The Westerby Sisters (Changing Fortunes Series) Read online

  And the Dower House was vastly comfortable and pretty, reflected Fanny, picking her way down the drive on her high red heels. Why could her mother not be content? If she did not watch her tongue, then the Westerbys would throw her out. The Bentleys had no legal claim on the Westerbys. There had only been the late Lady Jane's guilty conscience over the death of Fanny's father.

  Fanny felt puzzled and uneasy for the first time. She herself felt it unfair that two such baseborn brats as Hester and Betty should have so much. But what could one do about it?

  When they reached the Dower House, Mrs. Bentley said she wished to lie down and rest before starting the preparations for their move to London. Her curved smile was back on her face as she looked at her daughters and Fanny felt slightly reassured.

  Mrs. Bentley went quickly up the broad shallow oaken stairs to her bedroom and pulling out the packet sat down at her dressing table, weighing it in her hand. No, it was too light for jewels. Gold, perhaps? It was sealed with Lord Charles Welbourne's distinctive crest. After a moment's hesitation, she broke the seal. Papers, nothing but papers. Mrs. Bentley slowly drew them out and glanced down at the contents and then her eyes widened and she read the document several times in mounting fury.

  In her hands was that contract which Lady Jane had made with Lord Charles Welbourne that if he played James Bentley at cards and won back the Westerby estates then she, Jane, would become his mistress in return. But she hadn't even had to do that, reflected Mrs. Bentley savagely. Welbourne had fallen in love with the strumpet and married her instead.

  Mrs. Bentley thought of her beloved husband, James, lying in the sawdust of the Mulberry Coffee House floor, shot by his own hand. Or had it been his own hand? What if Welbourne had killed him? But James's lawyer had been witness to the whole thing. But what if Welbourne had bribed him?

  "Leave it," said the weak voice of her conscience. "There has been revenge enough."

  "Eppington Chase should be mine," she answered aloud. "And 'fore God, I will not cease until it is restored to me."

  "But that is impossible," argued the other side of her brain.

  "Then they shall not live to enjoy it," she replied loudly.

  Fanny, who had paused outside her mother's door at the sound of Mrs. Bentley's voice, tiptoed quietly away. For the first time in her life, Fanny began to wonder whether her mother was quite sane.

  Chapter Two

  "Please do not press me, Hester," pleaded Betty, "for in truth I do not wish to attend. I had rather stay home and read fairy stories to Simon."

  "Lawks!" exclaimed Bella from under a new towering headdress of feathers. "The little lamb is fast asleep. And you look as pretty as pitchers, Lady Betty."

  Betty's fair, blue-eyed beauty was set to advantage by a sapphire blue silk gown opening over a white silk underdress and fastened down the front with saucy little blue velvet bows. Her hair had been powdered and dressed high on her head and threaded with a chain of sapphires which winked and flashed in the candlelight.

  In contrast, Hester was wearing a dramatic gown of burgundy red opening over a gold underdress with Watteau pleats at the back and a thick chain of rubies at her neck.

  She had rouged her lips but had not enameled her face, contenting herself by wearing a large patch in the shape of a crescent moon at the side of her long and mobile mouth. Hester and Betty had taken up residence in the Westerby Town House.

  "But Simon was nearly killed today," pleaded Betty. "And in truth, I cannot feel comfortable at these great assemblies."

  "Simon nearly killed?" exclaimed Bella. "My lord had a fall from his pony in the Park. T'waren't nothing."

  "But I was there," said Betty. "John Groom says the girth was worn through and he could not understand it for he put a new girth on himself only the other week."

  "We all love Simon," said Hester reasonably, "but you should be thinking of the children you will have, Betty. There's Fanny Bentley well on the way to become wed to that haughty Duke of Collingham. Don't fret so, Betty. That business with the girth was an accident pure and simple.

  "Oh, I know what it is. I've worried you with my tales of Jane and Charles's deaths seeming suspicious. Fie on't! Twas nothing but my silly fancies. And Simon is asleep and here's our Bella as fine as fivepence, all set to chaperone us. And who will keep my unruly tongue in order an you don't come?"

  Betty gave a little sigh and a reluctant smile and nodded.

  "There!" said Hester triumphantly. "I knew you should not say me nay. Now all we need is the arrival of the Blakes to complete our party. Hark! That's the door."

  Anderson, Lord Charles Welbourne's wiry little butler, was now the Westerby's butler. "Sir Anthony and Lady Blake," he intoned and then stood aside to let the couple enter, before escaping belowstairs to grumble that the old days were gone and that poor Sir Anthony was a shadow of his former self and it was all thanks to that frigid wife of his.

  And, indeed, Sir Anthony had lost most of his former flamboyance. His dress was sober and almost staid and the heels of his shoes were of moderate height. He had lost a considerable amount of weight. No longer did he have to enter a room sideways because of the width of the stiffened skirts of his coat. His jewels were few.

  Philadelphia, his wife, on the contrary, had lost none of her dazzling beauty. She was as fair and pink and white as ever and magnificently attired in a sac gown of white silk embroidered with gold and silver thread. Only the cold disapproving expression of her large eyes as they rested on her husband marred her beauty.

  "Stap me, Hester," said Sir Anthony with something of his former manner. "If you ain't the picture of your ma."

  "Lady Hester," said his wife repressively.

  "Oh, old friend of the family, don't you see," mumbled Sir Anthony apologetically.

  "I like being called Hester," said that lady defiantly. Philadelphia with her missish airs always brought out the worst in Hester.

  "It calls to mind," said Bella who was standing at attention behind Hester's chair, "that there Miss Tarrant down home who was as pretty as pitchers but very genteel, if you take my meaning. Now her did wed young Tom Heskins, a lusty lad and a great one for a laugh, but they didn't have no children. . . ."

  "Bella, please restrain yourself," whispered Betty in anguish, for the childless Philadelphia was rigid with disapproval. But Bella had merely been talking to herself and was completely unaware of giving offense.

  Betty gave a little sigh. This was the London she remembered. Everyone always seemed to be tense, to be strung up, friendship changed to a series of correct attitudes. They had been residing at the Westerby town house for only a fortnight and already little Betty was weary of the social round.

  The only things she had really enjoyed were her outings with Simon where they could ride or ramble in the Park under the trees, far from gossiping, querulous society, far from the killing glance, the malicious whispering voices, the voices behind the fans which reminded the polite world and his wife that the Westerby sisters were baseborn.

  Their destination that evening was a ball held by the Duchess of Ruthfords. As the carriage rumbled over the cobbles, Betty did so hope that Hester would behave like a lady, for times had quickly changed and coarse and outspoken manners were no longer acceptable. Modesty was all—even though it was only false modesty—and Hester seemed hell-bent on proving Alexander Pope's statement that every woman was a rake at heart.

  No less depressed than Betty was Sir Anthony Blake. He often wondered why he had married. But his great friend, Lord Charles Welbourne, had married and it had seemed the thing to do. And then Sir Anthony could vaguely remember being in love with Philadelphia. Only Philadelphia, he mused, would have insisted they take the carriage to travel the few streets between their home and the Duchess of Ruthfords'. Now they would have to wait at least an hour in the press of carriages until they could be set down exactly at the door.

  It had all seemed so simple at one time. Philadelphia's cold contempt was attributable to premar
ital nerves; her blush of shame and outrage when he kissed her, to shyness. He would never forget his wedding night. She had made him feel like a rapist, a monster. Somehow his love of life and clothes and roistering was slowly chipped away by Philadelphia's sighs and condemnations. He had tried very hard to change to please her, very hard indeed.

  But his bride seemed to find his efforts pathetic.

  Sir Anthony had taken the blame for the failure of the marriage entirely on his own broad shoulders, but this evening, deep down inside him he felt an angry little knot of rebellion. He did not yet recognise it for what it was and put it down to a disorder of the spleen.

  Perhaps, he mused, it had been the sight of little Lady Betty which had started him thinking. She was so sweet and pretty and Sir Anthony felt that he could now recognize genuine shyness.

  His stomach gave a great cavernous rumble and he felt rather than saw his wife's expression of disgust.

  Betty passed the time in the crush of traffic by wondering if Hester ever hoped to find a husband and, if she did, what that husband would be like. For herself, Betty felt she perhaps would like some pleasant young man of not too high degree or particularly handsome looks, someone shy and retiring like herself who would share her great love for Eppington Chase.

  Hester called Betty's love for their home a sickness but Hester was haunted by the memory of Jane's obsession for the place and of Jane's father's mad love of every stick and stone. James Bentley's insane desire for Eppington Chase extended so far that when he lost the estate at the card table, he no longer wanted to live.

  With a sinking heart, Betty realized their carriage had edged up to the door. Hester was glowing with anticipation. She loved dancing and seemed oblivious to the snubs and stares her broad free manners occasioned.

  At least the Duchess of Ruthfords had not lost her broad manner of speech. Her twinkling little eyes filled with sentimental tears as Hester made her curtsy. "If you ain't the spit of your mother," cried the Duchess. "Bestest, most interestingest woman I ever did see. Odd's Fish, but it makes me cry to think o' all that life in one body snuffed out like that."

  Behind Hester, Betty shivered with apprehension at the sound of the music. Betty in her turn made her curtsy to the Duchess and followed Hester into the ballroom.

  Fanny Bentley was already there, her hair dressed to a enormous height and ornamented with pearls and ribbons and feathers. She was dancing the gavotte with a tall, handsome, austere-looking man who was smiling down at her. The Duke of Colling-ham. Renowned for his haughty manner and insufferable pride. A faint look of distaste crossed Betty's expressive features and at that moment the Duke looked across the ballroom and caught her expression and frowned. Betty turned her head away but not before she had seen the Duke ask Fanny a question and Fanny's quick malicious stare in Betty's direction and Fanny's subsequent muttered conversation.

  No doubt the Duke was being regaled with tales of the blacksmith.

  Betty could barely remember her father, and her mother had had little to do with either his family or her own after she had married the Marquess. Betty had also heard rumors that her mother had played the blacksmith false with the Marquess, hence her own blond looks, so like the late Marquess, as opposed to Hester's dark ones.

  Mrs. Bentley was sitting with several dowagers, her pale eyes watching Fanny's progress with the Duke.

  The dance ended and Betty saw a young man approaching her and, suddenly frightened, she quickly hid behind a pillar. Hester was dancing with a small cherubic man whose head was only on a level with her bosom. Philadelphia was seated on a sofa at the edge of the floor surrounded by a court of admirers.

  Voices chattered, heels rapped on the floor, towering wigs passed, someone let out a great bray of drunken laughter nearby and the timid Betty flinched. She decided to hide and not to dance at all. She looked wildly around and espied a small sofa in a window embrasure, half hidden by the curtains. She made her way there, feeling secure at last, content to wait out the evening until it was time to go home.

  She fanned herself vigorously, because the heat generated by hundreds of candles was making the ballroom very warm indeed.

  By twisting her head a little, she could make out the sooty branches of a tree outside. Along one of the branches lay a marmalade cat, staring at her with unwinking eyes.

  "Will you do me the great honour to accompany me in this next dance?"

  Betty gave a start and turned and looked up into a pair of eyes as green and unwinking as those of the cat.

  The Duke of Collingham made his best bow. He was a very tall, well-built man and would have been accounted extremely handsome were it not for the rigid austerity of his features. His eyes were as cold and as green as emeralds. In fact, he wore a great many emeralds—in his cravat, on his fingers and on the buckles of his knee breeches—and to the terrified Betty it seemed as if the whole of his person was covered in accusing green eyes. He was magnificently dressed in rose-pink silk and gold lace and he wore his own thick hair powdered and dressed in a long pigtail—the fashion which was all the rage that year. His face was unpainted and he wore only one little patch on his right cheekbone.

  "This dance, Lady Betty?" he questioned, his thin eyebrows superciliously raised, wondering why she was staring at him in that odd way.

  "N-no!" stammered Betty, and then again in a quieter voice, "No. I shall not be dancing this evening, my lord duke."

  There was no altering of the features of the well-bred and immobile face, but Betty sensed she had offended him deeply. To her, it was puzzling. Every woman in the room must be anxious to dance with him. She did not know that no lady had ever refused an invitation to dance from His Grace, the Duke of Collingham.

  He made her a stiff little bow and turned on his heel and left.

  Without uttering a word, he had managed to make her feel guilty of the worst social solecism. She sat twisting her lace handkerchief between her gloved fingers, praying for the evening to be over so that she might return to the security of her home.

  Sir Anthony Blake's stomach sensed that supper was about to be served and gave an angry rumble like an approaching storm. He heaved a gusty sigh. Philadelphia would not join him for supper. It was understood, somehow, that at these affairs she should be squired by other partners. It was too provincial to spend the evening in one's own husband's company.

  A dance had just ended and many of the guests were making their way to the supper room. He saw that Fanny Bentley had been abandoned by her partner and was standing next to him. He did not like or trust any of the Bentleys but he had to admit to himself that Miss Fanny was in looks this evening.

  "Good evening, Miss Fanny," he said, making her his best bow.

  She automatically sank into a graceful curtsy although her eyes roved anxiously around the room, looking for the tall figure of the Duke of Collingham. At last she saw him. He was escorting a small, mousy debutante toward the supper room. Fanny gave a small sigh. He had seemed so amused by her tales of Hester and Betty, but he had not come near her since.

  Her stomach gave a small groan and she blushed and looked anxiously up at Sir Anthony, but he appeared to have heard nothing. She had a sudden craving for food, lots and lots of food. She seemed to have eaten nothing but dry toast and drunk nothing but weak tea for months and months. Fanny had had such high hopes of the Duke of Collingham. So had her mother. But Fanny had seen too many beaux desert her not to recognize the symptoms. For the first time in her life, she wondered whether spite paid. Her mother had urged her to tell the Duke of the low origins of Hester and Betty. And she had done so. And he had not asked her to dance since. A familiar feeling of failure assailed her, bringing with it an increased longing for food.

  Sir Anthony moodily watched Philadelphia making her way in to supper. No one, he thought bitterly, watching her sparkling, enchanting, flirtatious face, could possibly guess how cold she really was. The only way he could make her eyes brighten was by buying her a new bauble or expensive fan.r />
  His stomach gave another great rumble and Fanny's groaned beside him and the couple stared at each other in some surprise.

  Fanny blushed again and began to giggle. "I am terribly hungry," she confessed and Sir Anthony thought he had never ever seen her look so human.

  " 'Fore George, Miss Fanny," he said, "I am in the same condition. My wife has watched my food like a hawk these past months and although I am now as slender as I can possibly be, the abstinence does make me feel twitty."

  Fanny looked at her companion as if seeing him for the first time. In the past she had always considered him something of a fool. Now she began to think she had underrated him.

  "I think we have both been very good, Sir Anthony," she said, playfully rapping his sleeve with her fan. "I think we deserve to enjoy one really good meal."

  Sir Anthony offered his arm. "Let me lead you to it," he said, twinkling down at her. "At this moment, Miss Fanny, you're the only female at this ball with any understanding and sensitivity."

  Fanny hesitated, feeling she should reprimand him for the warmth of the compliment, but the Duke and Duchess of Ruth-fords were famous for their table and wondrous smells were floating from the supper room. She could bear it no longer. She and Sir Anthony entered the supper room with rather more exuberance and haste than was deemed seemly. The guests were mainly seated around large tables in the center but by unspoken consent, the couple made for a small intimate table over in the corner, away from the other guests.