‘A week is surely long enough to make over something old,’ Richard said, brushing a thread off his immaculate evening jacket.
‘True,’ Lady Bainbridge said. ‘It would be pleasant to have some different company and one may eat well enough for a week at a ball. What do you say, Amy?’
‘Why not?’ Amy said. She viewed her mother’s thin figure and tried to imagine her storing enough food for a week, like a camel storing water.
‘You might show a little more eagerness, my love,’ Lady Bainbridge grumbled. ‘It is nigh on twelve months since we attended a proper ball. It will be such a treat for you. Who knows—you may attract the interest of a gentleman…?’ Her blue eyes appraised Amy thoughtfully, as did Richard, who had selected an apple from the bowl of fruit on the sideboard and was leaning against the table, chewing heartily. He shook his head.
‘I think not, Mama. Amy is almost at her last prayers!’
‘I believe you have a ball to attend,’ Amy said frostily, watching as Richard straightened up and tossed his apple core carelessly into the fireplace. If only she had an ounce of that golden beauty, she thought suddenly. Then she would show them she was not on the shelf.
Richard bestowed a careless kiss on the top of her head, and a slightly more decorous one on his mother’s cheek and strode out, whistling. The front door slammed behind him. Lady Bainbridge stood up and retrieved the fruit bowl.
‘Remind Patience not to leave the fruit on display in future, Amy dear. Richard does not need to eat anything at home when he can eat at someone else’s expense.’
‘Yes, Mama,’ Amy said. ‘I believe Patience thought it might brighten the room, given that we never have any flowers.’
Lady Bainbridge shuddered. ‘Flowers! Wanton extravagance! What use are flowers? One cannot even eat them!’
She disappeared through the door to the servant’s hall.
Amy pushed away her bowl of cold fruit stew and got to her feet. Perhaps she might spend the evening helping Patience to polish the silver. That would prevent her from falling into a fit of the dismals. Action, not inaction, was the key. Genteel poverty could be hard, but it was not as desperate as the squalor she had seen in the Whitechapel stews. Even today, when she had visited Mrs Wendover, Amy had been struck afresh by the state of that widow’s determined attempts to keep a spotlessly clean house amidst the filth around her. Amy repressed a grin. There were not many young ladies who could boast a stay in Whitechapel, but she had had that privilege twice, the second time when she had been sixteen and her father’s finances had reached such a parlous state that there had been no alternative. At least now they could afford to keep a small house in the respectable part of town. Whitechapel had not been respectable but it had certainly been educational. She bent absent-mindedly to bank down the meagre fire, thinking of the time that she had spent there.
A scrap of paper was resting on the carpet beside the fireplace. Amy leant over and picked it up. It was a ticket for the national lottery. She knew that Richard, in common with a huge proportion of the populace, often gambled on the national lottery and on private lotteries as well when they were raising funds for various projects. As far as she knew he had never won a penny. It was just another wager, another way of throwing his money away, another gamble.
Amy smoothed out the crumpled ticket. The draw was dated for the following morning. Richard must have dropped the ticket from his pocket book without realising. She tucked it behind the clock, making a mental note to tell him in the morning. She might not approve of gambling, but some small, superstitious part of her mind prevented her from consigning the ticket to the fire. After all, it might, just might, win a prize. Smiling a little at her own credulity, Amy went off to polish the silver.
After breakfast the following day, Amy retrieved the lottery ticket from its place behind the clock and went out into the hall, intending to give it to Marten, Richard’s valet, to hand back to his master. Fortuitously, Marten was just coming down the stairs with one of Richard’s coats over his arm. He bowed. Marten never took the liberties that Patience did. He was always deferential.
‘Good morning, Marten. Is my brother awake yet?’ Amy enquired. Richard was prone to sleep very late on most mornings, especially when he had been playing into the early hours.
Marten sketched another bow. His expression was blander than cream. ‘I fear that Sir Richard has not yet returned, ma’am. The ball went on long into the night, I believe.’
‘I suppose he has a pressing engagement at the card tables.’ Amy gave Marten a sharp look, which he returned with one of even greater impassivity.
‘Indeed, ma’am, perhaps so.’
‘Or perhaps he retired to another place for the night?’ Amy was remembering the discreet house in Covent Garden from which Joss Tallant had emerged the previous day. Marten smiled politely.
‘I could not possibly say, ma’am.’
Amy frowned a little. It was most unfortunate that her brother was absent the one time that she needed to see him. Since the lottery draw was taking place that very morning, it was urgent that she should hand the ticket over to him at once. She knew nothing of lotteries, but she did worry that one might have to claim the prize at the draw itself. It would be most galling for Richard if his were the winning numbers and yet he lost the prize because he had left his ticket behind.
Amy sighed. Her father had taught her how to calculate odds when she was a child and the odds against her brother’s ticket being the winning one must be huge…oh, forty thousand to one, or some such figure. She knew it was silly even to imagine that he might win. Even so, she felt a certain responsibility to reunite him with his ticket, pointless though it was.
She put the ticket in her pocket, then took it out and looked at it again. It was such a tempting little scrap of paper. Amy felt something stir in her blood. Perhaps, just perhaps, this could be the key to thousands of pounds. No wonder that people prayed so earnestly to win and spent their very last shilling on the gamble. She smiled at the fanciful line her thoughts were taking. It was the first time that she had ever felt even the remotest temptation towards gambling, and the inclination was gone almost as swiftly as it had come.
Marten was still waiting, still deferential, to see how he might serve her. Amy held out the ticket.
‘It is very urgent that this lottery ticket is delivered to Sir Richard, Marten,’ she said. ‘Do you have any notion where he might be this morning?’
The manservant shook his head. ‘I regret that I do not, ma’am. Sir Richard made it plain last night that he did not intend to return until late morning, if then. He could be in any number of places, ma’am.’
Amy hesitated. ‘Then do you know where the lottery draw takes place? I am sure he must be going there and I could meet with him…’ Her voice trailed away and she felt herself blush. It was not that Marten had betrayed any surprise, for indeed his face was as impassive as ever. It was more that Amy felt that he must be surprised. She was hardly renowned for frequenting lottery draws any more than she was known for venturing into society.
‘The lottery draw takes place at the Guildhall, ma’am,’ Marten said calmly, quite as though Amy had only been enquiring after the weather. ‘If you would like me to carry a message to Sir Richard—?’
‘Yes, perhaps…’ Amy wavered. It was simpler by far to send Marten. Except that it was a fine day and she wanted a walk, and, if truth were told, she also wanted a little excitement. Her low spirits of the previous evening had not quite dissipated and a lottery draw would be an interesting spectacle to watch.
‘No, it is quite all right!’ she said, making a sudden decision and feeling quite reckless. ‘I shall go there myself! I have a letter to deliver in Holborn and it is a fine day for a walk.’
‘Very well, ma’am,’ Marten murmured. ‘Pray do not hesitate to call me if I can be of service.’
He strode softly away and closed the door to the servants’ quarters behind him. Amy was left in the hall. Before she c
ould change her mind, she sped up the stairs, removed her apron and donned a pelisse and an old chip bonnet. She was still tying the ribbons beneath her chin as she hurried back down the stairs and out of the front door. This was decidedly more exciting than polishing the silver or discussing menus with Cook, and as it was some distance to the Guildhall she had better start at once. It would never do to be late and miss the draw.
Amy had not expected the crowd to be so great. By the time that she reached the Guildhall, the press of people in the building was intense and she could barely move.
She soon realised that the chances of finding her brother in such a throng were very small indeed. She had thoroughly underestimated the appeal of the lottery.
There was a stage at one end of the hall and she could see figures moving upon it, setting up some complicated mechanical contraption that she realised must be the lottery wheel. She could smell gin and sweat and cheap perfume emanating from the bodies that pressed against hers, and she had to swallow hard to prevent herself from retching. The heat was building now and with it an excitement that ebbed and flowed through the crowd like the waves on the seashore. Amy felt it too; it was a tingling in her stomach, a shiver along the nerves. It was intoxicating, like the wine she had occasionally drunk, or the thrill of something unexpected. Very little that was out of the ordinary ever happened in Amy’s life, yet now she had a lottery ticket clutched tightly in her fingers and she felt as though anything could happen.
On her left side, Amy was pinned against a pillar by a fat woman with a large marketing basket. Several other people pressed against her back and a huge, red-faced gentleman in a straining, shiny waistcoat was squashed against her right-hand side. Since Amy was so tiny, she could not see over the heads of the people in front of her. After a few ineffectual pleas to be allowed through the crowd, which probably nobody even heard since she was addressing some very broad backs, she realised that she was very likely stuck fast until the lottery draw was over. Richard might be standing a mere twenty feet away, but if he was she had no way of knowing. She began to regret her quest.
She turned her head and caught sight of a familiar figure in the throng. Her heart skipped a beat. The Earl of Tallant was standing over to her left, leaning casually against the wall, engaged in conversation with a large gentleman whom Amy recognised as the Duke of Fleet. She tried to shrink away behind the broad back of the gentleman in the shiny waistcoat. She had no wish for Fleet and Joss Tallant to notice her at a lottery draw of all places. She could not believe that the Earl’s point had been proved so quickly. She had wished to avoid him, yet here he was. Some malign fate was definitely in play.
Her involuntary movement caught Joss Tallant’s eye and she saw him focus on her, one eyebrow raised in cynical amusement. Amy blushed. It was easy to read that look—she remembered her protestations the last time they had met, her declaration that she did not approve of gaming. Now he had seen her here it was no wonder he had a sceptical view of her claims. Amy felt vexed, her blush turning to one of annoyance.
‘Amy! Amy Bainbridge!’
It was not Sir Richard’s masculine tones that accosted Amy’s ears but the higher-pitched tones of a young lady and an excited one at that. Amy turned with difficulty, peered around the large gentleman, and saw a lady of fashion, with corn-gold hair and blue eyes in a beautiful oval face.
‘Excuse me, if you please!’ The lady fluttered her eyelashes at the fat man, who moved obligingly, stepping heavily on Amy’s foot in the process. Amy and the other girl almost fell into each other’s arms as the crowd pushed them together again.
‘Amy Bainbridge!’
‘Amanda Makepeace!’
‘Good gracious, wherever have you been this year past?’
‘I wondered what had happened to you!’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I am up in London to stay with my aunt for a spell—’
They were both speaking at once, clutching at each other. Amy had last seen Amanda when the two of them had been doing the season three years before, Amanda as a young bride and Amy in her come-out year. Then George Bainbridge had lost all his money, Amy had retired to the country and Amanda’s husband had carried her off to Ireland. The friends had kept in touch by letter, although Amanda was an erratic writer, and after she was widowed the letters had stopped altogether.
‘I can scarce believe it!’ Amanda said, her eyes shining. ‘Amy Bainbridge—it is almost too good to be true! I lost your London address a little while ago and thought never to see you again! I should have known I might find you here. The world and his wife come to the lottery!’
‘This is my first visit,’ Amy said, looking shy. ‘I had no notion it would be so busy! Oh, Amanda, it is lovely to see you again! You are looking well…’ She eyed Amanda’s sky-blue dress and porcelain pale face with envy. She felt hot and frumpish in her ancient sprigged muslin and she was sure that her face was flushed red. ‘Where does your aunt live? You must come to tea so that we may talk properly—’
Those nearby turned to shush them, giving them glares and sharp glances.
‘The draw is about to take place!’ Amanda whispered in Amy’s ear. ‘We must have a coze later, but for now we must not miss the numbers. Oh, I declare it is so exciting!’ She fumbled in her reticule to retrieve her ticket. ‘I play the lottery every time I am up in Town, which is not that often, of course, but the rest of the time I dream about what I would do were I to win! I am quite comfortably circumstanced these days—enough to live in the country anyway—but who would turn away the chance of up to thirty thousand pounds? Thirty thousand, Amy! Lud, it is a fortune!’
Amy felt a little faint. She had had no idea that the lottery prize could be so huge. Yet no doubt Richard could run through thirty thousand pounds in one sitting at White’s. Fortunes were relative.
The two wheels were starting to turn now and the crowd was starting to roar. Amy craned to see what was happening. Two boys were up on the stage, drawing numbers from the two wheels.
‘Bluecoat boys,’ Amanda whispered. ‘One picks the number of the winning tickets from the left-hand wheel and the other chooses the amount of the prize from the right.’ She was positively dancing with excitement. ‘Wait, what number was that? Number two thousand five hundred and eighty-eight wins—what? Twenty thousand pounds?’
‘Thirty thousand,’ the fat man said, screwing up his own ticket in disgust and looking as though he would spit on the floor were it not for the presence of the ladies. ‘One winner takes all today, madam. Thirty thousand pounds.’
‘Not I,’ Amanda said regretfully, stuffing her ticket back in her reticule. ‘Hey day! I must wait another few months, I suppose, for my chance of fortune. Amy…Amy?’
Amy barely heard the excited sound of voices roaring in her ears, for in her hand was a small, crumpled lottery ticket with the numbers two, five, eight and eight on it. She stared until the figures blurred before her eyes.
‘I believe that there must be some mistake,’ she said faintly.
Amanda squinted at the ticket, then grabbed her arm. ‘Amy!’ she exclaimed softly. ‘You have won thirty thousand pounds!’ She threw a sharp look over her shoulder as the crowd jostled them. Everyone was starting to move towards the door now, ripping up their tickets, chattering with good humour or sometimes with bad. Amy saw one man throw his ticket down and jump on it in disgust.
‘Put your ticket in your reticule,’ Amanda whispered in her ear, ‘and do not give any sign that you have won. That would be most dangerous!’
Amy obeyed as though in a dream and obediently allowed Amanda to take her arm and steer her towards the exit. The words thirty thousand pounds hammered in her brain. The momentum of the crowd carried her along. All about her was noise and colour, whirling through her head until she thought she might faint. It was with the greatest relief that she felt the fresh air on her face and allowed Amanda to help her on to the steps outside, past ragged groups of people all discussing the draw
and the identity of the person who might have won.
‘It could have been me,’ she heard one woman say regretfully to another, as she ground her ticket beneath her heel. She drew a dirty baby closer to her breast. ‘I need food for Emily now that Jack is gone—’
Amy jerked convulsively and Amanda bent closer to her ear. ‘Do not listen, Amy! If I know you, you’ll be giving your ticket away and the shirt off your back. All the world needs money—why, by the look of you, you could do with a deal of it yourself!’
Amy suddenly remembered just why she could not give the money away even if she wanted. It did not belong to her. It was Richard’s ticket and Richard’s prize. The thirty thousand pounds belonged to her brother and she would have to hand it over as soon as she saw him. She felt a breathless mixture of relief and rebellion, relief that the decision was out of her hands and rebellion at the thought of wasting a fortune. She knew that Richard would gamble every penny away as surely as the sun rose in the morning. If only the money were hers…There were so many things that she could do with thirty thousand pounds. Amy felt a sudden and entirely natural rush of disappointment. There was no point in thinking what she might do with such a fortune. It was not her money. She would not see a penny of it. For a second her hand clenched on the reticule with its precious cargo and then she relaxed again. It was unfair—life was unfair, but there was nothing that she could do about it. She would not be spending the money on herself and she certainly could not use it to do good for others. She had best disabuse herself of any such thoughts at once, before she was tempted.
‘Come along, Amy,’ Amanda whispered urgently. ‘We must get you home safely. It would never do for anyone to realise that you hold the winning ticket! Why, you would be kidnapped before you could go a step!’
Chapter Four
The air outside the Guildhall was fresh and cool and reviving. As her head cleared, Amy realised that she was not sure what happened next and hung back, drawing Amanda into the shelter of the portico.
The Earl's Prize Page 6