The Foundling

by Georgette Heyer

  Tom, whose mind knew no half-shades, had swiftly passed from suspicion of his benefactor to wholehearted admiration for him. His scruples having been relieved by the Duke’s promise to render a strict account of any financial transaction incurred on his behalf to his father, he accepted a guinea to spend with alacrity, and assured the Duke of his ability to amuse himself while he was absent on his own affairs.

  Accordingly, the Duke set out once more on his quest of the Bird in Hand, choosing this time to go by the pike-road as far as to the cross-road leading to Shefford. He was obliged to traverse some distance down a rough lane, but a little way beyond the village of Arlesey the Bird in Hand came into sight, a solitary alehouse standing amongst some tumbledown outhouses and barns, and displaying a weather-beaten and much obliterated sign on two rusty chains which creaked when the wind swayed them. The house was a small one, and might from its situation have been supposed to have catered merely for farm-labourers. It had a neglected appearance, but an impression that it was slightly sinister the Duke attributed to his imagination. He drew up, and alighted from the gig, tethering the cob to a post. At this hour of the day there were no signs of life about the inn, and when he reached the door, and entered the tap-room into which it led, he found no one there. The room was small, and fetid with the fumes of stale smoke from countless clay pipes, and the droppings of gin and ale. The Duke’s nostrils curled fastidiously, and he walked over to an inner door, and pushed it open, calling: ‘House! house!’

  After a prolonged pause, a spare individual in a plush waistcoat shining with grease shuffled out from the nether regions of the hostelry, and stood staring at the Duke with his mouth open and his watery eyes popping out of their sockets. Several teeth were missing from his jaw, and a broken nose added nothing to the comeliness of his face. The sight of a well-dressed stranger within the precincts of the inn appeared to bereave him of all power of speech.

  ‘Good afternoon!’ said the Duke pleasantly. ‘Have you a Mr Liversedge staying at this inn?’

  The man in the plush waistcoat blinked at him, and said enigmatically: ‘Ah!’

  The Duke drew out his pocket-book, and produced from it his cousin’s card. ‘Be so good as to take that up to him!’ he said.

  The man in the plush waistcoat wiped his hand mechanically on his breeches, and took the card, and stood holding it doubtfully, and still staring at the Duke. The sight of the pocket-book had made his eyes glisten a little, and the Duke could only be glad that he had had the forethought to leave the bulk of his money at the White Horse. The presence of the pistol in his pocket was also a comfort.

  He was just about to request his bemused new acquaintance to bestir himself, when a door apparently leading out to the stableyard opened, and a burly man with grizzled hair, and a square, ill-shaven countenance appeared upon the scene. He cast the Duke a swift, suspicious look out of his narrowed eyes, and asked in a wary tone what his business might be. The man in the plush waistcoat mutely held out Mr Ware’s elegantly engraved visiting-card.

  ‘I have business with Mr Liversedge,’ said the Duke.

  This piece of information seemed to afford the newcomer no gratification, for he shot another and still more suspicious look at Gilly, and removed the card from his henchman’s hand. It took him a little time to spell out the legend it bore, but he did it at last, and it seemed to the Duke that although his suspicion did not abate, it became tinged with uneasiness. He fixed his eyes, which held no very pleasant expression, on the Duke, and palpably weighed him up. Apparently he saw nothing in the slight, boyish figure before him to occasion more than contempt, for his uneasy look vanished, and he gave a hoarse chuckle, and said: ‘Ho! it is, is it? Well, I dunno, but I’ll see.’

  He then mounted a creaking stair, and the Duke was left to endure the gaze of the man in the plush waistcoat.

  After a prolonged interval, the landlord reappeared. The Duke had caught the echoes of his voice raised in argument in some room above; and it seemed to him when he came downstairs that his uneasiness had returned. The Duke should have been able to sympathise with him: he was feeling a little uneasy himself.

  ‘You’ll please to come up, sir,’ said the landlord, with the air of one repeating a hard-learned lesson.

  The Duke, who had slid one hand unobtrusively into the pocket of his drab Benjamin, and closed it round the reassuring butt of Mr Joseph Manton’s pistol, drew a breath, and trod up the stairs.

  He was led down a passage to a room at the back of the house. The landlord thrust the door wide, and announced him in simple terms: ‘Here he is, Sa – sir!’ he said.

  The Duke found himself upon the threshold of a square and not uncomfortable apartment which had been fitted up as a parlour. It was very much cleaner than the rest of the house, and it was plain that efforts had been made to achieve a semblance of elegance. The curtains, though faded, had lately been washed; the table in the centre of the room was covered with a red cloth; and one or two portable objects seemed to indicate that the guest at present inhabiting the room had brought with him various articles of furniture of his own.

  Standing before a small fire, was a middle-aged gentleman of somewhat portly habit of body, and a bland, pallid countenance surmounted by a fine crop of iron-grey hair, swept up into a fashionable Brutus. He was dressed with great propriety in a dark cloth coat, and light pantaloons; the points of his shirt-collar brushed his whiskers; his cravat was arranged with nicety; and it was only upon closer examination that the Duke perceived that his elegant coat was sadly shiny, and his shirt by no means innocent of darns. There was a strong resemblance between him and the landlord, but his countenance had an air of unshakable good-humour, which the landlord’s lacked, and nothing could have exceeded the gentility with which he came forward, holding out a plump hand, and saying: ‘Ah, Mr Ware! I am very happy to receive this visit from you!’

  The Duke had by this time visualised the possibility of his corpse being cast into the evil-smelling pond beside the inn, but he could see no obligation on him to take Mr Liversedge’s hand, and he merely bowed. Mr Liversedge, whose eyes had been running over him shrewdly, smiled more widely than ever, and drew out a chair from the table, and said: ‘Let us be seated, sir! Alas, you have come upon a very painful errand! I assure you I feel for you, sir, for I have been young myself, but my duty is to my unfortunate niece. Ah, Mr Ware, you little know the pain and grief – I may say the chagrin – you have inflicted on one whose tender heart has been so undeservedly smitten!’ Overcome by the picture his own words had conjured up, he disappeared for a moment or two into a large handkerchief.

  The Duke sat down, and laid his hat on the table. He said in his diffident way: ‘Indeed, I am sorry for that, Mr Liversedge. I should not wish to cause any female pain or grief.’

  Mr Liversedge raised his bowed head. ‘There,’ he said, much moved, ‘speaks a member of the Quality! I knew it, Mr Ware! True Blue! When my niece has wept upon this bosom, declaring herself forsaken and betrayed, My love, I have said, depend upon it a scion of that noble house will not fail to do you right! I thank God, Mr Ware, that my faith in humanity is not to be rudely shaken!’

  ‘I hope not, indeed,’ said the Duke. ‘But, you know, I had no notion that your niece’s affections were so deeply engaged.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Mr Liversedge, ‘you are young! you do not yet know the depths of woman’s heart!’

  ‘No,’ agreed the Duke. ‘But will money allay the – the pangs of grief and chagrin?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Liversedge simply.

  The Duke could not help smiling at this. He said in a meek tone: ‘Forgive me, Mr Liversedge, but is not a – a transaction of this nature repugnant to a man of your sensibility?’

  ‘Mr Ware,’ said Mr Liversedge, ‘I shall not conceal from you that it is deeply repugnant. I am, as you have divined, a man of sensibility, and it is with profound reluctan
ce that I have compelled myself to take up the cudgels on behalf of my orphaned niece.’

  ‘At her instigation?’ murmured the Duke.

  Mr Liversedge surveyed him, a calculating look in his eye. ‘My niece,’ he said, ‘has been put to great expense on account of expectations raised, Mr Ware. I need not enumerate. But bride-clothes, you know, sir, and –’

  ‘Five thousand pounds?’ said Gilly, in bewildered accents.

  They looked at one another. ‘I am persuaded,’ said Mr Liversedge reproachfully, ‘that you would not wish to do anything unhandsome, sir. Considering the elevated nature of my niece’s expectations, five thousand pounds cannot be considered an extortionate figure.’

  ‘But I am quite unable to pay such a sum,’ said Gilly.

  Mr Liversedge spread out his hands. ‘It is very disagreeable for me to be obliged to remind you, sir, that you are nearly related to one who, I am persuaded, would not regard such a trifling sum any more than you or I would regard a crown piece.’

  ‘Sale?’ said the Duke. ‘Oh, he would never pay it!’

  Mr Liversedge said in a shocked voice: ‘I cannot be brought to believe, sir, that his Grace would grudge it!’

  The Duke shook his head sadly. ‘I do not stand next to him in the succession, you know. I have two uncles, and a cousin before me. And my father, Mr Liversedge, is not a rich man.’

  ‘I cannot credit that his Grace would permit his name to be dragged through the mire of the Courts!’ said Mr Liversedge, with resolution.

  ‘And I am sure,’ said the Duke gently, ‘that you would shrink from dragging your niece’s name through that mire.’

  ‘Shrink, yes,’ acknowledged Mr Liversedge. ‘But I shall steel myself, Mr Ware. That is, I should do so if his Grace were to prove adamant. But what a shocking thing if the head of such a noble house should have so little regard for his name!’

  ‘I wonder what course you had the intention of pursuing if I had fled to Gretna Green with your niece?’ said the Duke thoughtfully. ‘For I cannot suppose that an alliance for her with anyone so lacking in fortune and expectation as myself was what you had in mind!’

  ‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr Liversedge, without a blush. ‘But she is a minor, after all! little more than a child! The marriage might have been set aside – at a price.’

  The Duke laughed. ‘Come, we begin to understand one another better! You may as well own, sir, that your object is to squeeze money from my noble relative, no matter on what pretext.’

  ‘Between these four walls, Mr Ware,’ said Liversedge cheerfully. ‘Between these four walls!’

  ‘How much it must disgust a man of your sensibility to be reduced to such straits!’ observed the Duke.

  Liversedge sighed. ‘It does, sir. In fact, it is quite out of my line.’

  ‘What is your line?’ enquired the Duke curiously.

  Mr Liversedge waved an airy hand. ‘Cards, sir, cards! I flatter myself I had established myself with every prospect of success. But Fate singled me out to be the object of vile persecution, Mr Ware. I am – temporarily, of course – without the means to re-establish myself suitably, and you see me forced to eke out a miserable existence in surroundings which, I am persuaded, you will easily descry to be totally unfitting for any man of gentility. You, Mr Ware, who are putting up, I make no doubt, in the comfort of the George – an excellent hostelry! – can have little notion –’

  ‘No, no, above my touch!’ murmured the Duke demurely. ‘The White Horse!’

  ‘The White Horse,’ said Mr Liversedge feelingly, ‘may not aspire to the elegance of the George, but compared with this hovel in which I am compelled to sojourn, Mr Ware, it is a palace!’

  The Duke did not deny it, and after a slight pause during which Mr Liversedge appeared to dwell longingly on the amenities afforded by post-inns, that worthy gentleman heaved a sigh, and continued in a more optimistic tone: ‘However, I do not complain. Life, Mr Ware, is full of vicissitudes! Let me but once come about, and I do not despair of finding just the locality for the opening of a house where gentlemen with a taste for play may be sure of finding entertainment. In all modesty, Mr Ware, I will say that I have a talent above the ordinary for such enterprises. If ever I should have the happiness to welcome you to any house under my direction, I fancy you will be pleased with what you will find. Nothing shoddy, I assure you, and admittance by password only. I shall pay particular attention to the quality of the wine in my cellar: nothing could be more fatal to the success of such a venture than to fob off one’s patrons with inferior wine! But to achieve my object, sir, I must have Substance. Without Substance the result, if any, must be shabby, and, as such, too far beneath me to be considered.’

  ‘You are frank!’ said the Duke. ‘My cousin Sale, in fact, is to set you up in some gaming-hell!’

  ‘That,’ said Mr Liversedge, ‘is to put the matter with vulgar bluntness, Mr Ware.’

  ‘I fear I must wound your susceptibilities more deeply still! It is not your niece who makes this demand, but you, and the whole affair is a fudge!’

  Mr Liversedge smiled at him with great patience. ‘My dear sir, you wrong me, indeed you do!’

  ‘I am very sure I do not! You have owned to me –’

  A plump, uplifted hand checked him. ‘Between these four walls, Mr Ware!’ Liversedge said, with a return to his reproachful manner.

  The Duke stared at him. Suddenly he said: ‘And what, sir, if I were to express my willingness to marry your niece? Have you thought of that?’

  ‘Of everything!’ Liversedge assured him affably. ‘I, of course, with my niece’s happiness in mind, should be overjoyed. But it would not do for you at all, Mr Ware, and your noble relatives, I fear, would do what lay in their power to prevent such an unequal match. Alas that it should be so, but it is the way of the world, after all, and if I were your father, sir, I confess I should strain every nerve to put a bar between you and my poor Belinda. Love-begotten, you know. Dear me, yes! Quite ineligible! You are young, and impetuous, but I feel sure your relatives must see it as I do myself.’

  ‘Mr Liversedge,’ said the Duke, ‘I do not believe that your niece has the least notion of suing me for breach of promise! You think to out-jockey me, to take me in like a goose, in fact! This is all a hoax! I daresay your niece knows nothing of the matter!’

  Mr Liversedge shook his head sorrowfully. ‘It pains me, Mr Ware, to meet with this unmerited mistrust! it pains me excessively! I did not look to have my good faith so doubted; I did not expect, in face of all that has passed between you and my unfortunate niece, to be met with what I must – reluctantly, believe me! – term callousness! If you were an older man, sir, I should be strongly tempted to request you to name your friends. As it is, I shall content myself with bringing before you irrefutable proof of the integrity of my actions.’

  He rose to his feet as he spoke, and the Duke followed suit rather warily. Liversedge smiled his understanding, and said: ‘Have no fear, Mr Ware! A guest under my roof, you know, I must hold sacred, however moved I may be. Not, I beg you to believe, that I lay the least claim to this roof. But the principle holds! Pray be seated, for I shall not be long gone!’

  He bowed with great dignity, and went out of the room, leaving the Duke to wonder what might be going to happen next. He walked over to the window restlessly, and stood fidgeting with the blind-cord. As he stood there, he had the satisfaction, at least, of seeing the landlord and the man in the plush waistcoat walking across the dirty yard with pails in their hands. From the medley of squeals in the distance he inferred that they were on their way to feed the pigs. He had not soberly supposed that either of them would be called in to overpower him, for he could not perceive any good end to be achieved through such methods, but he felt more at his ease with them out of earshot. Mr Liversedge might be an entertaining scoundrel, but a scoundrel he cert
ainly was, and would probably stop at very little to extort money from his victims. It was evident that he considered the supposed Mr Ware a negligible opponent. The Duke had seen the indulgent contempt in his smile, and had done nothing to dispel it. He was by this time quite determined not to allow himself to be bled of as much as a farthing. By fair means or foul – and he would feel very little compunction at using foul means against a gentleman of Liversedge’s kidney – he must wrest Matthew’s letters, which Liversedge had in all probability gone away to collect, away from him. And since it seemed unlikely that this could be achieved without Mr Manton’s pistol coming into play, he was happy to see the landlord and his henchman going off to feed the pigs.

  Mr Liversedge was absent for some ten minutes, but presently the Duke heard his ponderous tread, and turned round to face the door.

  It opened; Mr Liversedge’s voice said unctuously: ‘Come in, my love! Come and tell Mr Ware how deeply he has wounded your tender heart!’

  The Duke jumped, for this was a possibility he had not envisaged. The thought darted across his mind that if his true identity should be guessed it might occur to Mr Liversedge’s fertile brain that the Duke of Sale, held to ransom, would prove a more profitable investment than his niece’s broken heart. His hand slid once more into the pocket of his coat, to grasp the butt of his pistol, and he braced himself to face the inevitable disclosure.