Page 28 of The Chaperone
Their eyes met, and in that moment she had no doubts about him. She lowered her gaze, a little flushed.
‘I … appreciate the offer, my lord, but cannot imagine any situation in which I might need the assistance of a gentleman.’
This was perfectly true, but some situations were beyond imagining.
CHAPTER NINE
Lord Pinkney was not sober. He was at thereckless stage where advice would be met with belligerence, and so those who might otherwise have been tempted to remonstrate with him held back. It had not been a good day. He had lost what appeared sound bets upon three horses to the tune of twelve hundred guineas at Tattersalls, and settling day would be a trifle awkward. His recent good fortune had, as it always did, slipped away in the payment of a few of his most pressing debts and the dicing at Watier’s, and he was now badly dipped to the tune of a cool eight thousand at the card tables. This mercurial change in his financial situation was not in any way unusual, and most of his acquaintance shrugged and simply shook their heads over it, with mutterings that one day he really would drown in the River Tick.
What percolated through to his fuddled intelligence was that Tyneham, the prosy bore, had been an onlooker for most of the evening, and taken over the Bank at a very late stage, and seemed very smug over holding his vowels.
‘No need to look so damned pleased, Tyneham,’ he managed, with remarkably little slurring.
‘Pleased? Oh no, you mistake. They say fortune favours the brave but tonight you went way beyond brave, Pinkney, into the realm of wildly rash.’
‘Going to give me the bunny … bunny-fit of your wisdom, Tyneham?’ sneered the inebriated peer.
‘Let it go, man,’ whispered a gentleman at Lord Tyneham’s elbow, laying a restraining hand on his arm, but the viscount disliked taking advice.
‘I would recommend you don’t play after the third bottle.’ There was the smug look again.
Lord Pinkney was conscious of a desire to wipe that smug smile from Tyneham’s face, but the more pressing urge was to lie down and sleep. He therefore found a sofa and collapsed upon it, and it was from here that he was taken and placed in a cab with directions to his lodgings and a companion who lived close enough by to stroll the last few hundred yards once he had handed over the comatose form to his servants.
It was past noon the following day when Pinkney awoke, and wished, most fervently that he had not. He was generally accounted a man who could hold his liquor well, but vaguely recalled having begun drinking before dinner and had certainly broached a fourth bottle before the end of the evening. His mouth felt dry and disgusting and his head was in danger of exploding. He opened one eye with extreme reluctance, when his man came in upon his summons, then groaned loudly and swore at him for opening the curtains to reveal a painful degree of daylight.
‘What is the time?’
‘A little after two in the afternoon, my lord,’ answered the valet, smoothly. ‘Would your lordship care to take refreshmentau lit, or rise and shave?’
The groan at the mention of food was even more pronounced, and the grumpy peer pulled the bedclothes over his head. Shellow smiled to himself. He was not enamoured of his employer, especially when due two months wages. He returned below stairs to report that his lordship had clearly made a real night of it, as they had thought, and would be unlikely to require food for several hours.
When Lord Pinkney finally emerged from his bedchamber it was in a bad mood, and with an inclination to blame everyone else for his plight. The physical expression of ‘everyone’, in his mind, was Lord Tyneham. The Viscount Tyneham was self-important, a bore and, what really made Lord Pinkney grind his teeth, so infernally rich that he need not worry if he lost the odd thousand, which made it all the more galling when he won.
The morning through which he had slept had brought more almost polite letters from tradesmen who had heard that he was back in funds and were keen to be reimbursed for their wares. Well, they were too late. He consigned every last sheet to the fire and watched the flames flicker, consuming every word, every neatly written figure. It was a good way to avoid having drawers stuffed with bills, even if he was well aware that it did not remove the debts. He had made recovers before, and he would simply have to do so again. It was purely by chance that he overheard another member of his club mention Tyneham’s boast about his sister.
‘Rum thing to do, I thought. I mean, he’s so flush it stands to reason the sister won’t come without a tidy sum, so why make a fuss of it?’
‘Perhaps the chit is ugly as sin?’ offered the gentleman to his right.
‘No such thing. Have you seen the girl? Very tempting, I tell you, before any mention of settlements. Lady Chelmarsh is bringing her out, for there’s a family connection. Saw Miss Tyneham at Almack’s last week when I did the decent by my mother; skin like porcelain, fine figure and a smile that makes you want a special licence in your pocket, damn me if it doesn’t.’
‘Disgusting!’ An elderly gentleman who had been half dozing behindThe Gazette, glared at the speaker. ‘No way to speak about your mother, sir.’
The younger man opened his mouth to deny the offence but then thought it too difficult to explain, apologised profusely, and sauntered away to see if he could find anyone happy to play billiards.
Lord Pinkney smiled. He did not attend many parties, and far preferred, when he could afford the pleasure, dalliance with young women who had no romantic illusions and an exact knowledge of how best to please a man. Becoming a tenant for life was not on his list of ‘things to do’, but the thought of a beautiful bride with an even more beautiful dowry was a temptation, especially if that wiped the smile off the face of Lord Tyneham. That gentleman would certainly not entertain him as a suitor for his sister’s hand, but, as the saying went, there was more than one way to skin a cat. He sat down, ordered a brandy, and began to contemplate feline skinning.
Lord Rothley and Sir Esmond Fawley met outside the premises of Charles Grierson at Number 10 Bond Street at the appointed hour of eleven o’clock. The shop proudly displayed the superscription ‘Gunmaker to His Majesty’ though it looked a little tired. The gentlemen shook hands.
‘Do you favour Grierson over Manton or Egg, Rothley?’
‘Not especially, but I saw this gun when it was in the window the other week and liked the look of it, looked a good balance. Single barrel, twelve-bore, tidy gun. Come and see what you think of it.’
They entered the shop and for the next twenty minutes argued happily over whether there would be any advantage to John Manton’s new V-shaped pan, and whether the barrel length might be an inch or two long. Lord Rothley was convinced, however, that it was just the thing, and arranged for it to be sent round to his address. Having completed his business, the two friends ambled into Jackson’s Boxing Saloon a few doors down, exchanged a few words with friends, watched some sparring and then made their way to St James’s and luncheon at White’s. Their conversation had been sporting, but as they turned down St James’s, Sir Esmond brought up another subject.
‘A very pleasant morning, Rothley, and I am very glad it was not at six of the clock and with a surgeon in attendance.’
‘As am I,’ Lord Rothley laughed. ‘The depressing thing is that Miss Tyneham was not entirely in jest.’
