Georgette Heyer - [Alastair 02] Read online

  Devil’s

  Cub

  Georgette Heyer

  Copyright © 1932 by Georgette Heyer

  Cover and internal design © 2009 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover image © Fine Art Photographic Library

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Heyer, Georgette, 1902-1974.

  Devil’s cub / Georgette Heyer.

  p. cm.

  Sequel to: These old shades.

  1. Aristocracy (Social class)--England--Fiction. 2. England--Social life and customs--18th century--Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6015.E795D48 2009

  823’.912--dc22

  2009034378

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  VP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  One

  There was only one occupant of the coach, a gentleman who sprawled very much at his ease, with his legs stretched out before him, and his hands dug deep in the capacious pockets of his greatcoat. While the coach rattled over the cobbled streets of the town, the light from an occasional lantern or flambeau momentarily lit the interior of the vehicle and made a diamond pin or a pair of very large shoe-buckles flash, but since the gentleman lounging in the coach wore his gold-edged hat tilted low over his eyes, his face remained in shadow.

  The coach was travelling fast, too fast for safety in a London street, and it soon drew out of the town, past the turnpike, on to Hounslow Heath. A faint moonlight showed the road to the coachman on the box, but so dimly that the groom beside him, who had been restive since the carriage drew out of St James’s, gasped presently, as though he could no longer keep back the words: ‘Lord! you’ll overturn us! It’s a wicked pace!’

  The only answer vouchsafed was a shrug, and a somewhat derisive laugh. The coach swayed precariously over a rough stretch of ground, and the groom, clutching the seat with both hands, said angrily: ‘You’re mad! D’you think the devil’s on your heels, man? Doesn’t he care? Or is he drunk?’ The backward jerk of his head seemed to indicate that he was speaking of the man inside the coach.

  ‘When you’ve been in his service a week you won’t call this a wicked pace,’ replied the coachman. ‘When Vidal travels, he travels swift, d’ye see?’

  ‘He’s drunk – three parts asleep!’ the groom said.

  ‘Not he.’

  Yet the man inside the coach might well have been asleep for all the sign of life he gave. His long body swayed easily with the lurch of the coach, his chin was sunk in the folds of his cravat, and not even the worst bumps in the road had the effect of making him so much as grasp the strap that swung beside him. His hands remained buried in his pockets, remained so even when a shot rang out and the vehicle came to a plunging standstill. But apparently he was awake, for he raised his head, yawning, and leaning it back against the cushions turned it slightly towards the off-window.

  There was a good deal of commotion outside; a rough voice was raised; the coachman was cursing the groom for his tardiness in firing the heavy blunderbuss in his charge; and the horses were kicking and rearing.

  Someone rode up to the door of the coach and thrust in the muzzle of a big pistol. The moonlight cast a head in silhouette, and a voice said: ‘Hand over the pretties, my hearty!’

  It did not seem as though the man inside the coach moved, but a gun spoke sharply, and a stabbing point of flame flashed in the darkness. The head and shoulders at the window vanished; there was the sound of a fall, of trampling hooves, of a startled shout, and the belated explosion of the blunderbuss.

  The man in the coach drew his right hand out of his pocket at last. There was an elegant silver-mounted pistol in it, still smoking. The gentleman threw it on to the seat beside him, and crushed the charred and smouldering portion of his greatcoat between very long white fingers.

  The door of the coach was pulled open, and the coachman jumped up on to the hastily let-down step. The lantern he held lit up the interior, and shone full into the face of the lounging man. It was a surprisingly young face, dark and extremely handsome, the curious vividness overlaid by an expression of restless boredom.

  ‘Well?’ said the gentleman coldly.

  ‘Highwaymen, my lord. The new man being unused, so to say, to such doings, was late with the blunderbuss. There was three of them. They’ve made off – two of them, that is.’

  ‘Well?’ said the gentleman again.

  The coachman seemed rather discomposed. ‘You’ve killed the other, my lord.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said the gentleman. ‘But I presume you have not opened the door to inform me of that.’

  ‘Well, my lord – shan’t we – do I – his brains are lying in the road, my lord. Do we leave him – like that?’

  ‘My good fellow, are you suggesting that I should carry a footpad’s corpse to my Lady Montacute’s drum?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ the coachman said hesitatingly. ‘Then – then – shall I drive on?’

  ‘Of course drive on,’ said the gentleman, faintly surprised.

  ‘Very good, my lord,’ the coachman said, and shut the door.

  The groom on the box was still clasping the blunderbuss, and staring fascinated at the tumbled figure in the road. When the coachman climbed up on to the box again, and gathered the reins in his hands, he said: ‘Gawd, ain’t you going to do anything?’

  ‘There isn’t anything you can do for him,’ replied the other grimly.

  ‘His head’s almost shot off !’ shuddered the groom.

  The equipage began to move forward. ‘Hold your tongue, can’t you? He’s dead, and that’s all there is to it.’

  The groom licked his dry lips. ‘But don’t his lordship know?’

  ‘Of course he knows. He don’t make mistakes, not with the pistols.’

  The groom drew a deep breath, thinking still of the dead man left to wallow in his blood. ‘How old is he?’ he blurted out presently.

  ‘Twenty-four all but a month or two.’

  ‘Twenty-four! and shoots his man and leaves the corpse as cool as you please! My Gawd!’

  He did not speak again until the coach had arrived at its destination, and then he seemed to be so lost in meditation that the coachman had to nudge him sharply. He roused himself then and jumped off the box to open the coach door. As his master stepped languidly down, he looked covertly at him, trying to see some sign of agitation in his face. There was none. His lordship sauntered up the steps to the stone porch, and passed into the lighted hall.

  ‘My Gawd!’ said the groom again.

  Inside the house two lackeys hovered about the late-comer to take his hat and coat.

  There was another gentleman in the hall, just about to go up the wide stairway to the saloon. He was good-looking in a rather florid style, with very heavily-arched brows and a roving eye. His dress proclaimed the Macaroni, for he wore a short coat decorated with frog-buttons, fine striped bree
ches with bunches of strings at the knee, and a waistcoat hardly reaching below the waist. The frills of his shirt front stuck out at the top, and instead of the cravat, he displayed a very full handkerchief tied in a bow under his chin. On his head he wore an amazingly tall ladder-toupet, dusted with blue hair powder, and he carried in his hand a long tasselled cane.

  He turned as my lord entered, and when he saw who it was, came across the hall. ‘I hoped I was the last,’ he complained. He raised his quizzing-glass, and through it peered at the hole in his lordship’s coat. ‘My dear Vidal!’ he said, shocked. ‘My dear fellow! Ecod, my lord, your coat!’

  One of the lackeys had it over his arm. My lord shook out his Dresden ruffles, but carelessly as though it mattered very little to him to be point-de-vice. ‘Well, Charles, what of my coat?’ he asked.

  Mr Fox achieved a shudder. ‘There’s a damned hole in it, Vidal,’ he protested. He moved forward and very gingerly lifted a fold of the garment. ‘And a damned smell of powder, Vidal,’ he said. ‘You’ve been shooting someone.’

  His lordship leaned against the bannister, and opened his snuff-box. ‘Some scum of a footpad only,’ he said.

  Mr Fox abandoned his affectations for the moment. ‘Kill him, Dominic?’

  ‘Of course,’ said my lord.

  Mr Fox grinned. ‘What have you done with the corpse, my boy?’

  ‘Done with it?’ said his lordship with a touch of impatience. ‘Nothing. What should I do with a corpse?’

  Mr Fox rubbed his chin. ‘Devil take me if I know,’ he said after some thought. ‘But you can’t leave a corpse on the road, Dominic. People might see it on the way back to town. Ladies won’t like it.’

  His lordship had raised a pinch of snuff to one classic nostril, but he paused before he sniffed. ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he admitted. A gleam, possibly of amusement, stole into his eyes. He glanced at the lackey who still held his damaged greatcoat. ‘There is a corpse somewhere on the road to town. Mr Fox does not wish it there. Remove it!’

  The lackey was far too well trained to display emotion, but he was a little shaken. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said. ‘What does your lordship want done with it, if you please?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said his lordship. ‘Charles, what do you want done with it?’

  ‘Egad, what is to be done with a corpse in the middle of Hounslow Heath?’ demanded Mr Fox. ‘I’ve a notion it should be delivered to a constable.’

  ‘You hear,’ said his lordship. ‘The corpse must be conveyed to town.’

  ‘Bow Street,’ interjected Mr Fox.

  ‘To Bow Street – with the compliments of Mr Fox.’

  ‘No, damme, I don’t take the credit for it, Dominic. Compliments of the Marquis of Vidal, my man.’

  The lackey swallowed something in his throat, and said with a palpable effort: ‘It shall be attended to, sir.’

  Mr Fox looked at the Marquis. ‘I don’t see what else we can do, Dominic, do you?’

  ‘We seem to have been put to a vast deal of inconvenience already,’ replied the Marquis, dusting his sleeve with a very fine handkerchief. ‘I do not propose to bother my head further in the matter.’

  ‘Then we may as well go upstairs,’ said Mr Fox.

  ‘I await your pleasure, my dear Charles,’ returned his lordship, and began leisurely to mount the shallow stairs.

  Mr Fox fell in beside him, drawing an elegant brisé fan from his pocket. He opened it carefully, and held it for his friend to see. ‘Vernis Martin,’ he said.

  His lordship glanced casually down at it. ‘Very pretty,’ he replied. ‘Chassereau, I suppose.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Mr Fox said, waving it gently to and fro. ‘Subject, Télémaque, in ivory.’

  They passed round the bend in the stairway. Down in the hall the two lackeys looked at one another. ‘Corpses one moment, fans the next,’ said the man who held Vidal’s coat. ‘There’s the Quality for you!’

  The episode of the corpse had by this time apparently faded from Lord Vidal’s mind, but Mr Fox, thinking it a very good tale, spoke of it to at least three people, who repeated it to others. It came in due course to the ears of Lady Fanny Marling, who, in company with her son John, and her daughter Juliana, was present at the drum.

  Lady Fanny had been a widow for a number of years, and the polite world had ceased to predict a second marriage for her. Flighty she had always been, but her affection for the late Mr Edward Marling had been a very real thing. Her period of mourning had lasted a full year, and when she reappeared in society it was quite a long time before she had spirits to amuse herself with even the mildest flirtation. Now, with a daughter of marriageable age, she was becoming quite matronly, and had taken to arraying herself in purples and greys, and to wearing on her exceedingly elaborate coiffure turbans that spoke the dowager.

  She was talking to an old friend, one Hugh Davenant, when she overheard the story of her nephew’s latest exploit, and she at once broke off her own conversation to exclaim: ‘That abominable boy! I vow and declare I never go anywhere but what I hear of him. And never any good, Hugh. Never!’

  Hugh Davenant’s grey eyes travelled across the room to where the Marquis was standing, and dwelled rather thoughtfully on that arrogant figure. He did not say anything for a moment, and Lady Fanny rattled on.

  ‘I am sure I have not the least objection to him shooting a highwayman – my dear Hugh, do but look at that odd gown! What a figure of fun – oh, it is Lady Mary Coke! Well, small wonder. She never could dress, and really she is become so strange of late, people say she is growing absolutely English. Yes, Hugh, I heard it from Mr Walpole, and he vowed she was mad – what was I saying? Vidal! Oh, yes, well, if he must shoot highwaymen, it’s very well, but to leave the poor man dead on the road – though I make no doubt he would have done the same to Vidal, for I believe they are horridly callous, these fellows – but that’s neither here nor there. Vidal had no right to leave him. Now people will say that he is wickedly blood-thirsty, or something disagreeable, and it is quite true, only one does not want the whole world to say so.’ She drew a long breath. ‘And Léonie,’ she said – ‘and you know, Hugh, I am very fond of dear Léonie – Léonie will laugh, and say that her méchant Dominique is dreadfully thoughtless. Thoughtless!’

  Davenant smiled. ‘I make no doubt she will,’ he agreed. ‘I sometimes think that the Duchess of Avon will always remain, at heart – Léon, a page.’

  ‘Hugh, do I beseech you, have a care! You do not know who may overhear you. As for Avon, I truly think he does not care at all what happens to Dominic.’

  ‘After all,’ Hugh said slowly, ‘Dominic is so very like him.’

  Lady Fanny shut her fan with a snap. ‘If you are minded to be unkind about my poor Avon, Hugh, I warn you I shall not listen. Lud, I’m sure he has been a perfect paragon ever since he married Léonie. I know he is monstrous disagreeable, and no one was ever more provoking, unless it be Rupert, who, by the way, encourages Dominic in every sort of excess, just as one would expect – but I’ll stake my reputation Avon was never such a – yes, Hugh, such a devil as Vidal. Why, they call him Devil’s Cub! And if you are going to tell me that is because he is Avon’s son, all I can say is that you are in a very teasing mood, and it’s no such thing.’

  ‘He is very young, Fanny,’ Hugh said, still watching the Marquis across the room.

  ‘That makes it worse,’ declared her ladyship. ‘Oh, my dear Lady Dawlish, I wondered whether I should see you to-night! I protest, it’s an age since I had a talk with you… Odious woman, and as for her daughter, you may say what you choose, Hugh, but the girl squints! Where was I? Oh, Vidal, of course! Young? Yes, Hugh, I marvel that you should find that an excuse for him. The poor Hollands had trouble enough with their son, not but what I consider Holland was entirely to blame – but I never heard that Charles Fox ever did anything worse than lose a fortune at gaming, which is a thing no one could blame in him. It is very different with Vidal. From the day he left E
ton he has been outrageous, and I make no doubt he was so in the nursery. It is not only his duels, Hugh – my dear, do you know he is considered positively deadly with the pistols? John tells me they say in the clubs that it makes no odds to the Devil’s Cub whether he is drunk or sober, he can still pick out a playing card on the wall. He did that at White’s once, and there was the most horrid scandal, for of course he was in his cups, and only fancy, Hugh, how angry all the people like old Queensberry and Mr Walpole must have been! I wish I had seen it!’

  ‘I did see it,’ said Hugh. ‘A silly boy’s trick, no more.’

  ‘I dare say, but it was no boy’s trick to kill young Ffolliot. A pretty to-do there was over that. But as I say, it is not only his duels. He plays high – well, so do we all, and he is a true Alastair – and he drinks too much. No one ever saw Avon in his cups that I ever heard of, Hugh. And worse – worse than all –’ she stopped and made a gesture with her fan. ‘Opera dancers,’ she said darkly.

  Davenant smiled. ‘Well, Fanny, I deplore it as much as you do, but I believe you cannot say that no one ever saw Avon –’

  He was interrupted. ‘I am very fond of Justin,’ said Lady Fanny tartly, ‘but I never pretended to approve of his conduct. And with all his faults Justin was ever bon ton. It is no such thing with Vidal. If he were my son, I should never have consented to let him live anywhere but under my roof. My own dear John scarce leaves my side.’

  Hugh bowed. ‘I know you are very fortunate in your son, Fanny,’ he said.

  She sighed. ‘Indeed, he is prodigiously like his poor papa.’

  Hugh made no reply to this but merely bowed again. Knowing her ladyship as he did, he was perfectly well aware that her son’s staid disposition was something of a disappointment to her.

  ‘I am sure,’ said Lady Fanny, with a touch of defiance, ‘that if I heard of my John holding – holding orgies with all the wildest young rakes in town I should die of mortification.’ He frowned. ‘Orgies, Fanny?’

  ‘Orgies, Hugh. Pray do not ask more.’

  Davenant had heard a good many stories concerning the doings of Vidal’s particular set, and bearing in mind what these stories were, he was somewhat surprised that they should have come to Lady Fanny’s ears. From her expression of outraged virtue he inferred that she really had heard some of the worst tales. He wondered whether John Marling had been her informant, and reflected that in spite of his excesses one could not but like the Marquis better than his impeccable cousin.