‘I was perfectly aware of the cart.’
‘Hm-mm,’ she paused. ‘I know my mother has thanked you, but I must too. You have been ejected from a house party into this nightmare and you have been so good about it. All your amusements have been spoiled.
‘How absolutely dreadful. So have yours,’ he said, ‘-or do you wish me to get tickets for Astley’s for you this evening?’
‘Do not be absurd. As though I could care to go anywhere at this moment.’
‘Well, it is the same for me.’
‘But he is not your brother.’
There was a pause, as it occurred to both of them that he may soon be - a brother-in-law at any rate.
‘But your family are my guests and I am famous for accommodating my guests. It would tarnish my reputation to behave differently.’
She put her hand on his arm. ‘Yes, that is what it is. Your pride in your reputation - no kindness involved at all.’
‘I’m glad you realise it.’ He took a gloved hand from the reins and squeezed hers.
‘Your leaders, sir!’ Serena laughed.
As he skirted another carriage bowling along the middle of the road, he remarked. ‘I cannot imagine how I manage to drive the streets of London without you beside me to avert disaster.’
‘Nor I,’ she laughed. ‘When might you let me take the ribbons, sir?’
‘With these young horses? Never.’
‘You are too unkind.’
‘Dreadfully.’
She sat back on the squabs, smiling a little - her tension eased somewhat, as he had planned.
It was not to be expected, even if the town was thin of the polite world, that an attack on a young gentleman in the street would go unnoticed, and the chatterers were becoming much more interested when the invalid moved from Carstairs’ rooms (a peer of the realm, certainly, but of much less social import than the magnificently rich Mr Allison) to Grosvenor Square. That there were a couple of beautiful young sisters involved put speculation in the air, and as Scribster was a sphinx, the last gossips in town targeted Prescott. A tall tree to shake, but assuredly something would fall out.
Thus it was that only two days later, Lord Sumner - now kicking his heels at Ottershaw, and ready to do the same to his dearly beloved once he found her direction - received a missive.
Dear Foxy,
Hope the country air agrees with you, though I doubt it, somehow. No good shooting at this season, surely?
The town is sadly dull in summer, of course, but an event occurred that you might be interested in last week. You know young Fenton? Well, I know you do - some sort of neighbour of your wife’s family ain’t he? He was done near to death, they say, bludgeoned by a set of rough fellows from quite another part of town. Only saved from death by the Watch, apparently, and if that ain’t the luck of the devil, I don’t know what is - for a more incompetent shower of blaggards it would be hard to find. My wife is partial to the boy, he danced with her twice at the Fenwicks’ ball and complimented her gown at Almack’s, apparently, so she’s been going on about it interminably to me and I thought I’d try to get to sniff out the juice to quieten her tongue. Well, it transpires that the town is talking about money that the young fellow picked up at the tables. Quite substantial amounts, by all accounts. He won from Sutcliffe and Dawson some considerable sums - took twelve hundred guineas from Sutcliffe at Brooks and also had a regular prayer book full of IOUs - but here’s the thing, there’s talk that at least two others at that table, the more minor losers, had their money and vowels returned to them. What do you make of that? They were sworn to secrecy, of course, but Southeby’s mouth is as leaky as a sieve, as you have cause to know, old man.
There is word of a private party where Rennie dropped a couple of thousand too - he had to leave town on a repairing lease, rather like yourself. I suppose if word leaked about Fenton’s recent wealth in one of the rougher taverns, that might have been enough to tempt someone to attack - all have reason for a little ungentlemanly try at recovering their losses. I would acquit Sutcliffe, well I went to school with him and I don’t think he’s as rum as all that, but I’ve since heard there are other creditors there and who knows what might happen when one’s back is to the wall. As you can imagine, talk at the club has gone mad.
What an amazing run of luck the young cub had, but not so lucky when you think of it now. Still, it happens. Just think of Harris, even though he beat old Skipton and won his fortune, it led to him marrying that shrew Gussie Fawkes, so no win at all, really. Anyway, Fenton’s lying near to death in Rowley Allison’s house in Grosvenor Square, of all places. The great one has billeted the whole family apparently. No mystery there: do you remember Miss Fenton, last year’s silent beauty? Well apparently there’s a sister just as pretty with a bit more spirit to boot, if Darnley Prescott is to be believed.
Here’s the reason I’m writing to you, Foxy: Dummy Prescott has also said something of interest to you - Lady Sumner is staying at Grosvenor Square, too. I thought you’d gone to join her at Ottershaw? Well, I know that’s not the only reason, know you’d rather escape the dashed leeches here in London, but the town’s asking why she isn’t at Sumner House. Allison’s put it about that she’s bearing her friend Lady Fenton company, and that’s holding for now. But your Aunt Harrington’s in town and she pinned me down in the Mall the other day asking me about it - told me you’d said you were off to join your wife while she has heard that her ladyship is staying with the most eligible bachelor in town. I denied all knowledge of course. But she was put out, and as she is the honey-hive, I thought you’d like to know. Get back here before the tongues wag too much, Sumner. You can stay with me. It’ll be a while before the dunners find you here.
Best get your wife in order, old man.
Yours etc,
Fordyce
Sumner was glad to know where his wife was, and Fordyce’s plan appealed. To be in town, albeit not at home, must be more amusing than the County bloody Show – and he had some plans for his erring wife. She would find that leaving without permission had consequences. If she was indeed in Allison’s house, he needed to tread warily. But it was no man’s place to stop the joyous reunion of man and wife.
Young idiot Fenton he barely thought of. But there was a niggle about the names of those he had won from. All three he had played with. But then they were fellows who were seldom from the tables. The giving back of money to some players needed thinking about. What kind of a fellow did that? A soft hearted sap. His head deserved to be split.
The Fentons’ falling in with Allison had provided his wife with a hiding place. She would find that nothing in London failed to reach the ear of Frederick Sumner.
Chapter 16
Mr Scribster Cuts His Hair
Benedict’s progress was uncertain, it seemed. For the first few days of his removal to Grosvenor Square, he was restless but seldom fully awake. Just when he had been awake for a few moments and spoke some sense to his attendants, then he faltered again and tossed and turned, obviously in great pain from his ribs and head.
Genevieve wished to be in his room for the most part, looking for the moments where he was lucid.
Mr Scribster arrived in the breakfast room the next morning in his usual circumspect manner, but Prescott, looking up, exclaimed ‘Good God!’ so that every head turned towards him. ‘Your hair has been cut-’ he continued.
‘Sharp as ever, Lieutenant,’Scribster said, sitting beside Mr Allison and accepting a teacup from the supremely uninterested Blake.
‘But why-?’ continued Prescott whilst the other breakfasters continued to look.
The difference between the two rather lank curtains of hair that had framed his face yesterday, to the short style which revealed his hair as a thick, gleaming thatch which was brushed back from his forehead (disclosing a rather attractive cow’s lick peak) was nothing short of sensational. His hooded eyes were no longer hidden behind the hair and their expression was more readable, their hazel colourat
ion more noticeable. He had, himself, been stunned when his valet had finished the task (that he had so long wished to do) and he’d regarded himself in the mirror - a different man. But now the attention was irritating.
‘I expect it was too heavy for the summer days,’ supposed Honoria helpfully, when the silence had gone on for too long.
‘Hmm,’ Scribster muttered, and glanced around the table - everyone, including his friend, with their eyes still riveted on his hair. He was glad that Honoria was at his side of the table and he could not meet her eye. ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ he said testily, and the ladies’ eyes all turned back the matter of breakfast. In his more normal drawl, he asked, ‘How’s the invalid this morning?’
‘He had a restless night,’ said Lady Fenton, but the doctor assures us that this is a good sign. He talked a little when he awoke and seemed to know us all.’
‘That indeed is a good sign,’ said Mr Allison, still hardly able to take his eyes off Scribster. ‘His brain is not affected.’
‘I never doubted it,’ said Sir Ranalph, not quite truthfully, ‘He has a head as hard as a cannon ball that boy. Fell out of countless trees when he was young. Never came to any harm at all!’
As usual, the company discussed their plans for today. As Lady Fenton wished to sit with Benedict this morning, she was very strict that the young ladies should go out in the fresh air for their own health. They decided to go to the park as a group, with Genevieve, Serena, Honoria and Lieutenant Prescott to be driven by Mr. Allison in his phaeton and Mr. Scribster to ride.
‘I’ll meet you at the park, I have an errand to attend to,’ Scribster said, briefly.
‘I too, have business with my bank, I shall look in on Benedict and see you all back here,’ said Sir Ranalph, unexpectedly. Her ladyship raised an eye to him, but was too concerned about her son to pursue it.
The second of the Fenton men to get past the butler and the attentive valet now entered the sanctity of Mr Wilbert Fenton’s dressing room.
‘Good God Wilbert, it’s a concubine’s boudoir!’
His brother, looking at him in the glass said, ‘Brother! Always glad to receive your hints on the modes of today. Pierre,’ he said to his solicitously hovering valet, ‘take notes. The baronet is going to give his thoughts on design.’ The little man looked Sir Ranalph up and down, from his slightly dusty topboots to his comfortable but ill-fitting coat and shuddered. ‘Is this a familial visit?’ continued Wilbert, ‘Am I to believe that Cynthia and the girls await me downstairs?’
‘Cynthia is with Dickie and the girls have gone to the park with Allison to take some air,’ he said as an aside, for he knew this was a diversionary tactic by his brother, ‘Came here to talk about Benedict.’
His brother turned in his chair, discarding the comb he’d been using to coach individual curls to cluster around his noble brow. ‘He is not worse?’
Sir Ranalph was abnormally angry, but he heard the concerned tone in his brother’s voice and warmed to him despite himself, ‘No, no! You seemed to have roused him and he’s in and out of consciousness now, which the doctor feels is the body’s normal response to a head injury.’
His brother returned to his mirror.
‘What he said to you about six months - you say it wasn’t ravings? We shouldn’t be concerned?’
‘No. It was perfectly comprehensible.’ He met his brother’s eyes in the glass once more. ‘A joke in fact.’
‘About what?’
The comb hesitated on its way to a curl with a mind of its own. ‘He was referring to a deal we made. I would find out something for him if he would stop hounding me in my dressing room for six months at least.’
‘And you did?’
‘I did.’
‘And what did you find out?’
‘I am not at liberty to tell you.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Sir Ranalph held himself at least two inches taller in his indignation.
‘I promised Benedict, you see.’
‘Are you saying it has nothing to do with the attack on my boy?’
Wilbert put the brush down again and turned around to face his brother. ‘On the contrary, I’m nearly sure it does. Just as I am sure that Dickie would not want you to know.’
‘You will tell me, Wilbert,’ said Sir Ranalph, beside himself with rage now, ‘is it anything to do with the infernal gaming tables? Did the boy-?’
‘Not in the way you fear, brother. Your son,’ he said, a little bitterly, ‘is not like me.’
‘You will tell me, Wilbert, or I swear I will never frank your debts again. Never!’
There was a silence. Each brother looked into the eyes of the other, Wilbert Fenton’s tense, sad, and sympathetic and Sir Ranalph’s furious, determined and quite void of his usual good humour.
Wilbert’s eyes dropped first. ‘I understand,’ he said.
Sir Ranalph gasped. ‘Then you will not?’ he blurted, hardly able to believe it of his self-centred brother.
Mr Fenton turned around to face his mirror again, taking up his comb. His answering voice fell just short of suave. ‘I find,’ he said, ‘that I cannot.’
His brother turned on his heel in regimental fashion and left the chamber.
The little valet busily began to brush his master’s shoulders free of imaginary specs of dust. Finally, he met his master’s eye in the glass, eyes wide with sympathy and fear.
Mr Wilbert met them. ‘I’ve always been addicted to games of chance, my friend. But now it looks like I’ve overplayed my hand.’
‘Sir Ranalph eez - a kind man, no? If you were to change your mind-?’ said Pierre, aware of the large wad of debts and wages due to be paid from Sir Ranalph’s generous allowance to his brother.
‘And what would my brother do then but make himself a target for the black-hearted scoundrels who attacked his son? No, it is all my fault. I must pay the piper. And my promise to that poor boy was implicit. It may be time to find myself another occupation.’
The valet gave a Gallic shrug, indicative, perhaps of resignation. He reached for a high-necked jacket in pale green.
‘Not that!’ said Mr Fenton. ‘Bring me my riding habit!’
‘But m’sieur, you never ride at zees hour-’
‘Quick, I say!’
Mr Scribster cantered towards Mr Allison’s phaeton, now halted to admit conversation with a gentleman on a horse, who seemed to be addressing the young ladies rather more than Allison himself. As he got closer, he recognised Peter Fairchild, a gentleman of about forty years who had begun to visit town again after the death, two years ago, of his young wife. He was a serious, not to say dull man, but eligible. As he joined the carriage at the other side, Fairchild acknowledged him with, ‘Scribster - is that you?’
Mr Scribster frowned a little and just touched his new, low-crowned beaver hat, ‘Fairchild.’
‘What a very handsome hat, Mr Scribster!’ said Serena, looking relieved. ‘How well it suits you.’
‘Thank you,’ he said colourlessly, then caught Honoria’s eye. She looked amused and he cocked an eyebrow at her, his expression still bland.
‘Are you in town long, Miss Fenton?’ said Mr Fairchild, and Honoria turned to answer.
‘I am not all sure, Mr Fairchild. A week or two at least, I believe.’ She blushed and looked to Allison at this, realising that it was at his invitation.
He nodded, ‘The family are residing with me for the moment.’
‘Oh,’ said Mr Fairchild suspiciously, ‘and may I call on you there?’ he was looking at Allison as he said this, eager to see how he took this.
But it was Lady Sumner, who had been looking, in a lack-lustre fashion, in the opposite direction to Fairchild’s person, who answered. ‘You may not sir. You may have heard that Mr Benedict Fenton was wounded, and the young ladies attend him. We are just taking the air at present and will not detain your ride further.’
Mr Fairchild, dismissed, bowed stiffly and rode on.
There was silence, the
n Serena giggled, ‘Well done, Genevieve. What a tedious conservation.’
‘You mean, Miss Serena, what a consummate bore. We are grateful for Lady Sumner’s dispatch of him,’ laughed Mr. Allison.
‘Was I rude?’ asked Genevieve with little guilt noticeable, ‘I’m sorry. Only, we can’t have a pack of fools come to call and fawn over our beauties whilst Dickie is so ill. They would expect tea and polite conversation.’
Allison laughed. ‘I expect Blake could have dealt with them before it got to that stage.’
‘Oh, yes! I’m so sorry. My wretched tongue says what it will. It’s only that if Honoria’s admirers find out there is another equally pretty sister we shall have the dregs of London visiting us.’She was still sharp and quick, and Mr Scribster wondered anew at her devotion to Benedict, which was rather more than neighbourly in tone.
Allison had begun to move the phaeton ahead on the broad path and Prescott adjusted the rug that covered the young ladies legs, with particular attention to Honoria, who smiled shyly at him. She rated her charms less than her vivacious and equally beautiful sister, he knew. But Serena’s sardonic eye could ward off the boring (like Fairchild) or less brilliant, who would feel her judgement, since she did not seek to hide it. Honoria’s quiet kindness, on the other hand, would attract the world since she would be slow to judge and even slower to give offence. Prescott, he saw already, was feeling Honoria’s warmth and charm and drawn to it, even though Scribster knew he was disposed to marry money. But weighing money against the dark velvet of Honoria’s shyly admiring eyes was a battle that money might lose. A limited income and a warm armful of Honoria might be just the bargain the Lieutenant might make. If Prescott knew for sure of Allison’s intentions, he might back away, but he did not.
Another rider, never usually seen in the park at this hour, was bowling towards them on a handsome bay, ‘Uncle Wilbert!’ said Serena. ‘The last time he visited, he described that bay to me, with the blaze over his nose.’
Honoria and the Family Obligation Page 14