Mary Brendan - A Date with Dishonour

‘Even that might be better than living here,’ Bea declared theatrically.

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Elise swept up the gazette and with no further ado tossed it on to the flickering fire that had burned very low in the grate for want of fuel to nourish it.

Bea gawped at the blackening paper for no more than a few seconds before plunging downwards to try and retrieve it.

‘Don’t be so daft.’ Elise pulled her sister back from the hearth as Bea sucked a scorched digit. ‘At least we’ll get some benefit from it if it burns for a while and keeps us warm.’

* * *

‘You’ll get every penny I owe you.’

‘Oh, yes, indeed I will.’ James Whittiker stalked about the card table his low-lidded eyes on the pot of money at its centre. ‘I’ll take it out of your hide else, Kendrick.’ It was an unconvincing threat. Despite being in his mid-twenties James Whittiker was overweight and unfit, whereas Hugh Kendrick was a fine figure of a man, known to regularly attend the gymnasium. Unless Whittiker intended setting someone else on his debtor he would come off worst in a scrap. The assembly knew it and a few rumbles of mirth increased the redness veining Whittiker’s cheeks.

‘What I want to know is, when will you hand over what you owe?’ James flicked a finger at the stake money. ‘Is there any chance some of that will be yours? If so, I’ll just hover in the vicinity and relieve you of it in a while, shall I?’ His sarcasm drew another ripple of amusement; those who had been observing the play knew that Hugh was losing.

‘You sound desperate, James.’ Alex Blackthorne discarded a card on to the baize. He stretched his booted feet out under the table and settled his powerful shoulders against the chair back. ‘Having a spot of trouble selling Grantham Place, are you?’ He raised lazy brown eyes to a pink, jowly face. ‘My offer is still on the table.’

‘Take it back. I’ve no use for such a derisory sum,’ James sneered.

‘It’s the best of the six you’ve had,’ Alex answered evenly. ‘That should tell you something about your expectations where the estate is concerned.’

‘It tells me you’re a cheat and a fraudster, just like your father before you.’ Immediately Whittiker regretted having let seething frustration make him recklessly incautious. He glanced about to see a score or more pairs of eyes had swivelled his way, some viciously amused.

The clientele of White’s Club were used to overhearing heated exchanges between its members; they were also used to the possible outcome if traded insults escalated and led to a dawn meeting in a misty glade. Several gentlemen no longer patronised this establishment, or any other, because they had fled abroad to escape arrest. They were the fortunate ones; other duellists no longer drew breath following an unsuccessful fight to protect their honour.

James knew that if Alex Blackthorne now got to his feet and challenged him to name his seconds a grovelling apology was his only option. The viscount was an excellent shot and his fencing skill had been likened to that of a professional. James wasn’t prepared to risk being killed or maimed because of a moment of madness. He stabbed a poisonous stare at Hugh Kendrick. It was his fault. The viscount had only chipped in that comment about Grantham to take pressure off his blasted impecunious friend.

Alex was aware of the fomenting excitement in the room. Gentlemen reacted to a hint of a duel like a pack of hyenas scenting a carcase. He sensed several had already quit their tables to stealthily, determinedly, approach and gather behind his chair. Ancient Lord Brentley had seemed to be snoozing behind a newspaper on a sagging sofa. Now he was on his feet in a sprightly shove and ambling over.

Alex folded his hand and skimmed the cards over the baize before leisurely getting to his feet. He approached Whittiker and laid a large hand on one of his fat shoulders. The fellow’s nervous quivering was quite tangible through wool. ‘I don’t think you meant to say that, did you, James?’

Whittiker licked his parched lips. The viscount was giving him a way out, but to take it would brand him ever more as a coward prepared to dishonour his family name to save his skin.

From his superior height Alex inclined his dark head to listen for Whittiker’s response. The hushed atmosphere within the room seemed to extend into eternity.

Abruptly the sound of shattering glass splintered the silence. A steward had speeded into the room carrying a tray of decanters and crashed into a table whilst craning his neck to see what had made the club members congregate close to the fireplace.

‘I apologise, Blackthorne; mouth ran away with me,’ Whittiker muttered, using the ensuing confusion to drown out his words.

Alex was aware of the fellow’s insincerity. Whittiker hadn’t even met his eyes whilst speaking. Nevertheless, he gave his shoulder a pat before turning away.

Aware of a score or more pairs of despising eyes on him, James shoved through the throng of gentlemen towards the exit.

Chapter Two

‘I shan’t beg an invitation from the Chapmans, so please don’t nag about it.’

‘But why will you not?’ Bea gestured in exasperation. ‘Verity constantly invites you to stay with her in London, yet you rarely go. She always comes here instead and costs Papa her keep, which he can ill afford. Just a hint from you that we would love to see her and soon we would be booking our places on the mail coach.’

Privately Elise agreed with her sister’s calculation; Verity would immediately issue an invitation should she imply she would like one. Verity was a dear friend from schooldays and hadn’t shunned her when her parents’ disgrace became common knowledge. Neither had Mr and Mrs Chapman turned their backs on them all. ‘You know why I will not do it.’ Elise sighed. ‘Last time we were there you embarrassed us both by insisting we outstay our welcome. We were invited to be houseguests for two weeks yet you wangled for a longer stay, although you know Mr and Mrs Chapman are not well off. I practically had to drag you home.’

‘Mr Vaughan had started paying me attention. It would have been silly to leave at such a time.’ Beatrice had the grace to blush despite her forceful excuse.

‘Mr Vaughan knew full well where you lived in Hertfordshire. I recall you telling him several times,’ Elise responded drily. ‘He would have come after you had his intentions been as serious as you’d imagined them to be.’

‘He did like me.’ Bea’s obstinate tone couldn’t conceal an undercurrent of hurt.

‘Yes, I know,’ Elise concurred softly. ‘Unfortunately his fiancée had a firm grip on him. And now they are married.’

‘He told me if Papa had even a little to offer to ease his financial situation he’d propose in an instant. He only got betrothed to her because cash was dangled by her father.’

‘It tends to make a big difference,’ Elise agreed on a sigh. ‘That’s why I’m amazed you think this harebrained scheme of yours will work. Mr Vaughan liked you very much, yet he was unable to wed a woman without good connections or a dowry to recommend her.’ She frowned as Bea continued staring dreamily into space.

‘Will you write and ask Verity if we may stay for just one week?’ Beatrice was acting as though she’d not attended to a single sensible word Elise had uttered.

‘Tell me truthfully,’ Elise demanded. ‘Have you received replies to your advert? Is that why you want to go to town—to meet fortune hunters on neutral ground?’ From the moment Beatrice had started pestering her to get them to London Elise had feared her sister was planning to disgrace herself—perhaps them all—by risking secretly meeting a gentleman.

Beatrice hesitated just a fraction too long before issuing a denial.