|
||
"Damn!" spat Sir Everard.
Sir Everard Balfour, his swarthy face flushing an ugly dull red, his piggish eyes flashing with ill-concealed anger, threw down his fifth losing hand in a row and snarled in the general direction of his host. The irritated baronet snatched up his glass of port, drained it to the dregs and slammed it down with a crash. The delicate Italian crystal shattered into four distinct fragments on the baize-topped table, each slivered piece giving off silvery glints in the light from the branched candelabra overhead. So quickly did the portly baronet move that the smoke- filled air about the card table eddied upward, swirling about the dozens of candles, causing them to sputter and give off even more noxious fumes in the already uncomfortably dense atmosphere of the small room.
"Damme, Aragon, how do you continue to win, time after time?" Sir Everard whined sourly. A somber manservant shimmered into existence and began to silently clear away the broken glass fragments from the table, blotting at an almost invisible ruby stain with a snowy cloth.
Lord Andrew Aragon tossed his own cards down and gazed with a crooked grin at the disconsolate baronet, but said nothing to either of his guests. His lordship's brilliant azure eyes seemed almost black in the smoke-dimmed candlelight.
"It's that damned luck of the Aragons," said Charles Baron Renfrew, with a high-pitched inane giggle. "That old Spanish blood, ain't it, hey? The last time any Aragon failed at anything was the Armada, and even then Lord Andrew's ancestor was washed ashore and married into wealth the very next day."
"Nonsense, Charles," drawled Lord Andrew with a look of ill-concealed disdain towards Sir Everard. "It took at least a week for Don Francisco to marry, don't ye know."
Lord Andrew pushed back his chair and rose to his considerable height, his lanky body appearing even taller in the tight black pantaloons that had recently become the mode, a la that arbiter of fashion, Beau Brummel. His shirtfront was a profusion of snowy frills, with a high collar around which his neckcloth was bound. His tall Hessian boots had a mellow gold-tinted gleam in the firelight.
Lord Andrew sighed as he turned his back to his two guests and reached for a poker to encourage the dying fire. His lordship had regretted this private gathering for cards almost before it had begun. Sir Everard Balfour was not a pleasant person with whom to spend an evening at anything, much less something that involved any sort of gambling. Charles Baron Renfrew, while an acquaintance of Lord Andrew for some years, had a tendency to wear on the nerves of his friends after a while as well with his incessant laughter and ridiculous conversational tactics.
But the Prince had requested that Andrew entertain Sir Everard, and one did not say no to Prinny. After all, Prince George would be king one day -- if he didn't eat or drink himself to death before his mad father died. A very real possibility that, though it did seem to Lord Andrew at times that mad King George would live longer than his dissipated son and heir.
"And your blasted family has continued to get richer every reign, I'll warrant," grumbled Sir Everard, as he slurped expensive port from a fresh glass presented by Aragon's French manservant, Gaston.
Lord Andrew replaced the poker -- though the thought of using it to wipe the unpleasant expression from his guest's flat face was almost irresistible, and turned to face the others. He stretched his long arms across the green marble mantle. His lean face was saturnine, his azure eyes were fixed on some distant land. Reddish tints blazed from his chestnut hair as the fire sprang to renewed life.
"I take it you've had enough of cards for tonight, Sir Everard?" Lord Andrew said in a clear cool voice.
Sir Everard harrumphed. "I'm not out of cash yet, if that's what you mean to imply." The baronet puffed up like a discontented toad.
"Well, you may not be, Balfour, but that don't mean I ain't, damn it all," said Charles Renfrew with another piercing giggle. "And as my tradesmen and my thieving servants have emptied my pockets until the end of the quarter when my allowance arrives, I fear that I must stop for the evening."
"Your notes are always good with me, Charles," drawled Lord Andrew, with just the faintest possible emphasis on the 'your'. This obvious snub did not go unnoticed by Sir Everard. His stocky figure bristled up like a badger and his broad face suffused with choler as his sunken eyes glared at his elegant host.
But at the precise instant before an outburst seemed inevitable, Lord Andrew added with a short, curt nod, "And yours as well, of course, Sir Everard."
Sir Everard's toad-like figure deflated and an avaricious gleam showed for a moment in his colorless eye. A gambler, and not a very good one, Lord Andrew had heard that Balfour lived for nothing more than the next card game, the next toss of the dice, the next horse race or cockfight -- at all of which he invariably lost. But Balfour was apparently convinced, in the way of most gamblers, that one day his efforts would not be in vain and he would assume the vast fortune to which he aspired. A fortune that he had lost a dozen times over, it was said.
"Since the baron is determined to desert us, shall we have a bit of vingt-et- un?" Sir Everard suggested as he gathered the errant pasteboards into his sweaty hands.
Lord Andrew Aragon gave an inaudible sigh and promised himself to ignore Prinny's requests in the future. He could not be expected to always cater to his prince's desires. But he knew that he would. It was an Englishman's duty to defer to the wishes of his future king, after all. However much he disliked to do so.
"As you wish, Sir Everard," said his lordship, "but first, allow me to speed my parting guest. Charles, you are always welcome, you know. Do come again."
Sir Everard, his attention on the cards he was shuffling with the precision of an expert croupier, nodded absently as Charles Renfrew bid his farewells and departed.
Lord Andrew stood on the balcony that ran outside his bedchamber on the first floor of his London townhouse. It was just after dawn and the sun was a low blazing ball that resembled the great dome of St. Paul's in size and color. Already the bustle of the coming day had begun, both without and within his house. Street vendors, their packs piled with fresh fruits and vegetables bought at Covent Gardens, or stacked with tarts baked that morning in bakeries or on their own hearths, hawked their wares in strident voices. Blushing chambermaids cast roving eyes at the stalwart forms of passing Hussars, as mud was swept and washed from steps for the coming day. Cawing blackbirds and sparrows flew to and from their nests in the towering trees of nearby Hyde Park. Below in the belly of the townhouse a low rumble echoed. Lord Andrew knew that fires were being coaxed into life and sleepy servants were wiping their eyes.
He sighed again. He felt tired yet restless, ready for bed, yet anxious to be doing something. He knew himself to be discontented and filled with a malaise that he could not understand. His eyes burned from being closeted in an airless room all night. His nostrils ached from too much snuff and his throat was raw from wine and spirits. He rubbed the back of his neck with one long-fingered hand. A signet ring, with a single ruby, glinting on the last finger.
Why in the world does Prinny wish for me to cultivate that bounder Balfour? he wondered. That the man came originally from a rich and noble family, Andrew knew, but he had heard that the scoundrel had come near to gambling away the largest part of his fortune, as well as most of some large inheritance left to him. It could be, of course, that Prince George owed the man Balfour money -- Prinny was continually borrowing for his everlasting construction projects and thus was everlastingly in debt. That hideous monstrosity in Brighton -- some wag had said that it looked as if Saint Paul's Cathedral had gone to the seashore and pupped -- for example, was just one of the projects into which Prinny poured his gold, not to mention a series of well- upholstered aristocratic mistresses. What a shame that the prince had not been able to stomach his wife, but Princess Caroline would have tried a stronger man than Prince George was by far...
"Will milord sleep now?" asked Gaston from within the confines of the bedchamber. Andrew could hear the sound of a barely stifled yawn and his own disregard for his servant's ease struck him with a pang of dislike for himself. This dislike joined with his previous sense of malaise and he signed for the third time and shook his head.
"Go to bed, Gaston," said Lord Andrew absently over his shoulder. He leaned forward on the balustrade to better observe the display passing in the street below him. The thought struck him that it would be a simple matter to cast himself over the edge and fall to his death below. Then his innate sense of humor caught hold and he laughed at the ludicrous image of him tumbling the few feet to the hard street and breaking a leg. The sun cast gilded showers across the dusty street and picked out in high relief the figures that raced or strolled or trotted along it, as his lordship shook with silent laughter at his own fancies.
Gaston, who knew his master's moods well, laid the plain lawn nightshirt across the wide bed and turned to take him at his word.
"Gaston?" called Lord Andrew over his shoulder before the manservant had taken more than two steps.
"Milord?" said Gaston, turning with an inquiring look on his thin face.
Lord Andrew gave up his observation, turned and entered the bedroom, closing the French doors behind him to shut out the light and bustle without. He collapsed bonelessly in a broad armchair and flung one leg over its arm. He began to swing the leg in pendulum fashion.
Gaston waited, practicing the patience required of one in his position.
"I'm tired of the city, Gaston," said Lord Andrew at last, with a rueful laugh.
"Shall I make arrangements for a trip to Brussels, then, milord? Rome? Vienna?" offered Gaston, these being his master's favorite places of refuge when certain moods struck him. Once, indeed, it would have been Paris, but the atrocities going on there now in the name of liberty and brotherhood had marked that great city off his list. "No. I'm tired of cities, damme, and this one in particular. The everlasting calls, the endless soirees, the constant dancing attendance on the Prince and his toady of the week. And these vapid, brainless girls that are always being presented to me at balls and suppers. Could life be any worse?"
Gaston raised one sardonic eyebrow, his narrow face carefully expressionless. "Since I arrived in England as a child nineteen years ago without a sou, after watching most of my family and friends go to their rest in the lap of Madame la Guillotine, I would have to say 'yes', milord," he murmured in a mild and inoffensive tone, though there was a trace of grimness that infused his voice.
Lord Andrew looked at the thin face of the man who was once known as Gaston Yves Giles Clemence, Comte de Sacheverelle.
"My dear fellow, I do beg your pardon," said his lordship, his contrition evident in every line of his body. "I did not think. What a fool, what a bounder you must think me, I swear."
Gaston gave a shrug that spoke volumes. "It is the past, after all, and I have come to terms with it. And I am grateful for this position here with you, milord, where I can earn my keep in comfort instead of starving in some freezing garret, a fate that has befallen far too many of my compatriots. Of course," he pointed out, as if anxious above all for the utmost in clarity, "they would only freeze in the winter time, to be sure. But the starving would be a year around affair, I am certain of it."
Lord Andrew laughed, though it sounded somewhat strained even to his own ears, and rose energetically to his feet, his former malaise forgotten for the moment. "May I say how privileged I feel to have in you in my employ, Monsieur le Comte?" he said with an elegant bow, one hand over his heart. Then he held out his hand.
"Not near so privileged as I, to be here," replied Gaston with Gallic insouciance, though he was careful not to take the proffered hand. "Now, shall I begin arrangements for travel while milord sleeps?"
"No," said Andrew as he began unbuttoning his shirt with a meditative air, his eyes affixed upon the middle distance. "Do you go and get some sleep yourself, Gaston. We will discuss travel plans later."
Gaston turned to leave once more, then remembered one final thing and turned to remind his master. "Milord will remember that he promised to attend Lady Russell's supper party tonight?"
"Damn!" said Lord Andrew.
"My dearest Patricia, you must allow your hair to be done, I vow, or you will never be ready in time, and I don't know what Sir Everard will say," muttered Leticia Warren around a mouthful of hairpins that threatened to impale her plump cheeks with every word. A silver-backed brush hung from one delicate, rounded hand, shining bright against her pale green silk skirts.
Patricia Mayfair looked up from the book that engrossed her to the exclusion of all else -- a most common affair with Miss Mayfair, as any of her friends would swear -- and gave a distracted smile in the general direction of her companion.
"My dear Leticia," Patricia replied with a cheerful, mocking grin, "as I have been invited to the beautiful Lady Christabel Russell's house, no one will notice whether I have hair or not, much less how it is arranged. So settle yourself, do, Letty, and let me finish this chapter, I pray you."
Leticia gave a sniff that spoke volumes, then waited with exaggerated patience, tapping one tiny slippered foot on the rosy Aubusson carpet. A cheerful fire burned in the grate, warming the high room, even though two windows were open to the fresh air. As fresh as one could expect, at least, in London, Leticia thought with another metaphorical sniff.
As if hearing this unspoken comment, Patricia said, without lifting her eyes from her book, "Letty, we've only got another week in London. Do try to enjoy it, won't you? Why, any other girl your age would be in raptures over the experience."
Leticia cast a glance out the open window, where the setting sun was casting its last benevolent glow upon the great capital city, and gave a slow sad shake of her head. Her dark brown hair was smoothed back into a tidy bun, with no tendrils allowed to escape from their careful bondage, and her bright brown eyes suffused for an instant with unshed tears. She pulled a dainty lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at one moist eye in an irritated and peremptory fashion.
"He's probably missing you as much as you're missing him, you know, my dear," said Patricia, her eyes still on her book." And he couldn't leave, not while the corn needs getting in, nor would you wish him to, so there now. Do dry your eyes, my dearest, do."
Leticia Warren wandered across the room and plumped down on the low settee that stood before the window. She cast a wondering glance towards Patricia, still reading. How does she always manage to know what I'm thinking, she wondered idly, and gave herself up to thoughts of the stalwart young gentleman farmer who would soon claim her for his bride.
Some moments passed in glorious silence, as each young lady was engrossed in that which pleased her most.
At last, Patricia shut her book with a satisfied nod. "There now, Letty, chapter all done. My head is at your complete and total disposal, to do with as you will."
Letty rose gracefully from the settee and pattered across the carpet to pounce on the proffered head. She spent some enjoyable moments running the horsehair bristles through the shining masses of dark auburn curls, twining them about each other, jabbing hairpins in place with a determination that would have graced a general.
"It is a fascinating book, I take it?" Letty asked as she maneuvered a particularly recalcitrant curl into proper position with the ease of long practice.
"Letty, you're as little interested in books as I am in having my hair done." Patricia laughed at her companion and friend." A good thing for your Thomas, no doubt, since you'll be a treasure for him about the house. Indeed, you'll be as useful as I would be a burden to a husband."
Letty smiled at the mention of her betrothed, dropping a hairpin onto the thick carpet as evidence of her delight. "Well, I do know a bit about running a house, and that will be of benefit for him," she simpered to herself and her friend in the silver-backed mirror. Then the expression on her pretty face changed to one of concern. "But I'm sure that you'll find a man who is reasonable about your books, truly, Patricia. Do not worry about it, my dearest."
Patricia laughed as she regarded her friend's intent look in the dressing table mirror. "Do not let it put you into a pother, Letty, my dear. As you know, I have all the money I'll ever need, and a husband is the last thing on my list of bits and bobs to acquire."
"But, Patricia," said Letty, stopping her ministrations in mid-stroke, "of course you must marry. Why, what about children?"
"Children! Why, what about them, Letty? Useless, puling, distracting things, and besides, they'd get in the way of my studies," said her friend, then relented at the expression this remark drew on the rosy face above hers in the mirror. "Now, Letty, don't frown at your old school chum so, pray. Why, look at what it does to your pretty brows, dragging them together like a witch's. Thomas will give me a sound thrashing for vexing you, you know, and more importantly, you'll get wrinkles."
Letty allowed herself to be cozened out of her frown. Then, finishing her hairdressing in record time, she stood back to admire her work." There, Patricia, I'd vow that you couldn't have received better from a professional hairdresser, be he French at that."
Patricia eyed herself in the wavy glass. She knew herself to be no beauty in the current fashion, which was all for slender elegance, golden curls, trailing draperies and pink cheeks. Still, the dark reddish tints in her thick hair brought out answering tints in her deep brown eyes, and her olive complexion looked well against her simple white Empire style dress, with its low cut neck, short puffy sleeves and long narrow skirt.
"Well, Letty, once again you've worked your miracle. I shan't make anyone run screaming in terror, at the least, though I would far rather be wearing my riding habit or some comfortable dressing gown. And perhaps I'll be lucky enough to have someone to talk to at a private dinner such as this, instead of these endless balls full of vapid young lords or bluff army men with ruddy faces and thick hands, all talking at the tops of their lungs about horses and shooting."
"Why, Patricia, you talk as though you haven't enjoyed our visit to London, either," reproved Letty as she tweaked an escaped curl back into line. "It was very kind of Sir Everard to invite us--"
"It would have been kind of Sir Everard if he had had nothing to gain from it, my dear Letty," snapped Patricia. She rose to her feet, her tall figure towering over the plump compact form of her companion. "As I have told you before, he offers me these occasional treats as a preliminary to asking for more money. It is a custom of his of which I am well acquainted, I assure you."
"Patricia, he is your guardian," said Letty in hushed tones, as if the aforementioned gentleman stood just outside the door. "He is due your respect and affection, if for no other reason."
"Letty, he has gambled away most of his fortune, as you very well know. His diseased and obscene love for gambling has come near to destroying his position in society, and we both know that it drove his poor dear wife to her deathbed. Then there was that horrible time with Ambrose...how can I feel anything but contempt for such a man, though I am linked to him through my dearest papa's will?"
Letty watched in dismay as Patricia turned away and marched across the room, to look out the open window down at the street below. She knew how much her friend despised Sir Everard's gambling, and knew that Patricia blamed him for introducing her older brother Ambrose to the lure of games of chance, leading to his subsequent death nearly ten years before. Ambrose Mayfair's body had been found floating in the Thames, battered beyond recognition, near one of the notorious gambling dens in Limehouse.
"Yes, my dear, it is unfortunate that your papa left Sir Everard as your guardian," Letty said soothingly, "but there again, that is another excellent reason for you to wed. When you have your own establishment--"
"Letty, would you have me trade one prison cell for another?" Patricia turned to face her friend, her dark eyes flashing in her sallow face. "What, am I to marry some titled fool, who'll keep a mistress and gamble away my fortune? At least Sir Everard is prevented from that folly by my papa's will. He can only draw a pension as my guardian and not touch the principle. No, Letty, thank you very much, but I will deal with the devil I know and not chance a worse one."
Letty pattered over to stand next to her taller friend. "There, my dear, I've vexed you. Please forgive me, won't you? And after all you've done for me, providing me with this lovely trip to London before my marriage to my dearest Tom."
"Taken you shamefully away from your dearest Tom, you mean." Laughed Patricia, her good humor restored by her friend's evident distress. "Letty, please forgive my horrible temper, and let us say no more about it. You are my oldest friend and it is the least I can do to provide you with a few things for your wedding, even if Master Tom did have to do without you for a month or two. He'll have you to himself all too soon, in my opinion, and then I'll be alone with my books and my gardens at Avington House."
"But we'll be just next door, you know, dearest," said Letty, smiling through her tears. "You can ride over every day and dine with us."
"Oh, Letty, you are a ninny," Patricia smiled. "Why, of course I'll ride over every day, and I'll soon be bouncing my young nieces and nevvies on my lap, I'll warrant. Now dry all your tears and help me finish getting ready for this supper party. Though why you weren't invited, I'll never know."
"Well, the card quite clearly said 'Sir Everard Balfour and Miss Patricia Mayfair', and I'm quite willing to stay and work on the embroidery for my wedding dress, so there. Now go along, do, and come back with stories of the haut ton that I can tell the milkmaids at Avington House upon our return."
Letty draped an embroidered silk shawl about Patricia's shoulders and shooed her out the door.
Outside the large bedchamber, a flight of mahogany steps led down to the entryway of Sir Everard's rented London residence. Sir Everard stood there already, his dun-colored waistcoat tight across his portly body, his watch fob littered with seals, and his spindly legs showing to ill advantage in the tight pantaloons recently made popular by the notorious Beau Brummel. Patricia noted with distaste that her guardian's stock was already stained with brandy in several spots, and that his series of chins cascaded down it like a waterfall.
"Well, Miss Mayfair, are you ready for Lady Christabel's supper party?" asked Sir Everard, casting his eyes over his ward's sturdy upright figure with disdain.
"I am, Sir Everard, and will doubtless have a delightful time, I thank you," said Patricia wryly as her footman Claude, whom she had brought with her from the country, handed her into the rented carriage. Patricia settled back against the cushions, careful not to let any part of her clothing touch her guardian. Brandy fumes rose in a miasma about him, and Patricia wished that she had brought the silly swans down fan that Letty had insisted she buy.
Well, she thought as the curricle rattled through the darkening streets, perhaps Letty would like it as a wedding gift, to use on her bride trip. It's a shame that I couldn't bring my book, so I could at least salvage some bit of pleasure from this night.
The curricle struck a pothole and Patricia sighed as she bounced inadvertently against Sir Everard's form. "Your pardon, sir," she said icily.
Sir Everard grunted in reply.
Perhaps Letty is right, Patricia thought to herself. Perhaps a husband would be marginally better than this.
But she was quite sure that a husband could only be worse.