The Georgian Rake Read online

  THE GEORGIAN RAKE

  Alice Chetwynd Ley

  To Ken

  Table of Contents

  Chapter I: A Marriage is Promoted

  Chapter II: The Mysterious Abbey

  Chapter III: Interlude at the Castle Inn

  Chapter IV: Amanda is Resourceful

  Chapter V: Isabella Twyford Receives Two Offers of Marriage

  Chapter VI: Dinner in St. James’s Square

  Chapter VII: The Conspiracy

  Chapter VIII: Strange Behaviour of a Rake

  Chapter IX: A Declaration of War

  Chapter X: The First Battle

  Chapter XI: Amanda has Food for Thought

  Chapter XII: The Ball

  Chapter XIII: A Summons

  Chapter XIV: Amanda Prepares for Action

  Chapter XV: Medmenham Abbey

  Chapter XVI: The Making of a Rake

  Chapter XVII: The Toll House

  Chapter XVIII: Amanda Surprises her Family

  Chapter XIX: My Lord Barsett is Beset by Doubts

  Chapter XX: Reconciliation

  Chapter XXI: Amanda Falls into Happiness

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  More Books by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  Chapter I: A Marriage is Promoted

  The picture dominated the room. It hung above the mantelshelf, and attracted the eye from the first moment of entering the door. It showed a young woman with very deep blue eyes in a pointed face; the mouth was full and red, with a whimsical twist to one corner which promised a roguish sweetness. Fair curls fell softly on to a white neck rising out of a fichu of fine lace, and the blue of the gown matched those deep eyes.

  The man who stood before the fire glanced up at the picture, and his look momentarily softened. The sound of a step outside hardened it again. He faced round slowly as the door opened.

  A younger man entered, magnificent in a velvet coat and breeches of tawny brown, with red heels to his square-toed, buckled shoes, and a foam of lace at his throat. His carriage was assured, almost arrogant.

  “I believe you wished to see me, sir?”

  It was a pleasant, drawling voice, self-possessed and cool.

  “Ay.” In contrast, the older man seemed uncertain, a little on the defensive. “Sit down, Charles. You’ll take something?”

  Charles Barsett nodded, and seated himself to one side of the fireplace with the air of one who is at home in his surroundings. His host pulled the bell-rope hanging beside the chimney piece, and bespoke a bottle of canary of the manservant who answered its summons.

  “My aunt is well, I trust?” asked Charles, politely.

  “Oh, ay, Fanny is well enough,” replied the other, uneasily. “A touch of the megrims now and then — you know how it is — but well enough, ay, to be sure.”

  The younger man nodded slowly, a mocking light in his dark blue eyes.

  “And my — er — esteemed cousin?”

  Lord Barsett bridled. “Damme, Charles, I never can understand why you must mention your cousin Roger in that demmed offensive tone! He has been a good enough friend to you, b’God, and if only you had the half of his virtues, I might die happy tomorrow!”

  “Then let us be thankful that I have not,” retorted Charles, with a smile.

  Lord Barsett choked, but was spared a reply by the entrance of the servant bearing a tray holding a decanter of wine and two glasses. The man set the tray down upon a side table and, at a nod from his lordship, withdrew silently.

  The elder of the two gentlemen crossed to the table and poured the wine, handing a glass to his guest.

  “Your continued health, Father,” said Charles, raising his glass in salutation.

  “Much you care!” retorted Lord Barsett, but he raised his glass in return, and drank.

  Charles shrugged lightly, twirling the stem of the glass idly in his fingers.

  “Now I wonder,” he said softly, “just what it is that you want of me? Forgive me, my dear sir, but you are not much in the habit of seeking my company.”

  “And you, may I point out, are not much in the habit of giving me the opportunity!” retorted his father, in some heat. “I hear of your being seen everywhere — gambling dens, prize fights, and in the company of rake-hells such as that Dashwood fellow —but you are not often to be met with in St. James’s Square!”

  “I am aware that you are well informed of my movements, particularly of the shall we say — more spectacular variety. I do take part in quite a number of respectable activities, my dear sir, little though you may be disposed to believe it. Why, only yesterday evening, I was at a ball — a most tediously respectable ball in the house of an unexceptionable hostess; no less a person than my Lady Twyford.”

  He put up an elegant hand to smother a yawn at the recollection.

  “Lady Twyford!” exclaimed his father, quickly. “’Tis strange —” He broke off. His son regarded him curiously.

  “Now, what should be strange about my Lady Twyford, I wonder?” he mused, as if to himself.

  “Oh, naught!” returned Lord Barsett, hastily.

  His son turned a quizzical eye in his direction for a moment, shrugged elaborately, and continued to sip his wine.

  Lord Barsett cleared his throat uneasily.

  “The fact is, I thought we might have a little talk, my boy. I — I am made uneasy by these constant rumours concerning you that run round the Town.”

  “So?” Charles raised one eyebrow in a manner bordering on the diabolical.

  “That fellow Sir Francis Dashwood, who is such a crony of yours — damme, the things one hears of him! It’s even said that he goes in for devil worship at that place of his on the Thames — what’s the name of it? I tell you I won’t have our name bandied about in any such connection! A few wild oats I might perhaps understand — Lud knows I’ve no wish to be thought a Puritan! But even you must see that it’s high time you settled down, Charles.”

  “There’s no harm in Mad Francis,” replied his son, soothingly. “He’s but a jester: his antics amuse me.”

  “Amuse you!” stuttered his lordship. “I suppose you will tell me next that it also amuses you to have our name dragged in the dust, to be the centre of one scandal after another! Egad, I can’t imagine whom you take after! Not, I fancy, myself! And certainly not your — mother.”

  He glanced up at the picture.

  “That is the real reason of our quarrel, is it not?” asked Charles, softly; and now the drawl was less pronounced. “You have never forgiven me for being the cause of her death.”

  The room was suddenly silent. Lord Barsett stood motionless before the fireplace, still staring up at the portrait of his wife. His son watched him, an inscrutable expression in the dark blue eyes, so like those of the picture. At last the older man came out of his reverie, and spoke in a low, passionate tone, as if to himself.

  “When they brought you to me, I told them to take you away again. At that moment I felt that I never wanted to set eyes on you. You were bought at too dear a price —too dear a price —”

  His voice broke, and he clasped his hands together as though the past had come to life, and he felt afresh the sharp agony of close on thirty years ago.

  The silence lengthened. Charles Barsett sipped his wine, staring thoughtfully at the glowing logs in the hearth.

  “No matter.” His tone hardened, and became calmer. “Charles, don’t you think it high time you were wed?”

  Charles raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “No, my boy, let us be serious for a moment, pray. You are close on nine and twenty.”

  “So?”

  “We must have an heir. At your age, I had already taken care of the succession. What have you to say?”

  For answer,
Charles surveyed his empty glass.

  “Why, sir, I say that I think perhaps I will partake of another glass of this excellent canary. Is there much more of this in your cellar?”

  “Another two dozen left of that year — damme, don’t try to turn the subject! Oh, yes, by all means take another glass if you will — but first tell me when you mean to marry, and whom.”

  “When? That I cannot say at present. Whom? Well, now, whom do you suggest?”

  Lord Barsett gasped. “Can you be serious? No, b’Gad, I should know better than to ask! But surely you have some notions of your own on the subject?”

  Charles gently shook his head. “Acquit me.”

  “Damme, what runs in your veins? Water? By all accounts, you are hot enough in some quarters — notably around Covent Garden! You cannot choose a wife as you would choose a horse!”

  “I cannot but agree with you,” replied Charles, solemnly. “One needs to exercise great care in the choosing of a horse.”

  His father made a despairing gesture. “This is just what makes it so impossible to talk to you, Charles — you will take nothing seriously, no, not even your marriage!”

  “My hypothetical marriage, sir,” corrected his son, gently. “So far, you have failed to provide me with any candidates for my approval.”

  Lord Barsett gave him a long look.

  “That sounds as though you mean to consider the notion?”

  “I hope I know my duty,” said Charles, mockingly. “We must have an heir, as you so justly point out. Well, father, whom shall I wed?”

  Once more Lord Barsett considered this enigmatic son of his.

  “Can it really be that you have no one in mind? There are a score of pretty young women to be met with every day of the week; and I have it on good authority that you are sufficiently impressionable.”

  Charles laughed shortly. “Faith, you know more of me than I do of myself, it seems! Very true, there are young women in plenty, each one an exact replica of the last — charming, accomplished, schooled for the Marriage Mart — and dull: b’God, how dull!”

  His father looked at him curiously. “What would you have? Genteel females are all turned out more or less to a pattern — it’s only to be expected. Of course, your mother was different —”

  He broke off, and looked up at the portrait with a reminiscent smile touching the corners of his mouth. It faded as his glance returned to the man at his side.

  “You cannot hope to find another such,” he said. “And I doubt if you deserve that you should. But there is a girl —”

  “Ah!” said Charles, meaningly.

  “Very well,” answered his father, on the defensive. “We seem to be agreed that a wife you must have, and you insist you have no partiality for any one particular female.”

  He hesitated for a moment, and examined his son’s expression critically, but could read nothing there. The deep blue eyes were hooded; the lean face with its patrician nose and firm mouth which had an ironical twist at one corner, gave no indication of what was passing in its owner’s mind.

  He’s a stranger to me, thought Lord Barsett, angrily. My own son, and a complete stranger, damn him!

  Aloud, he said abruptly, “What think you of the Twyford chit — whatsername? — Isabella, ain’t it? Well, what do you say?”

  “Isabella Twyford,” repeated Charles, thoughtfully. “Now, let me think... is she the red-headed one?”

  “No, no!” replied his father, a shade testily. “Dammit, you were at a ball in the house yesterday, by your own account — you must surely remember the chit!”

  Charles sat up suddenly, an expression of alarm on his face.

  “Never say that she is the pudding-faced female who has been dogging my footsteps for the past two months!”

  Lord Barsett stared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing wrong with this girl’s looks — far from it. I can only suppose you must have been in your cups last night. It’s a great deal too bad of you, or you must be aware that Twyford was a particular friend of mine until we both married; when he went to live in the country — somewhere in Berkshire, I think, or it might be Oxfordshire — anyway, it don’t signify. Since then, we’d lost touch with each other, until he set up a house in Town not two months since, to bring this girl of his out into the Polite World. A taking little thing, she is, too, not unlike your mother — though of course, she can’t hold a candle to her! But the chit’s pretty, with taking manners — conversed with me for close on half an hour, and never once looked as though she thought me a dull old codger!”

  “Perhaps she means to set her cap in your direction,” put in Charles, with a grin.

  “Pah!” snorted his father.

  “She might do worse,” went on Charles, banteringly. “A wealthy widower — better an old man’s darling, you know —”

  “Pah!”

  “Your conversation becomes monotonous,” reproached his son. “Where is that sparkling wit that once held us spellbound?”

  “I wish you will stop gammoning, and come to the point,” said Lord Barsett, testily. “Will you or will you not have the Twyford girl? She’s a good match, y’know — old name, and a fortune in her own right, I understand, let alone what will come to her from Twyford; not that that signifies — you are well-breeched enough on your own account — still, a handsome dower ain’t to be sneezed at!

  “And also a taking little thing, into the bargain!”

  “So you say, but I can’t at this moment recollect her features. However, by all the evidence, you are no mean judge. As to whether I’ll take her — doesn’t something depend upon the lady herself?”

  “Oh, as to that —!” Lord Barsett shrugged. “You’ll have her father’s goodwill, I’ll engage for that.”

  Charles cocked an eyebrow. “Young ladies have been known to have a mind of their own in these affairs.”

  “When it comes to marriage no dutiful daughter has a mind of her own: and Twyford’s girl will know her duty, I’ll be bound,” replied his father.

  “She will? You disappoint me.”

  “Disappoint you? Devil take you, Charles, I wish I understood what you would be at! Do you mean that you hope the girl will refuse you?”

  “Do I?” Charles paused to consider this. “It’s an interesting question, and I am unable to answer it. But in any event, that wasn’t my meaning. I intended to say that I am not enchanted by the notion of taking a dutiful daughter to wife.”

  “Then you’re a bigger fool than I took you for!” retorted Lord Barsett, forcefully. “May I ask what kind of female would have the power to enchant you, as you put it? No, don’t answer me! I fancy I know only too well!”

  Lines of amusement crinkled the corners of Charles’s eyes.

  “I doubt it,” he said, and rose lazily to his feet. “But you’ll pardon me, I feel sure, sir — I have an engagement in an hour’s time, and cannot stay longer.”

  “But you haven’t given me your answer!” protested his father.

  “Haven’t I? How very remiss of me! Very well, then, I consent to try my luck with the beautiful and talented Miss Twyford.”

  “You choose your adjectives well for a man who can’t even remember what the female looks like!” grunted Lord Barsett; but relief had crept into his voice. “When do you mean to make your offer?”

  “Let me see.” Charles drew a small notebook covered in red leather from an inner pocket, and consulted it, a light frown on his forehead. “Tomorrow — no, it cannot be tomorrow, I see I am to buy a horse. The next day, then — alas, engaged also! Do you know, sir —” putting the book away, and surveying his father ruefully — “I fear we cannot undertake to attempt the matter until next week?”

  “Pah!”

  “For once, I agree with you. It certainly is disgraceful that a man should be so set about with engagements that he cannot count upon a day to himself in order to get him a wife. And I dare say, you know, sir, that something of the same difficulty may in
the future crop up in connection with the provision of an heir. I am so seldom at home —”

  “Off with you!” stormed his lordship. “Don’t let me set eyes on you again until you have settled all with Isabella Twyford! Mayhap she will be able to knock some sense into your thick skull, for I tell you I despair of it!”

  “Perhaps: I shouldn’t count on it,” warned Charles, gravely. “My respects to my Aunt Fanny — and, of course, to my revered cousin. Your servant, sir.”

  He bowed with an extravagant flourish of his lace handkerchief, and left the muttering Lord Barsett alone in the room.

  As he passed into the hall, his face changed for an instant; the mocking mask fell away, and something very like regret came in its place. The former expression returned, however, as a servant walked deferentially towards him, bearing a tricorne hat and a pair of elegant gloves of York tan. Charles accepted the articles, and was continuing on his way through the hall, when the door which gave on to the street opened, and a gentleman entered.

  He paused on seeing Charles Barsett, and greeted him with a note of eager welcome in his voice. The response he obtained seemed cool in comparison. No one watching these two now could have guessed that once they had lived as brothers, and that their affection for each other had been a byword among those who knew the family intimately. Shortly after the death of his wife, Lord Barsett had taken his widowed sister Frances into his house as its mistress: at that time, it had seemed an ideal arrangement for everyone concerned. Fanny had married a man of good family who was an inveterate gambler; after losing everything he possessed at the gaming tables, he had seen nothing better to do than to blow out his brains, leaving his wife and son to the charity of their friends. Lord Barsett had contributed generously to his only sister’s upkeep; but Fanny’s tastes were expensive, and there can be no doubt that she and her baby son had felt the pinch before their arrival in St. James’s Square. From Lord Barsett’s point of view, nothing could have been more convenient. He had no intention of marrying again, and the advent of Fanny and her child would provide Charles at once with a substitute mother and a brother. This relieved my lord from the necessity of giving another thought to the child whose coming into the world had robbed his father of his most cherished possession.