Читать книгу A Strange Likeness - Paula Marshall - Страница 10

E leanor was delighted to discover that her great-aunt was also impressed by Alan Dilhorne.

‘If Ned is determined to be his friend, then I must launch him into good society,’ Almeria said decidedly to her niece. ‘He cannot be left to wander about the demi-monde, which is all that Ned can introduce him to. He deserves better than that. Ned must also introduce him to a decent tailor, since he plainly does not lack money. I shall speak to Lady Liston about him. She is the hostess of the biggest reception of the season next week, and for him to be received at Liston House will give him all the social cachet he needs.’

The shrewd old woman was not thinking solely of assisting Alan. It was plain to her that he was a steadying influence on Ned, and for that reason alone the friendship ought to be encouraged.

Ned did more than introduce Alan to his tailor. A fortnight after meeting Alan he asked him to Stanton House, took him to his rooms, called for his valet, Forshaw, and said in a manner which brooked no opposition, ‘Come on, Dilhorne, if you’re going to visit the best houses, and given that it will be some days before the tailors have your new clothes ready, you might as well be outfitted in my spares. I’ve enough to fit you up twice over, haven’t I, Forshaw?’

‘Certainly, Mr Ned, and no problem about the size, either.’

Alan began to demur, but the prospect of wearing clothes which would not raise eyebrows was too much for him. Ned and Forshaw danced around, sorting out shirts, jackets, trousers, socks, shoes and assorted underwear as assiduously as a pair of drapers in one of the new shops which were beginning to arrive in Oxford and Bond Street.

Forshaw also trimmed what he privately called young Dilhorne’s ‘errant hair’, and when he was togged out to their mutual satisfaction a trunk was filled with more of Ned’s ‘spares’ and the two of them set off to see the town.

They met Almeria and Eleanor in the hall. They had just come back from a similar expedition—ordering two more evening dresses for Eleanor to dazzle the ton in.

They both stared at the handsome pair. Almeria said faintly, ‘Properly dressed, Mr Dilhorne, it is quite impossible to tell which of you is which.’

Eleanor, on the other hand, had no such difficulty. She exclaimed, ‘Oh, no, Mr Dilhorne is the one on the left. I can’t understand, begging your pardon, Great-Aunt, how anyone could mix them up!’

‘Alan, please, Miss Hatton. We have gone beyond Mr Dilhorne, I think,’ Alan said quickly, before naughty Ned could begin to tease his sister by falsely claiming that, not at all, he was the man on the left. He was delighted, and a little surprised that Eleanor could immediately, and correctly, identify him. A girl of common sense as well as spirit, he decided.

Eleanor blushed charmingly, ‘Then if you are to be Alan, I must be Eleanor.’

‘And all the more so,’ he returned gallantly, ‘as a reward for your good sense in distinguishing me from Ned.’

‘Dam’d odd that,’ Ned told Alan, when they had made their adieux to the two women and set off together for an evening on the town. Later they were going on to a reception at the Ailesburys’, to which they had both been invited and where they would later rejoin Lady Stanton and Eleanor. ‘No one else can tell us apart, even when we’re wearing quite different clothes. Wonder how she does it?’

Alan could offer no convincing explanation, and nor could Eleanor, when Almeria Stanton quizzed her later.

‘Oh, it’s simply a feeling I have when I look at them,’ she offered hesitantly. ‘I can’t explain it. It’s something which goes beyond reason, I think.’

Her tough old great-aunt thought that there might be a very down-to-earth explanation which the innocent Eleanor was not yet mature enough to understand. She had already noticed that her charge sparkled whenever Mr Alan Dilhorne walked over the horizon, and that her eyes followed him around the room.

Whether his apparent attraction for her niece was a good thing or a bad thing she was not yet in a position to say. Though his influence on Ned was so beneficial that she decided to give him carte blanche to visit Stanton House whenever he pleased.

Others at the function were obviously ready to accept him in society: he was rapidly surrounded by a group of fascinated members of the ton, most of them women.

‘He’s already got La Bencolin after him,’ grumbled Ned to Frank Gresham, having met with a polite refusal himself from the lady who was the merry widow of Lord Bencolin, who had left her his not inconsiderable fortune.

‘Oh, Marguerite’s always after the latest sensation,’ drawled Frank, who had once scored with the lady himself, ‘and Dilhorne’s certainly that.’ He admired Ned’s look-alike: talking to him was always refreshing. One never knew what he was going to say next.

Frank had found Alan a body-servant, Gurney, who had been a professional boxer, with whom he sparred in a gymnasium off the Strand—much to Frank’s amused admiration.

‘How the devil did a great bruiser like you, Dilhorne, acquire such a head for figures? You certainly don’t resemble Ned: he possesses neither talent,’ Frank had said after watching Alan work out one afternoon. ‘Ned tells me you spend the morning grinding away in the City. He says that the rumour is that your father’s rich enough for you never to work again.’

Alan, towelling himself off, had stared at young Gresham, armoured in idleness like all the young men whom he had met through Ned.

‘Now where would be the fun in that? Look at the trouble that fellows like you and Ned have in filling your days. Some useful occupation would certainly do him a world of good.’

‘Ned? Useful occupation!’ Frank had snorted. ‘You’re light in the attic. He hasn’t the brains of a flea, poor fellow.’

‘Now, how do you know that?’ Alan had queried. ‘I doubt whether anyone ever troubled to find out.’

‘Well, he made a dam’d poor fist of it at Oxford, I can tell you, and I was there with him.’

Alan raised his eyebrows. ‘Now, what do you think that proves? That he can’t construe, or write Latin verses. What in God’s name has that got to do with anything?’

‘Better than nothing,’ Frank drawled. ‘Though I confess that my ability to recite pages of Livy isn’t exactly helpful—though it’ll be pretty impressive when I do choose to sit in the Lords, even though half my audience won’t know what on earth I’m spouting about. Be off with you, then. If you aren’t going to be a bruiser you can concentrate on making yourself even richer than you are. Better than being like Victor Loring, perpetually strapped.’

Alan asked, apparently idly, ‘The Lorings? Poor, are they?’

‘Church mice,’ agreed Frank cheerfully. ‘And there’s you, you devious devil, filthy with it, doing them out of that, too. Life isn’t fair, else I shouldn’t be ready to take my seat in the Lords and live on milk and honey.’

Alan thought that Frank was a little devious himself. He might be living a rackety life around town, but he possessed a good brain beneath his idly cheerful façade. He suspected that it would not be long before his wild life palled, and Frank, Lord Gresham, would place his obligations and duties first, and not second.

Meantime he was a jolly companion, and it was he who had introduced Alan to La Bencolin at the Ailesburys’: a kindness which Alan had already begun to appreciate before Eleanor and her great-aunt arrived.

‘So that’s Ned’s discovery and his improbable look-alike,’ said George Johnstone’s older brother, Sir Richard, who was a great friend of Lady Stanton’s. He was amusedly watching Alan charm the ladies before taking La Bencolin off to supper. She was hanging on to his arm as though she never meant to let go of it.

‘You know that my brother George is working in the City, Father having left him nothing. He’s been entertaining us all with the goings-on at Dilhorne’s ever since young Master Alan arrived there one fine morning.

‘He entered the office like a whirlwind and frightened everyone to death. Told ’em they were all slackers,’ Sir Richard continued cheerfully, ‘which wasn’t surprising considering George’s attitude to life. He got the job by accident, and being George, didn’t even try to do it properly. Young Dilhorne made ’em work all night, not once, but twice—took off his coat and worked with ’em in his shirtsleeves. He made George do the same—now, that I would like to have seen. Then he sent them all home, and worked most of the next day himself—God knows when he slept, because he was on the town with Ned Hatton the same night!

‘When he’d got everything straight again, after making them work like coolies for the rest of the week, they arrived one day to find that at lunchtime he’d arranged a dam’d fine meal for them all, with enough drink to stun several horses, never mind some half-starved City clerks.

‘He told them afterwards he’d put their pay up if they carried on as devotedly as they had been doing. George thinks he’s God, and has begun to work for his money. What’s more, some whippersnapper of a clerk he’d assaulted on the first day got up and made a drunken speech on Mr Alan, thanking heaven for the day he’d arrived—seems he’d grasped that young Master D had saved the London branch from bankruptcy, and all their jobs into the bargain.

‘I want to meet this paragon, Almeria, and soon. Anyone who is the spit image of Ned Hatton and can make George work must be worth seeing. Tonight he’s walked off with La Bencolin after five minutes’ conversation with her! What will he get up to next?’

‘He can tame Ned, too,’ Almeria said quietly. ‘The only question is, how soon will it be before he leaves Ned behind, or Ned begins to resent him?’

She said nothing of her suspicions that Eleanor had fallen in love—and at first sight, too—with Sir Richard’s paragon. It was perhaps fortunate that Eleanor had missed his encounter with La Bencolin, nor did she see him leave with her later, having been cornered by Victor and Caroline Loring.

Sooner or later the gossip would reach her. Later would be better, when the first gloss of Mr Alan Dilhorne’s arrival had worn off—or so Almeria hoped.

The gloss was not wearing off for Alan. His days were full and he had begun to discover that there were opportunities in London which did not exist in Sydney. And they were not all to do with getting into bed with one of society’s most famous beauties.

His brother, Thomas, had commented shortly before he had left home that a buccaneer like Alan would be able to pillage the pillagers, and he was rapidly beginning to see ways of accomplishing this!

One duty, rather than pleasure, saw him making his way to the Waring family lawyers, who had their offices in Lincoln’s Inns Fields. He dressed with some care, not in Ned’s presents, but in the new suit which his tailor had made for him. Gurney had even tamed his unruly sandy hair, so like his father’s. Thus respectable, he was ushered into the rooms of Hallowes, Bunthorne and Thring.

There were three people waiting for him, and two of them were obviously lawyers. One was sitting at a large desk, the other, holding a pile of papers, was perched on a high stool next to an over-full bookcase, and was obviously the junior of the pair.

The third man was tall and silver-haired. He was in his late fifties or early sixties and the expression on his handsome face could best be described as sardonic when he saw Alan come through the door.

All present rose to their feet.

‘Mr Alan Dilhorne, I believe?’ the senior lawyer said. Alan nodded agreement. He continued, ‘May I present myself? I am Mr John Bunthorne, at your service, and this is Lewis Thring, my junior partner.’

Alan bowed and acknowledged them both.

Bunthorne turned and identified the third man in the room. ‘May I have the honour of presenting you to Sir Patrick Ramsey, KB, once of the 73rd Foot, the Royal Highlanders, stationed in Sydney when Lachlan Macquarie was Governor there. He has come to help us in our duties.’

Sir Patrick bowed gracefully to Alan. Alan responded; the lawyer waved him to a chair before his desk.

‘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?’

‘Steady on, Victor,’ said Ned indignantly. ‘Alan here’s such a busy man, what with sparring with Gurney, ruining his eyesight in the City and dancing about with your lawyers, that he’s hardly had time to get into bed with anyone, let alone such an exhausting piece as La Bencolin is said to be. He don’t look dead wore out, do he?’

Both Sir Richard and Victor, despite themselves, gave Alan a good hard look. No, he didn’t took ‘dead wore out’. But that proves nothing, thought Sir Richard cynically. He wouldn’t, not he. It was quite plain that Victor was making such a dead set at young Dilhorne because it was beginning to look as though the Hatton girl was slipping out of his hand.

He promptly turned the conversation to other matters, and fortunately a sudden access of good manners prevented Victor from turning it back. In revenge he took Ned off to Rosie’s as soon as he could decently prise him away from the aftermath of the dinner party. Once there he cheated Ned, now more than half-drunk, out of more money, playing piquet, than Ned could ever repay.

If playing clean wasn’t going to win him Eleanor, playing dirty might!