The Westerby Inheritance (25 page)

“It doesn’t itch,” pointed out Lord Charles reasonably, but Sir Anthony was not convinced. An itching head, whether from livestock or an accumulation of powder and pomatum, was to Sir Anthony one of the realities of life, like having a sore head and a dry mouth in the morning or constricted breathing or fallen arches. All these ills were part and parcel of the life of a gentleman of fashion, and to suggest that even one of them might be alleviated by a bath, a sober night, or a pair of sensible shoes was flying in the face of Providence.

He was glad, however to see his friend back in London in time for the Little Season. Lord Charles had departed for Italy two days after the Marquess of Westerby’s funeral some three months ago, and had only returned the day before.

Lord Charles glanced up from his paper with some amusement at Sir Anthony, who was even higher-heeled and tighter laced than usual. “Who is she?” he asked.

Sir Anthony gave a gusty sigh and put a plump hand over the region of his heart.

“Miss Syms,” he said. “The fairest angel in London.”

“Syms?” Lord Charles’s black brows drew together. “Now where have I heard that name before?”

Sir Anthony looked at him rather awkwardly. “Oh, well. She’s only the vicar of Westerby’s daughter, but a pearl for all that.”

Westerby! Lord Charles carefully examined his heart, felt not a twinge, and almost heaved a sigh of relief. Enjoying this new feeling of detached interest, he said mildly, “Ah, now I remember. Lady Jane Lovelace’s friend.”

Sir Anthony looked shifty. “Well, she ain’t exactly a
friend
. Not now, that is. You see, it was like this. When the Lovelace girl had no money, Philadelphia helped Jane to get invited to London by Lady Comfrey, even going so far as to supply Lady Jane with presents of jewels and things for the old girl so as Lady Comfrey would invite her.”

“Really!” said Lord Charles mildly. “I would not have thought a vicar’s daughter would possess such a quantity of jewels that she would be able to give them away.”

“Anyway,” went on Sir Anthony, brushing this aside, “just before the old Marquess died, Jane tells Miss Syms that she cannot accommodate her, but that she has arranged that Miss Syms shall stay with the Bentleys, who are at the Westerby town house.”

“So?”

“So Miss Syms finds that after Lady Jane returns from her father’s funeral, she don’t want to have nothing to do with Miss Syms, because Miss Syms has taken an immense liking to that there Fanny Bentley.”

“Were the Bentleys and this angel of yours not present at the Marquess of Westerby’s funeral?” asked Lord Charles.

“No, why should they be? The Westerbys and Bentleys never got along, to say the least of it, as you very well know.”

“It did not,” said Lord Charles coldly, “stop the Bentleys from living off the Westerbys, however.”

“Well, they ain’t now, let me tell you,” said Sir Anthony wrathfully. “The Marchioness, Lady Hetty, before what’s left of her husband after that fire has hardly had time to settle in the family vault, she ups to town and gives the Bentleys their marching orders.”

“Very proper,” remarked Lord Charles. “I wondered when the Westerbys would rid themselves of their unnatural guilt in that direction.”

“I haven’t got to the tragic bit yet,” said Sir Anthony wrathfully. “Fanny sends Miss Syms round to plead with Lady Jane so’s they can keep the Westerby town house, and Lady Jane sends poor little Miss Syms packing, saying as how Miss Syms is as hardhearted and selfish as the Bentleys and she wishes her the joy o’ them.”

“Seems like an accurate description of Miss Syms. What are her parents about, to leave her in London with people who are not even kin? I gather she is still with the Bentleys.”

“Oh, yes. Mrs. Bentley rented a fine house and told Miss Syms she could make her home with them. Mr. Syms, the father, came hotfooting it to town to protest, but Miss Syms has the championship of her mother, and so she was allowed to stay. I’m meeting Miss Syms at the opera tonight, Charlie, and—and I would deem it a favor if you would make your bow to Miss Syms. She’s mortal anxious to meet you.”

“I confess I am anxious to meet this paragon of yours. But, at the risk of offending your sensibilities, it seems to be as if Miss Syms had not been wronged at all. Surely her place was with Lady Jane when the Marquess died?”

“Miss Syms ain’t kin to the Westerbys,” pointed out Sir Anthony. “Also she is of so refined and sensitive a nature that you could not imagine her attending such a funeral!”

“Dear me,” said Lord Charles. “You have indeed been smitten. Now be a good fellow and let me finish my paper. I promise to make my bow to the fair Miss Syms.”

Sir Anthony relapsed into rosy dreams, and Lord Charles stared unseeingly at his paper. As far as he remembered, the Symses were gentry and quite well-to-do. Nonetheless, his friend Anthony was possessed of a very handsome fortune, and already Lord Charles was wondering whether the fair Philadelphia was as selfish as she sounded. Well, he would have an opportunity to judge for himself that very evening. But how marvelous that he could discuss anything to do with Lady Jane without feeling that old sick longing! The sun of Italy had burned all his unnatural passion away, and he was heartily glad of it. Before the advent of Lady Jane, he had not been used to these violent swings of emotion. He could look back on his attempts to seduce her with some amusement. What a silly farce it had all been!

He said casually, “What of Lady Jane? Is she still in London?”

Sir Anthony nodded his head vigorously. “She don’t go out much. A drive in the park is all. All her life is spent rebuilding Eppington Chase. Must be costing her every penny she has. Squads of workmen at it round the clock. And the gardens! She’s having hills flattened and hills built, serpentine walks, pagodas, temples, follies, urns, and even artificial waterfalls. Miss Syms says there are thousands of workmen swarming all over the place.”

“Oddso! And how did the enterprising Miss Syms happen to see all this? Don’t tell me she actually paid a visit to her parents.”

“Well, no,” said Sir Anthony awkwardly. “The Bentleys were mortal fond o’ the Chase, and Mrs. Bentley just wanted to have a peek, so to speak, and took Miss Syms with her.”

He hurried on as he saw the look of distaste on his friend’s face. “That was a strange story that came out about Westerby’s death.”

“You forget, I have been away,” said Lord Charles, laying down his paper. “Was there not enough strange, with it being rumored that the Marchioness herself had set fire to the Chase? I heard
that
rumor before I left.”

“It was like this,” said Sir Anthony, hitching his chair forward. “’Tis said that Westerby died over the shock o’ seeing the ghost of James Bentley.”

“Tush, man. Westerby’s wits were wandering. Everyone knew that.”

“But,” insisted Sir Anthony, “Lady Jane and Lady Hetty, they saw this ghost as well.”

“Women’s fancies,” said Lord Charles, picking up his paper to indicate he had lost interest in the subject.

The Italian opera was crowded to the roof that evening, despite the presence of a very democratic fog, which afflicted gallery and boxes alike and made the singers look as if they were performing behind a screen of gauze.

Lord Charles and Sir Anthony arrived late, owing to the latter’s nervousness over matters of dress. Sir Anthony was polished and painted and patched and pomaded to the hilt. The entire contents of his jewel case seemed to be pinned over his large body, and because of the stiffened width of the skirts of his coat, he had to edge sideways through the door of the box.

Lord Charles was dressed, with his usual care, in a fine coat of gold brocade. He wore his own hair powdered, a fact which pleased Sir Anthony very much, since he had been afraid his friend meant to shame him by arriving at the opera un-powdered.

Lord Charles settled back in his chair and concentrated on the music. It was marvelous to be back in London and cured of that puppyish yearning for Lady Jane. Already it seemed like some folly of his youth, although his infatuation had taken place only a few months ago. It might be amusing, he reflected, as the voice of the male soprano threatened to crack the crystals of the chandelier, to see her again. He wondered if she ever thought of him. How very relieved she must have been to learn he had gone abroad. But the horrible death of her father was punishment enough. She would probably never marry, he mused, since it seemed she was already married to Eppington Chase. He glanced around the theater, but it was impossible to make out the faces in the boxes because of the thickening fog.

At the first interval, Sir Anthony tugged impatiently at his sleeve. “Come,” he said to Lord Charles. “
Now
you will meet her!”

Half amused, half irritated, Lord Charles followed him along to the Bentley box. At first he saw only the familiar features of Fanny Bentley and her mother. And then their companion turned around, and he caught his breath. Philadelphia Syms was exquisite. Her fair hair was lightly powdered, and the gold glinted underneath. Her flawless roseleaf complexion owed nothing to art, and her figure and dress were perfection itself.

Despite the Bentleys’ fulminating looks, Philadelphia held out a little hand to him and murmured she was delighted to make his acquaintance. She had a charming smile, and Lord Charles was well able to see why his friend was so smitten.

“I am acquainted with a friend of yours,” said Lord Charles, nonetheless determined to put the cat among the pigeons. “Lady Jane Lovelace.”

The Bentleys looked daggers at him, but Philadelphia’s large blue eyes swam with crystal tears.

“It makes me very sad,” she said in a soft voice, “that Jane does not wish to be friends any more. She has become so cross and angry and odd. But one cannot blame the poor thing. It must be a terrible burden to know that one’s papa died mad, and then wonder if one is tainted with the family curse oneself.”

“There was nothing at all the matter with the Marquess of Westerby’s brains before he muddled them with an excess of liquor,” said Lord Charles tartly.

“You must forgive me,” said Philadelphia. “I was merely trying to excuse poor dear Jane’s cold behavior.”

Again that enchanting smile crossed her face, and Lord Charles found to his surprise that he was almost prepared to forgive her anything. Already he was making excuses for her in his mind.

“Say you are not angry with me,” pleaded Philadelphia.

“I could not be angry with such a vision,” said Lord Charles gallantly.

“Then perhaps we will see you at the Osbornes’ later this evening,” said Philadelphia.

“Osborne?” he queried. “I have not been invited.”

“In Huggets Square,” explained Philadelphia. “Opposite Jane’s house. Sir Anthony is invited. He will take you.”

“Lady Jane’s house,” said Lord Charles in some surprise. “She still lives there?”

“Oh, yes,” said Philadelphia in a low voice. “After—after her stepmama threw poor Mrs. Bentley and her daughters out into the street, we thought she and Jane would move in. But they simply shut and locked the place.”

The box was becoming crowded with Philadelphia’s admirers, and Mrs. Bentley was obviously furious at Philadelphia for spending so much time with Lord Charles.

“I shall be there,” said Lord Charles, bending over Philadelphia’s hand again.

After the next act had begun, Mrs. Bentley whispered savagely to Philadelphia, “What mean you, encouraging that villain? He killed my husband!”

Philadelphia smoothed down her silken skirts. “I think Jane has a
tendre
for him,” she said softly. “Do you not see? I could be the very instrument to hurt them both.”

She gave a charming laugh. “Lord Charles will fall in love with me, which will anguish Jane, and I shall out Lord Charles after he is well and truly smitten, which will anguish
him.
”

“How do you know Jane is in love with Welbourne?” demanded Mrs. Bentley.

“Servants’ gossip,” said Philadelphia airily. “I never do anything without listening closely to it first. And you yourself, ma’am, told me how they kissed passionately at Vauxhall, and yet my Lady Jane does not have a ring on her left hand.”

“There you are, Mama!” cried Fanny. “I told you Philadelphia was a trump!”

“A girl after my own heart,” said Mrs. Bentley, the small curved smile deepening on her face. “I hate both of them.”

Philadelphia quickly raised her fan to hide the look of surprise on her face. She knew Mrs. Bentley to be malicious, but the hate and venom in her voice when she spoke of Jane and Welbourne seemed murderous. But Philadelphia knew which side her bread was buttered on and was determined to ingratiate herself further with the Bentleys.

She was very ambitious and had planned to marry and marry well, by fair means or foul, and it was easing to the mind to know that she was making her debut from a household that favored foul methods.

But until she had met the fascinating Lord Charles, Philadelphia had never considered marrying a handsome and exciting husband. She had been prepared to settle for a title and great wealth. But were she to marry Lord Charles, why, then life would not be dull at all, and she would have the vast Welbourne fortune at the tips of her fingers.

Of course, the Bentleys would not like it, but by the time she was safely engaged to Lord Charles, the Bentleys would be of no use whatsoever.

Philadelphia remembered again the story of that passionate embrace at Vauxhall. It had upset Mrs. Bentley very much, so much that she had ranted and raved afterward, Fanny had said, in quite a terrible way. And then, when Lord Charles had gone abroad and Jane was still unwed, Mrs. Bentley had said, “Perhaps I was too hasty in my revenge. But it is done now.”

What had she done? wondered Philadelphia curiously. She had been nowhere near the Chase on the night of the Marquess’s death, and everyone knew the old fool had died of an apoplexy after he thought he had seen James Bentley’s ghost.

Philadelphia carefully stored the problem away in one of the neat compartments of her mind and turned her thoughts to the more pleasurable prospect of seeing Lord Charles later that evening.