Black Sheep (15 page)

“Yes, but you must remember that I was a sad disappointment to the family. My father even suspected me of being a changeling. A delightful theory, but without foundation, I fear.” He threw the butt of his cheroot into the fire, and got up, stretching his long limbs. His light eyes looked down at Stacy, their expression hard to interpret. “Have you lost Danescourt yet?” he enquired.

Stacy laughed shortly. “Good God, what would any man in his senses stake against that damned barrack? It’s mortgaged to the hilt, and falling into ruin besides! It was encumbered when my father died, and I can’t bring it about. I hate the place—wouldn’t waste a groat on it!”

“Shades of our ancestors!” said Miles flippantly. “They must all be turning in their graves. Perhaps
you
are a changeling! Or did you come to visit me in the hope that I might be able to restore your fallen fortunes?”

“Hardly!” Stacy said, flicking a glance at his uncle’s person.

“I’m told you came home bear-leading Mrs Grayshott’s son, which doesn’t lead me to suppose you’re swimming in lard! I hope to God that won’t leak out!”

“Oh, I don’t think so!” said Miles reassuringly. “But you have it wrong: I wasn’t bear-leading him. I was combining the duties of sick-nurse and valet.”

“Good God! If
that
should become known—! I wish you will consider
my
position, sir!”

“But why should I?”

“Well, damme, I
am
your nephew!” Stacy said indignantly. “And you are, after all, a Calverleigh!”

“Yes, but not at all high in the instep, I promise you. As for our relationship, no one can blame you for being my nephew—I don’t myself—but if it irks you, don’t acknowledge me!”

“It may seem to you to be a funning matter,” returned Stacy, reddening, “but I shall beg leave to tell you, sir, that it is no very pleasant thing for me to have you here, looking like—oh, dash it, like a regular rough diamond!” He rose, and picked up his hat. “I don’t know how long you mean to remain in Bath, but I trust you are aware of what the charges are in this hotel!”

“Don’t give them a thought!” said Miles. “I won’t chalk ‘em up to you. If I find myself at a stand, I can always shoot the crow.”

“Vastly diverting, sir!” snapped Stacy, collecting his gloves and his cane, ‘“Servant!”

He executed a slight bow, and left the room. He was so much ruffled that he had reached the White Hart before his anger had cooled enough to allow him to consider whether he had acted wisely in letting his temper ride him. He was not naturally an even-tempered man, but he had cultivated an air of smiling good-humour, knowing that it was as great an asset to anyone living precariously on the fringe of society as his handsome countenance. It was rarely that he betrayed irritability, or lost his poise, even under the severe provocation of receiving a set-down from some out-and-outer into whose circle he had tried to insinuate himself, or a high-nosed stare from a great lady whose favour he wanted to win. He began to be vexed with himself, and to wonder what quality it was in his uncle which had set up his bristles; but it was not for some time, and then with reluctance, that it dawned on him that he had been made to fed small. This had nothing to do with Miles’s superior height, and even less with his manner, which had not been that of a man talking to his nephew, but that of a man talking to a contemporary whom he regarded with indifference. Recalling how Miles had lounged at his ease, looking as though he had dressed all by guess, in an outmoded coat, his neckcloth loosened, and an abominable cheroot between his long brown fingers, he felt resentment stir again. He, and not his disreputable uncle, should have been master of the situation, but in some mysterious way he had been made to feel awkward. He had expected to have been received, if not with gratification, at least with pleasure: it had been a piece of condescension on the part of the head of the family to have visited its reprobate, but the reprobate was apparently unaware of this. He had been neither pleased nor displeased, and certainly not gratified; and the only interest he had shown in his nephew was of the most casual order. Stacy found this so galling that he almost wished himself back at the York House, for the purpose of giving the impudent fellow a well-deserved set-down.

It soon occurred to him, however, that it behoved him to tread warily: even, if he could do it, to make a friend of Miles. Miles knew of his courtship of Fanny Wendover, and there could be small doubt that he had learnt of it from her aunts. He had shown no sign of disapproval: indeed, he had taken as little interest in that as in the disclosure that Danescourt was heavily encumbered, but if he was on terms with Miss Abigail Wendover it might be worth while to make a push to gain his support.

Marriage had few attractions for Mr Stacy Calverleigh, but it had been forcibly borne in upon him that only by a rich marriage could he escape from embarrassments which had become extremely pressing; and he was determined to marry Fanny, even if he were forced to persuade her to elope with him. But it would be infinitely preferable to marry her with the consent of her aunts and her uncle. Selina he could bring round his thumb, but he had guessed from the outset that Selina was of less importance than Abigail, and that it was Abigail’s influence which was the more likely to weigh with Mr James Wendover.

He had no illusions about James. He had never known James’s father, or his elder brother, far less his grandfather, but he knew that they had been bywords in their day, and that James was commonly held to be the epitome of a Wendover. He was ruled by two passions: a determination to advance the interests of the family, and an even stronger determination to avoid at all costs anything savouring remotely of the scandalous. He could be depended on to oppose Fanny’s marriage to an impecunious young man of slightly damaged reputation, but once the knot was tied he could also be depended on to hush up the resultant scandal. And if he did not immediately make suitable provision for his wealthy ward he would very soon be obliged to do so, for fear of
what people would say
.
This (according to the malicious) was the dread which governed his conduct. And if Stacy showed himself to be a reformed character people would certainly say very rude things indeed, unless James put Fanny in possession of at least the income from her large fortune, and of her ancestral home. Particularly, thought Stacy, if the clandestine marriage were blessed with an heir. For himself, he had every intention of behaving with the utmost propriety, even of resigning himself for quite some time to living for several months of the year at Amberfield. It would be boring, but once it was known that he was married to an heiress whose property would become his within a few years he would be able to exist comfortably on the expectation. It should be possible for him to settle with his most pressing creditors, and although he would still be in Dun territory there would be no longer any fear of finding himself locked up for debt. Not the most avaricious bluntmonger would proceed to extremes against a man who was heir (by marriage) to a handsome fortune.

It was not, of course, the ideal marriage. He would have preferred—and, indeed, had preferred—a bride who had attained her majority; but heiresses were few and far between, and since his abortive attempt at an elopement his chances of being allowed to come within speaking distance of one had lessened to vanishing point. On the other hand, Fanny was a little beauty, and he thought that if he must become leg-shackled he would as lief many her as any other. But he wanted to do so with the approval of her aunts; and, having made a conquest of Selina, he had been hopeful of achieving a like success with Abigail. Five minutes in her company had been enough to shatter optimism: Abigail was made of sterner stuff than her sister, and had plainly set her face against him. Probably James Wendover was to blame for that; perhaps another man’s influence could be brought
to
bear with advantage. She seemed to be on friendly terms with Miles, which made it desirable to lose no time in enlisting Miles’s support.

So when he attended the ball at the Upper Rooms that evening, and found that his uncle was present, talking to Mrs Grayshott, he seized the first opportunity that offered of greeting him with every sign of pleasure. He was relieved to see that Miles did at least possess knee-smalls and a swallow-tailed coat, but his fingers itched to rearrange a necktie which he thought deplorable, and to brush into a more fashionable style his uncle’s raven locks. His own were beautifully pomaded, and swept into a Brutus; his coat exactly fitted his trim figure; a fob dangled at his waist; a quizzing-glass hung round his neck; the subtle fragrance of Steek’s lavender water clung to his person; and a diamond pin nestled in the folds of his Oriental tie. In fact, as Lady Weaverham observed to Mrs Slinfold, he had the unmistakable London touch. Mrs Slinfold, concurring, added that in her opinion he was the first in elegance of all the gentlemen present; but Mrs Ruscombe, overhearing, said with her shallow laugh: “Oh, do you think so ? Such a fribble! My husband—so naughty of him!—calls him a positive coxcomb!”

But since everyone knew not only that it was Mrs Ruscombe’s custom to attribute her more damaging criticisms to her meek spouse, but also that she had made every effort to throw the eldest of her five daughters in Mr Stacy Calverleigh’s way, this remark was received in stony silence. Mr Stacy Calverleigh might be too much of a bandbox creature for everyone’s taste, but he was not a coxcomb, for he neither strutted, nor played off the airs of an exquisite. His manners were very agreeable, so that even the most censorious of his elders were obliged to admit that he was pretty-behaved enough.

When Miss Abigail Wendover arrived, chaperoning her lovely niece, it was seen that she was wearing another of her London gowns, and agreed amongst her friends that she was in quite her best looks, only Mrs Ruscombe advancing the opinion that it was easy to appear to advantage if one was prepared to squander a fortune on one’s back.

This estimate was an exaggeration, but, being comfortably endowed, Abby was not obliged to study economy, and had had no hesitation in purchasing an extremely costly gown of figured lace, worn over a satin robe, which hung in soft folds to her feet, and ended in a demi-train. This, as much as the diamond aigrette in her hair, proclaimed to the knowledgeable that she had no intention of dancing; but Mr Miles Calverleigh was not of their number, and presently made his way to where she was sitting, and begged to have the honour of leading her into the set which was then forming.

She smiled, but shook her head, saying: “Thank you, but I don’t dance.”

“I’m glad of that,” he said. Then, as surprise and quick amusement leapt into her eyes, he laughed, and added: “I’m a shocking bad hand at it, you see! May I sit down, and talk to you instead?”

“Pray do!” she responded. “I have been wishing for the opportunity of talking to you, sir. Have you yet made the acquaintance of your nephew?”

“Yes, he was so obliging as to pay me a visit today.”

“What do you dunk of him?” she demanded.

“Why, nothing! Must I?”

“I wish you won’t be so provoking!” said Abby.

“I wouldn’t provoke you for the world. But what would you have me say? He was with me for less than an hour, and I can’t recall that he said anything that interested me to the point of
thinking
about him.”

“You are a most unnatural uncle!” she told him, with a severity at variance with the dimple that peeped in her cheek.

“Am I?” He reflected for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. I’d three uncles, and none of ’em took the smallest interest in me. After all, why should they?”

“For no reason at all, I daresay! Are you trying to make me—oh, what is it the hunting men say?—fly from a scent? Yes, that’s it. Well, you won’t do it! I also made the acquaintance of your nephew today, and I don’t scruple to tell you that I like him even less than I had expected I should!”

“No, did you ? Your expectations must have been much higher than you led me to suppose!”

“No, but—oh, I suppose I did expect him to be a man of charm! I don’t find him charming at all, and I can’t conceive how Fanny came to fall in love with him! Now, tell me to my head, can you?”

“Oh, easily!” he replied. “He is a very pretty fellow, you must allow! Turns out in excellent trim, too, and has both air and address.”

“Oh, yes!” she said bitterly. “Playing off his cajolery! He tried to turn me up sweet, but it’s my belief he is one who hides his teeth. And when he smiles there’s no smile in his eyes: only—only a
measuring
look! Surely you must have seen it?”

“Well, no!” he confessed. “But mat might be because he didn’t smile very often when he was with me. Or perhaps because he saw no need to—er—measure me!”

She said quickly: “You didn’t like him either, did you?”

“Oh, no! But how many people does one like ?”

She frowned over this, momentarily diverted. “Upon first acquaintance? I don’t know: not very many, perhaps. But one need not
dislike
them, and I
do
dislike Mr Stacy Calverleigh!”

“Yes, I thought you did,” he said gravely.

“And I don’t believe, for all his protestations and caressing ways, that he
truly
loves Fanny, or would have made the least push to engage her affections had she not been possessed of a large fortune!”

“Oh, lord, no!”

She turned her head, looking up into his face with pleading eyes, and laying one of her expensively gloved hands on his arm. “If you too think that, won’t you—oh, Mr Calverleigh,
won’t
you do
anything
to save my poor Fanny?”