Cut to the Quick (2 page)

“I’d tell you if I could, but I can’t. I’m not allowed. So there’s no point in keeping at me like this.”

Guy’s eyes flashed. “Then I'll find out some other way. I’ll lay any odds the colonel knows. Fifty pounds says I get it out of him by noon tomorrow.”

But Hugh would not take that bet, although he knew he could have won it. “I’ll tell you what it is,” Guy said, “being engaged doesn’t agree with you. I can understand that; I’m blistered if it would agree with me. I’ve got an idea. A friend of mine is giving a dinner tonight for a group of fellows, and afterward we’re going out gaming. Why don’t you come? You haven’t got much time left to enjoy yourself as a bachelor.”

Hugh felt torn. He knew how Guy and his London friends amused themselves: Pall Mall gaming hells, low dram-shops, discreet “houses” in Covent Garden. He had never sampled those sorts of pleasures himself, and though he was curious about them, he was also apprehensive and a little repelled. He was certainly in no mood for a carouse just now. And yet Guy was right: if he meant to sow any wild oats, this was the time to do it.

Guy threw himself into a chair. His eyes lit on two objects on a table nearby: a satinwood box about a foot long and a large sketchbook. A smile spread over his face. “I’d like to get a look at Cousin Isabelle’s nose/* he said softly.

“Her noser

“To see how out of joint it is!” He laughed, jumped up from his chair and walked about. “By God, I’d like to have seen her face when she found out Miss Craddock had cut her out! Or am I in time to see it? Does she know yet you’re engaged?*'

“She knew I was going to offer for Miss Craddock. But she didn’t seem to mind—or, not more than anyone else minded.”

“Rot! Didn’t mind? She must be fit to tear Miss Craddock to shreds! Of course, being Isabelle, she’ll never admit it. She’ll just stand about stony-faced, with murder in her heart.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times, Isabelle and I are like brother and sister. She doesn’t want to marry me.”

“The devil she doesn’t! Isabelle and you may have been brought up like brother and sister, but there’s a world of difference between a sister and a cousin, and, believe me, Isabelle knows it. Besides, the family’s been talking for years about the two of you making a match of it.”

“That’s mainly been Aunt Catherine’s idea. You know how she thinks.”

“I know, I know! Nobody’s good enough for a Fontclair but another Fontclair.”

Hugh nodded. “I do think the parents would have liked me to marry Isabelle. They raised her themselves, and they know she values Bellegarde and our name and traditions as much as I do. But they never pushed us, and I honestly don't think Isabelle cares a straw for me, except as a brother and a friend.”

“What about as the future Sir Hugh Fontclair?”

“You wrong her, Guy, you really do. She—”

“Speak of the devil!” Guy whispered.

A young lady stood in the doorway. She was tall and slender, with hair of a light, almost silvery shade of brown. She had the Fontclair face, too long in the forehead and jaw to be reckoned

pretty. Her eyes, a light, translucent grey, looked steadily across at her cousins.

“Good afternoon/* she said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think I left my sketching box and sketchbook in here.”

“Good afternoon, cousin!” said Guy, “We’ve got some news for you. Hugh’s officially engaged.”

“Are you?” she asked Hugh, no hint of emotion in her voice.

“Miss Craddock's accepted me, yes,” he stammered, wondering how much she had overheard of his conversation with Guy.

“I wish you happy.” She held out her hand to him. He clasped it and kissed her cheek.

“Maybe they’ll let you be chief bridesmaid,” said Guy.

“I should be very honoured.” She walked past him and sat down at the table where her sketching things were. Taking a pencil from the satinwood box, she began to touch up a copy she had made of a hunting print on the wall.

Guy followed her. “You know, you ought to cultivate Miss Craddock. She probably knows no end of rich young cits who'd be glad to take a girl without a farthing to her name, as long as that name was Fontclair.”

“Thank you, Guy. I shall of course take your advice to heart.”

“That’s the spirit! Humility, cousin! It’s indispensable for poor relations.”

“You’re very well suited to teach that lesson. I know of*no one who better illustrates the effects of a lack of humility.”

Guy glared at her. She looked coolly back.

Hugh broke in hastily, “Mother’s going to invite Miss Craddock and her father to Bellegarde.”

“I shall like to meet her,” said Isabelle.

“I wouldn’t miss that for anything,” said Guy.

A woman's voice rang out overhead. The words were not clear, but the strident tone was unmistakable.

“Aunt Catherine’s got out of the drawing room,” said Hugh.

“Damnation!” cried Guy. “I'm just off. Are you coming tonight or not?”

“Yes!” Hugh decided.

“There’s a good fellow! Drive a little way with me now, and I'll tell you where to meet us. Good-bye, cousin!” He kissed his fingers to Isabelle. “We wont bore you with our plans. We mean to enjoy ourselves, which is something you would know nothing about.” He swept Hugh out of the room. “Good-bye,” Hugh just managed to say, as the door closed behind them.

Isabelle shut her eyes tightly. “Oh—God!” she whispered, and broke the pencil between her fingers.

At dinner that evening with Guy and his friends, Hugh felt as though he were living through the whole Rake's Progress in a single night. He would never have dreamed men could drink so much and remain on their feet. Of course their host had taken care that they would not have to walk very far: the dining room was well supplied with wine and spirits, and there was a chamberpot in one of the sideboards.

The party consisted of half a dozen young bucks, some of them in the Guards. Guy told them Hugh was going to be married, and at once the dinner turned into a party in honour of his engagement. Hugh did not suppose they drank any more or less for having something to celebrate—they simply made appropriate nuptial toasts, which got increasingly bawdy as the night wore on. Hugh laughed immoderately at their sallies, being himself at that stage of drunkenness when almost anything seems funny.

At last someone shouted that it was time to try their luck at the tables. Hugh was taken aback. He knew they had intended to go out gambling, but it was past midnight, and they were all so thoroughly stitched that he could not imagine them playing any game that required even minimal thought or coordination. But the others were set on going, and Hugh could not miss this chance to find out

what a London gaming hell was like. So they all piled into carriages and rattled away toward Pall Mall.

From the street, the gambling house looked demure and unobtrusive, but inside it was sumptuous, with plush scarlet sofas and carpets, striped curtains, and huge crystal chandeliers. Liveried servants offered Hugh yet more claret and champagne, which he knew he should not drink, and which he drank anyway. Something awful was happening to him. He felt borne along by an irresistible tide; whatever the others did, he did, too. That was how he found himself joining the crowd around the hazard table.

Hazard was the most confusing game he had ever played. He was not sure he could have made head or tail of it, even if he had been sober. How did the players keep straight what the main and the chance were from one round to the next, much less what all the other throws meant? And how much was he himself losing? He could not count—could not think at all. Light from a hundred candles dazzled his already hazy vision; talk and laughter roared in his ears. He stared in awful fascination at the white dice bouncing across the green table, the croupier’s hands raking in the stakes, the players in their evening coats of dark blue, green, or plum, placing their bets and waiting with held breath for each new cast. Some of them glanced at Hugh, then laughed and whispered to each other, making merry over his blundering and confusion.

A young man in black murmured, close to Hugh’s ear, “Would I be far wrong in thinking that you couldn’t know less about this game if you’d been born and bred in a nunnery?”

“I am getting into deep water,” Hugh said faintly.

“Any deeper, and we shall have to drag the river to find you again.”

“I’d leave off playing, only I just can't seem to. And— and the truth is, if I let go of the table, I—• I’m afraid I’ll fell on my face!” The gentleman in black sighed. “Here. Allow me.”

He put an arm around Hugh’s shoulders, as though they were having a confidential chat, and drew him away from the table. Hugh was so dizzy that after a few steps he had to cling to the gentleman in black for support. The room spun madly around him, a kaleidoscope of colours and shapes.

He felt himself being lowered into a chair. The room was still spinning; he clasped his head in his hands to make it stop. When he looked up again, the gentleman in black was gone.

He closed his eyes and stayed where he was for an hour or two. He even dozed off, in spite of the noise and lights. When he woke, he found a place to be discreetly sick, then crawled back to his chair, his head aching but reasonably clear.

Guy dropped into a chair beside him. “I thought youd slunk off home.*’

“I’m going to, shortly.”

“The nights still young, for God’s sake.”

“Is it? I feel as though it had been going on forever. I wonder how much I lost at that cursed hazard table.”

“Oh, it was probably only a flutter. You bolted too soon to get really dished. That reminds me! How did you get so thick with Julian Kestrel?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw you walk away from the hazard table with him, arm in arm. Do you know how many fellows would give their eye teeth to be singled out by Kestrel like that? What the devil did you say to make him take notice of you?”

“Was that Julian Kestrel—the gentleman in black?”

“Lord, you are green. Of course that was Kestrel. He always wears black in the evening—it’s all the crack in the dandy set, and of course Kestrel, being such a howling swell, was one of the first to take it up. You really didn’t know who he was?”

“No. I’d never seen him before.”

“What did you and he talk about?”

Hugh looked away. “Oh, nothing in particular.”

Guy shrugged and staggered off to play vingt-et-un. Hugh sat thinking about his rescuer. Julian Kestrel had first appeared in London society a year or two ago, and hardly anything was known about him, though he was said to be related in some dubious way to a landed family in the north. If he had been anything but a dandy, such vagueness about his pedigree would have been fatal, but of course the most spectacular of the dandies were absolved from Society’s usual inquisition into breeding and birth.

Hugh had a sinking feeling that he ought to speak to Kestrel before he went home. The man had helped him out of a dangerous scrape, and it would be churlish not to thank him. He shrank from the task: it would be mortifying to face Kestrel again, after making such a cake of himself. And now that he knew who Kestrel was, he did not expect any mercy. The dandies were said to make ruthless sport of young cubs like him.

He circled the tables, keeping a safe distance, and scanned the groups of players. With any luck, Kestrel would be too deep in gaming to be disturbed. No, dash it, there he was in a window recess, talking with a group of bored-looking young sparks. Hugh went up to them and, summoning all his courage, said a bit too loudly, “Mr. Kestrel?”

They all turned toward him, looking him up and down with amused or critical eyes. One man surveyed him through a quizzing glass—a little round magnifying glass strung on a black velvet ribbon. Hugh felt like a horse being offered for sale.

Kestrel smiled faintly and lifted his brows. He had the most daunting eyebrows Hugh had ever seen. "I—” Hugh swallowed hard. “I wonder if I might speak to you for a moment.”

Kestrel’s smile turned a little wry. But then one of the other dandies snickered, and this seemed, perversely, to decide him. “Will you excuse me?” he said to his companions. Although it was clearly a matter of no great moment to him whether they excused him or not.

He walked a little apart with Hugh. “How may I be of service to you, Mr.—?”

“Fontclair. Hugh Fontclair. How do you do, sir? I— you— you were kind enough to do me a service earlier in the evening.”

“Did I?” Kestrel said coolly. “You must forgive me—that was so long ago.”

The colour rushed into Hugh’s face. * You may not remember it, but I do, sir, most gratefully. I was in difficulties, and a good many people saw it, but no one came to my assistance except you. It may have been nothing to you, but it meant a good deal to me, and I thought it only right to thank you before I went home. Good night, sir.” He bowed and started to walk away.

“Mr. Fontclair/* Kestrel raised his voice just enough to be heard over the noise around them.

“Yes?”

“You’re turning a rather unbecoming shade of green. Can you get home all right, or shall we call a palanquin and have you borne off like a wounded warrior?”

“I came with my cousin, and I don’t suppose he’s nearly ready to leave. I was thinking I might walk home, at least part of the way, to clear my head.”

“Some obliging footpad will clear it for you with a bludgeon, if you go walking round London alone at this hour of the night. There’s nothing for it: I shall have to put you in a hackney.”

“I couldn’t possibly put you to so much trouble.”

“My dear fellow, I have enough on my conscience without having to take responsibility for your untimely end. So, if you would be so good—?”

Hugh found it was useless to resist him. They collected Hugh’s hat and came to an understanding with some official-looking person about his losses. To his relief, they were not nearly so great as he had feared. He and Kestrel went outside, and Kestrel sent a link-boy to fetch a hackney carriage.

A light rain was falling, and the April night was chill. Exhaustion swept over Hugh. He shrank inside his coat and turned up the collar.