To the intense concern of Carstares and Carrington, Darleston spent the entire summer and most of the autumn in France. After a lengthy sojourn in Paris, during which he was reported to have danced scandalous attendance on Lady Caroline, he proceeded to attend a series of house parties in various châteaux, all of which were notable for the presence of la belle veuve anglaise, Lady Caroline Daventry.
At last, towards the end of October, George received a brief note from Darleston Court informing him that its noble owner had returned and would be perfectly happy to entertain the recipient as soon as might be convenient for him. The note ended: ‘I have invited Carrington as well and hope you will both make a long stay. Christmas if you like! Sorry to have been such a rotten correspondent. Darleston.’
George breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed his lordship had no immediate plans involving Lady Caroline. He resolved to inform his married sister, with whom he had promised to spend Christmas and New Year, that he would be bringing Darleston. Not for anything would he willingly leave his friend alone at that season. He had as a boy spent a couple of Christmases with Darleston’s family and knew that Peter would be more lonely than ever at that time.
Accordingly, he and Carrington drove down to Darleston Court hatching plans to keep Peter out of trouble. All went well, and when Carrington departed six weeks later, to join his mother and sister in Bath, Carstares bore Peter off to spend the holiday with Lord and Lady Fairford and their young family.
It seemed to George that when Peter returned to Darleston Court in late January he had lost much of his bitterness and was far closer to being his old self than would have seemed possible the previous spring.
In early April Darleston House in Grosvenor Square became a hive of activity as it was readied for the arrival of his lordship. Every room was turned out and cleaned as though it were not always kept in readiness for any unexpected visit my lord might choose to make.
Lord Darleston flung himself into the festivities of the season with no hint at all that he was an unwilling participant. The Marriage Mart was honoured with his frequent presence, and he danced assiduously with all the prettiest debutantes, but no one could detect the slightest sign that he was more attracted by one than another. To be honest, he appeared no closer to fixing his interest than last year!
It takes very little, however, to nudge a man into precipitate action. The hand of fate, once dealt, takes no account of rank or wealth but plays its cards with ruthless efficiency. Thus Darleston was sitting idly reading an estate report in his study one afternoon in late May when he was interrupted by his butler.
He looked up. ‘Yes, Meadows? What is it?’
The butler coughed apologetically, ‘I’m sure I’m sorry to disturb your lordship, but there is An Individual to see your lordship. Quite determined, he is. Says he’ll wait in the hall as long as it takes to see you. I hope I know my duty, and I would have had him removed, but he seems terribly worried about something that concerns your lordship and wouldn’t trust any of us to give a message! Wouldn’t even give his name!’
Darleston looked startled. ‘Good heavens! This sounds most melodramatic! Is he a Respectable Individual, Meadows?’
‘I should say he was in one of the Trades, my lord. He was, I will say, very respectful,’ replied Meadows.
‘Very well, Meadows. Send this mysterious person in,’ instructed Darleston.
He sat back to await his visitor, agog with curiosity.
He had not long to wait before a respectably dressed man of about forty stood before him. ‘Good afternoon, Mr…er?’
The man said slowly, ‘If your lordship will not be offended I’d be better pleased to leave names out of it for now. I will only say that I am employed by the Gazette as an editor. A couple of hours ago one of my boys brought this to me.’ He held up a note with a broken seal.
‘Go on, then,’ said Darleston encouragingly. ‘I assure you I am listening.’
‘Well, my lord, the lad is very sharp, and he said the lady who delivered it seemed very upset and kept on asking odd questions about how we verified the accuracy of notices and suchlike. Almost as if she wanted to warn the boy! He took the money and gave her a receipt, but then he got worried and brought it in and told me the whole story. So when I read the notice I thought I’d just come along and check with you. Read it for yourself my lord.’ He held out the note across the desk.
Darleston opened it and was at once aware of a very familiar scent which clung to it. He read the note and his brows contracted sharply. His visitor blenched as he looked up and asked in freezing accents, ‘Did the lad describe the lady?’
‘He did, my lord. He said she was quite old, maybe fifty or even sixty. Dressed very plain. Gave him a shilling, which he didn’t want to take on account of he didn’t think she looked as if she’d have too many shillings, despite being a lady, which he reckoned she was.’
Darleston was silent for a moment, then he said, ‘I am much obliged to you and the lad. This notice has not my authority, and I will be further obliged if you will keep it to yourselves that it ever crossed your desk.
‘Begging your pardon, my lord, but there’s no question of the lad or myself saying a word to anyone about this!’ said the man.
‘Good! I am more grateful than ever, and while I realise that you are a man of integrity and did not come with the idea of a reward, I beg that you will accept something. If not for yourself then for the lad.’ So saying, Darleston reached into a drawer in his desk and drew out a roll of soft. He peeled off several notes and held them out. ‘As I said, you are a fellow of honour. You will divide this fairly between yourself and the lad.’
His visitor flushed as he accepted the money and said, ‘I’ll take it for the boy, my lord. Not for myself, thanking you kindly. Well, I’ll be going, then. I take it you’ll know how best to deal with the matter. I…I wish you luck! No, don’t ring that bell. Your butler makes me nervous!’
He departed quickly, leaving the angriest man in London behind him.
Darleston strode over to the fire which was burning in the grate and cast the note into its flames. He watched it burn for a moment and then went back to his desk. ‘Thank God for Lucy Jameson!’ he said to himself.
He penned a brief note and then rang the bell. When Meadows came in response he handed him the note and spoke abruptly. ‘Be so good as to have that delivered to Lady Caroline Daventry immediately. That will be all.’
Meadows took the note and left the room without a word.
Darleston left his mansion in Grosvenor Square shortly after ten o’clock that evening, clad in the satin knee-breeches and swallow-tailed coat which proclaimed his destination was a ball.
A footman, springing to open the door of the waiting town carriage, and being rewarded with a curt nod, wondered what had happened to put the master in such a temper. Generally he was pleasant enough, if rather aloof. This evening, however, the expression on his face was positively forbidding. Roger shut the door carefully. Whatever had put that look on the master’s face, he preferred not to be involved.
‘Brook Street. We are picking up Mr Carstares at his lodgings,’ was the terse order. The carriage rolled away, clattering over the cobbles. Its occupant leaned back against the squabs, prey to bitter thoughts, all of which were directed at the fairer sex. To Lord Darleston, at that moment, the goddess Aphrodite held no charms whatsoever.
He shuddered at the thought of the ball he had promised to attend. Hordes of gauche young girls, all in hopes of catching a husband, all with ambitious mamas eager to make sure they danced with the most eligible bachelors or, as in his case, widowers. Blast them all, he thought furiously. He would stay in the card room drinking brandy!
The carriage drew to a halt in Brook Street unnoticed by him. Then George’s cheerful voice said, ‘Anyone home? Wake up, Peter, you’re away with the clouds!’
He looked up in surprise into the open countenance. ‘Oh. Here, am I? Sorry, George. I was thinking.’
‘Bad habit that,’ said George, getting into the carriage. ‘People might notice and then where would you be?’ Observing the frown as he looked closely at his friend, George asked, ‘What’s happened, Peter? Your face is enough to turn the milk!’
Peter was silent for a moment before replying savagely, ‘Caroline!’
Momentarily puzzled, George enquired, ‘Is she ill?’
‘Not in the least! She sent a notice of our engagement to the Gazette!’ was the sufficiently startling reply.
Speechless with amazed horror, George could only stare at his friend with a dropped jaw. His brain whirled as he contemplated the uproar which would greet the Seventh Earl of Darleston’s betrothal to his mistress.
Finally he managed to say, ‘Er…do I congratulate you?’
‘You do! Fortunately the editor had the good sense to check with me before printing! I was able to stop it being published, thank God.’
‘Anyone else know about this?’ asked George.
‘I hope not! Except for old Miss Jameson, who delivered the notice. From what the editor said she deliberately went out of her way to put them on their guard.’
After some thought, George said, ‘Seems to me that if Lady Caroline has told people the notice is going to appear, and it doesn’t, she’ll look like a fool.’
‘Good!’
‘Won’t like that, Peter.’
‘She’s not supposed to like it! I sent a discreet note to her house informing her that after a most interesting conversation with an editor of the Gazette I would be returning to Darleston Court tomorrow and did not expect to see her again!’
‘Oh!’ George digested the news that Peter had broken irrevocably with his mistress, then said cautiously, ‘Probably a good thing.’
‘I’m damned sure it is! Tonight I’m celebrating. Cards, dice and brandy are the order of the evening. Curse all women! The problem is that I have to marry! Caroline knows that, but if she thinks I want a child of hers to succeed me any more than my revolting cousin Jack…!’
George was fully in agreement with this sentiment. So Carrington had been right after all! No doubt she had subtly manoeuvred Peter into spending all those months in France. His retreat to Darleston Court and the Fairfords’ for the entire winter, though, must have made her desperate. No doubt she had decided to risk all on this last throw when Darleston had returned to town and begun attending the sort of parties where one met eligible young ladies.
The problem, to George’s way of thinking, was Peter’s ridiculously low opinion of women generally. Much of this could, of course, be attributed to Melissa’s behaviour. Lovely, faithless Melissa, who had run off with another man just as her husband returned, wounded, from Waterloo. Her defection had been no surprise to anyone, least of all Darleston, who had rejoined Wellington’s forces as a volunteer in full knowledge of his wife’s character. It struck George that Peter had an absolute genius for choosing the wrong woman. First Melissa and now Caroline. Expecting women to be like that, he could pick them unerringly!
Hoping to change the subject, he said casually, ‘Had a letter from my sister this morning. In the family way again. Hoping for a girl this time. Says three boys in row is quite enough. She and Fairford want me to visit. Probably wouldn’t mind if you came along again. Do you good to get out of London for a while.’ He knew that Peter liked and respected Lady Fairford very much. In fact, on reflection, there were plenty of women whom Peter liked and respected but all of them were happily married!
Peter hesitated before answering, ‘Thanks, George, I’ll hold you to that later. But first I think I’ll go to Darleston alone. I need to do some thinking. A terrible habit, as you say, but necessary. I must marry, but I don’t want to find myself saddled with a second Melissa!’
‘Certainly not,’ said George. Then, ‘Don’t any of the debutantes interest you? You certainly interest them!’
Peter laughed cynically. ‘Not really. They all admire my wealth and my title and most of ’em are absolutely tongue-tied when I dance with them. That or disgustingly arch!’
George thought about that for a moment. ‘Well, if you take my advice you’ll marry the first eligible girl you meet with whom you can hold a rational conversation!’
Peter chuckled. ‘I did meet one, now I come to think of it. Last year it was. Young Ffolliot’s sister. Can’t think of the girl’s name now. Something beginning with a P anyway. But I haven’t seen her this year.’
‘Believe their father died suddenly last year. Driving accident. Carrington and I saw it in the paper,’ said George thoughtfully. ‘They’d still be in mourning.’
‘But young Ffolliot has been on the town just as usual!’ said Peter, very much surprised. ‘He’s not in mourning, surely!’
‘Ffolliot wouldn’t!’ said George in disgust. ‘Young waster! Carrington said something about it at the time. He’ll be running through his fortune before long if he doesn’t settle down.’
Their arrival at Lady Bellingham’s ball put an end to the conversation as they stepped out of the carriage to join the crush of people flocking up the steps.
Lord Darleston’s behaviour that evening was described by some as disgraceful and by others as exemplary. The first camp was almost entirely composed of young ladies and their ambitious mamas, all of whom were disappointed that such an eligible partishould elect to spend the entire evening in the card room, dicing while consuming untold quantities of brandy. The gentlemen in the card room, however, were of the opinion that under the circumstances Darleston’s forbearance was remarkable. Admittedly he was badly foxed, not vulgarly drunk, as young Ffolliot was, for example, but on the whole he carried his drink very well.
The evening was a successful one for Darleston. He had begun with piquet, playing with George Carstares for chicken stakes. His lordship made it a rule never to play for high stakes with relatives, and had extended this taboo to include his best friend. After a couple of rubbers, in which the run of cards was fairly evenly divided, Darleston suggested they should give up trying to fleece each other.
‘Had enough, George? Maybe we should try our luck with the rest of the world?’
‘Not on my account, Peter. I can afford losing to you!’ answered George cheerfully, hoping he would be able to check his friend.
‘My dear George, may I recommend that you go to the devil?’ asked Peter in amusement. ‘Do you imagine I am so drunk I can’t see through your appallingly clumsy efforts to keep me out of mischief. Believe me, I have no intention of adding to my problems by dissipating my fortune! Only myself!’ He had been drinking steadily, but his speech was in no way impaired. Only the odd glitter in his eye betrayed the state of his temper. To any not intimately acquainted with him he appeared amiability itself.
George, having tried to hold him in as tactfully as possible, bowed to the inevitable and grinned at his friend’s recommendation, merely saying, ‘You’ll have the devil of a head in the morning! I’m going back to the ballroom. You never know. I might meet the girl of my dreams on the dance floor!’
‘More likely meet a sticky end!’ said his lordship sardonically, raising his glass in salute.
He watched George depart and then turned back to the room in search of amusement. Someone tapped his shoulder. ‘Hello, Manders,’ he said, recognising a comrade from Peninsular days. ‘Rubber of piquet?’
His friend demurred without hesitation. ‘Not with you, Darleston! Even when you’re foxed, you play out of my league. Wouldn’t even be entertaining for you! But I don’t mind taking you on at dice.’
‘Whatever you please, old boy, but first I think I’ll find some more brandy!’ said his lordship agreeably. He caught at a passing footman. ‘Do you think you could find me a bottle of brandy? You could? Splendid!’
He turned back to his companion. ‘There we are! What more could we ask for?’
Manders grinned. ‘Well, a couple more people to liven up our game, do you think? Here’s your cousin Frobisher with a friend. Shall we ask them?’
In point of fact the last person in the world that Darleston would have chosen to dice with was his cousin Jack Frobisher, but he responded politely.
‘Dear boy, whatever you wish.’ He beckoned to Frobisher, saying, ‘Good evening, Cousin. Manders and I are going to have a little game of dice. Do you and your friend care to join us?’ He looked closely at the young man accompanying Frobisher. The youth was vaguely familiar, lank sandy hair, a chin which the charitable might have described as weak but was in reality non-existent. Darleston searched his memory. Young Ffolliot, that was it.
Unable to detect any hint that the young man was in mourning, he asked curiously, ‘Heard you’d lost your father a while back, Ffolliot, but I suppose it’s only a rumour?’
‘Oh, Lord, no. It’s true enough. Couldn’t see much point in going into all that business of mourning when the whole world knows we didn’t get on!’ was the unconcerned answer.
Darleston was taken aback. Such casual disregard for a parent’s death was nothing less than shocking. He cast his mind back. He had been only slightly acquainted with John Ffolliot, but his memory was of a kindly man with a well-developed sense of humour. Hardly the man to engender dislike in his offspring! In fact he recalled that the last time he’d seen the elder Mr Ffolliot he had been driving his daughter in Hyde Park.
That was right! It all came back now! He’d danced with the chit at Almack’s and then spoken to her in the park. Met her at a concert too. Red hair, well, auburn anyway, and dreamy grey eyes. That was the girl! It occurred to him that there had appeared to be no lack of affection between father and daughter.
In a tone that was little less than a rebuke he said, ‘Then perhaps you would be so good as to convey my condolences to your sister, Mr Ffolliot? I am sure from what I have seen of her that she held her father in considerable affection and respect. Now, shall we play dice? I have my own set here.’
Ffolliot turned red with anger, but a nudge from Frobisher recalled him to his senses, so he sat down at the table with the other three. Darleston raised his eyebrows slightly, but held his tongue. He produced his dice and the game began.
At first the luck all went Frobisher’s way. A pile of guineas grew steadily in front of him, to the annoyance of his friend Ffolliot, who grumbled continuously. Eventually, tired of the incessant whining, Darleston said lazily, ‘Mr Ffolliot would appear to resent your luck, Cousin. Surely not the part of a good friend!’
‘Perhaps not,’ was the unconcerned reply. ‘However, the game does begin to lose savour. Might I be excused, gentlemen?’ Frobisher rose to his feet, bowed gracefully and departed with his winnings.
As the game continued between the three remaining players Lady Luck chose to turn her face to Mr Ffolliot. Emboldened by this, and the amount of champagne he had consumed, he recklessly raised the stakes.
‘Double each throw, gentlemen?’ he challenged.
Darleston nodded imperturbably, but Manders said bluntly, ‘Too high, Ffolliot. Don’t be a fool! Luck won’t stay with you all night. Especially if you can’t afford it! I’m out!’ He rose to his feet. ‘Excuse me, Darleston, I’ll see you later.’
Darleston smiled up at him, saying amiably, ‘Thanks for the game, Manders. You must dine with me soon. I feel sure our tastes have much in common!’
He tossed back his glass of brandy, refilled it, and said to Mr Ffolliot, ‘Fifty a throw, wasn’t it?’ The game proceeded, but Lady Luck, possibly affronted by Mr Ffolliot’s behaviour, began to favour Darleston. That pile of guineas slowly made its way across the table. Finally they were all in front of Darleston.
‘Do you wish to continue, Mr Ffolliot?’ he asked politely.
‘Yes! Damn you! Double the stakes!’ slurred Ffolliot. The luck had to change! He glared at his opponent defiantly.
Darleston looked at him carefully. It was not in his nature to refuse a challenge, but it went against the grain to win money from a drunken youth who most certainly could not afford it. Wryly he admitted to himself that he had certainly provoked Ffolliot earlier. His code of honour dictated that it was time to call a halt.
The words were on the tip of his tongue when Ffolliot said loudly, ‘I don’t like your dice, Darleston!’ A dead silence came over the room. People turned to stare in disbelief. To accuse Darleston of cheating was unthinkable! His courage, honour and pride were a matter of public record. George Carstares, who had just come back into the room with Lord Carrington, stopped dead in his tracks, fully expecting Darleston to call Ffolliot out.
Darleston, however, managed to hold his temper in check. His eyes blazed, but he leaned back in his chair and asked softly, ‘Do you not, indeed, Mr Ffolliot? And what would you like to do about it? We can of course break the dice. But then of course you will owe me a new set.’ Almost as an afterthought he added, ‘And…er…satisfaction as well. Your choice, Mr Ffolliot! Or perhaps you have a set of dice we can use, and break at the end of the game, of course!’
Ffolliot’s eyes fell. ‘I…don’t have a set with me…I…I must have been mistaken!’ he stammered.
‘Then shall we continue?’ asked Darleston sweetly. The other occupants of the room lost interest, but George Carstares, watching closely with Lord Carrington, breathed a huge sigh of relief. He had no fears for Darleston’s safety in a duel with Ffolliot, however, the law was strict about these little affairs.
‘Damn it, George,’ muttered Carrington. ‘Can’t this be stopped somehow? Ffolliot can’t afford to lose. He’s a blasted little squirt, I agree, but his sisters and stepmother have enough problems without Peter ruining him and calling him out!’
George shook his head. ‘He’d tell us to go to the devil! Already done that once this evening! At least he accepted the boy’s apology. No one can do anything with Peter in this mood!’
The game continued and Ffolliot’s losses mounted steadily. His face became sickly as his vowels grew in number. From time to time he made a little headway, but this was always short-lived. Darleston threw a ten, those mocking eyes daring his opponent to call a halt to the game. Ffolliot’s hand trembled so that his throw was clumsy and the dice fell to the floor. He bent to retrieve them, fumbling a little. Slightly flushed, he straightened up. ‘I beg your pardon, Lord Darleston!’
Darleston nodded for him to throw again. He threw a twelve and shot a triumphant glare at the Earl.
Carstares and Carrington exchanged startled glances. ‘Did you see what…?’ began George.
‘Let’s wait and be sure,’ murmured Carrington, placing a restraining hand on his companion’s arm. They continued to watch the game carefully.
Now the game began to run in Ffolliot’s direction. Lady Luck, it would seem, had relented towards Mr Ffolliot. Carstares and Lord Carrington drifted over to the table. Laying his hand on Ffolliot’s arm, the latter said coldly, ‘Mr Ffolliot, did I not hear you inform Lord Darleston that you had no dice with you when he offered to let you change the dice?’
‘That’s right,’ said Ffolliot, shrugging off the hand. ‘What of it Carrington? I’m happy enough with the dice now! All a misunderstanding, eh, Darleston?’
Darleston looked in annoyance at George and Carrington, but what he saw in their faces made him hold his tongue. Again the whole room was focused on that small table.
Carrington was speaking again, ‘I have little doubt that you are only too happy with these dice, since they came out of your pocket! Strange how the luck turned so quickly after you retrieved the dice from the floor, wouldn’t you say? Carstares and I saw you make the exchange! Shall we break them for you?’
Ffolliot grabbed the dice. He was shaking, but tried to bluster. ‘How…how dare you? I…I don’t care for your tone, Carrington. Darleston has made no complaint!’
An expectant silence had pervaded the whole room. The assembled company looked with scorn at Ffolliot and with great interest at Darleston for his reaction.
His blazing eyes seemed to burn holes in Ffolliot’s face, but his voice was as urbane as ever. ‘I think this concludes our little game, Mr Ffolliot. You will hear from me in the next day or so to arrange the terms of payment for your debt.’
The host, Lord Bellingham, came forward to say icily, ‘I am afraid I must ask you to leave, Mr Ffolliot, unless you are prepared to have those dice broken!’ He waited a moment, but Ffolliot did not respond. Still clutching his dice, he stood up unsteadily and walked to the door. Men turned aside from him, disgusted. Bellingham gestured to a footman. ‘See that he leaves!’
Darleston rose to his feet, saying calmly, ‘How very unpleasant. Ah, Bellingham! I do beg your pardon for this little contretemps! I shall also take my leave. Please accept my apologies.’
‘Nonsense, Darleston, no need for you to leave!’ said Bellingham. ‘I’m sure Carstares or Carrington will join us for a game of cards! Why leave just because of that infernal little mountebank?’
Darleston resumed his seat, saying obligingly, ‘Of course, Bellingham.’
When Darleston reached Grosvenor Square again it was four in the morning. He let himself into the house and found a candle burning on a small table. He picked it up and went upstairs to his bed-chamber where he proceeded to undress himself. Despite the acid comments of Fordham on the subject, Darleston insisted that he was perfectly capable of putting himself to bed at night.
The evening’s events had done little to alleviate his temper, and the comment dropped by Carrington on the way home, that he very much doubted Ffolliot’s ability to meet the debt he had contracted, had infuriated him. If it hadn’t been for the loaded dice Darleston would have quietly cancelled the debt. Unfortunately the public exposure of Ffolliot’s dishonesty made that impossible.
Ffolliot’s suggestion that he himself had been using loaded dice also continued to rankle. Well, if Ffolliot couldn’t pay the debt in one way, he should pay it in another! At this point the problem of Lady Caroline drifted back into his brandy-fogged mind. ‘Blast Caroline!’ he said aloud. ‘The only way to be safe from her is to marry someone else. But who?’
He pulled the nightshirt laid out for him over his head. What had George said? Marry the first eligible girl who can hold a rational conversation! Well, that was Ffolliot’s sister! Damn! what was her name? Might have been Phoebe, but he couldn’t really remember. It occurred to him that she would be made devilishly uncomfortable over the night’s doings. That bothered him, he had been oddly attracted to her. Usually young girls bored him, but she had a spark of humour that appealed to him. Not on the occasion he’d danced with her at Almack’s, to be sure, but in the park and at the concert she’d seemed a different creature entirely. And she had that unusual dog.
He was about to get into bed when the idea struck him. To his somewhat tipsy logic it seemed perfectly reasonable, although an irritatingly sober voice warned him not to do anything rash. Impatiently he thrust the warning voice aside to consider his idea. Then he pulled on a dressing gown, sat down at the writing desk in the corner and penned a brief letter. He read it through owlishly, nodded, and sealed it. That would take the trick! he thought triumphantly. Must get it off immediately!
A little unsteady on his feet now, he went back downstairs to leave the letter on the hall table for the post.
A glow of satisfaction pervaded his being as he returned to bed, convinced he had solved all his problems in the most sensible way imaginable. The idea seemed so neat and logical that he could not for the life of him think of a single objection to it: a circumstance which must be ascribed in great part to the quantity of brandy he had consumed.
Never, even when sober, prone to worry about a decision once it was made, Lord Darleston drifted off to sleep. His only concern was the devilish head with which he was bound to be afflicted when he awoke.