“Damned if I intend to miss all the fun,” he said cheerfully. “Think of the convenience of our own gaming house in York. If the supper is half decent, I may never need to go to London at all.”
“It will be more than half decent, I assure you,” Humphrey said indignantly.
At nine o’clock precisely, Humphrey opened the front door to find some twenty gentlemen and several ladies already waiting outside. Within an hour, the place was as full as it could hold, and every table had play going on.
Gil wandered about at first, with Davy pushing his wheeled chair and Gen by his side, rather wide-eyed at the sums being bandied about.
“Is it always like this?” she said. “So much money?”
“Usually. Do you want to play?”
“Oh no! I couldn’t. I don’t even like to watch so much money wagered on the turn of a card or the throw of a die.”
“Everyone plays what they can afford to lose,” he said, although uneasily aware that it was not always true. Many lost everything they had at the tables. His own father had not lost everything, but he had both won and lost vast sums of money, houses, estates, horses… and an earl’s daughter, once.
“Why do they do it?” she said. “What is the pleasure? I should be sick with worry to risk such sums.”
“It is the excitement,” Gil said. “Losing is not much fun but winning — and winning a fortune — the feeling is magnificent, like nothing on earth.”
“But then at the next play, it may be lost again,” she said. “It is ephemeral.”
“All amusement is ephemeral,” he said, only half attending. “Look, there is a place free at the hazard table. I shall play for a while, I think.”
“Don’t forget you promised to take me in to supper,” she said.
“Of course.” But his mind was already turning to the game, as the familiar frisson of excitement coursed through his veins. He emptied his purse onto the table, introduced himself to the other players, rolled the dice through his fingers for luck and cleared his mind of every extraneous thought.
The dice were with him that night. It was odd how some nights were like that, and almost every throw went the right way. Even when he was not the caster, his bets somehow worked out right. He bet modest amounts, nothing wild, and gradually the piles of coins in front of him grew. One by one the other players dropped out until only one remained, a florid-faced man with the whiff of trade about him.
“Just the two of us, milord,” he said. “Shall we make things a little more interesting?”
“As you wish,” Gil said languidly. He could see the glitter of excitement in the other man’s eyes, the desire to play deep. The more money at stake, the more interesting the game — that was a principle he understood well. He called for a refill of his wine glass, and leaned back in his chair. It did not do to show one’s excitement.
They played three games. Gil lost every one. A third of his winnings gone already. But that was abnormal play. He had had such a run of luck that evening that the next game must be his, surely. He could not fail. Should he make things even more interesting, and wager everything on the next throw? Humphrey would certainly take his vowels if he lost it all.
He was vaguely aware of the swirl of a silken gown at his shoulder, a thread of perfume and a small hand on his arm.
“I’m going to the supper room now, Gil,” his wife said, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. So soft, so sweet-smelling. Then she whispered in his ear and was gone.
His concentration was broken. Frowning, he played a smaller amount than he had intended.
“Oh, you disappoint me, milord,” said the man with the red face.
Gil paused. He had meant to bet high, in fact, to put everything on the table, and perhaps that was just what he should do. He reached for the rest of his coins—
Haddlewick.
That was what she had said. He paused, hand hovering over the coins, pondering. Where had he heard that before? It meant something but—
His wife. Gen, his beloved. They had agreed that if he went crazy again, she would remind him of Haddlewick. He withdrew his hand.
“Cast, if you please, sir.”
Gil won that game, and the next and then, feeling that honour was satisfied, he scooped his winnings into his purse, and bade his opponent farewell.
“Leaving so soon, milord? I’m sorry for it.”
“I daresay we shall meet again,” Gil said, smiling at him. “I certainly hope so, for then you may have your revenge on me.”
“Look forward to it, milord, look forward to it.”
“Davy, take me down to the supper room.”
She was sitting, ramrod-straight on a chair, eating and drinking nothing. As soon as she caught sight of him, her face lit up with happiness. She jumped up and ran across to him, kneeling beside his chair, and whispering in agitation, so as not to attract attention.
“Please don’t be angry! But I thought… and you had that look in your eye… but Humphrey said he could not interfere, it would be humiliating to have anyone try to persuade you to stop. I’m so sorry, but I was so worried and I don’t want you to go wild and leave me behind, for I couldn’t bear it!”
He smiled, his love for her so overwhelming that he thought he would burst. “Thank you, my love,” was all he could manage to say.
She burst into anguished tears.
“Here,” he said, pushing his purse into her hand. “You may count my winnings for me.”
They found a corner of the supper table that was unoccupied, and she tipped the contents of the purse onto the cloth. After some considerable time, she said, round eyed, “Two thousand two hundred and forty seven pounds.”
“Now count out five hundred pounds.”
Obediently she did so, piling the coins and notes up neatly. He swept them up and stuffed them into a pocket. Then the rest of the coins went back into the purse. He took her hand, turned it palm up and placed the purse into it.
“There. That is for you. I have taken back the monkey I started with, but you may have my winnings, all of them. That way I will not be tempted to gamble them away.”
She stared at him. “But what shall I do with this?”
“Whatever you want. Spend it, put it in the bank, turn it into diamonds, buy whatever takes your fancy.”
“But it’s a fortune — enough to buy a house!”
“Then buy a house, if that pleases you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Completely. If I have it, then sooner or later I shall sit down at one or other of these tables and lose it all, and probably a great deal more besides. I remember Haddlewick, my love. Never let me forget Haddlewick and all the things I said and felt there.”
“Oh…” she breathed. “It worked.”
He smiled and kissed her fingers very gently. “It worked.”
“If you truly mean it, then I should like to buy a little house for Di, for they live with his family, all squashed into the old farmhouse. It is not comfortable for them. She should have been a baroness, and lived in a grand house, and spent part of each year in London, and she would have loved all that, unlike me. Instead, she’s a farmer’s wife and although she’s happy enough, I’d like to make her life a little easier.”
“Then so you shall, my darling. We had better go down to Canterbury soon, then, before you become too constrained by this baby of ours. We shall visit Di and the rest of your family, including your father, for you will wish to assure yourself of the welfare of Marmaduke the pig, I know. We can put everything in train for a house for Di, and then we shall find ourselves a cosy little house in Sagborough where we may be happy for the rest of our lives. How does that sound?”
“It sounds… wonderful,” she breathed.
“Then that is settled,” he said contentedly. “What a lucky man I am, my darling Gen, to have fallen insensible on your doorstep all those weeks ago.”
~~~~~
It was five in the morning and the sun was already up when
the last players rolled out of the front door, in various states of happiness or gloom, soberness or inebriation. The ladies had long since gone to bed, and even the servants had vanished, the remaining detritus of the night left to the housemaids. In his office, Julius Whittleton was counting up the night’s takings. The six Marford brothers and Merton settled down at one end of the supper table for a celebratory brandy.
“That went better than I had anticipated,” Humphrey said. “No one broke the bank, lost their entire fortune or called anyone out. There was not even a fight.”
“How dreadfully dull,” Gil said. “You will have to do better in future, Humphrey.”
“How much did you win, in the end?” Humphrey asked, looking searchingly at him.
“A couple of thousand.”
They murmured their approval of this satisfying sum. “I thought you were about to plunge,” Humphrey said. “You had that look in your eye. But Lady Gil said something to you, and you settled down.”
“I have a reason to settle down, now,” Gil said, smugly. “A wife I adore, and a child to look forward to.”
And that led to a great deal of brotherly backslapping and the drinking of toasts to the health of Gil, Lady Gil and the coming baby Gil.
“It is astonishing how far we have all come in just a year,” Monty said. “In January last year, Carrbridge was in the suds and we all had to make sacrifices to help out. It seemed as though we were in for many lean and difficult years. Now, the Marford fortune has been restored and we are all married and blissfully happy. Whoever would have thought it?”
“So much has worked out well,” Carrbridge said. “I am sorry Sharp and his wife died, but at least that business is behind us now.”
“And the Ben Gartmore affair, too,” Gus said. “Gil did well, there, in ferreting out the truth.”
“But I still do not understand it,” Humphrey said. “Why did Sharp and Annie Gartmore pretend to marry as Father and Amelia Gartmore?”
“I may have an explanation for that,” Monty said diffidently. “I have read through all the letters Father wrote to Amelia Gartmore, and almost all of them are just trivial news — balls, routs, hunts, visitors to Drummoor, that sort of thing. But there was this one…” He drew a paper from an inner pocket. Carrbridge has seen it, but the rest of you have not, I think.”
“Read it out loud,” Carrbridge said.
Merton rose to his feet. “My lord, this is family business. I will withdraw.”
“Nonsense,” Carrbridge said. “Merton… Daniel. You are as much a part of this family as any of us. Sit down.”
“Thank you, Carrbridge. You are very good.” His voice was not quite steady. He bowed deeply to Carrbridge and resumed his seat.
Monty read from the letter.
‘My dearest wife, something of a disturbing nature has occurred. You will remember Ambrose Sharp, who was so sweet on Annie? I have discovered that he has established her at some mill town I won from a friend, and lets her run the place as she pleases. When I remonstrated with him, he said I must not interfere, for he had evidence that you and I had married and that Ben was my legal heir, and if I acted against him or Annie, he would use that evidence to cause trouble. I can only imagine that he has kept the special licence I obtained for us, and believes that would be sufficient to cause doubt to be cast upon my marriage to Adela. He swears that he is acting in my interests and protecting my assets, and I trust him enough to let him be. He is an excellent agent for my father, and it would be awkward to explain all this to the family. He will not betray you, and expose you to the censure of the world. Sometimes, my darling, I wish we had truly married and that Ben was indeed my heir. We could have found a way, surely, for you to live the quiet life you crave, even if the responsibilities of the marquessate eventually fall to me. But that ship has sailed. You are happy in your seclusion, and I am content to do my duty. Adela is a good wife to me, and Francis is the most delightful child. Yes, I am content. But sometimes there is a wildness in me that cannot be assuaged, and then I must do something foolish or burst. I have this terrible fear that I have left a part of me — the best part, my heart, my goodness, my soul — with you, my darling, so that only the wicked part of me remains. Truly I do not want this burden that will be placed upon me. If only my great-uncle had lived just a few more weeks, and then we would have been married and we would have had adapt to the new circumstances together, as all married couples must. But regret is useless. You are happy, and that is all that matters, and I will respect your wishes and leave you and Ben to live in obscurity, no matter what happens. Do write soon, my love. I have not heard from you for three weeks now, and your last letter was so brief. Are you ill? Or Ben? Do relieve me of this anxiety, and write soon. Your loving husband, Charles.’
They sat in silence for some time, pondering the words of the eighth Marquess of Carrbridge, long dead, his voice echoing from thirty years ago.
Carrbridge sighed and shifted in his chair. “He dreaded the responsibility too.”
“He had wild moments just as I do,” Gil said wonderingly.
“He knew about Sharp all along,” Reggie said indignantly. “Not the full extent of it, perhaps, but he knew he was up to no good.”
“Sharp held on to that special licence all these years,” Gus said. “It was there to keep Father in line, if ever he fell out with Sharp, and when we started closing down his thievery, he set out to wreak vengenace on the whole family.”
“How amusing he must have thought it,” Humphrey said. “Such a joke, that he had evidence that could have destroyed us.”
“Thank God it did not,” Monty said. “Or, better still, thank Gil. Our hero.”
The others murmured their agreement.
“But this is also further proof, if any were needed, that there was no marriage to Amelia Gartmore,” Merton said. “And the reason why — your father became the likely heir to the title, and she could not face the prospect of a public life.”
“She would have adapted to it, as Lady Gil is managing to do,” Gil said quietly. “Each one of us must live the life we are given as best we can, for running away and hiding and turning to wildness is no answer.”
“Speaking of running away,” Merton said, “I have had a letter from Mr Bridlington. He regrets that he must resign his position as chaplain with immediate effect, Carrbridge. He has gone to London, and we may guess what draws him there.”
“Not Bella Dryton?” Gil said, trying not to laugh. “I wish him good fortune there, for I do not think she will look twice at him in London. Poor man! Does he not realise she was merely amusing herself because she was bored and no better entertainment offered? Lord, but you are unlucky with chaplains, Carrbridge. First poor Penicuik, and now Bridlington.”
“I do wish someone would explain exactly what happened to Mr Penicuik,” Merton said. “All I ever hear is that it was too dreadful for words, and that it is never spoken of.”
Gil burst out laughing. “Have you been wondering all this time? But it is a very tragic story.” He laughed again. “Penicuik went out one day for a walk. Finding himself in need of a little… um, self-comfort, he settled down behind the creamery, well-hidden, as he thought, by a pile of butter churns. But he became a little too vigorous and dislodged one of the churns, which fell on him, knocking him insensible, with his manly parts all exposed. And it so happened…” He stopped, laughing too hard to continue.
“Gil, really,” Carrbridge said reprovingly. “Although it is rather funny. Unfortunately, the field contained a pig which wandered over to investigate, and finding… finding… oh Lord!” He stopped, laughing too.
“Oh no!” Merton breathed.
“Finding a large and tender comestible,” Gus went on, grinning, “it proceeded to… well, pigs will eat anything.”
“Oh no!” Merton chortled with glee. “It did not!”
“It did!” they chorused. And then they were all laughing.
“Poor Mr Penicuik!” Merton said, with feeli
ng. “But he was all right… otherwise?”
“Perfectly,” Gus said. “I found him wandering about in some distress, as you might imagine, but he would not see the physician, and he swore me to secrecy. Although it is too good a tale not to be shared between brothers.”
“He left soon afterwards,” Monty said. “Poor man.”
“Who left?” Julius Whittleton had entered the room unnoticed.
“Penicuik, who was chaplain and secretary at Drummoor some years ago.”
“I remember that,” Julius said. “It was very abrupt. Whatever happened to make him leave so suddenly like that?”
Merton spoke out without hesitation. “An event too dreadful for words. It is never mentioned.” He shivered. “Poor Mr Penicuik!”
“Oh well, if it is a great secret,” Julius said huffily. “There, Humphrey. Your takings for the night.” He put a paper down on the table.
Humphrey whistled. “So much! This is going to be more profitable that I had supposed.”
“So long as no one breaks the bank tomorrow,” Gil said.
“Even so, this has been a very good night.”
“Better than you yet know,” said a quiet female voice.
“Gen!” Gil said, pushing his chair away from the table. “I thought you had gone to bed long since.”
“I had, but I was summoned by Lady Humphrey.”
Humphrey went white as chalk. “What happened? Is she all right? Oh… the baby? Why did nobody tell me?”
“Lady Humphrey didn’t want to spoil your evening,” Genista said. “She insisted you should not be told. Everything went perfectly well, but you may be sure I’d have sent for you straight away if there had been the least concern. You may go up now and admire your daughter.”
“A daughter.” A beatific smile spread across his face. “But Hortensia? She is well?”
“Perfectly. She wants to see you, so don’t keep her waiting.”
Still grinning, he raced out of the room, and his footsteps could be heard thundering up the stairs.
“Well now,” Gil said, smiling. “That is the perfect end to a perfect night.”
Lord Gilbert (Sons of the Marquess Book 5) Page 29