Page 54 of The Devil to Pay

“Oh, that’s all right. No need to trouble yourself, this rattlepate will leave us be. Eh, Kershaw? Be so good as to bugger off, old fellow. The marquess wants a private chat.”

Apparently undisturbed by this command, Kershaw obligingly buggered off, but there were still half a dozen men in the room. Admittedly, they were not close enough to overhear, but Jules did not like his business done in such a manner.

“Is there not a private room or—”

“Oh, cut line, Blackthorn, what is it you want, old chap? I’ve got an appointment this afternoon to check out a very fine stallion and I don’t wish to be late. Say what you want to say, if you would, please.”

Short of dragging him from the room by his cravat—a tempting idea—Jules had little choice but to carry on. Lowering his voice to be certain no one could overhear him, he made it brief.

“General Davenport, would you be so good as to give me permission to court your daughter?”

The general looked up, one red eyebrow quirking in an expression that suddenly put Jules forcibly in mind of his dear one. “What’s that? A marquess court my little girl? I should say so. Yes, yes, of course, old man. Goodness, what a turn up! Mind you, she’s a bit young and I reckon Selina will cut up stiff over it, for she’s not even out yet, and—”

“I meant, sir,” Jules said doggedly, holding onto his temper. “That I wished to court Miss Davenport, not Miss Abigail.”

This time, the general looked utterly dumbstruck. “Court Selina?” he repeated, as though he was uncertain he had heard the words correctly.

“Yes, sir,” Jules replied.

“Whatever for?”

Strangling his future father-in-law in a gentlemen’s club probably wasn’t going to add to his reputation, Jules realised with regret, but the desire to do so remained strong.

“Because she is an extraordinary woman and I wish to persuade her to be my wife,” he said, drawing on years of breeding and aristocratic pride to crush any further snubs.

“Oh, quite so, quite so,” the general said, eyeing Jules with bewilderment. “Horses for courses, eh? No accounting for taste and all that.”

“Quite so. After all, some people don’t have the slightest desire to throw you out the nearest window,” Jules said, having had quite enough of hearing the man insult his own daughter.

“Oh, now, don’t be like that,” the general replied, slapping him on the shoulder. “I beg pardon. Ought to know a fellow in love is not entirely sane. Still, must celebrate, for I didn’t think I’d ever get the old girl fired off. Reckoned I’d have the keeping of her until I turned up my toes, and then my son after me. Born to be an old maid, she was.”

Jules clenched his fists, but before he could make any other comment, another voice piped up.

“What’s that, Davvy? One of your girls is going to marry Blackstone? What a triumph! A stroke of luck, too, before everyone calls in their markers. Miss Abigail, one presumes.”

“Ah! You presume wrong. It’s Selina he wants!” the general replied and burst out laughing.

Jules opened his mouth to give the general his opinion on this behaviour towards a daughter who had practically raised her own siblings single-handed whilst managing his blasted estate too, but another voice cut in. This one made his blood run cold.

“He’ll marry any decent girl over my dead body.”

Jules turned, a sudden sick sensation roiling in his guts. For here was Lord Haversham, the man who wanted to sue him for having an affair with his wife.

“Does she know, I wonder, what kind of man she has fallen in love with?” Haversham mused, his eyes glittering with malice.

“Don’t matter a jot, heir to a dukedom!” the general said with a bark of laughter that was taken up around the room as the tasty morsel of gossip was passed around. By dinner time it would be all over London.

Jules knew the only thing he could do without making matters far, far worse was to leave. The old Jules, the one who did not think before he jumped in fists first, would have caused a scene. But it took little imagination to consider what Davenport might say if he did.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, refusing to call them gentlemen, before turning on his heel.

“I can’t help thinking Miss Davenport ought to be put right on a few points,” Haversham said, his voice pitched low so only Jules could hear him.

Jules did not respond, nor acknowledge the threat, but a chill of foreboding skittered down his spine as he left the room.

14th March 1845, Berkeley Square, Mayfair, London.

Jules turned his collar up against the brisk wind whistling across the square and quickened his pace as he left the Guard’s club behind with relief. Briggs was readying things for the journey back there while he was out. For no matter what the general had said, he’d known he must get himself back to Monmouth at once. Now though, it was imperative, before Haversham could write and tell Davenport exactly what kind of trouble he was in. Jules must at least tell her the vile details himself. At least now he could give her his parent’s approval and her father’s blessing. She must see he was serious after that. So, all he had to do was make himself look pathetic, do a tremendous amount of grovelling and pray she’d take pity on him.