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‘I would much rather be here in the country with you than racketing around all those hotels and gaming halls with Papa. Besides, someone had to give an eye to the estate, though Mr Jackson is a very good agent and does his best for us.’
‘Well, I certainly hope that your sister is not racketing around gambling clubs,’ her aunt said looking alarmed. ‘It would be quite improper for a young woman of her age. Your father is a confirmed gambler and will never change. It was the death of my poor sister, never knowing where the next penny would come from. That, my dearest Lottie, is what you get for marrying a rake and a gambler.’
‘Papa did break Mama’s heart,’ Lottie admitted, sadness in her eyes. ‘She had to follow him all over Europe, never knowing whether they would have enough money to pay for a roof over their heads or the next meal. It was fortunate that Papa was left this house. At least Mama was able to rest here in peace for a few years, though Papa did not stay long with her. He does have a small mortgage on the house, of course, but the bank will not lend him any more. That is just as well, otherwise, I fear we should not have a roof over our heads.’
Lottie looked round the charming room. Although the soft furnishings and curtains were faded and showing signs of wear, it was a comfortable place to sit in the afternoons. At this precise moment the sun was pouring in through the French windows, which they had opened to allow for some air. The furniture was for the most part old, some of it belonging to an age long gone, heavy carved Jacobean pieces that gave Lottie a feeling of permanence, of belonging. However, the previous owner had been an admirer of Mr Chippendale and there was a very handsome bookcase in the best parlour, as well as a set of good chairs in the dining room. Aunt Beth sat in a comfortable wing chair, her sewing table to hand and a book of poetry on the wine table at her side. Lottie, too, had been reading earlier, and her book lay on the small elegant sofa.
‘What else does your sister say?’ Aunt Beth enquired as Lottie sat down to read her letter.
‘She says that Papa lost a large sum of money to an English marquis playing piquet…’ Lottie turned the page, scanning some lines of rather indignant writing from her twin. ‘Oh dear…that is too bad of Papa. No, no, he really has gone too far this time. No wonder Clarice is angry.’
‘Why? Do not keep me in suspense a moment longer!’
Lottie handed the letter to her aunt, who frowned over it for some minutes before returning it to her.
‘That is both ridiculous and disgusting,’ Aunt Beth said. ‘How dare he?’
‘What, you mean how dare Papa accept—or how dare the marquis make such an outrageous request?’
‘Both,’ Aunt Beth said, looking affronted. ‘I have never heard of such a thing—to suggest that your father should give him Clarice in payment for a gambling debt—it is the outside of enough!’
‘The marquis has said he will marry her,’ Lottie said thoughtfully. ‘I suppose in a way it might be a good thing for Clarice. Besides, it could be worse—he might have demanded she become his mistress…’
‘How can you think so?’ Aunt Beth shook her head. ‘The marquis must be a rake. He is probably old enough to be her father—a lecherous old devil who will lead Clarice a hell of a life.’
‘If he is, she must not marry him.’ Lottie got to her feet. ‘We shall know soon enough—they are coming home in a few days. Clarice said the marquis provided the money for their return. Otherwise they might have been stuck in France until we could send more money.’
‘And where would we get that, pray? I have nothing left but my pearls—which are for you, Lottie, when you marry—and fifty pounds a year. Clarice had the garnets when she was engaged, and she did not return them when she broke off her engagement. What little I have is for you, my dear.’
‘Do not speak of such things,’ Lottie begged her. ‘I pray you will live for many years yet. Besides, I am not sure I shall marry.’
‘Why ever not? You are the equal of your sister in looks, and your character is superior. She has had chances enough—why should you not?’
Lottie sighed. ‘I should wish to marry for love, but then poor dear Mama married the man of her dreams—and they very soon turned to ashes.’
‘My sister was a silly little thing, though I loved her dearly,’ Aunt Beth said. ‘However, I married a man who had both background and money—and look where that got me.’
Lottie nodded. Her uncle had not gambled away his money at the tables, but on a series of bad investments—including being caught in a scandal that had been almost as calamitous as the South Seas Bubble, which had ruined so many people in 1720—and had left his widow with very little fortune. Aunt Beth had been forced to sell her home and come to live with her sister and nieces after her husband died in a riding accident. Then Aunt Beth had taken care of her and Clarice after their mother died, and Lottie at least had become very fond of her.
‘I suppose if one of us were to marry a rich man we might all be comfortable.’ Lottie frowned. ‘But Clarice sounds very angry. I do not think she will agree and if she does not…’
‘Do you think we might lose the house?’ A look of anxiety crossed Aunt Beth’s face. ‘Where should we go then, Lottie?’
Lottie had no idea. She had lain awake more than one night recently, worrying about what would happen if her father lost what little money he had at the tables. She had begged him not to go on this latest visit to Paris, but he could never rest in the country for more than a few weeks at a time, and Clarice had demanded to go with him. Now her father owed more than he could pay and both he and Clarice were on their way home.
Nicolas threw his gloves and hat on to the sideboard in the spacious hall of his London house. His boots clattered on the marble floor, the resulting sound echoing to the high ceilings. He was not in the best of tempers and it showed in the set of his mouth and the brooding expression in his eyes.
‘Did you have a good journey, my lord?’ his butler dared to ask.
‘No, damn it, I did not,’ Nicolas snapped. ‘Have Harris lay up some things for me. I shall be going into the country for a few days.’
‘Yes, my lord—certainly. Is there anything more, sir?’
‘No… Yes, you can wish me happy, Barret. I am to be married, and quite soon I think.’
‘My lord…’
Nicholas left his butler in shock as he took the stairs two at a time. He smiled grimly. The one consolation in the whole sorry business was that it would set the cat amongst the pigeons once the story got out. A reluctant smile touched his lips. At least he could still laugh at society and himself—but why the hell had he done it?
It was true that he had promised Henrietta he would consider the idea of marriage, but to ask for the hand of a woman—he would not call her a lady, for she was an adventuress—he had only just met was ridiculous.
Nicolas had at first refused when Sir Charles Stanton had offered him his daughter as payment for the gambling debt. However, after a night of reflection, he had decided that one woman was as good as another. His memory of being ridiculed by Elizabeth when he declared his love had made him determined never to offer his heart again. Therefore Sir Charles’s offer was a convenient way of solving his problem. Clarice had been brought up as a lady, of that he had no doubt—but he had not known when he’d agreed to the deal that her morals were those of an alley cat.
It was on the night after he had signed the contract Sir Charles had hastily had drawn up with their joint lawyers that Nicolas discovered his mistake. One of Nicolas’s friends had been visiting Paris and they had gone out to a gaming club together, both of them drinking more than usual. Ralph Thurlstone had been three sheets to the wind and Nicolas rather more drunk than was sensible when he discovered his friend in a back room of the club. Ralph was lying senseless on the bed while a very pretty young woman with long spun-gold curls emptied his pockets of what money he had left. From the look of her hair and crumpled gown, he suspected that she had been on the bed with Ralph prior to robbing him.
‘What the hell do you imagine you are doing?’ Nicolas enquired dangerously.
‘Taking what belongs to me,’ the woman replied, her green eyes flashing with temper. ‘He owes me and this is scarcely recompense for what he took.’
‘Are you telling me you were a virgin before this evening?’
‘Would you believe me?’
‘No.’
‘Then I shall tell you nothing,’ the woman said and passed him, going out of the room.
Nicolas had let her go. In truth, he was still stunned by what he had seen. Returning to the main rooms a little later, he discovered Sir Charles at the tables, and standing at his back was the young woman he had seen going through Ralph’s pockets moments earlier. Nicolas had thought he must have been mistaken, but there was no mistake. Clarice Stanton, his bartered bride-to-be, had robbed his friend while he lay in a drunken stupor.
‘Ah, Rothsay,’ Sir Charles said, looking up. ‘Sit down and join us, won’t you? Clarice is bringing me luck tonight. I was down to my last guinea but she brought me ten more and I have won the pot of two hundred.’
Which he would no doubt lose before he rose from the tables, Nicolas thought.
Nicolas looked the young woman in the eyes and saw her flush. Until this evening, he had not met Stanton’s daughter, not bothering to propose to her but leaving it to the father to tell her of their arrangement. He supposed that he had intended to speak to her in his own good time. When he recklessly signed the marriage contract, he had been acting on impulse. He had heard on the rumour mill that Stanton’s daughter was pretty, but as he was engaged to her already, sight unseen, her looks were not his primary concern. He had thought only that she was available and would give him the heir everyone said he needed.
To his horror, he had contracted himself to marry a thief and a wanton. What a damned fool he had been!
Henrietta had begged him to marry for the sake of the family. He hardly dared to contemplate what she would say if she knew the truth.
He must find a way to withdraw—but how could it be done? Anger smouldered inside him as he saw the young woman continue to encourage her profligate father at the tables. When Stanton rose a winner of some two thousand pounds or more, she flashed him a look of triumph, as if daring him to expose her to the world.
Needless to say, Nicolas had kept his mouth closed. It would have exposed him to ridicule, as well as Ralph, whom he knew to be newly engaged to a respectable English girl. His friend had been feeling a little hedge-bound, because his mother-in-law to be was demanding he dance attention on her daughter the whole time. Ralph had escaped to Paris for a last fling, and would never know that he had not spent all his guineas at the tables. The loss was one he could afford, but Nicolas was affronted by the idea that he had agreed to marry a woman of such low morals.
Nicolas had left Paris the next day, sending his would-be father-in-law a sharp note dictating that he take his daughter back to England to await his further instructions.
As soon as he had set foot in town, Nicolas visited his family lawyer to discover if the contract was watertight, and apparently it was. Nicolas could of course withdraw and compensate the girl for breach of promise. He would no doubt have to pay through the nose to be free of her. His mouth drew into a thin line as he contemplated the scandal.
No, better that he find a way of forcing the woman to withdraw. He would be ridiculed in the clubs whichever way it went, but if Miss Stanton withdrew it could all be settled by a payment for her bruised pride—if she had any—and there would be less scandal.
It was his own fault for giving in to a wild impulse. He could not blame Henrietta, who would certainly not have advised such a reckless affair. Nicolas smiled wryly. The irony of it was that such a marriage would have suited him had the woman not been a thief and a cheat. She was certainly pretty enough, and, if compliant, might have had her own house and done much as she pleased once she had given him a couple of heirs.
So for now, it seemed that he must go through with the formal arrangements. Henrietta must be told of his impending marriage and in due course an announcement must be made in The Times. Yet he would hold back on the announcement for a while; there was still a chance he might be able to persuade the young woman to withdraw. He must post down to his country house and put some work in hand. Nicolas seldom bothered to pay more than a flying visit to his family home; it would certainly need some changes if his wife were to live there.
His wife… Nicolas felt as if a knife had struck at his heart. There had once been someone he hoped to make his wife, but Elizabeth had laughed in his face and married an older, richer man. For years he had allowed his hurt pride to eat away at him, but it was time to put it aside. When this fiasco was over, he must look for a suitable wife in earnest.
‘I shall not marry him. I told Papa in Paris that I would not. He refused to tell the marquis that the contract must be broken. I know there is a debt, but he won a little before we left Paris, after I wrote to you. I dare say if we sold this house he could pay the debt.’
Lottie looked at her sister’s flushed face and wondered how Clarice could be so selfish. Did her twin never give a thought to anyone else’s comfort but her own?
‘What about Aunt Beth and me?’ she asked. ‘Where should we go if the house were sold? Aunt Beth has little enough income as it is—and I have nothing at all.’
‘I will find a rich husband and rescue you both.’ Clarice flashed a beguiling smile at her sister.
‘Surely the marquis is rich enough? Papa said he was rolling in the blunt.’
‘Well, I dare say he is, but I do not like him. He is arrogant and cold—and I shall not marry him.’
Clarice took up Lottie’s hairbrush and began to brush her twin’s hair.
‘I hate him, Lottie. Papa is mean to say I must marry him. I would rather die—besides, there is someone I really like. I met him in Paris and I think he is in love with me.’
‘Oh, Clarice…’ Lottie sighed. ‘If the marquis is that horrible, I should not want you to marry him. Is he very old, dearest?’
‘Oh, middle-aged, I should say…thirty or more.’
‘That is not old.’ Lottie frowned at her. ‘Is he ugly?’
‘No, not ugly…stern, I suppose.’ Clarice put down the brush. ‘You must agree with me or Papa will make me marry him.’
‘If he is presentable and rich…’ Lottie looked thoughtful. ‘It would be the answer to Papa’s troubles, Clarice. Could you not marry him for his sake and ours?’
Clarice made a face at her in the mirror. ‘If you think he sounds presentable, you marry him. He would never know the difference…’ Clarice stared at her in the mirror and her expression became one of excitement. ‘Why not? Why do you not wed him in my place? You could be certain that Aunt Beth had a decent home and Papa could come to you whenever he was in trouble.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Clarice.’ While it was true that they were almost identical in looks, apart from a mole on Lottie’s right breast that Clarice did not have, they were very different in character. ‘Surely he would know the difference? I know that many people cannot tell us apart but he must know you better than most.’
‘We have only met once—and he does not know me at all, though he may think he does.’
‘What does that mean?’
Clarice shrugged. ‘He is so arrogant. I suppose I cannot expect you to marry him, Lottie. Yet I shall not. I would rather run away.’
‘You will not change your mind?’
‘No, not for the world,’ Clarice declared. ‘I am sorry if the house must be sold, but I dare say Aunt Beth can find a little cottage to rent.’
‘Is that all you care—after she looked after us for so many years?’
‘Well, I should not like her to be homeless, but I refuse to marry him. If you are so concerned, Lottie, you may marry him yourself. I do think you could for it would be better than being stuck here in the country the whole time.’
‘Do not be so ridiculous. It is you he wants—how could I marry him?’
‘You could pretend to be me.’
‘No, no, that would be cheating him. It is a foolish idea, Clarice. I cannot consider it.’
‘Then Papa will have to tell him the wedding is off,’ Clarice said and looked mutinous. ‘I shall not marry him and that is an end to it.’
‘Have you seen your sister this morning?’ Aunt Beth asked when Lottie came back from her walk the next morning. ‘Your father wanted to speak to her, because the marquis has written to him, but she was not in her room. I knocked, but she did not answer’
‘I expect she is sulking,’ Lottie said. ‘I’ll go up and speak to her at once.’
Taking off her pelisse and bonnet, Lottie went to her own room first. She was thoughtful as she walked along the hall to her sister’s room. She had been thinking about Clarice’s suggestion that she marry Rothsay in her place ever since their argument the previous day. It was a mad idea that they should change places, yet if Clarice truly dug her heels in, what was the alternative?
Lottie knew her sister well enough to be sure that Clarice would never marry to oblige her family. She must dislike the marquis very much, which meant that he was probably a most unpleasant man. Yet if Clarice refused, their father would lose everything.
Knocking at her sister’s door, Lottie waited for a moment, then opened it and went in. The room was empty; by the look of things, Clarice had left it in a hurry. She had clothes strewn everywhere, an odd shoe dropped on the floor—and all her silver combs, brushes and perfume bottles were missing from the dressing chest.
Feeling cold all over, Lottie went to investigate. Looking in the drawers of the tallboy, she saw that some of them were empty of all but Clarice’s oldest things.
As she glanced at the bed, she saw a letter lying on a pillow. It was addressed to her. Tearing it open, her worst fears were soon confirmed.
Clarice had run away.
Tell Papa not to try to find me. I shall never come back and he may as well sell the house because I do not wish to marry that awful man.
‘Oh, Clarice,’ Lottie sighed. ‘What have you done now?’
As a child Clarice had always been selfish and thoughtless, and, because most people could not tell them apart, she had formed a habit of making people think it was Lottie who had broken their vase or knocked over her milk or put a stone through a window.
Glancing at the letter again, Lottie saw the postscript.
Why not do as we discussed and marry him yourself, Lottie? He will never know the difference. He doesn’t care two hoots for me, so what harm can it do?
Lottie took the letter and went back downstairs. She met her father as he emerged from his study. He was looking tired and worried and her heart caught with pain.
‘Father—is something the matter?’
‘Your sister has informed me once again that she will not marry the marquis and I’m damned if I know what to do. I suppose I shall have no choice but to sell the house.’
‘Perhaps not…’
‘What do you mean? Has she changed her mind?’
‘You had better read this, Papa.’ Lottie handed him her twin’s letter. ‘I have no idea where she has gone, but she has taken most of her things—including the silver that belonged to Mama.’
Sir Charles read it through and cursed. ‘She is a thoughtless minx. Well, that settles it. I must sell—and if the marquis sues for breach of promise, I shall probably end up in the Fleet.’
‘Papa! He wouldn’t sue?’
