The Notorious Lord Havergal (12 page)

It was three o’clock by the time he was in his room, but he knew there would be no sleep for him. Miss Beddoes’s insults were like thorns in his skin. The sting was sharper for the element of truth in them. Of course the woman was a shrew to be quizzing his servants, but still he regretted that he had left such a poor impression behind him. In her anger she might write to his papa. He was already in poor aroma in that quarter after blowing Uncle Eustace’s legacy.

A simple country lady was naturally scandalized at the carrying on of young bucks. He always made a point to behave when he visited his papa and meant to present an equally respectable face at Laurel Hall. Damn Crymont anyway. No one asked him to come along, bringing his wine and wenches and trouble with him. Crymont was half his trouble when you came down to it. He realized that for a childish excuse as soon as it entered his head. But he would definitely drop Crymont.

“... trying to prolong your Childhood into old age. No sense of responsibility, no thought for your future, your character, your family.” How often he had heard his papa deliver the same lecture, but this was the first time he had heard the words from a lady, and they troubled him. Damn, youth was the time for sowing wild oats. Everyone knew that. He was still young. He thought Miss Beddoes quite a middle-aged lady though, and she was approximately the same age as himself—twenty-seven. Perhaps he was getting a little old for these pranks. He was three years younger than Crymont in any case.

Crymont was an irreclaimable wastrel. Why did he choose to chum around with the duke? It displeased his father. And it got himself into more hot water than was comfortable. Yes, it was time to put some distance between Crymont and himself. This latest escapade made a good excuse. Crymont knew he was angry with him. He would not hasten to heal the breach. He would only run into greater debt if he kept associating with Crymont and his wild set.

In fact, he might bite the bullet and choose a wife this Season. Twenty-seven seemed a good time for it. He would not choose his bride from any of his current friends. Like all dashers, he preferred a lady of unsullied reputation for matrimony. Almack’s was the place to look—if they’d let him in, that is to say. There had been some unpleasantness with Mrs. Drummond Burrell last Season over a clandestine game of faro on the premises—again Crymont’s work—but Lady Jersey would vouch for him.

As to his gambling debts, he could not approach Papa at this time. He must sell off some of his horseflesh. A man didn’t need two teams for his carriage and could make do with one hunter and one hacker. His bloods would bring a good price at Tatt’s. If he stayed away from the gambling clubs and away from Crymont, he could see it through the Season without troubling his father for more money.

It might be rather amusing to try to skim along on less money. He didn’t require any additions to his wardrobe. Papa carried all the expenses of the house in Berkeley Square, including the annual ball that traditionally closed the Season. He also hired a box at Covent Garden, and for the rest of it—invitations to balls, routs, and assemblies were free for the accepting. Why, a man could live on next to nothing if he put his mind to it.

Yes, by Jove, he’d give it a try. He had felt good that morning when he woke early after an early and largely abstemious night. It would be pleasant not to wake with a fuzzy head, a dry throat, and a vague worry as to how he had misspent his night. He might start a whole new regime: morning rides in Rotten Row where he’d meet all the debs, afternoon drives in the park and social calls, polite parties at night. And it would keep him clear of Crymont.

The only pity of it was that Miss Beddoes would not hear of his having turned over a new leaf....

The last that was heard from the noble visitors to Ashford was a note from the Duke of Crymont, delivered at noon the following day by His Grace’s footman. The duke penned a pretty apology, taking blame for the whole imbroglio and begging Miss Beddoes’s pardon. He implored that she not blame Lord Havergal for anything but an excess of eagerness to oblige his friend. Lord Havergal, he stressed, was not aware that the females in question were coming to town and had tried to avoid meeting them. It was the duke himself who had left wine for the servants. No note was received from Lord Havergal.

“At least
one
of them is a gentleman,” Lettie sniffed, after scanning His Grace’s note. “Havergal has conned Crymont into taking all the blame. I think we might ask Tom to call on the duke without fear, Violet, when he goes to London.”

Violet read the note and agreed heartily. “Indeed, he might. The duke is very polite. And as you said, Lettie, why should he have come scrambling all the way to Ashford if Havergal had not asked him to? He could have consorted with those women in London. It was all Havergal’s doing, though I’m sure he meant no harm. Youthful enthusiasm, you know, and London habits,” she said forgivingly. Lettie just looked at her askance.

Such infamous carrying on as the noblemen had treated Ashford to was much discussed and analyzed. The gossip lent some liveliness to an otherwise uneventful dinner party the next evening. Mrs. Smallbone had learned from the proprietor of the Royal Oak what viands the party of four had consumed at their orgy, and what wines accompanied it. “Nothing but champagne, which the duke brought with him, and a good thing he did, too, for the Royal Oak would have nothing to equal it, I warrant.”

The absence of the duke and the viscount from the assembly was felt severely. The local ladies, in particular, were reduced to a pulp, for they had been looking forward to being seduced in such high style. It was whispered behind raised hands that Miss Beddoes was jealous as a green cow, and what did she expect? That she could bribe Lord Havergal into marrying her only because she held his purse strings? Mr. Norton’s sorrow was no less than the ladies’. “I think you were a bit hard on the lads, Miss Lettie” was his comment.

He was resplendent in a new evening suit for the assembly. A jacket of sapphire blue velvet set out a mile on his wadded shoulders. In his cravat a ruby twinkled, as like to Crymont’s as was available in Ashford.

“I wanted to discuss pig racing with Havergal,” he said disconsolately, “It sounded an excellent new notion to me. He was to call on me at the swinery. I would have taken him to Norton Knoll for dinner, of course,” he added. “I have even put in a bid on the Chester White. I shall write the viscount to learn the ins and outs of it all. With no jockeys, there must be some method of holding the swine at the starting gate and getting them started. Could you give me his address, Miss Lettie? I’ll invite him for a visit.”

After several efforts to dissuade him, Lettie could see no way out of it and gave him the address.

“If, by any chance, Lord Havergal accepts your invitation, I pray you will not bring him to call on me,” she said.

“You were too hard on the lad, Miss Lettie. The royals will have their fun.”

“Lord Havergal is not a member of the royal family,” she pointed out.

“Just so. I meant the nobility, of course. Samething, so far as social doings go. They all take theirlead from the prince. I heard the ladies in questionwere the height of fashion. A blonde and a redhead.”

“I have not heard of the prince racing pigs,” Lettie said dampingly.

“He hasn’t the wits to come up with a new twist, poor lad. He is a follower, but insofar as squandering blunt and womanizing goes, they are all cut from the same bolt. The only difference is that we taxpayers must pay the prince’s baker, whereas Havergal and Crymont foot their own bills. It is nothing to us, after all, how they wish to spend their own money. I buy what I wish and ask no one’s permission.”

“But you don’t waste your money, Mr. Norton. Except perhaps on that Chester White,” she added.

“It is a vexation for you, looking after Havergal’s legacy,” he conceded. “I don’t know why you don’t just turn the trust over to his papa. It is clear old Cauleigh holds a tight set of reins. He would not let the lad have his way with the money.”

This struck Lettie as a sound idea. She doubted it was his father Havergal had in mind as a replacement when he suggested she quit the trust, and it gave her some satisfaction to outwit him in this way. Why should she be pestered when Havergal was nothing to her? Any hope of adding luster to her own family by the connection was gone. She had no desire to see him again, she would not let Tom near the man, so why continue with the unpleasant job?

The next morning, she wrote a short note to Lord Cauleigh, expressing the sentiment that handling Sir Horace’s legacy had become burdensome, and at Lord Havergal’s suggestion she wished to terminate it. Who more logical than Lord Cauleigh himself, who already had charge of the majority of Havergal’s monies, to take over?

Lord Cauleigh received the note and pondered over it. He had been given a high opinion of Miss Beddoes from his Cousin Horace. What had Havergal done to upset her? Got himself into debt, very likely, and tried to get hold of that twenty-five thousand pounds. It was not to be thought of. Lord Cauleigh usually made one foray to London each spring, to visit his old friends and catch up with what was going forward at the House of Lords. He decided to make the visit before replying to Miss Beddoes.

He was agreeably surprised to find his son not only sober and dining at home, but expressing the intention of attending the opening do at Almack’s that evening. Havergal looked particularly well. The clear eye and healthy visage across the table from him held no suggestion of excessive drinking or carousing.

“How are you fixed for money, Jacob?” he inquired warily.

“I’m fine, Papa.” His son smiled. “In fact, I have sold off a few of my surfeit horses and would like you to accept five hundred pounds for the Cauleigh Orphanage. I hope to give you another five hundred next quarter day.”

“Indeed!” his father exclaimed, shocked. “It seems you have turned over a new leaf. I am very happy to hear it.”

“I have decided it is time to settle down, Papa. I am thinking of marrying and would like to ask your opinion as to a suitable bride. Perhaps you will accompany me to Almack’s this evening?”

This sounded so unlike his son that Cauleigh could only stare. “Indeed!” he said, and felt a horrible foreboding of disaster. The lad was deeply dipped and was looking about for a fortune to marry.

“I trust this five hundred you speak of did not come from post-obits, Jacob?”

His son looked up, startled. “Why no, Papa. I told you, I sold off some of my horses.”

“Aye, I heard what you said,” his father replied, unconvinced. “I also know that you have been pestering poor Miss Beddoes for money. I have had a note from her.”

“What!” Havergal’s face turned pink, and his eyes sparkled angrily. “I don’t see why she had to pester you about that. What—what did she say?” he asked warily. It seemed hard that his old sins should be thrown in his face just when he had undertaken a serious reformation.

“She wishes me to take over the handling of Horace’s legacy. I can only conclude you have been importuning her for funds. In fact, I know you have been talking to her.”

Havergal’s jaws clenched. So she had gone running to tattle to his father. Just what he might have expected! “You must not believe everything the lady says, Papa. There were extenuating circumstances.”

“She says you expressed the notion of her giving up the handling of the trust, and whatever you have done, she is eager to be rid of you. Would you have me believe Miss Beddoes is untruthful?”

“I may have expressed the idea in the heat of argument.”

His father’s brow darkened. “What did you find to argue about? Miss Beddoes has behaved scrupulously in this entire matter. She was not at all eager to undertake the job.”

“It had little to do with the money, actually.”

“Then perhaps you will tell me what it
had
to do with?”

“I would prefer not to, Papa,” he said, and regretted he had laid himself open to the question. Miss Beddoes had not given him away, then,

“I trust you did not make improper advances to the lady?”

“To Miss Beddoes!” he exclaimed, staring in horror. “I am not so brave, Papa.”

Lord Cauleigh assumed a serving wench had been led astray, and said angrily, “If you cannot behave like a gentleman, Jacob, I beg you will not intrude yourself into polite households. Have some concern for your family’s reputation if you have none for your own."

Havergal clamped his lips and swallowed the name, Crymont. It wasn’t all the duke’s fault. He didn’t have to go to the inn. “Nothing of that sort occurred at Laurel Hall,” he said stiffly. That was true in word if not in spirit. All the trouble had occurred at the inn and outside Miss Beddoes’s.

“I expect you are still rattling around town with Crymont’s set” was Lord Cauleigh’s next conversational effort after he had finished his soup.

“Very little, Papa. I only meet him by chance occasionally, for he goes about a good deal, you know.”

“Thank God for that! The lad will run through one of the finest fortunes in the country. I would dislike my son to accompany him on that journey. Conceited popinjay! What was the meaning of that squib, showing him eating his hat? Some silly wager, I daresay.”

The wager sounded so excessively silly that Havergal was ashamed to state it. “As I said, I am seeing less of Crymont. I am not up on his latest follies.”

Over a plate of turbot in white sauce, the subject of Horace’s legacy arose again. “About Miss Bed-does, Papa, will you take over the trust?” Havergal inquired.

“If you wish, but it will do you no good. You will not find me a softer touch than Miss Beddoes.”

“No, I do not wish it,” Havergal said thoughtfully. He wanted to fulfill his proud boast and not ask Miss Lettie for money again. How would she know he had reformed if she was not in charge of the trust? He wanted to show her he was not so lost as she believed. Some irrevocable regret lingered at the back of his mind that she had such a poor opinion of him. He had not behaved as a gentleman should.