Gallant Waif (2 page)

He was silent for a moment, remembering what she had said to her father. “I am told that I will never dance again. Or ride.”

“Exactly,” she agreed, oblivious to his hard gaze. “And will that horrid scar on your face go away too? I doubt it.” She suddenly seemed to notice the cruelty of what she had said. “Oh, forgive me, Jack, but you used to be the handsomest man in London,
before.
. .that.” She gestured distastefully towards the scar.

With every word she uttered, she revealed herself more and more, and the pain and disillusion and anger with
himself
was like a knife twisting in Jack’s guts. For this beautiful, empty creature he had forever alienated his father. Like Julia, he had never in his heart of hearts believed his father would truly disinherit him, but it seemed his father had died with Jack unforgiven. It was that which hurt Jack so deeply; not the loss of his inheritance, but the loss of his father’s love.

Feeling uncomfortable under Jack’s harsh scrutiny, Julia took a few paces around the room, nervously picking up ornaments and elegant knick-knacks, putting them down and moving restlessly on.

Jack watched her, recalling how the memory of her grace and beauty had sustained him through some of the worst moments of his life. It had been like a dream then, in the heat and dust and blood of the Peninsula War, to think of this lovely, vital creature waiting for him. And that’s all it was, he told himself harshly—a dream. The reality was this vain, beautiful, callous little bitch.

“Oh, be honest, Jack.” She twirled and stopped in front of him. “You are no longer the man I agreed to marry. Can you give me the life we planned? No.”

She shrugged. “I am sorry, Jack, but, painful though it is for both of us, you must see it is just not at all practical any more.”

“Ahh, not practical?” he echoed sarcastically. “And what exactly is not practical? Is it my sudden lack of fortune?
My ruined face?
Or the idea of dancing with an ugly cripple and
thereby becoming
an object of ridicule? Is that it, eh?”

She cringed in fright at the savagery in his voice.

“No, it is not practical, is it?” he snarled. “And I thank God for it.”

She stared as she took in the meaning of his last utterance.

“Do . .
.do
you mean to say
you
don’t want to marry me?” Her voice squeaked in amazement and dawning indignation. It was for her to give
him
his
conge,
not the other way around.

He bowed ironically. “Not only do I not wish to marry you, I am almost grateful for the misfortunes which have opened my eyes and delivered me from that very fate.”

She glared at him, her bosom heaving in a way that had once entranced him. “Mr Carstairs, you are no gentleman!”

He smiled back at her, a harsh, ugly grimace. “And you, Miss Davenport, are no lady. You are a shallow, greedy, cold little bitch, and I thank my lucky stars that I discovered the truth in time. God help the poor fool you eventually snare in your net.”

She stamped her foot furiously. “How dare you? Leave this house at once … at once, do you hear me? Or crip— wounded or not, I’ll have you thrown out!”

He limped two paces forward and she skittered back in fright.

“Just give me back my ring,” he said wearily, “and your butler won’t be put to the trouble and embarrass-sment of manhandling a cripple.”

She snatched her left hand back against her breast and covered the large diamond ring with her other hand.

“Oh, but I am very attached to this ring, Jack,” she said in a little-girl voice. “I did love you, you know. Surely you want me to have something to remember you by?”

He looked at her, disgust filling his throat, then turned and silently limped from the house.

Chapter One

London.
Late autumn, 1812.

Good God! Do you mean to tell me my grandson did not even receive you after you’d travelled I don’t know how many miles to see him?” Lady Cahill frowned at her granddaughter. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Amelia, stop that crying at once and tell me the whole story!
From the beginning!”

Amelia gulped back her sobs. “The house is shabby and quite horrid, though the stables seem well enough—”

“I care nothing for stables! What of my grandson?” Lady Cahill interrupted, exasperated.

“His manservant told me Jack saw no one.”

The old lady frowned. “What do you mean, no one?”

“I mean no one, Grandmama, no one at all. He—Jack, that is—pretended to be indisposed. He sent a message thanking me for my concern and regretting his inability to offer me hospitality. Hospitality!
His own sister!”

Amelia groped in her reticule for a fresh handkerchief, blotted her tears and continued, “Of course I insisted that I go up and tend him, but his man—
a. foreigner
—would not even allow me up the stairs. I gathered from him that Jack was not ill . .
.just
… drunk! He won’t see anyone. And, according to his manservant, he’s been like that ever since he returned from Kent.”

There was a long pause while the old lady digested the import of this.
“Kent, eh?
I wish to God he had never set eyes on that poisonous little Davenport baggage.” She glanced up at her granddaughter. “I take it, then, that the betrothal is definitely at an end.”

“Unfortunately, yes, Grandmama.”

“Good!” said Lady Cahill vehemently. “He’s well rid of that little harpy and you know it.”

“But, Grandmama, it appears to have broken his heart.”

“Nonsense!
He’s got a fine strong heart. He’s got my blood in him, hasn’t he? When you’re my age, you’ll stop prating of broken hearts and other such nonsense. Bodies mend and so do hearts.”

There was a long silence.

“But that’s just it, isn’t it, Grandmama?” Amelia said at last. “Bodies don’t always mend, do they? Jack’s servant said that Jack’s leg is still very bad and painful, although he can walk.”

Lady Cahill thought of the way her favourite grandson had looked when he’d come back from the wars in Spain. Such a fine tall, athletic lad he had been, too, before he left.
But now …

She glared at her granddaughter. “Don’t let me ever hear you speaking such
rubbish,
do you hear me, gel? Never! That boy is as fine a lad as ever he was, you mark my words! He’s got a fine fighting spirit in him.”

“I saw no fighting spirit, Grandmama.”

“Do you try to tell me, gel, that my grandson has had the stuffing knocked out of him and hides himself away from the world merely because his betrothal to that beautiful, heartless little viper is at an end?
Faugh!”
Lady Cahill snorted. “You’ll not make me believe that, not in a month of Sundays.”

“No,” said Amelia slowly. “But that, on top of every-thing else… He will never ride again, they say. And so many of his friends have been killed in the war… And, Grandmama, you
know
how much Papa’s will hurt him—to be left with virtually nothing…”

“Lord knows what maggot was in your father’s mind at the time,” agreed Lady Cahill. “Bad enough to disinherit the boy, but to leave him ‘whatever is found in my pockets on the day I die’”… Faugh! Utter folly!
“Twas the veriest coincidence that he died after a night of cards at White’s.
Had he not just won that deed to Sevenoakes, the boy would not even have a roof over his head!”

Lady Cahill snorted in disgust. Yes, Jack had taken some terrible blows, one on top of another. But even discounting Amelia’s dramatics it seemed he was taking it badly. He could not be allowed to brood like that. He needed
something
to snap him out of it.

There was a soft knock at the door. “Yes, what is it, Fitcher?” the old lady snapped, her temper frayed by concern for her grandson.

“Pardon me, milady.” The butler bowed. “This letter was delivered a few moments ago.” He bowed again, proffering a letter on a silver salver.

Lady Cahill picked up the letter, wrinkling her nose in disdain at the undistinguished handwriting which gave her direction. “Humph,” she muttered. “Not even franked.”

She turned it over and broke the seal. She frowned over the letter, muttering crossly to herself as she did. Finally she threw it down in frustration.

“What is it, Grandmama?”

“Demmed if I can read the thing. Shockin’ bad hand and the spelling is atrocious. Can’t think who’d be sending me such rubbish. Toss it in the fire, girl!”

The young woman picked the letter up and smoothed it out. “Would you like me to try?”

Taking the snort she received from her grandmother to be assent, Amelia read it out, hesitating occasionally over misspellings and illegible words, of which there were many.

Milady I
be
right sorry to be addressing you like this it being above my station to be writing to
Countesses but I cannot think of who else to turn to…

“A begging letter!” the Dowager Countess snapped in outrage.
“On to the fire with it at once!”

“I think not, Grandmama,” said Amelia, scanning ahead. “Let me finish.”

… for my poor girl is now left all alone in the world with no kin to care what become of her but it do seem a right shame that the daughter of gentlefolk should have to skivvy to stay alive…

Lady Cahill’s eyes kindled with anger. “By God, she’s trying to palm one of your father’s by-blows off on to us!”

“Grandmama!”
Amelia blushed, horrified.

“Oh, don’t be so mealy-mouthed, girl. You must know your father had any number of bits o’ fluff after your dear mother died, and they didn’t mean a thing, so don’t pretend. But it’s nothing to do with us. Your father would have left any base-born child well provided for. He was a gentleman, after all, even if he was a fool! Now toss that piece of impertinence in the fire at once,
I
say!”

But her granddaughter had forgotten her blushes and was avidly reading on. “No, wait, Grandmama, listen to this.”

And being as I was her old nurse even if some as did say I wasn’t good enough to be nurse to Vicar’s daughter it falls to me to let you know what my girl has come to being as you was godmother to Miss Maria her poor sainted mother…

Lady Cahill sat up at this and leant forward, her eyes sharp with interest.

… and her only remaining child so now there be nothing left for her but to Take Service her not willing to be took in by myself and truth to tell there be little enough for me alone so I beg ye Milady please help Miss Kate for as the Lord is my witness there be no other who can yours truly Martha Betts.

“Do you know any of these people, Grandmama?” said Amelia curiously.

“I believe I do,” said her grandmother slowly, picking up the letter and scanning it again. “I think the girl must be the daughter of my godchild Maria Farleigh—Maria Delacombe as she used to be. She married a parson and died giving birth to a daughter … must be nigh on twenty years ago. She had two boys before
that,
can’t recall their names now, and I lost touch with the family after she died, but it could be the same family.”

She peered at the address. “Is that Bedfordshire I see? Yes.
Hmm.
No kin? What can have happened to the gel’s father and brothers?” Lady Cahill frowned over the letter for a short time,
then
tossed it decisively down on a side table.

“What do you mean to do, Grandmama?”

Lady Cahill rang for sherry and biscuits.

Amelia’s husband arrived and they all went in to dinner. Over cream of watercress soup, Lady Cahill announced her decision.

“But, Grandmama, are you sure about this?” Amelia looked distressed. “It’s a very long journey. What if Jack won’t receive you, either?”

Lady Cahill gave her granddaughter a look of magnificent scorn. “Don’t be ridiculous, Amelia!” she snorted. “I have never in my life been denied
entrée
to any establishment in the kingdom. I go where I choose. I was a Montford, gel, before my marriage to your grandfather, and
no one,
not even my favourite grandson, tells me what I may or may not do!”