Autumn Rain (17 page)

CHAPTER 15

It was early and White's was relatively quiet, with the usual gaming over baize-covered tables, the gentlemen who merely conversed, and those who were already more than half-disguised with drink. In a solitary corner, Bellamy Townsend sat hunched over a bottle of port, his handsome countenance marred by his ugly temper. From time to time, his friends Sefton, Alvanley, and Skeffington approached him, trying to draw him into a game of faro, and each was equally rebuffed.

Brummell glanced across to him from his exalted place at the bow-window and suggested loudly that "Poor Bell has either lost his last farthing or been thwarted by a female," at which the drunken viscount lurched to his feet, demanded the betting book, and rashly entered a wager that "Bellamy, Viscount Townsend, shall mount Lady Kingsley before the year is out, taking her away from the Earl of Longford." When done, he read his entry loudly, as though he dared any to dispute it. For a moment, there was relative silence, then a ripple of murmurs, followed by considerable speculation as to the virtue of the lady in question.

"I have it on authority that Longford's Venus is rather unattainable," the Beau said coolly.

"You?" someone snorted. "She rebuffed
you?"

"Of course not—but I should take the Jersey's word for it, for she knows everything. She says La Kingsley is an innocent."

"I can take her away from Longford!" Townsend snapped.

"Who says she is Longford's?" Skeffington asked. "First I ever heard of it."

"Much you know," Bell responded sourly. "Saw her at his house myself."

"I hear Longford's going back to the war," someone else spoke up.

"How much you want to wager, Bell?" Freddy Pink-ham demanded, drawing out his money. "Think you must be mistaken."

"A hundred pounds," Bellamy muttered truculently.

"Well now—that don't make it worth the space in the book," Freddy complained.

Leighton, who'd half-observed the wager between casts of the dice, started to rise. "Bell's gone too far, Luce— if you don't mean to queer his lay, I do."

Lucien raked in his winnings, and shook his head. "Best leave it—Bell's got a damnable temper when he's foxed. And if I stand up, the rumor will be counted."

"Damme if I'll stand for it—it isn't right. Not a reason in the world to think—besides, Townsend's outright accusing you, Luce!"

"Don't be a fool—let it die." Lucien's hand snaked out, holding down Leighton's arm. "He'll lose, George."

"Dash it, but I
like
Lady Kingsley! Feel sorry for her. I mean, who'd blame her if she did put horns on the old gent? But it ain't something I'd bet on."

"No," Lucien muttered dryly.

"A man ought to stand up for a woman's honor, Luce." Then, "Why'd he call her your Venus? You been up to something I don't know? That dancer—Emma Land—pale for you already?"

"No." Lucien shrugged. "Malice—wit—who knows? I told you—I mean to ignore it."

"But if it's not so, it isn't right!"

"Forget it."

"She's not up to his weight at all," Leighton protested. "Gel's an innocent."

The earl favored him with a pained look. "Are you playing or not?"

"How deep am I?"

"About ten thousand."

"Got to come about—blasted run of luck lately." The viscount shook his head in disgust. "Went down about the time you came back, you know."

"My dear George, I never advise playing against me," Lucien murmured mildly. "If you had hoped to win, you ought to have sat down with Bell."

"Fellow's three sheets into it," Leighton snorted.

"Precisely."

"And what am I supposed to make of that?"

"You ought to stick to your cards. Would you care to try faro?"

"Lud, no! You fleeced me the last time! You know what, Luce?—you've got the devil's own luck."

"I hope so—considering where I am going."

"It makes no sense to go, Luce. Just because your father—"

"It has nothing to do with him."

"Diana, then."

"Nor Diana."

"Look, if you'd stay and face 'em down—if you'd do like Rotherfield did and brazen it out—"

"George, I don't give a damn if I am never received again," Lucien cut in coldly. "It was worth the price." He picked up the dice, weighed them in his hand, then cast them onto the table, rolling a seven. "Well worth it."

"Maybe you asked too much of her. I mean, you are a cold fellow, and—"

But Longford's attention had strayed to the door. "Damn!" he muttered under his breath.

"What—?" Leighton blinked, then followed his glance. Perplexed, he frowned. "I don't—oh, young Fenton. Hope he doesn't mean to make a scene."

"No. The one with him—Kingsley."

"Kingsley? But he's—"

"The old man's grandson."

"Ten to one, he'll not be amused by the wager."

"Not at all," Lucien agreed grimly.

For a moment, he could see Elinor Kingsley sitting forward in her chair in his saloon, acknowledging that her elderly husband was jealous of the boy, that he was sending him off to war because of it. And as the two young men walked unsteadily, betraying an early start on an evening of drinking, Lucien forsaw disaster. He tossed the dice again, paying no attention to the ivory cubes, telling himself that even if the boy quarreled with Bell, it was none of his affair. Almost idly, he handed the dice to Leighton.

"Well, George?"

"Done up for tonight, I'm afraid."

"Your vouchers are always good with me."

"Heart's not in it. I get tired of losing." Leighton started to rise. "If you want to fleece somebody, take Bell. Think I'll see what Alvanley means to do."

"I can tell you—they are all going to Watier's to sup, provided Prinny is not in attendance there. The coolness between the Beau and our Regent continues, I'm afraid."

"Watier's?"

"Rumor has it that it's to be lobster patties and apricot tarts—and you know what that does to Alvanley," Lucien answered. "They but wait for a coachman to come back to advise them on Prinny's presence."

"Dash it, but you cannot know that! You been sitting here with me, and I did not hear it," Leighton protested.

"Acute hearing is sometimes useful, George."

"One would think the cannon would have dulled it by now," his friend muttered. He looked up. "Oh-oh. Fen-ton's wanting to enter something in the book—no doubt it's a mill or some such thing."

Despite his self-professed disinterest, Lucien half-turned to watch as the attendant brought out the book. Fenton started to write, then said something to the other boy, whose face reddened visibly. Before he could be stopped, Charles Kingsley started across the room toward Bellamy Townsend. And it was obvious that in his present state, he wasn't entirely rational. There was a public and ugly quarrel in the making.

But you could use your position to see he is kept from the fray.
It was as though Elinor Kingsley's words echoed in his mind. I
could not bear it if he were to perish. I'd not have it said he died because of me.

Lucien groaned inwardly. He'd refused her once, and rather shabbily, and what there was of his conscience still pricked him for it. Reluctantly, he heaved himself up to head the fool off. "Kingsley!" he called out.

But he was too late. With Tom Fenton urging him on, Charles Kingsley already confronted the inebriated viscount, who was sprawled back in his chair. Weaving above him truculently, the boy demanded, "Take Lady Kingsley's name from the betting book, damn you! Take it back!"

Bell blinked. "Wha—? Don't—can't." He tried to sit up, then fell back. "Oh—it's you." He grinned foolishly. "Ain't her husband—not your affair."

"She is my kinswoman, and I'll not stand to have her name sullied, sir!" Charles shouted. "It's an insult not to be borne!" Retrieving his glove from his coat pocket, he was about to strike Townsend in the face, when Longford caught his arm.

Leaning close, the earl murmured, "A duel will keep the tale alive."

"What the devil—? Longford!"

Diana's brother spun around in disbelief, then his jaw jutted out belligerently. "Ain't your affair, Luce!"

Bellamy looked up, blinked again to focus reddened eyes, then sneered. "Never shay you mean to de—defend the ladish honor, Lu—Luce? I saw her, you know— and-"

He never got to finish. Lucien's hand caught him under the chin, lifting him from the chair. Bell's neck seemed to lengthen above his starched cravat, and his eyes bugged out. He moved his lips, but could not speak.

"No, but I am prepared to defend mine," Lucien said almost softly. "Before you accuse, you'd best ask."

"But—"

Lucien's grip tightened as the viscount's face purpled. Alarmed, Leighton threw his arms around his friend, trying to hold him. "For God's sake, Luce—the man's disguised!"

"Gentlemen, not here!" the proprietor implored them. "If you must quarrel in your cups, go outside."

But Lucien's black eyes were on Townsend's. "Is there a quarrel, Bell?" he asked silkily.

"N-no," the other man gasped. As the earl relaxed his grip, Townsend slipped back into his chair and began rubbing his neck, looking up balefully. "Did—didn't have to cho-choke me, Luce."

"You saw nothing, Bell—nothing."

The other man's eyes dropped. "Must've been mistaken," he muttered."Got no quarrel with you." When he perceived that that was not enough, he added, "Could've been the Wilson woman—got red hair, too, you know."

"Precisely." As though nothing had happened, Lucien adjusted the cuff of his shirt beneath his coat sleeve. "I'm glad—I should not want to put a hole in you before

I leave the country." Turning his back on Townsend, Fenton, and Charles Kingsley, he walked over to where the attendant still held the book.

Awed, Charles followed him. "I say, but—"

"I'd have the pen."

The proprietor himself produced one—and an inkpot. "Was you wanting to lay a wager, my lord?"

But rather than answer, Lucien took the pen and scratched out Townsend's entry, inserting instead the motto of the Garter,
"Honi soit qui mal y pense. "
As those around him exchanged perplexed glances, he snapped the book shut. "I suggest you give him back the money you are holding for him," he told the man coldly. When nobody moved, he added, "I believe it was one hundred pounds."

"What the devil—? You cannot expunge his wager," Sefton protested.

"I just did."

"I say, Luce—but—" Once again, Bellamy Townsend tried to rise, supporting himself with his table. "It was about La Kingsley—not—" He stopped, aware that Charles Kingsley glared at him.

"Suffice it to say, Bell, that if I ever read my name— or Lady Kingsley's name—in any of the betting books again, I shall choose to make a wager of my own—shall we say ten thousand pounds that I can score a solid hit at twenty paces?"

"Who the devil'd take that?" Alvanley demanded. "Crack shot."

Fenton turned to Charles and whispered, "What'd he write?"

"Honi soit qui mal y pense, "
Charley hissed back.

"What?"

"Shame to him who evil thinks—or something like that, if I remember it right."

"Well, he ought to know about shame," Fenton muttered.

"Still doesn't settle the matter," Charley began, only to realize that Longford had his arm again.

"You're foxed," the earl declared coldly. "You'd best go home."

"But I ain't—"

"We'll speak of it in my carriage."

It was Charles's turn to blink. "Your carriage? You'd take me up?"

"I'm leaving anyway."

Despite the earl's awful reputation, Charley considered it a signal honor. "Going to the Peninsula with you, you know," he confided as Longford propelled him toward the door. " Dragoons."

"You won't like it."

"Be a hero like you," the boy mumbled. "Come home a hero to Nell."

There was a low murmur as Lucien passed, a muttered "Lucifer" under someone's breath, and Bell Townsend proclaiming loudly to any who would listen that he wasn't afraid of Longford. To which the usually taciturn Earl of Rotherfield, a rather sinister fellow himself, replied that even he was not such a fool as to quarrel with Lucien de Clare.

Charley stumbled as he tried to step up into the conveyance, and Lucien had to boost him up. "Love her, you know."

"You're in your cups." Lucien looked up at his driver. "Kingsley House."

"No—cannot go there," Charley protested. "The Pulteney."

"You ought to go home."

"Old man won't let me—don't want me in the house because of Nell."

"Nell?"

"Elinor." Charley leaned back against the squabs and closed his eyes against the dizziness he felt. "Lady Kingsley. Mean to marry her, you know."

Longford surveyed him soberly for a moment, then shook his head. "When it comes to women, there are two kinds of foolish fellows, Kingsley—the very young and the very old."

"It ain't like that. Nell's different—great gun—only he don't see it. Won't let her—" The boy swallowed hard, trying not to disgrace himself before Longford, but he couldn't. Grasping the door handle, he wrenched it open to hang outside, where he was heartily, thoroughly sick. When he was done, he pulled himself back in, and fell back against the seat. There was no mistaking his misery.

"What was I saying?" he mumbled.

"It doesn't signify."

But Charley wasn't to be denied. "No—it was the old man—you don't know—keeps her a prisoner."

Longford's eyebrow rose. "Coming it too strong—half the females in London would welcome such a prison."

"He don't even want her to think. Got to be what he wants—always got to be what he wants. But he ain't living forever, you know—make it up to her. Mean to marry her," he repeated.

"What you are suggesting is incest," the earl reminded him.

"Take her out of England—America maybe—start over." Charley's blue eyes opened briefly to meet Longford's dark ones. "Don't care if I'm a baron or not. Just want to support her. Love her," he insisted almost defiantly.

Salad days, Lucien thought privately. But he'd not yet seen a youth ready to part with his idealized dreams of a female. That came later, sometime after the conquest, when the poor fellow discovered that one woman was in truth much like any other. The only things that separated Sally Jersey or Lady Oxford from courtesans like Harriette Wilson and her sisters were money, aristocratic birth, and complacent husbands.