Gayle Buck (4 page)

Lord St. John gave a crack of unamused laughter. His cold eyes regarded his man of business with a degree of respect that he did not often accord those in his employ. “Thank you, Mr. Witherspoon. Your discretion and tact are of the highest order. You have my permission to act on my behalf as you think best, up to the point that Rosethorn and my horses might be affected. You will naturally keep me informed on all matters.”

“Of course, my lord. I understand perfectly.”

Mr. Witherspoon did indeed understand. Lord St. John, Viscount Weemswood, would not allow himself to be taken off to debtor’s prison. His lordship would prefer exile to all he had ever known to such an ignoble ending. Even so, the unburdening of his lordship’s birthplace and his beloved horses would be the last of his possessions that he would countenance letting go to his creditors.

Mr. Witherspoon knew also when he was dismissed and he bowed himself out of the room. His last glance at the viscount, as he closed the door, convinced him that his lordship was not at all inclined to partake of the breakfast growing cold on the tray.

Lord St. John did not know how long he stared at the opposite wall before he became aware once more of his surroundings. He was tired, discouraged, and made angry by the circumstances in which he found himself. He could think of no easy solution or escape.

None existed, of course. He had known that before he had sent for Witherspoon. He had known it when the duke had introduced his former doxy as the new duchess. With the announcement of the duke’s anticipated heir, certain ruin had stared St. John in the face.

Lord St. John laughed hollowly to himself. Perhaps he had sensed the change of fortune even before. That would account, in part, for his increased sense of restlessness.

He had been challenging fate for a very long time. He had lived hard and well, but in what he had at first dimly begun to realize, and then become convinced, was an empty fashion.

He had entertained brief thoughts more than once of joining the army. The war on the Iberian Peninsula was said to be hot and heavy; perhaps in the heat of battle a man could feel again that he was really alive.

The army life was still an alternative. That, and Wither-spoon’s notion of sailing for India. A man of wit and physical stamina was said to have untold opportunities of making of himself a rich nabob in those latitudes.

Certainly he was well-suited for either choice. Blessed with extraordinary athletic ability and stamina, he was what was known in society as a Corinthian. All the manly sports came as naturally as breathing to him. Although driving was his true passion and forte, he was a past master of boxing, fencing, shooting, and riding. His allegiance to the sports had graced his body with strength and endurance, certainly an advantage if one was to go into battle or to spend years building a nabob’s fortune.

He had also been gifted with a high intellect. Though if he was to be judged by his lazy drift through the years, Lord St. John reflected dispassionately, he would quite possibly have been given low marks in that area. Nonetheless, he did not doubt that he could make a good cavalry officer or carve out a place for himself in India.

His hand, lying on the desk, slowly clenched into a taut fist.

Lord St. John let out an explosive oath, surging out of his chair. He took a swift turn about the study, his thoughts unwinding in turbulent fashion.

At length a sort of calm came over him. His future need not be decided quite at that moment. There was time to weigh his decision a bit longer. Witherspoon would see to that.

In the meantime, there was the business of keeping up appearances. As a member of the
ton,
he knew well that any hint of weakness on his part would be construed in the worst possible light and the jackals would rend his reputation into permanent disrepair.

Bleakness settled over his deeply carved grim expression.

It would happen in any event; but hopefully not before he and Witherspoon had had a chance to see exactly how badly things stood. He had at least the means to settle most of his debts of honor. After those debts were retrieved and, depending upon his reception at the hands of society, it would be time enough to decide the direction of the remainder of his life.

A peculiar smile lit his face, underscoring the bleakness of his eyes. He had any number of acquaintances. It would be interesting to see how many true friends he could boast among them.

Upon that thought succeeded another, and he returned to the desk to pull pen and paper to him. He had pledged himself to call on his betrothed upon his return to London. The lady must be informed that he had not forgotten their assignation.

After dashing off a quick note, he got up from the desk to tug the bellpull. When a footman answered the summons, the viscount instructed him where to deliver the note. It would not be necessary for the man to wait for a reply. The footman left on his errand, carefully closing the door.

Lord St. John crossed to pick up the cold toast from the tray. He eyed it with distaste. If he was to keep up appearances and participate in all of his former activities, he had to consume a man’s portion. More to the point, he should eat something in order to counter the roiling of his abused system. But he would be damned if he would muddle his insides with slop.

He tossed the toast back onto the tray and strode swiftly across the carpet. His eyes glittered as he wrenched open the door. He would have a proper breakfast in the breakfast room or know the reason why.

Chapter 4

Lord St. John had not been sitting at breakfast for many minutes before he had a visitor.

“That’s all right, Craighton. I shall show myself in.” On those words, Mr. Underwood entered the breakfast room. He greeted the viscount casually. “I thought I might find you in, Sinjin. Having breakfast, are you? I believe I might join you.”

Lord St. John smiled slightly, the wintery look in his eyes dissipating ever so little. “Pray do so, Carey. I am not doing full justice to my cook’s efforts this morning. It will gratify her no end if you were to empty a serving dish or two.” He sat back at his ease, a faint smile playing across his lips and an amused light in his eyes, while Mr. Underwood made his selection from the sideboard.

Mr. Underwood declined the viscount’s recommendation of the ale, but took coffee from the footman. He set to work on his plate in an appreciative fashion.

Lord St. John dismissed the footman with a curt word and, when the manservant was gone, he said, “Well, Carey?”

Mr. Underwood shrugged, not pretending to misunderstand the question. He cut another bite of thin steak. “I read the announcement. I never thought Alton would be such a dolt.”

Lord St. John’s tone became sarcastic. “So you’ve come to offer your condolences?”

Mr. Underwood looked at the meat speared on his fork. “You’ve a veritable curst tongue on you, Sinjin,” he observed. He put down the laden fork and looked with a steady gaze across the table at the viscount. “If you must know, I came to offer you my support. I thought you might be feeling a bit blue, but I see that you are in as fine trim as ever.”

“Devil a bit,” said Lord St. John mildly, a faint flush coming up under his tan. He would scarcely admit it, but he was ashamed of his cutting words.

Mr. Underwood accepted the unspoken apology. He again started on the steak and eggs and kippers on his plate. “What do you mean to do?”

Lord St. John gave a short laugh. “Do? My dear Carey, what can I do? I am properly dished. I saw the evidence with my own eyes, though I harbor strong doubts that my esteemed relative planted the seed.”

Mr. Underwood looked up quickly at that. “You mean the jade has done Alton false? The baggage! Shall you contest the marriage?”

“You know well that such a course would not suit my pride. I have little desire to set my name up as a byword, as assuredly it would be if I was to drag it through the courts,” said Lord St. John, his brows drawing together. He rolled his tankard between his hands in a contemplative way.

“No,” agreed Mr. Underwood, shuddering. “But still, it’s a cursed shame. She’s jockeyed you out of your inheritance and there’s nothing to be done. I suppose it would do no good to appeal to Alton’s reason?”

“I did do so. It was not a fortuitous confrontation. His grace very nearly went into apoplexy at the suggestion. Suffice it to say that the lady won game, point, and match,” said Lord St. John sardonically.

Mr. Underwood uttered an emphatic curse. He ruminated for a moment, then said, “Well, there’s nothing for it, then. You’ll not want to be the object of all eyes, of course, so I expect that you will wish to beg off your social obligations for the next few weeks. Never fear that I shall not stand with you. I will put it about that you have left on a repairing lease—that you had business at Rosethorn. That will be believed readily enough, I think. It’s known that you take an inordinate interest in the place.”

Lord St. John stiffened in his chair. There was an odd, black expression in his eyes, which had gone very cold. “Your advice is doubtless well-intended, Carey; but I think not... solicited?”

Mr. Underwood lifted a startled gaze to the viscount’s face. He also stiffened, very wary of the look in his lordship’s eyes. “It was not my intent to insult you, Sinjin.”

“Nevertheless you did, damnably.” Lord St. John’s voice became very low, almost dangerous in tenor. “I do not cry craven. I mean to remain in London and be damned to anyone with the impertinence to question my affairs.”

“That I shall never do and well you know it! But I know too well your pride, my lord, and I do not think that you will care for the inevitable curiosity that will surely dog you with this reverse in fortune,” said Mr. Underwood.

There was a moment’s tense silence.

Lord St. John passed a hand over his face. With a wearied sigh, he said, “Forgive me, Carey. I should know better than to cut up at you. But you know what I am.”

“Perhaps none better, saving Miles Trilby. Very well, Sinjin. I shall stand with you whatever course you choose. Even if it is to brave the very gates of hell itself, I shall do so,” said Mr. Underwood.

Lord St. John threw back his head and laughed, his black mood lifted. “I am touched, Carey. I had no suspicion that your friendship was ingrained with such loyalty.”

Mr. Underwood shrugged. He smiled suddenly. “Can I do less when you offered me such a handsome apology? I did not know until that instant how shaken off your pins you were.”

Lord St. John made a noise that was half snarling, half amused. “Do not presume too much, my conceited friend. I shall still meet face-to-face with whatever fate has in store for me. Do you go to Tattersall’s this morning?”

Mr. Underwood indicated that he was, and mentioned the new hunter that he had in mind to acquire. By tacit agreement the conversation was turned firmly into a long discussion of the finer points of horseflesh, and the question of the viscount’s future abandoned.

When the gentlemen rose at last from the breakfast table, the morning was fairly flown and Mr. Underwood adjured his lordship to be swift. “I promised a little ladybird that I would take her shopping directly after one o’clock. It will be bellows to mend for me if I am late.”

“You are bear-led by the petticoats,” commented Lord St. John.

“Ah, but the petticoats have such a charming way of showing their appreciation for the mere price of a bonnet or a bauble,” said Mr. Underwood slyly, as they emerged from the viscount’s town house and sauntered down the walkway.

“You’ll not think it so charming if ever one of those mantraps closes her sharp teeth on your ankle and you find yourself leg-shackled for life,” said Lord St. John.

“Devil a bit,” said Mr. Underwood cheerfully.

* * * *

Lord St. John spent an agreeable two hours in Mr. Underwood’s staunch company. If he noticed the reserve of some of their mutual acquaintances, or that certain conversations broke off as he came into sight, he did not allow it to show either in his expression or his manner. Instead he went out of his way to meet unflinchingly those sly grins and the scattered allusions to his reduced circumstances offered by some who had either never cared for him or who simply enjoyed inflicting insult when and where they were able, whatever the circumstances or party involved.

Mr. Underwood was all too aware of the rampant curiosity that hovered about them and he inwardly seethed at it. He was most angered by the scarcely veiled malice that underlay some of the comments made to the viscount. He found himself depressing the worst offenders, and wondered at Lord St. John’s uncharacteristic forbearance. The viscount’s black temper was famed, as was his quickness to parlay affront into a challenge for the boxing ring or a more deadly sort of duel. Surely Lord St. John’s reputation could be counted upon to hedge off the less intrepid ill-wishers, and for a while that appeared to be the case.

Sir Nigel Smythe was also at Tattersall’s, in the company of one of his cronies. Upon seeing Lord St. John, he tossed a word to his companion and with his friend in tow, sauntered over to make his greeting. His lips parted in a cold smile. “Viscount Weemswood. We are well met, my lord. You are acquainted with Rivers, I daresay. Underwood, your servant. My lord, it came as a shock to learn of your loss in the world. I offer you my sympathies.”

“Your sentiments are fully appreciated. Sir Nigel,” said Lord St. John, quite aware of the gleam of malicious satisfaction in the baronet’s eyes.

Since the evening that Lord St. John had bested Sir Nigel at the gaming table, he had been the object of the baronet’s intense dislike. Now Lord St. John’s obvious indifference to Sir Nigel’s false sympathy served to fuel the gentleman’s ill-feeling to white heat.

The gentleman’s antipathy was palpable, and his sneer unmistakable, but Lord St. John resisted the impulse to issue the cutting rejoinder that such insolence deserved.

“I was impressed with your skill with the pasteboards. Perhaps we shall meet again over the table in contest. Ah no, I forget; it would not be at all the prudent thing for you to indulge yourself in a costly game of chance, would it,” said Sir Nigel, smiling still. He observed the flash of anger that heated the viscount’s cold eyes, and his smile widened,