Lucille raised her teacup and drank thoughtfully. ‘But what are the terms of the lease? I collect our father held the house from the Earl of Seagrave?’
‘Lud, who knows?’ Susanna shrugged pettishly. ‘I leave all that to Barnes, of course! Anyway, it is the dullest place on earth and if it were not for the fact that I may have something to gain, I would not stay there another moment, I assure you!’
She looked a little furtive. ‘Actually, Luce, it was that which brought me here. You see, I need to go away for a little and I want you to go to Cookes and pretend to be me.’
Lucille, who had just taken a mouthful of tea, almost choked. She swallowed hard, the tears coming to her eyes. Susanna was watching her with a calculating look which made those limpid blue eyes look suddenly hard. There was a silence, broken only by the distant voices of some of the girls as they played rounders outside. Lucille put her teacup down very carefully.
‘I think you must be either mad or in jest to make such a suggestion, Susanna.’ Her voice was level and quite definite. ‘To what purpose? Such childish tricks were all very well when we were in the schoolroom, but now? I would not even consider it!’
Susanna was now looking as offended as her indolence would allow. ‘Upon my word, you have grown most disagreeable since we last met! This is no childish ploy; I was never more in earnest! Do you think I would travel all the way from Suffolk to Oakham for a mere jest…’ she gave an exaggerated shudder ‘…and stay in the most appalling inns along the way just for the pleasure of it? Well, I declare! You are the one whose wits are going begging!’
There was some truth in this, Lucille reflected. Susanna could be relied upon never to do anything against her own comfort. She knew she should not give the suggestion a moment’s thought, not even discuss it…and yet…
‘Why on earth do you need me to consent to so foolish a masquerade?’ Her curiosity had got the better of her, for Susanna was looking both dogged and determined, expressions normally alien to her.
‘I need you to do it because I have to go away,’ Susanna said with emphasis. ‘Sir Edwin Bolt has invited me to go to Paris with him, and I cannot risk delay. I do not want to let him escape me!’ She pulled a dainty face. ‘The timing is most unfortunate!’
Something which might have been pity stirred in Lucille. ‘Is Sir Edwin so important, then, Susanna? Do you love him?’
Susanna laughed, a bitter sound which matched the scornful sparkle in her eyes. ‘Love! Lud, no! But he might be persuaded to marry me! And you know, Luce, we are neither of us young any more. Twenty-seven! I cannot bear to think of it!’ Her unsentimental blue gaze considered her sister. ‘I suppose you might continue teaching here until you died, but it’s different for me. I need to secure my future!’
Lucille swallowed her sister’s carelessly hurtful reference to her own prospects. ‘I see. But I thought that you had claimed Cookes for that purpose…’
‘Exactly!’ Susanna rewarded her with a flashing smile, as though she had said something particularly clever. ‘I cannot be in two places at once! My best chance lies with Sir Edwin—after all, he might make me a lady!’ She did not appear to see the humour in her own remark. ‘But at the same time I do not wish to relinquish my claim on Cookes in case there is some money in it for me! It really is so unfair! Why did our father have to die so inconveniently?’
Lucille’s lips twitched at this supreme piece of self-centredness. ‘I daresay he did not think of it,’ she said, with a sarcasm that completely passed her sister by. ‘Forgive me if I am being a slowtop, but I do not really understand why you feel you cannot leave Cookes now. Surely there could be no danger in you travelling abroad for a little now that you have secured the lease?’
Susanna pulled a face. ‘But I know they want me out of that house! They wish I had never claimed it!’ She saw her sister’s look of scepticism and hurried on a little defensively, ‘Oh you can look like that, Luce, but you didn’t see those lawyers! They have been pestering me all week, trying to disprove my claim! I know they don’t want me there! Why, they will break the lease if I give them half a chance, and then I may never be able to claim the inheritance I deserve! So I daren’t go away without knowing that there’s someone to look after my interests, and it’s easiest for you just to pretend to be me for a little while! That way it looks as though I’m really interested in living in the house. After all,’ she added, tactlessly, ‘no one even knows you exist, so they would not suspect!’
Lucille felt as though she was struggling in a quicksand. ‘But cannot your lawyer represent your interests? After all, he was the one who told you of your claim to Cookes in the first place. Would he not be the most appropriate person—’
Susanna was shaking her head stubbornly. ‘But my lawyer is in Holborn! I need someone in Suffolk! I need you, Lucille!’
‘But, Susanna,’ Lucille said helplessly, ‘the deception…It is fraud, after all! And if they were to realise—’
Susanna curled her lip. ‘Lud, you always were so pious, Luce! No one would guess! The only person you could possibly meet is old Josselyn, the agent, and even he has probably tired of trying to disprove my claim and will leave you alone! I thought you might like a chance to look at Cookes,’ she added slyly. ‘It is full of dusty old tomes that would no doubt be fascinating to you. For myself, I cannot bear bookish things, but I know that you are the most complete bluestocking.’
There was another silence whilst Lucille struggled against an inner compulsion. ‘It wouldn’t work,’ she said, more forcefully this time. ‘Why, we do not even look alike!’
Superficially, this was true. Lucille felt her twin’s gaze skim her with faintly malicious consideration. She knew what she must look like to Susanna’s sophisticated eyes: a country dowd in an old dress, angular where Susanna was generously curved, her silver fair hair several shades paler and drawn back in a disfiguring bun. They had the same sapphire blue eyes, but whilst Susanna made flirtatious use of hers, Lucille’s were customarily hidden behind her reading glasses. Lucille’s complexion was porcelain pale, without any of the cosmetic aids which Susanna so artfully employed—powder and rouge for the cheeks, carmine for the lips, kohl for the eyes…The effect was spectacular and could only serve to underline the differences between them.
It was three years since Lucille had seen her sister, and she felt that Susanna had not changed in either appearance or attitude. It was typical of Susanna to arrive without warning, demanding that her sister embark on some harebrained escapade just to oblige her. Lucille, forever cast in the role of the sensible twin, had tried to restrain her sister’s wilder schemes in their youth, but to little avail. Susanna was headstrong and obstinate, and had not improved with age. Lucille could still remember the horror she had felt when Susanna had announced defiantly that, their adoptive father’s death having left them destitute, she would try her luck among the demi-monde in London. She had been quite determined and neither her sister’s reasoned arguments nor the shocked disgust of their remaining family had swayed her. That had been nine years ago, and who was to say that she had been wrong? Lucille thought, with faint irony. Susanna had never been troubled by the moral dimension of her choice and materialistically she had done very well for herself.
Susanna got to her feet with the fluid grace that was one of her trademarks, and crossed to her sister’s side, pulling her to her feet. They regarded their reflections in the parlour mirror, one a pale shadow of the rich colour of the other.
‘You could be made to look like me,’ Susanna said, slowly. ‘’Tis only a matter of clothes and cosmetics, and no one at Dillingham has seen me properly—why, I’ve told you, no one but Seagrave’s agents have called in a week! So you see…’ she gave Lucille a calculating sideways look ‘…you need consult nothing but your own inclination! It would not be for long, and I daresay you could do with a holiday from this prison!’
Lucille jumped, shaken, for her sister had hit upon the one truth which Lucille did not wish to
acknowledge. Over the past few months, Lucille had been aware of an increasing need to escape the claustrophobic confines and predictable routines of the school. She needed time to read, study, walk and be on her own, but she had had nowhere to go. In some ways the genteel world of the school, the endless classes of little girls, the restricted horizons of all the teachers, was indeed the prison Susanna described.
Susanna was virtually all the family Lucille possessed and Susanna had made it clear long ago that her antecedents were not an asset in her chosen course in life, and she would be obliged to her twin if she did not broadcast their relationship. This suited Lucille, who could see that it would not be to her advantage to claim sistership with one of the most infamous Cyprians in London. The parents of her pupils would be outraged—or believe that she was cast in the same mould. It was a strange twist of fate that had cast two sisters adrift in the world for one to turn into a bluestocking and the other a courtesan.
Lucille sighed. She had no illusions that Susanna wanted to use her, but more than half of her was crying out to her to seize the chance Susanna was offering. The prospect of spending some time in the house where their father had lived and worked held a curious appeal for her. But an impersonation was both foolhardy and immoral, the voice of her conscience told her severely. But it would not be for long, temptation countered defensively, and she would not really be doing anything wrong…
‘How long do you think you would be away for?’ she asked cautiously, and was rewarded by a vivid smile from Susanna, who sensed that her battle was already won.
‘No more than a week or two,’ she said carelessly, resuming her languid pose on the sofa. ‘And you would need to do no more than occupy the house. I do not imagine that anyone will call—doubtless it will all be a dead bore, but then you must be accustomed to such tedium far more than I!’ Her disparaging look encompassed the faded respectability of the school parlour. ‘Lud, how I detest this shabby-genteel place!’ With a chameleon change of mood, she smiled on her sister once more. ‘Oh, say you will do it, Lucille! You would so enjoy a change of scene!’
Lucille bit her lip at her sister’s shamelessness. Unfortunately Susanna was right. Whilst the idea of the impersonation appalled her, the lure of Cookes definitely held a strange charm.
‘All right, Susanna,’ she said wryly. ‘No doubt I shall live to regret it, but I will help you.’
Susanna glanced at the ugly clock on the parlour mantelpiece. Now that she had got what she wanted she did not wish to linger. ‘Lord, I must be going or that old gorgon will be turning me out of doors!’ She turned eagerly to her sister and clasped her hands. ‘Oh, thank you, Luce! I’ll send for you soon!’
She let her sister go and scooped up her fur stole and jewelled reticule. ‘You must not worry that you will have to deal with anyone I know,’ she added carelessly, with one hand on the doorknob. ‘No one of my acquaintance would be seen dead in the country!’
‘And the Earl of Seagrave?’ Lucille asked suddenly. ‘He is the owner of Cookes, is he not? There is no likelihood of him coming down to Suffolk?’
Susanna stared. ‘Seagrave? Upon my word, what an extraordinary idea! He has no interest in the case, I assure you! Why, Seagrave employs an army of agents and lawyers in order to avoid having to involve himself in his estates!’
Lucille turned away so that her sister could not see her face, and made a business of collecting up the cups and saucers. ‘Do you know him, Susanna? What manner of man is he?’
Had Susanna had more interest in the motivation and feelings of others, this enquiry might have struck her as odd coming from her bookish sister. However, she seldom thought beyond her own wishes and needs. She wrinkled up her nose, frowning with the unaccustomed mental effort of trying to sum up someone’s character.
‘He is a charming man,’ she said, at length, ‘handsome, rich, generous…Lud, I don’t know! He does not belong to my set—he is too high in the instep for me! But you need have no fears, Lucille—as I said, Seagrave don’t care a fig about Cookes!’
Lucille stood by the window, watching as her sister ascended elegantly into the waiting carriage. Her thoughts were elsewhere. In her mind’s eye she could see another June morning, a year previously, when the bright, fresh day had lured her early from her bed. Lucille’s bedroom was at the back of the school, overlooking a quiet lane and the courtyard of the local coaching inn, The Bell. Lucille had thrown her casement window wide, relishing the light breeze on her face, the quiet before the routine of the school day began. She had been leaning on the sill when there was a commotion in the inn yard and a spanking new curricle had driven in, its driver calling for fresh horses.
Lucille had stared transfixed as he had jumped lightly down and engaged the landlord in conversation whilst the grooms ran to change his team. He was tall, with the broad-shouldered and muscular physique of a sportsman; a figure which showed to advantage in the tight buckskins visible beneath his driving coat as he swung round to view the progress of the grooms. The early morning sun burnished his thick dark hair to a rich chestnut and illuminated the hard planes of his face. Lucille had caught her breath and suddenly, as though disturbed by her scrutiny, the man had looked up directly at her. It had been an extraordinary moment. Lucille had stood frozen, the breeze flattening the transparent linen of her nightdress against her body and stirring the tendrils of silver blond hair that were for once loose about her face. It was as though they were only feet apart as the man very deliberately held her gaze for what seemed like forever. Then he grinned, his teeth showing very white in his tanned face, and raised a casual hand in greeting before turning away, and Lucille slammed the casement shut, her face aflame with embarrassment. And it was only later, whilst out in the town, that she had heard that their illustrious visitor had been none other than the Earl of Seagrave…
Lucille found that she was staring blankly out into the empty street. A wave of heat washed over her at the memory of the encounter. Never had the even tempo of her life at the school been so disrupted! Accustomed to seeking a rational explanation to everything that happened to her, Lucille was completely at a loss to explain the startling compulsion that had drawn her eyes to Seagrave in the first place and then held her captive staring in such a shameless manner! And then for him to notice her standing there immodestly in her shift! Well, Lucille thought, tearing her mind away, there was no danger of the experience recurring. Susanna had reassured her of that. Which, a small corner of her mind persisted in telling her quite firmly, was a great pity but perhaps for the best.
The atmosphere in the crowded gaming room was tense. There was no doubt that the Earl of Seagrave had had the run of the cards; several less fortunate players had been forced to retire, their pockets to let, grumbling wryly about his diabolical luck. His dark gaze was intent, a slight frown between his brows as he concentrated on the cards. It was a face of character, perhaps a little too harsh to be classically handsome, the dark, gold-flecked eyes deep and unreadable.
Another hand ended in his favour—and from the doorway, with disastrous clarity, came the stage whisper of some luckless sprig of nobility:
‘Lucky at cards, unlucky in love, they say…It’s all over the Town that Miss Elliott is about to throw him over…this business of the Cyprian…too blatant, only a week after their betrothal…on my honour, it’s true…’
Too late, someone shushed him and he fell suddenly silent. Seagrave turned his head, and the crowd fell back to expose the speaker as one Mr Caversham, very young and cruelly out of his depth.
‘Pray continue, Caversham.’ All Seagrave’s acquaintances recognised the note of steel beneath that silky drawl. His dark eyes were coldly dispassionate as they pinned his victim to the spot. ‘Your audience is rapt. Miss Elliott is about to terminate our engagement, you say. Further, I infer that the reason is some…alliance of mine with a certain barque of frailty? Did your informant also vouchsafe the name of this ladybird? I feel sure they must have done, Caversham.’
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br /> There was a profound silence as Mr Caversham’s mouth opened and closed without a sound. All colour had fled from his face, leaving him looking pitifully young and vulnerable. The Honourable Peter Seagrave, exchanging a watchful look with Lord Robert Verney across the card table, shook his head slightly in answer to Verney’s quizzically raised eyebrows. They had seen Seagrave in this mood before and understood something of the devils that drove him. Peter put a tentative hand on his brother’s arm and felt the tension in him as taut as a coiled spring.
‘Nick, let be! The fellow’s a foolish puppy who knows no better—’
Seagrave did not appear to hear him. He shook the restraining hand off his arm and got slowly to his feet. There was a collective intake of breath. Caversham was tall, but Seagrave towered over the younger man. Strong fingers reached for the neckcloth at Caversham’s throat, drawing him inexorably closer in the Earl’s merciless grasp.
‘Do please reconsider your silence, Caversham,’ Seagrave said, still in the same, smoothly dangerous tones. ‘You possess a certain piece of information which I am anxious for you to disclose.’ He gave his victim a slight shake.
Caversham was a fool but he was no coward. His mouth dry, his neckcloth intolerably tight, he managed to gasp, ‘It is Susanna Kellaway, my lord! I heard…I heard that she had taken a house on your Suffolk estate…The story is all over Town.’
Seagrave gave him an unpleasant smile. ‘True in all particulars! I congratulate you, Caversham!’ The young man was released so suddenly that he almost fell over. Loosening his collar with fingers that shook, Caversham watched as Seagrave unhurriedly turned back to the card table, collected the pile of guineas, rouleaus and IOUs and sketched a mocking bow to his companions.
‘My apologies, gentlemen. I find some of the company here little to my taste. Peter, do you come with me, or would you prefer to stay?’
The Virtuous Cyprian Page 2