The Westerby Inheritance (16 page)

The other habitués of the coffee house, quarreled and gambled among themselves, unaware of the importance of the game between the two men at the corner table.

The rum punch was very strong. Mr. Bentley had drunk more than he usually did and found to his alarm that he was beginning to feel very tipsy. But no matter. He won the next hand and the next, as Lord Charles’s voice became more slurred and his long fingers shook more than ever. Sir Anthony was lolling back in his chair, a long churchwarden smoldering in his hand, snoring lustily. Mr. Jennings was sleepily singing songs to himself, with a vague smile pinned on his face and his eyes unfocused.

Mr. Brodie, the lawyer, sat a little apart. He had lost interest in the game long ago. There could be no doubt that Mr. Bentley would win. He was impatient to be home in his bed. After watching the play for some moments and noting Lord Charles’s fumbling movements, Mr. Brodie edged closer to the table and whispered to Mr. Bentley, “Make your killing now, before milord falls asleep or dies from fear, one or t’other.”

“Quite,” muttered Mr. Bentley, and then, “Hem!” he said to attract his antagonist’s attention.

Lord Charles stared blearily across the table. “What?” he asked stupidly.

“The night draws to its close,” ventured Mr. Bentley with an ingratiating smile. “We should play our decisive game while we still have our wits about us.”

“Very well,” said Lord Charles. “But I fear, Mr. Bentley, that these cards are against me. As a gentleman you will have no objection, I trust, if I ask for a new pack?”

Mr. Bentley stared at Lord Charles, whose voice had suddenly sounded quite clear and decisive, but his lordship was slumped in his chair and seemed only half-awake.

“I don’t see any reason—” began Mr. Bentley, but Sir Anthony had miraculously come awake.

“I’ll get them,” said Anthony briskly and strode off before Mr. Bentley could protest.

Mr. Bentley felt the first tremblings of unease. His own head felt fuzzy, but surely he was in nowhere near such a bad condition as Lord Charles.

Sir Anthony returned with the cards and drew his chair up to the table.

Mr. Bentley picked up his hand and looked across the table at Lord Charles—and his stomach gave a great lurch. His lordship’s eyes were clear, alert, and cold and seemed to bore into him across the wavering candle flames.

“Play,” he said softly.

Sir Anthony moved restlessly from one player to the other as the game commenced. The tension seemed to have permeated Mr. Jennings’ drunken stupor, for he came fully awake and sat nervously on the very edge of his chair.

Mr. Brodie mentally consigned the legal form he had ready for Lord Charles to the devil. He realized his client had been tricked. But then, he had known Mr. Bentley had been using marked cards and found himself with little sympathy for his client.

Finally the game stood thus: Lord Charles was five and Mr. Bentley eight. To Sir Anthony’s horror, Lord Charles begged a card, although he already held the ace, deuce, and jack of trumps, while Mr. Bentley had the king and trois. Lord Charles played his deuce, which was won by Mr. Bentley’s trois. Sir Anthony held his breath, and the sweat coursed freely down his face.

Mr. Bentley gave a slow smile of triumph and threw down his king. The Chase, which had become his ruling passion, lay spread out in his mind, a place for all to envy.

Then Lord Charles leaned forward and captured Mr. Bentley’s king with his ace. “All Fours,” he said quietly.

There was a sudden terrible hush while Mr. Bentley stared white-faced at the table. “Oh, God,” he cried suddenly and buried his head in his hands. “Oh, my home. Oh, my life!”

Mr. Brodie opened a large portmanteau and silently handed over a heavy pile of parchment, including a signed draft on Mr. Bentley’s bank for the whole of the Marquess of Westerby’s personal fortune.

“He is a drunk!” cried Bentley wildly, meaning Westerby. “He cannot appreciate the Chase as I do. Oh, the grottoes and gardens I have designed, the statuary, the elegance of the rooms!”

“When young Carruthers wept over the loss of his estates, you laughed at him,” said Lord Charles coldly. “Take your defeat like a man. I am only giving back Westerby his due.”

“Why should you give it to him and that slut of a wife?” wailed James Bentley, tearing at his hair so that powder rose in a small cloud in the flickering candlelight. “Why do you not keep it for yourself?” he begged, looking up into Lord Charles’s face with wet eyes.

Lord Charles turned away from him, weary with disgust. “Come, Anthony,” he said. “I am suddenly in need of fresh air.”

James Bentley ran after him and fell to his knees, clinging onto the stiffened skirts of his lordship’s coat. “I will give you the money,” he babbled, “but do not take Eppington Chase from me.”

Lord Charles twitched his coat skirts from James Bentley’s frenzied grasp. Mr. Jennings, sobered with shock, stood making bleating, ineffectual noises.

“Stop!” cried James Bentley as Lord Charles and Sir Anthony threaded their way through the now empty tables of the coffee house. “Stop, I beg, and listen! You did this for Lady Jane. Harkee, that one is as cold as her mother. Her mother drove men mad, used them for what power she could gain for her husband, and tossed them aside.”

“Faugh!” muttered Sir Anthony in a low voice. “Come along, Charles. He is deranged.”

And indeed it seemed as if all James Bentley’s cool and cunning manner had covered a twisted, violent, and passionate nature.

Lord Charles shrugged and turned toward the door. There was a terrific explosion and a rabbitlike scream from Mr. Jennings.

Suddenly sick at heart, Lord Charles turned round.

What was left of James Bentley lay among the sawdust and oyster shells on the floor of the coffee house. He had not even risen to his feet. He had pulled from his pocket a pistol, which he always kept ready primed, and had blown his brains out.

“My lord, my God!” cried Mr. Brodie distractedly. “See what you have done.”

Lord Charles turned on his heel and strode from the coffee house.

“I’ll walk,” he said abruptly to Sir Anthony. “No! Don’t fuss over me like a mother hen. I do not want company. You may use my chair.”

Anthony opened his mouth to protest, but Lord Charles was already striding off down the street.

A pale dawn was smearing the sky, and a chill little wind rippled over the puddles in the cobbles. It had been raining during the night, and the glistening empty streets echoed to the rap of Lord Charles’s heels.

He walked and walked, his head bent, his hand ever on his sword hilt in case he were attacked. He walked until a small red sun bathed the cobbles blood-red. He walked and walked, as if to try to leave the turmoil in his brain somewhere behind. Yes, he had killed two men, but those had been a case of kill or be killed. His heart burned with an ice-cold fury against Lady Jane Lovelace, who had coldbloodedly manipulated him into this affair. He had had no quarrel with Bentley himself.

At last, tired and weary, he reached his house, brushing aside the shocked exclamations of Anderson, who cried out at the sight of his master’s haggard face.

“Come into my study, Anderson,” said Lord Charles in a quiet, flat voice. He walked to his desk and pulled out some parchment. After staring at the blank pages in silence for a few moments, he pulled them toward him and began to write. Finally he sanded and sealed the letter and handed it to Anderson, along with the Westerby papers.

“Take all this to Lady Jane Lovelace,” he said, still in that emotionless voice, “and make sure it is given directly into her hands. On your return, give orders to the servants to make ready. We leave for the country in the morning. As for today, I am not at home to anyone—that includes the magistrates. If they wish to question me over the death of a certain James Bentley, you will tell them that there were enough witnesses to testify that Mr. Bentley died by his own hand and I have nothing to say on the matter. Don’t stand there with your mouth open. Bustle about, man!”

Anderson bowed and withdrew. He decided to execute the commission himself, instead of trusting it to a footman, and if he passed the time on the road home in a certain tavern, well then, he would tell his lordship that Lady Jane had kept him waiting.

He hoped to find Lady Jane at home, so that he would have more time to spend in the tavern.

Bella frowned awfully on him when she heard him stating his business to Lady Comfrey’s butler. Lady Jane had been white-faced and twitty all morning. But Anderson was not going to waste any time that might be spent in the tavern standing in Lady Comfrey’s hall being harangued by Lady Comfrey’s maid. He stood his ground, pointing out that he was sure Lady Jane would be incensed an she did not hear of his visit.

With much grumbling, Bella consented to inform Lady Jane of his presence and stumped up the stairs.

Jane turned white and then red when she heard who was waiting for her. Hope sprang anew in her breast. He had not really been angry with her. And she had wronged him.

She hurried nervously down the stairs, to find that Anderson had been put in the morning room to await her. Shutting the door firmly on Bella’s curious face, Jane asked Anderson his business. But the tavern beckoned, and Anderson did not want to stay and be questioned about his master. He put the papers and the letter into Jane’s hands and with a quick, jerky bow nipped speedily from the room.

Jane sank down into the nearest chair, holding the papers. The name Eppington Chase seemed to leap out at her from the pile of manuscript. Then she turned over the draft to James Bentley’s bank, flinching at the staggering sum of money. She had finally achieved her ambition, and she wanted none of it.

Then, with shaking fingers, she broke open the heavy seal and read his lordship’s letter. “Dear Lady Jane Lovelace,” she read, “Here is your heart’s desire. It will further gratify you to learn that Mr. Bentley blew his brains out, so your revenge is complete. It disgusts me to have allowed myself to be used as your instrument. Save your maiden tremblings. I shall not be calling on you. I would sooner bed with the filthiest whore from Seven Dials than touch one inch of your cold, heartless, and bloodless body. I remain, Yrs, Welbourne.”

It was like a hammer blow over the heart. Jane felt a great, wrenching pain, and then nothing. Absolutely nothing. She picked up the papers and walked out, past the staring Bella, across the hall to the drawing room. Lady Comfrey was entertaining her beau of the opera, Mr. Braintree. Their conversation seemed to consist of shrieking with laughter at each other’s comments.

Mr. Braintree rose at her entrance, with a great swishing of silken skirts. His coat was so boned and stiffened it was nearly as wide as Lady Comfrey’s hoop. “Ecod!” he cried, kissing the tips of his fingers. “Here’s loveliness. The senses are overaffected. You are pretty, Lady Jane, but a rosebud set against the fullblown beauty of my Lady Comfrey. Ah, Lady Comfrey,” he cried, seizing her hand, “I am content to worship at your feet.” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, and Lady Comfrey rapped him with her fan and cackled with delighted laughter.

“I am going home,” said Jane in a flat voice.

“Going home?” repeated Lady Comfrey in surprise. “This is your home, my child!”

“I mean home to Westerby,” said Jane. “I must see my father. I shall not be returning.”

“What!” cried Lady Comfrey wrathfully. “Have I not been good to you beyond belief? Have I not given you gowns and jewels? Is this how you reward my generosity?”

“But, Godmama…” protested Jane, but Lady Comfrey was busy lashing herself into a fury for Mr. Braintree’s benefit. Now she had this new companion, she did not very much care whether Jane left or no. But she did hope that Mr. Braintree would notice the swish of her skirts as she marched up and down, and the majestic gleam of her angry eye.

“Get from my sight, you ungrateful girl. You have no heart. Alas! I am overcome!” With that she collapsed back into her chair and sobbed noisily.

Jane hurried forward to comfort her, but Mr. Braintree barred the way. “Begone!” he shrieked, his eyes filled with venom and looking directly at Jane for the first time. “Leave dear Harriet in the tender care of those who appreciate her. Oh, my darling!” He sank down on one knee and began feverishly to kiss the hand which Lady Comfrey had outstretched in the hope that he would.

Jane turned and ran from the room, nearly colliding with Bella, who had been listening at the door.

Bella followed Jane up the stairs and watched her packing one small bandbox. “Silly chit,” said Bella, bustling forward and taking the bandbox from Jane’s hands. “So you’re off to your pa and you’re hurt by what she said so you ain’t going to take any of the fine gowns and jewels she gave you. Take ’em all, my lady, and your old Bella will help you pack. She ain’t angry with you! Her’s showing off for that creaky beau, who wants her money, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t understand anyone,” said Jane, too numb to cry.

“There now. And who is asking you?” soothed Bella. “Sit yourself over there while I call up one of them lazy housemaids, and we’ll have all this packed in a trice. My lady will come around soon as she’s found the true nature of that fop belowstairs. He’s after her money, and he’s never been enamored of woman yet, and
that
she’ll find out to her cost. Seems odd, don’t it, a lady of her years twittering and sighing like a schoolgirl over a… over a—well, I shall not soil my lips or your ears with the word. It puts in mind young Lady Emily, her what was wed to Lord Alfred Damson. Innocent as lambs,
she
was, and thought her husband monstrous clever to keep such an elegant house and carriage, and she bragged they had the handsomest footmen in the whole of England. Well, one day my lord thinks she’s going to be at the opera, and he tips the wink to his first footman. But my lady had the megrims and decides to stay at home with her lord. She pushed open the door of the bedchamber, and…”

Mercifully, Jane had ceased to listen as Bella prattled on about what Lady Emily saw in the bedchamber. Deaf and dumb with misery, she only wished to be gone. She roused herself at one point to beg Bella to ask the kitchen to furnish her with some sugarplums for her stepsisters. Bella promised a whole hamper of goodies.