The Intrepid Miss Haydon

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  “Of course,” said Corinna sweetly. “And you, too, were very occupied with your party, Mr Grenville.”

  A slight diminution of the smile indicated that he had registered a hit, but he continued with unabated affability.

  “I was referring to our meetings in Tunbridge Wells last summer, Miss Haydon — so many pleasant memories of that time crowd in on me! I declare I have never enjoyed myself half as well elsewhere, before or since! It is too much to hope that you, too, may retain some agreeable recollections of my visit?”

  This was said with a tender, intimate look that made Corinna’s heart turn over, and inspired Sir Richard with an itch in his fists.

  “Our assemblies at home are always prodigiously agreeable,” returned Corinna, trying for a careless tone. “Everyone must be pleased that you, a visitor to the town, found them so. But we must not detain you, sir,” she added, ostentatiously glancing across the room to the table he had just left. “I fancy your party are waiting to leave.”

  His own eyes flickered in that direction and observed that Mrs Peters was not best pleased.

  “Just so. Well, I must hope that we shall soon meet again, ma’am, in circumstances which will allow of a longer chat.”

  He bowed low to Corinna, more briefly to Sir Richard, and took himself back to his table companions, who were now standing awaiting him with ill-concealed impatience.

  Sir Richard shepherded Corinna from the restaurant without saying a word; but his shrewd glance noted the signs of disturbance in her countenance and the slight trembling of her hands, and his jaw tightened.

  She recovered a little as they walked along, although it was some time before she could subdue her confused thoughts sufficiently to converse with him. When she did, it was on indifferent subjects, and he saw that there were to be no confidences. He was by far too considerate to make any comments himself, so the encounter was dismissed. But like many emotive subjects barred from conversation, it occupied a disproportionate space in the thoughts of both.

  When they reached the hotel they found Laurence there, with a glum expression on his face.

  “Here’s a deuced wretched business,” he greeted them. “Cheveley’s off back to London tomorrow — says there’s no more sport to be had in Paris. What with both Landier and him gone, we’ll soon find ourselves at a stand for company.”

  “Fustian!” exclaimed Lydia, laughing. “Why, we have so many acquaintances here now, that we’re hard pressed to fit in all our engagements.”

  “Do they all go?” asked Corinna. “Miss Cheveley said nothing of it to me when we met yesterday.”

  “No, the rest of the family are to remain for the present, but nothing would do for Cheveley but to clear off for London. He has rooms in Albermarle Street, he tells me, lucky devil!”

  He looked so like a sulky schoolboy that John and his brother were hard put to it not to laugh; but they restrained themselves nobly, suggesting that possibly he might care to accompany them to the Champs de Mars, where Napoleon was to review some troops that afternoon.

  “It isn’t an outing to appeal to the ladies, I fear,” said Sir Richard, “but I don’t doubt they’ll contrive to exist without our company for a few hours.”

  This was agreed to, with what Sir Richard apostrophised as more fervour than civility, and the sisters settled down to a comfortable cose.

  For some time they talked of Lydia’s latest ball gown and dress in general, subjects which were barred when in the gentlemen’s company. After they had exhausted this topic for the moment, Lydia switched to a more personal one.

  “I hope you won’t miss Monsieur Landier too much,” she said with a sly look. “It seemed to me that the two of you were dealing famously together.”

  “Don’t be such a goose, Lyddy! That is, if you mean what I think you mean, and I’m sure you do,” said Corinna, with more emphasis than lucidity. “I shall miss his nonsense, of course, for he had an amusing way with him, but as for anything else — it’s too absurd! And if only you knew—”

  She stopped, uncertain how far she ought to reveal Landier’s confidences to her. She had said too much for Lydia’s natural curiosity, however; upon being pressed further and deciding that there could be no harm in it, she repeated what she knew of his association with Madeleine Fougeray.

  “Well, it would certainly seem odd that he should seek out an abigail for a wife, but as you say, since she is of a clergyman’s family, I suppose she is something above her present station.”

  Corinna agreed absently to this, then was silent for a few minutes.

  “Richard and I met Mr Grenville at Frascati’s,” she said presently, in a careless tone. “He was with some of the friends who accompanied him to Lady Northcote’s ball.”

  “Do you mean that vulgar widow, Mrs Peters, and her relations?” asked Lydia. “Lady Cheveley was telling me how he has been dangling after that woman ever since she arrived in Paris. It seems he made a try for one or two more acceptable young ladies at first, but his reputation has followed him here, as one might expect, so his efforts were to no avail. I wonder if he could indeed bring himself to marry such a female? If he did, he’d be obliged to bury her in that house of his in Eastdean, for she would be nowhere received in polite society.”

  A sigh escaped Corinna. Lydia looked at her, half in pity, half in exasperation.

  “Dearest, you surely cannot still hanker after such a man? You must see that there are no lengths to which he will not go to marry money.”

  “And is he so much to be blamed for that?” Corinna demanded indignantly. “It is no new thing for gentlemen to be obliged to look for an heiress! He has been so unlucky as to have his inheritance wasted by his father—”

  “That isn’t all the story. You cannot but know that he has mounted up debts on his own account, what with gambling and extravagant living.”

  “Well, what could one expect, with such an example as that of his father? I dare say our own brother might have gone on in the same style, had Papa been the kind of gentleman to play ducks and drakes with his fortune! Indeed, Laurie has the same sanguine temperament as Mr Grenville, and could easily have developed into a gamester!”

  Lydia saw that nothing was to be gained by pursuing this topic and wisely allowed it to lapse.

  Gossip circulated as freely among the English visitors in Paris as in the drawing rooms of any fashionable resort at home. In a few days, the sisters learned by this means that all was over between Mr Grenville and Mrs Peters. It seemed that the gentleman had been indiscreet enough to pay too much attention to other ladies. High words had ensued, resulting in the abrupt departure of the widow and her relatives for England.

  “Of course, she was insanely jealous,” said Lady Northcote, one of their principal informants. “I did hear that the trouble was precipitated by an incident at Frascati’s, but no one seems to know the exact details. However, it seems he’s consoling himself at present in the gaming rooms, presumably until he chances upon another candidate for his affections.”

  Corinna studiously avoided meeting her sister’s eye.

  When she had spoken of Laurence’s ability to become a gamester, Corinna had never for one moment imagined that her words might be prophetic. A week later, she received a shock, therefore, when he complained to her of losses at the roulette table.

  “Gaming, Laurie?” she said, in a disturbed tone. “That’s a new thing for you, isn’t it? I’ve never heard you mention it before.”

  “No, well, a fellow must do something, and it’s been devilish dull here since Cheveley left. I’ve taken to looking in at Perrin’s gaming house in the Palais Royal — matter of fact, it was that fellow Grenville who suggested it to me.”

  “Mr Grenville — oh, no!”

  “No need to set up a screech, Corinna,” he said, eyeing her with disfavour. “Thought you rather liked the chap yourself. He’s a rare good sport, I must say, even though he does have the devil’s own good fortune! I’ve dropped a fair bit of blunt to hi
m already. Not that it signifies — I’m not a pauper.”

  “Oh, no, but—”

  She broke off, trying to choose her words. She wanted to say that as Laurence was a minor, it was highly improper of Mr Grenville to encourage him to frequent gaming houses, let alone to bet with him personally; but she knew that any comment of the kind would be ill-judged. Opposition only made her brother the more determined to pursue his course.

  “But what?” he demanded impatiently. “Never say that you’re turning into a spoil sport, like all the rest!”

  “I hope not, though I can’t but think there are better ways in which you could employ your time,” she answered cautiously.

  “I wish you may tell me of any, then. I’ve no taste for these balls and parties that the rest of you are forever attending,” he said disgustedly.

  Then, seeing she still looked troubled, he flicked her cheek with his fingers affectionately.

  “Don’t worry, sis, I’m not on the road to becoming a hardened gamester. Not really in my line. Just something to do.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Corinna continued to feel uneasy, nevertheless, and she soon mentioned her fears to Sir Richard, who at present had worries enough of his own. It was now the first week in May, and for days past rumours had been flying about that Lord Whitworth was on the point of leaving France, since diplomatic relations were breaking down over Malta. Some of the more prudent English visitors were already taking their departure for home, and Sir Richard urged his party to lose no time in following their example. He found to his chagrin that the others took a more optimistic view of the situation and were in no mind to quit France at present. There were balls, evening parties and excursions planned for the weeks ahead, invitations which they had already accepted.

  “Besides,” said Lydia, “even if the worst did happen, there can be no such desperate hurry to go. Why, only this morning John read in one of the journals that English visitors will find as much security in the justice of the French government as in the protection of our minister, so what can be fairer than that?”

  Besides this graver matter, Corinna’s uneasiness about Laurence seemed of very small account, and for once Sir Richard heard her with something less than ready sympathy.

  “I’m not quite sure what you think I can do,” he said, a little impatiently. “If you’re suggesting I should act as a bear-leader to your brother, no, I thank you.”

  She flushed at his unaccustomed tone.

  “No, of course not that, precisely. I thought perhaps you might just give him a hint, so that he doesn’t become too much addicted to this new craze of his.”

  “You really believe that a word from me would influence him?” he demanded with an incredulous lift of his eyebrows. “Even though you, who are so much closer to the boy, have failed to produce any effect?”

  “Well, at least you might try!” she retorted.

  “I might, if I were fool enough not to know that it would only make him more stubborn.”

  This was so much what she herself thought that she found it distinctly unpalatable.

  “Oh, you are odious!” she snapped at him, stamping her foot.

  “So you often tell me. I am beginning to believe that it’s your settled opinion,” he replied coolly.

  “Well, can you blame me? If only you were not always so — so detached and uninvolved—”

  “No doubt you would prefer me to lower my guard and become vulnerable?”

  The tone was mocking; but as her eyes met his, for a moment she saw there a depth of feeling which made her catch her breath. A tremor ran through her.

  It was for a moment only, and then the look had vanished to be replaced by his usual nonchalant expression.

  “Oh, what’s the use?”

  She shrugged helplessly and turned away.

  In spite of what he had said to Corinna, Sir Richard decided to look in at Perrin’s gaming house that evening. So far, he had never visited any of the licensed gambling establishments of Paris. He knew that some of them added females of dubious character to their other more obvious attractions, but did not seriously suppose that Laurence would frequent these places. He had also learned from Edmund Langham that royalist intriguers could sometimes be found mingling with the genuine punters; this in its turn brought a number of Napoleon’s undercover agents there. Altogether, more games than roulette or cards were played in the gaming dens of Paris.

  Perrin’s appeared, on the surface at any rate, to be conducted in an orderly manner; so, having settled himself at a roulette table alongside one or two other men with whom he had a nodding acquaintance, Sir Richard whiled away a few hours at play.

  There was no sign of Laurence; but quite early on he had noticed Grenville, evidently deeply engrossed in the play and frowning a little, as though his bets were failing to prosper. He did not notice Sir Richard.

  After several hours during which Laurence had not put in an appearance, Sir Richard rose, gathered up his counters, nodded pleasantly to his acquaintances and passed into the cloakroom. The attendant was missing, so he was obliged to move amongst the stands which held the customers’ outdoor garments in search of his own. He had just succeeded in finding them, when a voice which he recognised made him pause before emerging from what amounted to concealment.

  “And how the devil d’you think you’ve anything to tell me to my advantage?” It was Grenville’s voice, sounding unusually petulant. “Damn it, I don’t even know you, and not sure I want to!”

  “My name, monsieur, is Fouché, but that is of no importance. What I have to say will be of more interest to you.”

  “It had better be. Out with it, then! D’ you suppose I’ve nothing more to do than stand here all night talking to you?”

  “Things have not been going well for you, Monsieur Grenville, I believe, of late?” The tones were silky, the English heavily accented. “The wealthy lady eluded you, the play seldom goes your way—”

  “Damned impertinence! Take yourself off, before I give you a leveller, you — you—!”

  “Calm yourself, monsieur. There are more ways of making money than by marrying wealthy ladies or by games of chance. I will instruct you in this matter, if you will be patient with me.”

  “The devil you will! And how in thunder d’ you come to know so much of my affairs?”

  “It is my business to know such things. It is for that I am paid, and Napoleon pays well — to the favoured few, that’s to say. Which you may come to know for yourself, monsieur, if you will but hear me.”

  “I’m listening, but so far I’ve heard precious little to the purpose! Come to the point, damn you, or take yourself off!”

  “We approach the point rapidly, I promise you. You have a house in England near to the coast, I am informed?”

  “Yes, a devilish dull hole — but what’s that to say to anything?”

  “I will explain, monsieur, but first let us adjourn to a place where there’s no danger of interruption and where we may discuss this over a bottle of wine.”

  “A capital notion, though to my way of thinking you’re castaway already! I’ll go with you, though, if only out of curiosity.”

  Sir Richard heard their footsteps retreating. After a few moments, he ventured forth from his hiding place and stood deep in thought for some time before making his way out of the building. On his way back to the hotel, he pondered again over what he had heard. Some business proposition was evidently about to be put to Grenville by the mysterious Fouché. Sir Richard recalled what Edmund Langham had told him of the intriguers who frequented certain of the gaming rooms, and speculated as to where such a one as Grenville might fit into their schemes. He could find no satisfactory answer.

  He was able to assure Corinna that there had been no sign of her brother in Perrin’s gaming rooms that evening, and that therefore this new interest of his could not be quite as compelling as she had feared.

  “Oh, did you go there on his account?” she said gratefully. “That was
extremely good in you, especially as I quite thought you considered I was making a fuss over nothing!”

  “Well, now perhaps you’ll see that it’s no great matter,” he replied, smiling. “I am, of course, unable to assure you that he passed the evening in a manner calculated to ensure his moral uplift.”

  She laughed. “That wouldn’t be Laurie, would it? But you can have no notion how much I disliked the thought that he was becoming a hardened gamester!” Her expression sobered again. “So much damage can be done by embarking on such a course — I have seen the effects of it on others.”

  He nodded, but made no comment, understanding that she was referring to Grenville’s situation. A wave of bitterness swept over him for a moment. Why must she persist in considering the fellow a victim of circumstances, when it was only too plain to the impartial observer that he was an indolent wastrel who lacked the strength of character to take any positive action on his own account to set his affairs in order?

  During the week that followed, he had other considerations to assist him in banishing these sombre reflections from his mind. Uneasy rumours concerning the international situation continued to circulate, and several more English families took their departure.

  “We’ve decided to leave,” said Lady Cheveley, when they all met at an evening party. “My husband considers it wiser to go, in view of all this uncertainty. It’s a pity, for Frances in particular is enjoying herself here and we have formed a delightful circle of friends. However, I trust we shall see you with your husband, Mrs Beresford, at our home in Rottingdean — and you, too, Sir Richard, for it is not much above an hour’s journey for you. We shall lose no time in sending you an invitation, I promise you. And of course, Miss Haydon, if ever you should wish to make the journey from Tunbridge Wells, you can be assured of a welcome. Frances and you have become quite bosom bows, have you not?”

  This was true. Corinna’s friendship with Frances had grown with the passing weeks. Sir Richard had been much in Miss Cheveley’s company, too; and Lydia thought Lady Cheveley’s invitation to him to visit them in Brighton had been particularly significant.