Red Sky at Night, Lovers' Delight Page 2

  “Like that, is it? I’m sorry. Yes? I changed their names for them to please that bitch, their mother, and she thanked me by running off with the tutor. Said she was tired of acting housekeeper and nurse together. Said he was going to marry her. Fool of a woman. Believe that, she’ll believe anything. Well—” his smile was slightly crooked—“she never did have any sense. Pretty as a picture. A dead bore, no more brains than a codfish. Know what she did? Wrote me a letter to say she was loping off. Forgot to post it. Went off with the damned tutor and all the money in the house. First thing I knew about it, that nurse of theirs turns up with the whole pack of them at my hired house in Brighton. Never felt such a fool in my life. And now what the hell am I going to do with them?”

  “Have you really discharged their nurse?”

  A rueful look. “Yes. Told you I was foxed, didn’t I? Ah, here’s your supper at last.”

  It was a simple enough meal of cold meats, and a game pie that Kit shrewdly suspected of having been intended for dinner in the servants’ hall. “Bachelor’s fare.” Lord Hawth had dismissed, the nervous footman and poured his guest’s wine himself. “No kickshaws in the house, and not much comfort either. Gone to rack and rain since m’father died. And, for God’s sake, don’t tell me it needs a woman’s hand.”

  Kit laughed. “I wouldn’t presume. But those venturesome children of yours will need one. Pluck to the backbone, sir … my lord.”

  “Hell’s teeth, call me Hawth. Everyone does. Think I’m an unnatural father, don’t you? Well, what in the devil’s name have I got to be natural about? Pack of damned nuisances. Never really known them, scared to death of me …”

  “Well, can you wonder? I’m scared myself.”

  “No, you’re not. Surprised me. Most people are. Your age, anyway.”

  “I’m twenty,” said Kit Warrender with some dignity… “And you must be all of forty yourself. An old man, you think?”

  The habitual frown and crooked smile dissolved in a burst of laughter that transformed the saturine face. “Forty-two, Mr. Warrender, and if all bastards are like you, I’ll be proud of my brood yet.”

  “Call me Kit,”

  “I will. But you’re drinking nothing!”

  “I don’t much. It’s shameful, but I don’t like it.”

  “Don’t like it! Good God! You’ll be telling me you don’t like a wench, next.”

  “Well—” a note of apology—“I’m only twenty. We can’t all be wicked earls, you know.”

  “Oh! So you know about me.”

  “Well of course. Everyone knows about you. What I don’t rightly understand is what you are doing here at Hawth after all these years.”

  “Wishing to God I was elsewhere. And wondering what in hell’s name I’m to do with those brats of mine.”

  “Yes. Delicious pie.” Kit finished a last mouthful and drank a modest sip of wine. “Do you know,” deliberately, “I might have a suggestion to make about the children.”

  “Oh?” The dark brows drew together. “Might you? Got a starving mother somewhere in the county of Glinde?”

  “My lord!” The wine glass went down with a sharp little click. “You insult me? In your own house?”

  “Hell’s teeth, boy—Kit—I’m sorry. Told you I was foxed. Told you twice. It’s this damned tongue of mine. Made me more enemies than my money has friends.”

  “Money doesn’t make friends,” said Kit Warrender. “But it’s useful. Perhaps you would be so good, my lord, as to enquire if those frightened servants of yours have brought back my horse yet.”

  “Up in the boughs, eh? Well, I don’t blame you. But, dammit, boy, I’ve apologised, and it’s not often I do that. Would you rather I fought you?”

  “No, thanks. I’d be scared.”

  “Right to be. Come, sir, another glass to show we’re friends, and tell me what you did mean when you said you’d an idea.” He filled the glass, then looked across, dark eyes friendly under the black brows. “Sorry. Forgot you don’t like wine. Absurd of me.”

  “But I do like this of yours. It’s not just what I’ve been used to.”

  “My best burgundy. Can’t stand claret. Run goods, of course. And that reminds me, you said… smugglers?”

  “Yes. They had a watch out, down where the lane turns up from the marsh. Funny thing, they scared me a little.”

  “They did, did they? That’s saying something. But they didn’t hurt you?”

  “Oh, no. I knew one of them. But I didn’t much want to go back, not with three brats in tow.”

  “You knew one? Who?”

  “You can’t think I’m going to tell you?”

  Hawth threw out a hand in apology. “Sorry! I’m making a right mull of things tonight. Wine’s in, wit’s out. But do you really know someone might take on my hellborn brats for me?”

  “ ‘Hellborn?’ I like them. I’d be sorry to see them suffer. That’s why—I did wonder—how much do you know of what goes on in these parts?”

  “Not a great deal. Some talk gets to Brighton.”

  “So you know about Charles Warrender’s death?”

  “Yes. Damned untidy business.” It had brought the heavy frown back. He drank and looked across the glass at his companion. “To tell truth, I was one of the men he lost to. The night before…”

  “Before he killed himself.”

  “I’m sorry. Kin of yours. Not my fault. Fair play, and he wasn’t up to it.”

  “No. Not your fault. But it happened. And—he had a wife and daughter.”

  “Yes?”

  “They think—” A pause. “They think he was desperate. His son had died, lost at sea. The estate was entailed. There wasn’t much to leave them. So—he played.”

  “And lost.”

  “And killed himself.”

  “And where does that leave the wife and daughter?”

  “Penniless, Lord Hawth. The estate is entailed. Father to son, since God knows when. The heir’s an American, arriving any moment to turn them out. They want to go first. Anywhere …”

  “You can’t mean?”

  “Housekeeper and governess? Better than starving. Better than being beholden to a canting Philadelphia Quaker. I can’t answer for them, but from what they’ve said to me, it might be worth your while just to go and ask.”

  “The Warrenders? But they’re old as time and proud as the devil.”

  “And poor as death. I’m on my way there now. I’ll speak to Mrs. Warrender if you like. Warn her to expect a visit. No harm done if you dislike each other on sight.”

  “Will we, do you think? What’s she like, your … cousin, is it?”

  “I’m fond of her. I doubt she’s quite in your line.”

  Hawth laughed. “I wonder just how I should take that. A bluestocking, I collect: reads nothing but Mrs. Godwin and Mrs. More. Will she lecture me about the rights of women?”

  “Visit her and find out.”

  “And the daughter? Another amazon? Mind you, that’s what I need for those brats of mine. But they’ll never do it. The Warrenders came over with the Conqueror, and everyone knows we Chyngfords are just eighteenth century dirt.”

  “Golden dirt. But suit yourself.” Kit Warrender rose. “If you don’t ask, they won’t come. If you do, they might. Necessity is a hard master. I think Mrs. Warrender would give a good deal to be able to hand over the keys to the American heir and leave the house on the spot.”

  “Hard on him.”

  “You think so? Never answered a single letter. Never wrote when my—Mr. Warrender the younger was drowned; but turns up pat as bedamned when he learns he’s inherited. Writes a lot of fudge about letters lost at sea, ships captured by the French.”

  “Well, they do, damn them,” said Hawth. “How long’s this war gone on? Almost twenty years, if you don’t count that crazy peace in 1802. Things don’t run easy, boy, not with a war on. One just about as old as you are. And now those damned Yankees taking sides with the French, lot of fuss about nothing: impre
ssment, our right of search. Letters to the Yankee heir could easily have been lost.”

  “Yes, but if he hadn’t heard something, what brought him to England so timely? Can’t have it both ways, can he?”

  “No. I see. Ah—” The butler had appeared to announce that Mr. Warrender’s horse was waiting. “You’re going to Warren House now? Give my respects to Mrs. Warrender and tell her I will do myself the honour of calling on her tomorrow. What will you tell her?”

  “What should I?”

  “Hell’s teeth, boy, your idea. Tell her the lot. How you met those brats of mine. What a devil of a father I am. What they are. That’s important, mind. Bastard brood of a jumped up earl and a bit of Bond Street ware. Tell her it all. House to rack and ruin, servants all nohow—what there are of them. All the money she wants to set things in order. Oh, my God!”

  “Yes?” Politely trying to conceal impatience, Kit Warrender ran a hand through darkly curling hair. “What now?”

  “The daughter. Miss Warrender. She’ll set her cap at me. Bound to. They all do. God knows why.”

  “Something irresistible about bad temper?” suggested Kit Warrender with a gleaming eye. “Those romantic black brows of yours, à la Lord Byron, and your reputation? Do you write poetry, by the way?”

  “No, Goddamn you! But what about it? What about the girl? Your cousin, too, I suppose?”

  “Set your mind at rest.” Kit Warrender held out a hand in farewell. “My Cousin Kate wouldn’t have you if you were the last man on earth.”

  “Want to bet on it? No, I suppose not.” He had caught the flash in his young guest’s eye. “Got other interests, has she? Affections already engaged? Romantic young miss? Secret engagement? Pack of sentimental nonsense.”

  “Something of the kind,” said Kit Warrender. “Visit them tomorrow, my lord, and see for yourself.”

  Chapter Two

  “But where is she?” wailed Mrs. Warrender. “It’s all very well to say, ‘Gone for a ride,’ Chilver, but where has she gone? And why isn’t she back? It’s dark, been dark for hours. She’ll catch her death, or worse, out there careering about the countryside in that light habit of hers.”

  “Ahem.” Chilver had been butler to the Warrenders ever since their marriage the year after the Bastille fell. “She’s not exactly wearing her habit, ma’am, if that makes you feel happier about her. Which,” thoughtfully, “maybe it should. She had Barnes saddle up with Mr. Christopher’s saddle.”

  “Chris! She’s never wearing his clothes again! Chilver, I shall have a spasm. I know it. I feel it coming.”

  “No you won’t, ma’am,” said Chilver with a kind of firm respect. “You never do, not when things is serious, you know you don’t.” He moved softly over to a side-table, poured a glass of cordial and handed it to her.

  “And you think they’re serious now?” She accepted the glass and took a sip, looking at him across it.

  “I can’t say I like it, ma’am. She’s been gone a long time. It is dark. Has been, for an hour or so. She was in a proper tearer when she rode out. Well, you know that. And no wonder. It’s enough to put anyone about. But it’s not like her to worrit you. That’s why …”

  “I know,” said Mrs. Warrender. “That’s what’s worrying me, too. Mind you.” She took another hearty sip of the cordial. “I’m glad you told me she’s in Christopher’s clothes again, even if she did promise me she wouldn’t. It does make her … make her seem safer, don’t you think?”

  “Of course it does, ma’am. She’s likely down at the Bell in Glinde, like she used to go with Mr. Chris, and enjoying herself, I’ll be bound. You know what Miss Kate’s like, when she gets going.”

  She gave him a watery smile. “I do indeed, Chilver. Just the same, I wish she’d come home. She’ll get into trouble one of these days, careering round the countryside like the boy she isn’t. Poor lamb.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” If he could help it, he did not mean to tell her about the rumour of a meeting in the long meadow. “She do miss Mr. Chris still, something dreadful.”

  “Don’t we all, Chilver.” A mechanical hand smoothed the heavy mourning she had worn first for her son and then for her husband, and the butler, looking with long affection at the curling, golden hair under the widow’s cap, thought, as he had before, what a waste it all was.

  There were many things he might have said, but in fact his head went up, listening. “There’s a horse coming up the drive.”

  “Thank God, so there is! My goodness, won’t I just give her a scold!” Mrs. Warrender hurried along the familiar maze of passages that led from her boudoir through the old wing of the house and so to the grand stairway, arriving just in time to see the heavy front door thrown open to admit her daughter. “Kate, you wicked child, how could you!” She ran downstairs as an impassive footman helped Kate Warrender out of her dead brother’s many-caped greatcoat to reveal her every inch the slender country gentleman in blue coat and buckskins. “You promised me you’d never do it again!”

  “I know, mamma, but I have had such an adventure. You will just have to forgive me, this once more.” Half a head taller than her mother, Kate bent to place a loving kiss on her fair cheek. “You’ve not really been worrying, have you, darling mamma? I’ve had such a time!” A quick look for the loving, listening servants. “Come to your boudoir, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “But you’ve not supped, child!”

  “Oh, yes I have.” Kate took her mother’s arm and urged her up the sweeping stair. “I’ve been eating bachelor’s fare with Lord Hawth.”

  “With—Kate, you’re joking me.” Mrs. Warrender put out a quick hand to steady herself on the banisters.

  “Oh, no I’m not, mamma. Chilver—” He had been waiting, expressionless, at the top of the stair. “Has mamma got her cordial? Good. Then I’ll have a bottle of the best burgundy.”

  “Miss Kate!”

  “I’ve made a great discovery, Chilver. It’s not wine I dislike, but claret and cordial. Father must have some good burgundy left in the cellar.”

  “Oh, yes, Miss Kate.”

  “And we don’t want to waste it on the American heir, do we, Chilver, so—”

  “Very good, Miss Kate.” He retreated, disapproval in every, line of his back.

  “I ought to make you change!” In the privacy of the boudoir, Mrs. Warrender surveyed her daughter with a mixture of disapproval and resignation.

  “Have a heart, love.” Kate sat down and swung one elegant buckskin-clad leg over the other. “I am so comfortable like this, and I have had such an adventure, as the children would say.”

  “Children?”

  “Lord Hawth’s byblows. Oh, never blush and purse up your lips at me. You call a spade a spade when you want to. Just think of the things papa used to say. And Chris! Poor Chris!” A loving hand smoothed the neatly tied cravat that had been her brother’s. “I could kill that George Warren for raking it all up again. A statement from you, indeed! What kind of difference is that going to make? There was no doubt at the time. If only there had been …”

  “Well, of course not,” said her mother sadly. “How could there be? But it was hushed up, you know it was. Your father saw to that.”

  “Yes indeed.” Kate’s eyes sparkled angrily. “After doing nothing for Chris, keeping him dangling at home without occupation, he must needs feel himself disgraced when his son was killed in a smugglers’ affray.”

  “We don’t know it was that,” protested her mother.

  “Naturally we don’t, since father got his influential friends to make a state secret of it. Yachting accident, indeed! I’d have laughed if I could have stopped crying. Chris never went to sea but with his smuggling friends from the village. You know it as well as I do. And it was their kind of accident, too. You know.You saw the body. And I’ll never forgive father for that either.”

  “After so long in the sea.” Mrs. Warrender shuddered at the memory. “But a fight. It had to have been a fight. And his clo
thes … his watch … his poor face. I can give Mr. Warren the statement he wants easily enough, and you can see it would be awkward for him to have the least shadow of doubt over his claim to the estate.”

  “Warren!” fumed Kate. “As if Warrender wasn’t good enough for him. And bringing his own man of business, too. It’s an insult, mamma, to you and to Mr. Futherby. I look forward to saying a word or two to my cousin George Warren before we go.”

  “Oh, Kate, pray don’t,” begged her mother. “Besides, you know that’s just the misery of it. There’s nowhere to go. Poor papa, I’m sure he would never have shot himself if he had realised that thanks to that wretched attorney even my jointure would be lost among his debts.”

  “I’m sure he never gave it a thought,” said his daughter. “Let’s not pretend with each other. You know as well as I do that he never thought of anything but himself.”

  “Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Warrender bowed her head in the becoming widow’s cap. “I do feel so dreadful that I cannot truly mourn for him. Do you know”—she put out a soft little hand to clasp her daughter’s brown one—“once or twice receiving visits of condolence, I had to think of poor Chris in order to mike myself shed a proper tear.”

  “I’m glad you told me that. Sometimes I was afraid you really were minding.” Kate patted her mother’s hand, rose to her feet, and moved over to stand, as her brother used to, with one booted foot on the fender. “That makes everything much easier,” she went on. “So you will have no objection to receiving Lord Hawth tomorrow?”

  “Receiving Lord Hawth? But why should I?” Blushing with surprise, Mrs. Warrender looked hardly older than her formidable daughter.

  “Object? Or receive him?”

  “Well,” said her puzzled mother, “both, I suppose.”

  “Pity,” said Kate. “You didn’t know. No need to have told you. But never mind. It seems Lord Hawth was one of the creditors,” she explained. “He told me so, just now. He says there was no suggestion of foul play.”