A Sister's Secret (7 page)

‘H’m,’ said Captain Burnside, ‘I ain’t too keen on that kind of hammering.’

‘You are wise, sir, to fear Cumberland. He has no fears himself, either of God or the devil.’

‘Should I come close to being hammered to death, marm, will you take kindly to my asking for compensation in the form of a doubled fee?’

‘I will pay the costs of the doctor and the convalescence,’ said Caroline. ‘Now, sir, are you still willing fully to undertake this venture?’

‘As your servant, marm, I’m willing and prepared.’

‘Very well,’ said Caroline, her beauty complementing the elegant look of her drawing room, with its royal blue motif and its graceful French furniture. ‘I hope my confidence in you is not misplaced, and that you can cure my sister of her attachment to Cumberland. No time must be lost. I felt you might have stayed to establish yourself with her the other day, instead of unexpectedly departing.’

‘Ah, well,’ said the captain, ‘a little indifference in the beginning piques a young lady who has begun to think, by reason of a royal duke’s attentiveness, that she is irresistible to all men.’

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ said Caroline. ‘I shall expect you to contrive more intelligently than that.’

‘Faith, marm,’ said Captain Burnside, ‘intelligence don’t always guarantee a satisfactory outcome when dealing with young ladies. They’re sweet things, but ain’t given as much to common sense as they are to heartfelt yearnings.’

‘Sometimes, sir, your facile tongue takes a very un-attractive turn. I will now have one of my servants take you up to your room, and show you such amenities as are available to you. I trust you will not find them inadequate. We dine at six, and I should like it if you will appear at not later than fifteen minutes to.’

‘Thank you, marm. Ah, first, when did we meet?’

‘Meet?’

‘I fancy your sister might ask that question. Shall we say at a ball, perhaps, a while before you were married and I had had some acquaintance with Lord Percival?’

‘I cannot deny that the details of our assumed first meeting might be important. Let it be at the Queen’s ball in September, seven years ago.’

‘Excellent. And may I enquire how I’m to address you? As an old friend, shall it be Caroline or not?’

‘Lady Clarence,’ she said. ‘Or Lady Caroline.’

‘Very well, marm.’

‘And I shall call you Captain Burnside, to indicate that although we are old friends we are not intimately so.’

‘Lady Caroline, marm, I am yours to command.’

‘Indeed you are,’ said Caroline firmly, ‘and do not forget it.’

The atmosphere at supper proved as equable as Caroline could have wished. One never knew in precisely what mood the Duke of Cumberland would arrive at any function, private or public, but at least he was more inclined to dispense civility at a small supper party than at a large gathering. At a large gathering, he disliked the possibility of rubbing shoulders with people who might be merely people.

Caroline had not been sure he would put in an appearance following her confrontation with him the previous day. But he did, and he greeted her as if nothing obtained between them but the friendliest of feelings. And with six at the table, the dining room owning a magnificence in keeping with his own, he induced an agreeable atmosphere with his mood of royal benevolence. Nor did he make any attempt to be more attentive to Annabelle than to anyone else. If, from time to time, his eye was a little mocking, and his smile a little satirical, his conversation was most agreeable. He knew each of the three ladies well, and they were all pleasing to look upon.

His hostess, gowned in shimmering jade green, strung pearls clasping her smooth, creamy neck, was undeniably
superb, her lightly powdered bosom a curving splendour. Her sister Annabelle, in delicious azure blue, came to the eye as a fair young goddess, if with no more worldly knowledge than that of a simple shepherdess. As for Lady Caroline’s cousin by marriage, Cecilia Humphreys, her magenta gown gave a vividness to her Latin-like dark looks. She was the daughter of the deceased younger brother of the Duke of Avonhurst, and in her aptitude for radiating gaiety hinted not at all that she and her husband Robert were hard put to maintain their expensive lifestyle.

Robert Humphreys was a pleasant and amiable gentleman who, with Cumberland’s help, kept his head just above water. The impoverished third son of the spendthrift Sir Godfrey Humphreys, he had managed to lay his hands on a little property for a nominal outlay, and he had been put in the way of this by Cumberland. He received rents from the tenants, rents necessary to his pocket. Only yesterday, at the request of Cumberland’s private secretary, he had turned one of the properties over to accommodate a wish of the duke. It had meant housing the tenants elsewhere at a moment’s notice. The arrangement, Erzburger had assured him, was only temporary. It was also confidential. Robert knew better than to ask questions. Robert was the kind of gentleman who liked people to like him. Why any gentleman should worry about people liking him was beyond the comprehension of the duke.

Cumberland noted that the other fellow, Captain Burnside, dressed decently enough, as a man should, without lace or fripperies. Aside from that, he was, of course, as much of a nonentity as Humphreys. However, in certain circumstances, a nonentity or two could be tolerated. The three ladies made these circumstances of that kind. Percival’s widow was a challenge, her sister
a pleasurable toy, and Humphreys’ wife an occasional pleasure.

Cumberland’s eye caught Annabelle’s glance. His dark visage took on a slightly amused expression.

‘Well, Burnside,’ he said, ‘since ye’re a Redcoat, what d’ye think of being in company with two of America’s choicest blooms? D’ye fancy we can forgive them what the damned rebellious colonists did to the status quo?’

‘I fancy, Your Highness, that neither Lady Caroline nor Miss Howard had much to do with that,’ said Captain Burnside, consuming a sweet water ice.

‘Mere infants at the time, eh?’ Cumberland gazed at Annabelle’s bosom. ‘Babes in arms, d’ye suppose?’

‘And quite without the sin of rebelliousness, sir,’ said the captain with easy affability.

‘Prettily said, Captain,’ smiled Cecilia.

‘We’re all without sin as infants,’ said Caroline, ‘and I declare, Your Highness, that both Annabelle and I continue to be perfect. That is, in the eyes of our loving parents.’

‘I vow I hope I am perfect in everyone’s eyes,’ said Annabelle, ‘for I cannot think I could be sweeter than I am.’

‘Fie to modesty,’ laughed Cecilia, ‘let all we ladies dare every gentleman to say we are not less than beautiful and not less than adorable.’

‘I shall say nothing,’ said the captain, ‘for I accept that.’

‘Oh, you are surely the essence of a gentleman,’ said Annabelle.

‘And what do you say, my love?’ asked Cecilia of her husband.

‘I say, my love, that you are immaculate,’ said Robert.

Cumberland’s smile had the devil’s own gleam of amusement to it. Annabelle, remarking it, shivered deliciously.

Supper over, the company repaired to the room used for cards and other pastimes. Since it was known that Cumberland did not favour after-supper small talk, no hostess dared invite him to dine without the prospect of the rest of the evening spent at a card table. So the three men played
vingt-et-un
, with the minimum stake a guinea, the maximum fifty guineas, and the three ladies engaged in backgammon at a suitable distance. The light of the low chandeliers, each burning a score of candles, shone on their heads. Caroline’s auburn hair glinted with fire. Annabelle’s fair hair was touched with gold. Cecilia’s hair was a glossy, curl-adorned black crown. Their gowns squarely plunged, and the candlelight shed pearly lustre over gently breathing curves.

Annabelle fidgeted a little, casting covert glances at the men, at the commanding, fine-backed figure of the duke. He had such a dominating presence, although she did not fail to notice that Captain Burnside was so remarkably at ease that he imparted a presence of his own. They were both gentlemen of singular character. Oh dear, how sweetly exciting it was to be an eligible young lady in London, where the men were so cultured and civilized, and no lady made a fuss if one was not engaged at the age of sixteen or seventeen.

Cecilia cast no glances. She made an enjoyment of the backgammon. She made an enjoyment of most pursuits, for she was easy to please. Thirty years old, she had given Caroline comfort and sympathy in the face of all her marital tribulations, and during her widowhood, although in widowhood Caroline frankly needed far less sympathy than when her husband was alive. Cecilia was on very agreeable terms with her own husband, and they understood each other perfectly. Unfortunately,
the splendid dowry she had received from her father on marriage was almost gone, mainly due to Robert’s dreadfully bad luck with investments, speculations and cards, poor dear. With three children to bring up and educate, Cecilia might have shown a worried face to the world. So might Robert. But they were both cheerful souls. Neither showed any envy of Caroline’s inheritance. It was a blessing to Cecilia that Robert had earned Cumberland’s patronage, for the duke had put him in the way of better investments, and for no consideration at all other than that of sometimes taking Robert’s place in her bed. One did not talk about that, of course, and Cumberland never would. Robert said it would be sure to earn him further royal favours, perhaps by way of a government appointment that would prove lucrative. Cecilia had said, ‘Oh, I do hope so, my love, for I’d not yield your place in my bed to Cumberland for a single night if he were not intending to continue favouring you.’

Caroline’s friendship with Robert and Cecilia was a warm one, and she was not in the least aware that Cecilia was yet one more woman who enjoyed herself in the arms of the unhandsome but magnetic Cumberland.

Glancing at the men, Caroline was curious to know if Captain Burnside was embarrassing the duke’s pocket. Cumberland’s expression told her nothing. But that dark face, with its twisted scar, rarely expressed anything except mockery or deviousness. He sat upright in his chair, his dark grey coat a severity in its cut and its close fit. Captain Burnside seemed thoughtful but untroubled, and Robert was wearing a faint smile, a sign that he was probably winning. The three of them were speaking only in murmurs. When gentlemen were at cards they did not play loudly.

Cumberland regarded the card Captain Burnside
had just dealt him. The ace of hearts. A pretty thing. He announced his bet: fifty guineas. He never showed money itself. He received his second card, the ace of diamonds. A crisp gift. He split both cards, betting fifty guineas on the second. Captain Burnside dealt him a third. Cumberland’s expression remained impassive as he regarded yet another ace. Spades. Fifty guineas went on that too.

Captain Burnside, knowing the duke had three of a high kind, placed a card on each. Cumberland took a look at the first. A king. He turned it up. ‘
Vingt-et-un
,’ he said. The card on the second ace was a four. He asked for another.

‘Open or closed?’ murmured the captain.

‘Closed, for a further fifty,’ said Cumberland, and received a six. ‘Enough,’ he said, and looked at the card on his third ace. A ten. ‘
Vingt-et-un
,’ he said again, turning it up.

‘I fancy I’m for it,’ smiled Captain Burnside. The duke had two hands that could only be beaten if he turned up
vingt-et-un
himself. He looked at Robert. ‘Mr Humphreys?’

‘Oh, show me one,’ said Robert, who held a nine and a three against a bet of five guineas. Captain Burnside dealt him an eight, and Robert’s smile became broad. ‘I’ll stand,’ he said.

‘I’ve a feeling of disaster,’ said the captain, and turned up the first of his own two cards. Ace of clubs. Cumberland’s eyebrow went up. But the second card proved to be a five. ‘H’m,’ said the captain, ‘I ain’t going to make myself a fortune standing on sixteen. So …’ He dealt himself a third card, a jack. ‘Damn me, an interloper.’ He gave himself a fourth. A queen. ‘Topped by an unkind lady,’ he said.

‘Bad luck,’ said Robert.

‘Who is winning?’ asked Annabelle, unable to stay on the outside any longer.

Cumberland disdained the question. Few gentlemen liked to be asked about the state of a game.

‘I’m up, I fancy,’ said Robert, square of shoulders and open of countenance.

Captain Burnside made a note that he had just lost two hundred guineas to Cumberland and five to Robert. He paid Robert. He now owed Cumberland four hundred and seventy guineas in all.

‘Captain Burnside?’ enquired Annabelle prettily, ignoring from Caroline a look that told her not to interrupt the men.

‘Down,’ said the captain, and Caroline frowned. He was losing? What had happened to his skill, then? Or had she hired herself a mere braggart?

The bank passed to Cumberland. He dealt a series of hands, some at a profit, some at a loss, and the deal then returned to Captain Burnside on his showing of an ace and a jack. Robert received some moderate cards, but Cumberland was dealt three excellent hands in succession. The fourth proved even better. It secured him a five-carder, virtually unbeatable if luck was no more than modest, and his total wager on it was one hundred and sixty guineas. The captain, having put Robert out of the reckoning, showed his own cards. An eight and a five. Smoothly, he added to them, first with a deuce, then a three and then another deuce, giving himself a five-card hand that capped the duke’s.

Cumberland smiled. ‘Pretty,’ he said, ‘very pretty, and boldly achieved.’

‘Oh, something back, sir,’ said Captain Burnside. ‘To the tune of one sixty, I fancy?’

Cumberland waved an airy hand. He began to lose steadily then. He remained impassive, although he turned a keener eye on the captain. The ladies eventually came to watch, to stand in silence around the table. Robert, amiably electing to inform Cecilia that he was comfortably up, received from Cumberland a glance that chastened him. Caroline, making her assessment of the play and the bets, realized the tide had turned for Captain Burnside.