The Sweet Cheat
Yazar
Meg Alexander
Okur
18,7K
Bölüm
12
Chapter One
‘Georgie, you can’t mean it! You must come with me. How can I leave you here alone?’ Harry Westleigh gazed at his sister in dismay.
‘There is no time to argue, Hal. Lothmore’s chaise will be here at any minute. Now sit on this trunk whilst I finish packing for you.’ With flying fingers Georgiana continued her task. ‘You have money enough for the journey?’
‘Yes!’ Harry’s voice was muffled as he hid his face in his hands. ‘But I won’t abandon you to face…to face…’
‘Your creditors? It won’t be pleasant, I’ll grant you, but better that than visit you in a debtors’ prison. Here, you had best take this.’ She handed him a small leather bag chinking with coins. ‘You’ll not gamble it away before you reach Dover?’
Her bother raised an anguished face. ‘It will leave you penniless. I can’t… I won’t… Oh, my dear, I am so sorry…’
‘It’s too late for regrets!’ His sister’s voice was tart, but a glance at Harry’s averted profile caused her to continue in a kinder tone. ‘I’ll join you in France, Hal, but now the important thing is for you to get away.’ She glanced through the window. ‘Make haste! The chaise is just turning into the street. Quickly now! We cannot know when the first of the duns will be at the door.’
Harry cast a last look around the room.
‘I shan’t ever see this place again,’ he mourned. ‘If only there were more time. Had Swarby not made up his mind to ruin me at the club last night… He called me a swindler, you know.’
‘Do come along!’ Georgiana caught at his sleeve, tugging him towards the doorway in her impatience. ‘I’ll come to Dessein’s in Calais. Send me your direction as soon as you can.’
‘I’ll stay at Dessein’s too.’
‘You most certainly will not. Only think…if you are followed it is the obvious place to find you.’ She pushed him ahead of her towards the staircase, following until they reached the outer door to the street.
‘Wait! Let me go first. There may be someone watching even now.’ With anxious eyes she peered out into the darkness, but the only sound was that of the horses snorting and stamping on the cobblestones as the chaise drew to a halt.
‘All’s well!’ she whispered. ‘Now hurry! You’ll find our own coach waiting across the river!’ Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek, and closed the door upon his protestations. Then she sped upstairs and hurried over to the window. Long after the coach had disappeared she strained to see into the darkness, dreading the sound of pursuit, but all was silence.
At last, weak with relief, she sagged into a chair. The nervous energy which had sustained her for the past few hours had disappeared, leaving her feeling tired to death. Dully, she looked about her at a scene of chaos. Drawers lay on the floor, their contents spilling out; the bed was littered with shirts of the finest lawn, embroidered waistcoats, snowy linen stocks, handkerchiefs, and pale buckskins.
She lifted a hand to ring the bell. Then she remembered. She had dismissed the servants that very day.
She forced herself to rise to her feet. What she needed most of all was sleep. She hadn’t closed her eyes the previous night, and now she felt that any further action was beyond her. It was an effort to cross the landing to her own room, and a greater one to struggle out of her gown unaided and slip into her bedrobe.
She splashed cold water on to her hands and face, dried them, and then picked up her hairbrush. As she did so she caught sight of her face in the mirror. It didn’t seem possible that she could look so unchanged when her whole world had collapsed about her in less than twenty-four hours.
True, she looked tired, the milky whiteness of her skin accentuated by her fashionable crop of burnished copper curls. Against her pallor, huge green eyes glittered like an emerald sea darkened by cloud. Sick with exhaustion, she was close to tears as she threw down the brush and turned towards her bed.
Then she froze at the sound of thunderous knocking. The noise must surely rouse the neighbourhood, and she had no doubt of the likely profession of her late-night visitor. It would most certainly be a dun. Could she pretend that the house was empty? It wasn’t possible. Her candles were still alight and would be visible through the chink in the curtains.
Terror banished weariness as she retraced her steps to the front door. Somehow she must throw the man off Harry’s trail. She caught up a worn blue cloak hanging in the hall. One of the maids must have forgotten it. Having drawn the hood over her hair, she opened the door the merest fraction.
The thrust of a powerful shoulder sent it crashing wide before she could protest, and she jumped. The man before her was a sinister figure. Immensely tall, he filled the doorway, his bulk accentuated by a riding cloak with many capes. She could not see his face, as the lower part was hidden by his high collar, whilst the brim of his hat served to conceal his eyes.
Georgiana’s mind was racing. Even in the darkness she could see that this was no dun, but it did not matter. He was still her enemy, and Harry’s too. Who else would call at such an hour? Harry had canvassed all his friends for help the previous day, without success. It seemed unlikely that her visitor had come to offer succour. She must convince him that she knew nothing.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ She bobbed a curtsy.
‘I’m here to see your master, girl.’
Without further ceremony the man pushed past her into the hall. His bearing and the authoritative tone proclaimed him every inch the aristocrat, and she stepped back in dismay. Her own gentle breeding might have been of some service in handling a dun, but this was a different matter. The man was clearly in a thundering rage. All she could do was to play the part of the ignorant servant he imagined her to be.
‘Mr Westleigh is not yet returned, sir,’ Georgiana bobbed another curtsy. ‘Most likely you will find him at his club.’
A short, unpleasant laugh greeted this remark.
‘He is not at his club, not any other, I assure you. I propose to wait for him.’ The man shouldered past her without a by-your-leave, and slammed the door behind him.
‘You may bring me some wine,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll be in here.’ He threw open the nearest door and walked into the salon. ‘You had best light the candles.’
Georgiana picked up a flint, but she could not control her shaking fingers as she tried to strike it.
‘Here, let me! There’s no need to take fright. I mean you no harm.’ As he busied himself with the candles Georgiana slipped out of the room.
This was a pretty pass indeed. She could not hope to fool him for long, and she could guess his errand. He must be one of those members of the nobility whom Harry was said to have swindled. Hastily she grabbed a bottle of wine and a glass and placed them on a silver tray. With any luck he might drink deep and perhaps lost interest in an all-night vigil.
When she returned to the salon the man was lounging in a chair beside the dying embers of the fire, long legs stretched out in front of him as he tapped impatiently on a small drum-table. He eyed her without interest.
‘Do you always perform your duties in that strange attire?’ he questioned.
Georgiana started. She had forgotten the old cloak and the fact that the hood was drawn about her head.
‘Beg pardon, sir! I was in my bed when you arrived.’
‘You may retire.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Your master’s man shall attend me.’
Panic seized Georgiana. She had no wish to explain that she was alone in the house. In silence she set down the tray, turning away from him. She was unprepared for the shock when a lean brown hand shot out and gripped her by the wrist.
‘Sir, please let me go,’ she whined. ‘I’m only a poor serving wench.’
‘Are you indeed? With hands like those? Come, my dear, you can do better than that.’ In a single movement he was on his feet, thrusting back the hood of her cloak. A quick tug at the strings caused the garment to fall to the ground, and Georgiana stood before him in her bedrobe.
‘Wages must have increased since I was last in England,’ he observed smoothly as he fingered the filmy lawn. ‘This creation, if I am not much mistaken, is the work of a fashionable modiste, and has cost a fair number of golden guineas.’
He was rewarded with a glance of pure hatred from Georgiana’s jade-green eyes as she looked up at him for the first time. Scarlet with confusion, she was not reassured by what she saw.
Her tormentor was a man in his middle thirties, at a guess, and there was something deeply unnerving in the mocking curve of that wide and mobile mouth. He was heavily tanned, and the blue gaze which transfixed her spoke of arrogance, authority, and a total lack of pity. He was not a man of whom she would care to beg for mercy.
She had no intention of doing so. Still rosy with embarrassment, she bent to pick up the cloak.
‘Blushing? Great heavens! Is that a part of your stock-in-trade? You do well to cultivate it. It is a lost art among the ladies of the town. I must compliment Westleigh. Whatever his faults, he has taste in women.’
A careless glance swept her from head to toe. ‘The figure is voluptuous, and this charming garment does little to conceal it, especially when outlined against the light.’ He smiled again as he reached out to finger the neckline of her bedrobe.
Georgiana jumped as if she had been stung. It was true. Seen against the candlelight this garment left little to the imagination. With what dignity she could command she wrapped her cloak about her.
Her tormentor laughed.
‘A waste of time, my dear. You cannot conceal the hair. Ah, yes, the hair…’
To Georgiana’s utter fury he wound a flame-coloured strand around his fingers. ‘Quite exceptional…if a little outré. Is the colour your own, my dear?’
Georgiana raised a hand to strike him, but he was too quick for her. Her wrist was held so fast that she gasped with pain.
‘I should not consider it,’ he advised. ‘Now tell me, where is your paramour?’
Dropping all pretence, Georgiana faced him squarely.
‘My brother,’ she emphasised heavily, ‘is well beyond your reach. You may say what you have to say to me.’
The stranger stared at her. ‘He cannot have left you to face the music? I suppose it is only to be expected…’
‘How dare you speak of him so? You know nothing…of the circumstances.’
‘I fear I do. I have a younger brother myself. I was not overly pleased, to put it mildly, to return from the West Indies to find him in deep financial trouble, caused, I believe, by Westleigh.’
‘They are not the first to make unwise investments.’ Georgiana flew at once to her brother’s defence. ‘Cleverer men than they have come to grief…’
‘Through fraud?’
‘No, no! That cannot be! Harry would not…could not…’
‘How else would you describe a promise to provide annuities in return for a cash lump sum, and then be unable to honour the commitment?’
‘But he will… He must…’
‘My dear young lady, he cannot. The money is gone, I suspect, on supporting a lifestyle which neither he nor my brother can afford. It involved gambling, horses, and, if you’ll forgive me for mentioning such indelicate matters, the support of certain ladies of the town.’
‘I do not believe you,’ Georgiana said, wavering. ‘Harry could not have planned such a scheme. He is not clever enough.’
The words brought a look of contempt to her companion’s face.
‘He was clever enough to take the money and use it,’ came the biting reply. ‘now he must face the consequences.’
Georgiana paled to the lips, swaying where she stood.
‘Nay, you shall not pretend that you did not know.’ The man put out a hand to steady her, but she pulled away as if his touch would burn her. ‘Look about you, Miss Westleigh. You have lived to the hilt, it would appear, at the expense of others.’
Following his gaze, Georgiana stared at the charming little salon as if seeing it for the first time. The walls, painted in palest green, were a perfect foil for the soft colours of the Aubusson carpet. They threw into relief the graceful lines of her much prized furniture made of rosewood and mahogany by the hand of a master craftsman. A china cabinet in the corner held a collection of expensive bibelots and Sèvres porcelain.
As her eyes returned to her tormentor the small gold clock on the alabaster mantelshelf struck the hour of three.
‘It did not occur to you to question the cost of all this luxury, or to ask how your brother could afford it?’
‘Harry won large sums at White’s,’ she faltered.
‘And lost more. Now let us have done with this charade. You will kindly inform me of your brother’s whereabouts.’
Georgiana decided to play for time. ‘I do not know you, sir, and your manner towards me has given me no cause to trust you.’
‘Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Edward, Viscount Lyndhurst. I think you know my brother, Richard Thorpe.’
Georgiana’s eyes grew wide. At the discovery of her visitor’s identity she felt robbed of the power of speech.
Impatient now, the Viscount awaited her reply. Getting none, he seized her wrist again and his blue eyes hardened further.
‘You will tell me, madam, I assure you.’ The deep voice was soft, but it held more menace than if he had shouted aloud. It terrified her.
‘Let me go!’ she cried in panic. She knew of the Viscount’s reputation. According to his brother he was a ruthless tyrant who would stop at nothing to get his way. ‘A cold fish’, was the kindest description she had heard of him. Only during the Viscount’s absence in the Indies had Richard enjoyed a respite from his cruelty.
As she raised her eyes to Lyndhurst’s face she could believe his brother’s words. Perhaps it was some trick of the light upon those aquiline features, or only the result of her overwrought imagination, but as he bent towards her he reminded her of some great bird of prey closing in upon his kill.
‘You have heard of me, I see.’ He laughed again, and it was not a pleasant sound. He had read her mind as easily as if she had spoken her thoughts aloud.
Gathering all her courage, Georgiana faced him squarely. ‘Your treatment of your brother does you no credit. Your reputation has preceded you—but you shall not injure mine.’
‘Others will do that, Miss Westleigh.’ Lyndhurst glanced round the room again. ‘You know, of course, that all your assets will be sequestered by the sheriff?’
‘I…I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I mean that your home and its contents will be sold to pay your brother’s creditors. By this time next week you could be turned out of doors with no roof above your head. What will you do?’
Georgiana felt as if the blood in her veins had turned to ice. Her heart began to thump unpleasantly, and nausea threatened to overwhelm her. She had given Harry her last few guineas, believing that the sale of their home and its contents would raise enough money to provide them with funds for a year or two. Now, it appeared, she would be penniless, and without even the means to travel to France.
‘Doubtless it does not concern you,’ the mocking voice continued. ‘You are, perhaps, an heiress in your own right?’
The sarcasm cut Georgiana to the quick, but it had the opposite effect to that which the Viscount had intended. Her fear of him vanished. This time he had gone too far.
‘Do you dare to call yourself a gentleman?’ she enquired coolly. ‘If so, I hope not to meet another such. You are insulting, sir. I am no heiress, but if there are debts they shall be settled. I do not care about possessions.’
‘A praiseworthy sentiment, but foolhardy.’
The fierce eyes glared at her from beneath jutting brows. ‘You do not expect me to believe you?’
‘You think me a liar as well as a cheat?’
‘Add fool to that assessment of your character and we shall agree. There is not a woman alive who does not prize material goods above all else. I give you that information on good authority.’
‘You speak from experience, I suppose. Well, let us say, my lord, that in your own case material goods maybe all you have to offer. I have detected neither charm nor basic good manners.’
Lyndhurst’s face grew dark with anger. For a second Georgiana quailed, but she would not retract her words. Then, to her surprise, he began to speak in a more reasonable tone.
‘Quarrelling will serve no purpose, Miss Westleigh. Your worthy offer to settle your brother’s debts is unrealistic. You will not raise above a thousand pounds under the hammer…a mere bagatelle in view of the sums involved. This was not explained to you?’
‘N-no.’ Georgiana’s pallor had intensified.
A low curse escaped the Viscount’s lips, but he continued his remorseless inquisition.
‘You speak from ignorance when you disclaim all interest in possessions. Do you know what it is like to be a vagrant, cold and hungry?’
‘Do you?’ she flung back at him.
‘Thank God it has not been my lot, but I have seen enough of it. Enough to convince me of the need to be beforehand with the world.’
In spite of her dislike of him Georgiana was tempted to smile. That must be the understatement of all time. ‘As rich as Croesus,’ Richard had described his brother and as tight-fisted with his money as any shylock.
Lyndhurst began to pace the room.
‘I asked what you would do, and you did not answer me. Can you return to your family home?’
Her silence was so prolonged that he gave her a curious look.
‘Well?’
Long dark lashes veiled the green eyes, and Georgiana, to all appearances, was absorbed in studying the pattern on the carpet.
‘That would be impossible,’ she said at last. ‘My father… Well, Harry is disowned… I was angry and I followed him. It was so unfair, you see.’
The silence intensified.
‘I do see. The red hair does not lie, it would appear. Shall I add wilfulness to your other delightful qualities?’ Lyndhurst answered slowly. He walked over to her, reached out, and allowed a gleaming copper strand to slide through his fingers. ‘You are overly young to champion your brother’s cause, I fear.’
‘I am the elder,’ Georgiana said with dignity. ‘And pray, my lord, do not concern yourself with my affairs. I shall do very well without your advice.’
‘At twenty…or can you be twenty-one? I doubt it.’
‘My age can be of no possible interest to you, sir.’
Let him think what he liked. She would not give him the satisfaction of admitting that she was twenty-three.
He drew up a chair and sat down facing her.
‘Come, let me make amends,’ he said more gently. ‘You have my sincere apologies for mistaking your status in this house, and I admire your loyalty. God knows, it is a quality rare enough in women—or men, for that matter. But do consider… These present difficulties are not easily resolved. They are beyond you.’
His voice was almost kind, and Georgiana ventured a look at his downcast head. Sensing her regard, he raised his eyes to hers and smiled. Georgiana’s heart turned over. That smile transformed the harsh lines of his face. It lit up the room, warming her troubled soul and giving her the first crumbs of comfort she had known since Harry had told her the awful news of his ruin.
‘Will you not trust me?’ Lyndhurst continued. ‘We may yet save something from the wreckage.’
Georgiana blinked away her tears. She could be brave when faced with anger, but the offer of help threatened to destroy her composure.
‘I cannot help you,’ she murmured. ‘I have no resources. I can be of no use to you.’
‘Nonsense! You have information. That is a resource to which I cannot lay claim. Will you share it with me?’
‘I don’t know. I must have time to think.’
‘My dear, there is no time. You must see that. Now look at me! This may be your only chance to help your brother.’
A lean brown hand slid beneath her chin, tilting her face to his. Still irresolute, Georgiana looked deep into his eyes, and there she found the solution to the first, and most immediate, of her problems. The Viscount was clearly a man to whom the habit of command came easily. Nothing would be allowed to stand in his way, and with his help she would get to France.
‘I will tell you,’ she said at last. ‘But there are two conditions. First, you must give me your word that you will not call my brother out.’
‘That young puppy! What do you take me for? I might give him a whipping…’
‘Then you will understand my second condition. When you follow them you must take me with you.’
The Viscount was on his feet at once.
‘Impossible! I’ll not be saddled with a weeping wench…’
‘Thank you so much. Then I fear you must manage as best you may.’
‘I beg your pardon, Miss Westleigh. Your suggestion startled me into impropriety. But you must see that it is out of the question.’
‘Very well.’ Georgiana sat with folded hands. ‘You had best set about your enquiries, sir. You are wasting time.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you? There is no time.’ His voice was heavy with exasperation. ‘Good God. Miss Westleigh, you can have no idea of the scandal caused by their hare-brained schemes. Are we to add to it?’
‘You cannot be thinking of my reputation. A wilful, lying cheat can have no worries on that score.’
His look was inimical. ‘Madam, I am thinking of my own. I have had one such experience. I would not willingly risk another.’
‘Then there is no more to be said. I bid you goodnight, my lord.’
The Viscount glared at her.
‘Blackmail, Miss Westleigh? I wonder why it should come as a surprise? You and your brother must deal famously together. The sooner my brother is removed from his influence, the easier I shall sleep at night.’
‘Then you agree?’
‘Have your way.’ Lyndhurst turned away. ‘You had best call your maid.’
‘I have no maid.’ Georgiana did not look at him. ‘The servants were dismissed today.’ She was fully prepared for the explosion of wrath which followed.
‘Then how in heaven’s name are you to travel? As my light-o’-love?’
‘I am sure that no one would suspect you of such frivolous behaviour,’ Georgiana taunted. She owed him that for his previous rudeness, and was pleased to notice the tightening of his lips. She gave him no time to reply. ‘I had considered a more decorous role as your sister, or, perhaps, as your ward.’
‘God forbid!’ he said with feeling. ‘In any case, no female relative of mine would travel without an abigail.’
‘Then your tiger? My hair is short enough, in the style of Lady Caroline Lamb, and I am quite small.’
She had intended to shock him and she succeeded. He rounded on her with a look that boded ill.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ he asked in icy tones. ‘Does your folly know no bounds? You would dare to set forth in breeches, madam? You shall not do so in my company.’
Georgiana’s lips twitched, and he responded with a haughty look.
‘I see. Is this some misplaced attempt to gammon me?’
‘I should not dare, my lord.’ Georgiana was at her most demure. ‘I am in no joking mood, and did you not say yourself that time was of the essence?’ She moved towards the door. ‘I shall not keep you above a moment.’
‘Stay!’ For once he seemed nonplussed. ‘No breeches, Miss Westleigh, I beg of you. You may travel as my ward.’
‘That would seem to be the most appropriate solution, sir.’
His look was full of suspicion, and Georgiana was tempted to giggle. Perhaps he thought she was referring to age, or to his antiquated ideas. If so, she was glad of it. She had suffered enough from his barbed remarks.
What a prude he was! Stiff-backed, stiff-necked, and quite without the saving grace of humour. The journey ahead of her promised to be a trial in his company, but she would suffer it to reach Calais.
As she threw clothing into a bag her thoughts were sombre. Everything had happened so fast. Was it really less than forty-eight hours since Harry had returned ashen-faced to tell her that he was ruined?
Desperate, he had spent the previous day trying to raise funds, but all to no avail. She herself had pocketed her pride and applied to her own friends. They had given what they could, but the sums involved were too great. A fifty-guinea loan here and there went no way at all towards rescuing him from the consequences of his own folly, but she had taken the money with gratitude in order to help him.
She buried her face in her hands. She had intended to repay the money when the house was sold, but now she too would be labelled as a cheat. She rocked to and fro in an agony of mind. The future did not bear thinking of.
She jumped as the door flew open.
‘This is no time for a fit of the vapours, Miss Westleigh.’ The Viscount’s voice was brisk. ‘Make haste! We are wasting time.’ He seized her bag and started down the stairs. ‘Give me our destination. I must instruct my coachman.’
‘I shall not tell you.’ Georgiana gave him a defiant look. ‘If you know it you will abandon me.’
Lyndhurst stared at her for a long moment.
‘This may come as a surprise to you, but once I have given my word I keep it. Unlike your brother’s assurances, you may rely upon that.’ Without more ado he bundled her into the waiting coach.
‘Well? I am waiting…’ He sat back with an expression of saintly patience.
‘We…we should make for the coast.’
‘The coastline of England is extensive, Miss Westleigh. Shall we start in Cornwall and work our way around to the Scottish border?’
‘Tell your man to make for Dover.’ To discourage further conversation Georgiana drew her cloak about her and settled into the corner seat.
‘So it is to be France?’ her companion mused. ‘And not a moment too soon, by the look of matters.’
‘What do you mean?’ Georgiana abandoned all pretence and sat bolt upright.
‘Look there!’ Lyndhurst drew aside the leather curtain at the window and nodded towards the corner of the street. Georgiana saw a group of men, dimly visible in the first pale light of dawn, making towards her door.
‘So soon?’ she breathed. ‘Oh, please let us go.’
She did not look back, but as the coach rumbled away over the cobblestones she heard shouts and the sound of knocking.
‘They will soon force the door,’ the Viscount observed. ‘I warned you, did I not? Now be good enough to tell me how the conspirators intended to travel.’
‘I will tell you nothing if you persist in referring to my brother as if he were a criminal.’
‘Fraud is a criminal offence, my dear. But if the term offends you I will rephrase my question. How do our unfortunate relatives intend to get away?’
‘Lord Lothmore sent his chaise for Harry. He was to take it across the river, and there change into our own coach for the journey to Dover.’
‘Doubtless collecting Richard on the way. Damn Lothmore! When I spoke to him last evening he disclaimed all knowledge of Westleigh’s whereabouts.’
‘Perhaps he values loyalty,’ Georgiana said stiffly.
‘A quality which is sometimes sadly misplaced, Miss Westleigh.’ His brow creased in thought. ‘They will be forced to stop for a change of horses. We’ll enquire at the post-houses.’
Tapping his gold-topped clouded cane against the roof, he brought the coach to a halt. A brief conference with his coachman ended with an injunction to ‘Spring ’em!’, and the horses gathered speed.
