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‘Being a businessman yourself, Mr Dilhorne, you will, of course, understand that we have a duty to protect the Waring estate from possible impostors.’
He paused, and Alan said, ‘Of course,’ and tried not to look at Sir Patrick who appeared vaguely amused by the whole business.
‘Since we discovered your mother’s existence—Sir John having left her everything without ascertaining whether she was alive or dead—we have taken a number of affidavits from persons resident in Sydney at the time of her marriage but who have now returned to England. These appear to be satisfactory on the face of it.
‘I am sure, though, that you will understand that it seemed wise to ask Sir Patrick Ramsey to meet you as further confirmation, since Colonel Wright left for service in India some six months ago. That is correct, is it not, Sir Patrick?’
Sir Patrick flapped a hand in agreement.
‘Now, as I understand it, Mr Dilhorne, you are here on behalf of your father, Thomas Dilhorne Esquire.’
‘No,’ said Alan, throwing both lawyers into a temporary fluster. ‘My father is Tom, not Thomas, and I am not here on his behalf. It is my mother who inherits the estate, and I represent her.’
Sir Patrick gave a short laugh on hearing this.
Bunthorne favoured Alan with a patronising smile.
‘Not so, Mr Dilhorne. But your mistake is quite understandable, since you may be unaware that under English law your mother’s rights are subsumed under your father’s.’
‘It is you who mistake,’ said Alan gently. ‘At home my mother’s possessions have been contractually reverted back to her. She is a free agent, and, as such, is as full a partner in my father’s firm as myself or my brother Tom.’
Sir Patrick’s laugh was not stifled this time. Memory moved in him when he surveyed Tom Dilhorne’s son.
The lawyer was only temporarily embarrassed. He began again.
‘Your mother’s inheritance. So be it. And you are her representative. Very good.’
He gave a half-bow in Sir Patrick’s direction. ‘Now, Sir Patrick, you see Mr Alan Dilhorne before you. Have you any comments to make or questions to ask?’
Sir Patrick rose negligently. Alan saw that he had been an athlete in his youth and was still supple for his age. He walked to Alan and put out his hand. Alan took it. They shook hands gravely.
‘Only,’ said Sir Patrick, ‘that Mr Alan Dilhorne is the image of the Tom Dilhorne I once knew—only larger. I suppose that, like me, he is feeling his years.’
The lawyer smiled. ‘That merely proves Mr Alan here to be his father’s son, and not necessarily Miss Hester Waring’s.’
Alan looked at Sir Patrick, who said, ‘I remember Miss Waring’s wedding, and also the birth of twins to her. This is the younger twin, I am sure.’
Alan thrust his hand into the pocket of his beautiful coat and took out a locket, which he handed to Sir Patrick. Sir Patrick opened it to find there Tom and Hester, painted as they had been nearly thirty years ago when he had known them.
‘Sarah Kerr’s work, I take it,’ he said examining the portraits carefully. ‘A beautiful woman, your mother,’ he added, handing the locket to the lawyers for them to inspect it. ‘I was right about your resemblance to your father. Is your older brother like him, too?’
‘No. He is like my mother’s brother, who was killed in the Peninsular War before I was born. He is very like my father in character, though.’
‘Both are truly your father’s sons, then,’ said Sir Patrick. ‘When I heard George Johnstone speaking of you in admiration, although God knows why after the way in which you treated him, I was back in Sydney nearly thirty years ago. Tell me, are you as dangerous as he was?’
‘No,’ said Alan. ‘I haven’t had his provocations. My life has been easier.’
The three men were struck by him: by his maturity compared with that of most of the young men in their twenties whom they knew.
The lawyer handed the locket back. Alan passed to him the notarised copies of the documents relating to his parents’ marriage, his mother’s birth certificate, and the records of his own and his siblings’ births. He also passed to the lawyer the power of attorney signed by his mother, setting him out as her agent to act for her in any problems concerning the Waring estate, and a similar document from his father relating to his power over the Dilhorne branch in London.
All the time he felt Sir Patrick’s humorous eye on him.
‘Done, then?’ said Sir Patrick at the end, pulling out his watch. ‘Luncheon calls.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Bunthorne. ‘A piece of advice for Mr Alan here, which it would not go amiss for you to hear, Sir Patrick. The Loring connection are resentful that the estate on which they counted passes to your mother. It would be wise to be wary, Mr Alan.’
‘So noted,’ returned Alan coolly. ‘Do I take it that you are satisfied with my credentials?’
‘After meeting your good self and hearing what Sir Patrick has had to say, and having seen these documents, there can be no doubts in the matter. There remain only the final legal moves—including the granting of probate—which will place the estate in your mother’s hands. The title, of course, died with Sir John.’
‘Of course,’ said Alan gravely, and Sir Patrick cocked a sardonic eye at him.
‘You will be staying some little time in England, Mr Dilhorne?’ pursued the lawyer.
‘Until this and other matters are settled,’ said Alan cheerfully.
‘We shall, then, remain in touch. I gather that your firm employs its own solicitors in London? Pray keep our office informed of your own address, and your movements, if you would be so good.’
Alan assented to this, and they all bowed at one another.
Sir Patrick took Alan’s arm. ‘I insist that we dine at my club, Master Alan. You can tell me the latest news from Sydney. Particularly anything about your redoubtable father and your beautiful mother.’
‘Certainly, Sir Patrick. I believe that you left Sydney shortly after my birth,’ he said, adding slyly, ‘You do not object to eating with the felon’s son, I take it?’
Sir Patrick dropped Alan’s arm and turned to face him. ‘I grew to admire your father before I left. Although I’m bound to say that he frightened me, too. In an odd way, that is.’
Alan laughed. ‘He frightens us all. But the Patriarch is a great man.’
Sir Patrick stopped short and began to laugh. ‘The Patriarch, is it?’ he choked. ‘Let me tell you later of one of my favourite memories of your father. He was pretending to be dead drunk when lying under the gaming table in Madame Phoebe’s brothel. The Patriarch! Well! Well! And do you play, Master Alan? Are you a fly-boy, too?’
‘A little,’ replied Alan modestly. ‘Only a little.’
So it came to pass that he dined with a laird of thirty thousand acres in Scotland, twenty thousand in England, who owned two castles, three country houses, four follies, who had a clever and beautiful wife, and whose happiest memories were of his days as a penniless officer in a frontier town in the Pacific when all the world seemed young and merry.
Alan liked visiting Stanton House. Its interior was beautiful after a fashion quite different from his home in Sydney, which was furnished in the Eastern style. Instead it contained all that was best in European taste, from the paintings on the walls to the objets d’art which stood everywhere, and the furniture on the elegantly carpeted parquet. Best of all he liked its owner, Almeria, and her charge, Eleanor Hatton.
Shortly after Almeria had launched him on London society she invited him to dinner to introduce him not only to Sir Richard Johnstone, but also to his Loring cousins.
‘It will be a splendid opportunity for you to make your peace with them,’ she had said.
He arrived promptly, wearing his new evening clothes. Eleanor, greeting him, thought that, while in one sense it was necessary for him to conform to the society in which he was now mixing, they diminished him in another. He looked more like the smooth young men she knew, and less like the strange, exciting man she had first met.
‘Ah, Mr Dilhorne, you are as prompt as I expected you to be,’ Almeria told him. Privately she contrasted him with careless Ned and other members of the Hatton family, who had been asked to be sure to arrive in the drawing room in time to meet Alan and her other visitors but who had not yet come down.
Alan, indeed, soon became aware that beneath her usual calm manner she was vexed about something. Finally, in a lull in the conversation, she rang the bell for Staines and asked him to enquire of Mrs Henrietta Hatton whether she had forgotten that she had promised to come down early for dinner in order to meet Mr Dilhorne before Sir Richard and the Lorings arrived.
He bowed deferentially. ‘I believe, m’lady, that they are on their way downstairs. I gather that there was a slight misunderstanding involving Master Beverley when they first set out, but that has now been overcome.’
Young Charles Stanton, who was being allowed down to dinner that evening, gave a slight guffaw. His grandmother said, ‘Thank you, Staines,’ before looking over at him and remarking glacially, ‘You wished to say something, Master Stanton?’
‘N…n…not at all, grandmother,’ he stuttered. He was so unlike his usual well-behaved and quiet self that Alan wondered what was wrong with him. Eleanor, as well as Charles and Almeria, was also on edge. Her welcome to him had seemed somewhat distracted—which was most unlike her. He was soon to find out why the atmosphere in the pretty room was so tense.
Mrs Henrietta Hatton burst into the room all aflutter, immediately behind her unruly son whom she was unsuccessfully pursuing. She was, Alan later learned, Eleanor’s aunt by marriage, having been the wife of her father’s younger brother John, who had died in a drunken prank involving a curricle, two ladies of easy virtue and half a dozen equally overset friends. As if this was not bad enough he had done so on the day his wife was giving birth to their only child, known to all and sundry as Beastly Beverley.
He had been taken up dead after trying to manoeuvre through the gateway of Hatton House, off Piccadilly, when he could barely stand, never mind drive.
Henrietta had mourned her faithless husband as though he had been the most sober and loving of men. She had transferred her unthinking love to their son, with the result that the child, naturally headstrong, was rapidly transformed into something of a monster.
Although only eleven years old, he was already obese through self-indulgence, and had been informed by Almeria Stanton that he would not be allowed to sit down to dinner as he could not be trusted to behave himself. She had given way, regretfully, to his fond mother’s insistence that he might be allowed in the drawing room before it was served, so that he could meet the guests.
Beastly Beverley, living up to his name, walked up to Alan and thrust his scarlet face at him. Before he could speak Alan forestalled him by putting out his hand, taking Beverley’s flaccid one, and saying gravely as he shook it, ‘Hello, old chap. I’m Alan Dilhorne. Pray who are you?’
Beverley wrenched his hand away. ‘So you’re Ned’s convict look-alike. Where are your funny clothes? Ned said that you had funny clothes.’
He began to laugh loudly, pointing at Ned and choking out, ‘Got it wrong again, Ned, didn’t you? No funny clothes.’
Charles, sitting quiet and obedient by Mr Dudley, plainly did not know whether to laugh or to cry at this exhibition. Almeria Stanton shuddered. His mother said weakly, ‘Oh, Beverley, do try to be more polite.’
Beverley, who made a point of never listening to a word his mother said, opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could do so Alan said gravely, ‘Ned kindly introduced me to his tailor. Sorry to disappoint you.’
For once his already famous charm did not work. Beverley gave a shriek of laughter in order to demonstrate that nothing would be allowed to put him down.
‘Oh, I’m not disappointed. I never expect anything from convicts.’
At this Almeria Stanton said in her most severe voice, ‘Behave yourself, Master Beverley Hatton.’
Beverley’s response was to put his tongue out at her and shout, ‘Shan’t,’ before retreating behind his mother.
She said nervously, ‘Beverley always behaves well—unless, of course, someone provokes him.’
Presumably I provoked him when I came in fashionable clothing, thought Alan wryly.
Rational conversation proved impossible in Beverley’s presence, until Almeria said to Mrs Hatton in her coolest voice, ‘I think that, after all, it would be best, Henrietta dear, if you took Beverley to his room before our other guests arrive.’
This was only accomplished after a great deal of screaming and crying, and some reproaches from Mrs Hatton to her aunt concerning her disregard for poor Beverley’s feelings.
The sense of relief at his departure was immense. The only sad thing was that in response to Hetta Hatton’s demands for fairness, Charles and his tutor were asked to leave also. This was particularly hard on poor Mr Dudley, who had been looking forward to a good dinner and would now be reduced to dining on schoolroom fare again.
Sanity ruled at last. The Loring party and Sir Richard and his wife arrived to find a composed family ready to introduce them to the young Australian who was the subject of society’s latest gossip.
‘Yes,’ Sir Richard said, shaking Alan’s hand, ‘you are like Ned—but there is an odd difference between you. I hear from my brother George that you have been enjoying yourself in the City.’
‘Work to be done there,’ agreed Alan. ‘I like a challenge.’
‘Apparently. I wish more of our young men did. We grow soft.’
‘An old head on young shoulders,’ Sir Richard told his wife later.
Introduced to his Loring relatives en masse, as it were, Alan told them collectively, ‘It’s a pleasure to meet my English cousins whom I did not know that I possessed.’
Victor frowned. Caroline, wearing a pink gauze frock which did her no favours, smiled admiringly at him.
Clara Loring said gently, ‘We never knew your mama. She left England with her father after Fred’s bankruptcy. I hardly knew him, either. I believe that he quarrelled with his family before he lost everything.’
Well, they certainly quarrelled with him after he was ruined, thought Alan, but being a polite young man he bowed and smiled at her. Both Loring women appeared to be faded and cowed, and the reason was obvious: the dominant and personable Victor, who stood over them full of himself. He was a bullying Beastly Beverley grown up.
‘Must say that your arrival, as well as the news of Cousin Hester’s family, was a great shock to us all,’ was his grudging contribution to the conversation.
Alan nodded. ‘Must have been,’ he agreed: a statement which was laconic and cryptic enough to have pleased his father. ‘My mother left England when she was so young that she scarcely knew what family she had. It was a great shock to her, too.’
This was something of a gloss on the truth, but it seemed the thing to say. Nothing ever shocked his strong-minded little mother—‘surprised’ would have been a better word.
Victor made a great effort to be civil to the sandy-haired barbarian who had diddled him out of a fortune. Yes, the wretch had Ned Hatton’s face, but there the resemblance ended. It was as plain to him as it was to everyone else that he shared no other attribute with Ned. Side by side they were of a height, and a similar shape, but examined closely Alan’s athleticism and his hard determination shone out of him.
A friend had told Victor earlier that day, ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if that new cousin of yours was having it off with Marguerite Bencolin. I should be wary of him if I were you, old boy. Anyone who can have La Bencolin under him not long after meeting her bears watching.’
‘Stuff,’ Victor had said rudely. ‘I can’t see his attraction myself. Fools say anything about a new face.’
‘He hasn’t got a new face,’ his friend had guffawed. ‘Only Ned Hatton’s old one.’
Now, meeting him at last, Victor thought glumly that it was bad enough to have an unknown cousin disinherit him, but even worse to discover him to be so formidable despite his lack of years. Victor, at over thirty, felt himself to be juvenile beside him. Were all Australians so indecently mature? On the other hand, perhaps Caroline could be persuaded to charm the swine and get the money back that way. Now, there was a thought worth having!
As the evening wore on, however, it became apparent to Victor that, La Bencolin or no La Bencolin, Alan’s attention was fixed on Eleanor, and that Eleanor sparkled when he spoke to her. This added to the dislike he already felt for his supplanter.
He also feared that Eleanor was not so attracted to himself as she had once been.
He was not wrong. Eleanor was beginning to feel an even stronger disgust for Victor’s unkind remarks. Alan was shrewd, but he tempered his knowledge of the world with a half self-deprecating, half-teasing humour.
Drinking their port after dinner, the gentlemen indulged in male gossip.
‘Hear you spar a little,’ said Victor, who was indulging himself with the Stantons’ good port.
‘A little,’ said Alan.
‘More than a little,’ drawled Ned, determined to keep up with Victor. ‘Shouldn’t fancy going a round with him myself.’
Victor refrained from making the cutting remark about Ned’s condition which trembled on his lips. Disappointment had made his speech reckless lately. If he wanted to retain some favour with Eleanor, however, then Ned had to be placated. He decided to turn on Alan.
‘Hear you are a little épris with La Bencolin.’
‘La Bencolin?’ said Alan blandly. ‘Now, which was she? The blonde at Lady Ailesbury’s, or the brunette at Lady Palmerston’s? I don’t remember a Miss Bencolin.’
Both Sir Richard and Ned gazed sharply at him, but his manner was as easy and cool as he could make it. Alan had no intention of allowing two strenuous afternoons with Lady Bencolin to queer his pitch with Eleanor, to whom he was becoming increasingly attracted.
La Bencolin was all very well, but her practised charms were boring, and Alan was beginning to recognise that he was one of those men who needed more than an easily available body to attract him—and then to rouse him. He also needed some genuine rapport. So far he had only come across it once, and, sadly, that had been with someone who was married and wished to remain chaste.
His imperturbability annoyed Victor. ‘You know perfectly well who I mean,’ he said savagely. ‘Marguerite, Lady Bencolin, or are you so involved with the ladies that you can’t tell one from another?’
