Despite inadequate rest, Mis. Davenant was up and about early the following morning. She’d scarcely quit her room when Cecily’s groom, Harris, who’d dutifully looked in on Mr. Wyndhurst, informed her the man had vanished.
The innkeeper expanded upon the news. “They came for him early,” he told the widow. “Seems his lordship’s relations were expecting him and sent someone to look when he didn’t appear. Must have found the smashed rig and alerted the family because—”
“His lordship?” Lilith interrupted.
“His lordship the Marquess of Brandon, ma’am. On his way to his cousin’s. Lord Belbridge, that is.”
His patron’s countenance grew stony.
The innkeeper went on quickly, “They came for him—the Earl of Belbridge himself and a pack of servants. As I said, it was early—-maybe an hour or more before cock crow— and Lord Brandon was very particular that we wasn’t to disturb you about it. He said to thank you for your kindness and apologise for his hasty leave-taking. I think that was how he put it,” the landlord said with a frown. “Anyhow, he paid your shot, ma’am. Said it was the least he could do in return for all the—What was it he said? He laid such a stress on it, the word—ah, the inconvenience.”
After uttering a few cold words of acknowledgement, Mrs. Davenant turned away, her heart pounding with indignation. The Marquess of Brandon, of all people. Her servants had braved the cold, filthy storm and the muck of the ditch, risking pneumonia. They had spent the night on floors—when they might have slept comfortably, warm and dry in their proper beds in her London town house. All this they had endured for the most foul libertine who had ever trod his polluted step upon the earth.
With her own hands she’d fed the man who had half killed her husband—for was it not Brandon who had mercilessly led Charles on an insatiable pursuit of the lowest sort of pleasure? Finally, when her husband was too ill for pleasure any more, this so-called friend had released what was left of him. Then Charles was hers at last—hers to watch nearly two years, while he crept slowly and painfully to his grave. Not once in all that long, weary time had this friend deigned to visit him. A letter or two from abroad was all. Then, one curt, condescending note of condolence, two months after the funeral.
Now Brandon patronisingly threw a few pieces of gold her way—when she owed him thousands. She would pay him, Lilith vowed. She would sell the very clothes from her back if necessary. She would not be in his debt, not for so much as a farthing.
Mrs. Davenant stood staring at a small, poorly executed hunting print until she had collected herself. Then she returned to her travelling companions to break the news regarding their patient and urge them to a speedy departure.
She fumed inwardly the entire distance to London. Outwardly, she was as coolly poised and unapproachable as ever.
Even Cecily was eventually daunted in her efforts to penetrate her aunt’s reserve. Questions about the Marquess of Brandon elicited only warnings: he was precisely the sort of man young ladies must scrupulously avoid; he had not been so near death as he pretended; if he could deceive an experienced physician, what hope was there for an innocent young girl—and so on. Cecily would have preferred to be told what she didn’t already know.
As Mrs. Davenant’s carriage was entering London, the subject of her disapprobation was reclining upon a richly upholstered sofa in the cavernous drawing room of a massive country house many miles away. He was being wearied half to death listening—or trying not to listen—to his cousin’s litany of woes.
Julian Vincent Wyndhurst St. Maur, Baron St. Maur, Viscount Benthame, Earl of Stryte, Marquess of Brandon, was a trifle tetchy this afternoon. He was affronted by the behaviour of the chill he’d contracted en route to Ostend. He had given it the cut direct. The ailment, instead of humbly taking itself off, had only fastened itself more firmly— and had apparently gathered equally boorish associates.
Though Lord Brandon was not so weak and ill as he had feigned for Mrs. Davenant’s benefit, he was scarcely well. At the moment, he wished he had remained in bed. His inconsiderate cousin might have respected his peace then, instead of pacing agitatedly upon the thick Axminster carpet in a manner viciously calculated to bring on mal de mer.
“Do me the kindness, George, to sit down,” Lord Brandon said at last. “That constant to and fro raises the very devil with my innards.”
Lord Belbridge promptly flopped down upon the sofa by his cousin’s feet. George was a rather stout fellow. The jolt of his heavy frame on the sofa cushions set off a wave of nausea.
“Damn,’’ said Lord Brandon with a grimace.
“Sorry, Julian. Keep forgettn’ you’re ailin’. But I’m half out of my wits, what with Mother at me the livelong day—or goin’ off in hysterics when she ain’t. Even Ellen’s overset—though it’s the children she worries for, and how they’re to hold up their heads—”
“Being attached in the customary way to their necks, I expect their heads will contrive to keep from tumbling off. Really, George, one would think no man had ever kept a mistress before.”
“If he were only keeping’ her, what should any of us care? But he’s been livin’ with her—near two years now.”
“Of course Robert is living with her. You keep him on a short allowance. He cannot afford two sets of lodgings, now, can he?”
George’s jaw set obstinately. “Well, I ain’t goin’ to give him any more. He spends every farthing on her.”
“I see. You would prefer your brother spent his vast sums upon drink or hazard, I suppose. Come, George, you are a man of the world. As I recollect, there was a ballet dancer or two enlivening your salad days while she lightened your purse.’’
“That was different. I had my fun for a bit, then got another. I didn’t talk of marryin’ the tarts, Julian.”
Lord Brandon’s half-closed lids fluttered open. “My ailment appears to have affected my hearing. I was certain you mentioned marriage.”
“He means to marry her,” Lord Belbridge grimly confirmed. “He’s only waitin’ ‘til he comes into his money, in less than four months. Can’t touch his trust fund ‘til he’s five and twenty, you know. Then he’s little need of his allowance. Not that it’s any great fortune—but it’s respectable. He wants to make an honest woman of her and set up his nursery.” George groaned. “Expects we’ll welcome her into the family. Can you see my sweet Ellen callin’ a fancy piece ‘sister’? And a damned Frenchie at that. Gad.”
There was a moment or two of silence while George allowed his cousin to digest this piece of information. Lord Brandon pressed his fingers to his temples.
“Robert cannot possibly be so imbecilic as to marry his mistress,” he said finally. “He must know you would seek an annulment if he did. Furthermore, I do not see what prevents you dealing with her yourself. Fill her purse and she will take her charms elsewhere.”
“Tried,” George answered sadly. “Again and again. She won’t leave him. Why should she? She could get a wealthier lover, but not one fool enough to marry her. Not a lord, certainly.” He uttered a heavy sigh. “That ain’t the worst of it.”
“Naturally not,” his listener murmured.
“When she wouldn’t listen to reason,” George went on, “I took to threats. Told her we’d see the wedding never took place, whatever it took to do it. She only looked at me like I was somethin’ pitiful. Then she told me about the letters.’’
“Letters,” Lord Brandon repeated, his expression pained. “I might have known.”
“Love letters,” said his cousin. “She showed me one or two and told me there were a score more like ‘em—all beggin’ her to marry him. Callin’ her his ‘dear wife.’ Sickenin’, just sickenin’.”
“Such epistles usually are, except perhaps to the recipient, for whom they undoubtedly must provide many hours of laughter.”
“I went to my solicitor right after that. He hemmed and hawed for an hour before he broke the news. Which is, that if those letters end up in a court of law, they could be worth as much as twenty-five thousand quid in damages.”
“Indeed,” said Lord Brandon. “Robert quite astonishes me. He has fallen in love with his whore, proposed marriage to her, not once but many times, and all in writing, no less. If he marries her, there is a great scandal, his family is dishonoured, and he is ruined. If he doesn’t marry her, she sues for breach of promise, there is a great scandal, his family is dishonoured, and he is ruined. How very neatly he has arranged matters. I must remember to congratulate him.” Cautiously, he pulled himself upright. “I think I shall go to bed.”
“Is that all you can say?” George cried, jumping up.
“I’m sure you will not wish to hear my feelings regarding being summoned from France—at Prinny’s behest, no less—merely to be informed that my cousin is a besotted fool. This is the ‘urgent family matter’ so desperately requiring my assistance, now of all times? When, finally, Buonaparte is within our grasp, when all the wit and tact we possess will be required to return his obese Bourbon rival to his unloving subjects?”
“They wanted you home anyhow, Julian,” was the defensive answer. “They said you was near collapse—and had done more than your share at any rate.”
“As you say, I have done enough. As to Lord Robert Downs—my young cousin is so unspeakable an idiot that we were all best advised to cease recollecting his existence.”
“But dammit, Julian, he is my brother—and think of the scandal. Think of Mary. Think of the children.”
“I cannot think of anyone at the moment, George. My head is throbbing like the very deuce. Will you ring for a servant? One with a stout arm and broad shoulders, if you please. I shall require some assistance regaining the sanctity of my bedchamber, where I expect to expire gracefully within the hour. No mourning, I beg of you. Black is not Ellen’s best colour.”
“But, Julian—”
“Wash your hands of him, George. I assure you I do.”
***
Not many days after her return to London, Mrs. Davenant met with her man of business. Mr. Higginbottom, who possessed of the first good news he’d been able to offer his client in some six months, was buoyant. The debt, he told her, was cancelled. Lord Brandon had no wish to take bread from the mouths of widows.
The slate-blue gaze grew so icy that Mr. Higginbottom involuntarily shivered. Congealing within, he soon petrified, to sink into arctic waters as his client expressed not only profound displeasure that the marquess had been apprised in such detail of her private affairs, but also an adamant refusal to accept his lordship’s charity.
It was futile to argue that gentlemen cancelled such debts every day for far more whimsical reasons. It was useless to point out that the Marquess of Brandon didn’t want the money, most assuredly didn’t need the money, and in fact cared so little about it that he had let the matter lie buried these last seven years. It was equally useless to point out that twenty-nine thousand pounds, sensibly invested, would earn such and such a return, that she need not sell both her remaining properties, that in a few years she might expect to see her income return to its previous level or very near.
Mrs. Davenant only coldly retorted that she was not on the brink of starvation.
“You will use the funds from the lease of my Derbyshire residence for the present,” she said. “When the Season is done, we will discuss letting the town house. I wish the debt paid—with appropriate interest—as speedily as possible, though I hope your terms can accommodate certain matters of necessity. As you are aware, a family commitment requires my remaining in town. Still, it will be as economical a stay as can reasonably be expected.”
She paused a moment before adding—and this was her first and only hint of emotion –“I will not be beholden to that man, sir, not for any amount.” She handed the businessman a slip of paper. “You will add this to the sum,” she said. “There was a misunderstanding with an innkeeper.”
“Yes, madam,” said Mr. Higginbottom, and “Yes, madam” was all he said to everything else. Only that evening, to his wife, did he declaim upon the inscrutability of the ruling classes.
Sir Thomas called, as he had promised, at two o’clock. Mrs. Davenant, as she had promised, granted him a private interview.
The baronet knew his offer was expected. He was not, however, confident of an affirmative answer. Though he’d been granted the signal honour of her friendship, he could not be certain he had as yet awakened any softer feelings in the widow’s breast. To be sure, he required only sufficient softening to produce the word “yes.”
Sir Thomas was a widower of nearly forty. He topped his prospective bride by a mere inch or two, his square figure was not so fit as it had once been, and his light brown hair, to his grief, was thinning. Though he was well enough looking—his jaw firm, his brown eyes alert and clear—he had never been sufficiently handsome to break hearts, or even win them without effort. Thus, he had very sensibly concentrated on the winning of hands, and did so for practical reasons.
Though as ambitious as ever, he was no longer the nearly penniless youth he had been at the time of his first marriage. Then, as now, he was content to do without love, though for different reasons. Of his first wife he’d required only money. Of his second, he required strong character, irreproachable reputation, and superior breeding. He wanted, in short, the perfect political hostess.
There was nothing, certainly, of Love in her response. Lilith acknowledged she respected him and was honoured by his proposal. So far, so good.
“I should be pleased to be your wife, Thomas,” she continued composedly. “But before we make an irrevocable commitment, I must deal frankly with certain circumstances of which you are at present unaware.”
Sir Thomas’s smile faded into a puzzled frown.
“As you may know, I had a considerable fortune in my own right,” she went on. “As my grandparents’ only living descendant, I inherited everything. The property was not entailed. My grandfather’s title was recent—and the bulk of the property was my grandmother’s.”
“My dear,” he quickly intervened, “I am aware of these matters. All the same, in like frankness I must remind you of my own situation, which is such, I flatter myself, that your finances are irrelevant. Certainly they are and always have been irrelevant to my wish to make you my wife.”
She hesitated a fraction of a moment. Then, her chin just a bit higher, she answered, “Nonetheless, I prefer to be quite open with you. My income is sadly depleted. Mistakes have been made—certain investments my previous financial advisor—”
Once more Sir Thomas interrupted. “I am sorry you have been ill-advised,” he said, “but there is no need to weary yourself reviewing the details. In future, I hope you will allow me to see to your comfort—the very near future, if you will excuse my impetuousness, my dear. That is to say, as soon, of course, as your niece is set up.”
“I am telling you,” she said patiently, “that I am no longer a woman of means.”
He smiled and stepped towards her. “And I am telling you, Lilith Davenant, it matters not a whit to me. Will you become Lady Bexley, and make me the happiest man in Christendom?”
If the answering smile was tinged with resignation, Sir Thomas was unaware of it. He heard the quiet “Yes” he had wished for these eighteen months or more, and his heart soared. He did, truly, believe himself the happiest man in Christendom. He had achieved another great ambition and won the hand of the regal Lilith Davenant.
So great was his appreciation of and respect for her queenly reserve that, instead of embracing her as he was fully entitled, he only planted one fervent kiss upon the back of her hand. He did not perceive the way she had steeled herself for the obligatory embrace, nor did he remark the relief that swept her features when he only bent instead over her white hand.
***
“The good die early,” Mr. Defoe once observed, “and the bad die late.”
Thus it could come as no surprise to any reasonably intelligent person that, despite his relatives’ unflagging efforts to plague him to death, Lord Brandon did not expire. On the contrary, he recovered surprisingly swiftly.
“Small wonder,” his aunt remarked with a sniff. “Even the Old Harry is in no hurry to have you. A more selfish, insufferable, obstinate blackguard of a nephew there never was and never will be.”
“Auntie, your tender affection will unman me,” the nephew replied. “Really, you ought not dote upon me so extravagantly at mealtime. I cannot see my beefsteak for my tears.” All the same, Lord Brandon cut into his beefsteak accurately enough.
He had just come down to breakfast. It was proof of his aunt’s determination that she had risen from her bed before noon, only to be on hand first thing to nag at him.
The Marchioness of Fineholt was a small, fragile-looking woman with a will of iron and a tongue, her relative reflected silently, like a meat axe.
“I had always thought your sire the greatest villain who ever lived,” she went on. “Yet worthless reprobate that he was, my brother Alec at least knew what was due his name and family. Though why I expect you to care about anyone’s name when you don’t trouble with your own—”
“My dearest Auntie, my name came to me when I was born and has remained with me ever since without my bothering about it at all.”
“Thirty-five years old,” she snapped, “and you haven’t got a wife—not to speak of an heir.”
“I can understand your wish not to speak of him,” the marquess answered sadly. “His mama was so misguided as to have been born in Philadelphia—to a haberdasher. I cannot imagine what she was thinking of.”
“I don’t mean those dratted Yankee cousins, and you know it, Brandon. You haven’t got a son—not on the right side of the blanket at any rate, though I don’t doubt there’s a score or more of the other sort peppering the countryside, here and abroad.”
“Wicked girl,” said the nephew between mouthfuls. “Will you not spare my blushes?”
“Spare you?” she echoed wrathfully. “There is your poor uncle—a sad invalid these last five years—and even he took pen in his poor, trembling hand to plead with that unspeakable woman. While you, strong and healthy as an ox, spend your days lolling about upon the sofa, refusing even to discuss this debacle.”
Lord Belbridge entered the breakfast room at this juncture.
“Now, Mother,” he placated as he sat down beside her. “You know Julian’s not been lolling about. He’s been gravely ill.”
“And bound to send me to an early grave in his place,” she grumbled. “I should have expected it. Not a male in the lot with an ounce of ingenuity. Or if they’ve got any,” she added with a darkling look at her nephew, “they’d rather spend it coaxing the next trollop into their bed.”
“You mean to say there are trollops about this fair green countryside, Aunt?” Lord Brandon turned to his cousin in reproach. “You might have mentioned it, Georgy.”
“Julian, please—”
“Don’t beg him, George. It isn’t dignified, and you’ve made a sorry enough spectacle of yourself as it is. There’s the tart showing you her letters, and what do you do but politely give ‘em back.”
“Mother dearest, I couldn’t well bind her hand and foot while I searched the premises. Besides, she’s too dashed clever to keep ‘em all with her. Stands to reason she’d have ‘em locked up with a solicitor, or someplace safe.”
“Reason,” her ladyship repeated scornfully. “When were you and Reason ever acquainted, pray tell? Oh, that ever I should live to see this day.” Her voice grew tremulous, and a very dainty lace handkerchief was applied to very dry eyes. “My baby, caught in the toils of a French drab, and no one will lift a finger to save him.”
“Now, Mother—”
“You have no conscience, Brandon,” she went on, ignoring her son. “No feeling for your kin.”
“I am positively bubbling with feeling, ma’am. Unfortunately, the situation is beyond mending.”
“Fiddlesticks! You have made a profession of bending women to your will. You will not persuade me you cannot wrap this baggage about your finger, clever though she may be. You are simply too lazy to trouble with any matter not pertaining to your own pleasure.”
She rose to deliver her parting shot. “You are spoiled, vain, selfish, and far too clever and good-looking for your own good. I pray that one day—and may I be alive to see it—a woman will cut up your peace. Pleasure has taught you nothing. Mayhap pain will.” With that, her small, rigid figure swept out of the breakfast room.
Lord Belbridge threw his cousin a reproachful glance. “I wish you wouldn’t tease her, Julian. She takes it out on me after.”
“Have you considered sending her to Wellington, George? Perhaps she might be employed to browbeat Napoleon into submission. I wonder no one thought of that before.” Having finished his breakfast during the marchioness’s verbal bombardment, Lord Brandon took up the newspaper.
George sighed, went to the sideboard, and filled his plate. When he sat down again, his cousin asked from behind the newspaper in a very bored voice, “Are you acquainted with a fellow by the name of Bexley? Sir Thomas Bexley?”
“Not intimately acquainted. He’s a deal too political for my tastes. Still, one can’t help knowin’ of him. One of Liverpool’s protégés.”
“I see. An ambitious young man.”
“Ambitious, yes, but he’s forty if he’s a day. Looks older. Goin’ bald,” George explained. “Probably all those years in the West Indies did it. Bought plantations there, you know, with his wife’s dowry. Made pots. Came back... well, I couldn’t say when, exactly. Two or three years ago, maybe. After he lost his wife.”
The marquess glanced over the paper. “Careless of him.”
“She passed on, Julian,” his cousin answered with a touch of vexation. “Dash it, you’ve got no respect, even for the dead. She passed on, and the poor fellow came back and I guess he buried his sorrow in politics. They say he’s movin’ on fast. Shouldn’t be surprised to find him in the ministry one day.”
George swallowed a few mouthfuls. After a moment or two, he asked, “If you don’t know him, what makes you ask?”
“Boredom, I suppose.”
“Somethin’ in the paper?”
“Only that his engagement is announced.”
George put down his silverware. “You don’t say! He’s done it, then. Well, there’s a few chaps stand to lose money on that. Mean to say—It’s Davenant’s widow he’s marryin’, ain’t it?”
Lord Brandon nodded.
“Better him than me. Feel an east wind blowin’ just thinkin’ of her. Cold female, Julian. But you knew her, I expect. You and Davenant were together a good deal.” George returned to his meal.
“I never met the lady then. She was in Derbyshire. Charles was in London. He took ill and returned to the country shortly after I was required to take residence out of England.”
“I recollect. Annoyin’ that. And not a bit fair. Stupid female. Burstin’ out from the wood, shriekin’. If it wasn’t for her, you’d have only winged him. A wonder we weren’t all killed. Duel’s no place for a woman.”
“Perhaps, having provoked the situation, Lady Advers felt obliged to see it through to the conclusion. At any rate, she taught me a valuable lesson.”
“Yes. Keep away from married women.”
The marquess laughed. “Good heavens, no, George. What I learned was never to let my attention wander, on any account.’’
Two hours later, Lord Brandon threw his relatives into transports of joy and relief when he announced plans to proceed to London that very day. He was bored with rustication, he said, and from all reports, Castlereagh seemed to be muddling along well enough without his dubious assistance. Since he had nothing better to do elsewhere, Lord Brandon thought he might toddle off to look into this tiresome little matter of Robert’s nuptials.