OUTRAGEOUS FORTUNE
Freda Lightfoot
Chapter One
Sir James Caraddon allowed his grandmother’s hectoring tone to waft over his head while he unconcernedly studied the antics of a group of strolling players miming and posturing in the square below. It was cold by the window, the leaden December sky filled with the threat of snow, and he would much rather have been warmly ensconced in his study, or better still in his favourite London coffee house with a good brandy and convivial company. Even the House of Commons, for all its dissension, would be preferable to yet another rendition of this all too familiar lecture. Yet he was fond enough of his grandmother and ready to spend what time he could with her, whenever his political duties permitted.
‘What are you now, boy, thirty-four, is it?’ the old lady demanded, rapping on the floor with her gold tipped cane and causing the small mongrel dog curled upon her lap to leap up and start to bark with excitement so that he had to be stroked and petted and persuaded to lie down again before the conversation could continue.
‘Thirty-one, Grandmother.’
‘Tch. Then it is even more certain that you should be wedded and breeding by now,’ she concluded, quite illogically. ‘Are we never to have an heir for Brampton?’
James sighed. At sixty-six, Lady Caraddon was perfectly capable of living a further twenty years and had often declared her intention so to do. She would make no concessions to him before that date; therefore James saw no immediate urgency for any heir beyond himself at this stage. Politics were, on the whole, far less trouble than a wife. Several young ladies had caught his eye over the years and he was happy enough to enjoy their company with a little light dalliance here and there. But let them become only slightly possessive and begin to make tentative attempts to lay claim upon him, and Sir James Caraddon would suddenly become mysteriously elusive. Here again he had politics to thank, for it always served as a ready excuse in breaking an engagement without causing offence. When Parliament or perhaps William Pitt, the Prime Minister himself, had demands upon his time, how could any lady presume to dispute it? His grandmother, however, was another matter. She might declare that his presence in Truro at Christmas was not necessary to her happiness, yet if he did not come she would sorely miss him, and he would miss her. Not that either of them would ever say as much. It was all part of the game.
‘How do you know that we do not have an heir already?’ he teased, lightening his words with a twinkle of humour in his grey eyes.
‘Because you have more sense than to land yourself with a scandal when you are angling for a place in Cabinet,’ Lady Caraddon declared with telling accuracy. ‘You’re man enough to enjoy tasting the fruit, I know it, and clever enough to leave it on the table.’
James grimaced. ‘You make me sound a rapacious rogue.’
Constance Caraddon threw back her head in a gleeful laugh, almost dislodging her tall powdered peruke, much curled and feathered, and already slightly askew. Jabbing her stick in the air at James, she gave particular emphasis to her next words. ‘It’s time you found a dish you want to savour more fully. I’ll not be around forever, though I shall do my best to live till I’m at least one hundred and one and torment the life from you, see if I don’t.’
James laughingly parried the thrusting stick to swiftly drop a kiss on the paper-soft cheek. ‘I’m heartily glad to hear it. Whatever would I do without you?’
‘Now see what you’ve done. You’ve woken Bounder again. Do sit down and try to pay heed when I am talking to you. There, there, good dog,’ she crooned, but to James, more sternly as he obediently did as he was bid and bestowed himself in the yellow satin chair opposite, `I know very well what you would do. You’d spend my entire fortune on your political interests, you young rogue. Don’t think I don’t know it.’
James let out a resigned sigh as he frowned in mock sternness at her. ‘Must you always take me for a fool? What little faith you have in me. I care not a jot for your riches, Grandmother. I am not a schoolboy waiting for my pocket money to be handed out. I am perfectly capable of earning my own crust, and do so very well.’
‘Tch. With that rag of yours you dare to call a newsheet? That’s far too staid to make money, my boy. It is scandal which sells papers, tittle-tattle and gossip, not dry-as-dust political comment. It’ll lose you a fortune, see if it don’t.’
‘I am not dependent upon the newsheet for a living. I do have other investments. Nevertheless it does very well,’ James informed her, choosing to largely ignore the nub of her criticism though her point was valid. Gossip sheets sold in vast quantities while his own political tracts performed only moderately well in cash terms. ‘Too many politicians seek office these days at any price, for the influence attached to it rather than for policies they believe in, Grandmother. They buy themselves into power, take bribes, carry out favours for their particular friends. Pitt is trying for reform, though not finding it easy. I am not afraid to expose corruption where I find it.’ James was leaning forward, large square hands gesticulating the depths of his strong feelings on the matter.
‘I can well believe it,’ Lady Caraddon conceded with a sigh. ‘But why does it have to be you who always points it out? Surely you can see it will win you no friends in the House. If you want a place of note in government, and refuse to buy it as many do, then you are going to have to temper your cavalier spirit a little.’
James’s handsome face tightened with a grim determination Lady Caraddon had seen many times before. Stubborn as they come, she thought. Believed he could right every wrong, always did. His father had been just the same. Long on patience and short on tact. If something needed to be said, a Caraddon was the one to say it. There was not a trace of softness in that firm jaw line, nor in the way the grey eyes shrewdly assessed every word she said and sometimes, Constance honestly believed, those left unsaid. Yet the caring was there, else why should he voluntarily choose to spend Christmas with an old has-been like herself? Lady Caraddon smiled proudly at her beloved grandson, for she had planned this year to make it a more lively Christmas and she was determined to have her way on the matter. Knowing his perversity on the subject of females, however, she must tread with care.
‘One of these days you’ll say a word too much or take a step out of line yourself, and they’ll roast you alive, mark my words. It don’t do to make enemies in high places.’
James uncoiled himself with an easy grace and came to stand behind his grandmother’s chair, for she had spoken truer words than she realised and he did not wish her to see his face. ‘Have no fear. I take great care.’ Bending down he kissed her forehead. ‘Besides, you know that I lead an exemplary life, unlike yourself, who I am well aware loses far too much at the gaming tables, drives her carriage too fast and tittle-tattles across half the county.
It was exactly the opening she had been looking for. `I like to enjoy life,’ she briskly retorted. ‘Not that anyone cares how an old woman spends her time. You, my boy, are a very different matter. I know how the gossip sheets love to talk about you.’ She sniffed with disdain. ‘It is always the way when one rises too high and too fast. Many friends are left behind with nothing but their envy to gnaw upon. The most prudent way for you to avoid trouble and to win your place in the cabinet is to take a wife. One who will be steadfast and loyal, bring you steady respectability and hopefully something of a fortune to lubricate the alliance.’
James cast his grandmother a wary glance. ‘And you might just have such a person in mind?’
Lady Caraddon had the grace to flush very slightly and she picked up her needlepoint to distract his piercing gaze, which very nearly unnerved her. She decided to opt for the more oblique route. ‘I had hoped the matter would be settled by now, that yo
u would bring me news this Christmas of an engagement between yourself and that lively young widow, Lady Susanna Brimley.’ It was the very last thing she wanted to hear but Constance smiled as she arched one fine brow questioningly up at her grandson.
But James chose not to offer a smile in return. The subject was growing too intrusive for comfort. He strode again to the window and stood with hands folded neatly behind his back, glaring down upon the strolling players who now seemed to be giving out hand bills, no doubt advertising their main show to take place later in the week.
‘Well?’ Lady Caraddon persisted, rapping on the wood floor with her stick.
James let the silence lengthen. There was no doubt that Susanna was quite delicious and more than willing on her part to make a match of it. She had charm, beauty, breeding, money, and her reputation was impeccable. She was perhaps a touch lacking in a sense of humour but would certainly make an excellent wife. Why, then, did he hesitate? He had pondered upon this a good deal lately and, were he not a gentleman and she, in truth, a Lady, he would say she also lacked sincerity. There was a gloss to the charm, a design to the impeccability of her style. In short, he did not entirely trust her.
James sighed. ‘I dare say I shall settle for Susanna in the end, but sometimes she seems more ambitious for me than I am for myself. And to be honest, Grandmother, I find that disturbing.’
The silence which followed this confession was rich with understanding. It was finally broken by Lady Caraddon clearing her throat somewhat noisily. The old rascal had something up her sleeve; James could sense it. But not for a moment would he make it easy for her to inform him of it, for she was not usually so reticent at revealing her plots and plans. Every visit was the same. She would spirit some poor overlooked female from nowhere and parade her before him like a skinny milk cow at market and expect him to fall upon her with adoration and desire. The last one, a Miss Amelia Devereux, a buck-toothed miss of uncertain age, had fallen hopelessly in love with him and followed him half across England. He’d been forced to marry her off to a friend, fortunately not a close one, in order to be rid of her.
‘Oh, James, while I think of it, there is a small favour you could do for me.’
‘No.’
Lady Caraddon started. `You don’t know what it is yet.
‘It is still no.’
Since James had not turned from the window Lady Caraddon could only think that he must be smiling and not at all serious, for he was usually far more amenable to her wishes. ‘I’m sure you will change you mind when you know what it is. Besides, it is Christmas and I will not have you grumpy,’ Lady Caraddon scolded. ‘I simply wished you to escort me to a social gathering, but there, if it would be too profoundly boring for you, I’m sure I would not dream of forcing you.’
James closed his eyes in despair. ‘Where is this social gathering, dear Grandmother?’ he asked, in a voice filled with self-doom.
‘It is a simple country affair and, though I’m not a great lover of the country, particularly at this time of year as you know, since the event is given by an old friend and neighbour of mine, Nathan Pierce, I feel I would like to attend.’
James gave an inward sigh of relief. Christmas gatherings over mulled spiced ate, with lively conversation, and perhaps a fiddler to tap one’s foot to, were not at all unpleasant and far removed from the wickedly contrived match making ceremonies Constance usually had planned for him. He took little interest in his grandmother’s social circle, consisting as it did chiefly of folk of advanced years, but, if he recalled correctly, Nathan Pierce was solid enough, more interested in art and literature than his cows, therefore having some conversation to offer. James swung round upon polished heels and, taking two steps across the room, lifted his grandmother’s hand in his own and kissed it. ‘Then, Cinderella, you shall go to the ball.’
‘Oh, James, what a tease you are,’ said Constance Caraddon with a gurgle of girlish laughter. ‘There, you see, all you need is some lively company; politics has quite dried up your sense of humour.’
James grinned wickedly at her. ‘Never, dear Grandmother, while I have you to tickle it.’
Constance threw her fan at him, which, owing to the fact that James very neatly ducked at the opportune moment, missed him entirely and landed in the fire where the spurting flames consumed it in an instant.
‘Now see what you have done,’ she pouted.
‘I shall buy you another, without delay,’ he assured her and strode briskly to the door. He was halfway through it before he thought to enquire, ‘And when is this simple country affair? Is it to celebrate Christmas Eve?’
‘Oh, my, no. Did I not tell you?’ Constance enquired, wide-eyed.
James paused and, coming slowly back into the room, said, ‘You know you did not,’ suspicion once more rife in his voice.
‘It is tomorrow evening.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nine days before Christmas? Does it have any particular purpose for being so, this country festivity?’
Lady Caraddon set down her needlepoint with a show of apparent unconcern. ‘Ring for Lucy, will you, James? I have a fancy for a dish of chocolate. Would you care for some?’
‘Grandmother.’ The tone was dangerously low and absolutely uncompromising. ‘You are keeping something from me, I know it.’
Constance gave a little squeal. ‘Oh, my, how fierce you sound. Just like your dear papa when he was cross. And I was so sure I must have told you.’
‘I warn you, Grandmother, I am fast losing my patience.’
‘It is to celebrate the eighteenth birthday of Nathan’s niece, a delightful girl, quite delightful,’ Constance gabbled. ‘She comes into quite a fortune, I believe. Why, I was sure I must have mentioned her.’
But James was already striding back to the door, his back stiff with resolution. ‘Then you must find another to escort you, Grandmother, for I will not risk being saddled with yet another whey-faced heiress, and if you try to make me I shall return to London upon the instant.’
‘As you wish, my dear,’ said Constance placidly. ‘I have no wish to force you, as I said. I can go to the party with Major Dunskin, perhaps.’
‘Major Dunskin? That old roué? Never!’ James was shocked and also resigned, for he saw at once that he was trapped. Nothing would induce him to leave his grandmother in the money-grubbing hands of that old skinflint. He’d been courting Lady Caraddon for the last ten years, and if he ever won her James could kiss goodbye to his inheritance for good. And, though James might enjoy a certain degree of independence, the thought of Dunskin passing on the Caraddon fortune to the grasping fingers of his own prolific family was more than James could bear to contemplate.
Sighing quietly to himself, James negotiated a compromise.
‘May I at least look her over in advance?’
‘By all means,’ agreed Lady Caraddon with unseemly enthusiasm. ‘You could ride over this very afternoon. Be seated again, my dear boy, for I should very much like to tell you of little Miss Charlotte Forbes.’
Prickling with doubts, yet quite unable to cross his grandmother, James prepared himself to be bored by a list of the dreaded female’s attributes, of which no doubt there would be plenty. If not buck teeth, then fat hips or lank yellow hair or even, heaven forbid, a squint.
Lady Caraddon’s ability to sniff out a fortune was unnerving, but not even her dearest friend and closest ally could bestow upon her the charge of good taste.
* * * *
‘No young lady mindful of her reputation would think of stepping upon a stage, so come down off that stool this instant, Miss Charlotte, and stop making a pantomime of yourself.’
‘Oh, Alice, don’t be such an old spoil-sport. And it is not pantomime, it is Shakespeare. Listen, it is the speech by Juliet to the friar when she declares she will kill herself rather than marry Paris, whom she does not love.’
Alice Trevail was so startled by this revelation of morbidity in her young charg
e that the rolling-pin fell from her hand with a clatter and she only just managed to retrieve it before it rolled from the table. ‘I’ll listen to no such thing,’ she flustered in shocked tones. ‘You’ve very soundly proved my point. Such gruesome tales can only turn a young girl’s mind.’
Charlotte chuckled with impish glee. ‘What nonsense. Romeo and Juliet is not a gruesome tale. It is a love story. Only it has a tragic ending since both lovers kill themselves.’
‘That is quite enough of that, Charlotte. You know full well your Uncle Nathan would dislike your talking about such matters.’ Alice slapped the carefully rolled pastry on the top of her pie as if it alone were at fault.
Charlotte’s green eyes glowed. ‘But only think of the great playwrights we have these days: people like Mr Sheridan, and Goldsmith. And the famous actors and actresses: John Kemble, Mrs Siddons and Dorothea Jordan,’ Charlotte said.
Alice turned quite pink. ‘I’ll accept that Mrs Siddons is a properly married lady, although she’s chosen an odd way of earning her living, but as for that other madam...’
Alice almost snorted her disapproval as she thrust the pie into the oven’ No good will come of her, mark my words. And what I do hear about the kind of women who frequent such places, let alone those daring enough to perform in them, well. . .’ she floundered, at a loss as to how to finish her sentence without giving offence to such young, innocent ears. ‘I really wouldn’t like to say.’
Stifling her giggles as best she could and wrinkling her nose teasingly at the housekeeper, Charlotte launched into Juliet’s speech. Hands clasped to her small bosom, head enchantingly tilted to emphasise the heart-rending quality of the words, she held her audience enraptured by the gently compelling sincerity of her voice.
Despite herself, even Alice stopped her work to listen, enthralled. Ever since this lively, high-spirited girl had come to live with her uncle, Nathan Pierce, on his Cornish farm, there had never, in Alice’s own words, been another dull moment. With her nut brown hair and lively green eyes set in a face of vibrant freshness, for all the pugnacious quality in its blunt-jawed obstinacy, Charlotte had stolen a place in Alice’s heart beside that occupied by her own daughter. But this girl did not have Molly’s simplicity of nature. Charlotte Forbes was a paradox. A disturbing mix of practical common sense coupled with a tender loving heart and a marked tendency for dreaming romantic notions which bordered on the reckless. The age old conflict of birthright against upbringing, Alice supposed, and she could only pray it would not be her undoing.
Outrageous Fortune Page 1