Star-Crossed Summer

by Sarah Stanley

  ‘I’m his second cousin, my lord.’

  ‘All I want is to be tipped the wink about his decision. Damn it all, not only do I refuse to be defeated by my scheming bitch of a wife, but I also intend to make money out of it as well! I never imagined that my thrice-cursed marriage would cause more flutters in Belvedere’s than Wellington’s final tilt with Boney!’

  Topweather hurried to open the outer door. ‘I will be in touch with you the moment I learn anything, Lord St Clair.’

  ‘See that you are, Topweather. Baynsdon must find for me, d’you hear?’ His lordship stomped out angrily, and Topweather closed the door thankfully, and then saw Beth. He raked her from head to toe, and evidently found her much to his liking, for his face creased into a rather oily smile as he crossed lightly toward her, almost on tiptoe. ‘Why, madam, I had no idea you were here.’ He bowed over her hand, holding her fingers longer than was necessary and thus making her uncomfortably aware of him. ‘May I be of assistance?’ he enquired.

  ‘You are seeking a tenant for a property?’ She drew her hand away.

  ‘I have many properties on my books, Miss…?’

  ‘Mrs Alder. I am a widow.’ He glanced at her far from sombre clothes, especially the area of her breasts. ‘My husband passed away five years ago,’ she said, annoyed to feel the need to explain, and filled with distaste by his obvious male interest.

  ‘You must have married exceedingly young, Mrs Alder,’ he replied smoothly, perhaps intending it to be a compliment, or perhaps to convey his suspicion that she was not telling the truth. Neither possibility was pleasing, and when she didn’t answer he cleared his throat. ‘I, er, I have no idea which property interests you.’

  ‘I saw an advertisement regarding an isolated house on the coast.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Please come this way, and I will show you the property.’ He glanced at the clerk. ‘Jones? Some tea, if you please.’

  She got up to enter the other office, and was disagreeably aware of his hand resting against her waist as he ushered her toward a green leather chair that faced his cluttered desk. The room still hung with Lord St Clair’s cigar smoke, a blue haze that floated and swirled in the draught from the door. As she sat down, she knew that Topweather was leaning over her in order to ogle her breasts. Not only that, he was rubbing his right hand against the front of his breeches. Revolted, she wished she hadn’t come here, but it was too late now, and anyway, she really was interested in the house. Topweather went around the desk to sit down and rummage through a drawer. At last he brought out a document from which depended a bright vermilion seal. ‘The property in question, the Dower House, is situated on the Devon shore of the Bristol Channel, at a small fishing hamlet and creek called Lannermouth.

  ‘Dower House? So it’s part of an estate?’ That wasn’t what she wanted at all.

  ‘Originally, yes. The nearby Haldane estate owns Lannermouth, but the Dower House was sold several years ago. The Haldanes have always been an important West Country family, and the village next to their ancestral home is named after them.’ He spoke to her, but looked at her bosom. His right hand was thankfully out of sight, but she knew he was rubbing himself again. Was she the only young woman ever to set unfortunate foot over his threshold?

  ‘Can you describe the property?’ she asked coolly.

  ‘It is thatched, part old, part modern, and has been got up in a gothic manner. The proportions are modest; it’s tastefully furnished, with five bedrooms, three reception, a kitchen, stables and all the usual offices, a kitchen garden, hen coop and so on and so on. I understand there is also a very fashionable veranda, thatched like the house itself, around three sides of the ground floor. Oh, and a secluded pleasure garden on the landward side, sheltered from the sea winds and planted with flowers and shrubs of an almost Mediterranean nature. A housekeeper is in residence, a Mrs Cobbett. Other staff can be hired locally. If this is agreeable to you, the sum of fifty-five guineas will secure it for twelve months.’ He placed the document in front of her.

  It seemed idyllic, she thought, and affordable. She would take the house in spite of the agent’s disgusting inclination to fondle his private parts in her presence. A year at the Dower House in Lannermouth would enable her to consider at leisure what to do with her future. ‘I will take it immediately, Mr Topweather,’ she said, ‘if that is in order? I have the money with me.’

  He regarded her thoughtfully, still smiling, and then nodded. ‘Excellent.’ The clerk brought in a tray of tea, which when poured proved to be weak and colourless. Topweather waved Jones out again, and placed a cup before her with his offending right hand. ‘Now, I need a few personal details, Mrs Alder,’ he said, wiping his damp palms on his coat as he sat back and then, reaching for a notebook and a pencil. ‘Your full name, maiden name, the name and circumstances of your late husband, your present address, and so on.’

  Beth was resigned. She’d already invented her surname, so why not everything else too? It was as well to be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. ‘Eliza Mary Alder, née Wilkes, widow of Jacob James Alder, sea captain. Presently staying at the Swan with Two Necks in Lad Lane, but formerly of Queen’s Crescent, Scarborough.’ It sounded impressively plausible, she thought, pleased.

  He scribbled it all down, and then rose again. ‘Please excuse me while I have Jones prepare the necessary documents. It will not take long.’

  The tea remained untouched as Beth discreetly counted fifty-five guineas on the desk, and glanced around the room. All was not as it should be, she thought, sensing something in the atmosphere that had nothing to do with her personal abhorrence of Mr Henry Topweather. He definitely ran an agency, because apart from the details of the Dower House, the desk was laden with letters and documents concerning other properties around the country. Why then did she feel so ill at ease? It wasn’t that she was afraid of Topweather’s unwelcome advances, because Jake had taught her how to defend herself. She was just aware of something yet to come.

  After a while Topweather returned with the new documents, and resumed his seat to go through them with her. When she was content that the Dower House was indeed hers for the next twelve months, she appended her false signature and then pushed the money toward him. ‘I trust I am now the legal tenant, Mr Topweather?’

  ‘Indeed yes.’ The constant smile continued to crease his cheeks, and she wondered if his facial muscles ever ached, but then he asked something startling. ‘Tell me, Mrs Alder, why is it that a lady of your obvious quality takes the risk of carrying such a great deal of money on her person? Don’t be afraid, for I am not about to seize your purse and steal whatever is left. On the contrary, I may be able to increase its contents by a considerable sum.’

  ‘I think my business here is done,’ she declared firmly, getting up.

  ‘At least do me the courtesy of hearing me out,’ he said in a reasonable tone.

  ‘I would rather not.’

  ‘Then I fear I may have to turn you in to the authorities, for it is clear to me that you have given me false information about your identity. It’s my guess there’s a warrant out against you. So sit down again, if you please, and let me tell you how we can win ourselves a splendid pile of money. I know you’d like that, because if you were already rich you wouldn’t be looking at the Dower House, so far away from London. But I’m not interested in your secrets, just in your co-operation.’

  The light in her eyes changed. So that was it. He wanted her favours in exchange for his silence! ‘You revolt me,’ she breathed.

  His smile became lecherously rueful. ‘Much as I’d enjoy dipping my wick in you, my dear, I fear my proposition is far from carnal. What I want is that you be an errand girl, someone who looks the picture of fashion and breeding, and who will be accepted without question. Believe me, it will be to your own advantage too.’ She hesitated, intrigued against her will. Gauging her indecision, he proceeded. ‘When you were waiting in the other room, you saw Lord St Clair. He and his wife are cousins in the process of divorc
e, and each believes they have sole right to the title and Ulsbourne Castle in Sussex. Lord St Clair is the present titleholder, but she is the only remaining member of the senior branch of the family, and has produced papers that apparently cast doubt on his legitimacy. The matter is a great cause célèbre. If Mr Justice Baynsdon, to whom I am related, finds for her, Lord St Clair will lose everything to her, title included, because in the absence of a legitimate male claimant, the title can go to the female side. Belvedere’s Tearooms are the place this season, where the beau monde will bet upon anything, and the St Clair business has them chasing their tails in a veritable frenzy. Vast wagers are being laid, mostly upon the verdict going to Lord St Clair outright. But there are other possibilities; for example, Lord St Clair might retain the castle but lose the title; Lady St Clair might win everything, or the title and nothing else. Now then, what would you say if I told you I already know the judge’s exact decision?’ he asked.

  Her lips parted. ‘Do you?’

  Again the smile, ‘Oh, yes, my dear, and what my partner and I need is a go-between to place our bets. In short, Mrs Alder, someone like you.’ Beth was no fool, and guessed that his partner was none other than Mr Justice Baynsdon himself. ‘Place the bets, for us at Belvedere’s Tearooms,’ Topweather continued, ‘and at eight o’clock tonight you, personally, could be in possession of at least two hundred times the outlay for a year at the Dower House.’

  She was silent for a moment, and then regarded him again. ‘You believe me to be dishonest, Mr Topweather, so surely you see that I might abscond with all the money?’

  ‘You would be very foolish to try it, because my man will be following you all the time, and believe me, he is most adept at such matters. You would not escape with anything that was not yours.’

  ‘I begin to wonder if I would escape with what was mine,’ she countered.

  He gave her his first genuine smile. ‘Honour among thieves, Mrs Alder. I am scrupulously fair when dealing with associates. Do we have an agreement?’

  ‘It’s very tempting, but—’

  He wagged a finger and tutted. ‘That’s the wrong answer, dear lady. You must agree or I will see to it that the relevant authorities know all about you.’

  ‘Then I have no choice, do I?’ She got up. ‘What am I expected to do?’

  ‘Come here at seven tonight. I will tell you what to bet, and give you the funds to place at Belvedere’s Tearooms for my partner and me, under the names of Harrison and Connor, both of Richmond. What you call yourself is up to you. I will have a carriage waiting to take you there. When you have the winnings, keep what is yours and bring the rest back here for me to divide with my partner, and then we can all go our separate ways. Believe me, with funds like that you could live in luxury at Lannermouth. Just remember to be circumspect between now and then. You will be watched. Behave yourself and all will be well. I’m a fair man.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call blackmail fair, Mr Topweather.’

  For the rest of that day Beth thought long and hard about the evening ahead. She dared not defy Henry Topweather because he would certainly carry out his threat. Fleeing London now was an option, of course, but to go where? The Dower House was hers for the next year, so to bolt elsewhere would mean forfeiting that precious money. And there was the rather unworthy fact that she would dearly like to have more in her purse. It had to be faced that the funds she had would not support her for the rest of her life, and no matter how contemptible Henry Topweather might be, he offered her a chance to become truly wealthy.

  Chapter Eight

  Beth arrived at Belvedere’s Tearooms at half-past seven that evening, in the yellow-and-black chaise that had awaited her at Henry Topweather’s door. By coincidence, the coachman was Billy Pointer, a post boy from the Swan, whose acquaintance she had made earlier in the day when admiring a red chariot for sale in the inn yard. He was a former jockey, lean, likeable and amiably monkey-faced, and boasted of being the best driver in London, a claim she thought justified as he skilfully wove the chaise through the crush to draw up right outside the brilliantly illuminated tearooms. A footman hastened to lower the rung for her to alight, and as she stepped down to the pavement she felt perfectly attired for her role. She had purloined some of Lady Harcotleigh’s wardrobe, an emerald green silk gown with a scooped neckline, a high-collared daffodil-yellow silk spencer, and a wide-brimmed openwork hat in the same emerald green as the gown, tied on with wired yellow ribbons. After a great deal of endeavour she had achieved an acceptable knot in her hair, and was satisfied she looked her part. It was wrong to wear garments that weren’t yet hers, but she told herself that soon everything that Madame de Sichel had sent to the Swan would be paid for, right down to the very last ribbon and silk flower. She was prepared for the evening in another way too, having been provided by Topweather with several thin canvas bags folded inside her reticule. They would be needed for all the winnings Topweather confidently predicted. She spoke anxiously to Billy. ‘You will wait for me, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will, ma’am,’ he answered in his cheerful London accent. ‘Don’t you fret, I’ll be here when you leave, and later I’m to take you back to the Swan as well.’

  The doors of the tearooms were decorated in honour of the victory at Waterloo. Arrangements of flags and flowers flanked the entrance, and an arch of moss and laurel leaves spanned overhead. The people arriving here tonight were the cream of society, dukes, earls, duchesses and countesses, and all other ranks of the aristocracy. Dandies strolled toward the tearooms, some accompanied by fashionable ladies, some walking in loud drawling groups. Carriages of distinction thronged the street, and the drawl of superior voices filled the air, some so affected as to resemble the braying of donkeys. She was a little worried about attending on her own, and gladly tagged on to a group of ladies from the carriage behind hers. There was a deafening racket of conversation inside, and no one noticed as she left the ladies and walked alone down the long hallway. So many people crowded the staircase to the main tearoom on the first floor that it took some time to ascend, but at last she found herself in a lofty chamber with west-facing windows that caught the extraordinary prism-hued dazzle of the early evening sky.

  There was a dais at the far end, where an imposing long-case clock stood against the wall and the gentlemen in charge of the betting were seated at a table. She queued to put down a considerable bet in the names of Harrison and Connor of Hampstead, and Alder of Scarborough, and was given three betting slips that she took to a small table in a corner. Her mind was racing and she felt a little sick, because at the very last moment she’d impulsively parted with all her remaining guineas. She was either the greatest of fools or the wisest of owls, and tried not to think of it as she sat back to watch London’s ton. Several times she encountered eyes that were quickly averted. Did any of them belong to someone Topweather sent to keep watch on her? The minutes ticked by, the room was now a press, although of Lord St Clair there was not a whisker. Clearly he did not wish to risk a public humiliation. As the clock began to chime eight, the chattering died away and the sound of running footsteps was heard on the staircase. A breathless footman in a white wig and gold livery appeared, holding a sealed note aloft as a path was made for him to reach the dais, where an elderly gentleman in grey velvet broke the seal and read. Then he glanced around the sea of impatient faces. ‘I have to tell you that Mr Justice Baynsdon finds … er, finds for Lady St Clair on every count, subject to an investigation into her ladyship’s legitimacy.’ The result was exactly as Topweather had said. There were gasps and groans, but Beth felt almost faint with excitement. She had just won almost 11,000 guineas for herself! Her fingers tightened over the precious betting slips as she got up to make her way through the suddenly noisy room. She was not alone in having wagered upon the exact wording of the verdict, for two young noblemen whooped with delight as they waved their slips at the presiding gentlemen. Beth soon found herself being jostled as the beau monde swarmed around the dais.
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  At last she tendered her slips, they were examined and approved, and bundles of banknotes were pushed toward her. She managed to cram it all into her reticule and the canvas bags, and then left hurriedly. Behind her the two young noblemen began to brandish their winnings tauntingly. Their gloating mirth was cut short when one of Belvedere’s famous cream cakes flew through the air and hit the shorter of them on his pointed nose. Then more cakes rained, and the ladies in the room squealed with delight as they joined the commotion.

  Beth emerged thankfully to the warm evening air, lengthening shadows and glorious sky, and found Billy waiting about fifty yards along the street. As she climbed thankfully into the chaise, bets were already being laid in Belvedere’s as to how many cream cakes would be thrown before the riot was brought under control. Soon she was on her way back to Easterden Street, carefully separating her winnings from the rest. She had counted with scrupulous care, making sure she did not take so much as a farthing from the vast amounts won by Topweather and his partner. Sitting back at last, she marvelled that she now had the 11,000 guineas in her reticule. She could pay Madame de Sichel, and then go to the Dower House to live well on the remainder. How unbelievably different things had been only two days ago, when she’d left her hiding place by the boundary wall at Tremoille House, to get to the woods before Sir Guy Valmer’s carriage.