Mutual Consent (26 page)

The carriage’s iron wheels clattered over the cobbles and the raucous sounds of London intruded clearly through the closed windows, but Babs was not attending. All of her being was concentrated on the purpose that had brought her into that part of London.

The hackney stopped. The moment was upon her and she felt her courage slip at the thought of what she intended to do. Barbara picked up her reticule and got out of the carriage. She handed up the fare to the driver.

Unable to delay any longer, the countess turned and walked up the front steps of her father’s villa. She rang the bell and the door opened. The porter ushered her inside with a murmured greeting. The door was shut firmly—almost, to Babs’ ears, with a sound of finality.

“Good morning. Is my father in?” asked Babs. She was amazed at how cool and matter-of-fact she sounded.

“No, mum. The master be at his place in the City,” said the porter.

“I see.” It was what Babs had hoped and counted upon. She had been prepared to seek an audience with her father, her excuse to have been that she had come to make a plea for the Earl of Chatworth. She stood as though reflecting, before she smiled again at the porter. “Perhaps I could leave a note, then? I know my way to the study.”

The porter bowed. He did not follow her down the hall to the study, which Babs was glad of. She was nervous; every fiber of her being was taut with an awful suspense.

She went into the study and quietly shut the door. Still with her hand on the brass knob, she turned and contemplated her father’s private sanctum. The most notable feature of the room was the massive desk that occupied the space between the ceiling-high windows. There were few bookcases or any other major pieces of furniture, except for a table pushed against the papered wall that held several wine decanters and glasses.

A large fireplace dominated the room opposite the desk. There was a good fire laid in the hearth and Babs was glad for its cheery yellow glow. But even with the reflected heat of the flames, she could not seem to shake the cold trembling of her limbs.

When Babs had decided upon her desperate course of action, she had not had the slightest notion where her father may have put what she wanted. But the desk drew her attention. Its sheer weight and size proclaimed it an important part of her father’s conception of himself. Surely anything as important as the Earl of Chatworth’s gambling vowels would be secreted inside one of its several drawers.

Babs tentatively tried one of the drawers. It slid open with smooth efficiency. She let out her pent-up breath. Casting a swift glance toward the closed door, she began to go through the drawer. She sifted through the papers, nervously and with swift-beating heart. She felt as though the clock ticking on the mantel had become extraordinarily loud in a silence that was broken only by her own shortened breaths and the rustling of the drawer’s contents.

The vowels were not in the drawer. She shoved the drawer shut and jerked open the next, and the next.

Babs could have wept with vexation. Her hands were shaking in earnest now. She could scarcely grasp the sheets of business correspondence and other ordinary items that kept appearing in drawer after drawer.

But at last her search was rewarded. Tucked away in a battered box, as though to give the impression that the contents were not very valuable, were those papers that she had dared to come find.

Babs gave a sob of relief and closed the box. Hastily she shut the drawer, very aware of how swiftly the time had passed while she had been at her task. She started to put the small box into her reticule.

She looked quickly at the clock on the mantel. It showed that a scarce twenty minutes had passed since she had entered the study. The porter must have begun to wonder at the length of her supposed note, but Babs did not care. She knew that her father, a man of set habits when it came to the timing of his luncheon, was not due back to the villa for another half-hour. If she did not allow her courage to fail her, she might yet leave the villa and without the incriminating evidence on her person. Then, if she should by some ill chance run into her father, she could in all conscience say that she had come to plead with him on the Earl of Chatworth’s behalf. Given her father’s character, she knew how that admission would both please and amuse him. He would refuse her, naturally, and set her on her way with a mocking taunt. And she would be grateful to escape so lightly.

Babs opened the box. The sheer number of the slips astounded her. There must be scores of the vowels, all marked with the firm sweeping initials characteristic of her husband’s hand. It was beyond her how a gentleman could so carelessly play at cards, but she had come to know in her short time in the London salons that such staggering debts were not uncommon among the
ton
of either sex. Deep play was the rule of the day, and none but the timid caviled at the stakes.

At least the Earl of Chatworth did not dip so badly these days, thought Babs. Her hand froze in the act of lifting a handful of the vowels. But she did not actually know that, she realized. She had only assumed it to be true because she rarely saw her husband at the card tables that were a common alternative entertainment to dancing at the functions they had attended. She had no way of knowing whether the earl frequented the lurid gaming hells that she had heard about, nor whether he indulged in the dice at his clubs.

Babs swallowed, suddenly sickened. She could very well be indulging in an exercise in futility if her husband was continuing to paper the town with his gaming debts. Her father would think nothing of collecting the new and adding them to those he had originally used for blackmail. With revulsion, she threw the handful of vowels into the fire. The flames greedily lit upon the slips, which flared briefly before turning to blackened ash. She started to throw the next handful of vowels into the flames.

The study door burst open. Babs whirled, the vowels scattering from her nerveless fingers. Her heart pounded in sudden awful fear.

Cribbage stood in the doorway, his hand still tight on the knob. His hard eyes slid from his daughter’s whitened face to the incriminating battered box which she had not attempted to conceal. She faced him like a cornered cat, at once defiant and frightened. Scattered about the hem of her skirt on the carpet was further evidence of her treachery. He slowly looked up and with the sheer force of his will captured her green gaze. Without a word, he closed the door softly behind him.

Lord Chatworth was disconcerted when upon his return for luncheon he was waylaid in the entry hall by his wife’s maid.

The woman’s eyes lit with relief at sight of his tall figure. “My lord! Oh, how glad I am that you have come!”

The earl threw a questioning look at his butler. Simmers gave the barest of shrugs and Lord Chatworth sighed. He gave his beaver into the waiting hands of the butler and proceeded to strip off his gloves. “Yes, Lucy? I presume that you have a particular reason for expressing yourself with such ecstasy at my appearance.”

His lordship’s sarcasm went awry of the mark. Far from deflating the servantwoman’s strange manners, it seemed to encourage her to speak more freely. “My lord, I have been beside myself. It is my lady—”

At last Lord Chatworth’s attention was firmly attached. “Lady Chatworth? Where is she?”

“That is just it, my lord,” said Lucy, grateful that his lordship seemed to follow her so quickly. “My lady made an odd comment yesterday evening before I left her about making a visit to her father. Knowing what I do, I thought she was having a little joke. But this morning she went out without a word to anyone. And she has not been seen since.”

“That is true, my lord,” Smithers said, ponderously. “Though I did not witness her ladyship’s departure myself, I am told that Lady Chatworth left sometime after breakfast. I only mention it as odd, because her ladyship requested that the footman procure a common hackney for her.”

“My God,” said Lord Chatworth. He had no reason to believe that the maid’s fears were justified, but instinctively he knew that what the woman feared was true. He was as certain as he breathed that Babs had gone to her father’s villa, and he thought he could guess the reason behind her uncharacteristic start.

He rounded on the butler and gave swift orders to have his phaeton brought around immediately to the front. Without waiting for acknowledgment, he leapt the stairs three at a time.

Lord Chatworth returned downstairs in the space of ten minutes. He had changed swiftly from morning coat and town trousers to driving coat and buckskins. His expression was black and grim. He nodded at the intelligence conveyed by Smithers that his phaeton stood ready at the curb.

Lord Chatworth jumped up into the waiting carriage. He nodded curtly for the groom to let go of the leader’s halter. With hardly a glance, he put the phaeton into the heavy traffic and set off at as smart a pace as the congested streets allowed.

Lord Chatworth curbed his impatience with difficulty but once succumbed to swearing furiously at a vehicle driven by a rather inept whipster. With a show of consummate ease, he whipped his horses and passed the offending carriage at a distance that left the other driver gaping in admiration.

Once free of the thoroughfares. Lord Chatworth sent his horses along at a greater pace. His face was carven in deep lines and his eyes were hard. The reins between his fingers slipped evenly and smoothly as he controlled his team. But his thoughts were not on his driving.

He was recalling the night that he had burst in upon his wife, determined in his drunken fury to bed her, only to be stopped cold by the appalling sight of the welts that crisscrossed her slender back. Her father had beaten her merely because the wedding would take place at an earlier date than he had anticipated. What would Cribbage not do if he discovered his daughter in his house and plotting against his interests?

Lord Chatworth was physically sickened by the thought. He whipped up his horses again, thrusting them forward at a dangerous speed for even these outskirts of the metropolis.

When Cribbage’s villa appeared, Lord Chatworth yanked his team down with a savagery unusual for one who was normally considerate of his animals. He pulled up to the curb, snubbed the reins, and leapt down from the seat. A young boy was loitering close by. Without breaking stride, Lord Chatworth tossed a large coin to him. “Walk them, and there will be a crown in it for you,” he snapped.

“Aye, guv’nor!” The boy joyfully took hold of the leader’s halter and began his appointed task.

Lord Chatworth ran up the steps to Cribbage’s villa. He did not wait to ring the bell, but twisted the handle and thrust open the door. Ignoring the porter’s bleated protest, he took hold of the servant by the front of his coat. “My wife, where is she?” he inquired savagely.

The porter gobbled with fright. He pointed a shaking finger in the direction of a closed door down the hall. “There, m’lord. But the master is not wanting to be disturbed. My lord!”

Lord Chatworth was unheeding as he raced down the hall. He kicked open the door. It slammed back against the wall, allowing him an unimpeded view of the occupants in the room. Babs clutched the mantel for support, her face averted, her bonnet dangling by its ribbons down her back. His father-in-law stood over her, his heavy legs apart, his fist half-raised.

“Cribbage!”

The man turned, surprisingly swift for one of his bulk. His enraged face further blackened. “You have no business here, sirrah. Get out!”

“On the contrary.” The earl’s voice was deadly in its cold steel. He had plunged his hand into his coat pocket and now raised a quite serviceable dueling pistol. “I have come for my wife.”

“Your wife!” Cribbage barked a laugh. “Your whore, more like! For that is all she is to you, is it not, my lord? A bought woman and hardly a match for your pretty lady mistress. Oh, yes, I know of her ladyship and her trysts with you, my lord. Such hypocrites, you quality!”

Lord Chatworth’s expression had grown very still, but his voice was gentle when he spoke to the woman who had straightened to stiff attention. “Babs, come here.”

She cast one swift sideways glance at her father before she edged carefully past him. Then she ran to Lord Chatworth. He put his arm about her rigid shoulders and tightened his hold when he felt her violent trembling.

Lord Chatworth glanced down at her face, then swung his cold eyes to his father-in-law. “I should kill you where you stand, you blackguard,” he said softly.

Cribbage threw out his arms. “Then do so, my lord.” His voice was mockery itself. “Or do you lack the courage, as do so many of your ilk?”

Lord Chatworth felt his wife’s fingers clutch at his lapel and he felt more than heard her breathless protest. The pistol did not waver in his hand.

The earl smiled, that peculiar arrogant smile. “It would give me great pleasure to blow a hole through you, Cribbage. But do you know, I suspect that the greater pleasure will be to bring you crashing to your ruin. That will exact the more satisfying revenge.”

“Words, my lord, mere words. Now hear me, sirrah! Your whore failed in destroying the debts I hold over you. You shall pay for her betrayal and your own temerity in coming here. I demand payment upon the stroke of noon tomorrow, my lord.”

Cribbage was breathing heavily. His fists flexed. “Do you hear, my lord? Payment in full!” The last was an enraged bellow as Lord Chatworth and his wife walked swiftly down the hall, past the gaping porter, and out the door.

Lord Chatworth handed Babs up into the phaeton and then bounded beside her. He tossed the street urchin a second crown. Without a backward glance, he struck up the team and clattered away.

Barbara sat stiffly beside the earl. Her head was in a whirl. She did not know what he was thinking. She cast a glance up at his stern profile, but his expression was so forbidding that she had not the courage to address him. She did not know how she could explain her actions or even to ask him how he had known where she had gone. However, that in a way mattered less than the fact that he had come after her.