Джорджетт Хейер - The Corinthian

“Most,” he agreed.

“Even dastardly!”

“I think we might call it dastardly.”

“Well, that is what it seems to me. I see now that there is a great deal in what Aunt Almeria says. She considers that there are terrible pitfalls in Society.”

Sir Richard shook his head sadly. “Alas, too true!”

“And vice,” said Pen awfully. “Profligacy, and extravagance, you know.”

“I know.”

She picked up her knife and fork again. “It must be very exciting,” she said enviously.

“Far be it from me to destroy your illusions, but I feel I should inform you that stealing one’s mother’s diamonds is not the invariable practice of members of the haut ton.”

“Of course not. I know that!” said Pen with dignity. She added in persuasive tones: “Shall I come with you when you go to meet the stammering-man?”

“No,” answered Sir Richard, not mincing matters.

“I thought you would say that. I wish I were really a man.”

“I still should not take you with me.”

“Then you would be very selfish, and disagreeable, and altogether abominable!” declared Pen roundly.

“I think I am,” reflected Sir Richard, recalling his sister’s homily.

The large eyes softened instantly, and as they scanned Sir Richard’s face a slight flush mounted to Pen’s cheeks. She bent over her plate again, saying in a gruff little voice: “No, you are not. You are very kind, and obliging, and I am sorry I teased you.”

Sir Richard looked at her. He seemed to be about to speak, but she forestalled him, adding buoyantly: “And when I tell Piers how well you have looked after me, he will be most grateful to you, I assure you.”

“Will he?” said Sir Richard, at his dryest. “I am afraid I was forgetting Piers.”

The spinney down the road, referred to by Beverley in his assignation with Captain Trimble, was not hard to locate. A careless question put to one of the ostlers elicited the information that it formed part of the grounds of Crome Hall. Leaving Pen to keep a sharp look-out for signs of an invasion by her relatives, Sir Richard set out shortly before eleven o’clock, to keep Captain Trimble’s appointment. The impetuous Captain had indeed called for his horse, and had set off in the direction of Bristol, with his cloak-bag strapped on to the saddle. He had paid his shot, so it did not seem as though he contemplated returning to Queen Charlton.

At the end of a ten-minute walk, Sir Richard reached the outskirts of the spinney. A gap in the hedge showed him a trodden path through the wood, and he followed this, glad to be out of the strong sunlight. The path led to a small clearing, where a tiny stream ran between clumps of rose-bay willow herb in full flower. Here a slightly built young gentleman, dressed in the extreme of fashion, was switching pettishly with his cane at the purple heads of the willow-herb. The points of his collar were so monstrous as to make it almost impossible for him to turn his head, and his coat fitted him so tightly that it seemed probable that it must have needed the combined efforts of three strong men to force him into it. Very tight pantaloons of a delicate biscuit-hue encased his rather spindly legs, and a pair of tasselled Hessians sneered at their sylvan surroundings.

The Honourable Beverley Brandon was not unlike his sister Melissa, but the classic cast of his features was spoiled by a pasty complexion, and a weakness about mouth and chin not shared by Melissa. He turned, as he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and started forward, only to be fetched up short by the sight, not of Captain Trimble’s burly figure, but of a tall, well-built gentleman in whom he had not the slightest difficulty in recognizing his prospective brother-in-law.

He let his malacca cane drop from suddenly nerveless fingers. His pale eyes stared at Sir Richard. “W-w-what the d-devil?” he stammered.

Sir Richard advanced unhurriedly across the clearing. “Good-morning, Beverley,” he said, in his pleasant, drawling voice.

“W-what are you d-doing here?” Beverley demanded, the wildest surmises chasing one another through his brain.

“Oh, enjoying the weather, Beverley, enjoying the weather! And you?”

“I’m staying with a friend. F-fellow I knew up at Oxford!”

“Indeed?” Sir Richard’s quizzing-glass swept the glade, as though in search of Mr Brandon’s host. “A delightful rendezvous! One would almost suspect you of having an assignation with someone!”

“N-no such thing! I was j-just taking the air!”

The quizzing-glass was levelled at him. Sir Richard’s pained eye ran over his person. “Putting the countryside to scorn, Beverley? Strange that you who care so much about your appearance should achieve such lamentable results! Now, Cedric cares nothing for his, but—er—always looks the gentleman.”

“You have a d-damned unpleasant tongue, Richard, b-but you needn’t think I’ll put up with it j-just because you’ve known me for y-years!”

“And how,” enquired Sir Richard, faintly interested, “do you propose to put a curb on my tongue?”

Beverley glared at him. He knew quite as well as Captain Trimble that Sir Richard’s exquisite tailoring and languid bearing were deceptive; that he sparred regularly with Gentleman Jackson, and was accounted one of the best amateur heavyweights in England. “W-what are you d-doing here?” he reiterated weakly.

“I came to keep your friend Trimble’s appointment with you,” said Sir Richard, removing a caterpillar from his sleeve. Ignoring a startled oath from Mr Brandon, he added: “Captain Trimble—by the way, you must tell me sometime where he acquired that unlikely title—found himself obliged to depart for Bristol this morning. Rather a hasty person, one is led to infer.”

“D-damn you, Richard, you mean you sent him off! W-what do you know about Trimble, and why did—”

“Yes, I fear that some chance words of mine may perhaps have influenced him. There was a man in a catskin waistcoat—dear me, there seems to be a fatal spell attached to that waistcoat! You look quite pale, Beverley.”

Mr Brandon had indeed changed colour. He shouted: “S-stop it! So Yarde split, d-did he? Well, w-what the d-devil has it to do with you, hey?”

“Altruism, Beverley, sheer altruism. You see, your friend Yarde—you know, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of tools—saw fit to hand the Brandon diamonds into “my keeping.”

Mr Brandon looked quite stupefied. “Handed them to you? Yarde d-did that? B-but how d-did you know he had them? How c-could you have known?”

“Oh, I didn’t!” said Sir Richard, taking snuff.

“B-but if you didn’t know, why d-did you constrain him—oh, what the d-devil does all this m-mean?”

“You have it wrong, my dear Beverley. I didn’t constrain him. I was, in fact, an unwitting partner in the crime. I should perhaps explain that Mr Yarde was being pursued by a Runner from Bow Street.”

“A Runner!” Mr Brandon began to look ashen. “Who set them on? G-god damn it, I—”

“I have no idea. Presumably your respected father, possibly Cedric. In Mr Yarde’s picturesque but somewhat obscure language, he—er—tipped the cole to Adam Tiler. Have I that right?”

“How the d-devil should I know?” snapped Brandon.

“You must forgive me. You seem to me to be so familiar with—er—thieves and—er—swashbucklers, that I assumed that you were conversant also with thieving cant.”

“D-don’t keep on talking about thieves!” Beverley said, stamping his foot.

“It is an ugly word, isn’t it?” agreed Sir Richard.

Beverley ground his teeth, but said in a blustering voice: “Very well! I did t-take the damned necklace! If you m-must know, I’m d-done up, ruined! But you n-needn’t take that psalm-singing t-tone with me! If I d-don’t sell it, my father will soon enough!”

“I don’t doubt you, Beverley, but I must point out to you that you have forgotten one trifling circumstance in your very engaging explanation. The necklace belongs to your father.”

“I c-consider it’s family property. It’s folly to keep it w-when we’re all of us aground! D-damn it, I was forced to take the thing! You don’t know w-what it is to be in the p-power of a d-damned cent-per-cent! If the old m-man would have p-parted, this wouldn’t have happened! I told him a m-month ago I hadn’t a feather to fly with, but the old fox wouldn’t c-come up to scratch. I tell you, I’ve no c-compunction! He lectured me as though he himself w-weren’t under hatches, which, by God, he is! Deep b-basset’s been his ruin; m-myself, I prefer to g-go to perdition with a d-dice-box.” He gave a reckless laugh, and suddenly sat down on the moss-covered stump of a felled tree, and buried his face in his hands.

“You are forgetting women, wine, and horses,” said Sir Richard unemotionally. “They also have played not inconsiderable roles in this dramatic progress of yours. Three years ago you were once again under the hatches. I forget what it cost to extricate you from your embarrassments, but I do seem to recall that you gave your word you would not again indulge in—er—quite so many excesses.”

“Well, I’m n-not expecting you to raise the w-wind for me this time,” said Beverley sulkily.

“What’s the figure?” Sir Richard asked.

“How should I know? I’m n-not a damned b-banking clerk! T-twelve thousand or so, I dare say. If you hadn’t spoiled my g-game, I c-could have settled the whole thing.”

“You delude yourself. When I encountered your friend Yarde he was making for the coast with the diamonds in his pocket.”

“Where are they now?”

“In my pocket,” Sir Richard said coolly.

Beverley lifted his head. “L-listen, Richard, you’re not a b-bad fellow! Who’s to know you ever had the d-diamonds in your hands? It ain’t your affair: give them to m-me, and forget all about the rest! I swear I’ll n-never breathe a w-word to a soul!”

“Do you know, Beverley, you nauseate me? As for giving you the diamonds, I have come here with exactly that purpose.”

Beverley’s hand shot out. “I d-don’t care what you think of m-me! Only hand the n-necklace over!”

“Certainly,” Sir Richard said, taking the leather purse out of his pocket. “But you, Beverley, will give them back to your mother.”

Beverley stared at him. “I’ll be d-damned if I will! You fool, how could I?”

“You may concoct what plausible tale you please: I will even engage myself to lend it my support. But you will give back the necklace.”

A slight sneer disfigured Beverley’s face. “Oh, j-just as you l-like! Hand it over!”

Sir Richard tossed the purse over to him. “Ah, Beverley! Perhaps I should make it clear to you that if, when I return to town, it has not been restored to Lady Saar I shall be compelled to—er—split on you.”

“You won’t!” Beverley said, stowing the purrse away in an inner pocket. “M-mighty pretty behaviour for a b-brother-in-law!”

“But I am not your brother-in-law,” said Sir Richard gently.

“Oh, you n-needn’t think I don’t know you’re g-going to m-marry Melissa! Our scandals will become yours too. I think you’ll keep your m-mouth shut.”

“I am always sorry to disappoint expectations, but I have not the smallest intention of marrying your sister,” said Sir Richard, taking another pinch of snuff.

Beverley’s jaw dropped. “You d-don’t mean she w-wouldn’t have you?”

“No, I don’t mean that.”

“B-but it’s as g-good as settled!”

“Not, believe me, by me.”

“The d-devil!” Beverley said blankly.

“So you see,” pursued Sir Richard, “I should have no compunction whatsoever in informing Saar of this episode.”

“You w-wouldn’t split on me to my f-father!” Beverley cried, jumping up from the tree-stump.

“That, my dear Beverley, rests entirely with you.”

“But, d-damn it, m-man, I can’t give the d-diamonds back! I tell you I’m d-done—up, fast aground!”

“I fancy that to have married into your family would have cost me considerably more than twelve thousand pounds. I am prepared to settle your debts—ah, for-the last time, Beverley!”

“D-devilish good of you,” muttered Beverley. “G-give me the money, and I’ll settle ’em myself.”

“I fear that your intercourse with Captain Trimble has led you to credit others with his trusting disposition. I, alas, repose not the slightest reliance on your word. You may send a statement of your debts to my town house. I think that is all—except that you will be recalled to London suddenly, and you will leave Crome Hall, if you are wise, not later than to-morrow morning.”