Lady Pamela (29 page)

Lady Pamela’s daughters.

He awoke late that next morning, and wandered restlessly from room to room, eventually settling in his study, where the day’s first letters awaited his reply. The ever-present, unending London mail. The duke swept the envelopes from his desk with an angry movement. They fell to the floor in a small jumble, followed by his book of accounts, a trio of newly-sharpened pens, and–with a clatter–the ink pot.

The pot tipped, and ink spilled onto the carpet in a slowly widening blotch.

“Damn!” said the duke. Falling to his knees, he mopped futilely at the ink with his handkerchief.

“Milord?” Mrs. Throckmorton possessed an uncanny instinct for trouble, especially trouble involving dirt or stains of any kind. She opened the door to his study and peeked in.

“Oh, no, milord! Leave it be.”

He was smearing the ink and making matters worse. Benjamin sat back on his heels with a sigh.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Throckmorton,” he said. “I’ve left a mess, it seems.”

“Never you mind, milord. ’Twill be repaired straightaway.”

“Thank you–”

“Now, I’ve left a pot of tea just outside the door, an’ some scones. You’ve not eaten breakfast, nor your supper last night, and I’ll not have a hungry lordship in my house.”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Throckmorton. Thank you.” She closed the door and the duke chuckled despite himself. The Marchers’ household had rallied around its master since the debacle of the Lincolnshires’ ball, and Benjamin had been the subject of solicitous murmurs for days.

Even Josiah had kept check on his usual acerbity, mustering only an occasional ‘duke-o’ and once, to Benjamin’s amusement, attempting a bow.

A scratch on the door–

Mrs. Throckmorton had not trusted to the duke’s own sense, it seemed, for a footman now entered the study, bearing a porcelain teapot and a huge tray of scones. The scones were accompanied by a fragrant, still-warm baguette, and pots of butter, marmalade, and a variety of jams.

“Anything else, milord?” said the footman.

“No...” Benjamin’s mouth was watering. Perhaps he was hungry after all. He applied himself to Cook’s delicious repast, and shortly felt much better. He still found himself poor company, of course, but the food had energized his thoughts.

He had been too acquiescent in this situation
,
thought Benjamin, too enmeshed in his own part of it to see the whole. ’Twas nearly a week since the Lincolnshires’ ball. He had allowed others to set the stage, and even poor Lady Millicent had shown better sense than he in the question of their engagement.

Duty and honour; those he had focused on. Perhaps that was his mistake.

She sees that we would be unhappy.
It had taken the girl a single afternoon’s drive in Hyde Park to see it, and to insist something be done. He had told Lady Millicent he needed time to think matters through, but time would not help them of its own accord. A decision must be made quickly, in fact, as to how Lady Millicent’s circumstances might be improved. The girl was hostage to her father’s poor judgement, and the duke had only a short time to effect some assistance. Once their engagement was publicly broken, she would again be at the mercy of the earl.

Who would not hesitate, as the duke believed, to send her straight on to Lord Castlereaugh.

Benjamin needed some means to extract Milly once and for all from the Banbridge household, some place for her to live. But he had no idea as to how this might be arranged. What did one
do
with a young, high-caste female? A young gentleman could be sent on a tour of the continent, or up to Oxford, or even–as Benjamin was himself–to the new American states. But society offered little for Lady Millicent short of marriage, and employment was truly out of the question, whatever her fancies about becoming a governess.

Where could she be sent? The earl would not willingly relinquish his legal status as the girl’s guardian, or give up his hopes of using Millicent as an asset to be sold–

“Your grace?”

The duke’s man-of-affairs, Terence McDevitt, poked his head into the study.

“Ah, just the man I’ve been waiting to see,” said Benjamin, glad for the respite from his present thoughts, from obstacles he saw no way to circumvent. He had instructed McDevitt to find out what he could of Lord Chambers’s finances; perhaps the man had something to report. Money, and debts, and responsibilities–those were subjects a gentleman could understand. Benjamin would welcome a conversation that involved nothing of the finer emotions, most particularly love.

He was not disappointed.

“Lord Chambers is in Dun street everywhere,” began Mr. McDevitt, explaining that the earl owed money to a large number of the London merchants. “Some have cut him off, but news of the engagement will change all that.”

Even more reason, realized the duke, to act quickly. ’Twould be unfair to raise hopes in the storekeepers, to encourage them to extend the man’s credit.

“And there are two or three larger sums owing to banks,” added his man-of-affairs.

“With no plans for repayment? What about the family estate?”

“The Banbridge country home in Derbyshire is mortgaged and let,” said McDevitt. “The earl could never afford its upkeep, even if he convinced his creditors to forego the rents.”

“So the family must remain in town?”

“So it seems.”

“Pah,” said the duke.

“Still,” said Mr. McDevitt, “when one considers the–ah–assistance Lord Chambers has requested from your grace, the numbers don’t add up. His town creditors could be paid off with half the sum. He has yet some income from what remains of the countess’s dowry, and with the proper economies the earl should have been able to survive, albeit less grandly, on his own.”

“One would think.”

Benjamin dismissed the man with thanks, but remained in his study, a last scone in hand. Some piece of the picture was missing. The settlements he had offered to Lord Chambers three days ago–or was it four?–were enough to satisfy the earl’s obvious indebtedness, as McDevitt had just confirmed. But the man had insisted on more, and been so vehement on that point that the duke was inclined to think that his desperation was real.

Yes, something was missing, but Lord Torrance thought he knew just the person to suss out the remainder of the problem. He rang for Josiah.

* * * *

While the duke focused, gratefully, on matters of mere money, Lady Detweiler ventured a visit to the townhome of the Earl of Banbridge. Lady Millicent was pleased to have such a distinguished caller, although initially mystified as to Amanda’s purpose.

The duke? Yes, said Millicent, the Duke of Grentham was indeed her fiancé, the announcement had gone to the papers days ago–but she had seemed oddly hesitant on this point.

How marvelous, drawled Lady Detweiler.

Lady Millicent was far too young, and too honest, to be a match for Amanda’s skillful probing. The first cracks in Milly’s narrative appeared before the tea arrived, and an hour later, after many tears and even a bit of laughter, Lady Detweiler was possessed of the entire story.

Millicent had been in love with Lord Peabody, but she
hated
him now.

She didn’t hate the duke, whom she thought the most handsome man in London, but she would not marry him, either, as he loved Lady Pamela Sinclair.

Amanda’s eyebrows rose.

Milly’s father was a cold, uncaring man, and her mother seemed even less interested in the daughter’s life than the earl. Millicent had thought she respected them both, but now she could not be sure. Annabelle had said that the earl could be sent to prison for his debts. She did not want him imprisoned, of course–

“Hmm,” said Amanda.

–but she was convinced some way would be found around that difficulty. Earls were simply not thrown in jail.

And Lord Castlereaugh was a . . a
pig
.

Lady Detweiler was pleased, on the whole. Millicent was more intelligent and less spoiled than she had cause to hope, considering the chit’s upbringing and the crass behavior of her parents. She had even, somehow, managed a tolerable education. Millicent’s languages were exceptional, her Italian the equal of Lady Pamela’s French.

A gentleman would be lucky, thought Amanda, to win the young woman’s affections and her hand as a wife. Any gentleman but the duke.

As for the girl’s father–

Lady Detweiler did not bother to disabuse Millicent of her notions of English justice. ’Twas true, as the chit’s friend had said, that an earl should not be sent to debtor’s prison. But the rule was general, and its specific application might depend on other factors.

The enemies one had made, for example. If she was Lord Chambers, thought Amanda, she would not like to take the chance. Even short of prison, life could be exceedingly unpleasant for a nobleman whose credit had disappeared.

Pah. The earl could be drawn and quartered for all Amanda cared, but she did not want Millicent to believe it possible, nor to change her mind about marrying the duke. Something could be done about the earl’s criminal stupidity later.

“Why can’t women be allowed time?” was Lady Millicent’s final complaint. “Why must we move from our parents’ home to our husband’s, with never a moment of relief? We never get to go anywhere! We never get to see anything!”

Lady Detweiler had nodded in sympathy.

You are quite correct about the duke and Lady Pamela, she told the girl. Now, we need a plan.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Josiah had not taken long to discover the balance of the earl’s problem. He returned from a round of the local public houses late that same evening and went directly, albeit tipsily, to see the duke. He discovered Benjamin in the music room, sitting at the pianoforte, from which dreadful noises were emerging. Not unlike the bleating of a lamb caught in the jaws of a wolf, thought Josiah. Lord Torrance had recently purchased several books of instruction for the instrument and was spending hours in practice. Josiah assumed the attempt was to re-create Lady Pamela’s presence, but it was sadly futile, as the valet was now painfully aware.

He recalled with longing the previous weeks, when the duke’s fine lady would spend part of each afternoon at the piano, and play so beautifully that tears came to Josiah’s eyes. Took a bit of doing, that, to make an old salt cry.

The valet cringed at the sound of an especially unfortunate chord, and heard the duke’s muttered, “Blast!”

An appreciation for music did not, it seemed, give one the ability to play.

* * * *

“Any news of Lord Chambers?” asked the duke. He released the pianoforte from its torment and turned his attention to Josiah. Benjamin wasn’t sure what he expected to learn of the earl’s finances, nor how it might help in his present quandary. But–
Know thine enemy
, he thought, hoping that something the valet had discovered might suggest a course of action.

“Stupid man’s in hock up to his eyebrows,” said Josiah.

“Ah. Beyond what he owes to the banks?”

“Yup. Taken money from the street. An’ the street wants it back.”

Benjamin nodded. The moneylenders of London were ubiquitous, and much visited by members of the
ton
. Debts of honour were discharged before one paid the grocer, and if Lord Chambers had been dipping deep at the gaming table, the street was the usual recourse for the cash.

“So the man’s a gambler,” said the duke, his opinion of Lord Chambers sinking to a new low. Lady Millicent’s future mortgaged, Benjamin’s own happiness and the happiness of Lady Pamela at risk, all because one man could not exercise the smallest piece of self control.

“Seems like.”

“My apologies for the intrusion, your grace.” The voice was female, and unexpected. Benjamin and Josiah looked up to see Lady Detweiler standing at the library door, removing her shawl. “I let myself in, by the way. You’ve no butler as yet, Lord Torrance. Did you know?”

“Lady Detweiler...of course, do sit down,” said Benjamin, standing to offer her a chair. What was Amanda doing at Marchers, near to midnight?

“Oh, don’t bother,” said Amanda, waving him away. She had discovered the selection of decanters nestled discretely into one of the music room’s several niches and crossed immediately to that side of the room. “Hullo, Josiah,” she added, pouring herself a glass of the duke’s best port.

“Milady,” said the valet.

Lady Detweiler settled herself in the chair closest to the fire, and kicked off her shoes. Josiah’s eyes widened, and Benjamin saw him edging toward the door. The duke remembered, with amusement, a few of the run-ins between Amanda and the valet. Josiah was afraid of her.

“I take it that you have some questions about the Earl of Banbridge’s financial woes.”

How much had she heard of his conversation with the valet?

“Mmm,” began Benjamin.

“Are you attempting discretion?” asked Lady Detweiler. “ ’Tis a wasted effort. The earl had lost nearly the whole of his fortune before Millicent was born, and everyone knows it.”

“Good heavens.”

“Mr. Cleghorn,” said Lady Detweiler, nodding at Josiah. The valet had nearly acquired the door; he turned back, reddening. “I take it you have some news of Lord Chambers’s recent activities amongst the wolves?”

“Gave him ’til the new year,” said Josiah, not quite meeting her eye.

“And then?”

“Don’ care he’s an earl. Break his leg, mebbe.”

“How awful,” said Amanda, looking undismayed. “It would seem healthier for Lord Chambers to quit London. Why doesn’t he live in country, do you suppose?”

“The estate is let,” said Benjamin.

“Ah. Of course,” said Lady Detweiler. She tapped her fingers against the arm of the chair. “As it happens...” She trailed off, frowning. “I seem to recall hearing of another of the earl’s properties, a small lodge in Northumberland. Near Wooler.”

“Rented as well?” questioned the duke.

“I much doubt it. ’Tis quite home-spun, as I hear. And not a game of loo for miles.”

“I don’t see what good rusticating in Northumberland will do Lady Millicent,” said Benjamin.

“That,” said Amanda, “is what I’ve come to tell you. The girl will not be accompanying her parents. I’ve decided to take her on a grand tour.”