“My dear, Sir, acquit me of any desire to seduce your daughter, I beg,” returned Debenham haughtily. Badger appeared at a loss in face of this unexpected reply, but not so Mrs Badger, which redoubtable female bustled forward shaking her fist under my Lord's well-bred nose.
“It's that young varmint of yours as did it!” she screeched up at him. “And he's going to pay for it!”
“Really, Ma'am? I congratulate you, Kit, to have made such a conquest in so short a time, and at your tender age, too—really, quite remarkable!”
Mr Badger coughed deprecatingly. “Well, now, it's not as bad as all that. I'm not saying as how he actually seduced her; only as how kissing and such things can lead to other things with young hot-blooded folk. Now, your Honour, we're both men of the world, and if you could just see your way clear to compensating my Mary for her trouble and anguish, we'll say no more about it.”
“We shall certainly say no more about it, unless it be to a magistrate,” replied Debenham. “I have seldom heard so blatant an attempt at extortion.
Here, Mary spoke for the first time. “There's for you, Pa, and a good thing, too!” she laughed. “He didn't do nothin' but put his arm around me, brotherly like, 'cause I felt so ill up there on the deck with all the heaving and all. I only kissed him to say thank you nicely, and he didn't like it one bit, neither. So there!”
“I think the situation is tolerably clear. Badger, oblige me by getting out of my sight.” As Debenham spoke, he slipped a guinea into Mary's ready palm and gave her a conspiratorial wink, which made her giggle. The whole family was then ushered from the cabin, leaving Debenham alone with Master Clareville, who was looking a good deal flustered. His Lordship smiled with understanding. “Do not concern yourself, Kit. I am sure it happened precisely as the girl described. I am not angry.”
Kit blushed and muttered something inaudible, The Earl was left wondering why the boy should be so overset at being accused of kissing a pretty girl and why that girl had been so convinced that Master Clareville had “not liked it at all.”’ He pondered, not for the first time, upon what the Clarevilles’ life had been to produce such precocity in Kit in some respects, yet leaving him so touchingly naive in others.
The voyage was passed without further incident and, it was a fine morning when they eventually put into Dover.
They rejoined John at the inn where Kit made a hearty breakfast of rare beef, York ham, and new-baked bread, washed down with scalding hot coffee. Debenham contented himself with a much lighter repast of coffee and rolls, declining the red beef with a grimace of distaste.
Having seen his young friend's appetite gratified, he began to question him, leaning back in his chair and watching the delicate face across the table, under his sleepy lids. “Tell me, Kit, why did you say to your aunt that England is not your home? Surely, you are as English as your father?”
Kit sighed: “As to that, Milor, I presume that my father is English, but I have no real reason to do so. He speaks French and German as well as he does English, and I have been brought up to be as fluent in the one as the other. Father has never spoken of his birthplace or any of his past life. I think that the memory was painful to him. We have travelled all over Europe, but I never visited this land before.”
“What was your life, Kit? I must suppose it to have been an adventurous one.”
Kit laughed. “We were vagabonds, indeed. We have been in turn, gamblers, actors, soldiers, rich one day, poor the next. Yet it was a good life with father, for he made everything exciting, and if we sometimes went hungry, he would be sure to make it up to me before long.”
Lord Debenham was much struck by this little history and determined to discover as much as possible about the mysterious Mr Clareville and his intriguing son.
“Forgive me, but is Clareville your real name?”
“I hardly know, Sir, I have had so many, but I doubt it.” The Earl doubted it also, but it was a starting place. He would have inquiries instituted on his young friend's behalf. That there was a mystery here he was convinced and, considering Master Clareville's situation, any light that could be shed upon it could only improve matters. Or so the Earl believed.
Three
It was late in a golden spring afternoon when they eventually reached Debenham. As they trotted over the last rise and beheld the estate laid out before them like a sumptuous tapestry in green and gold, Master Clareville was conscious of a sensation of homecoming that he had never experienced before.
The house, nestling among the surrounding hillsides, its twisted chimneys casting fantastic shadows across the velvet smooth lawns, had never appeared more beautiful. It was a mansion of some antiquity, for the oldest part of the house dated back to the reign of Richard Coeur de Lion. Little of that stark fortress remained, however, and the building that now stood was the work of the first Baron Debenham, a quiet and scholarly gentleman who had constructed the manor house as a home for his young bride and the progeny for which he longed. He had adopted the new fashion of the age for rose-red brick and oak, much against the advice of his more warlike neighbours, still clinging to their grim fortresses. He had ignored their counsel and, among the rolling hills, had risen a charming half-timbered brick house set amidst verdant pleasure gardens, its myriad diamond-paned windows glinting in the sunshine.
As they came into sight of the house, Debenham turned to Master Clareville, who was trotting beside his guardian, astride a dainty grey mare.
“Well, Kit, there is your new home.”
Master Clareville drank in the scene before him with parted lips. “What is it about such beauty that makes one want to weep?” he asked with an uncertain little laugh.
The Earl smiled. “Perhaps because we know that we can never really possess it.''
Kit was puzzled. “But this is your home, Sir, your land, it belongs to you.”
“No, Kit. This house will be standing long after I am gone and forgotten. It is merely entrusted to me for a time, and for that I must be grateful.”
Master Clareville, who had never suspected the Earl of such depths, was fascinated by this unexpected revelation of his character. However, he had no chance to pursue the conversation as, at that moment, they entered the courtyard.
Servants bustled forward to greet their master and, in the ensuing confusion, Kit was left forlorn and forgotten. He stood a little apart, trying hard to resist the temptation to catch hold of Debenham's arm as he moved into the house.
Brought up as he had been upon the fringes of the fashionable world, nothing had prepared Kit for the grandeur that met his gaze as he entered his new home.
He found himself in a vast echoing chamber from the centre of which rose an ancient oak staircase. Massive tables and chairs in the style of the previous century clustered around an enormous marble fireplace in which it was still possible to roast an oxen whole. In various corners there stood, bearing mute witness to the valour of the Earl's ancestors, an assortment of ancient suits of armour, adding much to the splendour but little to the comfort of the chamber.
Master Clareville, casting pride to the winds, caught hold of Debenham's arm in a grip so convulsive that Lord Debenham turned in astonishment.
“My good child, there is no need for this agitation,” he said. “This is your home now.”
Kit felt all the impossibility of explaining to his Lordship that the prospect of living in this museum of a house was far from pleasing. However, as they passed through the great hall and into a comfortable morning room, he began to feel very much more cheerful. This apartment was situated in the only modern wing of the house, an addition made by the late Earl at the request of his young bride on the occasion of their marriage. It was in this wing, too, that apartments had been prepared for the new inmate, who, when conducted thither by John, began to entertain hopes of living a normal life in his new home after all.
He signified his desire to be alone in order to wash and rest after their long ride.
“Dinner will be served
at six o'clock, Master Kit,” John informed him, “so you get a bit o' sleep, and I'll come and waken you myself when it's time for you to dress.”
“Thank you, John, I think I will take your advice,” answered Kit, smiling at the man. Left alone, he explored his chamber thoroughly and was pleased to approve. Next, he tried the bed and, finding it extremely comfortable, he stretched his slender form upon it and, in a very few minutes, was sunk into a deep and dreamless sleep.
He awoke an hour later to find John leaning over him, shaking him by the shoulder. Kit rubbed his sleepy eyes, murmuring, “Is it time already? I am so tired.”
“No, Sir, but his Lordship would like a word with you before dinner, so best hurry and dress yourself now. His Lordship is waiting for you in the library.”
It occurred to Master Clareville that John was looking more than usually wooden, but he dismissed the thought with a shrug as he hastened to scramble into his best black velvet suit and to drag a comb through his tangled curls. Outside his apartment, he found a young footman waiting to conduct him into his Lordship's presence. He favoured the youth with a friendly grin, which the footman, being new to the establishment, so far forgot himself as to return. Kit went down to meet his guardian, feeling that he had acquired at least one ally in this bewildering new home.
Deserted by his newfound friend at the library door, he knocked rather timidly and entered the room, where stood a magnificent stranger in whom he recognized, with some difficulty, Lord Debenham. Previously, Kit had only seen Debenham in his well-cut riding gear, but now he saw his guardian dressed as befitted his great position. He looked quite different and rather unapproachable. He wore a brocade coat in midnight blue over small clothes of palest pearl grey satin. The black hair, heavily powdered, was drawn into the nape of his neck with a jewelled riband. Quantities of silver lace foamed at his throat and wrists, emphasizing every graceful movement of his hands.
Kit gazed open-mouthed upon this vision, causing the Earl to laugh rather ruefully: “Forgive me, Kit. This formality is as unusual as it is unavoidable. I must leave immediately for London to attend a reception to which I am bidden by my betrothed. We do not make a habit of dining attired thus.”
Kit shut his mouth and muttered an apology, annoyed with himself for displaying such gaucherie. The Earl was smiling at him with a kindness he had not shown before. All at once, his formidable guardian seemed approachable once more.
“Come, Kit. I have some grave news for you.”
“About my father?”
“I am afraid so.” He took one of Kit's hands in a comforting clasp. “I am very sorry, Kit: I have just received word that your father caught a virulent fever while in Newgate. He died yesterday; he was never brought to trial.”
Kit did not cry. He stood rigidly staring into the fire, his burning eyes reflecting the dancing flames. His cheeks were as colourless as the lace at his throat, his clenched knuckles white with tension as he fought to control his trembling.
Lord Debenham held out his hands to his ward. “My poor boy,” he said gently and would have embraced him, but the boy pulled sharply away, saying: “Pray do not, Sir, I shall be better directly, but I must be alone, please.”
The Earl, who rarely obeyed a compassionate impulse, was hurt by this rejection. However, he bowed and left the room, trusting that his ward would master his grief more successfully alone. He gave orders that Master Clareville was not on any account to be disturbed, before setting out, rather belatedly, to attend his betrothed's party. He was strangely reluctant to leave his young friend, and even more strangely, less than eager to see his lovely bride-to-be.
The reception was in full swing by the time that Lord Debenham was announced, but Debenham was in no doubt that he would be welcomed, however late he made his appearance. Nor was he mistaken. Lady Withington rustled forward to greet him, wreathed in smiles and pooh-poohing his attempts at an apology. She swept him off in triumph to where her daughter was seated in the ballroom surrounded by admirers, calmly sipping a glass of champagne cup.
Amelia Henshawe was a beautiful girl, but hers was a sculptured beauty, lacking in vivacity or humour. However, Debenham, still sore from Master Clareville's repulse, was not inclined to cavil, when she greeted him with a smile that assuaged his wounded pride and gratified his vanity.
He pressed her hand. “My dear Amelia, I wish you will explain to me how it is that you appear lovelier every time I see you.”
“You are too kind, my Lord,” she replied with composure.
“My Lord?” he questioned playfully. “May I not be Anthony to you now, my sweet?”
She inclined her powdered head, “Anthony, then.”
He kissed her slender fingers. “May I have the honour of standing up with you for the next dance?”
“Of course.” The smile she bestowed upon him as she gave him her hand quite made up for any lack of animation in her discourse and, as they took their places in the set, he was aware that onlookers were pointing them out in whispers as the handsomest couple in London.
As he moved without apparent effort through the intricate movements of the dance, Lord Debenham found himself dwelling with some concern upon the tragic figure of his ward, alone in the library at Debenham. Such intensity of emotion was unknown to Debenham and, in anyone else, he would have been inclined to dismiss such a demonstration as vulgar self-indulgence. But Debenham had developed respect, as well as affection, for his young charge, and it pained him to be helpless in the face of so much suffering.
He had just determined to cut short his evening in order to return early to Richmond when he became aware that he was being addressed by his betrothed.
“Anthony, it is exceedingly hot in here. Would you take me out into the garden for a few moments?”
“Certainly, if you are sure you will not take cold.”
“Oh no, it is very mild tonight.”
He bowed his complaisance and, having punctiliously wrapped his betrothed in a handsome silk shawl, he led her out into the moonlight. As they strolled among the sweet-smelling arbours, Lord Debenham found his betrothed more affectionate than she had ever been before. Her slender hand, tucked into the crook of my Lord's arm, gave confiding little squeezes as she gazed, misty with admiration, into the cool grey eyes above her. Suddenly, she stumbled and, as she fell, Debenham caught her in his arms. She turned her lovely face up to his, and his lips met hers.
Lord Debenham had never previously been invited to bestow any but the most chaste salute upon his bride-to-be and, as he released her, he understood why. She had stood unyielding in his arms, neither repulsing him nor returning his kiss. It was enough, she seemed to feel, that he was allowed to touch her.
He raised his handsome head and regarded her with a quizzical look that masked his disappointment.
“You must not be over-enthusiastic, my love,'' he drawled.
“I take it you would not wish your wife to display vulgar emotion, Anthony. Surely we are above that?”
“Are we?” he sighed. “Perhaps you are right, my dear Amelia. I think perhaps we have been too long absent from the ballroom; permit me to escort you back to your mama.” She took his arm with a satisfied air and permitted him to lead her back to the candle-lit ballroom. He perceived that their brief embrace had had no great effect upon her. He was dismayed. The reserve that had seemed so eminently desirable in the chatelaine of his household appeared considerably less so when she lay unyielding in his arms.
He sought out his hostess, murmured a few compliments on the success of her party, and left without attempting to speak to his betrothed again. His horses were fresh, and the moon was at the full; but, even so, it was past midnight when he finally clattered into the silent courtyard.
A sleepy groom emerged yawning from the stables and took charge of the horses. My Lord entered the house through a side door left open for his convenience by John, who had been given permission not to wait up for his master. Taking the candle, John had left upon a small ta
ble, Lord Debenham made his way across the great hall towards the main staircase. As he did so, he noticed a light glimmering under the door of the library, and he turned aside to investigate this phenomenon.
Quietly, he opened the door, and there, not altogether to his surprise, sat Kit fast asleep with his head resting upon his arms, his face still blotched and swollen with tears. The Earl extinguished the lamp, very gently slipped his arms under the inert form of Master Clareville and lifted the light young body into his arms.
As the boy's head fell back to reveal the delicate lines of the throat, the long curls brushing the Earl's fingers, realization came to him, recognition of something he felt he had known for a very long time.
The slender form he held clasped in his arms did not belong to a child or a boy. It was that of a woman; a very lovely and desirable woman.
Now that he knew the truth, everything about her confirmed it. He noticed for the first time how delicate were the bones of her wrists in their covering of lace, how tiny was her waist, how shapely the leg in the tight black satin breeches. As the lace of her cravat rose and fell with her breath, he noted the swelling of gently rounded breasts beneath the constricting waistcoat.
His mind went back to that first evening when she had fought so bravely at his side. He could not have believed that such courage existed in so slight and feminine a frame. Then he remembered, with a reminiscent smile, her embarrassment when she had been kissed by naughty little Mary on board the Dover Packet. As though conscious of his regard, she stirred a little and opened drowsy eyes, blinking at him like a sleeping cat.
“Oh, it's you, Sir,” she murmured and, smiling, she snuggled her cheek into his shoulder.
Debenham carried his burden up the winding staircase and laid her upon the white pillows in her bedchamber. He decided ruefully that she would have to sleep in her clothes, for the thought of attempting to remove even her coat raised visions of hideous complications in his imagination. How he was ever to tell her that he had discovered her secret he had no conception. Had she disguised herself in fear of him or was she always attired thus? Would she be willing to stay with him when she discovered that he knew the truth?
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