Dangerous Escapade (4 page)

Mr Badger
coughed deprecatingly. “Well, now, it's not as bad as all that. I'm not saying
as how he actually seduced her; only as how kissing and such things can lead to
other things with young hot-blooded folk. Now, your Honour, we're both men of
the world, and if you could just see your way clear to compensating my Mary for
her trouble and anguish, we'll say no more about it.”

“We shall
certainly say no more about it, unless it be to a magistrate,” replied Debenham.
“I have seldom heard so blatant an attempt at extortion.

Here, Mary
spoke for the first time. “There's for you, Pa, and a good thing, too!” she
laughed. “He didn't do nothin' but put his arm around me, brotherly like,
'cause I felt so ill up there on the deck with all the heaving and all. I only
kissed him to say thank you nicely, and he didn't like it one bit, neither. So
there!”

“I think the
situation is tolerably clear. Badger, oblige me by getting out of my sight.” As
Debenham spoke, he slipped a guinea into Mary's ready palm and gave her a conspiratorial
wink, which made her giggle. The whole family was then ushered from the cabin,
leaving Debenham alone with Master Clareville, who was looking a good deal
flustered. His Lordship smiled with understanding. “Do not concern yourself,
Kit. I am sure it happened precisely as the girl described. I am not angry.”

Kit blushed
and muttered something inaudible, The Earl was left wondering why the boy
should be so overset at being accused of kissing a pretty girl and why that
girl had been so convinced that Master Clareville had “not liked it at all.”’ He
pondered, not for the first time, upon what the Clarevilles’ life had been to
produce such precocity in Kit in some respects, yet leaving him so touchingly
naive in others.

The voyage was
passed without further incident and, it was a fine morning when they eventually
put into Dover.

They rejoined
John at the inn where Kit made a hearty breakfast of rare beef, York ham, and
new-baked bread, washed down with scalding hot coffee. Debenham contented himself
with a much lighter repast of coffee and rolls, declining the red beef with a grimace
of distaste.

Having seen his
young friend's appetite gratified, he began to question him, leaning back in
his chair and watching the delicate face across the table, under his sleepy
lids. “Tell me, Kit, why did you say to your aunt that England is not your
home? Surely, you are as English as your father?”

Kit sighed: “As
to that,
Milor
, I presume that my
father is English, but I have no real reason to do so. He speaks French and
German as well as he does English, and I have been brought up to be as fluent
in the one as the other. Father has never spoken of his birthplace or any of
his past life. I think that the memory was painful to him. We have travelled all
over Europe, but I never visited this land before.”

“What was your
life, Kit? I must suppose it to have been an adventurous one.”

Kit laughed. “We
were vagabonds, indeed. We have been in turn, gamblers, actors, soldiers, rich
one day, poor the next. Yet it was a good life with father, for he made
everything exciting, and if we sometimes went hungry, he would be sure to make
it up to me before long.”

Lord Debenham was
much struck by this little history and determined to discover as much as
possible about the mysterious Mr Clareville and his intriguing son.

“Forgive me,
but is Clareville your real name?”

“I hardly
know, Sir, I have had so many, but I doubt it.” The Earl doubted it also, but
it was a starting place. He would have inquiries instituted on his young friend's
behalf. That there was a mystery here he was convinced and, considering Master Clareville's
situation, any light that could be shed upon it could only improve matters. Or
so the Earl believed.

Three

It was late in
a golden spring afternoon when they eventually reached Debenham. As they
trotted over the last rise and beheld the estate laid out before them like a
sumptuous tapestry in green and gold, Master Clareville was conscious of a
sensation of homecoming that he had never experienced before.

The house,
nestling among the surrounding hillsides, its twisted chimneys casting fantastic
shadows across the velvet smooth lawns, had never appeared more beautiful. It
was a mansion of some antiquity, for the oldest part of the house dated back to
the reign of Richard Coeur de Lion. Little of that stark fortress remained, however,
and the building that now stood was the work of the first Baron Debenham, a
quiet and scholarly gentleman who had constructed the manor house as a home for
his young bride and the progeny for which he longed. He had adopted the new
fashion of the age for rose-red brick and oak, much against the advice of his more
warlike neighbours, still clinging to their grim fortresses. He had ignored
their counsel and, among the rolling hills, had risen a charming half-timbered
brick house set amidst verdant pleasure gardens, its myriad diamond-paned
windows glinting in the sunshine.

As they came
into sight of the house, Debenham turned to Master Clareville, who was trotting
beside his guardian, astride a dainty grey mare.

“Well, Kit,
there is your new home.”

Master Clareville
drank in the scene before him with parted lips. “What is it about such beauty
that makes one want to weep?” he asked with an uncertain little laugh.

The Earl
smiled. “Perhaps because we know that we can never really possess it.''

Kit was
puzzled. “But this is your home, Sir, your land, it belongs to you.”

“No, Kit. This
house will be standing long after I am gone and forgotten. It is merely
entrusted to me for a time, and for that I must be grateful.”

Master Clareville,
who had never suspected the Earl of such depths, was fascinated by this
unexpected revelation of his character. However, he had no chance to pursue the
conversation as, at that moment, they entered the courtyard.

Servants
bustled forward to greet their master and, in the ensuing confusion, Kit was
left forlorn and forgotten. He stood a little apart, trying hard to resist the
temptation to catch hold of Debenham's arm as he moved into the house.

Brought up as
he had been upon the fringes of the fashionable world, nothing had prepared Kit
for the grandeur that met his gaze as he entered his new home.

He found himself
in a vast echoing chamber from the centre of which rose an ancient oak
staircase. Massive tables and chairs in the style of the previous century
clustered around an enormous marble fireplace in which it was still possible to
roast an oxen whole. In various corners there stood, bearing mute witness to
the valour of the Earl's ancestors, an assortment of ancient suits of armour, adding
much to the splendour but little to the comfort of the chamber.

Master Clareville,
casting pride to the winds, caught hold of Debenham's arm in a grip so
convulsive that Lord Debenham turned in astonishment.

“My good child,
there is no need for this agitation,” he said. “This is your home now.”

Kit felt all
the impossibility of explaining to his Lordship that the prospect of living in
this museum of a house was far from pleasing. However, as they passed through the
great hall and into a comfortable morning room, he began to feel very much more
cheerful. This apartment was situated in the only modern wing of the house, an addition
made by the late Earl at the request of his young bride on the occasion of
their marriage. It was in this wing, too, that apartments had been prepared for
the new inmate, who, when conducted thither by John, began to entertain hopes
of living a normal life in his new home after all.

He signified
his desire to be alone in order to wash and rest after their long ride.

“Dinner will
be served at six o'clock, Master Kit,” John informed him, “so you get a bit o'
sleep, and I'll come and waken you myself when it's time for you to dress.”

“Thank you,
John, I think I will take your advice,” answered Kit, smiling at the man. Left
alone, he explored his chamber thoroughly and was pleased to approve. Next, he
tried the bed and, finding it extremely comfortable, he stretched his slender
form upon it and, in a very few minutes, was sunk into a deep and dreamless sleep.

He awoke an hour
later to find John leaning over him, shaking him by the shoulder. Kit rubbed
his sleepy eyes, murmuring, “Is it time already? I am so tired.”

“No, Sir, but his
Lordship would like a word with you before dinner, so best hurry and dress
yourself now. His Lordship is waiting for you in the library.”

It occurred to
Master Clareville that John was looking more than usually wooden, but he
dismissed the thought with a shrug as he hastened to scramble into his best
black velvet suit and to drag a comb through his tangled curls. Outside his
apartment, he found a young footman waiting to conduct him into his Lordship's presence.
He favoured the youth with a friendly grin, which the footman, being new to the
establishment, so far forgot himself as to return. Kit went down to meet his
guardian, feeling that he had acquired at least one ally in this bewildering
new home.

Deserted by
his newfound friend at the library door, he knocked rather timidly and entered
the room, where stood a magnificent stranger in whom he recognized, with some
difficulty, Lord Debenham. Previously, Kit had only seen Debenham in his well-cut
riding gear, but now he saw his guardian dressed as befitted his great position.
He looked quite different and rather unapproachable. He wore a brocade coat in
midnight blue over small clothes of palest pearl grey satin. The black hair, heavily
powdered, was drawn into the nape of his neck with a jewelled riband.
Quantities of silver lace foamed at his throat and wrists, emphasizing every
graceful movement of his hands.

Kit gazed
open-mouthed upon this vision, causing the Earl to laugh rather ruefully: “Forgive
me, Kit. This formality is as unusual as it is unavoidable. I must leave
immediately for London to attend a reception to which I am bidden by my
betrothed. We do not make a habit of dining attired thus.”

Kit shut his
mouth and muttered an apology, annoyed with himself for displaying such
gaucherie. The Earl was smiling at him with a kindness he had not shown before.
All at once, his formidable guardian seemed approachable once more.

“Come, Kit. I
have some grave news for you.”

“About my
father?”

“I am afraid
so.” He took one of Kit's hands in a comforting clasp. “I am very sorry, Kit
: I have just received word that
your father caught a
virulent fever while in Newgate. He died yesterday; he was never brought to
trial.”

Kit did not
cry. He stood rigidly staring into the fire, his burning eyes reflecting the
dancing flames. His cheeks were as colourless as the lace at his throat, his
clenched knuckles white with tension as he fought to control his trembling.

Lord Debenham
held out his hands to his ward. “My poor boy,” he said gently and would have
embraced him, but the boy pulled sharply away, saying: “Pray do not, Sir, I
shall be better directly, but I must be alone, please.”

The Earl, who
rarely obeyed a compassionate impulse, was hurt by this rejection. However, he bowed
and left the room, trusting that his ward would master his grief more
successfully alone. He gave orders that Master Clareville was not on any
account to be disturbed, before setting out, rather belatedly, to attend his
betrothed's party. He was strangely reluctant to leave his young friend, and
even more strangely, less than eager to see his lovely bride-to-be.

The reception was
in full swing by the time that Lord Debenham was announced, but Debenham was in
no doubt that he would be welcomed, however late he made his appearance. Nor
was he mistaken. Lady Withington rustled forward to greet him, wreathed in
smiles and pooh-poohing his attempts at an apology. She swept him off in
triumph to where her daughter was seated in the ballroom surrounded by
admirers, calmly sipping a glass of champagne cup.

Amelia
Henshawe was a beautiful girl, but hers was a sculptured beauty, lacking in
vivacity or humour. However, Debenham, still sore from Master Clareville's repulse,
was not inclined to cavil, when she greeted him with a smile that assuaged his
wounded pride and gratified his vanity.

He pressed her
hand. “My dear Amelia, I wish you will explain to me how it is that you appear lovelier
every time I see you.”

“You are too
kind, my Lord,” she replied with composure.

“My Lord?” he
questioned playfully. “May I not be Anthony to you now, my sweet?”

She inclined her
powdered head, “Anthony, then.”

He kissed her
slender fingers. “May I have the honour of standing up with you for the next
dance?”

“Of course.” The
smile she bestowed upon him as she gave him her hand quite made up for any lack
of animation in her discourse and, as they took their places in the set, he was
aware that onlookers were pointing them out in whispers as the handsomest
couple in London.

As he moved without
apparent effort through the intricate movements of the dance, Lord Debenham
found himself dwelling with some concern upon the tragic figure of his ward, alone
in the library at Debenham. Such intensity of emotion was unknown to Debenham and,
in anyone else, he would have been inclined to dismiss such a demonstration as
vulgar self-indulgence. But Debenham had developed respect, as well as
affection, for his young charge, and it pained him to be helpless in the face
of so much suffering.

He had just
determined to cut short his evening in order to return early to Richmond when
he became aware that he was being addressed by his betrothed.