Rules for Being a Mistress (25 page)

“It’s been in my pocket for a while,” Benedict explained.

“Do you know Lady Maria Fitzwilliam? She always passes her paper between her legs before she writes to me,” said Westlands.

“I am glad to hear it. Your letter, my lord.”

“Stop coach!” When the driver had obeyed, Westlands opened his letter and read it in silence, holding it up to the window. “I cannot read in a moving carriage,” he explained when he was done. Smiling, he put the letter in his pocket.

“If there is a reply,” said Benedict, “I will be happy to take it with me when I return to Bath, but I fear that will not be for some time. I shall be in London all next week, and then I must attend to some matters at my estate in Surrey. You may prefer to send your reply by messenger or by post.”

“Tell me something,” said Westlands thoughtfully. “Did she ever grow into those enormous green eyes of hers?”

“Yes,” Benedict replied. “I rather think she did.”

“They used to come to us every year at Christmas,” Westlands said wistfully. “The Irish Savages, my mother used to call them. It was the only time we had any
fun
at that old mausoleum in Derbyshire. Now Sandy’s dead. Larry’s dead. Dan’s in India. And Cosy’s in bloody Bath. Why the devil is she there?”

“Your Aunt Agatha is rather ill. She’s in Bath seeking treatment.”

He snorted. “Quackery! Spa medicine. Bath never cured anybody. Poor old Aunt Aggie. She was always sick and queer. She had smallpox when she was a baby, you know, and she was never right after that. I think all that stuff she puts on her face has leaked into her brain. I hate to think of little Cosy stuck in Bath with Aunt Ag. Can’t be too jolly. Must be bored to sobs. Maybe I should go and cheer her up.”

They arrived in St. James’s Street and entered White’s. Benedict ordered an excellent dinner accompanied by very good claret, followed by port. They ended the meal with brandy and cigars. The conversation turned to politics. Lord Westlands’s title was a courtesy; he could cast no vote in the House of Lords, but his father, Lord Wayborn, was a Tory and a staunch supporter of Lord Liverpool. Westlands felt the need to apologize to his host, who was one of the leading lights of the Opposition.

“My father says you are going to lose this debate, Sir Benedict. You do not have the votes, and you cannot spin them out of the air. What’s the debate about anyway?”

“It’s about an apple,” Benedict replied. “A rotten apple, to be exact.”

“An apple! You’re not serious.”

“Indeed I am. Someone threw a rotten apple at His Highness, the Prince Regent, as he was driving to Parliament in his carriage. His Highness was convinced it was a bomb, and nothing could persuade him otherwise.”

“Perhaps it
was
a bomb,” Westlands suggested. Suddenly, he felt very important, sitting in the smoking room at White’s talking politics with Sir Benedict Wayborn, the man all blue-blooded Tories loved to hate. From time to time, there had even been cartoons of Sir Benedict Wayborn in
Punch
magazine.

“It was demonstrably an apple,” said Benedict. “It had seeds and a stem.”

Westlands laughed. “And that’s the debate? Bomb or apple?”

“The debate is whether or not this regrettable incident justifies Lord Liverpool’s proposal to suspend habeas corpus in the British Isles.”

“In English.”

“If his proposal passes, the British government would be within its rights to arrest anyone, anywhere, without showing cause, without right to counsel, and without a trial. I see no reason for my government to treat my fellow citizens like a defeated enemy, simply because some fool bunged an apple at Prinny’s head!”

“But the Tories have it all wrapped up.”

“They control both Houses, Lords by right of law, and Commons by right of pocket.”

Westlands laughed nervously. “You make it sound like a criminal enterprise!”

“And not by accident,” said Benedict. “Is there a reply to your letter?”

Westlands hesitated. “She wants me to go there, to Bath,” he said. “The thing is…I’m a bit short on funds at the moment…Nothing from the governor until Easter-tide, I’m afraid.”

Benedict took out his wallet. “Would, say, twenty pounds be of any use to you?”

“I say!” said Westlands. “You’re not such a bad fellow, after all.”

The vote, when it took place on Thursday evening, went exactly as Benedict feared: straight down party lines. And since the Tories outnumbered the Whigs ten to one in Lords and three to one in Commons, the motion passed and the writ of habeas corpus was suspended. This meant that the government no longer had to show cause before making an arrest. Warrants were strictly unnecessary, and the accused could be locked up indefinitely without a trial or even an indictment. The Opposition had been able to wrest only one important concession from the Tories: no one could be put to death without a trial. Parliament broke up, about half of its members retiring to the clubs of St. James’s Street for a well-earned drink.

Benedict would have preferred to lick his wounds in private, but as he left Parliament he was accosted by a footman in bright pink livery. The footman was standing beside a large carriage with a gaudy crest painted on the door. “Sir Benedict Wayborn?” said the footman.

Benedict eyed him warily. “Yes?”

The footman opened the door to the carriage. Inside was a corpulent, aging gentleman with a mottled face and a diamond ring on every finger. On either side of him sat a scantily clad female, and on the seat opposite him were two more. “Get in,” said the footman.

“I think not,” said Benedict.

The gentleman with the mottled face leaned out. Resplendent in a pink brocade dressing gown, he barked, “I am Kellynch! Get in.”

Benedict stood his ground. “Perhaps Your Grace would care to get out.”

“I forgot my breeches,” the duke explained. “Really, it would be much better if you got in. We have a mutual friend in Bath, I think. Cosy Vaughn!”

Benedict glared at him.

“I dismissed your carriage,” Kellynch went on impatiently. “Unless you want to walk home from the City, get in! Squash up, ladies,” he commanded his harem.

Benedict climbed in and took his place between two of the women. The lady to his right showed him her rouged nipples. The lady to his left was snorting snuff. The inside of the carriage was rose-pink. The smell of perfumed flesh was overpowering. The attendant closed the door and the carriage swept off into the night.

Kellynch performed hasty introductions. “This is my nurse,” he said, squeezing the lady to his left. “And the redhead is her sister.
That
is her other sister, and, believe it or not,
that
is her brother.”

“How do you do,” Benedict said.

Kellynch roared with laughter. “Oh, I do love the English. They are so polite.”

“Do you wish to speak to me, Your Grace?”

Kellynch shook his finger at Benedict coyly. “You have been giving that girl money,” he said, chuckling. “You are quite the benefactor, I understand.”

“I fail to see how this concerns Your Grace.”

“Of course it concerns me,” Kellynch replied. “I am her guardian, after all.”

“
You
are Miss Vaughn’s guardian?” Benedict repeated in disbelief, staring at the aging lech in disgust. “I do not believe you. No one would be stupid enough to think that
you
were an appropriate guardian for an innocent young female.”

“By that remark I deduce you have not met my brother, Colonel Vaughn!” the duke retorted. “
He
is quite stupid enough for anything, I assure you.”

Benedict was frankly astonished. “Colonel Vaughn is your brother?”

“My father’s bastard.
One
of my father’s bastards, I should say, for he had many. Vaughn was the worst of them so, naturally, my father loved him the best. Scum always rises to the top. Isn’t that right, ladies?”

His ladies only looked bored. “Pass the snuff, Basil,” said the duke’s “nurse.”

“Then you are uncle to the Miss Vaughns,” Benedict said quietly.

“That’s right. Uncle Jimmy, they call me, with great affection.” Reaching for his silk handkerchief, which he had placed in the bosom of his nurse for convenience, he coughed up phlegm. “Now, then, Sir Benedict! We come to it. I know that
I
am too nice to ravish my own brother’s child, but are
you
too nice to ravish your
sister’s
? That is the question.”

“What? My sister? My sister has no child.”

Kellynch looked confused. “You
are
one of Aggie’s brothers, aren’t you?”

Benedict was aghast at the suggestion. “I most certainly am not!”

The duke scowled. “You’re not Cosy’s uncle?”

“No, indeed!”

“No? I beg your pardon. I heard your name was Wayborn, and I naturally assumed you must be one of Aggie’s brothers. Aggie has more brothers than my father had bastards, I sometimes think.”

“I am not one of them, however. I am only a distant cousin.
Very
distant.”

“Then what the devil are you doing giving her money?” Kellynch demanded.

“Someone had to,” said Benedict. “You claim to be their guardian. Yet, when I met them in Bath, they had no credit, and nothing to live on. I helped them.”

Kellynch snorted. “And you got nothing in return, I suppose?”

“I resent that disgusting insinuation.”

“What’s disgusting about it?” the duke wanted to know.

“Miss Vaughn was being dunned by a collier,” Benedict said angrily. “A collier who had the temerity to aspire to her hand! I paid her bills. Anyone would have done the same in my place.”

The Duke of Kellynch laughed. “A collier! That’ll teach her.”

Benedict glared at the man. “Teach her? Teach her what?”

Kellynch shifted his bulk on the cushions. “You seem like a reasonable man, Sir Benedict. I’ll tell you the whole maudlin tale. When that girl Cosy, as she calls herself, was twelve years old, she got a maggot in her head about going to a ball. Her father said he would take her, on one condition: if she drove the cows to market in Dublin all the way from Ballyvaughn. He underestimated the young lady’s determination. By God, didn’t she do it!”

“Do what?” Benedict asked, startled.

“Weren’t you listening? She drove the cows to market. From Ballyvaughn to Dublin on foot in the mud and in the rain. She put on her best dress and drove the beasts to Dublin; left them wandering in the streets for anyone to take; and made her way to Dublin Castle, nice as you please, her skirts wet to the knee and her white hair hanging down her back.”

“She must have been heartbroken when they wouldn’t let her in,” said Benedict.

“Not let her in?” the duke repeated incredulously. “
Not let her in?
This is Dublin Castle we’re talking about, not the fecking Court of St. James’s! Every man in the place had his dance with her, including my old lech of a father. Guess his surprise when he found out she was his very own granddaughter! He was so pleased with her that he gave her one of his houses.”

“Castle Argent.”

“Now we come to the maudlin part. The house was built for my mother, the Duchess, but, at the last moment, Her Grace decided she didn’t like it. A farmhouse with battlements, she called it, and vowed never to set foot in it. So to spite her, my father decided to give it to Cosy Vaughn. Since he died, my mother has been nagging me day and night about that house. She’s forced me out of Ireland with her nagging. Until Cosy Vaughn agrees to see reason, and fork over Castle Argent, she will not get another penny from me.”

“You expect Miss Vaughn to give you
her
house?”

“I’ve offered her fifty thousand pounds,” Kellynch protested. “But that girl is stubborn as a mule! She flatly refused, so I cut off her funds. She’ll sell if she gets hungry enough. I was making good progress, too, until
you
came along with your moneybags.”

“You’re withholding their money in order to pressure Miss Vaughn into selling her house? That, Your Grace, is a despicable manipulation.”

“There
is
no money,” Kellynch answered impatiently. “What little they had left, the talented Colonel Vaughn took with him to India. The Vaughn ladies have been existing on my largesse for the past three years. But no more! Either Miss Vaughn sells me Castle Argent or that’s it. There’s no income attached to the house. No land. No tenants to pay her rent. She can’t keep up the house as it is. If she had a brain in her head, she would sell.”