In Which Mr Beresford Discovers The Meaning Of The Phrase...

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In Which Mr Beresford Discovers The Meaning Of The Phrase, “Water Off A Duck’s Back”

    Possibly, with his Cousin Jack, his little sister, Miss Hortensia Laidlaw, and even the meek Aunt Sissy all aligned against him, Lance would just quietly have gone home to Pa and Ma with his Newmarket winnings, had it not been for the intervention of Sir Evelyn Loomis. The name, as Peg remarked before meeting him, was positively Romantick! “Chubby” Loomis in person, however, did not inspire the word to rise to the surface of the mind. As the soubriquet implied, he was a stoutish person. His disposition was entirely cheerful, his tastes in almost anything one cared to name were eclectic and, thanks to the fortune that had come to him from his prudent ancestors, he was in a position to indulge them. And had been known to place bets on everything from the depth of the P.W.’s next neckline to the likelihood of cockroach Number One’s beating its brother in a race between two beer stains at one of the less salubrious taverns he and his cronies frequented. The guileless Gratton-Gordon twins, encountering in the Park, introduced him to this fascinating personality. Chubby was perfectly ready to be friends and the innocent Lance did not perceive that this was because the young baronet was a person of no discrimination whatsoever. And also a person who quite enjoyed the sensation of being looked up to: one which did not come his way very frequently. Indeed, even Willy and Tony G.-G. were inspired to note, as he took his departure, having extracted a firm promise from Lance to meet later that very day: “He ain’t much, y’know.”

    This was to be Peg's opinion, also. “He does not strike me,” she said on a dubious note, in the wake of the thrilling Chubby’s bowing very low indeed over her hand and noting that he dared say all London would be at her feet, “as a very sensible person.”

    “Dare say he ain't. Owns splendid horseflesh, though.” Lance told her again about the bruising chestnut which Sir Evelyn had been riding that morning.

    “Ye-es. Well, where did you go this afternoon?”

    “Just tooled around the town,” said Lance airily.

    “Ye-es… ”

    Hurriedly Lance told her all about Chubby’s splendid high-perch phaeton and his splendid pair. Omitting entirely the visits to three taverns, the last of which had featured that which Chubby had apparently been seeking, to wit, a dog fight. Lance had not, to say truth, enjoyed it at all. Though on Chubby’s advice he had bet a guinea on the bull terrier, and won five.

    Concluding that the horses were the attraction after all, Peg nodded, and hurried off to change for dinner.

    The Beresford household saw very little of Lance for the next three days. Mr Beresford, very relieved to have him off his back, ignored the voice of Conscience which was telling him he ought to enquire what the boy was up to, and told himself that it could hardly signify, since he was off home in less than a week. Miss Sissy, Horrible and Peg, hailed firmly off by Lady Stamforth to a series of parties which signalled the advent of the Season proper, did not notice that Lance was never home during the day, and staying out later and later in the evenings.

    Then came the evening on which Lance did not return to the Beresford house at all.

    “What?” said Mr Beresford, his breakfast fork halfway to his mouth, as a shaken Moffat reported to him.

    “Yes, sir. Mary takes him in his cup of tea, you see, sir, and he ain’t there. So we thought as I had best speak to—”

    “Yes, of course. Where the Devil did he go, last night?”

    Moffat had no notion. Then he thought, out with Sir Evelyn Loomis, but he had no notion where. Jack passed his hand over his forehead.

    “Mr Lance did say, as it were a pity he had no decent evening suit, for Sir Ch—er, Sir Evelyn, I should say, is fond of the opera.”

    “Fond of ogling the opera dancers,” corrected Mr Beresford with a groan. “Do you know his direction?”

    Moffat had no notion of it.

    “No. Er—look, get Goodwin to get on over to Mr Mendoza’s rooms and see if he has the fellow’s direction.”

    Bowing, Moffat hastened out, and Mr Beresford passed his hand over his curls again. It was probably a storm in teacup; doubtless the boy was passed out at Chubby Loomis’s rooms; but…

    Half an hour later there was still no sign of Lance, but Mendoza Laidlaw had turned up. “‘Chubby Loomis’s chambers ain’t that far from here: off Pall Mall. Think you probably know ’em: half the Pinks in London have rooms there. Uh—that Rowbotham fellow.”

    “And?”

    “Well, he weren’t there, Jack: if he was, I’d have dragged him along, wouldn’t I?”

    “Was Loomis there?”

    Mendoza looked dry. “Mm. Him and the doxy he spent the night with. Dancer, I think. Mouth on her like a Billingsgate fishwife. Pretty enough, mind you. No, well, Jack, you ain’t going to like this, but it’s the sort of thing half the silly young fellows in London does, so—”

    “Get ON with it!” he shouted.

    “Don't shout, for the Lord’s sake, Aunt Sissy’ll hear you. Well, thing is, Chubby picked this girl up at—uh—Mrs Jolson’s.”

    “WHAT?” shouted Jack terribly.

    “Ssh! Well, half the ton goes there, Jack: dare say Loomis thought he was doin’ Lance a favour, introducing—”

    “Introducing him to half the Captain Sharps of London, not to say to its worst harpy!”

    “Mrs Jolson ain’t that bad, is she?”

    “Worse. She tried— Er, never mind.”

    “What?”

    “If you must have it,” said Mr Beresford on a grim note, “she tried to sell me a girl whom she claimed was her niece and claimed—truthfully or not I cannot say—was an unspoiled virgin. The claim did not tempt me, though I concede the girl cannot have been a day over fourteen, so it may just have been true.”

    Mendoza made a face. “Nasty. How much did she want for her?”

    His cousin’s jaw sagged. “You’re about to make an offer, are you?”

    “Don’t be a fool. No, just thought it would give some indication of—well—” He shrugged. “The level at which the hag operates.”

    “I should have thought the depth of play at her house of itself would have indicated that. A thousand guineas. Satisfied?” said Mr Beresford acidly.

    “Not sure, actually,” he admitted. “You could get one for a fraction of the sum at Covent Garden. And I dare say for half a guinea in any back street. Er—well, look, dare say he’s only gone off with one of her girls. But in the case any money should be required to change hands, I wouldn’t expect to be let off lightly, Jack.”

    “I don’t. And just by the by,” said his cousin grimly, getting up, “was it you who introduced him to damned Chubby Loomis?”

    “No. Wouldn’t give the fellow the time of day. No, it was those asses the G.-G. twins.”

    “I suppose,” said Mr Beresford grimly, striding over to the door, “that was to be expected. Er, you don’t have to come,” he added as Mendoza followed him out.

    “Don’t be an ass; of course I’m coming,” said his cousin’s son mildly.

    Mr Beresford bit his lip. “Thanks, Mendoza.”

    At this hour of the morning the pretty little house at a quiet address that was Mrs Jolson’s gambling establishment was silent and still: doubtless its inhabitants had not got to bed until gone five. Grimly Mr Beresford hammered on the door. It was quite some time before a blinking, unshaven footman opened it.

    “Where is Mr Lancelot Buffitt?” said Jack grimly, shouldering his way in.

    “Wotcher mean?” He took another look at the quality of Mr Beresford’s many-caped driving coat. “Beg pardon, sir. Who was you looking for, again?”

    “A young man by the name of Buffitt, last seen in this house at an advanced hour of the evening, betting money which he does not have.”

    The footman looked shocked. “Beg pardon, sir, but I think you’re mistaken. Mrs Jolson don’t admit young gents what don’t—”

    “I know all about Mrs Jolson, thank you,” said Mr Beresford coldly, producing a card. “Perhaps you would be so good as to take that up to her?”

    “Mrs Jolson does not see gentlemen at this hour of the morning, sir.”

    “Really? In that case,” he said, heading for the stairs, “I shall see her.”

    “No!” said the footman on a gasp, making a grab at his sleeve.

    Mr Beresford gave a muffled grunt of pain and Mendoza cried: “Hoy! Can’t you see he’s got a broken wing, y’fool?”

    “Oh, lumme. ’Tis that Mr Beresford,” said the footman, his face falling ludicrously. “Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure. Didn’t recognise you.”

    “And now that you have recognised me,” he said nastily, “shall you take this card up to your mistress, or shall I?”

    Glumly the footman accepted the card. Glumly he showed Mr Beresford and his cousin into a small salon.

    Mendoza looked around him with interest. “Quite tasteful.”

    “The whole house is quite tasteful, yes. The shaved ham is better than my mother serves, the wines are by and large excellent, the brandy is passable, and she is,” said Mr Beresford through this teeth, “the greatest harpy in London. Don't dare to tell my Cousin Charlotte I let you cross the threshold.”

    “Mamma won’t never have heard of the place, Jack!” replied Mendoza with a laugh. “Papa’ll be interested, though. It’s quite a contrast from that dump he had to haul Micky out of.”

    Mr Beresford swallowed: the gentleman referred to was his Cousin Jack Laidlaw’s heir. “Er—yes. Told you of that, did he? Well, cautionary tale, I suppose. Dare say you could tell Jack: I’ll probably tell him myself.”

    The young man smiled at him. “Yes.”

    “You’re a lucky fellow,” said Mr Beresford with a smothered sigh.

    “In what way?” he said cautiously.

    “Having parents like Charlotte and Jack. Jack’s the most decent fellow I’ve ever met.”

    Mendoza blinked a little at this sentiment’s coming from the Corinthian Mr Beresford, but nodded seriously. “Always thought so, meself. Oh: reminds me, Matt Yattersby got himself in hot water down in Portsmouth over some girl, and that damn’ fool Peregrine Y. threatened to cut him off with a shilling!”

    Mr Beresford agreeing that this was typical of Mr Peregrine Yattersby, and there being no sign of Mrs Jolson, the two plunged into Bath gossip.

    At long last the door opened and the footman, a longsuffering look on his face, announced: “Mrs Jolson, gentlemen.”

    Mendoza stared: Mrs Jolson, though she had most certainly had time for it, was not dressed. She was a short woman, with an exceeding curvaceous figure, and a mop of yellow curls. At the moment the latter were less than half concealed under a wisp of a lace cap, liberally threaded with mauve ribbon, and the former was less than half concealed under a flowing pale mauve silk wrapper, liberally bedecked with frills, lace edgings, and bows of both mauve and green ribbon. The face, which was shallow and cat-like, featured very shrewd dark eyes with brows and lashes so dark as to render the shade of the curls instantly suspect. And, at the moment, a dusting of powder and an artful application of lip salve. In spite of the hour her small, plump hands were laden with rings and her wrists featured twin gold bangles set with amethysts. A cloud of musky perfume accompanied her presence.

    “Mr Beresford!” she cooed in a throaty voice horridly reminiscent of the Fürstin von Maltzahn-Dressen’s—Mendoza Laidlaw gulped. “What an unexpected pleasure!”

    “I dare say,” replied Mr Beresford grimly. “I am in search of a young relative of mine who was brought to this house last night by Sir Evelyn Loomis.”

    She raised the finely plucked dark brows very high. “Goodness, are you, dear sir? Was he a very pretty young relative? That is, if it was a he?”

    Hardly surprisingly, Mr Beresford at this turned purple and shouted: “Yes, he was a he, and where the Devil is he, you harpy?”

    “Dear me. Have you never heard of the adage that one catches no flies with vinegar, dear sir?” said Mrs Jolson sweetly.

    Mr Beresford choked, and Mendoza said hurriedly: “Think she wants gelt, Jack.”

    Mrs Jolson turned her languishing look upon him. “Now, this is a very pretty young relative! –Is it a relative? Or just a friend, whom you might care to relinquish, for—er—any consideration,” she drawled, looking Mendoza up and down, “that you care to name.”

    Jack Laidlaw’s third son did not blush, shuffle his feet or edge behind his tall cousin. Instead, he looked Mrs Jolson in the eye and said: “If you’re proposing a swap for my young cousin, ma’am, allow me to say, you flatter me.”

    At this Mr Beresford gave a hard laugh and said: “Quite! The relative we are seeking is a very pretty person, and the sooner you tell us what you know of his whereabouts, the better it will be for you, believe you me.”

    Most unwisely at this Mendoza put in: “Yes. Mr Beresford has connections in high places, ma’am: his brother-in-law is Lord Keywes, who you may know holds an important diplomatic post.”

    Mrs Jolson let the silence linger just long enough to be perceptible. Then she drawled: “Lord Keywes? I do not think I know the gentleman, but the name seems vaguely… Oh, no, stay! Silly me!” she cried with an arch giggle, fluttering the lashes horridly. “Goodness, it is so many years agone— But I used to know a Lady Keywes, very well indeed!”

    Mendoza gave a gasp and took a step forward, his fists clenched, his youthful cheeks very red; but Mr Beresford, unmoved, put his good hand on his arm and said: “Don’t worry: she means that slut of a first wife of Robert’s. Dare say she did know her, if half they said of her was true. But she’s been dead nigh on twenty years.”

    Mendoza had swallowed, but he nodded, and took another look at the peony-pink cheeks and the porcelain-white skin of Mrs Jolson.

    “Paint,” said Mr Beresford with distaste.

    Mrs Jolson did not appear at all put out by this criticism of her person: she gave a little trill of laughter and cooed: “What a knowledgeable gentleman you are, dear sir, to be sure! I dare say it was the first Lady K. that I knew, yes; and it were not yesterday, neither! What was it you were desirous of, again?”

    “Finding a Mr Lancelot Buffitt. Around nineteen, dark, slim, about the height of this young gentleman,” replied Mr Beresford grimly.

    “And is he even prettier?” she returned, rolling the eyes very much .

    Mendoza Laidlaw, as he was later to report to his goggle-eyed Papa, thought that at this point Cousin Jack might hit the hag. But he did not, just said through his teeth: “Yes.”

    She raised the eyebrows. “And with Sir Chubby Loomis? Why do you not ask him where he is, then?”

    “He is not with him. Loomis spent the night with some doxy whom we gather he picked up here.”

    “I hardly think so,” replied Mrs Jolson grandly, opening her eyes very wide at him.

    “Red-haired girl. Mouth on her like a fishwife,” elaborated Mendoza.

    “I dare say, my dear young gentleman, but I am not responsible for the persons whom my clients may take up relations with outside my doors, now am I?”

    “Loomis claims that he left Lance Buffitt here. If you prefer it, I shall bring a magistrate and interrogate your staff,” said Mr Beresford grimly.

    Mrs Jolson fluttered the eyelashes. “You may bring all of Bow Street, dear sir, and interrogate whom you please: I have nothing to hide!”

    “Nothing to hide but weighted dice, shaved cards, and the rake-offs you take from the Captain Sharps and the doxies and their protectors whom you allow to infest this house,” agreed Mr Beresford coldly.

    “My dear, is he always so masterful in manner?” she gasped, clasping her hands at her bosom and rolling her eyes soulfully at Mendoza.

    “He is very often worse, and if I were you, ma’am, I’d tell him anything you know of Lance Buffitt,” he returned stolidly.

    “So young and yet so wise,” she sighed. “Now, if I was to tell you what I know, dear Mr Beresford, would you permit this wise young person to spend the rest of the day— No. Well, it was worth a try,” she said with a shrug. “How much?”

    “That depends on what you have to say,” replied Mr Beresford grimly.

    “You will never know it, I fear, unless you name a figure.”

    Mendoza at this point expected Mr Beresford to repeat his threat to bring in a magistrate, the which he could see, in spite of Mrs Jolson’s apparent indifference, had certainly had its effect; but he said calmly: “Fifty guineas, and not a penny more.”

    “But supposing one knew that he had been spirited away by a naughty person on whom one could very possibly put one’s hand?”

    “Then if one did not say so, one would have one’s pretty neck wrung for one.”

    “Ooh!” she gurgled, squirming. “How deliciously tempting!”

    Mr Beresford ignored this and produced a purse. “Start.”

    Mrs Jolson held out her hand. “Gimme twenty, and I’ll start, dear.”

    His face unmoved, Mr Beresford handed her twenty guineas.

    “Well,” she said, having counted it carefully, “I dare say he was the pretty dark lad that come with Chubby Loomis last night, yes. Bit shabby, but respectable enough, and more than pretty enough. Though not as pretty as some what Chubby’s brought to this house, boys or girls. We was running two faro tables and he don’t have the brass face to bring the lad to my table, I’ll say that much for him. So after a bit I hands over to one of my fellows and goes over to have a word with Sir Chubby. ‘Sir Chubby, darling,’ says I, ‘as you know you are always welcome in my house, and we are delighted to see any little friend you care to bring, if clean and respectable, out of course. But I fear I must warn you that any debts that little person were to incur would have to be borne.’” She rolled her eyes at Mr Beresford and his cousin.

    “And?” said Mr Beresford, unmoved.

    “He says: ‘You got the wrong impression, Bella, my dear, the young gentleman is a friend, merely. And flush enough.’ So I says: ‘If it should turn out he ain't flush enough, my fellows will show their displeasure, let me assure you. And I very much fear that I should have to ask you not to come here again.’ He tries to bluster, out of course: says I need his gelt more than he needs the house. So I tells him to look around him. Which he does, and can see plain as the nose on your face that my house don’t need the patronage of no Sir Chubby Nothing from Nowhere, chucking away his inheritance or not! So he shrugs and says: ‘Well, up to you, Bella, me dear.’ So then I tells Jim to keep an eye on the boy, and the minute he starts losing, he is out on his ear, and no vowels will be accepted from that quarter, thank you very much!”

    Mendoza had to swallow a grin at the sudden change in tone, not to say the disappearance of the languid manner, but Mr Beresford appeared unmoved. “Very wise, ma’am. And did he start losing?” He looked idly into his purse.

    “No; the luck was running his way, stupid little shaver. Chubby was losing hand over fist, though, so in a while he suggests going on. The boy don’t want to, thinks he is about to win a fortune. So they parts on amiable terms.” She looked hard at the purse.

    “He walked out and left him? I see,” said Mr Beresford tightly.

    “Being as how,” said Mrs Jolson in exceedingly soulful tones, rolling the eyes, “he was the only person present what might be supposed to be in charge of the boy—yes. Dare say you could put it like that. Walked out and left him: yes. Dear me.”

    “Thank, you, ma’am, I think we take your point,” said Mr Beresford through his teeth.

    “What happened next?” asked Mendoza hurriedly.

    “I really cannot say, for the house was very full,” she said airily.

    Mr Beresford took a step towards her. “Say,” he suggested.

    Mrs Jolson gave him a languishing look. “I cannot say what happened next, dear sir, but I could say what happened last.”

    Mr Beresford merely waited.

    “Er—well,” she said eventually, pouting, “you might at least make an offer!”

    Mr Beresford merely waited.

    “Hard man, ain’t he, dear?” she said to Mendoza, with a shrug. “No, well, the house was full, and we had some very august company, some of which deigned to notice your little connexion. –What if that noddy Chubby Loomis had the wits of a louse he’d of told me was your connexion, and we might of saved ourselves all this bother!” she noted in a cross aside.

    “Go on,” said Mr Beresford, unmoved.

    Mrs Jolson licked her lips. “Dunno if even you can do anything about this, dear. Well, it were the Princess P., and I tell no lie. Does sometimes honour the house, and I did know of her reputation, only she ain’t never picked up nothing here before, nor given no signs of it. That red-headed bitch weren’t with her last night, dare say she felt free to let her eye roam. And it lit on your little relative. Well, hers were not the first to roam thataway, let me tell you, and the way Jim told it, it were a toss-up before Her Highness spotted him whether it was going to be Mrs Cowdray or Sir Matthew Bryant what took him home.”

    “He is as innocent as the day is long!” said Mendoza loudly and angrily at this point.

    “Dare say he is, dear. Both of them specialises in that sort, though. Get him home, nice little sip of brandy, hand in the breeches, and Bob’s your uncle,” explained Mrs Jolson calmly.

    “Just spell it out,” said Mr Beresford, ignoring this last. “Did Buffitt go off in the train of the Princesse P.?”

    He had pronounced Her Highness’s name French-fashion, as was the custom amongst the Upper Ten Thousand. Mrs Jolson’s cat-like face puckered in a sour grimace. “‘Prang-cess Pay’,” she quoted with loathing. “He did that, dear, and I’d take me dying oath.”

    “No oaths, dying or otherwise, will be required,” said Mr Beresford, holding out the purse. “Take it.” He jerked his head at his cousin, and headed towards the door.

    Mendoza followed him. But somehow or another, as he reached the doorway, Mrs Jolson’s fair form was in the way.

    “Excuse me, ma’am— Ooh!” he gasped, turning purple.

    Mrs Jolson’s tongue licked round her lips, and Mrs Jolson stepped back, with a little throaty laugh. “You’d be welcome here any old time, if the tables was open or not, dear!”

    “Come ON!” shouted Mr Beresford’s voice angrily from the hall, and Mendoza, very flushed, hurried out.

    In the curricle Mr Beresford looked sideways at his young cousin’s face, but did not utter.

    “I say!” said Mendoza at last with an awkward laugh.

     Mr Beresford sniffed, very slightly. “Groped you in the doorway, did she?”

    “Yes!” he gulped.

    “Mm. Serves you right for standing there stiff as ramrod,” he drawled.

    Poor Mendoza was very red, but he protested: “A fellow cannot help that, Jack!”

    “Er—no,” conceded Mr Beresford, his lips twitching just a little. “True. Well, she has that effect on all the fellows. Until they find out what she’s really like.”

    “Mm,” he agreed, eyeing him uncertainly.

    Mr Beresford sighed. And admitted: “She did the exact same thing to me, first time I was in the house. I was about your age, and presumably about as hard. And certainly not expecting it. Damned nearly shot me load.”

    “Yes,” said Mendoza gratefully. “I see.”

    “On the other hand,” said his cousin, his eyes on the road, “tempted or not, I certainly knew enough to steer clear of that kind of, to put it no more strongly, well seasoned mutton.”

    “I should think so!” agreed Jack Laidlaw’s son strongly.

    Mr Beresford’s long mouth twitched just a little but he merely murmured: “Glad to hear it.”

    The curricle jogged on.

    “Um, is the Princesse P. like that?” asked the young man, licking his lips uneasily.

    “So they say.”

    “Um, I had heard she was involved with l’Amiral du Fresne for donkey’s ages,” he ventured dubiously.

    “For a few years in the past, certainly, but I believe he broke it off quite some time since. Though his good manners would not permit him to refuse his escort, should she request it—gentleman of the old school, y’see. However, lately he has switched his attentions to my dear Aunt Fanny, who is, apparently, spurning them, though whether the cause be merely his reputation with the English naval men, or the former liaison—” He stopped: Mendoza was having a painful choking fit.

    “I say, though, Jack," he said eventually, “what the Devil are you going to say to the old hag?”

    “I have no notion. I suppose I shall merely walk in and ask for Lance.”

    Mendoza gulped.

    “Though she may have had the sense to send him home: we had best check, first.”

    “I would!” he agreed fervently.

    There was, however, no sign of Mr Buffitt at the Beresford house. Miss Buffitt was up, eating breakfast, and greeted Mendoza with every appearance of delight and Mr Beresford with none at all.

    “I like Cousin Peg,” said the young man as the curricle set off again.

    Mr Beresford had been about to offer to let him tool the pair. He changed his mind. “Really?” he said coldly.

    “Aye: has a head on her, don’t she? Pity she ain’t the same generation, really,” he said with a smothered sigh.

    “Er—no.” After a minute Mr Beresford added stiffly: “Dare say you will meet the right girl before long, old fellow.”

    “Will I?” said his cousin’s son glumly. “At times it don’t feel like it. The débutantes seem so inane. Silly gigglers, y’know the type. One couldn't imagine spending the rest of one’s life with one.”

    Mr Beresford just grunted, and his young cousin lapsed into silence.

    It was not far at all to the gracious mansion occupied by the Princesse P. Mr Beresford pulled the pair to a halt, took a deep breath and said: “Sorry, old man: you have been a tower of strength, but I think it might be less embarrassing for the old bitch if you stay here.”

    Mendoza’s face fell. But he replied: “Of course. Quite understand.”

    Mr Beresford rather hoped he did not, wholly. For, as Mrs Jolson’s reaction to him had more than demonstrated, he was quite as attractive to the predatory hags who were more than old enough to know better as was his young connection. And if the Princesse P.’s reputation did not belie her, she was more than capable of making him any sort of outrageous offer.

    Her Highness’s household was not asleep: the door was answered promptly. Mr Beresford handed the footman his card, on which he had pencilled: “Re Lance B.” and said that he would like to speak to the man’s mistress. He was invited to step into the hall but warned that the man would see if Her Highness were at home. Jack Beresford knew one or two other unattached ladies of Her Highness’s age, if not station, who would have had their servants admit a lone gentleman at this hour: but not many. He took a deep breath and stepped in.

    The house was dim and quiet. After quite some time the footman returned and showed him into a small salon. Mr Beresford had to take another of those deep breaths: really, it was just so horridly reminiscent of Mrs Jolson’s!

    He was at the point of comparing his pocket watch with the elegant gilt clock on the mantel when the door opened and Mr Buffitt wandered in, chewing. “’Lo, Cous’,” he said, swallowing. “Nothin’ wrong with Peg, is there?”

    Given that Mr Buffitt was chewing, that he was undisturbed by the situation and that he was very evidently clad only in a luridly glowing silk brocade dressing-gown which did not belong to him, not to say, given the past hours of anxiety, Mr Beresford promptly lost his temper.

    “What the DEVIL do you imagine you’re up to, you STUPID little twat?” he howled.

   Mr Buffitt blinked. “No need to use that language, Cousin Jack: this is a lady’s hou—”

    Mr Beresford then used an even ruder word to refer to the lady in question and grasped his cousin’s arm viciously hard, informing him he was coming home with him this instant.

   ‘”Ow! Don’t! Thing is, ’t’ain’t what you think! I mean, she’s offered me a job!” he gasped.

    “RUBBISH!” shouted Mr Beresford at the top of his lungs. “A job as her lapdog, you puling imbecile! And if you imagine that will be the last of it, you have a few shocks in store!”

    “No, I don’t,” said Lancelot Buffitt mildly. “Well, dare say I might do: yes. But if you mean the both of them want to share me in the bed, know that already, thanks. Well, it took me aback, just at the first, only of course me and Pa have talked about that sort of thing. Just as well, or I would not have had a notion what the pair of them was up to, when they started in doin’ it to each other. But they let me do whatever I wanted, as well. Taught me a few tricks, too, I don’t mind admitting. Well, had only done it with the local girls in the fields, before, and they don’t know no more than just to let a fellow put it in there. Not that that’s bad. Only this was a damn’ sight more fun.”

    “Lance,” said Mr Beresford, shaking him as fiercely as he could with his one good arm, “can you not see the bitches are debauching you?”

    “Er—wouldn’t say that, sir. Well, thing is, if I ain't shocked nor nothing, can it be debauchery?” he said dubiously.

    “What would your father say?” he shouted with tears in his eyes.

    Lance appeared to think about it. “Probably say, life apin’ art. Something like that. The Princesse P. actually called herself Sappho and wore a laurel wreath for part of the time, y’know. Interesting, really. Dashed well-read woman.”

    “You’re a fool! When this dashed well-read woman has had enough of your pretty looks, she’ll cast you off like an old shoe. And believe you me, she won’t think twice about dumping you halfway through France, or at that damned villa of hers in Italy, or any place in between. And how you’ll survive with nothing in your pockets and only your pretty face to pay your way, I’ll leave to your well-read imagination, Buffitt!” said Jack angrily, giving him a last shake and stepping back from him.

    “Hadn’t thought of that,” admitted Mr Buffitt. “Dare say you could be right. But she did offer me employment. Said, if a fellow was interested in cataloguing anybody’s library, the place in Italy has a great collection of books that ain’t never been catalogued since the 16th century. Thought it sounded quite a good notion, actually. Though I said to her, ‘Don’t know what gave you the notion I was interested in cataloguing a library, ma’am.’”

    Jack Beresford at this moment found himself possessed of a dreadful desire to ask the horrid little fellow if he’d called the old bitch “ma’am” throughout. He swallowed hard.

    “So she says, heard that you had asked Stamforth if he needed his library catalogued, because you wished to place me. Dashed good of you to think of me, Cousin Jack.”

    “I see. Well, whatever she may have offered you, I am not allowing you to accept it, understand? You may come along home this instant.”

    “But I ain’t dressed!”

    “Lancelot, if you imagine that I am going to let you vanish upstairs to the company of that pair of harpies—”

    Lance was shaking his head. “Not harpies, old man. The Harpies was never of that persua—”

    “Harpies with their claws into you!” said Mr Beresford loudly. “You may come as you are, and I personally do not give a damn if the whole of London turns out to watch as we pass!”

    “Up to you, Cous’,” he said politely.

    Jack took a deep breath and was just about to grasp his lurid silk sleeve again when a small, curly grey dog ran in and Mr Buffitt scooped it up, a defiant look on his round, still innocent countenance. “This is Timothée. She give him me to keep.”

    Mr Beresford was driven to pass his hand through his curls. “What is he?”

    “No notion. Odd-lookin’, hey? May I keep him?” he said on a plaintive note.

    “I— Oh, the Hell with it! Yes! Come on!” said Jack Beresford loudly and crossly.

    Clutching his small curly grey dog to his bosom, Lance accompanied him obediently.

    … “My God!” concluded Mr Beresford with feeling as, Mr Buffitt having been duly smuggled upstairs and an insufficient story concocted to explain the sudden appearance of a small, odd-looking grey dog with a French name in the Beresford household, he and his cousin’s son retired to his study.

    Mendoza was looking stunned; in fact, he had been looking stunned for the past half-hour. He tottered over to a sofa and collapsed onto it. “He don't seem even shaken by it,” he said numbly.

    “He is not,” agreed Mr Beresford grimly.

    “My God, Jack, he don’t even seem to realise what an escape he’s had!”

    “No. Nor to what extent that pair of bitches have debauched him,” said Mr Beresford through his teeth, unable to stop himself.

    “Help,” said Mendoza numbly.

    Mr Beresford gave in entirely and collapsed into a large armchair. “Ring for brandy, if you would, old man.”

    Gratefully Mendoza rang.

    When the first tots were dissipating the Buffitt-induced fog somewhat, Mr Beresford croaked in lame explanation: “What he said was, if he weren’t shocked nor nothing, could it be said to be debauching him?”

    “In those very words?”

    “Mm.”

    Mendoza thought about it. “God, I don't know, Jack!”

    “Nor I. What I do know,” he said grimly, “is that I’m not sending him home. I shall take him home, in person!”

    “Ye-es… But will it do any good?”

    “Possibly not, but at least it will prevent a recurrence of this sort of episode!” He cleared his throat. “Water off a duck’s back, or not,” he ended feebly.

Next chapter:

https://pegbuffitt-aregencynovel.blogspot.com/2023/06/irresolution.html