Gayle Buck (7 page)

“Idiots, one and all,” said Mr. Pepperidge forcibly.

Mary laughed. She shook her head at him reprovingly. “Really, Papa. How can you say so when you have just expressed the wish that I had wed one of them?”

“Aye, tie me in knots with my own words. I still wish something better for you, child,” said Mr. Pepperidge.

“Perhaps I shall surprise you one day, Papa,” said Mary. “Now do finish your coffee so that Maud may take back the tray. It is getting very late.”

Mr. Pepperidge obeyed, grumbling a little. “Aye, fuss over me and send me up to my bed. I am just an old man. What do I know, after all?”

Mary laughed again. “Dear Papa.” She rose and walked over to drop an affectionate kiss on his wrinkled brow. “I shall see you in the morning, shall I?” She turned to the bell-pull and tugged it.

“Of course; of course. You recall that I shall be wanting to go to Dover on the morrow?”

“Yes, Papa. I gave the orders for the packing hours ago. We shall be able to leave at first light,” said Mary.

He regarded her with his head cocked to one side. “It is to be a holiday, is it?”

“I do love the sea, and though it is not Brighton or Bath, I shall still be able to smell the salt on the air,” said Mary.

The housemaid entered and Mary gestured at the tray. “Thank you, Maud. That will be all this evening.”

“Yes, miss.” The housemaid exited, the tray in her hands.

Mr. Pepperidge chuckled as he got up out of his chair. “You’ve merchants’ blood running strong in your veins, my Mary. ‘Tis a pity that females are not welcomed on board ships.”

“I have often thought so, indeed,” said Mary imperturbably. “Are you going up directly?”

“No, I think that I shall watch the fire for a few minutes,” said Mr. Pepperidge.

Mary knew from her father’s slightly guilty expression that he meant to light one of the abominable cigars that he had taken a liking to since receiving a box as a gift from an associate in the South American trade, but she did not tease him about it. It was a small vice and hardly one to greatly concern her. “Good night, dear Papa.”

She left the drawing room and went up the narrow staircase to the upper hall. In her bedroom, she dismissed her maid once the woman had unbuttoned the innumerable tiny buttons down the back of her gown, saying that she would prepare herself for bed.

The maid left without any undue curiosity. Miss Pepperidge often preferred to do for herself.

Mary finished undressing and slipped on a nightgown. She got into bed, but she did not immediately blow out the candle. Feeling somewhat restless, she decided to read. But after a time, she found that her thoughts wandered from the printed page so often that she had no idea what she had read. Finally she set aside the book and surrendered to the direction of her overpowering reflections.

Her father’s astonishing comments that evening had set up a regrettable train of thought. Mary had often wondered what her life might have been like if circumstances had been a little different. If her mother had survived the influenza, Mary would not have taken over the supervision of the house, nor have learned so much about the workings of her father’s business during the time of his deepest grief.

Certainly she would have enjoyed small outings into the family’s limited but respectable society more often and perhaps she would have attached a suitor or two of her own. She might even have become betrothed. It was a giddy thought, for Mary had never considered herself to be attractive in the same sense as her sister.

Tabitha had been only fifteen when she began to receive gentlemen callers. Looking back, Mary could not quite recall how it had happened that the gentlemen had discovered her sister; but discover her they had and nothing was ever the same for Tabitha.

Tabitha had never liked lessons of any sort and she had been the bane of her governess’s existence. When the frustrated governess had given abrupt notice, Tabitha had refused to go to the select seminary which had so benefitted Mary. Instead Tabitha had announced her intention of entering society and finding herself a rich husband. Mary had always been puzzled by her father’s acquiescence to Tabitha’s declaration, but in light of his revelations that evening, she finally understood. For Tabitha, there could be no other respectable alternative but immediate marriage.

Tabitha had made her choice and entered wedded bliss.

Mary had not liked the gentleman. He had been a great deal older than her sister and was somewhat boorish in manners, which she had suspected hinted at a similar indifference of character.

When she had voiced her reservations during the courtship, Tabitha had pooh-poohed her concerns. “It is all that fancy learning you have had, Mary. It has made you too nice by half. Mr. Applegate shall suit me very well, I promise you. Why, only look at this ravishing hat that he bought me just this morning. Isn’t it simply too precious for words?” She had set the bonnet on her head at a rakish angle and turned to her sister, anticipating oohs of admiration.

The hat had been a frivolous confection of lace and silk and flowers and dipping feathers, quite inappropriate and quite obviously very expensive. “Don’t you think it a bit... fast to accept so extravagant a gift from the gentleman?” Mary had asked hesitantly. She knew that she would not have accepted such an intimate gift, nor one so outré.

“Oh, do not be such a sad stick, Mary. We are very nearly betrothed, after all. What difference now or when we have actually wed?” Tabitha had said blithely, swinging around to preen herself in front of the cheval glass.

Mary held her tongue after that, but at the wedding ceremony she had not been able to summon up the happiness that she knew that she should have felt for her sister. But three years later, they still received the rare, laboriously written letter from Tabitha expressing her continued happiness, while Mary herself remained unwed and unsought.

Mary sighed and reached over to put out the candle. A whiff of smoke teased her nostrils as she slid under the bedclothes. Mary closed her eyes against the dark of the bedroom. As she fell asleep, she had an undefined yearning that was all caught up in the unclear face of a very special gentleman.

Chapter 7

A few nights later it rained, a steady monotonous sheet of gray obscuring the streets. The wind blew in ill-tempered gusts, sending bone-settling chill nipping at the heels of anyone foolish enough to be out in it.

The bleak weather suited Lord St. John’s mood perfectly. He slumped in the rattling carriage, hands thrust deep into his pockets. He had just come from a card party with friends—Miles Trilby, the Earl of Walmsley; Lord Edward Heatherton; and Mr. Carey Underwood. They were arguably the only true friends that he had left.

Lord St. John turned his face to the window. The play of lightning cast jagged shadows over his grim expression. He had won at cards that night, but it had not seemed to matter very much. He had tossed his winnings over to Lord Heatherton, preferring to have nothing than to give the monies over to Witherspoon and know that it was but a hopeless drop in the bucket compared to what he had to have.

A muscle worked in his jaw. He rolled his shoulders, attempting to release the tension of his pent-up rage. He had not been particularly good company that evening. His thoughts had ultimately proven too strong to be diverted by a card game with friends. And so he had flung down his best hand of the night, spurning his winnings, and taken abrupt leave from the Earl of Walmsley’s town house.

Mr. Underwood had followed him out to the cab and insisted upon sharing it, saying that it would be impossible to find another in such weather. Lord St. John had reluctantly given way, but he had directed the driver first to Mr. Underwood’s lodgings so that he could be rid of his well-intentioned friend.

“I do not want your company, Carey. I prefer to deal with my own demons in private,” he had said pointedly.

Mr. Underwood had objected. “I had hoped for a drop of that excellent brandy you have laid down in your cellar.” The viscount had been insulting in turning aside the suggestion and in the end Mr. Underwood had no choice but to accede to the viscount’s wishes.

Before he left the carriage, however, he had said, “You will call on me, Sinjin?”

Lord St. John had grimaced and said bitingly, “You need not be so anxious, Carey. Your wager is safe enough. I am not likely to forfeit the race by putting a period to my existence.”

Mr. Underwood had nodded. “I never thought that you would,” he said casually, before leaping out into the driving rain and racing for the shelter of his door.

Recalling that conversation, Lord St. John gave a short bark of laughter. The last several days since his return to London had been hellish. It could hardly be wondered at if his demeanor reflected it.

His position was untenable. He had been given the cut direct by personages who had previously afforded him affable recognition. Amongst those acquaintances who shared his interests in driving and other sports, he had detected the slightest withdrawal, as though his cronies waited to see whether he was still one of them.

Matrons who had previously beamed when he had approached their daughters to stand up with them for a dance now received him with frozen smiles and quite pointed remarks designed to warn him away. Before his betrothal to Lady Althea, he had been a favored party and it had been audibly regretted that his lordship, with his prospects of becoming a duke, had been snatched up by the Earl of Cowltern’s daughter. Since it had become known that his grand prospects had gone up in proverbial smoke, and that the betrothal was no longer existent, Lord St. John was looked upon as a gazetted fortune hunter. Society’s well-bred daughters must therefore be protected from his unwanted attentions.

As for many of the other ladies, their eyes had reflected an avid, even malicious, interest as they commiserated with Lord St. John on his recent misfortunes. His pride had been exacerbated almost beyond endurance by the insult and hypocrisy that was directed to his face, but it had been the certainty of ridicule directed at his back that had been the most difficult to accept.

But no, contrary to Mr. Underwood’s delicately expressed concern, he would drive the race. It was one for time between London and Dover. In his present frame of mind, there was nothing that would suit him better than the wildest drive that he could manage short of killing his horses.

The cab stopped. Lord St. John got out and paid the fare. He sauntered up the steps of his town house without regard for the rain. He was soaked when he entered and his butler regarded his drenched appearance with horror.

“My lord! I shall ring up at once for Mr. Tibbs.”

Lord St. John brusquely waved aside the butler’s concern. “No, do not concern Tibbs just yet. I shall go up momentarily. First bring me a bottle of brandy in the sitting room.”

The butler hesitated. “My lord, there is a gentleman in the sitting room who has been waiting to see you. A Captain Hargrove.”

Lord St. John put up his brows. A stir of curiosity entered his indifferent eyes. “Indeed? I wonder what the good captain could possibly want of me?” Heedless of the water dripping from his garments onto the entry tiles, he strode down the hall to the sitting room and flung open the door.

Inside, the fire had burned down to red embers. On a settee a lanky gentleman was sprawled in sleep, his arms crossed over his chest, his long legs stretched before him toward the fire. A horrible strangling sound punctuated by a loud snore issued forth from his slack mouth.

Lord St. John regarded his somnolent visitor thoughtfully before turning to inquire of the butler, “Craighton?”

The butler coughed discreetly and said in a hushed voice, “Captain Hargrove was somewhat the worse for drink when he arrived, my lord. I suggested that perhaps he might wish to return at a more conventional time, but he insisted that he would wait upon your return.”

“And so he has,” said Lord St. John. He motioned the butler out of the room and followed, closing the door. “I am going upstairs to bed. Pray inform Captain Hargrove in the morning that I shall be glad to have him join me for breakfast.”

“Very good, my lord. Shall I bring up the brandy, my lord?”

Lord St. John, already in the act of mounting the stairs, paused with his hand on the balustrade. There was a rare smile lighting his eyes. “I think not, Craighton. Captain Hargrove has effectively persuaded me that the better course is to address my pillow sober. Otherwise I might wake myself with my own hideous snoring.”

The butler permitted himself a prim smile and wished the viscount good night.

Lord St. John slept soundly for the first time in several days. When he wakened, he lay still for a moment wondering why he should feel a hint of anticipation for the day. Then he recalled his unexpected visitor and swung himself out of bed, calling for his valet, Tibbs.

A short while later Lord St. John entered the breakfast room. He saw that Captain Hargrove was already before him. The gentleman’s coat was rumpled and his cravat bore the signs of having been unsuccessfully smoothed, while his hair stood up in unruly waves. The captain was morosely staring at a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, Hargrove. I trust that you slept well?” asked Lord St. John, crossing to the sideboard to make his selection.

Captain Hargrove, having glanced up quickly at the sound of his voice, grimaced. “Aye, as well as any man could stone-drunk on a sofa too short for the purpose.”

Lord St. John laughed as he filled his plate. “I apologize for my remiss hospitality. Perhaps I might make up for it with a decent repast.” He looked round with a hint of mockery in his eyes. “The kippers are particularly good, I think.”

Captain Hargrove gave a perceptible shudder. “Thank you, but no. I could not look a kipper in the face. I shall stick with coffee.”

Lord St. John took his plate to the table and seated himself. He started on his kippers with every appearance of appreciation, while Captain Hargrove, somewhat green about the mouth, watched him with revolted fascination.