He smiled. “I do not think my Lord Rule would exactly welcome my presence in his house, ma’am.”
Her face hardened at that, but she replied lightly enough: “Oh, you n-need not put yourself about for that, sir. My lord does not interfere with m-me, or—or I with him. Shall you be at the ball at Almack’s Rooms on Friday? I have promised M-Mama I will take Charlotte.”
“Happy Charlotte!” said his lordship.
Almost any right-minded young female would have echoed his words, but Miss Winwood was at that very moment confiding to Mr Gisborne her dislike of such frivolous amusements.
“I own,” agreed Mr Gisborne, “that this present rage for dancing is excessive, yet I believe Almack’s to be a very genteel club, the balls not in the least exceptionable, such as those held at Ranelagh and Vauxhall Gardens. Indeed, I believe that since Carlisle House was given up the general ton of these entertainments is much raised above what it was.”
“I have heard,” said Charlotte with a blush, “of masquerades and ridottos from which all Refinement and Decorum—but I will not say more.”
Happily for Miss Winwood no ball at Almack’s Rooms was ever sullied by any absence of propriety. The club, which was situated in King Street, was in some sort an off-shoot of Almack’s in Pall Mall. It was so exclusive that no one hovering hopefully on the fringe of Society could ever hope for admittance. It had been founded by a coterie of ladies headed by Mrs Fitzroy and Lady Pembroke, and for the sum of ten guineas, a very modest subscription, a ball and a supper were given once a week there for three months of the year. Almack himself, with his Scotch accent and his bag-wig, waited at supper, while Mrs Almack, dressed in her best saque, made tea for the noble company. The club had come to be known as the Marriage Mart, a circumstance which induced Lady Winwood to persuade Charlotte into accepting her sister’s invitation. Her own indifferent health made it impossible for her to chaperon Charlotte herself at all the places of entertainment where a young lady making her debut ought to be seen, so she was once more extremely thankful that Horatia was suitably married.
Lord Winwood and his friend Sir Roland Pommeroy, a very fine young buck, were chosen by Horatia as escorts to the ball. Sir Roland expressed himself to be all happiness, but the Viscount was less polite. “Hang you, Horry, I hate dancing!” he objected. “You’ve a score of beaux, all of ’em falling over themselves for the chance of leading you out. Why the plague d’you want me?”
But it seemed that Horatia for some reason best known to herself did want him. Warning her that he had no notion of dancing through the night and would probably end in the card-room, the Viscount gave way. Horatia said, with truth, that she had not the least objection to his playing cards, since no doubt she would find partners enough without him. Had the Viscount realized what particular partner she had in mind he might not have yielded so easily.
As it was, he escorted both his sisters to King Street and performed his duties to his own satisfaction by leading Horatia out for the opening minuet, and going down one of the country dances with Charlotte. After that, seeing his sisters comfortably bestowed in the middle of Horatia’s usual court, he departed in search of liquid refreshment and more congenial entertainment. Not that he expected to derive much enjoyment even in the card-room, for dancing and not gaming being the object of the club stakes would be low, and the company probably unskilled. However, he had caught sight of his friend Geoffrey Kingston when he first arrived, and had no doubt that Mr Kingston would be happy to sit down to a quiet game of piquet.
It was some time before Lord Lethbridge appeared in the ballroom, but he came at last, very handsome in blue satin, and Miss Winwood, who happened to catch sight of him first, instantly recognized the saturnine gentleman who had joined them at Astley’s. When he presently approached Horatia, and Miss Winwoodobserved the friendly, not to say intimate, terms they seemed to be on, misgiving seized her, and she began to fear that Horatia’s frivolity was not confined to the extravagance of her dress, whose great hoop and multitude of ribbons and laces she had already deplored. She contrived to catch Horatia’s eye in a reproving fashion, just as her sister was going off for the second time on Lord Lethbridge’s arm to join the dance.
Horatia chose to ignore this look, but it had not escaped Lethbridge, who said, raising his brows: “Have I offended your sister? I surprised a most unloving light in her eye.”
“W-well,” said Horatia seriously, “it was not very polite in you not to ask her to d-dance this time.”
“But I never dance,” said Lethbridge, leading her into the set.
“S-silly! you are dancing,” Horatia pointed out.
“Ah, with you,” he replied. “That is different.”
They became separated by the movement of the dance, but not before Lethbridge had marked with satisfaction the blush that mounted to Horatia’s cheeks.
She was certainly not displeased. It was quite true that Lethbridge hardly ever danced, and she knew it. She had seen one or two envious glances follow her progress on to the floor and she was far too young not to feel conscious of triumph. Rule might prefer the riper attractions of Caroline Massey, but my Lady Rule would show him and the rest of the Polite World that she could capture a very rare prize on her own account. Quite apart from mere liking, which she undoubtedly felt towards Lethbridge, he was the very man for her present purpose. Such easy conquests as Mr Dashwood, or young Pommeroy, would not answer at all. Lethbridge, with his singed reputation, his faint air of haughtiness, and his supposed heart of marble, was a captive well worth displaying. And if Rule disliked it—why, so much the better!
Lethbridge, perfectly aware of these dark schemes, was playing his cards very skilfully. Far too clever to show an ardency which he guessed would frighten Horatia, he treated her with admiration savoured with the mockery he knew she found tantalizing. His manner was always that of a man many years her senior; he teased her, as in his continued refusal to play cards with her; he would pique her by being unaware of her presence for half an evening, and devoting himself to some other gratified lady.
As they came together again, he said with his bewildering abruptness: “My lady, that patch!”
Her finger stole to the tiny square of black silk at the corner of her eye. “W-why, what, sir?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not the Murderous, I beg of you! It won’t do.”
Her eyes twinkled merrily. As she prepared to go down the dance again, she said over her shoulder: “Which then, p-please?”
“The Roguish!” Lethbridge answered.
When the dance ended, and she would have rejoined Charlotte and Sir Roland, he drew her hand through his arm and led her towards the room where the refreshments were laid.
“Does Pommeroy amuse you? He does not me.”
“N-no, but there is Charlotte, and perhaps—”
“Forgive me,” said Lethbridge crisply, “but neither does Charlotte amuse me—Let me fetch you a glass of ratafia.”
He was back in a moment, and handed her a small glass. He stood beside her chair sipping his own claret and looking straight ahead of him in one of his abstracted fits.
Horatia looked up at him, wondering, as she so often did, why he should all at once have lost interest in her.
“Why the Roguish, my lord?”
He glanced down. “The Roguish?”
“You said I must wear the Roguish p-patch.”
“So I did. I was thinking of something else.”
“Oh!” said Horatia, snubbed.
His sudden smile lit his eyes “I was wondering when you would cease to call me so primly “my lord”,” he said.
“Oh!” said Horatia, reviving. “B-but indeed, sir—”
“But indeed, ma’am!”
“W-well, but what should I c-call you?” she asked doubtfully.
“I have a name, my dear. So too have you—a little name that I am going to use, with your leave.”
“I d-don’t believe you c-care whether you ha
ve my l-leave or not!” said Horatia.
“Not very much,” admitted his lordship. “Come, shake hands on the bargain, Horry.”
She hesitated, saw him laughing and dimpled responsively. “Oh, very well, R-Robert!”
Lethbridge bent and kissed the hand she had put into his. “I protest I never knew how charming my poor name could sound until this moment,” he said.
“Pho!” said Horatia. “I am very sure any number of ladies have b-been before me with it.”
“But they none of them called me R-Robert,” explained his lordship.
Meanwhile, the Viscount, emerging briefly from the card-room, was obliged to answer a beckoning signal from Miss Winwood. He strolled across the room to her, and asked casually: “Well, Charlotte, what’s to do?”
Charlotte took his arm and made him walk with her towards one of the widow embrasures. “Pelham, I wish you won’t go back to the card-room. I am uneasy on Horry’s account.”
“Why, what’s the little hussy about now?” inquired the Viscount, unimpressed.
“I do not say that it is anything but the thoughtlessness that we, alas, know so well,” said Charlotte earnestly, “but to dance twice in succession with one gentleman and to go out on his arm gives her an air of singularity which I know dear Mama, or indeed Lord Rule, would deprecate.”
“Rule ain’t so strait-laced. Whom has Horry gone off with?”
“With the gentleman whom we met at Astley’s the other evening, I think,” said Charlotte. “His name is Lord Lethbridge.”
“What?” exclaimed the Viscount. “That fellow here? Odd rot him!”
Miss Winwood clasped both hands on his arm. “Then my fears are not groundless? I should not wish to speak ill of one who is indeed scarcely known to me, yet from the moment I set eyes on his lordship I conceived a mistrust of him which his conduct tonight has done nothing to diminish.”
The Viscount scowled darkly. “You did, eh? Well, it ain’t my business, and I’ve warned Horry, but if Rule don’t put his foot down mighty soon he’s not the man I think him, and so you may tell Horry.”
Miss Winwood blinked. “But is that all you mean to do, Pelham?”
“Well, what can I do?” demanded the Viscount. “Do you suppose I’m going to go and snatch Horry from Lethbridge at the sword’s point?”
“But—”
“I’m not,” said the Viscount definitely. “He’s too good a swordsman.” With which unsatisfactory speech he walked off, leaving Miss Winwood greatly disturbed, and not a little indignant.
The Viscount might seem to his sister to treat the matter with callousness, but he was moved to broach the subject to his brother-in-law in what he considered to be a very delicate manner.
Coming out of the card-room at White’s he nearly walked into Rule, and said with great cheerfulness: “Burn it, that’s fortunate. The very man I want!”
“How much, Pelham?” inquired his lordship wearily.
“As a matter of fact I was looking for someone who might lend me some money,” said the Viscount. “But how you rumbled it beats me!”
“Intuition, Pelham, just intuition.”
“Well, lend me fifty pounds and you shall have it back tomorrow. My luck’s going to turn.”
“What makes you think so?” Rule asked, handing over a bill.
The Viscount pocketed it. “Much obliged to you. I’ll swear you’re a good fellow. Why, I’ve been throwing out for the last hour, and a man can’t go on throwing out for ever. Which reminds me, Rule, I’ve something to say to you. Nothing of moment, you understand, but you know what women are, rabbit ’em!”
“None better,” said his lordship. “So you may safely leave the matter in my hands, my dear Pelham.”
“Blister it, you seem to know what I’m going to say before I’ve said it!” complained the Viscount. “Mind you, I warned Horry he was dangerous at the outset. But then, women are such fools!”
“Not only women,” murmured Rule. “Will you do me a favour, Pelham?”
“Anything in the world!” replied the Viscount promptly. “Pleasure!”
“It is quite a small thing,” Rule said. “But I shall stand greatly in your debt if you would refrain in future from—er—warning Horry.”
The Viscount stared. “Just as you say, of course, but I don’t care to see that fellow Lethbridge dancing attendance on my sister, and so I tell you!”
“Ah, Pelham!” The Viscount, who had turned to go back into the card-room, checked, and looked over his shoulder. “Nor do I,” said Rule pensively.
“Oh!” said the Viscount. He had a flash of insight. “Don’t want me to meddle, eh?”
“You see, my dear boy,” said his lordship apologetically, “I am not really such a fool as you think me.”
The Viscount grinned, promised that there should be no meddling and went back to make up for lost time in the card-room. True to his word, he arrived in Grosvenor Square next morning and impressively planked fifty pounds in bills down on the table before Rule. His luck, it seemed, had turned.
Never one to neglect opportunity, he spent a week riotously following his rare good fortune. No less than five bets of his making were entered in the book at White’s; he won four thousand in a night at Pharaoh, lost six at quinze on Wednesday, recovered and arose a winner on Thursday, on Friday walked into the hazard-room at Almack’s and took his seat at the fifty-guinea table.
“What, Pel, I thought you was done up!” exclaimed Sir Roland Pommeroy, who had been present on the disastrous Wednesday.
“Done up? Devil a bit!” replied the Viscount. “My luck’s in.” He proceeded to fix two pieces of leather round his wrist to protect his ruffles. “Laid Finch a pony on Tuesday Sally Danvers would be the lighter of a boy by Monday.”
“Ecod, you’re mad, Pel!” said Mr Fox. “She’s had four girls already!”
“Mad be damned!” quoth the Viscount. “I had the news on the way here. I’ve won.”
“What, she’s never given Danvers an heir at last?” cried Mr Boulby.
“An heir?” said the Viscount scornfully. “Two of ’em! She’s had twins!”
After this amazing intelligence no one could doubt that the signs were extremely propitious for the Viscount. In fact one cautious gentleman removed himself to the quinze-room, where a number of gamesters sat round tables in silence, with masks on their faces to conceal any betraying emotion, and rouleaus of guineas in front of them.
As the night wore on the Viscount’s luck, which had begun by fluctuating in an uncertain fashion, steadied down. He started the evening by twice throwing out three times in succession, a circumstance which induced Mr Fox to remark that the gull-gropers, or money-lenders, who waited in what he called the Jerusalem chamber for him to rise, would find instead a client in his lordship. However, the Viscount soon remedied this set-back by stripping off his coat and putting it on again inside out, a change that answered splendidly, for no sooner was it made than he recklessly pushed three rouleaus into the centre of the table, called a main of five, and nicked it. By midnight his winnings, in the form of rouleaus, bills and several vowels, or notes of hand, fairly littered the stand at his elbow, and Mr Fox, a heavy loser, called for his third bottle.
There were two tables in the hazard-room, both round, and large enough to accommodate upwards of twenty persons. At the one every player was bound by rule to keep not less than fifty guineas before him, at the other the amount was fixed more moderately at twenty guineas. A small stand stood beside each player with a large rim to hold his glass or his teacup and a wooden bowl for the rouleaus. The room was lit by candles in pendent chandeliers, and so bright was the glare that quite a number of gamesters, the Viscount amongst them, wore leather guards bound round their foreheads to protect their eyes. Others, notably Mr Drelincourt, who was feverishly laying and staking odds at the twenty-guinea table, affected straw hats with very broad brims, which served the double purpose of shading their eyes and preventing their wigs from becomin
g tumbled. Mr Drelincourt’s hat was adorned with flowers and ribands and was held by several other Macaronis to be a vastly pretty affair. He had put a frieze greatcoat in place of his own blue creation, and presented an astonishing picture as he sat alternately sipping his tea and casting the dice. However, as it was quite the thing to wear frieze coats and straw hats at the gaming table, not even his severest critics found anything in his appearance worthy of remark.
For the most part silence broken only by the rattle of the dice and the monotonous drone of the groom-porters’ voices calling the odds brooded over the room, but from time to time snatches of desultory talk broke out. Shortly after one o’clock quite a burst of conversation proceeded from the twenty-guinea table, one of the gamesters having taken it into his head to call the dice in the hope of changing his luck. Someone, while they waited for a fresh bale, had started an interesting topic of scandal and a shout of laughter most unpleasantly assailing the ears of Lord Cheston, a rather nervous gambler, caused him to deliver the dice at the other table with a jerk that upset his luck.
“Five-to-seven, and three-to-two against!” intoned the groom-porter dispassionately.
The laying and staking of bets shut out the noise of the other table, but as silence fell again and Lord Cheston picked up the box, Mr Drelincourt’s voice floated over to the fifty-guinea table with disastrous clarity.
“Oh, my lord, I protest; for my part I would lay you odds rather on my Lord Lethbridge’s success with my cousin’s stammering bride!” said Mr Drelincourt with a giggle.
The Viscount, already somewhat flushed with wine, was in the act of raising his glass to his lips when this unfortunate remark was wafted to his ears. His cerulean blue eyes, slightly clouded but remarkably intelligent still, flamed with the light of murder, and with a spluttered growl of “Hell and damnation!” he lunged up out of his chair before anyone could stop him.
The Convenient Marriage Page 11