The Question Of Lancelot Buffitt

5

The Question Of Lancelot Buffitt

    Miss Sissy looked at her nephew, and hesitated. Then she said: “Jack, my dear, has little Peg said anything to you about the boy?”

    “What? No,” he replied, scowling. “As I have said, he is to go home. He can have the travelling carriage next week. He could go tomorrow, for me, but the carriage is still being overhauled. I don’t trust these damned provincial wheelwrights.”

    “No, well, it clearly needed seeing to. I suppose there is no other option?” she murmured, with her hand on the door.

    “Not unless you wish to see the boy stranded halfway between here and the back o’ beyond: no.”

    “No, I meant for Lance. Never mind,” she murmured, going out.

    Mr Beresford sat for some time in his study staring into space, scowling. Then he rang the bell, and asked that his Cousin Lance be sent in.

    Lance came in grinning and panting. “Goodwin has been letting me help exercise the blacks. Lord, don’t know how you manage with the one wing broke, Cous’, even if it ain’t your driving arm!”

    “My horses do not need the whip,” he said with an awful scowl.

    Mr Buffitt quailed. “N— Um—didn't mean—”

    “And if Goodwin has been allowing you to saw at their mouths, I’ll sack him,” said his cousin evilly.

    “No, ’course he ain't!” he said indignantly. “Anyroad, this morning we only had ’em on a leading rein in the stable yard: he said they’d been eating their heads off.”

    Mr Beresford’s arm, though healing nicely according to the physician whom he had at last reluctantly agreed to see, was still giving him considerable pain. In especial when subjected to the jolting of a carriage over the London streets; and so he was not taking the teams out much at all. He grunted sourly. “Never mind that. Sit down. What do you want to do?”

    Lance sank onto a chair, looking bewildered. “Do, sir? This evening, do you mean? Thought Aunt Sissy had those frightful Uckridge females coming round?”

    Mr Beresford winced. “And the Highett females, even worse—yes. Not that. With your life.”

    Lance just looked blank.

    “Do you have any ambitions in life?” said Mr Beresford carefully.

    “Uh—never thought about it, sir. I mean, never thought I’d have any opportunities, if y’know what I mean. George and Bertie fancy going to sea,” he said vaguely, “only Pa would never hear of that. Don’t approve of armed conflict in any shape or form, y’see. And Ma maintains Bertie’s too bright to waste on a career in the forces. Not that we could afford to purchase him a commission in any case. Or George would quite like to help m’brother-in-law in the estate office. –Chelford Place, sir,” he said politely. “Huge property; the actual house is about seven miles to the east of us. Belongs to some duke or another. Never pokes his nose in the place from one year’s end to another.”

    “The Duke of Chelford, one presumes. No, well, the principal seat, Dallermaine Abbey, is considerably closer to London, and Chelford and his wife are both very fond of it: it’s one of the showplaces of Kent.”

    “There y’are, then.”

    “Lance, leaving aside your brothers’ ambitions, what do you want?” said Mr Beresford, trying to speak quietly and not shout at him.

    “Well, that’s what I’m trying to explain, sir: never had those sorts of ambitions, meself. Thought I’d just—um—help Pa with his dashed experiments. Damned silly, I know. I like the Greek, mind you.”

    Mr Beresford passed his hand through his crisp black curls. “Greek?”

    “Pa and me usually does some Greek together in the evenings, and then, Wednesday is a Greek day. Well, we might work on the experiment in hand, but we speak Greek all day and possibly discuss whatever it is we’re reading, y’see. Or sometimes Pa’s translations, if he's struck a rocky patch.”

    “I see,” he said limply.

    Lance looked at him expectantly.

    “Has London given you no ideas? –No,” he said with a sigh. “Politics?”

    “Once heard our local Member givin’ a speech. Don’t think I’d fancy that, at all. Anyroad, the local fellows only vote for him because Sir Horace greases their palms.”

    “Then—er—the Diplomatic?” said Mr Beresford wildly.

    “Ye-es… Don’t one have to have connections?” he said vaguely.

    “Lancelot,” said Mr Beresford very slowly and clearly: “I am a connection.”

    Lance grinned sheepishly. “So you are. Beg pardon, sir. Um, would I be any good at it, though?”

    “Not on present showing, no!” he said wildly. “Please—think! What do you enjoy?”

    Lance rubbed his nose. “I enjoy the Greek. But you need not tell me a fellow cannot make a living at it. Um—well, I like the horses best, I think. If only I were of Goodwin’s class, I'd become a groom.”

    “I wouldn’t stop you, if it were up to me. But it’d be more than my life’s worth.”

    “Know that, Cous’!” he said, grinning.

    Mr Beresford sighed.

    “Horse doctor?” he ventured.

    His cousin blenched.

    “Er—no. Sorry. Well, don't fancy medical stuff. Didn’t fancy it when Goodwin shot them two wheelers of yours on the road.”

    “No doubt.”

    “Dare say Paul might get me into the agent’s office, if Pa and Ma were to ask.”

    “Is not that position intended for your brother?”

    “Aye, well, there’s the rub. Don’t think there’d be room for two.”

    Talking to Lancelot Buffitt, Jack Beresford had long since decided, was like endeavouring to grab a particularly slippery blancmanger. You thought you had it, and then you discovered that, though it had not appeared to make any decisive move, its very lack of definition meant that it had eluded your grasp. “I could write to ask Robert, my brother-in-law, if he needs secretarial help. That would entail dealing with correspondence and having a good grasp of politics,” he said without hope.

    Sure enough, Mr Buffitt responded: “Not that terribly up in politics, sir. Now, Peg's the one for the politics! Pity she ain’t a boy, really. Um, and didn’t you say he has a fellow to do all that for him?”

    “Possibly,” said Mr Beresford, hanging on to the shreds of his temper by a supreme effort, “he may need assistance.”

    “Don’t think so: Aunt Sissy was just saying t’other day how frightfully efficient he is, and how pleased Lord Keywes is with him: said it was a position that could well lead on to better things, and he was probably destined to be a Cabinet secretary or some such. Oh, I say,” he discovered, “do you think that was a hint, sir?”

    “Lance,” said Mr Beresford dangerously: “get out.”

    Lance went over to the door. “Thing is, I’m a Buffitt,” he said uneasily. “You did ought to hear Ma on the subject.”

    “Out!”

    Lance went out but popped his head back to say: “Peg ain’t. Laidlaw through and through. Reason why Ma thought she'd do all right with Aunt B. I say, terribly good of you to think of me, Cousin Jack, but I’ll be—”

    “OUT!” he roared.

    “—quite all right,” ended Lance mildly, disappearing.

    “My GOD!” shouted Mr Beresford at the top of his lungs.

    Mr Hattersby-Lough raised his eyebrows terrifically and examined his own shining fingernails. “No notion, dear old boy,” he drawled. “Placin’ impoverished youngsters in positions where they can do the least harm to their employers ain't never been my forte. Why don’t you send him back home? Thought you was merely showing him the sights for a week or so?”

    “You might at least make a show of thinking, Hatters! Even giving the appearance of five seconds’ ratiocination would do!” retorted his old friend hotly.

    “That arm of yours bothering you, is it, Jack?”

    “No.”

    “Jolly good. Game of billiards, old fellow? Or can’t you, with the arm?” he said kindly.

    “What do you think?” replied Mr Beresford angrily, striding out.

    Sighing, Mr Hattersby-Lough wandered off to find a member of Boodle’s who might be in a better mood, was not wounded in one wing, and not, or his name was not Jimmy H.-L., suffering the pangs of unrequited love. …And did Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton know of this last? And might he please be a fly on the wall when she found it out?

    … Mr “Val” Valentine laid down his epée in order to scratch his glossy dark curls. “No notion, dear old boy. Well, me brother-in-law don’t need a secretary, never writes nothing. And Pa can’t write.”

    Mr Beresford smiled reluctantly. “No.”

    “Heard Rockingham was looking for a fellow to help with the boys’ homes,” he said vaguely.

    “In what capacity, Val?”

    “Er—can’t recall. Um, think it might have been medical, now I come to think of it, or was it a fellow what could add up their accounts? Uh, sorry, old man. In any case, think the word ‘experience’ was mentioned.”

    “He has certainly none of that.”

    “No.” Mr Valentine coughed.

    “What?” said Mr Beresford dully, watching Lord Michael Fitz-Clancy, who fancied he could fight, being disarmed by old Fioravanti himself in five seconds flat.

    “Er—damn’ pity about the broken wing, dear old fellow. Er—me young brother Rollo was out early t’other morning—well, never been to bed, y’see.”

    Mr Beresford fancied he knew what was coming. “And?” he drawled.

    “Forget where he’d been. Uh—not Mrs Jolson’s, don’t think.”

    Mr Beresford stared. “I should hope not!”

    “No, well, at least he ain't a gambler like Uncle Ronnie,” owned Mr Valentine with a shudder of relief. “More like, don’t know one end of a card from t’other. Mind you, that don’t help. Where was I?”

    “Not at Mrs Jolson’s,” said Mr Beresford drily.

    “No, right. Think he’d been on the town with that Rowbotham lad. Not Wilf and Shirley’s brother: one of the cousins, I think. Yes, that was it: the boy’s stayin’ with Sir Ceddie. So he dropped him off there, y’see, and headed for home. Er—well, we’ve got quite decent chambers, off Pall Mall,” he said on an uneasy note. “You should never have given up them rooms of yours, old boy: like hens’ t—”

    “Let me get this straight. Rollo had dropped a junior Rowbotham off at Sir Ceddie’s, which if I mistake not is a stone’s throw from Blefford Square, and was heading, one presumes by the direct route, over to Pall Mall?”

    “—like hens’ teeth,” finished Mr Valentine glumly. “Aye.”

    Mr Beresford propped his shoulders against the wall of Fioravanti’s fencing salon and eyed him grimly. “Go on.”

    Reflecting involuntarily that those shoulders of Jack’s did not belie the power of his fist and it was just as well the fellow did have a broken wing, Mr Valentine explained: “Went down your street. Swears he saw your tiger with the blacks poled up, driving a yaller-headed gal. Well, at that hour, thought the fellow was up to no good, so he takes a second look. Only he pulls up by your front steps and in she goes.”

    “Yes?” said Mr Beresford sweetly.

    “Don't be like that, Jack! Um—well, Rollo’s met her, y’see. Think that young ass Roddy Calhoun introduced ’em. Swears it was your cousin, old boy.”

    “And?”

    “Nothin’. Well, told him I'd knock his block off meself if he spread it about,” said Mr Valentine glumly. “Only, thought you’d best know. Not the thing, y’know, getting home at crack of dawn. Not for a débutante.”

    Mr Beresford sighed. “Thanks, Val. I suppose it didn’t dawn on Rollo that she was wearing a cloak and bonnet and in fact had merely been for an early morning trot, since Jenks was shaking the fidgets out of the team for me?”

    Mr Valentine gulped.

    “You have my permission to tell him that those are the facts of the case, and that should I hear anything different being bandied about in the clubs, it will be me, not yourself, who’ll knock his block off for him.”

    “Mm. Sorry, old man.”

    Mr Beresford sighed. “Come and have a coffee, for God’s sake, Val.”

    “Eh? Oh, glad to, dear boy!”

    After the necessary fussing around while he apologised to the opponent who had just defeated him for not giving him another bout, thanked Fioravanti for his advice, the which had not prevented his being defeated by said opponent, congratulated the fellow who had just been beaten by Fioravanti for having held out against him so long—Fitz-Clancy appearing to accept this as it was meant—and changed back into his outer raiment, Mr Beresford finally got him out to the nearest coffee house. An odd-looking place, full of cits and persons in shabby legal wigs and gowns.

    “This’ll be the damned odd place Wilf Rowbotham was tellin’ me about,” discovered Mr Valentine.

    “Yes. Val, are you absolutely sure you cannot think of anyone who could put young Buffitt to useful employment?’

    “Uh…” Mr Valentine drank coffee desperately. “Oh, yes!” he realised suddenly, as the coffee acted on the stuff between the ears. “Someone was tellin’ me, dashed if I can remember who, that some fellow needs his library catalogued!”

    Mr Beresford’s jaw dropped.

    “Didn’t you say he speaks Greek and stuff?”

    “Yes! Val, the very thing! Mind you, God knows if he has the organisational ability let alone the application, but— Who?” said Mr Beresford tensely.

    “Definitely remember now,” Mr Valentine congratulated himself. “Seein’ this place reminded me! Wilf Rowbotham.”

    “Wilf cannot read, can he?” said Mr Beresford in a shaken voice.

    “Eh? Oh! Not him, y’fool! It was Wilf what was tellin’ me!”

    Mr Beresford waited while Mr Valentine ran through the catalogue of Mr Rowbotham’s friends. It took a while. Even though he did appear to be confining the list to those who possessed country houses and, presumably, libraries.

    “No,” he concluded sadly. “It’s gone.”

    “Not Noël Amory?”

    “No, no! Mind you, dare say his house is stuffed with books. Wasn’t him, though. They are in town, though,” he said brightly.

    “So the person that Wilf mentioned is definitely in town, is he?”

    Mr Valentine didn't know. Mr Beresford groaned.

    “You could get on round to his chambers and ask him.”

    “I shall have to, shan’t I?” Mr Beresford looked at his watch but Mr Valentine pointed out it was far too early for the elegant Mr Rowbotham to be at White’s.

    Wilfred Rowbotham was the gentleman identified by Miss Nancy Uckridge as the driver of that splendid phaeton with those perfectly matched bays, and though quite old, the most graceful dancer in London. Mr Beresford knew him quite well, although he was several years his senior.

    “Go away,” he groaned, holding his head.

    Mr Beresford and Mr Valentine sat down immediately.

    “Oh, my God,” groaned Mr Rowbotham, holding his head.

    “Brandy, Wilf?” asked Mr Valentine cheerfully.

    “Don’t shout, Val,” he whispered. “No: claret. Indifferent claret. Percy Murray’s. I feel like death.”

    “Take him for a bundle, did you, Wilf?” asked Mr Valentine happily.

    “Don’t shout,” he groaned. “Yes, if that makes it better. If you two want breakfast, there ain’t any: told my man I’d sack him if he so much as breathed the word.”

    “No, no: we merely want information,” said Mr Beresford soothingly.

    “Got none. Go away,” he whispered.

    There was a carafe of water on the table; possibly Mr Rowbotham’s man had felt he might be thirsty. Mr Beresford got up and emptied its contents over Mr Rowbotham’s suffering head.

    Quite some time later, after he had been tenderly muffled in a fresh dressing-gown and a blanket by his tutting valet, the sufferer was able to say plaintively: “Don’t tell me that Stamforth’s the hardest man in London, because you is well in the running for that position, Jack. No wonder you was both after the P.W.: brothers under the skin or some such. Ain’t you got no compassion?”

    “Not for a fellow of your age what don’t know not to touch Percy Murray’s claret, no. Who do you know who needs his library catalogued?”

    “Eh?”

    “You heard.”

    “Uh—um.” There was a long silence. “Not Blefford,” he produced.

    “That’s one,” noted Mr Valentine.

    “Shut it, Val,” said Mr Beresford, trying not to laugh. “You weren’t much better, yourself. Go on, Wilf.”

    “Uh—not Rockingham, don’t think. No: t’little Marchioness were sayin’ as they had a fellow doin’ theirs. Not Sleyven, he’s got some Froggy fellow doin’ his.”

    “The Vicomte d’Arresnes is acting as his secretary, merely, Wilf,” said Mr Valentine.

    “Not him: known d’Arresnes since his cradle, for God’s sake! De la Plante. Not Pretty Polly, before you start!” said the elegant one irritably.

    “I see,” said Mr Beresford. “So it’s someone of the rank of earl or above, is it?”

    “Not Sare,” he said vaguely.

    “Oops! Someone of the rank of baron or above: that broadens the field!” whooped Mr Valentine.

    “I thought I told you fellows not to shout?” whispered Mr Rowbotham palely.

    “Look at it another way, Val: it’s someone with one of the oldest titles in England,” said Mr Beresford, grinning.

    “Oh, quite right, old boy! Always did say you had a head on you! Um…”

    “Not Munn,” produced Mr Rowbotham.

    His Grace of Munn’s was a Scottish title. Mr Valentine had a painful wheezing fit. Emerging from it to gasp: “Britain!”

    “Yes. Concentrate, Wilf!” ordered Mr Beresford loudly.

    Mr Rowbotham held his head, and moaned.

    “Does seem to be someone with a title,” ventured Mr Valentine cautiously. “Devonshire?”

    “No,” said Mr Rowbotham definitely. “Ceddie’s had a dashed row with the fellow. Or was it his brother? Anyroad, the whole family’s persona non grata there. Not Blefford.”

    “So you say, mm,” agreed Mr Beresford.

    “Not Keywes,” offered Mr Rowbotham, wrinkling his high ivory brow.

    “He does know that, the fellow’s his brother-in-law!” said Mr Valentine in exasperation. “This is hopeless, Jack!”

    Mr Beresford got up, rang the bell, and ordered coffee. Subsequently forcing Mr Rowbotham to drink some by the simple expedient of grasping his shoulder very, very hard with his one good hand while Mr Valentine held the cup to his lips.

    “I ain’t been treated this bad by any fellow since that time that Noël Amory knocked me flat for letting the dashed pug-dog loose durin’ Stamforth’s duel,” he grumbled.

    “Eh?” said Mr Valentine, his eye lighting up.

    “You've heard that one, Val,” said Mr Beresford tiredly.

    “Aye, but not that Amory knocked him flat! What was he doin’ in the thing?”

    “Second,” said Mr Rowbotham, eyeing the coffee-pot glumly. “Ten to one I’ll be chuckin’ that stuff up— Ow!” he gasped as Mr Beresford operated on the shoulder again. “I’m thinking: stop it!”

    “Let him go, Jack,” said Mr Valentine kindly. “I think he is doing his best. Trouble is, his best’s not all that good.”

    “No, well, after the best part of twenty years on the town, man and boy,” said Mr Beresford nastily, “is it any wonder?”

    “I say!” protested the elegant one, very injured.

    “Er—yes. A bit hard on the fellow, Jack,” ventured Val.

    “And you’re going the same way, so watch it!” he said sourly.

    “Can’t step into poor old Pa’s shoes while he’s still wearing them, old man,” replied Mr Valentine uneasily.

    “You could assist him with the property, however.”

    “You'd probably enjoy that, Val,” agreed Mr Rowbotham unexpectedly. “I've got it: the mention of that duel recalled it to me. Stamforth.” He nodded significantly at Mr Beresford, but gasped, and grabbed his head. “All them books at the castle,” he said in a muffled voice.

    “Er—that is certainly one of the oldest titles in England, Jack,” said Mr Valentine uneasily, watching his friend’s face. “Did you get over to the castle last time you were down that way for old Foote’s summer theatrics, Wilf?”

    “What? Oh. No. Never went last summer. Went to the castle instead: the P.W.’s in Brighton, says to me ain’t the Pavilion fun in all its frightful glory, words to that effect, I says it reminds me of them dashed blancmanger towers Prinny always has served up, she goes into a giggling fit, asks me to the castle!” He smirked.

    “Possibly,” owned Mr Valentine, “that will be how he knows Stamforth’s looking for someone to catalogue his library.”

    “Ye-es… Wilf, are you sure that Major-General Cadwallader ain’t doing it for them?”

    “That's right, military chap. Very good with all the building stuff and that. The P.W. said he’s willin’ but—uh—forget. Something about literate.” He waved away Mr Valentine’s offer of more coffee, not appearing to notice that it had not been an entirely serious offer. “Uh—got it. ‘Semi-leeterate een at least one and a half languages,’” he quoted proudly.

    His two callers choked. Mr Rowbotham smirked. “Should see the rig-outs she wears when she’s on her home ground,” he added smugly.

    “We can imagine,” said Val hurriedly, not looking at Jack's face.

    “No, y’fool! Nothin’ like it! Little crumpled bits o’ print gowns, like one of me little sisters when they was at home!” They stared. Slowly he closed one eye. “No corset, though. Me mother’d never have let me sisters get away with that—not that they ever had anything to show off in any case. But the P.W.! Phew! You can see why poor old Henri-Louis de Bourbon was so taken with her. Before he went and made a cake of himself over the little Contessa, out of course.”

    There was a tingling silence in Mr Rowbotham’s elegant set of chambers. At least two of the gentlemen present were reflecting that the Prince Henri-Louis had not been the only unsuccessful suitor of the two young widows in question.

    “You’re right, Jack,” croaked Mr Valentine at last. “Twenty years on the town. That’s what does it.”

    “Mm,” agreed Mr Beresford, getting up. “Come on. Dare say we might track Stamforth down at White’s. Thanks, Wilf.”

    They went out.

    Mr Rowbotham sat up and reached for the coffee, looking quite perky. “That last round was mine, I fancy,” he said with satisfaction.

    Somewhat to Mr Beresford’s surprise, Mr Valentine insisted on accompanying him to White’s. He had known Val most of their lives and was fond of him, but had few illusions about him: he was decent enough and honest enough, but raw courage was not his forte.

    Viscount Stamforth was discovered reading a paper, but was apparently about to leave: a committee meeting. Would they care to walk along with him? The two younger men accompanied him, perforce.

    “I see,” he said mildly, the face unmoved. “It doesn’t sound as if this young connection of yours has the organisational ability required to make a decent fist of the job, Beresford.”

    “Vague sort of young fellow,” agreed Mr Valentine helpfully.

    “Quite. Well, we might envisage taking him on as an assistant, but since we saw Wilf Rowbotham last summer we have found a fellow for the job, I'm afraid.”

    “Oh,” said Mr Beresford, his face falling.

    “But I dare say he could find something for your Mr Buffitt to do.”

    “Does your fellow actually need an assistant, though?” asked the percipient Mr Valentine.

    “I don’t think so, no,” he said tranquilly.

    Mr Beresford had gone very red. “In that case, we wouldn’t dream of imposing,” he said stiffly. “Sorry to have bothered you, sir.”

    “Not at all. I believe the library at Dallermaine Abbey is in need of care and attention, but it may not be the best time to enquire: I believe Chelford is gravely ill.”

    “Eh? Didn’t know that, sir!” said Mr Valentine with interest. “Lor’, it will not half be a blow to the family if he goes: the duchess has all girls, hasn’t she? I suppose that’ll mean Reggie Bon-Dutton inherits.”

    “He is the next brother,” agreed Mr Beresford shortly.

    Viscount Stamforth’s lean, dark face did not, as was its wont, express anything very much, but he said: “I fear you have that wrong. There was another brother between Chelford and Lord Reginald: no reason you should have heard of him, he was never on the town. Lord Matthew. As a very young man, he—er—took a great interest in the conflict in the Americas. Well, the long and the short of it was, he decided that his sympathies lay with the Republican cause.”

    “You mean he deserted?” gasped Mr Valentine, the jaw sagging so much as to ruin the neckcloth.

    “Hardly that, for he not was a serving officer. He emigrated, you might say. But his family certainly saw it as a desertion. I gather the old Duke scratched his name out of the family Bible with his own hands.”

    “They hushed it up damned well,” said Mr Valentine in shaken tones.

    “Oh, quite. It was given out that he died of a fever in the course of a voyage to improve his health. In fact he married an American girl, and settled in Boston. –That is quite a large town in the Americas, Valentine,” he said calmly.

    “Y— Uh—an American girl?” he gasped.

    “Val, do try to stop rising to his every cast like a damned trout!” said Mr Beresford on an irritable note. “Most of ’em are as civilised as we are! Have you never read a word of Jefferson’s, or— Forget it. I collect she is a not a Red Indian, sir?”

    “Not at all. Her father is a successful merchant.”

    “So—uh—he inherits?” croaked Mr Valentine.

    “No: he died some time back. There is a son: I think he is probably around your ages: Lord Matthew was very young when he married. He is the heir.”

    “Will he come over, though?” asked Mr Beresford slowly.

    Lord Stamforth gave him an ironic but not unkindly look. “That is certainly a point. I own, in his shoes, I should be tempted not to.”

    “Eh? But it’s a great position, sir!” gasped Mr Valentine.

    “Quite,” agreed the head of one of the oldest houses in England on a dry note. “Well, my committee awaits me, so I shall take my leave; unless you wish to accompany me, Beresford? It is one of the charities in which your mother takes an interest.”

    “No, thank you, sir. I think I had best get young Lance sorted out.”

    “Yes, well, my offer still stands,” he said tranquilly. “Good-day to you both.”

    In his absence there was a certain silence.

    “Good God,” said Mr Valentine numbly, at last. “This’ll put the cat amongst the B.-D. pigeons, and no mistake. An American Republican in Chelford’s shoes?” He whistled.

    “He could hardly make a worse fist of it, Val: the man is the greatest nullity I have ever met.”

    “You’re not wrong, there.” He took Mr Beresford’s arm and they strolled on, not noticing where they were headed. “Uh—s’pose you could speak to Lady Reggie, dear boy,” he said with a cough.

    Mr Beresford eyed him ironically. Lady Reggie Bon-Dutton, a tempestuous personality at the best of times, would no doubt have her nose very much out of joint at the news she would not, after all, be the next Duchess of Chelford. “Don't think she takes all that much interest in her brother-in-law’s library, Val.”

    “No!” he choked. “Dare say not! But she might know whether it’s worth sounding them out, or if Chelford’s so bad you'd be better just to let it drop. –Who was this Jefferson fellow?”

    “Eh? Oh, Good God! No-one, Val; An American politician and gourmet.”

    “The gourmet bit don’t sound bad,” he conceded with a grin.

    “Mm. I think old Tobias Vane used to know him,” he said on a dry note.

    “Eh? Oh, Stamforth’s cousin. Yes, well, bit of a gourmet himself. –Oh, I see! That's how Stamforth has all the gossip from America, is it?”

    “Something of the sort. Added to which, Rosalie Chelford was a Miss Vane.”

    Val gulped. “Oh, so she was,” he said lamely. “Stamforth’s first cousin, that right?”

    “Almost. Second, I rather think,” replied Jack drily.

    They strolled on.

     “Look, Jack, why not take Stamforth up on his offer, dear old boy? Seemed quite genuine about it. Dare say they don’t need the boy’s help, but it’d get him out of your— Ow!” he gasped as Mr Beresford pulled him fiercely to a halt with his good hand. “Don't do that! Ruinin’ me sleeve!”

    “Val,” said his friend tensely, “can you not see that he was waiting for me to accept his offer and dump my responsibilities on him?”

    The rounded Valentine jaw sagged. “Uh—wouldn’t say that, Jack.”

    “Would you not?” he said on a scornful note, striding on.

    Mr Valentine hurried after him. “Hang on, Jack! Where are we?”

    Mr Beresford stopped, a foolish look on his lean countenance. “Uh—no idea, old man. Uh—somewhere in the City?”

    They looked at each other sheepishly, and laughed. And, linking arms again, turned to retrace their steps.

    Somewhere at the back of Mr Beresford’s mind Lance’s saying he liked horses must have made an impression, for that evening, the house being free of Highetts and Uckridges at last, he said to him: “I’m off to Newmarket first thing, if you care to come.”

    Lance’s face lit up. “Oh, I say!”

    Miss Sissy and Peg had gone up to bed, and Horrible was just about to follow them. Her lips tightened. She closed the door again. “Gambling, Jack?” she said in a steely voice.

    “No, racing, merely,” replied Mr Beresford, unmoved. “There are rumoured to be some decent four-year-olds this year. And Rockingham has a new filly which is said to be capable of giving them all a run for their money.”

    “Money,” stated his cousin’s daughter flatly.

    “A figure of speech.” He eyed her mockingly. “Why are you so concerned? Thought I was old enough to know that when a man loses his shirt, he generally has to go naked in the world?”

    Lance gave a smothered choke; Horrible glared and said: “Very funny, Jack. I dare say you don’t care, but you’re leading Lance into bad habits.”

    Mr Beresford raised his eyebrows very slightly and drawled: “He ain’t got anything to bet with, y’know.”

    “Um, that’s true!” bleated Lance, with an uneasy laugh.

    Horrible turned her hard grey-green gaze on him: he blenched, in spite of himself. “I realise that you are a male who will use the fact to claim he cannot help himself,” she said to him in steely tones. “But just try to remember that your mother and father trust you to behave sensibly.” She gave Mr Beresford a bitter look. He shrugged. “I’m going to bed,” said Horrible grimly. “And if either of you imagines that Peg will be amused or pleased by this stupid start, let me tell you, she will not!” She marched out, scowling horribly.

    Mr Beresford drew a very deep breath.

    “Um, s’pose I could stay behind, if it’s going to create a fuss,” offered Lance glumly.

    “Rubbish. She’s the merest brat, and contrary to what she evidently assumes, I am not about to lead you into deepest dissipation, followed in rapid succession by the Fleet Prison!” His voice had got rather loud. He stopped, and took another deep breath. “Get off to bed: I’m leaving around four.”

    Grinning gratefully, Lance scurried off to bed.

    Mr Beresford poured himself a brandy and tossed it off, scowling.

    “Has Lance gone already?” said Peg in small voice to her aunt at breakfast—at a sensible hour—the following morning.

    Horrible had spoken to Miss Sissy in her room, before the unfortunate maiden lady was even up. “What? Oh, no, my dear: of course not! The travelling coach will not be ready until next week. No; merely, he and Jack have gone to Newmarket for a day or so. Racing, Peg,” she said with a sigh to Peg’s blank face.

    “Ruh-racing in the curricle? With his arm?” she faltered, going very white.

    “No, no, my dear: horse-racing.”

    “But he cannot possibly ride in a race!”

    “N— Oh, dear: I suppose you have never heard of—” Hurriedly Aunt Sissy explained that the gentlemen did not ride the creatures, they watched them being ridden by other persons.

    Peg stared.

    “Placing bets upon which of the creatures will win as they do so,” said Mr Beresford’s cousin’s daughter grimly.

    Peg’s mouth sagged open.

    “Profligate, unnecessary and downright foolish: yes,” agreed Horrible grimly.

    Miss Sissy sighed. “I suppose that is so. But they all do it, Peg, my dear.”

    “Mr Briggs once lost ten whole shillings because he made a bet that Mr Rowntree’s pig could not run the length of the paddock faster than one of his, and Mrs Briggs said he was a danged fool, and beat him with the ladle!” she gasped.

    “Good for Mrs Briggs,” noted Horrible.

    Peg nodded numbly.

    Miss Sissy took some strawberry preserve, and sighed. “Jack’s dear papa once lost fifty guineas on a silly bet that his terrier could jump higher over a stick than another man’s dog.”

    “Fifty guineas?” said Peg very, very faintly.

    “Yes, well, it is nothing to what some gentlemen bet, but all the same… He was devoted to that dog, and really, it was the snappiest, most ill-natured little creature imaginable. There is a picture of it in Jack’s study.”

    Horrible snorted.

    “Er, well, supposedly a picture of dear John with the little dog, you see,” amended Miss Sissy.

    “He hired an artist well known for his ability to paint the brute creation,” explained Horrible drily. “The whole family knows the story, of course: Aunt Beresford was furious about it, because she could never stand the creature.”

    Miss Sissy sighed. “Yes… Have some of the strawberry preserve, Peg, dear: it is quite delicious. The thing is, dear Jack has always had more money than he knows what to do with, and— Well. All the gentlemen bet, you see. But I think he will look after Lance.”

    “Ye-es… But Lance is—is very suggestible!” she burst out.

    Miss Sissy Laidlaw’s word would have been “biddable”, but on thinking it over she had to concede that Peg was perfectly correct. The boy appeared never to have had his leg across anything more feisty than Farmer Briggs’s old carthorse, heretofore, and had self-confessedly never driven anything more than the trap from the local tavern, and yet he had plunged himself into helping the grooms with Jack’s horses with positive fervour. Whether with the aim of pleasing Jack himself, or more simply to be treated kindly by the men and allowed to join in their concerns… Well, all of those, really. And there was very little doubt in her mind that when he was home he worked at the Greek and the ridiculous experiments partly because that was what made his father pleased with him, and, more simply, because it was what interested his father and he wished to join in… Oh, dear, oh, dear. A boy like that, let loose amongst the racing set at Newmarket?

    Exactly how the breakfast conversation led to the ladies’ ending up in Mr Beresford’s study that morning, none of them could quite have said.

    “There: Bertie Terrier with a background of Uncle John,” said Horrible drily.

    Peg looked at it eagerly. “Goodness! He is rather—rather dark.”

    Miss Sissy admitted sadly: “Yes. Whereas every hair on that horrid little brute is lovingly delineated. Oh, well. Dear John was terribly pleased with it.”

    Peg nodded. “It is very lifelike.”

    “Even down to the nasty gleam in the eye. Probably contemplating whose ankle to nip next!” said Horrible with a laugh.

    Miss Sissy looked at the picture of the gleaming-eyed little dog and the broad-shouldered man in the background, and sighed. “John was a little like dear Jack, do you not think?”

    A year ago—even six months ago—Horrible would probably have burst out with “Browner, though!” Now she merely thought it, and did not say it.

    “Um, yes,” said Peg uncertainly. “But he looks much jollier.”

    Miss Sissy patted her shoulder. “He was indeed, my dear. A very jolly man. Nothing could upset his equilibrium: he was good-natured to the bone. And generous and right-thinking with it. I just wish that he could have lived to set dearest Jack’s feet on the right path.”

    Peg bit her lip. “I do not think that—that my cousin is a bad man, Aunt Sissy.”

    “No, I wouldn't say that," conceded Horrible.

    “No, not that; I doubt that a son of John Beresford’s could be. Just rather selfish,” said Aunt Sissy sadly.

    “Yes. Papa says he’s spoilt," agreed Horrible briskly.

    “Perhaps Rowena should not have come home to Bath after John died… A boy needs a man’s hand,” said Miss Sissy in a vague voice, staring up at the portrait.

    Peg could think of nothing to say. She stared silently at the picture of the snappy little dog and the man in the background who looked like Cousin Jack, only jollier.

    “Um, his Uncle George doesn’t sound like the sort of man who’d impose discipline,” ventured Horrible uncertainly.

    “Not that, exactly, dear…” said Miss Sissy vaguely.

    The girls looked dubiously at her.

    “Well!” she said, giving herself a shake. “What on earth are we doing, mooning over old Bertie Terrier? Come along, my dears, there are an hundred and one things to do before we go out to pay our calls!”

    For herself, rather than pay calls, Peg would much have preferred to stay in the study with Cousin Jack’s desk and his picture of his father and his father’s dog. And possibly his morning paper. But she came obediently.

    At first Cousin Jack’s version of visiting Newmarket seemed to entail nothing more than a round of the stable yards, where the horses were inspected in great detail. Lance did not object: far from it. At one point Cousin Jack offered, in such a languid and uninterested way that Lance could not be absolutely sure he was serious, to buy one of the horses from a broad-shouldered, middle-aged man with a mop of untidy iron-grey curls and a bright spotted green and yellow kerchief, tied crooked, in place of a neckcloth; but the man just laughed and clapped him hard on the shoulder—fortunately his good shoulder.

    “Did you not offer him enough?” ventured Lance uncertainly as they retreated.

    “Eh? No, it was a fair price, but he wants to race her himself, y’see.”

    Lance had thought it was very great deal of money; he nodded but after a moment burst out: “But I should have thought a fellow of that ilk would have leapt at such an offer! Does he imagine he will win a lot of money if her races her, is that it?”

    Mr Beresford eyed him drily. “Of what ilk?”

    Lance floundered. The fellow had had a rough brown coat not near so smart as anything Sir Horace Monday wore in his own stable yard, and had been extremely hail-fellow-well-met in manner. “Um, well, a fellow what makes a living from his horses, I suppose is I what I mean.”

    “Ah. Well, I dare say he will make a considerable sum if he races her—if he bothers to bet, which he don’t, very often. And if she does win for him and he later sells her progeny, he will doubtless make much more.”

    “I see. So he’s taking the—um—the longer view?”

    Mr Beresford sighed. “Jenks!” he said loudly over his shoulder. “Mr Lance wants to know, who was the fellow in the appalling brown coat and shocking neckerchief in old Decker’s yard?”

    Happily Mr Jenks chirped that that had been the Marquis of Rockingham, in person. A left what would fell an ox, and a wonderful h’eye for a ’orse. Lance smiled weakly…

    As the inn where they were putting up filled with large, loud-voiced, knowledgeable men, it became clear that the races were due to start on the following day. Lance of course had never seen anything more exciting than Mr Briggs’s pig being soundly beaten by Mr Rowntree’s: he was thrilled by the thunder of hooves and the spectacle of the great glossy animals racing. But rather glad, in the hurly-burly of the crowds—by no means all gentlemen, but persons from every walk of life—that he was with Cousin Jack. Cousin Jack of course seemed to know a great number of fellows, none of whom evinced any interest at meeting his young relation; and not all of whom he bothered to introduce. Lance did not feel himself at all insulted by this treatment, and remained happily at Mr Beresford’s side, unaware that the look in his cousin’s eye was becoming more and more desperate as the day wore on.

    “Ah,” said Mr Beresford with something perilously near a sigh of relief, “here’s Mendoza Laidlaw! –Dare say you might show Lance the ropes, eh, Mendoza?”

    Considerately Mendoza refrained from asking Cousin Jack if the profession of bear-leader to the unfledged had palled, and took Lance off to meet some of his own set: Douglas Lacey and the G.-G. twins.

    The red-headed, pugnacious looking Mr Lacey merely grinned and shook hands but Messrs William and Anthony Gratton-Gordon looked at Lance with some interest and noted in chorus, smiling and nodding: “Think we’ve met your sister.”

    “They do that,” said Mendoza as Lance jumped. “Me sister Nobby calls ’em the lovebirds: always together, chirpin’ in pairs, y’see. –Odd little short-tailed parrots: she has a pair,” he elaborated kindly. “Gift of a besotted fiancé: no notion where he got ’em from. Useless sort of pet, really: won't talk like a decent parrot. Don't do nothin’ but sit together on their perch and occasionally nod their heads and chirp.”

    Lance had to bite his lip but the Gratton-Gordon twins just grinned and nodded at him. “Um, yes, Peg said,” he fumbled. “Glad to meet you.”

    “Stayin’ with Jack B., are you?” asked Mr Lacey.

    “Yes, well, just for a couple of weeks. He’s been showing me the sights.”

    “Why not stay on?” asked one of the fair-headed twins. Lance was not at all sure which, they were very alike.

    “Don’t be an ass, Willy,” said Douglas Lacey instantly, giving him a shove. “London is not half expensive.”

    “Aye, that’s it,” agreed Lance gratefully.

    “Dare say your cousin could afford to frank you,” ventured the other twin.

    Lance went red. “I dare say he could, but there is no reason why he should do so, and I am very glad to have had these weeks!”

    “There, now; you two can hop back nicely onto your perch,” noted Mendoza Laidlaw kindly.

    Unabashed, the fair-haired, pink-cheeked twins just grinned. They were, Lance soon realised, excessively good-natured, but not very bright. And, if they knew a very great deal about London life and the sorts of amusement in which fashionable young gentlemen might expect to indulge, had very little grasp indeed of the wider world and its concerns. Lance began secretly to feel quite grateful to Pa and Ma and his odd upbringing; for at least he was aware that for persons not born with silver spoons in their mouths, life was not the mere bowl of cherries it seemed to be to the Gratton-Gordon twins.

    “The thing is,” said his Cousin Mendoza confidentially, taking his arm and leading him off to place a bet, “those dashed birds of Nobby’s are greenish, in the main, but they have little round pink cheeks for all the world like Willy’s and Tony’s!”

    Lance went into a spluttering fit, but emerged from it to say on an anxious note: “I say, Cous’, I cannot really afford to bet, y’know.”

    “No, well, dare say the family cats will have told you that I’ve got most of what old Great-Uncle Philly left. No?” he said as Lance looked blank. “Lucky you; wish I lived up in Lincolnshire. Dare say I could frank you. If you lose it, no harm done; if you win, pay me back out of your winnings.” Cheerfully he handed Lance ten guineas.

    It seemed like an immense amount, though nothing to the sums he had heard talked of in the last couple of days; but since Mendoza seemed to think it was all right— And he was a relative, after all. Gratefully Lance accepted…

    “Who,” demanded Mr Beresford, walking in unceremoniously next morning upon the yawning group of friends, “was the donkey that gave Lance Buffitt money to bet with?”

    “Me,” replied Mendoza cheerfully. “Told him if he lost it, no harm done. Forget it, Jack.”

    “You imbecile, he has never bet a penny in his life before!” he shouted.

    Mendoza looked blank. After a moment the red-headed Douglas ventured: “No-one don’t start in their cradles, Jack, and it ain’t as if he was losing a fortune. Dare say I’d never bet nothing until I was turned seventeen, meself: Pa’s dead set against it, y’know.”

    Douglas Lacey’s father was the Marquis of Glenrowan, the eldest son and heir of the Duke of Munn. Mr Beresford threw him an impatient look. “His grandfather, or need I spell it out, is not—”

    “Don’t spell it out, Jack,” he said hurriedly. “But it didn’t do no harm, y’know: the lad ain’t lost a fortune. Far from it: put the lot on Rockingham’s Dancing Firefly in the last—”

    “I know he won, you imbecile!” he shouted.

    The very small, cramped private parlour of the King’s Head rang with silence.

    “It’s given him a taste for it, and now he thinks it’s the way to make a fortune!” he said exasperatedly.

    The four young men were seen to gulp.

    After a moment Mendoza said glumly: “Sorry, Jack. But all the fellows was placing bets and— Um, sorry.”

    “Just kindly do not offer to frank him again!” he ordered angrily.

    “If he loses today, maybe he’ll realise that it ain’t the way to make a fortune,” offered one of the twins glumly.

    “Yes,” agreed his brother, nodding anxiously. “It only takes a day’s losses to make a fellow realise—”

    “Oh, get back on your perches!” snarled Mr Beresford, walking out.

    In his wake the smallest private parlour of the King’s Head was silent.

    After quite some time Douglas Lacey ventured: “Don’t see why the Hell he was so stirred up. The twins are right, y’know: one day losing, and he’ll have lost the taste for it.”

    “Yes,” they agreed, nodding.

    Mendoza looked wry. “Mm. Personally, I think he was so stirred up, but you needn’t quote me—in especial after that arm of his heals—because it was his job to keep an eye on the fellow and he neglected to do it.”

    Douglas Lacey grinned. “Either that or he’s scared witless at the thought of your Aunt B.’s reaction when she comes home.”

    “Both!” chorused the twins, grinning and nodding madly.

    “I stand corrected!” said Douglas with a laugh. “Both, of course!”

    Mendoza Laidlaw eyed the three of them a trifle ironically, but said nothing.

    Mr Beresford, though bored half out of his skull, duly kept an eye on Lance for the rest of the day. This entailed, amongst other duties, preventing him from going off happily with Teddy Wilkes and Sim Horlish to bet “five”—five hundred guineas, not five shillings or even five pounds: Teddy Wilkes’s father was a nabob and Sim Horlish not only had the barony and the extensive lands pertaining, he was married to one of the Lacey girls, all of whose dowries were reliably rumoured to have been not a penny less than fifty thousand pounds. Lance had a pretty good eye for a horse, so Jack did not have to stop him betting on more than half a dozen broken-down hacks too short in the back. Unfortunately, at the end of the day, thanks to these tactics, he had over three hundred guineas in his purse and was feeling very pleased with himself indeed.

    “Say I lay out some of this gelt on a decent evening suit—”

    “Yes?” said Mr Beresford unencouragingly.

    “Well, dare say my aunt will not mind if I stay on for a little, now I have some gelt in me pocket! Could squire Peg about a little, take in the opera, eh?”

    “That will entail, as well an evening suit and some decent linen to go with it, a decent hat, an opera cloak, gloves—”

    “Dare say it will stretch that far; Mendoza was saying he knows a very decent tailor fellow: he—”

    “No.”

    “Well, dare say he can’t produce nothing like nothing what your fellow makes,” said Lance, looking in some awe at the caped fawn driving coat his cousin was wearing, “but—”

    “No. You may send— What am I saying? You may take,” said Mr Beresford grimly, “that money home to your parents.”

    “Ye-es… Pa don't approve of gambling; well, said it was Uncle Ted’s downfall. Not sure what that means, exactly: has a snug little place in Somerset, y’know. Only his wife don’t care for Pa, so—”

    “Lancelot,” said Mr Beresford very clearly, “according to Bath gossip, and I see no reason to doubt it in this instance, Ted Buffitt was at point non plus when he married that shrew of a woman for her money. She is, at a conservative estimate, fifteen years his elder and has led him a dog’s life any time these past thirty years. The alternative was the Fleet Prison, which is the usual alternative for those who cannot pay their debts. And as your father seems to have had the sense to tell you, he got himself into that situation by throwing his money away on slow horses, bad cards, and rotten women!”

    “Y— Uh, Pa didn't mention no rotten women,” he said in mild surprise. “Was they? Um, well, knew all the rest, though. Was just saying, the wife don't care for Pa, so we ain’t never been invited there.”

    Mr Beresford eyed the blancmanger wildly but it just smiled happily at him as it wobbled—once again—out of his grasp.

Next chapter:

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