by Jane Feather
Chapter 6
THERE WAS SILENCE IN THE HALL as the door slammed shut. Masters broke the quiet with a murmured, “Oh, dear me. His lordship didn’t inform me that he wished to call upon you, my lady.” He looked worriedly at Livia, twisting his gloves between pudgy hands. “Of course I would have insisted that I present any renewed offer to you myself. It would only have been proper since I handle your affairs in this matter. I do beg you will forgive me, ma’am. There’s nothing to forgive, Mr. Masters,” Livia said hastily.
“Indeed, it was for Lord Bonham to communicate his intentions to you. It is he who should be apologizing to you,” Cornelia said calmly.
“Oh, my goodness, no…no, no, no,” the lawyer exclaimed with a violent gesture that sent papers fluttering to his feet. He bent awkwardly to gather them up murmuring in some distress, “Lord Bonham is quite free to do whatever he thinks best. A gentleman of such standing, you understand…the Bonhams, such a well-connected family…”
“Indeed,” Livia said in soothing tones, bending to help him with the papers.
“Too kind, Lady Livia, too kind,” he stammered, straightening as he clutched his retrieved papers to his chest. He backed to the door, bowing every few steps. “Forgive me, your most obedient servant, my ladies. I must be going…I’ll send you the papers, Lady Livia.” He wrestled with the door for a few anguished seconds, then vanished into the rain-dark street beyond, still murmuring apologies.
Aurelia came running down the stairs, one hand lightly on the banister. “That was awkward,” she observed. “I was listening on the half landing. Poor Mr. Masters, none of it was his fault, and he seemed to take all the blame…Well, Nell?” She looked expectantly at her sister-in-law.
Cornelia gave a little sigh. “I hadn’t intended to keep up the charade, but he put my back up the minute he walked into the parlor.” She shrugged, wondering how to explain the strange tide that had carried her beyond her intended point. “There was just something so…” She frowned. “I don’t know what the word is…challenging, I suppose…about him. I felt on my mettle, as if I couldn’t let him win a trick.”
She shook her head. “Ridiculous, really. He’s just a somewhat arrogant, self-satisfied member of the male species. Give him twenty years, and he’ll be another Markby…or even worse.”
“All the more reason to give him just what he deserved,” Livia declared. “I didn’t like the look of him at all. Such cold eyes, and his mouth’s too thin. I shan’t see him if he comes again.” Having thus disposed of the insolent viscount, she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I have such exciting news. You’ll never guess what.”
Her friends turned at once towards her. “What?” they demanded in unison.
“Let’s go into the parlor.” Livia bounced ahead of them and closed the door once they were inside. She stood with her back against it, her black eyes glowing. “It seems that Aunt Sophia wasn’t quite such an eccentric recluse as we thought. She did actually have a real plan when she left me this house.”
She paused, waiting for a response, but when none came from her companions, who merely regarded her in expectant silence, she continued, “She left money to put the house in some kind of order if I decided not to sell. But Masters was not to reveal that clause in the will until I’d decided by myself what to do with the house. If I did sell it, then that was all I was to get, just the proceeds from the sale, and I’d never find out about the other part of the inheritance. But if I cared enough to keep the house, then she’d made financial arrangements. Isn’t that astonishing?” She looked interrogatively between them.
“Somewhat whimsical, I would say.” Cornelia frowned. “If by happenstance you made the decision she wanted you to make, then good things would come to you. If not…” She gave an expressive shrug.
“But fortunately Liv made the right decision,” Aurelia pointed out.
“Yes, exactly,” Livia rushed on, her eyes still shining. “And the only stipulation is that Morecombe and the twins are to be kept on for as long as they wish. There’s money for that, and small pensions for them when they decide to retire, if they ever do.” She clasped her hands against her skirt. “Isn’t that exciting? I have a real inheritance.”
“That’s wonderful, Liv.” Cornelia hugged her. “I don’t mean to be crass, but how much is there for repairs and such like?”
“About five thousand guineas.” Liv turned to accept Aurelia’s congratulatory hug. “It’s plenty to hire a boot boy and a footman to help Morecombe with the heavy cleaning, and maybe a scullery maid to help out in the kitchen…”
“Well, that’s good,” Cornelia interrupted with a slightly sardonic smile. “At least I won’t have to expose myself to further discourtesy. A great relief for Lord Bonham, I’m sure.”
“You didn’t really take any notice of that, did you?” Livia asked.
“No, of course I didn’t. I was just funning,” Cornelia said. “Go on about your plans, Liv.”
“Oh, well, yes.” Livia returned happily to the original subject. “There’ll be enough to get new curtains, new furniture, and some fresh paint and, oh, I don’t know, enough to make it habitable.”
She did a little twirl, her sprig muslin skirts swinging around her ankles. “And then, ladies, once we can receive, we can burst upon society in fine fig.”
“And you, my love, can find a husband,” Cornelia said, exchanging a smile with Aurelia. They were both aware that five thousand, munificent though it sounded, wouldn’t go quite as far as Livia had envisaged, but they weren’t about to throw a damper on her excitement. There would certainly be sufficient to make the public rooms acceptable, and a few extra helping hands would go a long way to making life more comfortable even if they couldn’t improve on the general condition of their private quarters. And if Livia’s inheritance could catch her a husband of the right kind, then the main object of this expedition would be achieved.
Livia stopped in midtwirl. “I won’t be able to find a husband if you two don’t stay here with me,” she reminded them. “Unlike you old married ladies, I have to have a chaperone.”
“We have a month,” Aurelia said.
“Yes, but it might take longer than that for me to find a husband,” Livia pointed out. “However energetically I go about it. Don’t forget we have money in the kitty now, enough to keep the household going for six months at least. And you have your allowances. The trustees won’t stop paying those; they can’t legally…can they?”
“Not without cause,” Cornelia said thoughtfully. “And as long as we don’t give them that, they’ll have to sit on their hands. We have enough money to carry us through, even if somewhat frugally, until next quarter day?” She glanced interrogatively at Aurelia, who nodded her agreement.
“Then it’s settled,” Livia declared.
Cornelia acquiesced with a smile, but her mind was elsewhere. Her friends had forgotten about Viscount Bonham, and she supposed he had become irrelevant, an irrelevant and now-dismissed nuisance. But he’d said he’d be back and what she’d seen of the man thus far gave her every certainty that he didn’t make idle declarations of intent.
She was not at all certain that they had seen the last of Lord Bonham.
Harry drove through the rain, barely noticing it even though his horses shook their manes at regular intervals, sending raindrops showering all in their path. The events of the morning went round and around in his head. The Dagenham woman had certainly played him for a fool, and, in all honesty, she had some justification for taking offense over his manner the previous day. But then how was he to have known a viscountess enjoyed playing housemaid, as Marie Antoinette had enjoyed playing milkmaid? What kind of eccentricity was that?
He shook his head impatiently, exasperated as much with himself as with the viscountess. He had jumped to conclusions, just as he’d formed a mental image of Livia Lacey that was as far from the truth as it was possible to be. He’d made a fool of himself, and he didn’t care for the knowled
ge one little bit. It was time to stand back and reassess the situation. The house was not for sale at any price, it seemed. So he needed another approach.
And one that steered well clear of the Viscountess Dagenham. Once burned was quite sufficient. Those blue eyes were amazing, though, startlingly luminous. And she had a most distinguished presence, composed and graceful. So what the devil did she think she was doing cleaning chimneys, or whatever it was that had covered her in grime and smudges? What had happened to the viscount-husband? She was young to be a widow…were there children…?
No. He pulled himself up sharply. He had no interest in the viscountess. She was not going to help him resolve his present problem. He would devote his attentions to Lady Livia herself. He needed unfettered access to the house, and who better to provide it than the lady of the house. Lady Livia Lacey had seemed a very different character from her friend…or was Lady Dagenham another relative? Not that the exact nature of the connection mattered one way or the other.
Lady Livia Lacey had struck him as a soft, warm, young woman, one who would shrink from causing pain. She had sounded apologetic at the confusion. In fact, he would lay odds she hadn’t had any notion of the mischief her companion had caused.
He was driving down St. James’s before he came out of his reverie at the sound of his own name. Light from Brookes’s bay window spilled onto the wet pavement, and a man climbing the steps to the front door waved at him.
“Harry…where’ve you been, man? I haven’t seen you in days.” He stepped back down to the street and came up to the curricle. “Devil of a day.”
“That it is,” Harry agreed, handing his reins to the groom as he jumped down. “Take ’em home, Eric. I’ll walk back.”
“Aye, m’lord.” The groom took his place, picked up the reins, flicked the whip expertly, and the equipage went off at a smart trot.
“Nice pair, Harry,” his companion said with an appreciative whistle. “Haven’t seen those before. You always did have a good eye for cattle.”
Harry laughed away the compliment and extended a hand to Sir Nicholas Petersham. “How are you, Nick?”
“Well enough, well enough. Where’ve you been hiding yourself?”
“Oh, in the country…family business…the usual,” Harry said vaguely, as they turned up the steps to the club. His work for the War Office was a well-kept secret even from his closest friends and on the frequent occasions when he was closeted in his attic study and disappeared from circulation for a while, he usually employed an undefined family crisis as excuse. No one would dream of questioning him too closely, and since he was the oldest of the late Viscount Bonham’s six children and thus considered the family patriarch, it seemed quite understandable that some minor issue with a sibling or his elderly mother would take him out of town for a few days.
“I thought you were going to drive right past me,” Nick observed. “I hailed you twice. You didn’t seem to know where you were.”
“Oh, I was lost in thought, Nick, you know how it is,” Harry said with a careless gesture. In truth the last thing on his mind had been a morning of wine and cards in his club, but the idea was suddenly appealing. A necessary diversion from his encounter in Cavendish Square.
The door of the club opened as the two men reached the top step. They nodded to the austerely clad steward who held open the door for them, and stepped into the cushioned masculine luxury of their own world.
“Morning, m’lord…Sir Nicholas.” Two footmen helped the gentlemen out of their wet outer garments, took hats and gloves, and handed them reverently to their own juniors.
The men entered the front salon, where a muted murmur of voices, the chink of glass, the crackle of the fireplace greeted them.
“It’s Bonham…Harry,” a voice declared cheerily to all and sundry. “Come over here, dear fellow, we have a problem needs solving with that inestimable brain of yours. You too, Nick.”
“I doubt I can be as useful to you as Harry, Newnham, if it’s brain power you’re asking for,” Sir Nicholas said with an amiable smile as they strolled across the room to a table in the bay window. “A dullard, if ever there was one, I have to admit.”
“A rattle, maybe,” Harry corrected. “Dullard? Never say so…So what’s the problem?” He deposited his lean length in an armchair and looked around for a flunkey. “First, madeira…what about you, Nick?”
“Oh, without a doubt, dear fellow. Madeira it is.” Sir Nicholas raised a hand, and a waiter appeared with a tray of filled glasses.
“So, Harry, it’s a matter of a wager…”
Harry smiled with a hint of resignation as he raised his glass to his lips. “Whenever is it anything else with you, Newnham? In your shoes I’d wait to make my wagers until I understood something of the mathematics behind the odds.”
“Ah, but that’s exactly what I’m doing,” the other man said, beaming his triumph. “I’ve been sitting here for two days, isn’t that so?” He turned for confirmation to his companions, who all nodded their solemn agreement. “Waiting just for you, m’dear fellow. Now, if I bet five hundred on the likelihood of it’s raining tomorrow, hedge with another five hundred on rain Wednesday, and back it with three hundred on just clouds—”
“I don’t want to know,” Harry said, holding up his hands. “I’ll untangle the odds on a horse for you, but I’m not entering the territory of the deity.” He looked around the salon and encountered the fixed glare of an elderly man in an armchair by the fire.
The man, in an old-fashioned coat of plum-colored velvet, wearing a wig tied neatly at his nape, was florid of complexion. One hand held a glass resting on a substantial embonpoint, the other hand was fastened tightly around the silver knob of a cane.
“Don’t mind Grafton, Harry,” Nick murmured. “It’s over.”
Harry had gone very still, but his eyes didn’t drop the older man’s gaze. “Not for him,” he responded distantly. He rose slowly and crossed the room, aware as he did so of eyes swiveling to follow his progress. The old scandal still had legs enough to engage the voyeur.
He stopped in front of the old man and bowed. “Your Grace.” He waited, a thin smile hovering on his lips. Waited for the cut he knew was coming. The duke of Grafton turned his head and his shoulders towards the fire. He raised his glass and drank, then threw the goblet into the hearth, the sound of the shattering glass resounding in the dead silence of the salon.
Harry bowed again, turned, and walked back to his friends in the bay window.
“Why d’you do it, Harry?” Nick demanded in an undertone. “Why d’you let him do that to you?”
Harry shrugged and drained the contents of his goblet. “He thinks he has the right…maybe he has.”
“I don’t understand you, Harry. The inquest—”
“Oh, enough, Nick.” Harry raised a hand in protest. “I give the old man a little satisfaction once in a while. You could say it was the least I owed him. Let’s play cards.” He rose and walked briskly towards the card rooms, and Nick, after a minute, followed.
They walked through the series of candlelit card rooms, where groom porters called the odds softly, and the slap of cards, the rattle of dice were the only noticeable sounds. Harry paused at a macao table.
“Bonham, where’ve you been the last week? I swear it’s been an age since we saw you.” A gentleman in an impeccably cut black coat raised his quizzing glass and regarded the new arrival. “D’you care to take a hand?”
“Family matters,” Harry said, pulling out a chair at the table. “And, yes, I will, thank you.”
“Petersham?” The gentleman in black gestured to a second chair.
Nick shook his head with a laugh. “Oh, no, not I. Play with Harry, oh, no. I prefer to pluck chickens, not to be plucked.” Waving, he went on his way.
“Calumny,” Harry observed, genially taking up his cards. “As if I’ve ever plucked anything.”
“Maybe not, but you’re the devil’s own player,” the man who held the bank ob
served. “Hate playing with you, Bonham, though it pains me to say it.”
The remark drew laughter. Harry merely smiled and played his cards. He was contemplating the odds of a five card onto his fifteen points when someone at a table behind said, “Dagenham, do you play?”
Harry continued to contemplate his odds, while he listened. A youngish voice answered the question in the affirmative. Harry played two more hands, then excused himself.
“Premature for you, Bonham,” the banker observed. “You don’t usually leave the table until you’ve decimated the bank.”
“Oh, the quality of mercy, Wetherby,” Harry said. “Mustn’t strain it.” He wandered off in a seemingly random direction, but he was fairly confident that the young voice had come from the hazard table immediately behind him. He took a glass of Madeira from a waiter and strolled around the room, observing the play. At the hazard table he paused, sipping his drink.
“Care to join us, Bonham?”
He shook his head. “No, I thank you. I’ve had enough for one morning.” He moved a little to one side, his eyes still on the table. He knew five of the seven players. The other two were both considerably younger than his own coterie. And they each bore the ravages of youthful excess in shadowed, red-rimmed eyes, drawn cheeks, and a grayish pallor.
It was common enough for young men of means in their first season to burn the candle at both ends and ordinarily Harry would have barely noticed these two, or if he had he would have merely cast a somewhat amused glance in their direction with the rueful memory of his own youthful indiscretions. These two would learn their lesson as had he and a thousand others. But one of them interested him mightily. One of them had some relationship with Viscountess Dagenham.
They both played lamentably, and he quickly identified the one who interested him. He seemed even more inexpert than his friend. There was no physical resemblance between this young man, who he reckoned must be in his very early twenties, and the viscountess, but that was hardly surprising since her title would have derived from her late husband.