The Westerby Inheritance (12 page)

It is hard to break the pattern of ten years, and no doubt Lady Comfrey would have returned to her isolation, had not Bella moved into the attack.

Bella was convinced that “all this racketing around” (one evening at Ranelagh) would be the death of her mistress, and so wanted to secure her own future. Seeing that her mistress’s eyes were bright and alert, a sure sign that Lady Comfrey was in one of her rare moods of paying attention to what was said to her, Bella seized her chance as the two women were sitting in the morning room on the following day, and Jane was out walking Wong in the square.

“Have you made your will, my lady?” asked Bella, abruptly.

“Lud!” cried Lady Comfrey. “Old vulture, you! There is no need to make my will, you monster of ingratitude.”

“Who gets your money an you die intesticles?” demanded Bella and then blushed. She had meant to say “intestate,” but for the life of her she couldn’t remember the right word.

“If you mean who gets it if I don’t make a will, you illiterate old fool,” snapped Lady Comfrey, “I should think, my nephew Giles.”

She frowned at the recollection of her nephew, a weedy young man with an irritating simper.

“Exactly,” said Bella, avidly watching her face.

“Well, I ain’t going to leave it all to you,” retorted Lady Comfrey.

“But you’d leave your old Bella something as to keep her old bones warm, now wouldn’t you?” wheedled Bella. “Then there’s Lady Jane. She could marry a fine lord, given a bit of a dowry, and give you lusty grandchildren.”

“I don’t want grandchildren,” said Lady Comfrey pettishly. “I don’t like children, nasty, sticky, messy, greedy little things. And for your information, Bella, I am not yet in my dotage nor in my grave.”

“You will be, my lady, if you go on keeping these wild nights,” grumped Bella.

“Stop rattling the teacups in that nasty way. Shooo! You make my head ache. Wild nights indeed! Tea at Ranelagh, ’fore George. I tell you what, Bella. I shall go to the play for the Italian opera tonight. So there!”

“That you won’t,” said Bella with much satisfaction. “Drury Lane and Covent Garden don’t open until the end of the month, and the Italian opera don’t open till October. Mr. Osborne’s housemaid says as how there’s a masked ball at Crocker’s in Oxford Street tonight,” added Bella with gleeful sarcasm. “Why don’t you go along to that?”

“A good idea,” said Lady Comfrey, watching with satisfaction the dismay on Bella’s face. “Tell Lady Jane to make herself ready for this evening.”

“What?” squeaked Bella.

“You too,” added Lady Comfrey with acid enjoyment. “We shall see you trip a measure.”

Bella made one last stand. “Costs a guinea apiece,” she sniffed.

“I am sure it will be well worth it, Bella. It will be three guineas less for my nephew to enjoy.”

Bella went gloomily out. But her idea had taken root in Lady Comfrey’s brain. Of course, she would not die for a long time yet. And yet, she did not want Giles to get her money. And old Bella
should
have something.

Lady Comfrey crossed to the window and peered out into the square. Jane was walking Wong, the sun shining down through her jaunty straw hat and glinting on the lemon silk of her skirt and on the powdered head of the footman walking behind her.

“Funny,” mused Lady Comfrey, “I did not find her pretty at all—rather dull, in fact. But how the men seem to notice her! She has an odd charm, I’ll admit. And that old fool Bella is right. With a dowry, she could make quite a suitable marriage, and I should have done something for someone else, and perhaps they’ll take note of
that
in the hereafter.”

Feeling quite virtuous, Lady Comfrey decided to take a nap to fortify herself against the evening to come. She might even go to church on Sunday instead of sending Bella along with her shilling fine for nonattendance.

At that moment, Lord Charles Welbourne was preparing to leave his house in Hessel Street to pay a call on the Bentleys.

He was magnificently attired in a green wool coat edged with gold braid, worn over an embroidered satin waistcoat. A black felt tricorne lavishly ornamented with gold braid was perched on top of his bag wig, and his tall walking cane was ornamented with a black silk bow.

He paused on the top step of his mansion. The day was cold and clear, with fluffy clouds chasing each other high above the grit of the smoky London sky. The leaves on the trees were already turning color. His two burly chairmen stood waiting beside the poles of his sedan on the street outside.

“Anderson!” he called over his shoulder.

“My lord?”

“Anderson, you never told me why you admitted Lady Jane Lovelace t’other night, but I trust it is a fact that you have conveniently forgot. Not a breath of scandal is to be attached to that young lady’s name, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my lord, if your lordship pleases.”

“But you can make yourself useful in that direction. Find out, if you can, if a certain Lady Comfrey, who resides at Number Ten, Huggets Square, plans to visit anywhere in town tonight. Get to know one of her servants. I am desirous of news about that household. Be discreet.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“Do not discuss this with the other servants. If you fail in your mission, do not be afraid to tell me. No convenient visits to the wine merchant? Good!” He pulled on his leather gloves and walked down the steps and climbed into his sedan chair.

The chairmen picked up their burden and began to run along the pavement, warning passersby with their usual harsh cry of “Make way!”

The Bentleys were all lined up to greet his lordship. Many stratagems had been discussed as to how they could contrive to leave Fanny alone with Lord Charles, and all had been dismissed as too blatant. It was decided, however, that Fanny should entertain his lordship by singing and accompanying herself on the harpsichord.

Lord Charles surveyed Mr. Bentley with interest. He decided that James Bentley looked more like a nervous clerk than the devilish gambler he was reputed to be. He bent over Mrs. Bentley’s hand and gave Fanny a magnificent bow.

They were no sooner seated in the drawing room than Fanny was urged to the harpsichord. She made a great show of blushing and declining.

“Odds fish!” drawled Lord Charles impatiently. “If you don’t want to play, then don’t.”

Fanny threw him a baffled look, but Mrs. Bentley let out a trill of laughter. “Be not dismayed, my child,” she called. “His lordship was only funning. He is
panting
to hear you perform.”

“Stap me! I’m panting for something to drink,” said Lord Charles with calculated rudeness. He wondered just how much the Bentleys could take.

“A dish of tea, my lord,” said Mrs. Bentley brightly. “Don’t just stand there, Fanny, my love.
Play!
”

“Have you any brandy?” asked Lord Charles.

“Yes, yes,” said James Bentley, suddenly eager. “You have such a reputation of being a successful gambler, my lord, that I thought you would keep a clear head at all times. Heh! Heh! But brandy by all means.”

He handed a generous glassful to Lord Charles, who drained it off in one gulp, sprawled back in his chair, and waved his now empty glass insolently under Mr. Bentley’s nose.

“More!” he said, his languid voice cutting across Fanny’s shrill singing.

“Certainly! Certainly!” said Mr. Bentley, hastening to oblige and flashing a look of warning at his wife, who had compressed her lips in disapproval. “Talking of gambling—” began Mr. Bentley.

“I wasn’t. You were,” said Lord Charles coldly. Again he drained his glass and waved it under Mr. Bentley’s face.

“Oh, what! Ha! Ha! Very funny,” cried Mr. Bentley, slapping his knee.

“I wasn’t joking,” sneered Lord Charles, his voice beginning to slur.

Fanny sang louder to try to catch his attention, but apart from a slight wince as she murdered a high note, he paid her not the slightest heed. She had been instrumental in furnishing him with an excuse to meet her father. Now he was no longer interested in her.

“Well, since you brought up the subject, do you still play for high stakes?” demanded Lord Charles.

“No, my lord,” said Mr. Bentley, his pale eyes noting his lordship’s slurred voice and the slight slackening of his mouth. He hastily filled Lord Charles’s glass again. “But it has long been my ambition to test my skill against yours.”

“Don’t play with amateurs,” drawled Lord Charles. “What happened to all those portraits that used to hang here? Used to come here when I was a boy, and I distinctly remember the place being chockablock with family portraits.”

“Oh, the Lovelaces,” put in Mrs. Bentley. “Ah, well, my lord, the Lovelaces are not
our
ancestors precisely, although we are related. So we took them down.”

“Giving them back to Westerby?” demanded his lordship.

“Oh, no, I think I shall auction them. Some of them should fetch a pretty penny,” said James Bentley, cracking his knuckles.

For just one second, James Bentley could have sworn there was a cold flash of something sinister in Lord Charles’s dark eyes, but then it was gone and his face had slackened. Lord Charles took a gold snuffbox from his pocket, took a pinch, carefully put the snuffbox away again, and said, “I’ll buy ’em.”

“Why?” asked James Bentley, considerably startled.

“Present for old Westerby,” slurred Lord Charles, sinking deeper into his chair and putting one leg up on a console table and examining the toe of his black leather shoe with interest. “Send me the pictures. Send me the bill.”

Fanny sang louder than ever. Lord Charles put up his glass and stared at her in amazement and then demanded more brandy.

“To revert to what you were saying,” said James Bentley. “I assure you, my lord, I am no amateur. No, indeed. Why I won this house and Westerby’s estates from him.”

“Ought to be ashamed of yourself,” commented Lord Charles. A little china ornament stood on the table a few inches from his foot. He kicked it idly with his toe until Mrs. Bentley fluttered forward and took it away.

“Play you for them,” remarked Lord Charles laconically.

“What?” demanded Mr. Bentley, made stupid by surprise.

Lord Charles heaved himself up and stared drunkenly and belligerently at Mr. Bentley.

“I’ll play you for the Westerby estates,” said Lord Charles loudly and clearly.

“And what will you set against it?”

“My lands and my fortune,” said Lord Charles. He swayed slightly as he crossed the room to pick up the brandy decanter, which he carried back to his chair.

“Ah, we jest, my lord,” said Mr. Bentley.

“No, we don’t jest,” snarled Lord Charles. “You have only the Westerby lands to lose, not your personal fortune. I’m putting everything on the table.”

“True! True!” said Mr. Bentley, a pale fire beginning to gleam in his eyes. He would never have dreamed of playing Lord Charles at cards before, because his lordship’s luck at the tables was legendary. But Mr. Bentley had made his fortune out of fleecing young men who did not know how to hold their drink. Nonetheless, a lifetime of caution was not to be thrown away lightly. He would stall. He would put out his spies and see if my lord’s phenomenal luck at the tables still held. Eppington Chase meant more to him at the moment than any card game, however high the stakes.

“Give me time to consider the matter, my lord,” said Mr. Bentley. “Now shall we listen to dear Fanny’s singing? Like a nightingale, is she not?”

“More like a crow,” said Lord Charles, staggering once more to his feet. “Must leave. Thanks for the hospitality. Servant, Mrs. Bentley.”

He reeled out and was helped into his chair.

He left a stunned silence behind.

“
Monster!
” cried Fanny. “Did you not hear what he said? You must play him, Papa! You must revenge me!”

“Well, well, let us spy out the land first,” said Mr. Bentley. He turned to his wife. “What think you, my dear?”

His wife’s face was flushed with anger. “He is no longer young—in his thirties,” she said. “That is about the time that these fools can no longer hold their drink as they once could. Observe him carefully in the coming weeks. Send him those Westerby portraits as a gift. We don’t want them! Furthermore, an you put them up for auction, you will have a lot of Westerby’s friends calling you ‘miser.’”

“Very true, my dear,” said Mr. Bentley thoughtfully. “Just think what I could do with Welbourne’s fortune added to my own. There’s one thing for sure: Fanny don’t want to marry him now.”

“I hate him,” said Fanny in a low voice. “I could kill him.”

“There now, my puss,” said her father indulgently, patting her cheek. “There are more ways of killing a man than with cold steel.”

Back at Hessel Street, a surprisingly sober Lord Charles examined the ruin of his coat. The last two glasses had been tipped down his sleeve.

He looked up as his butler entered.

“My lord,” said Anderson, “Lady Jane and Lady Comfrey are to attend a masked ball at Crocker’s tonight.”

“Good heavens! Are you sure? It seems a very lively entertainment for such an old lady.”

“It’s true, my lord. I fell into conversation with Lady Comfrey’s maid, Bella, who takes the air of an afternoon and likes to gossip with all and sundry. Complaining bitterly about it she was, my lord. Saying as how she had to go as well.”

“Good work, Anderson,” said Lord Charles. “Crocker’s it is. Fetch me some tea. Faugh! I stink of brandy.”

Crocker’s was still a very respectable place to go in those days, masked ridotto or no. Lady Jane Lovelace was fortunate in belonging to a stratum of society that could dare to venture abroad in the evening. For although the streets were infested with prowling thieves and dangerous bullies and the Lord Mayor complained bitterly that “persons armed with bludgeons, pistols, and cutlasses infest lanes and private passages and issue forth to rob and wound peaceful people,” the aristocracy were mostly left unmolested. Dr. Johnson summed it up: