‘Damn you,’ said Sir Richard. ‘If you had ever had a shred of proper feeling, Lucius, you would have got married fifty years ago, and reared a pack of brats in your image. A horrible thought, I admit, but at least I should not now be cast for the role of Family Sacrifice.’
‘Fifty years ago,’ retorted his uncle, quite unmoved by these insults, ‘I was only just breeched. This is a very tolerable wine, Ricky. By the way, they tell me young Beverley Brandon’s badly dipped. You’ll be a damned public benefactor if you marry that girl. Better let your lawyer attend to the settlements, though. I’d be willing to lay you a monkey Saar tries to bleed you white. What’s the matter with you, George? Got the toothache?’
‘I don’t like it,’ said George. ‘I told Louisa so at the outset, but you know what women are! Myself, I wouldn’t have Melissa Brandon if she were the last woman left single.’
‘What, she ain’t the spotty one, surely?’ demanded Lucius, concerned.
‘No, that’s Sophia.’
‘Oh, well, nothing to worry about then! You marry the girl, Ricky: you’ll never have any peace if you don’t. Fill up your glass, George, and we’ll have another toast!’
‘What is it this time?’ enquired Sir Richard, replenishing the glasses. ‘Don’t spare me!’
‘To a pack of brats in your image, nevvy: here’s to ’em!’ grinned his uncle.
TWO
Lord Saar lived in Brook Street with his wife, and his family of two sons and four daughters. Sir Richard Wyndham, driving to his prospective father-in-law’s house twenty-four hours after his interview with his own parent, was fortunate enough to find Saar away from home, and Lady Saar, the butler informed him, on her way to Bath with the Honourable Sophia. He fell instead into the arms of the Honourable Cedric Brandon, a rakish young gentleman of lamentable habits, and a disastrous charm of manner.
‘Ricky, my only friend!’ cried the Honourable Cedric, dragging Sir Richard into a small saloon at the back of the house. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve come to offer for Melissa! They say good news don’t kill a man, butInever listen to gossip! M’father says ruin stares us in the face. Lend me the money, dear boy, and I’ll buy myself a pair of colours, and be off to the Peninsula, damme if I won’t! But listen to me, Ricky!Areyou listening?’ He looked anxiously at Sir Richard, appeared satisfied, and said, wagging a solemn finger: ‘Don’t do it! There isn’t a fortune big enough to settleourlittle affairs: take my word for it! Have nothing to do with Beverley! They say Fox gamed away a fortune before he was twenty-one. Give you my word, he was nothing to Bev, nothing at all. Between ourselves, Ricky, the old man has taken to brandy. H’sh! Not a word! Mustn’t tell tales about m’father! But run, Ricky! That’s my advice to you:run!’
‘Would you buy yourself a pair of colours, if I gave you the money?’ asked Sir Richard.
‘Sober, yes; drunk, no!’ replied Cedric, with his wholly disarming smile. ‘I’m very sober now, but I shan’t be so for long. Don’t give me a groat, dear old boy! Don’t give Bev a groat! He’s a bad man. Now, when I’m sober I’m a good man – but I ain’t sober above six hours out of the twenty-four, so you be warned! Now I’m off. I’ve done my best for you, for I like you, Ricky, but if you go to perdition in spite of me, I’ll wash my hands of you. No, damme, I’ll sponge on you for the rest of my days! Think, dear boy, think! Bev and your very obedient on your doorstep six days out of seven – duns – threats – wife’s brothers done-up – pockets to let – wife in tears – nothing to do but pay! Don’t do it! Fact is, we ain’t worth it!’
‘Wait!’ Sir Richard said, barring his passage. ‘If I settle your debts, will you go to the Peninsula?’
‘Ricky, it’s you who aren’t sober. Go home!’
‘Consider, Cedric, how well you would look in Hussar uniform!’
An impish smile danced in Cedric’s eyes. ‘Wouldn’t I just! But at this present I’d look better in Hyde Park. Out of the way, dear boy! I’ve a very important engagement. Backed a goose to win a hundred-yard race against a turkey-cock. Can’t lose! Greatest sporting event of the season!’
He was gone on the words, leaving Sir Richard, not, indeed, to run, as advised, but to await the pleasure of the Honourable Melissa Brandon.
She did not keep him waiting for long. A servant came to request him to step upstairs, and he followed the man up the wide staircase to the withdrawing-room on the first floor.
Melissa Brandon was a handsome, dark-haired young woman, a little more than twenty-five years old. Her profile was held to be faultless, but in full face her eyes were discovered to be rather too hard for beauty. She had not, in her first seasons, lacked suitors, but none of the gentlemen attracted by her undeniable good looks, had ever, in the cock-fighting phrase of her graceless elder brother, come up to scratch. As he bowed over her hand, Sir Richard remembered George’siceberg simile, and at once banished it from his obedient mind.
‘Well, Richard?’
Melissa’s voice was cool, rather matter-of-fact, just as her smile seemed more a mechanical civility than a spontaneous expression of pleasure.
‘I hope I see you well, Melissa?’ Sir Richard said formally.
‘Perfectly, I thank you. Pray sit down! I apprehend that you have come to discuss the question of our marriage.’
He regarded her from under slightly raised brows. ‘Dear me!’ he said mildly. ‘Someone would appear to have been busy.’
She was engaged upon some stitchery, and went on plying her needle with unruffled composure. ‘Do not let us beat about the bush!’ she said. ‘I am certainly past the age of being missish, and you, I believe, may rank as a sensible man.’
‘Were you ever missish?’ enquired Sir Richard.
‘I trust not. I have no patience with such folly. Nor am I romantic. In that respect, we must be thought to be well-suited.’
‘Must we?’ said Sir Richard, gently swinging his gold-handled quizzing-glass to and fro.
She seemed amused. ‘Certainly! I trust you have not, at this late date, grown sentimental! It would be quite absurd!’
