‘You see before you, ma’am, a most unlucky lover.’
‘Unlucky! You, George? It cannot be that they look askance on your suit. You, who are now to be a duke, wooing a little country miss no one has ever heard of? Fiddlestick!’
Mainwaring laughed. ‘Fiddlestick it is, ma’am. Of course you are right. That is not at all where my trouble lies. Miss Purchas’s family—or, to be precise, her banker uncle and her vulgar aunt, greeted me with the greatest empressement and indeed I was like to run away for very disgust at their enthusiasm, which seemed to me somewhat strange when you remember how they put me off when first I wrote to offer for their niece’s hand.’
‘Indeed I do recollect something of the sort. They wrote, did they not, to say she was but young yet, and had not fully recovered from the shock of her father’s and brothers’ death—and they must beg you to give her time. Some such nonsense as that, was it not?’
‘Just so. A strange letter, I thought it, almost insolent, but urgent in its plea that I put off my proposed visit. And so I did, of course, since my father and brother were killed, the very day I received it, in that damnable accident—I beg your pardon.’
‘No need. It was damnable. And all the more reason, as I’ve told you before, why you must marry. No need to beat about the bush with you, I know. If that father and brother of yours left you anything but debts, I’m wide of the mark. And you know what an expense your grandfather is. I’m a selfish old woman, George. And Miss Purchas has £80,000, if she has a penny.’ It was very far from being a non sequitur. ‘But to your story, George. You’ve been down to Sussex and seen the girl?’
‘I have indeed. That uncle of hers kept putting me off with this excuse and that so in the end I simply wrote announcing my arrival next day—and arrived.’
‘And?’
‘Was greeted with unction by the uncle, with titters of pure fright by the aunt.’
‘But the girl herself, George,’ interrupted his grandmother, ‘what of her?’
‘Patience, ma’am, I am coming to her. She was still mighty indisposed, they told me, over her father and brothers—I tell you, ma’am, though they were my friends I was tired of their very names by now. But I should see her tomorrow...For tonight I must make shift with such poor company as they and their ward could offer. For there is a ward, a poor booby of a country boy with a scarlet face and a stammer, who looked at me all evening with such unconcealed loathing that I was soon aware of a part of my trouble.’
‘He loves the girl himself?’ said the Duchess.
‘Indubitably. He looked daggers and hinted at insults till I was glad to get myself to my room without giving him the thrashing he deserved. And then, tossing all night on as hard a bed as ever I encountered in Spain, I determined to show them all a clean pair of heels in the morning and be damned to my promise to Purchas.’
‘But you did not?’
‘No, I wish I had. But in the morning I was summoned with such fanfare to Miss Purchas’s presence as if she had been the Princess Charlotte herself. And, I must confess it, curiosity got the better of me. Having come so far, I would see my enchanted princess, if I died in the attempt.’
‘I am glad to see that you have not done so.’
‘No; but I am not sure that is any cause for congratulation. I am not dead, but I am engaged to be married, which may be worse.’
‘Oh, my poor George, is it as bad as that? I feared these romantic notions of yours might lead to no good. But take heart, remember the £80,000 and forget the girl who brings it to you. Besides, she cannot be so bad as all that; her brothers were your friends...But tell me quick, what is she like?’
‘What like? A poor little white mouse of a thing, red eyes and all, for it was all too evident she had cried all night and was no better pleased to see me than I her. She caught her breath, swallowed a sob and made me a country mouse’s curtsy, and I tell you ma’am, if I had not been so amazed, I should have been sorry for the child. For indeed, short of witchcraft, how Richard and Francis Purchas should come to have so insignificant a chit of a sister is what I cannot bring myself to understand. I never heard but good of their mother, either.’
‘Oh, poor George,’ said his grandmother again. ‘Is she indeed such a cipher? And I remember I cried her up to you as the very wife for a politician.’
‘For a politician? She is no wife for a country curate. She could not say good-morning to a parishioner at the church door without blushing and begging his pardon. I tell you, ma’am, I am in despair.’
‘Best cut your losses, George. Cry off and be done with it. It will but be a nine days’ wonder.’
‘Indeed, ma’am, I tried. Oh how I tried. I took her by her little limp paw and told her I feared I had discomposed her by proposing for her so soon—God help me—after her father’s and brothers’ deaths...I begged her pardon, said I would not trouble her peace for the world...we would forget it all for a while...and a plenty more mealy-mouthed stuff of that kind by which I hoped to talk myself out of my scrape and indeed flattered myself I had well nigh done so when, hey presto, in comes my friend the uncle, for all the world as if he had been listening at the door, as, I have no doubt, he had, congratulates me on our good understanding, takes her hand from mine (it had got left there, I cannot think how) gives it to me all over again: “Take her, my boy, she is yours,” for all the world like the last act of a tragedy.’
The old lady could not help laughing. ‘Capoted,’ she said. ‘I had not thought it could happen to you, George. So what did you do?’
‘Bore it with the best grace I might. One look told me I should get no help from my betrothed. I could have pitied her terror of that uncle of hers if I had not pitied myself so much more.’
‘It is an engagement then?’
‘Yes; signed, sealed and delivered, but not to be gazetted for a few months: “Till you are out of black gloves and we all know each other better,” says my new uncle, wrings me by the hand and begs me to consider his house (or, to be precise, his niece’s) my own. But that was too much: another day there and I’d not have answered for the consequences. I pled urgent business, my father’s death, anything, nothing...And, the business settled, he was as glad to be rid of me as I to be gone. As for my white mouse, she never said another word, but snuffled a little in her corner and let me kiss her hand. It will be a lesson to me, ma’am, against knight errantry.’
‘And yet you have but proved yourself right. The uncle is wicked; the maiden does need rescuing.’
‘Yes, but I am the wrong rescuer. I can well imagine that the bumpkin of a ward—what was his name, Edward, Edmund something-or-other—might well be more to miss’s taste than I. But it is too late now; I have made my bed...’
‘And Miss Purchas must lie in it?’ said the old lady with her wicked twinkle. ‘Well, I feel for you, George, but £80,000 is a powerful consolation.’ She yawned and rang her bell. ‘Now I am going to dismiss you. You are quite right; it would be an absurdity for me to stay up for Miss Fairbank who will no doubt end by taking breakfast with the Duke.’
He took his leave of her. Now to find Miles Mandeville and ensure that he breathe no word of Jennifer’s adventures. Not for the first time, he found himself thus thinking of her by her first name and took himself to task for it. But, he explained to himself, it was merely that he was convinced that while Fairbank was not her name, Jennifer certainly was.
How strange it was, he thought, as he alighted from his carriage in Piccadilly, that he should be concerned with two so dissimilar Jennifers. For the Sussex white mouse to whom he found himself, albeit reluctantly, betrothed, bore the same name as his London heroine. It was the only similarity between them. Miss Fairbank might get into scrapes but at least she was no white mouse.
He turned into St James’s Street and proceeded to make the rounds of the various clubs and gaming houses he knew Mandeville to frequent. Drawing a blank, he came, at last, as the first light broke down Piccadilly, to Watier’s, where he found
the masquerade still continuing, though few of the participants pretended any longer to either sobriety or anonymity.
Here, he found Mandeville surrounded by Harriette Wilson and her sisters. Harriette, who had once written Mainwaring one of her famous letters of invitation, beckoned to him to join them. This suited him admirably. He did so and observed with satisfaction that Mandeville was considerably drunker than his companions. Cold sober himself, he should find it easy enough to provoke Mandeville by a series of pinpricks into a state of fury. And indeed Mandeville, who had been drinking hard to drown his anxiety over the possible consequences of his night’s work, was soon whipped up into simmering, heedless fury. Mainwaring judged that the time was ripe.
‘Come,’ he held out his hand to Harriette, who was sitting on Mandeville’s lap, ‘a turn of the room with me, Miss Wilson?’ Taking her hand, he contrived ‘accidentally’ to upset Mandeville’s champagne into his lap. Mandeville sprang up with an oath, accusing him, quite rightly, of doing it on purpose.
‘No,’ said Mainwaring blandly, ‘but I will, if you wish.’
The matter was soon settled. They would fight that very morning. Mandeville insisted on it and, after protesting in vain, the friend who had agreed to act as his second hurried him away in search of black coffee. The crowd around them merely thought it was one more quarrel provoked by Harriette Wilson and her sisters—the dangerous Three Graces. Having made sure that this was the case, Mainwaring went calmly home to change his clothes and collect his pistols, then set forth without delay to Wimbledon Common where the meeting was to take place. So far, so good. The question now was whether Jennifer’s position demanded that he kill Mandeville. He could do it, he knew, easily enough, but the idea was repugnant to him. The man was drunk...Besides, he did not particularly wish to have to leave the country. He would have to content himself with giving Mandeville a salutary fright.
Mandeville, meanwhile, had been sobering up much too rapidly for his own peace of mind. A coward as well as a bully, he had always before seen to it that he fought only men like himself who could be relied on to lose their nerve or their aim. Mainwaring, he began, unhappily to remember, was a very different character. He had heard enough about his army career to know it was idle to hope his aim might be false. If only he could apologise...But Mainwaring was technically the offending party and it was for him to do so. Mandeville arrived at the windmill where they were to meet a thoroughly chastened man.
Mainwaring and his friend were there already with the surgeon. The preliminaries were soon accomplished. The time was near...The seconds drew apart for a moment to examine the pistols. Mainwaring spoke: ‘Would you prefer,’ he asked, ‘to be killed outright or merely winged?’
Mandeville blanched: ‘You are pleased to jest.’
‘On the contrary, I assure you, I was never more serious in my life. I can do the one as easily as the other. And as readily. Promise me your absolute silence over this night’s work and it shall be but the right arm.’
‘The right?’ Mandeville’s nerve had completely given by now, his chances of saving himself by shooting first were gone. ‘I’ll promise anything.’
‘Good. Then we will make it the left. It would be a pity to interfere with your elegant taking of snuff. But remember,’ the seconds were returning, ‘one word of what happened tonight and I meet you again—fatally.’
They took their places, Mandeville half conscious with fright.
The signal was given, he fired, simultaneously felt Mainwaring’s bullet enter his left arm and saw, with amazement, that by pure chance his own bullet had grazed Mainwaring’s cheek.
Mainwaring came forward, dabbing the wound with his handkerchief, and shook hands. ‘Remember your promise,’ he said to his half-fainting adversary, then, handing him over to the care of the surgeon, said good-bye to the seconds, jumped into his curricle and drove rapidly away. The streets were waking up as he drove back into London, but it was still early. Yielding to a sudden, irresistible temptation, he swathed himself once more in his domino, donned his mask which effectively covered the bullet graze and turned his horse towards Devonshire House. It was suddenly important to ascertain whether Jennifer had indeed finished the evening in the company of the Duke of Devonshire as his grandmother had prophesied. Besides, he told himself, he was in honour bound to give her early information of Mandeville’s silencing.
But he was doomed to disappointment. Jennifer had been carried home at what seemed to her a deplorably early hour by Lady Beresford. Pamela had seized the first opportunity to take her mother aside and tell her Mandeville’s bad news. Lady Beresford was at once on thorns. The return of Mainwaring, and his interference in the affair, boded ill for her. She must get to her mother’s as fast as possible and concert a strategic retreat with Marsham.
When they set Jennifer down in Grosvenor Square she trumped up an excuse of anxiety for her mother to come in with her, only to find that both the Duchess and Marsham had retired. She heard, however, with alarm that Mainwaring had spent some time with his grandmother first, and went home in a great state of fright and fury, which she took out upon her daughter, whose fault it all inevitably became. Pamela retired to bed in tears and Lady Beresford sat down to undo her face and fabricate a new plan.
CHAPTER XI
Waking late next day, Jennifer learned that the Duchess was already gone out leaving a note for her in which, after explaining her absence, she went on: ‘George tells me you were quite the belle of the ball. Best have a quiet day to recover from your late night, for we are promised to join Lady Sefton’s party at Almack’s tonight.’ And then, casually, ‘George has good news: his engagement is a settled thing at last.’
Tearing up the note, Jennifer walked to the window with an angry swish of her silk négligé. Why had the Duchess thought it necessary to write to her? The reminder about Lady Sefton was too obviously a mere pretext. Did she think it necessary to warn her of Lord Mainwaring’s engagement? Intolerable thought!
But so much was intolerable. She paced up and down the room, going drearily over the events of the night before. Why had Mandeville lured her to Watier’s? In pursuit of some private vengeance of his own or in concert with Marsham and perhaps even Lady Beresford? Of the seriousness of the threat she had no doubt, nor of her debt of gratitude to Mainwaring for his intervention. But this was the worst of all. She could not forgive him for having found her in such compromising circumstances, still less for having deserted her so callously after their arrival at Devonshire House. He might at least have given himself the pain of one dance with her...But then he had obviously been prepared to think the worst of her from the beginning. He had jumped at once to the conclusion that it was her own folly that had brought her to Watier’s. It was unpardonable. So, too, were his strictures on her acceptance of Mandeville’s escort. How was she supposed to know he was unreliable? She had seen him often enough in Mainwaring’s own company. And as for the last taunt, about her accepting advice from an abigail—it was beyond forgiveness.
Her angry cornering of the room had brought her back to the window and she stopped for a moment to look out. A barrel-organ was playing Cherry Ripe in the square. The trees were in their first leaf, the grass was green; it was spring. On an impulse, she rang and ordered Starlight to be brought round. Changing hurriedly into her habit, she refused to let herself remember that it was Mainwaring who had arranged for Starlight to be housed in the Duchess’s stable and for a groom to be available to ride with her. She was much too angry with him to be fair.
Out of doors, she found the fresh air soothing and set forward more cheerfully for the park. If only, when she got there, she could let Starlight out in a good gallop instead of being compelled to the decorous paces of society. Almost, for a moment, she was tempted to return home and face her uncle. Life in London had become intolerable, her whole position a false pretence, her path bedevilled by unknown enemies. And, as a last straw, she had learned by accident only the day before that Lucy Faversham
, on whom she had perhaps absurdly relied to extricate her from her difficulties, was to stay several months more in the north, where her father was busy settling his brother’s estate. For the first time, she began to realise what it was to face London alone.
More and more, as she became aware of the complexities and pitfalls of society, she understood how rash she had been to leave her uncle’s protection. If protection, she told herself angrily, it could be called. But the fact remained that her chances of getting out of the scrape in which she found herself without irrevocable damage to her good name were slight indeed. She had been mad to run away, madder still to let Mainwaring plant her, so casually, upon his grandmother. The stormy day of discovery lay inevitably before her. She could see neither how to avoid, nor how to ride it out. Or rather, suddenly brutal, she made herself face it: when she had let Mainwaring impose her upon his grandmother she had thought...She had imagined...She had dreamed...Enough of that. She had been mistaken. He was engaged to someone else, some puling Sussex heiress who would, no doubt, bore him to extinction and bear him ten children.
The thought was unbearable. She was glad to be distracted by the problem of crossing Park Lane and entering the park. Successfully dodging between Lord Petersham’s brown carriage and Mrs King’s yellow one, she turned Starlight’s head resolutely away from the fashionable end of the park. It was early still for the beau-monde’s promenade, but she wished to take no chances; she was in no mood for flirtation and gossip today. She wanted to ride among trees, not people; to be miserable at leisure, to think.
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