Page 53 of The Devil to Pay

Jules bit his lip. “I… I’m grateful… beyond grateful, sir, but I made this mess, and I think—”

“I admire the sentiment,” his father said, but with a tone that brooked no argument. “But if you think I wish to see my family dragged through the dirt, you may think again. It is your mess, and you ought to clean it up, but you cannot. I, however, can, and shall do so, and you may live with the indignity of that as a punishment for your foolish and thoughtless behaviour. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Jules replied, his voice hoarse.

The duke nodded. “Then I shall say no more on the subject. You, however, ought to put your time to better use by applying to General Davenport for permission to court his daughter. Then I suggest you return to Monmouthshire at once and go about the business seriously. If your mother remembers the girl so clearly and approves her, then I must believe she will make an excellent duchess one day. For God’s sake Jules, secure your interest there, and do not mess it up!”

“Yes, sir,” Jules said once more, and this time, with rather more enthusiasm.

Chapter 18

Dear Pip,

I shall be with you next week if I can rearrange a few engagements in time. Sorry, to hear you’re in the doldrums, but you may rely on me to act as court jester and raise your spirits. As for getting my hands dirty, get stuffed. I don’t like you that much and it’s your inheritance, not mine. I got a pocket watch.

I’ve heard what Jules has been up to, as will all the world very soon. I do not envy him, though it was obvious enough where that affair was going but he never did listen to a word anyone said. I suppose he’s fallen in love with darling Tilly as well? How is my little angel? I’m sure she misses her Uncle Thorn most terribly – as I’m her favourite person in the world – so give her my best love and tell her I’m bringing her a present when I come.

I have tidings of a more serious note to give you, however. It seems that Aggie has disappeared. Fred is beside himself. I’ve never seen a fellow go all to pieces in front of my eyes, but it is not a pretty sight. Even her father seems at a loss to explain where or why she has gone. Obviously only a few people know the truth, the official line is that she’s gone to stay with some of his relatives in the south of France. I pray she is well and safe and shall shake her soundly for scaring us all so much when I next see her. She has been a dear friend and I cannot bear to think that she may be in a fix and did not turn to one of us for help.

Perhaps it is small comfort, but you are not the only one with troubles to bear, brother. Chin up. I shall be with you soon and we shall set the world to rights over another bottle or three of that excellent burgundy you served me with the last time.

―Excerpt of a letter to The Right Hon’ble Phillip Barrington, The Earl of Ashburton from his younger brother, The Right Hon’ble Mr Thomas Barrington (sons of The Most Hon’ble Lucian and Matilda Barrington, The Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu)

14th March 1845, The Guard’s Club, 49 St James’ Street, Mayfair, London.

It took Jules several days to run his quarry to ground. He finally turned him up in a club for officers of the Guard’s Division opposite Whites. The atmosphere was lively, with a good deal of ribald laughter and the scent of roast meat, cigar smoke, and liquor perfuming the air.

Jules, who had spent the morning running hither and yon in search of his future father-in-law, was hungry, increasingly irritated, and in no mood to run the gauntlet of a brace of old school pals who had taken the military route and no doubt served with honour. On any other day he might have been pleased to take a drink with them and reminisce about their school days, but for the moment he had no patience with men who had clearly been celebrating the anniversary of some event or other and were more than a trifle bosky.

“Oh, come on, Blackstone, don’t be such a slow top,” complained Captain Hastings, who was looking more disreputable than honourable, with his coat all undone. The evidence that this celebration had been going on for some time showing with the unshaved state of his chin. “You were always ripe for a lark before.”

“Yes, I know,” Jules replied darkly. “But not today, old man. I’m looking for General Davenport. Have you seen him?”

“Lord! What do you want with that old windbag?” the captain demanded. “He won’t be amusing, not even a bit. Drones on about horses and hunting and… and… and well, that’s all, really.”

“I know it,” Jules replied with a sigh. “Nonetheless.”

The captain shook his head, staring at Jules with a look of bewildered disappointment. “Oh, well, if you must, you must, but a dashed peculiar state of affairs is what I say. Still, he was in the red saloon, last time I saw him.”

“Much obliged, Hastings,” Jules said, and made his escape before the fellow could change his mind.

The red saloon was barely visible through the fog of cigar smoke that hung in a cloud over most of the room. Jules, who had never had a taste for the vile things, grimaced and plunged into the stifling atmosphere. A huge fireplace was blazing like fury, making the atmosphere in the room close and the temperature nigh on tropical. Jules had the urgent desire to fling all the windows open so he might catch his breath. His attention was taken, however, by the sight of the General standing, glass in hand, and chatting with some crony or other. Though he found nothing to like in having to present himself to such a man, Jules knew his own worth. From the General’s point of view, he was the golden goose. He anticipated no problems in securing his agreement. The trouble would be getting the man to hold his blasted tongue until his darling Boadicea came to her senses.

The General looked up, removing a fat cigar from his mouth as he saw Jules approach. He was a striking-looking fellow for a man of his years, far better looking than his son. It was clear enough where the divine Abigail had inherited her beauty from. Though the resemblance to his beloved was faint, that too was visible, in the uncompromising line of his jaw and a rather imperious nose.

“General Davenport,” said politely, reminding himself he was the Marquess of Blackstone and had no business being the least bit anxious. Davenport was of age for one thing, if she wished to marry, then she could get on and do it. “Might I have a private word?”

“Oh, Lud, Davvy, you in the basket again?” chuckled the fellow he was speaking to, turning next to address Jules. “If you’ve come to collect, I shouldn’t hold your breath, for he owes me twenty pounds and I don’t expect to see it before May Day.”

“No. It is nothing of the sort,” Jules said frostily, disliking the implication he had sought the fellow out merely to chase down an unpaid debt.

“Well, what do you want, then?” the general asked suspiciously, before his expression cleared. “I know you, you’re Bedwin’s heir. Blackthorn, ain’t it?”

“Blackstone.”

“That’s the dandy,” the general agreed affably, whilst simultaneously summoning a servant. “Well then, come, come, have a drink with us. Perkins, bring us a bottle of that brandy, will you? Not that swill you served me yesterday, mind, the good stuff.”

“Actually, I would rather be private, if—”