Knave's Wager

Julian Vincent Wyndhurst St. Maur, Baron St. Maur, Viscount Benthame, Earl of Stryte, Marquess of Brandon, was a trifle tetchy this afternoon. He was affronted by the behaviour of the chill he’d contracted en route to Ostend. He had given it the cut direct. The ailment, instead of humbly taking itself off, had only fastened itself more firmly— and had apparently gathered equally boorish associates.

Though Lord Brandon was not so weak and ill as he had feigned for Mrs. Davenant’s benefit, he was scarcely well. At the moment, he wished he had remained in bed. His inconsiderate cousin might have respected his peace then, instead of pacing agitatedly upon the thick Axminster carpet in a manner viciously calculated to bring on mal de mer.

“Do me the kindness, George, to sit down,” Lord Brandon said at last. “That constant to and fro raises the very devil with my innards.”

Lord Belbridge promptly flopped down upon the sofa by his cousin’s feet. George was a rather stout fellow. The jolt of his heavy frame on the sofa cushions set off a wave of nausea.

“Damn,’’ said Lord Brandon with a grimace.

“Sorry, Julian. Keep forgettn’ you’re ailin’. But I’m half out of my wits, what with Mother at me the livelong day—or goin’ off in hysterics when she ain’t. Even Ellen’s overset—though it’s the children she worries for, and how they’re to hold up their heads—”

“Being attached in the customary way to their necks, I expect their heads will contrive to keep from tumbling off. Really, George, one would think no man had ever kept a mistress before.”

“If he were only keeping’ her, what should any of us care? But he’s been livin’ with her—near two years now.”

“Of course Robert is living with her. You keep him on a short allowance. He cannot afford two sets of lodgings, now, can he?”

George’s jaw set obstinately. “Well, I ain’t goin’ to give him any more. He spends every farthing on her.”

“I see. You would prefer your brother spent his vast sums upon drink or hazard, I suppose. Come, George, you are a man of the world. As I recollect, there was a ballet dancer or two enlivening your salad days while she lightened your purse.’’

“That was different. I had my fun for a bit, then got another. I didn’t talk of marryin’ the tarts, Julian.”

Lord Brandon’s half-closed lids fluttered open. “My ailment appears to have affected my hearing. I was certain you mentioned marriage.”

“He means to marry her,” Lord Belbridge grimly confirmed. “He’s only waitin’ ‘til he comes into his money, in less than four months. Can’t touch his trust fund ‘til he’s five and twenty, you know. Then he’s little need of his allowance. Not that it’s any great fortune—but it’s respectable. He wants to make an honest woman of her and set up his nursery.” George groaned. “Expects we’ll welcome her into the family. Can you see my sweet Ellen callin’ a fancy piece ‘sister’? And a damned Frenchie at that. Gad.”

There was a moment or two of silence while George allowed his cousin to digest this piece of information. Lord Brandon pressed his fingers to his temples.

“Robert cannot possibly be so imbecilic as to marry his mistress,” he said finally. “He must know you would seek an annulment if he did. Furthermore, I do not see what prevents you dealing with her yourself. Fill her purse and she will take her charms elsewhere.”

“Tried,” George answered sadly. “Again and again. She won’t leave him. Why should she? She could get a wealthier lover, but not one fool enough to marry her. Not a lord, certainly.” He uttered a heavy sigh. “That ain’t the worst of it.”

“Naturally not,” his listener murmured.

“When she wouldn’t listen to reason,” George went on, “I took to threats. Told her we’d see the wedding never took place, whatever it took to do it. She only looked at me like I was somethin’ pitiful. Then she told me about the letters.’’

“Letters,” Lord Brandon repeated, his expression pained. “I might have known.”

“Love letters,” said his cousin. “She showed me one or two and told me there were a score more like ‘em—all beggin’ her to marry him. Callin’ her his ‘dear wife.’ Sickenin’, just sickenin’.”

“Such epistles usually are, except perhaps to the recipient, for whom they undoubtedly must provide many hours of laughter.”

“I went to my solicitor right after that. He hemmed and hawed for an hour before he broke the news. Which is, that if those letters end up in a court of law, they could be worth as much as twenty-five thousand quid in damages.”

“Indeed,” said Lord Brandon. “Robert quite astonishes me. He has fallen in love with his whore, proposed marriage to her, not once but many times, and all in writing, no less. If he marries her, there is a great scandal, his family is dishonoured, and he is ruined. If he doesn’t marry her, she sues for breach of promise, there is a great scandal, his family is dishonoured, and he is ruined. How very neatly he has arranged matters. I must remember to congratulate him.” Cautiously, he pulled himself upright. “I think I shall go to bed.”

“Is that all you can say?” George cried, jumping up.

“I’m sure you will not wish to hear my feelings regarding being summoned from France—at Prinny’s behest, no less—merely to be informed that my cousin is a besotted fool. This is the ‘urgent family matter’ so desperately requiring my assistance, now of all times? When, finally, Buonaparte is within our grasp, when all the wit and tact we possess will be required to return his obese Bourbon rival to his unloving subjects?”

“They wanted you home anyhow, Julian,” was the defensive answer. “They said you was near collapse—and had done more than your share at any rate.”

“As you say, I have done enough. As to Lord Robert Downs—my young cousin is so unspeakable an idiot that we were all best advised to cease recollecting his existence.”

“But dammit, Julian, he is my brother—and think of the scandal. Think of Mary. Think of the children.”

“I cannot think of anyone at the moment, George. My head is throbbing like the very deuce. Will you ring for a servant? One with a stout arm and broad shoulders, if you please. I shall require some assistance regaining the sanctity of my bedchamber, where I expect to expire gracefully within the hour. No mourning, I beg of you. Black is not Ellen’s best colour.”

“But, Julian—”

“Wash your hands of him, George. I assure you I do.”

***

Not many days after her return to London, Mrs. Davenant met with her man of business. Mr. Higginbottom, who possessed of the first good news he’d been able to offer his client in some six months, was buoyant. The debt, he told her, was cancelled. Lord Brandon had no wish to take bread from the mouths of widows.

The slate-blue gaze grew so icy that Mr. Higginbottom involuntarily shivered. Congealing within, he soon petrified, to sink into arctic waters as his client expressed not only profound displeasure that the marquess had been apprised in such detail of her private affairs, but also an adamant refusal to accept his lordship’s charity.

It was futile to argue that gentlemen cancelled such debts every day for far more whimsical reasons. It was useless to point out that the Marquess of Brandon didn’t want the money, most assuredly didn’t need the money, and in fact cared so little about it that he had let the matter lie buried these last seven years. It was equally useless to point out that twenty-nine thousand pounds, sensibly invested, would earn such and such a return, that she need not sell both her remaining properties, that in a few years she might expect to see her income return to its previous level or very near.

Mrs. Davenant only coldly retorted that she was not on the brink of starvation.

“You will use the funds from the lease of my Derbyshire residence for the present,” she said. “When the Season is done, we will discuss letting the town house. I wish the debt paid—with appropriate interest—as speedily as possible, though I hope your terms can accommodate certain matters of necessity. As you are aware, a family commitment requires my remaining in town. Still, it will be as economical a stay as can reasonably be expected.”

She paused a moment before adding—and this was her first and only hint of emotion –“I will not be beholden to that man, sir, not for any amount.” She handed the businessman a slip of paper. “You will add this to the sum,” she said. “There was a misunderstanding with an innkeeper.”

“Yes, madam,” said Mr. Higginbottom, and “Yes, madam” was all he said to everything else. Only that evening, to his wife, did he declaim upon the inscrutability of the ruling classes.

Sir Thomas called, as he had promised, at two o’clock. Mrs. Davenant, as she had promised, granted him a private interview.

The baronet knew his offer was expected. He was not, however, confident of an affirmative answer. Though he’d been granted the signal honour of her friendship, he could not be certain he had as yet awakened any softer feelings in the widow’s breast. To be sure, he required only sufficient softening to produce the word “yes.”