The spinster and the wastrel (21 page)

A little smile crossed his lips as he wondered what she was doing. Probably teaching those students. She was determined to drill knowledge into those boys and girls, whether they wanted it or not. He was a little surprised at not receiving any letter from her by now. The steward must be following his orders to listen to her suggestions. From the dry, factual reports Sir Gerard received, he knew estate matters were progressing well. Somehow the prospect that he was not needed at Hathaway Hall depressed him.

Two weeks after his encounter with Wallace, Linton stopped by one evening. Sir Gerard had just poured two glasses of a smuggled French brandy for Linton and him-

self. He relaxed in the chair to enjoy it and a bit of conversation. The two men raised their cups in silent toast to each other.

After tasting his drink, Linton said, "That is a fine brandy. You can certainly afford the best now."

"The journey was not easy. You were there through it all, for which I am grateful." Sir Gerard felt the brandy tingle as he swallowed. In the same manner, Annette's memory tingled at his brain, causing him to miss her. He thought of her more often than he expected.

"I certainly am grateful you paid off those debts of mine," Linton said. "It enabled me to return to London."

Sir Gerard grinned at his friend with fondness. "I had to. What would the Season be like without you by my side?" Linton had stuck with him through the bad times, and now he wanted his friend to enjoy the good ones. "Here's to good times ahead." He raised his glass in another toast.

'To good times."

They both sipped their drinks. Then Linton said, "I want to keep the good times, but I have run into a slight problem."

"What is it?" Sir Gerard waited to learn how he could help his friend.

The other man did not look at him. He studied the rich amber color of the brandy before clearing his throat. "There is no easy way to say it. I need some more money."

"More money!" The request astounded Sir Gerard. "I thought I paid off your debts when we arrived here. Did we overlook some?"

"No, you paid them all."

"Then what happened?"

"You know how it is," Linton explained. "Society is expensive."

Sir Gerard nodded. 'True. Yet this is only the end of April. I just paid off everything when we got here in March."

"You sound like a money-lender yourself," Linton muttered, and gulped a large swallow of his brandy.

Sir Gerard stiffened at the insult before forcing himself to ignore it. Linton was upset over his finances. Having been in such a situation more times than he cared to remember, Sir Gerard resolved not to treat his friend in the same humiliating manner.

"Forgive me," he said. "Your request surprised me. Tell me what you need."

Linton bestowed a genial smile upon him. "I knew you would understand. You are a true friend."

Raising his glass in acknowledgment of the compliment, Sir Gerard asked, "How much do you need?"

"About eight hundred pounds!"

Sir Gerard choked on his brandy and began to cough. Linton leapt to his feet and pounded his friend on the back.

When Sir Gerard could speak, though his throat was raw from the coughing fit, he asked weakly, "Did you say eight hundred pounds?"

Linton studied his friend with concern before being satisfied he was recovered. He sat down again. "That is about what I estimate I need right now to cover the most pressing ones."

"You mean there are more?"

"Dash it all," Linton complained. "You are starting to sound like the pater when I ask him for an increase in my allowance."

Sir Gerard had forgotten about his friend's allowance. Since Sir Nigel had never granted him one, he tended to overlook the existence of Linton's, yet it had sustained the two of them during the lean times. It was this past obligation that caused him to repay Linton's debts.

"What happened to your allowance?" he asked. "Did your father not pay it at the quarter?" March was barely a month passed.

Linton squirmed under this questioning. "Yes, he paid it."

"You already spent that, too?"

The man shot him an angry look. "I do not have to account for every penny to you."

An answering anger began to build within Sir Gerard. "You do if you expect me to fund you."

"I thought you were my friend."

"I am, and I remember how you stood by me. But this is an outrageous request."

"It takes a lot of money to make your mark in society— as you should know."

To steady himself, Sir Gerard took another sip of his drink. "I do know that, but I also have plans for my fortune. There are so many things I want to do with Hathaway Hall and the estate farms. I do not intend to waste the money."

Linton's eyes narrowed. "You sound just like that spinster Miss Courtney. You used to have different ideas before you went to Upper Brampton."

Slowly Sir Gerard shook his head. "No, I always anticipated the day I would take over the title and could restore the estate."

"If that is true, then why did you bother returning to

London? You should have been content to stay in that backwater countryside."

"Because I also wanted to be a part of society. You know that."

Linton glared bitterly. "All I know is I need eight hundred pounds. Rather than go to a money-lender, I thought I could count on my friend."

"A friend or a convenient source of the ready?"

"It's the last time." Linton's eyes were wide with desperation. "I won't ask you for money ever again. I prom-lse.

Sir Gerard looked at Linton with regret. He was a good friend, and they had been through much together, but Sir Gerard knew that the last promise was a he. He could not keep funding the man's extravagant spending. Not if he wanted to proceed with his own plans for taking care of those whom depended upon the estate. "I cannot pay your debts this time."

Linton jumped to his feet. "A fine friend you turned out to be. As soon as you get the money, you turn out to be a miser just like your uncle."

The insult hurt. Sir Gerard also stood. "I am not a miser. I do spend money, but wisely, not foolishly."

"I am not a fool." Linton was breathing, heavily. "Or maybe I was to ever consider you my friend. But no longer."

He spun on his heel and stamped from the room. The door slamming behind him signaled the end of their friendship.

Despite the loss of Linton's companionship, London still suited Sir Gerard. He liked having such acclaimed beauties as Miss Lydia Holbrook in his arms when he danced

at a rout. Last Season, this blue-eyed, well-dowered girl would not have even acknowledged him. This Season, he had the supper dance with her while her mother nodded with approval. The change in status pleased him very much.

He held her chair for her as she sat down, and he sat on the chair beside her. A choice selection of the delicacies were arrayed on their plates. Cold ham and crab crowded the lobster patties, while a fluffy roll edged the cut pineapple and orange chunks.

"Thank you, sir." Miss Holbrook batted her eyelashes flirtatiously at him. "This food looks very good."

He smiled at her, noticing the smooth creaminess of her cheek. Her hands were encased in white kid gloves, so he could not determine if they were work-roughened. There was never any question of Annette's hands being applied to work. He frowned at the thought. Why had he remembered that?

"Is something wrong?" Miss Holbrook asked.

"No, just an errant thought." With determination, he smiled again at her.

"I hope it was not an unpleasant one."

"How could a man think of anything unpleasant when he is with you?"

"You are too kind." She simpered at him but did not blush.

After all, her shyness at the compliment was only the practiced gesture of an experienced London beauty. Unlike Annette, whose every emotion and action was based on reality and candor.

He started to frown again, but stopped himself in time. Why did thoughts of Annette intrude? Here he was in the company of one of the Toasts, and he kept remembering a

plain, outspoken spinster from the Wiltshire countryside. What was wrong with him?

'Tell me, Miss Holbrook, do you ever think about the poor?"

She blinked at him.

He berated himself. Now, what made him blurt out such a question? Those memories of Annette were addling his brain.

'The poor?" she repeated. "You wish to talk about the poor?"

In for a penny, in for a pound. He put on an expression of interest and discovered he did want to know the girl's opinion. "Yes, do you ever do charity work for them?"

Rallying from her surprise, she smiled flirtatiously at him. "Why, Sir Gerard. You know a young girl like myself cannot visit such dreadful places. Although I do feel so sorry for them."

"You have a kind nature," he said.

She smiled at him, her head held at an angle so he could notice her large blue eyes. "It just breaks my heart when I see them begging." She paused, waiting for his next compliment.

He responded mechanically, "Such a scene should never intrude upon the gaze of your lovely eyes. Only beauty."

"It is sad to see." Miss Holbrook pushed her food around on her plate with her fork and began to expound on the topic. "They should be working. It is only their laziness that keeps them in such poverty."

His gaze sharpened upon her. "Do you think so? Perhaps work is not available."

Her laugh trilled out in a carefully practiced melody. "You are such a tease. Of course there is work."

He did not react to her coquetry. Somehow, after knowing Annette, the topic of poverty did not seem one for frivolity. What had possessed him to start such a conversation at a rout? Of course, Annette could have talked a whole lecture on the needs of the local people. Broad theories had no place on her list of specific village needs.

"I could never argue with a lovely lady," he said. "But perhaps the wages they earn are not enough for them to live on."

She blinked her eyes, plainly not understanding his earnestness.

He smiled as he stood to escort her back to her chaper-one. Yet inwardly, he rebuked himself. Miss Holbrook was only a young girl with no understanding of the world outside her protected circle. A very pretty girl, she only seemed so shallow when compared to Annette. It was not Miss Holbrook's fault that she was not the woman he wanted.

At the thought, Sir Gerard paused, causing his companion to look at him in puzzlement.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"No," he answered distractedly, trying to understand that wayward thought. The woman he wanted? Annette? What was he thinking of? His whole life had been spent attaining the pinnacle of society's approval. Now he could dance with any beauty he desired, and no one would rush his intended partner away. In fact, the chaperones encouraged him to cast his glance towards their charges.

He had wanted to dance with Miss Holbrook and was glad of the opportunity, so why did the girl seem like such a child? With relief, he surrendered his partner back to her mother's care. From the glance the girl bestowed upon

him, he assumed she was reluctant to leave, but more than two dances in an evening with the same partner, and he might as well send the engagement notice to the Times. He was not ready to select his bride from the current crop of hopeful debutantes.

Heading towards the punch bowl, he hoped to regain his first eager pleasure in the round of society's events. He surveyed the group of young girls crowding the room in their finery. Because they wore the white dresses of debutantes, they were easy to notice.

He saw pretty ones, plain ones, those who dressed with elegance, and those who did not. Girls of every shape and hue swarmed in the room like bees to a flower, displaying their charms and hoping to attract a husband. The successful girls had a group of men hovering around them. The cacophony that resulted from so much flirtatious conversation trumpeted in his ears.

Yet not one girl appeared any different to him. Despite the outward variations, each one was cut from the same inner material. The similarity disappointed him. Not one of them would ever express a thought contrary to his expressed opinion.

He sipped his punch and missed the spark in his life that Annette had ignited.

As the weeks passed through May into June, Sir Gerard still sought enjoyment from the social round, but now a desperation to find the pleasure in it seemed to dog his every activity. He went from party to rout to ball in a constant whirlwind that brought him no surcease from the pall of boredom which weighed heavier each moment on his spirit. The prosecution of Wallace brought satisfaction, but not the loss of Linton's friendship.

The respectful adulation Sir Gerard met at every social gathering wore on his equanimity. No one disagreed with any of his opinions, no matter how outrageous. Because of this continuous agreement, he had no desire to set up a mistress. Where was the excitement in that? No woman could compare to Annette. Not the giggling debutantes, the serious bluestockings, or the racy widows.

The steward continued to send reports about the estate and the renovations being done on the tenants' cottages. There was no mention of Annette, or even of her school.

It surprised him how much he longed for her expressed opinions or the sight of her capable hands at her sewing or the passionate armful he discovered when he kissed her. Still he clung to the achievement of his dream, which had taken so many years to reach. He was an admired leader of society.

So he told himself while gazing into the looking glass. He tugged at the sleeve of his coat. He was ready for another night in pursuit of pleasure.

Tonight he intended to avoid the parties that clamored throughout the city. He remembered the riotous celebration Linton and he had shared when the news of Sir Nigel's death had reached them. Then, deep play had led him into the clutches of the money-lender. Now the lack of funds was no longer a problem. He had no problems, he told himself firmly.

Sir Gerard nodded with approval. Tonight good fortune smiled upon him. He could feel it in his bones. With a final smoothing of his coat, he headed for the exclusive gaming hells on St. James's Street, where the thrill of winning hands awaited him.

G/iaptet ^fifteen

He lost. Even as he slumped over Silver Shadow for the ride home, Sir Gerard still could not believe it. He had been so sure. His hand had been a winning hand. He knew it. But the cards had not been good enough.

Almost without being aware of it, he guided Silver Shadow through the city's crowds. On this bright May morning, everyone bustled about his business. The cry of the muffin man competed with the shrill shouts of bargaining housewives. A mixture of scents assaulted his nose, dominated by fresh-baked bread, horse, and the smoke from the coal fires that always lingered in the air. The smells turned his stomach.