The Lion's Daughter (44 page)

“
I
remember. But there was a time
limit, was there not? Twelve thousand pounds,
if
I were wed within
—
what
was it, three years? Surely it's been longer than that.” “Three
years from the date of her death. She passed on late in December of
'15.
You
were wed this past November, according to your documents
—
which
are fully in order, I'm happy to say.” Mr. Willoughby essayed a
thin smile. “Therefore, you are now twelve thousand pounds to
the good.” “That depends on one's point of view.”
Varian put down the copy of the will. “What is the sum of my
debts? “I cannot name the precise figure at present. What with
interest and Fortier's bankruptcy and other such variables
—”
“A
n approximation will do.”
Varian's heart was pounding furiously
.

“Something
in the vicinity of twelve thousand pounds, my lord.”

The
pounding stopped dead, as though an immense weight had fallen upon
it, then recommenced, slow as a funeral drumbeat.

“What
an amusing coincidence,” Varian murmured.

“I
am sorry, my lord. Still, it might be worse. The estate is in no
danger, as I explained.”

“I've
recently viewed the
...
remains. I collect the reason
it's in no danger is that no creditor would be fool enough to want
it.”

“Perhaps
not. Still, I flatter myself I have placed sufficient obstacles to
discourage even the most daring of speculators.”

“I
thank you for that, Willoughby.” Varian looked toward the grimy
window. “I suppose you think I ought to use this windfall to
pay my creditors.”

“So
I would advise, yes.” Mr. Willoughby carefully lined up a small
pile of documents and moved them a few inches to his left.

“That
would leave me with nothing.”

The
solicitor cleared his throat. “We may be able to preserve a
small sum. As I mentioned, I should want some time
—
a
few weeks
—
to
ascertain the precise amount. However, if you owe a man twelve
hundred pounds, I may be able to satisfy him with eleven hundred, or
even one thousand. Admittedly, they don't like to settle in that way,
since it disallows any future action for the remainder. On the other
hand, legal actions are costly and, when undertaken against members
of the peerage, so often disappointing.”

“Disappointed
creditors can make one's life exceedingly disagreeable all the same,”
Varian said. “I should not wish my wife to be annoyed.”

“Naturally
not, my lord. I quite understand. That is why I suggest you clear the
slate, so to speak. And I should undertake to preserve a small sum.
With that, and her ladyship's dowry
—”

“Her
ladyship has no dowry.”

Mr.
Willoughby blinked. “Does she not? How very odd. I was led to
understand
—”

“Nothing,”
Varian told him firmly. “Not a shilling.”

“If
you say so, my lord. Yet, if you will not object, I should wish to
pursue certain inquiries.”

“I
should
not
like,
particularly if you intend to question her

family.
They hold me in the greatest dislike. Even if her father managed to
set something aside for her
—
which
is highly improbable
—
they'll
make certain I can't so much as look at it.” Varian shrugged.
“One can hardly blame them.”

“But
if anything is owing to you
—”

“Whatever
might be owing to me, I can't possibly collect. Would you have me
spend my windfall in a Chancery suit? I'd stand a better chance at
the faro tables. There, at least, one has a chance of doubling one's
winnings. Or tripling them.” Varian frowned.

Mr.
Willoughby uttered a small sigh but said nothing.

“
I
cannot restore Mount Eden if I
pay my creditors,” Varian said stiffly. “I must have
something, Willoughby.”

“I
do understand, my lord. Still, I might be able to preserve as much as
a thousand pounds.”

“I
might make twelve thousand into twenty-four this very night”.

Willoughby
said nothing. His face had lost color in the last
few
minutes, and the expression in
his eyes had grown bleak. He appeared some decades older than the
fortyish man who greeted Varian a short while before.

Varian
rose. “If there is nothing else, I'd best be on my way.”

“Yes,
my lord. I imagine you would wish an advance on the sum, since the
paperwork will take some time. Will a hundred do for the present?”

Chapter
25

AFTER
LEAVING THE SOLICITOR'S OFFICE, VAR-ian proceeded unhurriedly toward
Oxford Street. At this early hour, he stood little risk of
encountering any of his acquaintances. Glancing down at his
threadbare cuffs, he thought ruefully that his friends wouldn't
recognize him anyway.

His
appearance, however, could be quickly amended, now that he'd a few
pounds in his pocket. One of his favorite tailors would surely have
something on hand. With a few alterations, Lord Edenmont would be
presentable by nightfall. He'd take his brothers to dinner, and
perhaps they'd look in at Brooks' club. Then he'd try a hand or two
at the card tables, just to make sure he still knew what he was
about.

His
mind busy with plans for transforming his windfall into a vast
fortune, Varian turned a corner, then stopped.

An
elegant bow window jutted over the sidewalk. Within it stood a
gathering of tiny mannequins dressed in the latest modes. One
miniature lady, garbed in a walking dress, caught his eye. Her white
muslin petticoat boasted four rows of ruffles round the bottom. Over
it she wore a richly worked open robe. A green spencer tightly
encased her upper torso. Matching

green
shoes and a plumed headdress completed the ensemble, The green was
very much like the color of Esme's eyes. As he studied the other
figures, Varian could easily picture Esme dressed in a sumptuous ball
gown, whirling to the lush strains of a waltz. He imagined as well an
elegant carriage lined in green velvet, and his lady wife upon the
seat, smiling up at him as they rolled down the Champs
Elysées.
Paris. They could run away and
live like royalty on his inheritance. For years, perhaps. He had no
sooner closed his eyes to savor the glorious image than it dissolved
into numbers:
£12,000
per annum, a thousand a month. He
could spend as much in minutes at
rouge
et
noir.
But
no.
He'd double his wind-fall, triple it. Yet his mind's eye offered only
heaps of IOUs and small stacks of coins upon a green baize gaming
table. Meanwhile, his brain tolled out that ghastly
cliché
about lucky at cards
...
“B
ut I must have
something,” he muttered as he opened his eyes again.
.
,

...
children. If God is generous
...
Twe
lve
thousand pounds today. But tomorrow?

As
he looked down again at the tiny lady in green, Varian's expression
softened. He strolled into the
shop and asked the
modiste
for
a piece of paper and
a
pen. His sensually indolent
countenance did the rest. Varian had only to smile
—
which
he did, rather shyly
—
and
Madame would have burned down
her shop if he asked her to. Without a word she got the materials he
requested, Then she stood, her fingers unconsciously covering the
racing pulse at her throat, and stared at his face in a sort of
delirium while he wrote. It took not a minute. Varian folded the note
and placed a coin on the counter beside the pen.

“I'm
much obliged,” he said. “It couldn't wait, you see.”
“Non,
m
'lord.
Certainement,
m
'lord,”
she
said breathlessly. She was about to offer to carry the message for
him
—
to
China, if he wished
—
when
she recollected some fragment of her dignity and offered to send one
of her assistants with it instead. The note was put into Mr.
Willoughby's hands not fifteen minutes later.

“Pay
them,” read the slashing black script. Beneath sprawled a
large, hasty, “E.”

LADY
BRENTMOR FLUNG open the copy of
Ackermatin's
Repository
Esme had just slammed
shut. “If you won't pick out your frocks, I'll pick 'em for
you,” she said.

“I
want no gowns,” Esme ground out. “I want my dowry.”

“By
gad, you're as obstinate as your pa
—
and
without half his wits. How in the name of all that's holy did he
beget such a ninnyhammer?”

Lady
Brentmor bolted up from the sofa and took a furious turn about the
room. Then she sailed at her granddaughter again. “For the
hundredth time, you haven't
got
a
dowry. Not until I say you do.”

“Then
I shall write a letter to the
Times,”
Esme said. “I shall tell the
world what you have done.”

“The
Times? THE TIMES?”
the
dowager shrieked.

“Yes,
and all the other newspapers as well. Also, I shall stand up in
church on Sunday and tell everyone how my husband is forced to desert
me because my family does not fulfill the marriage contract.”

Lady
Brentmor opened her mouth, then shut it. She sat down again and
stared at Esme.

Esme
sat poker straight, her hands tightly folded, her mouth set in a
stubborn line.

There
was a long silence.

Then
the dowager's sharp crack of laughter.

“Plague
take you! Stand up before the congregation, will you? A letter to the
Times?'
Ton
my honor that's good. Did Percival help you think of it?”

“He
suggested the newspaper, but the announcement in the church was my
own idea,” Esme stiffly admitted.

“I
thought you took it too quiet yesterday. Damme but you're pigheaded.
I told him it wouldn't do any good. Eden-mont won't be running back
to collect you. You can't buy his company, child. He'll only spend
what he gets on gaming, liquor, and tarts.”

The
words stabbed deep, but Esme answered doggedly, “It is Varian's
decision how he spends it. If he does not wish to

come
for me, I cannot force him to. I did not beg him to keep me with him,
and shall not. I brought nothing to my marriage. Now,
at least I have a dowry and may hold my
head up. My honor demands it be paid.”

Blast
and botheration! You talk just like a
man!”
Lady Brentmor again bounced up.
“Very well, my
honorable
lady,
if you
wish
to manage everybody, and think you know better than your elders.”

She
moved to the library door. “Come along with me to the co
un
ting house, and I'll show you the
Pandora's box you want to open.”

Mystified,
yet firm in her resolve, Esme marched after her grandmother to the
gloomy study.

There
the dowager unlocked a desk drawer, took out a sheaf of letters, and
thrust them into Esme's hands. Then she sat, waiting in silence, but
for her index finger tapping impatiently upon the desk.

After
a few minutes, Esme looked up from the endless rows of figures and
explanatory notes. “You had this man spy upon
my uncle?”

“I
had him look into Gerald's accounts. I only wish I had a proper spy,
to find out how Gerald managed it.” The old lady gestured at
the letters. “He told me he'd had 'a few setbacks'
—
but
what those figures amount to is near ruin. How, I ask you, could he
come to a crash with such sound investments? I ought to know. That's
where I've been investing funds these last thirty years.”

“I
do not understand these matters,” Esme said. “Yet I have
heard of speculations in which men lose fortunes.” “He's
been up to something worse than that, or he'd have admitted he was
under the hatches.” Esme handed back the letters. “His
money concerns are his problem. I
do not see what this has to do
with my dowry.” “Oh, don't you?” The dowager locked
away the letters. “Then
think,
child.”