Disgrace and Desire (5 page)

T
he following morning Jack took a cab into the City. His first meeting with his lawyer had convinced him that he was right to sell out and take charge of his inheritance, or what was left of it. Now he quickly scanned the papers that were put before him.

‘Once the property in Leicestershire is sold that will give me capital to invest in the Staffordshire estates,’ he decided.

His lawyer’s brows went up.

‘The Leicestershire estate was your father’s pride and joy: he always said the hunting there was second to none.’

‘I shall have precious little time for hunting for the next few years,’ muttered Jack, looking at the figures the lawyer had written out for him. He pushed the papers back across the desk. ‘You say you have a buyer?’

The lawyer steepled his fingers, trying to keep the note of excitement out of his voice. Years of dealing with old Mr Clifton had made him cautious.

‘The owner of the neighbouring property, a Mr Tomlinson, has indicated he is interested in purchasing the house
and the land. He is eager to have the matter settled. He is a manufacturer, but a very gentlemanly man.’

‘As long as he can pay the price I don’t care who he is.’ Jack rose. ‘Very well. Have the papers drawn up for me to sign tomorrow, and I’ll leave the rest to you.’

Ten minutes later Jack walked out into the street, feeling that a weight had lifted from his shoulders. He had always preferred Henchard, the house in Staffordshire. It had been his mother’s favourite, but sadly neglected after her death, his father preferring to live in London or Leicestershire. He had died there following a short illness eighteen months ago, but with Bonaparte gathering his army and Wellington demanding that every able soldier join him in Brussels, Jack had not had time to do more than to send to Henchard any personal effects he wanted to keep before rejoining his regiment. Now he planned to settle down. He would be able to refurbish Henchard, and in time the land might even be profitable again. Settling his hat on his head, he decided to walk back to King Street. He had reached the Strand and was approaching Coutts’s bank when a heavily veiled woman stepped out of the door, escorted by a very attentive bank clerk. Despite the thick veil there was something familiar about the tall, fashionably dressed figure, her purposeful tread, the way her hands twisted together. As she pulled on her gloves he caught sight of the heavy gold ring on her right hand. Even from a distance he recognised Allyngham’s signet ring. Jack smiled to himself, wondering what the lady would say if he approached her. Would she give him a cold, frosty greeting, or perhaps she might simply refuse to acknowledge him? Even as he considered the matter she swept across to a waiting cab and climbed in. Instantly the door was closed and the carriage pulled away.

‘Well, Miss Elle? Is your business ended, can we go home now?’

Eloise put up her veil and gave her maid a strained smile.

‘Yes, Alice, we are going back to Dover Street now.’

The maid gave a little sniff. ‘I do not see why we couldn’t use your own carriage, if you was only coming to the bank. It may be unusual for ladies to visit their bankers, but if they are widows, like yourself, I don’t see what else is to be done.’

Eloise did not reply. Leaning back in one corner, she clutched her reticule nervously. It rested heavily on her knees but she would not put it away from her. She had never been inside a bank before, but the manager himself had taken charge once he realised her identity, and the whole process had been conducted with the utmost ease. When she had said she needed to draw a substantial amount to distribute to her staff he had given her a look which combined sympathy with mild disapproval: no doubt he thought that she really required the money for some much more trivial reason, such as to buy new gowns or to pay off her gambling debts.

She pulled a paper from her bag and unfolded it: the scrawling black letters might have been live serpents for the way they made her skin crawl. When the letter had arrived that morning and she had read it for the first time, she had felt very alone. Her first thought had been to send for Alex, but she had soon dismissed the idea. Alex was a dear friend, but he could be rash, and this matter required discretion. No, she must deal with this herself. She scanned the letter again, chewing at her lip. Her biggest problem now was how to get through the rest of the day?

Mrs Renwick was a little surprised when Eloise appeared at her card party that evening.

‘I know I had sent my apologies,’ said Eloise, giving her hostess a bright smile, ‘but I was not in humour for dancing tonight and thought you would not object…’

‘Not in the least, my dear, you are most welcome here. Come in, come in and join our little party.’ Mrs Renwick drew her towards a quiet room filled with small tables, where ladies and gentleman were gathered, staring at their cards in hushed concentration. Bathed in the glow of the candles, it looked like a room full of golden statues. ‘This is turning out to be an evening of pleasant surprises. Major Clifton, too, made an unexpected appearance. It seems his business in town will not now be concluded until tomorrow so we have the pleasure of his company, too—’

Eloise drew back quickly. She had spotted Jack Clifton on the far side of the room.

‘No! I—I was hoping for something a little…less serious, ma’am.’

Her hostess laughed softly. ‘Well if you would like to come into the morning room, some of our friends are playing looe for penny points: nothing too alarming in that, now is there?’

Resigning herself to an hour or so of tedious play, Eloise smiled and took her place between a bouncing, bubbly young lady fresh from the schoolroom and an emaciated dowager in heavy black bombazine. Concentrating on the cards proved a surprisingly effective distraction for Eloise and when the little group split up to go in search of refreshment she was relieved to note that her evening was nearly over.

She made her way downstairs to the dining room where a long table was loaded with a sumptuous array of food and drink. A little supper might help to settle the nervous anticipation that was beginning to build within her. A group of gentlemen were helping themselves to delicacies from an assortment
of silver dishes. She noted that both Major Clifton and Sir Ronald Deforge were amongst their number so she avoided them and made her way to the far end of the table. She kept her eyes lowered, determined to concentrate on the food displayed before her but the gentlemen’s light-hearted banter intruded and she could not help but listen. The conversation turned to gambling and she found her attention caught when she heard the major’s voice.

‘You know I play the occasional game at White’s but the high stakes are not for me,’ he was saying. ‘You will think me very dull, I dare say, but I prefer my funds to be invested in my land, rather than lining some other fellow’s pockets.’

‘Very different from Sir Ronald, then,’ laughed Edward Graham. ‘You never refuse a game of chance, ain’t that right, sir?’

‘If it is cards, certainly,’ Sir Ronald replied cheerfully. ‘I have something of a passion for cards. I played young Franklyn ’til dawn last week.’

‘Then you have more energy for the pastime than I do,’ returned the major coolly, turning away.

‘I hear that playing ’til dawn is a common occurrence with you, Deforge,’ remarked Mr Renwick. ‘By Gad, sir, your servants must be falling asleep at their posts if they have to wait up for you every night.’

Sir Ronald laughed.

‘No, no, Renwick, I am not so cruel an employer. My household retires at a Christian hour. Only my valet waits up for me, and he snoozes in a chair in the hall until I give him the knock to let me in.’

‘The pleasures of being a bachelor,’ declared his host. ‘A wife would certainly curtail your nocturnal activities, Deforge!’

‘Oho, when have I ever prevented you doing exactly as you
wish?’ demanded Mrs Renwick, walking by at that moment. ‘My husband would have you think his life very restricted.’ She tapped the straining front of Mr Renwick’s waistcoat with her fan. ‘Well, gentlemen? Does he look as if he is wasting away?’

Eloise gave a little chuckle as her hostess came towards her.

‘I am sure we will all find something to tempt our appetite here,’ she smiled. ‘A truly magnificent supper, ma’am.’

‘Thank you, Lady Allyngham. Are you enjoying yourself?’

‘Yes, thank you. It is a most delightful evening.’

‘But, my dear, you are very quiet this evening, and a trifle pale, I think.’ Mrs Renwick came closer. ‘I hope you are not ill?’

‘No, ma’am, a little tired, perhaps.’

Mrs Renwick gave her a warm, sympathetic smile.

‘Too many engagements, ma’am?’

‘I think perhaps I have had enough of town life.’

Overhearing, Mr Graham turned quickly towards her.

‘My dear Lady Allyngham, you will not desert us!’

‘Of course she will not,’ put in Lady Parham, coming up. ‘Not when there are so many diversions to be enjoyed.’

Eloise forced herself to smile. Suddenly she was tired of play-acting.

‘I think I may well go back to Allyngham.’

‘Ah,’ nodded Lady Parham. ‘Perhaps that is why you were in the Strand this morning, settling your affairs with your bankers.’

Eloise stiffened. ‘No, I had no business there today.’

‘Oh, I was so sure it was you!’ Lady Parham gave a tinkling little laugh, glancing around at her friends. ‘I had gone to Ackerman’s, to look at their new prints—so amusing!—and
I saw a lady coming out of Coutts’s bank. But she was veiled, so perhaps I was mistaken.’

‘It must have been someone else,’ said Eloise firmly. ‘I was not in the Strand this morning.’

She selected a little pastry and turned away, only to find Jack Clifton regarding her with a little frown in his eyes.

Now what the devil is she about?

Jack had been watching Lady Allyngham for some time. He had noted that she was nervous, her eyes constantly straying to the clock, and her vehement denial of visiting the bank aroused his suspicions. She caught his eye and moved away so fast he abandoned any thought of speaking to her, but when, a short time later, Eloise made her excuses and left the party, he followed.

The press of traffic in the streets made it an easy task for Jack to follow her carriage on foot, and when they arrived at Dover Street he was close enough to hear the lady’s instructions to the coachman to come back in an hour.

Jack grinned. So she
was
up to something! He dashed back to King Street, quelling the little voice in his head that objected to the idea of spying on a lady. After all, Tony Allyngham had been a good friend and had asked him to look after his widow—well, perhaps not in so many words, but Jack was not going to admit, even to himself, that he had any personal interest in Eloise Allyngham.

Just over half an hour later he was back in Dover Street, his evening coat replaced by a dark riding jacket and with a muffler covering his snowy neckcloth. Hidden out of sight in Dover Yard, Bob was looking after his horse and in all probability, Jack thought, animadverting bitterly on the ways of the Quality. He positioned himself opposite Lady
Allyngham’s door and settled down to wait. As with many of the streets in this area of London, Dover Street housed a variety of residents, from members of the
ton
to ladies who, while they would never receive an invitation from the great society hostesses, were very well known to their husbands. Courtesans such as Kitty Williams who, it was rumoured, could boast of having a royal duke amongst her many admirers. Jack was not one of their number, but Kitty’s residence had been pointed out to him by his friends, and he watched with interest as an elegant town carriage pulled up at the door. A portly gentleman climbed out and was immediately admitted, as if the doorman had been looking out for him. So Lord Berrow was one of Kitty’s customers. Jack grinned: the Earl professed himself to be one of Wilberforce’s saints—the old hypocrite!

The sounds of another coach clattering into Dover Street caused Jack to step back further into the shadows. He nodded with satisfaction as it drew up outside Lady Allyngham’s house. He saw Eloise come out, wrapped now in a dark cloak, and step up into the carriage. It drew away immediately and Jack turned and ran for his horse.

‘I still think I should come with you,’ grumbled Robert as Jack scrambled into the saddle.

‘No, you go back now and wait for me.’ Jack patted his pocket. He had a pistol, should he need it, and besides, he forced himself to face the thought, if this should prove nothing more than a sordid little assignation with a lover, the less people who knew of it the better.

Keeping a discreet distance, Jack followed the coach as it bowled through the darkened streets. They headed north through Tottenham Court Road and soon the town was left behind and they were bowling along between open fields. It
was a clear night, the rising moon giving sufficient light for the carriage to set a swift pace. The coach slowed as it climbed through the village of Hampstead. When they reached the open heath Jack drew rein and as the carriage came to a halt he guided his horse off the road into the cover of the stunted trees. He watched Eloise climb out. Silently he dismounted, secured his horse to a branch and followed her.

Eloise hesitated, glancing back at the coach drawn up behind her. The carriage lamps twinkled encouragingly and the solid shape of her coachman sitting up on the box was reassuring. She had also taken the precaution of asking Perkins to come with her. He had been her groom since she was a child and she was confident of his loyalty and discretion. Turning again to face the dark open heath, she took a deep breath and stepped forwards. She suspected it was not the autumnal chill in the night air that made her shiver as she moved along the narrow path. She felt dreadfully alone and had to remind herself that Perkins was discreetly following her. For perhaps the twentieth time since setting out she went over in her mind the instructions she had received in the letter that morning. The carriage had stopped at the fork in the road, as directed, and the path to the right between a boulder and small pond was easily found. She counted silently, thankful that the letter had stated the number of steps she would need to take rather than asking her to judge a half a mile: in her present nervous state she felt as if she had walked at least three miles already. There was sufficient light to see the path, but the trees and bushes on either side were menacingly black, and she had to force herself not to think how many malevolent creatures might be watching her from the shadows.