There was a bright light of amusement in Peter Seagrave’s brown eyes. ‘Oh, I’m with you, Nick, all the way!’
The whispers gathered pace as they went down the stairs. ‘Can it be true? He did not deny it…So la belle Susanna has thrown the Duke over for a mere Earl?’
Seagrave gave no sign that he heard a word as they left the club. His face might have been carved from stone. The brothers went out into the cold morning air, where a hint of dawn already touched the eastern sky. Once out in the street, Seagrave set off for St James’s at a brisk pace which demonstrated that he was stone-cold sober. His brother almost had to run to keep up. Peter, who had been invalided out of the army after Waterloo the previous year, had still not quite recovered from the bullets he had received in the chest and thigh and after a few minutes of this route march he was forced to protest.
‘For God’s sake, Nick, slow down! Do you want to finish what the French started?’
That won him a glance with a flicker of amusement and although Seagrave did not reply, he slowed his pace to a more moderate rate that enabled his brother to keep up without too much difficulty. Not for the first time, Peter wished that his brother was not so difficult to read, his moods so impenetrable. It had not always been so. Now, for instance, he sensed that Seagrave was blindingly angry, but knew he would say nothing without prompting. Peter sighed and decided to risk it.
‘Nick, what’s all this about? When that idiot Caversham started talking I thought it was all a hum, but you knew all about it already, didn’t you? You wanted him to tell everyone about Miss Kellaway!’
There was a silence, then Seagrave sighed. ‘Your percipience does you credit, little brother.’ There was a mocking edge to his words. He drove his hands deep into his coat pockets. ‘Yes, I knew. Josselyn wrote me some garbled letter earlier this week to tell me that Miss Kellaway—’ he sounded as though there was a bad taste in his mouth ‘—had claimed a house in Dillingham. I wanted to see how much of the story had become common knowledge.’
Peter was frowning. ‘But if you already knew about the Cyprian, why did you not take action?’
He waited, and heard his brother sigh again. ‘I did not think that it mattered,’ Seagrave said, with the weary boredom that was habitual.
‘Did not think—?’ Peter broke off. He was one of the very few who knew the depth of his brother’s disaffection since his return from the wars, his apparent lack of purpose in civilian life. They had shared similar experiences whilst on campaign and Peter could see why Seagrave had been so deeply affected and had found it difficult to settle in a society that seemed to offer only instant, superficial gratification. Peter had the happy temperament to be able to recover from his harrowing experiences, albeit slowly, but Seagrave had always been much deeper, had dwelt more on all that he had experienced. It was as though some part of him had become shut away, unreachable and uninterested.
Nothing could hold his attention for long. He had the entrée into any ton function that he chose to honour with his presence. He had women fawning on him and a fortune to spend at the card tables. He could not even be accused of being a bad landlord and neglecting his estates, for he made scrupulously careful arrangements to ensure that all his tenants’ needs were met. He just chose never to attend to such matters himself. No wonder then that a letter from Josselyn had met with such indifference.
Seagrave sighed again. ‘I see now that I was naive in thinking that it did not affect me.’ His tone was coolly reflective. ‘It needed only for some busybody to hear the tale—as they have done—for it to be all over Town. And now Miss Elliott is to give me my congé! I wish I cared more!’
Peter frowned. He knew that Seagrave had never pretended to have any more regard for Louise Elliott than the mutual respect one would expect to have for one’s future wife, and he also knew that this had nothing to do with the exquisite actress which his brother currently had in keeping in a discreet villa in Chelsea. But even if his feelings were not engaged, the match with Louise was worth preserving if possible.
‘Go and see the Elliotts tomorrow,’ he urged. ‘I am sure all can be put to rights. Louise is a sensible girl and will understand the truth of the matter.’
Seagrave’s mouth twisted with wry amusement. ‘Just so, Peter. I am persuaded you are correct. My future wife is indeed the sort of cold-blooded young woman who could easily ignore the fact that I had a Cyprian in keeping. What she is less likely to forgive, however, is the public humiliation that will reflect on her now that this story is known. And in order to avoid future misunderstandings, I reluctantly feel it is my duty to travel to Dillingham and ascertain exactly what the situation is.’ His voice hardened. ‘I am sure that, with the right inducement, Miss Kellaway can be impelled to see sense.’
Peter had never met Susanna Kellaway but suddenly, hearing the underlying anger in his brother’s voice, he found himself feeling very sorry for her indeed. A thought occurred to him.
‘I say, Nick, do you know Miss Kellaway at all?’
‘Not in the sense you mean,’ Seagrave said dryly. ‘I’ve met her, of course.’ His tone was unpleasant. ‘A cheap little piece with a commercial mind—and the commodity she sells is herself.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you remember Miranda Lethbridge?’
‘Cousin Sally Lethbridge’s girl?’ Peter frowned. ‘Yes, of course—she was about fifteen when I went away in ’12. Why do you ask?’
‘Miranda made her come out a couple of years ago.’ Seagrave sounded amused. ‘You may remember her as a child in pinafores, Peter, but she had improved dramatically and there were plenty who fell at her feet.’ The amusement fled from his tone. ‘Amongst them was Justin Tatton, whom you may remember served with me in Spain. He was bowled over by Miranda and she was equally smitten. We all thought they’d make a match of it.’ Seagrave’s voice was suddenly savage. ‘Miss Kellaway had other ideas, however. This was before Penscombe swam into view, and though Justin has no title, he was rich…Anyway, she made a dead set at him, and in a weak moment he succumbed.’ Seagrave shrugged, a little uncomfortably. ‘God knows, I am in no position to judge another man, but the unutterable folly…Justin said later that it had been a moment of madness, that after a single night he felt nothing but disgust and repulsion. But the damage was done. He begged Susanna Kellaway to tell no one, but she was furious that she could not hold him, and she made very sure that Miranda heard—and in the worst terms possible. Naturally the poor girl was devastated. She refused to even speak to Justin, and last year she made that hasty marriage to Wareham…’ Seagrave shook his head.
‘I am not a sentimentalist,’ he added with a touch of humour, ‘but I deplore the way Miss Kellaway takes whatever she wants with no concern for the destruction she causes! Even in my worst excesses I was never so careless of the feelings of others, and God knows, I have done some damnably stupid things in my time!’
Peter was silent. When Seagrave had first returned home from the Peninsula he had been possessed by a spirit of wildness which Peter suspected was the result of escaping the war with his life intact. He knew that as one of Wellington’s most promising officers, his brother had been sent on some secret and highly dangerous missions and had brushed with death on more than one occasion. He had fought with the Portuguese militia, the ordenanca, as well as covering himself with glory in a more orthodox manner on the battlefield of Talavera. Seagrave’s reaction to civilian life had been a very public and unrestrained year of hell-raising that blazed a trail through the ton until it had burned itself out and he had changed into the deeply world-weary individual he was now.
Seagrave looked up to where the crescent moon was perched above the rooftops, fading from the summer sky as dawn approached. He sighed. ‘No, with Miss Kellaway it is one excess after another! There will always be some poor fool who is besotted and will fall victim to an experienced woman preying on impressionable young men for their fortunes!’
Peter grimaced. ‘I wonder what she wants with you, Nick,’ he mused. �
��You could scarcely be described as an inexperienced youth!’
His brother gave him a cynical glance. ‘Come on, Peter, you’re not an innocent either! She wants money—in one form or another! It’s what she always wants! And I’m damned if she’ll get any out of me!’
The reception which Seagrave met with the following morning at Lord Elliott’s house in Grosvenor Street was not auspicious. The butler had at first tried to turn him away with the news that Miss Elliott was not at home, but Seagrave greeted this information with well-bred disbelief. The butler, flustered, could not stand his ground and could only protest as the Earl swept past him into the drawing-room, where he found both Lady Elliott and her daughter. Seagrave’s intended, a plumply pretty blonde with pale, slightly protruberant blue eyes, looked up from her embroidery frame at his entrance and uttered a small shriek.
‘You!’ she gasped, in tones of outrage. ‘Seagrave! How could you! Oh, I wish I were dead!’ She burst into noisy tears.
Lady Elliott was made of sterner stuff. She swelled with indignation. ‘I am astounded that you see fit to show your face here, my lord! To come from the arms of that creature to my own, sweet, innocent Louise! It defies belief! The notice terminating the engagement has already been sent to the Gazette!’
Louise sobbed all the louder. Seagrave, who had as yet uttered not one word, found that there was no necessity for him to do so. His sense of humour, long buried, began to reassert itself. Giving the outraged matron and her snivelling daughter the full benefit of a wicked smile, he executed an immaculate bow, turned on his heel and left the room.
It was late when the stage pulled into the yard of the Lamb and Flag in Felixstowe and decanted its occupants onto the cobbles. Lucille Kellaway, stiff and sore from the discomforts of her journey, picked up her shabby portmanteau and looked about her. There was no sign of her sister Susanna, despite the agreement that the two had to meet there.
Lucille had found the journey from Oakham fascinating. She had travelled so little that each new view was a delight to her and each new acquaintance was a pleasure to meet. She now knew all about Miss Grafton, a governess about to take up a new position with a family in Ipswich, and Mr Burrows, a lawyer visiting a client in Orford. She had looked out of the coach window and admired the well-kept farmland that stretched as far and as flat as the eye could see, and had glimpsed the sea as they drew into the town.
She struggled towards the inn door, her heavy case weighing her down. The smell of roast meat wafted enticingly from the kitchen and light spilled from the taproom onto the cobbles, accompanied by the sound of male voices and laughter. Lucille shrank. Although not of a timid disposition, she was too shy to march into the public bar and demand attention. The landlady found her cowering in the passageway.
‘I am looking for Miss Kellaway,’ Lucille said, a little shyly, and immediately saw an expression of mingled prurience, curiosity and disgust flit across the good lady’s features.
‘Miss Kellaway and the gentleman are in the private parlour,’ the landlady said, tight-lipped, nodding in the direction of a closed door at the end of the passage. She marched off to the kitchen, leaving Lucille alone.
Lucille knocked a little hesitantly on the door of the parlour. She could hear the intimate murmur of voices, but no one answered her. She pushed the door open and recoiled, almost turning on her heel to run away. Susanna was reclining on the parlour sofa in much the same pose as she had held at the school, but with shocking differences. Her emerald green silk dress was cut very low and it had fallen off one shoulder completely, exposing one of Susanna’s plump breasts. A portly, florid man with thinning sandy hair was leaning over her, fondling her with impatient hands whilst his mouth trailed wet kisses over her shoulder. He looked up, met Lucille’s horrified gaze and straightened up, an unpleasantly challenging look in his eyes.
‘Egad, what’s this! My good woman—’
Susanna pushed him away much as one might repel a fractious child. She hoisted her dress back up without the least embarrassment.
‘This is my sister, Eddie.’ She turned to Lucille, a frown marring her brow. ‘You’re monstrously late, Lucille! I had quite given up hope of you! We sail with the tide tomorrow morning, so there isn’t much time.’ She did not ask whether Lucille had had a good journey, or if she was hungry, nor did she invite her to sit down.
‘Now, my carriage will take you to Dillingham in the morning. I have left Felicity there—my housekeeper, Felicity Appleton,’ she added irritably, seeing Lucille’s look of incomprehension. ‘She will help you choose your clothes appropriately. I have left a large wardrobe at Dillingham, but Eddie will buy me more in Paris, won’t you, darling?’ She touched his hand and fluttered her lashes at him.
The gentleman, whom Lucille assumed to be Sir Edwin Bolt, had been scrutinising her through his quizzing glass these few minutes past with what Lucille considered a most ill-bred regard. Now he guffawed.
‘Take more than a parcel of clothes, Susie m’dear! Why, the girl’s as strait-laced as a nun, and as cold, I’ll wager!’
Lucille flushed and Susanna gave a flounce. ‘Well, she need not meet anyone in Dillingham! I am not asking her to be me!’ She saw his sulky, mulish expression and her tone softened. ‘But I do see what you mean, my love!’ She giggled girlishly. ‘I fear that my prim little twin will never thrill to a man’s touch! The delights of love are not for her!’
Lucille was beginning to feel rather sick. An insight into Susanna’s relationship with her lover was something that repelled rather than interested her. Sir Edwin, mollified, had started to paw Susanna’s shoulder again as though he could not keep away from her. His hot, blue gaze roved lustfully over her opulent curves. The dress slipped a little.
‘Send the girl away so we may pick up where we left off,’ he muttered, pressing avid, open-mouthed kisses on Susanna’s white skin. Lucille looked away, her face flaming.
‘If that is all—’ she said, with constraint.
Susanna had tilted her head back to facilitate the progress of Sir Edwin’s lips down her neck. He was already pulling at her dress again. She waved her sister away. ‘Very well, Luce—’ she sounded like someone dismissing her servant ‘—you may go now. Unless you wish to join us, that is!’
Sir Edwin looked up, a lascivious look suddenly in his eye. ‘Now there’s an idea! Introduce the priggish virgin to fleshly delights, eh? What do you say, Miss Kellaway? Why, we could show you a thing or two…’
Their mocking laughter followed Lucille from the room. She closed the door with exaggerated care and leant against the wall of the passage for a moment to recover herself. Her whole body was one burning blush, her mind revolted, a sick taste in her mouth. That Susanna should have sold herself for that, and not even appear to care…The stone wall was cool beneath her fingers and Lucille was glad of its chill and the darkness that surrounded her. As she straightened up, however, she realised to her horror that she was not alone. At the end of the passageway, hidden from view, two men were talking.
‘…travel on to Dillingham tomorrow. Do you go to the Yoxleys’ for a while?’
It was a mellow voice, the cadences smooth and pleasing to the ear. Lucille paused, her attention arrested despite herself. The other man’s voice was less distinguishable.
‘…a sen’ night, perhaps…join you at the Court…A Seagrave…back at Dillingham, Nick…’
From being overheated, Lucille suddenly found herself icily chill. Surely she could not have misheard? Had the man not mentioned the names of Seagrave and Dillingham? She dropped her portmanteau from nerveless fingers.
The voices cut off abruptly at the crash. Lucille bent clumsily to pick her case up again, only to find that when she stood up her way was blocked by the tall figure of a man. The light was behind him and she could not see his face, but in the claustrophobically small passage, his physical presence was overwhelming.
‘Can I be of assistance, ma’am? Are you unwell?’ His voice was very pleasing to t
he ear, smooth and mellifluous, Lucille thought again, confused. His hand had taken her elbow in a steadying grip which nevertheless felt as though it burned through the fabric of her dress. She had not heard him speak on that infamous occasion when they had seen each other in Oakham, but she knew instinctively who he was.
‘No…’ Lucille’s voice came out as a thread of a whisper. She looked up into the dark face, into fierce, gold-flecked eyes, and felt quite dizzy. ‘I thank you, sir, I am quite well…Excuse me.’
She had pushed past his astonished figure and was already halfway up the stairs before she realised that she had no notion of where she was going. She paused in dread, hoping that the gentleman would not follow her; a moment later, to her inexpressible relief, she heard a door close softly below. She sat down heavily on her portmanteau and almost cried. Had she been able to return to Oakham at that very moment she would not have hesitated. But Miss Pym had closed the school for the summer, and had gone to visit her good friend Fanny Burney for a few weeks. Lucille realised that she had nowhere to go except Cookes. She leant her head against the wall and closed her eyes.
‘Whatever is it, miss? You look proper moped and no mistake!’ The landlady’s judgmental tone had softened as she considered the shabby, huddled figure. This one was no Cyprian like that painted hussy downstairs! ‘Come along, miss,’ she added encouragingly. ‘I’ll show you to your room. Everything will look better in the morning!’
Chapter Two
‘Miss Kellaway.’ The voice was soft and smooth as warm honey. It spoke in Lucille’s ear.
Lucille had been at Cookes for ten days and thought that she had stumbled into paradise. The house, converted from a charming jumble of medieval cottages, was crammed full of books, treatises and journals enough to keep her occupied for weeks. Her previous reading had been restricted to the books available from Miss Pym’s limited collection and from the Oakham subscription library. At Cookes she could read until the print blurred and her head ached. And then there was the garden—a wilderness where one could wander for hours amidst the rioting roses, or sit in the cool shade of the orchard. It had all been like a blissful dream, a thousand miles away from the petty cares of the school regime and uninterrupted by callers from the outside world.
The Virtuous Cyprian Page 3