Джорджетт Хейер - Faro’s Daughter

Upon her butler’s announcing the arrival of Mr Ravenscar, Lady Mablethorpe, who had been dozing over a novel from the Circulating Library, sat up with a jerk, and raised a hand to her dishevelled cap. “What’s that you say? Mr. Ravenscar? Desire him to come upstairs at once.”

While the butler went to convey this message to the morning-caller, her ladyship tidied her ruffled person, fortified herself with a sniff at her vinaigrette, and disposed herself on the sofa to receive her guest.

The gentleman who was presently ushered into the room was some twenty years her junior, and looked singularly out of place in a lady’s boudoir. He was very tall, with a good pair of legs, encased in buckskins and topboots, fine broad shoulders under a coat of superfine cloth, and a lean, harsh-featured countenance with an uncompromising mouth and extremely hard grey eyes. His hair, which was black, and slightly curling, was cut into something perilously near a Bedford crop. Lady Mablethorpe, who belonged to an older generation, and herself continued to make free use of the pounce-box, in spite of Mr Pitt’s iniquitous tax on hair-powder, could never look upon the new heads without a shudder. She shuddered now, as her affronted gaze took in not only her nephew’s abominable crop but also the careless set of his coat, his topboots, the single spur he wore, and the negligent way he had tied his cravat, and thrust its ends through a gold-edged buttonhole. She raised the vinaigrette to her nostrils again, and said in a fading voice: “Upon my word, Max! Whenever I clap eyes on you I fancy I can smell the stables!”

Mr Ravenscar strolled across the room, and took up a position with his back to the fire. “And can you?” he inquired amiably.

Lady Mablethorpe chose to ignore this exasperating question. “Why, in the name of heaven, only one spur?” she demanded.

“That’s the high kick of fashion,” said Ravenscar.

“It makes you look for all the world like a postilion.”

“It’s meant to.”

“And you know very well that you do not care a snap for the fashion! I beg you will not teach Adrian to make such a vulgar spectacle of himself!”

Mr Ravenscar raised his brows. “I’m not likely to put myself to so much trouble,” he said.

This assurance did nothing to mollify his aunt. She said severely that the fashion of waiting upon ladies in garments fit only for Newmarket was not one which she had until this day encountered.

“I’ve this instant ridden into town,” said Mr Ravenscar, with an indifference which robbed his explanation of all semblance of apology. “I thought you wanted to see me.”

“I have been wanting to see you these five days and more. Where in the world have you been, tiresome creature? I drove round to Grosvenor Square, only to find the house shut up, and the knocker off the door.”

“I’ve been down at Chamfreys.”

“Oh, indeed! Well, I’m sure I hope you found your Mama in good health—not but what it’s the height of absurdity to call Mrs Ravenscar your mother, for she’s no such thing, and of all the foolish—”

“I don’t,” said Ravenscar briefly.

“Well, I hope you found her in good health,” repeated Lady Mablethorpe, a trifle disconcerted.

“I didn’t find her at all. She is at Tunbridge Wells, with Arabella.”

At the mention of her niece, Lady Mablethorpe’s eyes brightened. “The dear child!” she said. “And how is she, Max?”

The thought of his young half-sister appeared to afford Mr Ravenscar no gratification. “She’s a devilish nuisance,” he replied.

A shade of uneasiness crossed her ladyship’s plump countenance. “Oh, indeed? Of course, she is very young, and I daresay Mrs Ravenscar indulges her more than she should. But—”

“Olivia is as big a fool as Arabella,” responded Ravenscar shortly. “They are both coming up to town next week. The 14th Foot are stationed near the Wells.”

This grim pronouncement apparently conveyed a world of information to Lady Mablethorpe. After a somewhat pensive pause, she said: “It is time dear Arabella was thinking of marriage. After all, I was married when I was scarce—”

“She never thinks of anything else,” said Ravenscar. “The latest is some nameless whelp in a scarlet coat.”

“You ought to keep her more under your eye,” said his aunt. “You are as much her guardian as Mrs Ravenscar.”

“I’m going to,” said Ravenscar.

“Perhaps if we could marry her suitably—”

“My dear ma’am,” said Mr Ravenscar impatiently, “Arabella is no more fit to be married than if she were still in long coats! I have it from Olivia that she has been head over ears in love with no fewer than five aspiring gentlemen in as many months.”

“Good God, Max! If you don’t take care, we shall have some dreadful fortune-hunter running off with her!”

“It wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

Lady Mablethorpe showed slight signs of agitation. “You are the most provoking creature! How can you talk in that cool way about such a disastrous possibility?”

“Well, at least I should be rid of her,” said Mr Ravenscar callously. “If you’re thinking of marrying her to Adrian, I can tell you now that—”

“Oh, Max, that is what I wanted to see you about!” interrupted his aunt, recalled by the mention of her son’s name to the more pressing problem of the moment. “I am quite distracted with worry!”

“Oh?” said Ravenscar, with casual interest. “What’s the young fool been doing?”

Lady Mablethorpe bristled instinctively at this uncomplimentary description of her only child, but a moment’s reflection brought the unwelcome conviction that the slighting term had been earned. “He thinks he is in love,” she said tragically.

Mr Ravenscar was unmoved. “He’ll think it a good many times for the next five or six years. How old is the cub?”

“Considering you are one of his trustees, you surely know that he is not yet twenty-one!”

“Forbid the banns, then,” recommended Mr Ravenscar flippantly.

“I wish you will be serious! This is no laughing matter! He will be of age in a couple of months now! And before we know where we are we shall have him married to some scheming hussy.”

“I should think it extremely unlikely, ma’am. Let the boy alone. Damme, he must cut his milk teeth sometime!”

Lady Mablethorpe flushed angrily. “It is all very well for you to stand there, talking in that odious way, as though you did not care a fig, but—”

“I’m only responsible for his fortune,” he said.

“I might have known you would have come here only to be disagreeable! Wash your hands of my poor boy by all means: I’m sure it’s only what I expected. But don’t blame me if he contracts the most shocking misalliance!”

“Who is the girl?” asked Mr Ravenscar.

“A creature—oh, a hussy—out of a gaming-house!”

“What?” demanded Ravenscar incredulously.

“I thought you would not be quite so cool when you heard the full sum of it!” said her ladyship, with a certain morbid satisfaction. “I was never so appalled in my life as when I heard of it! I went immediately to your house. Something must be done, Max!”

He shrugged. “Oh, let him amuse himself! It don’t signify. She may cost him less than an opera-dancer.”

“She will cost him a great deal more!” said her ladyship tartly. “He means to marry the creature!”

“Nonsense! He’s not such a fool. One does not marry women out of gaming-houses.”

“I wish you will tell him so, for he will pay no heed to anything I say. He will have us believe that the girl is quite something out of the common way, if you please. Of course, it is as clear as daylight. The dear boy is as innocent as a lamb, and full of the most nonsensical romantic notions! That hateful, vulgar, scheming woman lured him to her house, and the niece did the rest. You may depend upon it she meant to have him from the start. Sally Repton tells me that it is positively absurd to see how Adrian worships the wench. There is no doing anything with him. She will have to be bought off: That is why I sent for you.” She observed a distinctly saturnine look in Mr Ravenscar’s eye, and added with something of a snap: “You need not be afraid, Max. I hope I know better than to expect you to lay out any of your odious wealth on the business!”