The Westerby Inheritance (10 page)

“Then we shall go to Ranelagh,” said Lady Comfrey, undefeated. “I have never been to Ranelagh.”

Ranelagh pleasure garden had been opened nine years before to rival Vauxhall. It was considered more aristocratic, but certainly duller. Situated in Chelsea, it consisted of a garden, a canal, a bridge, “Chinese” buildings, and a rotunda, the latter being a circular hall where visitors promenaded. Admission was half a crown, and this included tea or coffee.

Jane’s eyes began to shine with excitement. She and Philadelphia had often longed to go to Ranelagh. With the mercurial optimism of youth, she pushed the thought of Lord Charles Welbourne to the back of her mind and focused entirely on the treat in store. But then a picture of his face kept creeping, unbidden, back into her mind. She remembered his mocking smile, the feel of his lips against her own.

Of course, Jane thought in a sudden access of relief, I
willed
myself to fall in love with him, and that is why I keep thinking of him. Now I shall simply
will
myself to fall out of love with him.

She accordingly set her brain to the task, remembering that he had tried to frighten her by locking the door, tried to frighten her by pretending he wanted her in his bed. She remembered his reputation as a rakehell, and how hard and cynical his face could look. And also, although he carried his wine well, he had undoubtedly been drinking heavily and perhaps might not remember anything about her at all!

For a few moments after he awoke, Lord Charles Welbourne was well able to fulfill Lady Jane’s hope. His mouth was dry, and his head felt heavy. He twisted over on his back and stared sightlessly at the bed hangings. The now familiar feeling of tedium and lethargy assailed him. Another morning of feeling ill in a kind of disembodied way. His butler, Anderson, quietly opened the door and placed his lordship’s silver tray of chocolate and biscuits tenderly beside the bed. He looked at his master’s blank face and, like Lady Jane, fervently hoped he remembered nothing of the night before.

Lord Charles eyed the steaming cup of chocolate and gave a delicate shudder. “Take that pap away,” he commanded feebly, “and bring me a tankard of small beer.”

“Very good, my lord.” Anderson bowed his way quickly from the room. He would send the first footman with the tankard, in case his lordship should experience a sudden return of memory.

He had just reached the hall when the imperative summons of the bell from his master’s bedroom told him that his lordship had probably remembered the events of the night before. But then, he usually did, thought Anderson gloomily. The knocker on the street door let forth an energetic
rat-a-tat
, and Anderson hastened to open it, hoping for a diversion.

His lordship’s closest friend, Sir Anthony Blake, stood on the doorstep. Sir Anthony was a fat, round young man who aspired to set the fashion and failed miserably by virtue of his girth. He was dressed in sea-green silk, and his heels were so high that he appeared to be in danger of toppling forward into the hall.

“Good morning, sir,” cried Anderson brightly. “You know the way. I am sure his lordship will be pleased to receive you in his bedchamber.”

“Still abed?” said Sir Anthony in a strained voice. It was usually strained, for Sir Anthony tried to overlay his robust Dorset accent with a veneer of languid sophistication. “Let him recover, man. I shall await him in the morning room.”

The bell clamored again from abovestairs, and Anderson said eagerly, “Ah, there, you see, my lord has heard your voice and wishes to see you directly.”

“Oh, very well,” said Sir Anthony. “Do something with this cane. I’ve tripped over it about ten times.”

He minced up the stairs, the wide whaleboned skirts of his coat clattering against the banisters and the muscles of the calves of his legs in their clocked stockings bulging under the strain imposed by his very high heels.

He stumbled into Lord Charles’s bedroom and put up his eyeglass.

“Zooks!” he exclaimed.

“Exactly,” replied his lordship crossly. “Where is that cur Anderson?”

“Said you wanted to see me,” replied Sir Anthony with owlish surprise. “Said you had heard the dulcet notes of m’sweet voice and wanted me to present meself. Said…”

“Said anything to keep out of the way,” snapped Lord Charles. “Oh, sit down, Tony, and don’t stand there gawking and weaving. Green, ’fore George! Green! And if your heels get any higher, you will need to promenade about on your face. You are a veritable Leaning Tower of Pisa, Tony. Do, do sit down. Try not to move. Your corsets creak as abominably as my head!”

“I look very fine,” said Sir Anthony wrathfully. “If you offer me any more insults, by Gad, I shall call you out.”

“Oh, my curst
head!
” wailed his lordship, clutching his shaven poll. “Don’t try to put two yards of steel through me, Tony, and accept my apologies. I’m in a devilish mood. Tell me, do you ever do things the night before that you can only remember vaguely, and the bit that you remember makes you wish you didn’t remember anything at all?”

“Of course,” said Sir Anthony, his large face creasing into a jovial smile under its coating of white lead. “Nearly got married to the Burnford chit, didn’t I? Loved her to blazes over a bowl of rack punch at Vauxhall, and couldn’t stand the sight of her the next day. Which rotten Greek was it said,
‘In vino veritas?
’”

“All of ’em that I can remember,” said Lord Charles gloomily. “Alcaeus, Plato, and Pliny the Elder, for a start.”

“There you are,” cried Anthony. “Goes to show, don’t it? These old Greeks didn’t know what they were talking about
at all
. Say all sorts of things when I’m drunk, I don’t mean when I’m sober. Only t’other day I—”

He broke off as a footman came in with two tankards on a tray.

“Where’s Anderson?” asked Lord Charles.

“He begged to inform your lordship, if your lordship pleases, that he has gone to visit the wine merchant, Mr. Anderson having your lordship’s best wishes at heart.”

“Cowardly dog. Very well, tell him I wish to see him directly he returns.”

By the time the footman had left, Anthony had forgotten his own woes and was examining his friend’s face. “What’s amiss?” he asked.

Lord Charles looked at him thoughtfully. He remembered with increasing clarity the events of the night before. He could not, of course, tell Anthony. He would not risk compromising a lady’s honor, even with his best friend. And there was no doubt about it, Lady Jane Lovelace would find herself in a pretty pickle should it come to the ears of polite society that she had been visiting Lord Charles Welbourne during the night.

Had he really agreed to such a scheme? Then his face cleared. He remembered walking home, deciding to write to the girl and release her from the contract. And yet, that awful feeling of lethargy was leaving him. And she had been quite an engaging child.

“Tell me about James Bentley,” he demanded abruptly.

Sir Anthony raised his plump hands in horror. “Never say, dear boy, that you have been gaming with that rascal. He is rumored to use every dirty trick known to a Greek cardsharp. Why, he took all young Remil’s money away from him and never turned a hair when the fellow blew his brains out. Then there was Toby Hammond, who lost to him and found himself penniless and drowned himself in the Thames below Westminster. That villain leaves a trail of death and destruction wherever he goes. He took away Westerby’s home and lands, y’know. He—”

“Enough. Where am I likely to find Mr. Bentley?”

“I don’t see why—Oh, very well. ’Tis said he’s squiring his wife and daughters in town at the moment. Jennings saw them at Don Saltero’s coffee house in Chelsea yesterday afternoon. They were looking at the museum. He knows Bentley but doesn’t like him and would have given him the cut direct, but it seems as if the eldest Bentley girl, Miss Fanny, is something out of the common way, and so he stayed to chat. Ah, I have it! They are to visit Ranelagh this evening. Never say you have fallen for Fanny Bentley!”

“I never set eyes on the wench. It’s her papa I’m interested in.”

“Well, now, you’re lucky at gambling, and it’s never been said you fleeced a young ’un, but think on’t, Charles. Bentley is death at the card table. I’d as soon shake the dice with Satan himself.”

“Ah, you forget,” remarked Lord Charles, swinging his long legs out of the bed, “there are some who believe
I
am Satan.”

“Oh, tol rol, you only
play
at being wicked,” laughed his friend. “Now, Bentley
is
wicked. Ain’t no use hoping to play him, though.”

“Why?”

“Got a new game. That home of Westerby’s, something-or-other Chase. ’Tis said he pours money into it.”

“What is Westerby’s condition at the moment?”

“Nobody’s seen him this age. He married some peasant, to add insult to injury, and took over the care of this hussy’s two daughters.”

“One of them is called Jane?”

“Faith, no. That is Lady Jane Lovelace, his daughter by his first wife. The first Marchioness was a beauty. It was she who got him his marquessate. Never saw the attraction there m’self. Sort of cold, queenly beauty, if you know what I mean. Anyway, they all live in some old rundown sort of a place in the country near the village of Westerby, and ’tis said they don’t even have one servant, not even a scullery maid! Bentley is Westerby’s cousin, which makes it all worse, in a way.”

“You seem to be remarkably well informed,” said his lordship dryly. “Tell me, then, what you know of a certain Lady Comfrey, residence Huggets Square, St. James’s.”

“Must be dead,” said Anthony promptly. “Bound to be. Friend of m’grandmother, and anyone who’s a friend of m’ grandmother
ought
to be dead, if you know what I mean.”

“No.”

“Well, damn it all, use your head. My grandmother is all tottery and old and wrinkled and
ugh
! Lady Comfrey was a friend of hers when they were both giddy young things, so it stands to reason they’re the same age. Now everyone says my grandmama is a walking tomb and as old as Methuselah and it’s a miracle she’s still alive. So Lady Comfrey
must
be dead.”

“How old is your grandmother?”

“Sixtyish!”

“My dear Tony, that is old, but hardly tottering around on the edge of the grave.”

“Ho, yes it is. Tell me one person you know who’s made the threescore and ten.”

“Really, Tony, I cannot exactly call to mind right at this—”

“There you are! Dead. Bound to be.”

“I don’t think so,” remarked Lord Charles, draining his tankard. “I seem to recall hearing the name recently. I shall perhaps need you to furnish me with an introduction.”

“What a lot of rum coves you’re bothering yourself with this morning,” said Anthony curiously. “Anyway, never tell me you are going to Ranelagh this evening just to scrape an acquaintance with James Bentley?”

“
We
, dear Anthony. We,” corrected his lordship sweetly. “It will do us no harm at all to take tea of an evening. Smile! You will love it.”

“I hate it,” said Sir Anthony Blake, looking around Ranelagh with a jaundiced eye. “Flat as a millpond.”

It was evening, a chill, smoky rose evening, and the boxes (the names given to the arched recesses appropriated for tea parties) were full. Lord Charles and Sir Anthony were “taking the round,” as it was called. This consisted of promenading round the rotunda in front of the boxes, nodding and chatting to various acquaintances, and then turning about and promenading back the way you had come. It was hardly likely to raise the blood pressure of two such hardened rakes as Lord Charles and Sir Anthony. Such was the somber color of their reputations that one would have thought every mama would clutch her ewe-lamb to her bosom at the sight of the dreadful pair.

On the contrary, matchmaking mamas saw only two sizable fortunes on the strut, and vied to introduce their daughters to the two gentlemen.

Mrs. Bentley was set quite aflutter when Sir Anthony approached her as she stood talking to Mr. Jennings (he of the coffee house) and Fanny. Her hard eyes recognized Lord Charles before Mr. Jennings made the introductions. Fanny was a porcelain vision in pink silk with white satin bows. She had applied her white enamel with an experienced hand and was careful not to smile too broadly, thereby spoiling the doll-like mask of her face.

“Perhaps you would care to promenade with us for a little.” Mrs. Bentley smiled, turning a silken shoulder on the lovelorn Mr. Jennings and ignoring Sir Anthony completely.

Lord Charles bowed with a great flourish of silk and lace and, to Fanny’s disappointment, held out his arm to her mother, leaving Fanny to fall behind with Sir Anthony and Mr. Jennings.

“We are honored by your society,” said Mrs. Bentley, holding onto his lordship’s arm rather tightly. “My Fanny was saying only the other day that she
languished
for a glimpse of the famous Lord Charles. But girls are so
nonsensical
and do say such things.”

“I do not see your husband here,” returned Lord Charles. “He is like myself, I fear, and favors the gaming tables of St. James’s.”

“No, indeed!” cried Mrs. Bentley with a tinkling laugh. “Mr. Bentley is devoted to our home, Eppington Chase. He has stayed home at our town house to discuss improvements with his architect.”

“Eppington Chase. I thought that was Westerby’s place,” said Lord Charles, deliberately obtuse.

Mrs. Bentley flushed slightly under her paint. “Ah, yes. Just so. It
was
, my lord, but the Marquess sold it to Mr. Bentley.”

“Odd,” drawled Lord Charles. “It is said he won the estates of Westerby over the gaming table.”

Mrs. Bentley rapped his arm with her fan and tried to look flirtatious. “What a terrible man you are, my lord. You quite shock my poor Fanny with your funning talk.”

“I would like to talk to your husband,” said Lord Charles rather abruptly. He had taken a great dislike to Mrs. Bentley. He did not mean to hold little Lady Jane to her silly bargain, of course, but it would nonetheless be interesting to meet this ruthless gambler.

Mrs. Bentley’s eyes gleamed with triumph. She felt sure Lord Charles was more interested in the bright eyes of her daughter than in her husband. “Call on us tomorrow. At three o’clock,” she said with that little half-smile deepening on her face. “Fanny, my love,” she cried, swinging round to face her daughter and so compelling Lord Charles to turn also. “Lord Charles is to call on us tomorrow. You must forsake your
other
beaux and give his lordship a little of your time.”