-pearl handle, showing it for a moment before it vanished.
He shrugged. ‘I’ll fetch it.’
‘I’ll come with you. I know the mad ideas that flit across men’s minds. We wouldn’t want you climbing over the balcony and shinning down the ivy, would we?’
Greg uttered a growl deep in his throat but led the way upstairs. Even now, he had hopes. Varney hadn’t mentioned the amount he had won, so maybe he didn’t know. Removing the wad of banknotes from one portmanteau, he held it out.
Varney eyed it. ‘And the rest.’
Bugger. Greg retrieved it. With calculated coolness, he peeled off some notes.
‘I’ll need this for my opening stake tomorrow.’
He watched, his face consciously blank, as Varney pocketed the rest and quitted the room.
Chapter Twenty-One
The trees in the parkland, recently a blaze of red and gold, were bare, but today’s skies were an endless blue. A burst of well-being refreshed Mary as she set off for her walk, even though she couldn’t leave the grounds. Barmy as it sounded, ladies didn’t go beetling off whenever they felt like it, certainly not on foot, anyway, and especially not when they had a lower-class past to live down.
She gazed down the drive towards the gates. Ambling round the gardens wasn’t her idea of a walk, particularly not on the sort of day that reminded you to make the most of being outside. This fine spell might not last. It was November, after all. Her new woollen jacket and skirt of royal blue and hyacinth pinstripes was designated a walking costume, and she was fed up of not putting it to its proper use. She headed to where the park was bordered by the Mersey and set off along the broad riverbank, filling her lungs with air that tasted crisper than Kimber air.
Could she interest Charlie in a daily walk? It would give them some time together, which they sorely needed. Sir Edward had meant it when he said they were to live quietly. Charlie spent his days with Sir Edward and the land agent, she spent hers tagging along behind Lady Kimber or else alone. As for a social life, yes, they went to the theatre or to concerts or dinners, but always in the company of the senior Kimbers.
Sir Edward was keeping Charlie’s nose to the grindstone and Charlie’s affability had lost some of its warmth.
‘It’ll be better once you’re a fully-fledged Kimber,’ he said.
She wished he would say more. She wished they could discuss it, could face up to it together – face up to it? That sounded as if they had a problem. And they didn’t. Not a problem. Just something they needed to get through … together.
On a morning like this, anything felt possible. She walked to Jackson’s Boat and back. It wasn’t far, but she felt invigorated and serene.
Not for long.
‘Aunt Christina tells me you went for a walk,’ said Charlie.
They were tidying themselves before luncheon. It being inconceivable that she should wear her walking costume at the table, she had changed into a lilac day-dress with long sleeves beneath lacy oversleeves. Charlie’s words, spoken through the open door from his dressing room, rang alarm bells. He might be unselfconscious where servants were concerned, but she wasn’t.
She smiled at the maid. ‘Thank you. I’ll do my own hair.’
‘Yes, Mrs Charles.’ Was she fooled? Probably not.
Mary sat at the dressing table, then changed her mind. She wasn’t going to have this conversation through the mirror. She swivelled, hooking her arm over the back of the chair.
‘I went along the riverbank.’
‘You shouldn’t have gone alone. Not the done thing.’
‘I only went to Jackson’s Boat.’
‘You should have asked.’
‘Am I expected to ask every time I want to do something?’
Charlie walked in, pulling at his cuffs. ‘It’d be preferable to showing me up.’
‘If I made a mistake, I’m sorry. But you always liked it when I thought for myself. You admired my initiative.’ And since when did taking advantage of a fine day constitute initiative?
‘I did – I do. You’re a clever girl and I appreciate that.’
‘But?’
‘No buts.’
He drew her to her feet. She laughed, warmth flowing through her.
‘I like the sound of that,’ she said. ‘No buts.’
‘Is it worth a kiss?’
She gazed into his dark eyes for a heart-stopping moment before her eyes fluttered shut, her lips parting beneath his, his kiss making her tingle all over. With a happy sigh, she snuggled close.
‘No more walks alone?’ He rubbed h
is cheek against her hair.
‘Who saw me?’
‘One of the gardeners, but anyone might have seen you along the riverbank, and it wouldn’t have looked good. You should know that.’
‘Come with me. Then we can go as far as we like.’
‘Daily walks? That’s hardly what the smart set is up to.’
‘What would you like to do?’
‘I want us to be a stylish young couple-about-town. I want to be out and about without hanging on the coat-tails of the olds. I’m doing my bit towards it by toeing the line, but it all comes down to you and how well you fit in, and toddling off on your own doesn’t help.’
‘I realise I have to conform, but surely today’s walk wasn’t that important?’ She spoke in the moderate tone she used to use when she disagreed with Dadda. Surely she wasn’t trying to placate Charlie?
‘Of course it was important. Everything you do is important. You have to show you fit in. We can’t have you popping up in the society columns for doing something singular.’
‘Taking a walk down the riverbank can hardly be called singular.’
‘Anything you do that is the smallest bit unconventional can work against you – which means against me too. I don’t want to be for ever seen as the fellow who married the girl who was forcibly fed and the family doesn’t want you pointed out as the wife who went to prison.’
‘But those things happened.’
‘And now they must be set aside. I want you to be seen as the girl who did splendidly for herself by marrying me. Isn’t that how you want to be seen?’
Greg glanced at Algy, drinking himself quietly to death in the corner. What would Algy say, what would any of them say, if they knew Algy’s worldly wealth had passed straight through his hands into Tom Varney’s? Greg played cautiously to start with, aware of the relatively small amount he possessed. As the sum increased, he played a bolder game. Soon he was into his stride, senses sharp and ruthless. He ignored the general surprise when he dropped out. He had no intention of scooping another big haul, only to lose it to Tom ruddy Varney.
He strolled down the room, settling into an armchair for a drink and a smoke. It wasn’t a surprise when Varney slipped into the chair opposite. Varney gazed at the fireplace until Greg wanted to drag him from his armchair and beat his brains out.
He threw back the last of his whisky, then came to his feet, heading for the French windows. He stepped onto the terrace. There was a nip in the night air.
Presently Varney joined him.
‘I take it,’ Greg remarked, ‘you have your friend with the mother-of-pearl handle?’
‘Never without it. You didn’t perform so well tonight.’
‘There isn’t the same incentive when you’re winning to line someone else’s pockets.’
‘It’s money you owe fair and square.’
‘I prefer to choose when I pay it back.’
‘Not that this is paying back as such. This is interest.’
‘What? All that money last night?’
‘And tonight, Rawley. Hand it over … please,’ he added, turning the word into an insult.
Once again, he debated. Not because he had a choice, but because he plain hated to do it. Keeping some for himself, he placed the bulk of it on the wall.
Varney made no move. ‘All of it.’
‘I kept some last night.’
‘Mr Jonas said I should let you.’ Varney paused to light a cigarette, striking the match against the stone balustrade. ‘He also said you wouldn’t put yourself out to win much the second night and I should take all of it.’
‘That’s ridiculous. He can’t mean you to take everything. Things are tight at present.’ How he hated explaining himself to this man.
‘Mr Jonas understands that. He suggests you find employment. There’s a suitable opening under this roof. I hear that as a mistress, Moira’s very … accommodating.’
Varney ground out his cigarette beneath his heel, stuffed the winnings into his pocket and walked away into the night.
Mary was on her best behaviour, submitting to a lesson in flower-arranging, determined to do Charlie proud.
‘Not bad,’ said Lady Kimber. ‘No natural taste, but that’s a class thing.’
‘Excuse me. Are you suggesting …?’
‘I’m suggesting nothing. I’m stating a fact. It’s because of your origins that Charlie likes you. He’s slumming. Had he been older and more worldly-wise, and had you been less ambitious, he’d have set you up as his mistress. That would have been bad enough, though preferable to this.’
She caught her breath. Lady Kimber had made the odd remark before, but never an outright attack.
‘Charlie isn’t slumming—’
‘He’s naive. He fell in with some lively fellows at Cambridge, who had modern sisters who smoked and attended rallies, and he lost his heart to the ideal. The meetings at the agency are part of it, part of the fantasy.’
She pounced. ‘If that’s so, why did you let Eleanor go?’
‘I require them both to develop a sense of social responsibility and that means being informed. Unfortunately for Charlie, you were there to dangle the possibility of an illicit relationship in front of him. Crossing social boundaries is a dangerous thing. For two men, such as Sir Edward and your father, a relationship of sorts based on mutual respect is possible. But for a man and a woman of different stations …’ Lady Kimber’s eyes were like flint. ‘One has to be on one’s guard.’
‘And Charlie wasn’t.’ She said it quickly, before her tormentor could.
Lady Kimber touched the flowers, rearranging them. ‘He found it … titillating. And you made the most of your opportunity.’
‘I’m not staying to listen to this.’
‘Goodness, anyone would think I’d called you a social climber.’
It was odd how you could be steaming angry and bored to death at the same time. Welcome to life as a kept man. No wonder Trevelyan had buggered off. Or maybe he had broken the rules and Moira had chucked him out on his ear. Ah yes, the rules. Unspoken but crystal clear. Moira required a handsome, suave younger man to be her escort and to bed her, in return for which she paid for everything and provided costly gifts, though Greg hadn’t been in tow long enough yet to merit one of those.
Perhaps the gifts were in proportion to the quality of the lovemaking. Ten shrieks of ecstasy – and Moira shrieked like a stuck pig; he would need earplugs at this rate – for a cigarette case, twenty for solid gold studs. Or perhaps he could bank the screams and save up for a motor.
Lapdog. Vile word. He preferred to think of himself as a kept man when he could bear to think of it at all. But that wasn’t the expression others used, as he was all too well aware.
‘Woof, woof,’ someone had murmured behind his back at the casino and although he had spun round, ready to do battle, he had no idea who had spoken. It could have been any of them.
‘Gregory, darling.’ Here Moira was again, purring in his ear. He had told her not to use his full name, but she still did it. She had despatched the duds, replacing them with top-notch players who gambled on stakes higher than he could stump up at present.
He ground his teeth, hating to feel anyone had power over him. Moira – Jonas – what wouldn’t he give to turn the tables? An idea appeared in his mind. They both thought they had him penniless and subservient.
Well, not for much longer.
Goodness alone knew why it was called the blue sitting room. The carpet was deep red, the walls a colour that made Mary think of mushrooms. Ornaments stood on shelves in arched alcoves while arched windows looked into the mass of leaves and statuary that filled the conservatory. In the centre of the room was a circular table, which was precisely the right size for spreading out the newspaper.
Reading the newspaper had become a necessity. Anxious for intellectual stimulation, she crammed articles, letters and opinions into her head.
Everyone else was out. It was Sir Edward’s day for the benc
h, Lady Kimber had one of her committees and, as for Charlie, she wasn’t sure where he was.
‘Seeing some chums,’ was all he had said.
When she had adopted the blue sitting room, an Indian summer had filled the conservatory with sunshine, pleasant golden light edged with green filtering through the interior windows. Now the December days were grey, the sunlight milky at best, and the room was sombre – or was it just her mood?
She still hadn’t seen her family and she was worried about the snub if she didn’t see them at Christmas. Lilian hadn’t said a word in her letters, an omission that felt as glaringly obvious as an outright demand. Neither had the Kimbers said anything. It was up to her. She would approach Sir Edward and trust to his sense of family honour.
It was time to get ready for her walk. As she crossed the hall, the butler was answering the front door. He said, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Maitland. Mrs Charles is not at home.’
Lilian! A wave of joy propelled her towards the door. ‘Yes, I am.’
The butler turned commanding eyes upon her. ‘Her Ladyship’s orders are explicit on this point.’
I bet they are. She stepped forwards, obliging Marley to make way. ‘Mother, I’m so pleased— oh! Granny! It’s you.’ She froze.
Granny didn’t. ‘Answering the door yourself, our Mary? What sort of behaviour is that for a Kimber? Well? Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
Mary met Marley’s frosty eyes. She steeled herself. ‘Come in, Granny. Oh – Aunt Miriam, I didn’t see you at first.’
Granny swept in with Miriam creeping behind, looking like she might bolt out again at any moment.
Mary didn’t dare meet Marley’s eye. ‘Could you send tea to the morning room, please?’
‘The morning room, Mrs Charles? Her Ladyship’s morning room?’
‘Maybe the blue sitting room …’
‘Fiddlesticks!’ Granny exclaimed. ‘Don’t be so lily-livered, girl. It’s not up to the servants to say what’s what. That’s your job.’
The Poor Relation Page 23