Nicola Cornick - The Virtuous Cyprian

Lucille found that she was staring blankly out into the empty street. A wave of heat washed over her at the memory of the encounter. Never had the even tempo of her life at the school been so disrupted! Accustomed to seeking a rational explanation to everything that happened to her, Lucille was completely at a loss to explain the startling compulsion that had drawn her eyes to Seagrave in the first place and then held her captive staring in such a shameless manner! And then for him to notice her standing there immodestly in her shift! Well, Lucille thought, tearing her mind away, there was no danger of the experience recurring. Susanna had reassured her of that. Which, a small corner of her mind persisted in telling her quite firmly, was a great pity but perhaps for the best.

The atmosphere in the crowded gaming room was tense. There was no doubt that the Earl of Seagrave had had the run of the cards; several less fortunate players had been forced to retire, their pockets to let, grumbling wryly about his diabolical luck. His dark gaze was intent, a slight frown between his brows as he concentrated on the cards. It was a face of character, perhaps a little too harsh to be classically handsome, the dark, gold-flecked eyes deep and unreadable.

Another hand ended in his favour—and from the doorway, with disastrous clarity, came the stage whisper of some luckless sprig of nobility:

‘Lucky at cards, unlucky in love, they say…It’s all over the Town that Miss Elliott is about to throw him over…this business of the Cyprian…too blatant, only a week after their betrothal…on my honour, it’s true…’

Too late, someone shushed him and he fell suddenly silent. Seagrave turned his head, and the crowd fell back to expose the speaker as one Mr Caversham, very young and cruelly out of his depth.

‘Pray continue, Caversham.’ All Seagrave’s acquaintances recognised the note of steel beneath that silky drawl. His dark eyes were coldly dispassionate as they pinned his victim to the spot. ‘Your audience is rapt. Miss Elliott is about to terminate our engagement, you say. Further, I infer that the reason is some…alliance of mine with a certain barque of frailty? Did your informant also vouchsafe the name of this ladybird? I feel sure they must have done, Caversham.’

There was a profound silence as Mr Caversham’s mouth opened and closed without a sound. All colour had fled from his face, leaving him looking pitifully young and vulnerable. The Honourable Peter Seagrave, exchanging a watchful look with Lord Robert Verney across the card table, shook his head slightly in answer to Verney’s quizzically raised eyebrows. They had seen Seagrave in this mood before and understood something of the devils that drove him. Peter put a tentative hand on his brother’s arm and felt the tension in him as taut as a coiled spring.

‘Nick, let be! The fellow’s a foolish puppy who knows no better—’

Seagrave did not appear to hear him. He shook the restraining hand off his arm and got slowly to his feet. There was a collective intake of breath. Caversham was tall, but Seagrave towered over the younger man. Strong fingers reached for the neckcloth at Caversham’s throat, drawing him inexorably closer in the Earl’s merciless grasp.

‘Do please reconsider your silence, Caversham,’ Seagrave said, still in the same, smoothly dangerous tones. ‘You possess a certain piece of information which I am anxious for you to disclose.’ He gave his victim a slight shake.

Caversham was a fool but he was no coward. His mouth dry, his neckcloth intolerably tight, he managed to gasp, ‘It is Susanna Kellaway, my lord! I heard…I heard that she had taken a house on your Suffolk estate…The story is all over Town.’

Seagrave gave him an unpleasant smile. ‘True in all particulars! I congratulate you, Caversham!’ The young man was released so suddenly that he almost fell over. Loosening his collar with fingers that shook, Caversham watched as Seagrave unhurriedly turned back to the card table, collected the pile of guineas, rouleaus and IOUs and sketched a mocking bow to his companions.

‘My apologies, gentlemen. I find some of the company here little to my taste. Peter, do you come with me, or would you prefer to stay?’

There was a bright light of amusement in Peter Seagrave’s brown eyes. ‘Oh, I’m with you, Nick, all the way!’

The whispers gathered pace as they went down the stairs. ‘Can it be true? He did not deny it…So la belle Susanna has thrown the Duke over for a mere Earl?’

Seagrave gave no sign that he heard a word as they left the club. His face might have been carved from stone. The brothers went out into the cold morning air, where a hint of dawn already touched the eastern sky. Once out in the street, Seagrave set off for St James’s at a brisk pace which demonstrated that he was stone-cold sober. His brother almost had to run to keep up. Peter, who had been invalided out of the army after Waterloo the previous year, had still not quite recovered from the bullets he had received in the chest and thigh and after a few minutes of this route march he was forced to protest.

‘For God’s sake, Nick, slow down! Do you want to finish what the French started?’

That won him a glance with a flicker of amusement and although Seagrave did not reply, he slowed his pace to a more moderate rate that enabled his brother to keep up without too much difficulty. Not for the first time, Peter wished that his brother was not so difficult to read, his moods so impenetrable. It had not always been so. Now, for instance, he sensed that Seagrave was blindingly angry, but knew he would say nothing without prompting. Peter sighed and decided to risk it.

‘Nick, what’s all this about? When that idiot Caversham started talking I thought it was all a hum, but you knew all about it already, didn’t you? You wanted him to tell everyone about Miss Kellaway!’

There was a silence, then Seagrave sighed. ‘Your percipience does you credit, little brother.’ There was a mocking edge to his words. He drove his hands deep into his coat pockets. ‘Yes, I knew. Josselyn wrote me some garbled letter earlier this week to tell me that Miss Kellaway—’ he sounded as though there was a bad taste in his mouth ‘—had claimed a house in Dillingham. I wanted to see how much of the story had become common knowledge.’

Peter was frowning. ‘But if you already knew about the Cyprian, why did you not take action?’

He waited, and heard his brother sigh again. ‘I did not think that it mattered,’ Seagrave said, with the weary boredom that was habitual.

‘Did not think—?’ Peter broke off. He was one of the very few who knew the depth of his brother’s disaffection since his return from the wars, his apparent lack of purpose in civilian life. They had shared similar experiences whilst on campaign and Peter could see why Seagrave had been so deeply affected and had found it difficult to settle in a society that seemed to offer only instant, superficial gratification. Peter had the happy temperament to be able to recover from his harrowing experiences, albeit slowly, but Seagrave had always been much deeper, had dwelt more on all that he had experienced. It was as though some part of him had become shut away, unreachable and uninterested.

Nothing could hold his attention for long. He had the entrée into any ton function that he chose to honour with his presence. He had women fawning on him and a fortune to spend at the card tables. He could not even be accused of being a bad landlord and neglecting his estates, for he made scrupulously careful arrangements to ensure that all his tenants’ needs were met. He just chose never to attend to such matters himself. No wonder then that a letter from Josselyn had met with such indifference.