Beth Andrews

England, 1816

Sir Lester Malmsbury swung from the chandelier. Having made his ascent by way of a heavy wooden chair perched atop the round table in the center of the room, he leaped up toward the hanging lamp with its ring of twelve candles, knocking over the chair and sailing high above the other occupants of Miss Honoria Inchwood’s salon, most of whom were too castaway to pay any attention to his singular feat.

His flight was brief, his descent spectacular. The ceiling, after all, was not designed to support the weight of a gentleman of some thirteen stone. He glided once to the east and once to the west, before an ominous creak heralded the end of his ride and of the ceiling. The chain gave way, bringing down a rain of wood and plaster, along with Sir Lester, on top of the table—which, in turn, cracked under the onslaught and toppled over, depositing the gentleman on the floor, his fist still clutching the remnants of the chandelier with its extinguished bits of wax and wicks.

There was a short round of applause in appreciation of this acrobatic exhibition.

‘Do you think he’s dead?’ a male voice sounded through the semi-gloom.

‘Lay you odds he’s not,’ another responded.

‘Done!’

‘Oh Lord!’ a feminine voice spoke this time. ‘Looks like I’m goin’ t’ need a new table.’

‘Rather more than that, I’d say, Honoria.’ The gentleman who responded to her statement was the only man present who did not appear to be completely foxed. Indeed, he was not only quite sober but noticeably unimpressed by the proceedings.

‘You’re right an’ all, Richard,’ the lady answered, pushing past a middle-aged gentleman with a half-naked young woman on his lap, neither of whom paid any heed to her presence. ‘You don’t think he’s gone and killed ‘imself, do ye?’

Richard bent over the prostrate peer and calmly felt for a pulse. Having ascertained the other man’s condition, he straightened and turned to the woman.

‘I’m afraid he’s still alive, ma’am.’

‘Damnation!’ The gentleman who had wagered against this eventuality was obviously disappointed. ‘Are you quite sure, St George?’ he asked.

‘Perfectly sure,’ Richard answered.

‘That’s one to you, Harry.’

‘Told you so.’

Someone lit another lamp, which gave considerably more illumination to the scene. There were several scantily clad ladies twined around a number of intoxicated gentlemen. One or two of the males present had long since drifted into unconsciousness and were lying about on chairs or— in one particular case—under a divan. A few of Miss Inchwood’s other clients had already left the main party for some private entertainment in one of her special rooms. Her girls were always ready to oblige any gentleman who sported a bit of blunt.

‘If you’ll excuse me, Honoria,’ St George said, surveying his surroundings, I'll be on my way.’

‘So soon, Richard?’ Honoria Inchwood, a faded blonde nearer to forty than thirty, with highly rouged cheeks and wearing an eye-watering orange gown, frowned at him. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’

‘Something of the sort.’

‘I’m sure one of my girls would cure whatever ails ye!’

His thin, firm lips barely lifted at the corners. ‘Another time, perhaps.’

With a slight bow, he turned and made his exit, grabbing his cloak, hat and cane on the way out. It was past one o’clock in the morning and the streets of London were relatively quiet.

His carriage was waiting at a discreetly correct distance from the entrance to Miss Inchwood’s establishment. He did not think he would be returning there any time soon. Somehow, it had lost its charms for him. But then, nothing held much interest for him these days. He was aware of a disquieting feeling of
ennui,
a dissatisfaction with everything and everyone around him.

He must be getting old, he supposed. After all, his fortieth birthday was approaching in a mere two months—early August, in fact. Still, he could not determine any particular reason for his want of spirits. He had recently discarded his last mistress, who had bored him almost as soon as he bedded her. Nor had any of Miss Inchwood’s merchandise tempted him tonight. What the devil ailed him?

Within a very few minutes the carriage wheels were rattling to a halt on the cobblestones before his own house in Berkeley Square, a much more fashionable quarter of the city. He descended on to the pavement and prepared to mount the steps, but was halted by the sound of someone hailing him from the other side of the street.

‘Hallo, Richard!’

St George had already identified the speaker by his voice, but he turned to see Julian Marchmont striding across the street towards him. Julian was a tall, well-made fellow with golden locks and deep blue eyes. He had only recently achieved his majority and was determined to enjoy it freely and fully.

‘Going home so soon?’ another voice called out. This was a rather older man: in fact, Julian’s uncle, Sir Jasper Marchmont.

‘This is no time to be lying abed, Richard,’ Julian quizzed him.

‘Especially if one is alone. Or is one?’ Sir Jasper added, with a knowing look in the general direction of Richard’s front door.

‘Quite alone.’

‘You ain’t ill, old boy?’ the older man suggested.

‘I fear so. And the disease appears to be incurable.’

‘Good Lord!’ Julian was instantly concerned. ‘I had no idea. Why did you not tell me?’

Despite himself, St George laughed. Julian had changed considerably from the green youth who had come to town at the beginning of the season, but he still occasionally displayed a disarming naiveté which Richard almost envied. How many years had it been since he would have answered the same?

‘I thought it was plain enough,’ he said. ‘I am sure I display all the most hideous symptoms of chronic boredom.’

Julian shook his head. ‘I might have known you were trying to roast me.’

‘I?’ Richard pretended affront. ‘I assure you my condition is pitiable enough.’

‘We were just on our way to Miss Inchwood’s establishment,’ Henry told him. ‘Come with us and see if she can’t ease your suffering.’

‘I am surprised at you, Marchmont,’ Richard chafed him. ‘Honoria’s house is hardly an appropriate place for you to be taking a babe in arms like your nephew.’

‘Gammon!’ Julian snorted. ‘You’ve taken me there on more than one occasion yourself. And I am no greenhorn, you know. You are an excellent tutor, sir.’

‘Am I?’ St George’s mouth twisted slightly. ‘I wonder if I have taught you anything worth knowing?’

‘Can you doubt it?’ Julian stared at him in surprise. ‘Why, if it had not been for you, I would never have caught that sprig, Daniel Afdore, trying to fuzz the cards last week! Saved me quite a bundle, I can tell you.’

‘The lad also shows some promise with the foils, from what I hear, and he handles the reins with considerably more skill than was used to be the case. In fact,’ his uncle added, ‘he is bidding fair to be a notable Corinthian. The pupil may yet outdo his own master.’

‘Please!’ Richard held up his hand in protest. ‘Modesty compels me to beg you to desist from this catalogue of accomplishments, all of which you apparently attribute to my tutelage.’

‘Well, sir, will you come with us, then?’ Sir Jasper tapped his cane impatiently on the bottom step, where they stood. ‘I have no wish to stand here talking all night.’

‘Forgive me if I decline the offer. I have, in fact, just come from Miss Inchwood and feel no great temptation to return thither.’

‘Then let us come inside with you, Richard,’ Julian insisted. ‘Perhaps Uncle Jasper and I can help to cheer you up.’

‘I have no objection.’ St George bowed. ‘Though I fear you are doomed to failure.’

A few minutes later, the trio was ensconced in Richard’s sitting-room, each stretched out in a comfortable chair with a glass of wine, which their host’s manservant had procured with near-miraculous speed. But it seemed that, rather than lifting the cloud over their friend’s head, they were more inclined to become immured in the Slough of Despond themselves.

‘I must confess that the amusements in Town are beginning to lose their appeal.’ Julian said.

‘Listen to the boy!’ his uncle chuckled. ‘He talks more like an old man of fifty than a mere lad of one and twenty.’

‘He has certainly achieved more notoriety in one season than many men do in a dozen.’ St George eyed his young friend with some amusement.

It was perfectly true, however. From the moment Julian appeared in London, he had made a hit. Green he might have been, but he came from a fine old Shropshire family which boasted not merely good breeding but considerable wealth. Such a combination would have guaranteed his social success; but, in addition to all this, he was very good-looking, and though some less charitable members of the
ton
felt that he could have been an inch or two taller, most could find few faults with his person.

Romantic-minded young ladies sighed over him, while their more practical mamas competed vigorously against each other in their attempts to secure his fortune for their daughters. Society matrons proudly displayed him at routs, ridottos and frolics of all kinds; a party was scarcely considered worth attending if it did not boast his presence.

For his part, Julian was eager to cut a dash, which he had certainly managed to do. With his father’s blunt, his uncle’s connections, and the lessons of Richard St George, he had transformed himself in a matter of weeks from a gawky young colt into a budding Corinthian. His coats were made by Weston, his boots by Hoby, and his golden curls were ruthlessly cut and brushed into a severe Brutus style which was the high kick of fashion for gentlemen.

But as his town bronze increased, his popularity with doting matrons began to decline. Julian made it clear that he was willing enough to flirt with susceptible damsels, but he was more like to trifle with them than to offer for them. Several young ladies were already said to be going into declines after his initial ardor for them had evaporated as quickly as a rain puddle in the sunshine. He was, in fact, gaining a reputation for his dealings with the fair sex. It was not the sort of reputation to which more sober gentlemen aspired. Some high sticklers did not hesitate to declare him a young rake.

But despite his endless round of entertainments, his prizefights and Paphians, Julian was not entirely content with his lot, though he hardly knew why. Perhaps St George’s blue devils were proving contagious. After all, if the teacher be cast down, what becomes of his prize pupil?

‘I know!’ Julian cried out, breaking the dull silence which had descended upon the room. ‘A cockfight. The very thing to vanquish devils of any color — blue, green or violet.’

‘What about that pretty ladybird I saw you with last week at Covent Garden, St George?’ Sir Jasper asked with a knowing look. ‘The little redhead with the breasts like melons? Surely she is enough to gladden any man’s heart?’

‘When you have known as many women as I have,’ Richard told him, ‘you’ll find that one of them is very much like another. The pleasure they give is scarcely worth the money and time required to keep them.’

‘Half the girls in London are mad in love with me,’ Julian complained. ‘But what does that matter? Whichever one I choose, I’m well aware that her charms will pall within a fortnight.’

Sir Jasper could not refrain from laughing at this. ‘If you are not the two greatest coxcombs I ever encountered. You talk as if you have only to lift your fingers to command the affections of any woman in England!’

‘You may laugh.’  Julian sat up in his chair. ‘But I don’t know any girl in the country I could not have if I set my mind to it. And as for Richard, his reputation with the ladies is the stuff of myth and legend.’

There was another silence, while Sir Jasper examined the two men minutely, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then a singularly wicked smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

‘Since you seem so certain of your prowess in the arts of love,’ he murmured, ‘let me propose a wager, Nephew....’

‘A wager?’ Julian was puzzled. ‘What kind of nonsense is this, Uncle?’

‘Not nonsense, my boy. I am in deadly earnest.’

For the first time, St George showed a flicker of interest. ‘What, precisely, are the terms of this wager, sir?’

Sir Jasper Marchmont leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in an attitude of meditation, tapping the tips of his fingers together as he prepared to speak.

‘Well, Uncle?’ Julian asked, impatiently.

‘Before I state my terms,’ the older Marchmont began, ‘let me tell you a story.’

‘Ah!’ St George’s eyes narrowed. ‘Methinks we are about to be enlightened, Julian.’

Sir Jasper chose to ignore his friend’s sarcasm. ‘A mile or two from my home in Buckinghamshire — that beautiful county watered by the gently flowing River Ouse — are the remains of an old Gothic abbey, dating from before good King Henry’s time.

‘About twelve years ago, one Mr Woodford, a wealthy merchant, bought the property with its extensive grounds, and made considerable improvements.  Part of the old cloisters are still in a state of ruin, which may indicate that Mr Woodford perhaps nourishes a love of the picturesque.’