Regency Buck (15 page)

Mr. Brummell, who had come over to observe the game, lifted an eyebrow, but said nothing. The hour was considerably advanced, and the table broke up before the bank changed hands. Mr. Brummell took the Earl away with him in search of iced champagne, and murmured: “Must he play at your table, Julian? Really, you know, it does not look well.”

“Young fool,” said the Earl, unemotionally.

“Just a little out of place,” said Brummell, taking a glass from the tray a waiter was presenting to him.

The Duke of Bedford came up at that moment with Lord Frederick Bentinck and Mr. Skeffington, forming the nucleus of the circle that very soon gathered round Mr. Brummell, and nothing more was said of Peregrine and his losses. The Duke, who was a great personal friend of the Beau, wanted his opinion on a matter of some importance. “Now George, tell me!” he said earnestly. “I have changed my tailor, you know, and this is the coat my new man has made for me. What do you say? Will it answer? Do you like the cut of it?”

Mr. Brummell continued to sip his champagne, but over the rim of his glass he gazed thoughtfully at his grace, while the circle about him waited in interested silence for his verdict. The Duke stood anxiously showing himself off. Mr. Brummell’s eyes dwelled for an appreciable time upon the coat’s very bright gilt buttons; he gave a faint sigh and the Duke blenched.

“It sets well; I like the long tails,” said Lord Frederick. “Who made it, Duke? Nugee?”

“Turn round,” said Mr. Brummell.

The Duke pivoted obediently, and stood craning his head over his shoulder to see what effect this aspect of the garment produced on the Beau. Mr. Brummell examined him from head to foot, and walked slowly round him. He studied the length of the tails, and pursed his lips; he observed the cut across the shoulders, and raised his brows. Lastly, he took one of the lapels between his finger and thumb, and carefully felt it. “Bedford,” he said earnestly, “
do
you call this thing a coat?”

The Duke, with a ludicrous expression, half of dismay, half of amusement, on his face, interrupted the laughter of the circle. “No, really, George, that’s too bad of you! Upon my word, I have a good mind to call you out for it!”

“You may call me, Bedford, but there it will end, I warn you,” replied Brummell. “I haven’t the least intention of putting a period to my existence in such a hideous way as that.”

“Did you ever fight a duel, Brummell?” inquired Mr. Montagu, astride a cabriole chair.

“Thank God, no!” said the Beau, with a shudder. “But I once had an affair at Chalk Farm, and a dreadful state I was in: never in my life shall I forget the horrors of the previous night!”

“Any sleep, George?” asked Worth, smiling.

“None, not a wink. It was out of the question. Dawn was to me the harbinger of Death, and yet I almost hailed it with pleasure. But my second’s step on the stair soon spoiled
that
feeling, for what must he do but carefully explain all the horrid details to me, thus annihilating the little—the very little—courage that had survived the anxieties of the night! We left the house, and no accident, no fortunate upset occurred on our way to the rendezvous, where we arrived, according to my idea, much too soon, a quarter of an hour before the time named.” He paused, closing his eyes as though overcome by the recollection.

“Go on, George: what happened?” demanded the Duke, highly entertained.

Mr. Brummell opened his eyes again, and fortified himself with champagne. “Well, Bedford, there was no one on the ground, and each minute seemed an age as in terror and semi-suffocation I awaited my opponent’s approach. At length the clock of the neighbouring church announced that the hour had come. We now looked in the direction of town, but there was no appearance of my antagonist. My military friend kindly hinted that clocks and watches varied, a fact I was well aware of, and which I thought he might have spared me the pleasure of hearing him remark upon: but a second is always such a ‘damned good-natured friend’! The next quarter of an hour passed in awful silence. Still no one appeared, not even on the horizon. My friend whistled, and, confound him! looked much disappointed. The half-hour struck—still no one; the third quarter; at last the hour. My Centurion of the Coldstream now came up, this time in
truth
my friend and said to me, and I can tell you they were the sweetest accents that ever fell on my ear: ‘Well, George, I think we may go.’ You may imagine my relief!—‘My dear fellow,’ I replied, ‘you have taken a load off my mind: let us go
immediately
!”

The shout of laughter that greeted this climax brought several other people over to the group, Peregrine amongst them, who arrived in time to hear his guardian say: “Had your bloodthirsty opponent met with the accident that did
not
befall you, George, or was his second less determined than yours?”

“I am inclined to believe,” replied the Beau gravely, “that he realized in time the social solecism he had committed in calling me out at all.”

Peregrine worked his way through the knot of persons to Worth’s side, and touched his sleeve. The Earl turned his head, frowning a little. “Well, Peregrine, what is it?”

“I thought you had gone,” said Peregrine in a low voice. “I must have a word with you; you know that is what I came for.”

“My good boy, you cannot be private with me at Watier’s, if that is what you want. You may come and see me at my house to-morrow morning.”

“Yes, but will you be there?” objected Peregrine. “I have been to your house three times already, and you are never at home. Could I not walk back with you now?”

“You may call at my house to-morrow,” repeated the Earl wearily. “In the meantime you are interrupting Mr. Brummell.”

Peregrine blushed, begged pardon, and withdrew in some haste just as Lord Alvanley came up. Lord Alvanley’s chubby face wore a look of concern. He laid his hand on Worth’s shoulder. “Julian, I am such a stupid fellow! do pray forgive me! But, do you know, you were so curt with the boy, and he looked so uncomfortable, that I had to ask him to join us.”

“If only you would not be kind-hearted!” said the Earl. “I had snubbed him quite successfully when you intervened.”

“Oh well, of course, he should not have broken in on the table as he did,” admitted Alvanley. “But he’s very young, after all, and quite a nice boy, from what I have seen.”

“Quite,” said Worth. “He will be still nicer when he has been snubbed a few more tunes. George, you might attend to it.”

Mr. Brummell shook his head. “My dear Worth, you really cannot expect me to do any more for your ward. Why, I once gave him my arm all the way here from White’s!”

“Ah, perhaps that may account for his presumption,” said Worth. “You had better have given him one of your cuts.”

“But I thought you wanted me to do what I could to bring him into fashion,” said the Beau plaintively.

Whether from a natural impatience, or from a fear of once more missing his guardian, Peregrine was in Cavendish Square by half-past ten next morning, only to be informed that his lordship was dressing. He had nothing to do, therefore, but to kick his heels in the saloon for half an hour, skim through the newspaper, and silently rehearse all he meant presently to say.

At eleven o’clock the footman came back, and informed him that his lordship would receive him. He followed the man up the broad stairway, and was ushered into the Earl’s bedroom. This was a large apartment with a canopy bed occupying the whole of one wall. It was an extremely fine piece, supported by two bronze gryphons, and with crimson silk hangings caught up by a pair of smaller gryphons on pedestals. A fifth gryphon surmounted the canopy with its wings spread ready for flight, and all the hangings depending apparently from its claws. Peregrine was so much struck by the splendour of this edifice that for some moments he could only stand and gaze at it.

The Earl, who was seated before a mahogany dressing-table with the drawer pulled out and the top pushed back to disclose a central mirror, cast him a fleeting glance, and went on attending to his toilet.

Peregrine, having taken in the bed in all its details, looked round for his guardian, and, perceiving him, blinked a little at the elegance of the brocade dressing-gown he was wearing, and wished that he could achieve the exquisite disorder of his lordship’s black locks. These were brushed into a style which Peregrine at once recognized as being
au coup de vent
.
He himself had wasted half an hour in trying to arrange his own yellow curls in the same manner, and had had to be content in the end with a cherubim style.

“Good morning, Peregrine. You choose a very early hour for your calls,” said the Earl, “You need not wait, Foster. Stay, hand me the packet you will find on the table. Thank you; you may go.”

The valet put a chair forward for Peregrine, and went away. Peregrine sat down, looking rather uneasily at the papers the man had fetched for the Earl. He had not the least difficulty in recognizing them, and blurted out: “Those are my I O Us, are they not?”

“Yes,” said the Earl. “Those are your I O Us. Shall we settle before we go any further?”

Peregrine fixed his eyes anxiously on that calm profile, and moistened his lips. “Why—why, the fact of the matter is—I don’t think I can,” he confessed. “I’m not perfectly certain how much I lost last night, but—”

“Oh, not much above four thousand, I fancy,” said the Earl.

“Not much above—Oh! Well—well, that is not such a vast sum after all, is it?” said Peregrine valiantly.

“That,” said the Earl, taking a slender knife from the open drawer, and beginning to pare his nails with it, “depends very largely on the size of your fortune.”

“Yes,” agreed Peregrine. “Very true. I—I have a considerable fortune, haven’t I?”

“At the moment,” replied Worth, “you have what I should rather call an independence.”

“You mean I have what you allow me,” said Peregrine in a dissatisfied voice.

“I am glad to find that you realize that,” said Worth. “I was beginning to be afraid that you did not.”

“Of course I do. But the money’s there, ain’t it? It’s only a matter of advancing me some of it.”

The Earl laid the knife down, and dipped his hands in a bowl of water, placed at his elbow. Having rinsed them he began to dry them carefully on a fine napkin. “But I have not the least intention of advancing you any of it,” he said.

Peregrine stiffened. “What do you mean?” he asked.

The Earl raised his eyes for a moment, and coldly looked his ward over. “Between you, you and your sister credit me with an obscurity of meaning which I am unaware of having done anything to deserve. It really doesn’t amuse me. I mean precisely what I say.”

“But you can’t refuse to let me have money to pay my debts of honour!” said Peregrine indignantly.

“Can’t I?” said the Earl. “I was under the impression that I could.”

“Damme, I never heard of such a thing! I must pay my debts!”

“Naturally,” agreed the Earl.

“Well, how the devil can I if you won’t loosen the purse-strings?” demanded Peregrine, “You must know my pockets are pretty well to let till next quarter!”

“I didn’t know it, but I don’t find it very hard to believe. You have all my sympathy.”

“Sympathy! What’s the use of that to me?” cried Peregrine, a good deal injured.

“I’m afraid it isn’t of any use to you at all,” said Worth. “We are wandering a little from the point, are we not? You owe me something over four thousand pounds—if you look over those I O Us you may find out the exact sum for yourself—and I am anxious to know when you propose to pay me.”

“You are my guardian!” said Peregrine hotly. “You have control of all my fortune!”

The Earl lifted one well-manicured hand. “Oh no, Peregrine! You must leave me as your guardian quite out of this discussion, if you please. As your guardian I have already intimated that I have no intention of assisting you to game your fortune away. As your creditor I am merely desirous of knowing when it will suit your convenience to redeem these notes.”

By this time Peregrine was feeling very limp, but he kept his chin up, and said in as even a voice as he could manage: “In that case, sir, I shall have to ask you to have the goodness to wait until next quarter-day, when I shall be able to pay you—not all, but a large part of the sum I owe you.”

The Earl once more looked him over in a way that made the unfortunate Peregrine feel very small, and hot, and uncomfortable. “Perhaps I should have told you—in the character of your guardian—that it is customary to settle your debts of honour at once,” he said gently.

Peregrine flushed, gripped his hands together on his knee, and muttered: “I know.”

“Otherwise,” said the Earl, delicately adjusting one of the folds of his cravat, “you may find yourself obliged to resign from your clubs.”

Peregrine got up suddenly. “You shall have the money by to-morrow morning, Lord Worth,” he said, his voice trembling. “Had I known—had I guessed the attitude you would choose to assume I should have arranged the payment before ever I called on you.”

“Let me make one thing quite plain to you—I am speaking once more as your guardian, Peregrine.—If I find at any time during the next two years that you have visited my friends Howard and Gibbs, or, in fact, any other moneylender, you will return to Yorkshire until you come of age.”

Very white about the mouth, Peregrine stared down at the Earl, and said rather numbly: “What am I to do? What can I do?”

The Earl pointed to the chair. “Sit down.”

Peregrine obeyed, and sat with his eyes fixed anxiously on his guardian’s face.

“Do you quite understand that I mean what I have said? I will neither advance you money for your gaming debts, nor permit you to go to the Jews.”

“Yes, I understand,” said poor Peregrine, wondering what was to become of him.

“Very well then,” said Worth, and picked up the little sheaf of papers, tore them once across, and dropped them into a wastepaper-basket under the dressing-table.

Peregrine’s first emotion at this unexpected action was one of staggering relief. He gave a gasp, and his colour came flooding back. Then he got up quickly, and thrust his hand into the basket. “No!” he said jerkily. “I don’t play and not pay, sir! If you will neither advance me the money nor permit me to obtain it in my own way, keep my notes till I come of age, if you please!”