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‘But she didn’t take you,’ Elise returned shortly. ‘Mama didn’t want us. She wanted her lover, and now she is dead,’ she concluded, a catch to her voice. ‘Papa has his faults, but at least he didn’t abandon us.’
‘I wish he had,’ Beatrice hissed, spinning away from her reflection. ‘I didn’t want to be dragged to the sticks to moulder away and expire as a spinster. I’d rather have thrown myself on some rich fellow’s mercy.’
‘I don’t think you mean that,’ Elise replied, annoyed by her sister’s hint that she’d rather be a gentleman’s mistress than endure boredom.
Beatrice blushed, but her lips slanted mutinously, letting Elise know that she wasn’t about to take back her outrageous comment.
‘You’d better hope Papa doesn’t find out what you’re doing or saying!’ Elise warned, her vivid eyes widening in emphasis. ‘If he gets to know you’ve put in print he’s a cruel guardian, and that you’re touting yourself about, you really will end in a convent.’ Mr Dewey’s pet threat when exasperated by his daughters’ behaviour was to send them to take vows.
‘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.
