The Virtuous Cyprian. Nicola Cornick
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he found himself feeling very sorry for her indeed. A thought occurred to him.
‘I say, Nick, do you know Miss Kellaway at all?’
‘Not in the sense you mean,’ Seagrave said dryly. ‘I’ve met her, of course.’ His tone was unpleasant. ‘A cheap little piece with a commercial mind—and the commodity she sells is herself.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you remember Miranda Lethbridge?’
‘Cousin Sally Lethbridge’s girl?’ Peter frowned. ‘Yes, of course—she was about fifteen when I went away in ’12. Why do you ask?’
‘Miranda made her come out a couple of years ago.’ Seagrave sounded amused. ‘You may remember her as a child in pinafores, Peter, but she had improved dramatically and there were plenty who fell at her feet.’ The amusement fled from his tone. ‘Amongst them was Justin Tatton, whom you may remember served with me in Spain. He was bowled over by Miranda and she was equally smitten. We all thought they’d make a match of it.’ Seagrave’s voice was suddenly savage. ‘Miss Kellaway had other ideas, however. This was before Penscombe swam into view, and though Justin has no title, he was rich…Anyway, she made a dead set at him, and in a weak moment he succumbed.’ Seagrave shrugged, a little uncomfortably. ‘God knows, I am in no position to judge another man, but the unutterable folly…Justin said later that it had been a moment of madness, that after a single night he felt nothing but disgust and repulsion. But the damage was done. He begged Susanna Kellaway to tell no one, but she was furious that she could not hold him, and she made very sure that Miranda heard—and in the worst terms possible. Naturally the poor girl was devastated. She refused to even speak to Justin, and last year she made that hasty marriage to Wareham…’ Seagrave shook his head.
‘I am not a sentimentalist,’ he added with a touch of humour, ‘but I deplore the way Miss Kellaway takes whatever she wants with no concern for the destruction she causes! Even in my worst excesses I was never so careless of the feelings of others, and God knows, I have done some damnably stupid things in my time!’
Peter was silent. When Seagrave had first returned home from the Peninsula he had been possessed by a spirit of wildness which Peter suspected was the result of escaping the war with his life intact. He knew that as one of Wellington’s most promising officers, his brother had been sent on some secret and highly dangerous missions and had brushed with death on more than one occasion. He had fought with the Portuguese militia, the ordenanca, as well as covering himself with glory in a more orthodox manner on the battlefield of Talavera. Seagrave’s reaction to civilian life had been a very public and unrestrained year of hell-raising that blazed a trail through the ton until it had burned itself out and he had changed into the deeply world-weary individual he was now.
Seagrave looked up to where the crescent moon was perched above the rooftops, fading from the summer sky as dawn approached. He sighed. ‘No, with Miss Kellaway it is one excess after another! There will always be some poor fool who is besotted and will fall victim to an experienced woman preying on impressionable young men for their fortunes!’
Peter grimaced. ‘I wonder what she wants with you, Nick,’ he mused. ‘You could scarcely be described as an inexperienced youth!’
His brother gave him a cynical glance. ‘Come on, Peter, you’re not an innocent either! She wants money—in one form or another! It’s what she always wants! And I’m damned if she’ll get any out of me!’
The reception which Seagrave met with the following morning at Lord Elliott’s house in Grosvenor Street was not auspicious. The butler had at first tried to turn him away with the news that Miss Elliott was not at home, but Seagrave greeted this information with well-bred disbelief. The butler, flustered, could not stand his ground and could only protest as the Earl swept past him into the drawing-room, where he found both Lady Elliott and her daughter. Seagrave’s intended, a plumply pretty blonde with pale, slightly protruberant blue eyes, looked up from her embroidery frame at his entrance and uttered a small shriek.
‘You!’ she gasped, in tones of outrage. ‘Seagrave! How could you! Oh, I wish I were dead!’ She burst into noisy tears.
Lady Elliott was made of sterner stuff. She swelled with indignation. ‘I am astounded that you see fit to show your face here, my lord! To come from the arms of that creature to my own, sweet, innocent Louise! It defies belief! The notice terminating the engagement has already been sent to the Gazette!’
Louise sobbed all the louder. Seagrave, who had as yet uttered not one word, found that there was no necessity for him to do so. His sense of humour, long buried, began to reassert itself. Giving the outraged matron and her snivelling daughter the full benefit of a wicked smile, he executed an immaculate bow, turned on his heel and left the room.
It was late when the stage pulled into the yard of the Lamb and Flag in Felixstowe and decanted its occupants onto the cobbles. Lucille Kellaway, stiff and sore from the discomforts of her journey, picked up her shabby portmanteau and looked about her. There was no sign of her sister Susanna, despite the agreement that the two had to meet there.
Lucille had found the journey from Oakham fascinating. She had travelled so little that each new view was a delight to her and each new acquaintance was a pleasure to meet. She now knew all about Miss Grafton, a governess about to take up a new position with a family in Ipswich, and Mr Burrows, a lawyer visiting a client in Orford. She had looked out of the coach window and admired the well-kept farmland that stretched as far and as flat as the eye could see, and had glimpsed the sea as they drew into the town.
She struggled towards the inn door, her heavy case weighing her down. The smell of roast meat wafted enticingly from the kitchen and light spilled from the taproom onto the cobbles, accompanied by the sound of male voices and laughter. Lucille shrank. Although not of a timid disposition, she was too shy to march into the public bar and demand attention. The landlady found her cowering in the passageway.
‘I am looking for Miss Kellaway,’ Lucille said, a little shyly, and immediately saw an expression of mingled prurience, curiosity and disgust flit across the good lady’s features.
‘Miss Kellaway and the gentleman are in the private parlour,’ the landlady said, tight-lipped, nodding in the direction of a closed door at the end of the passage. She marched off to the kitchen, leaving Lucille alone.
Lucille knocked a little hesitantly on the door of the parlour. She could hear the intimate murmur of voices, but no one answered her. She pushed the door open and recoiled, almost turning on her heel to run away. Susanna was reclining on the parlour sofa in much the same pose as she had held at the school, but with shocking differences. Her emerald green silk dress was cut very low and it had fallen off one shoulder completely, exposing one of Susanna’s plump breasts. A portly, florid man with thinning sandy hair was leaning over her, fondling her with impatient hands whilst his mouth trailed wet kisses over her shoulder. He looked up, met Lucille’s horrified gaze and straightened up, an unpleasantly challenging look in his eyes.
‘Egad, what’s this! My good woman—’
Susanna pushed him away much as one might repel a fractious child. She hoisted her dress back up without the least embarrassment.
‘This is my sister, Eddie.’ She turned to Lucille, a frown marring her brow. ‘You’re monstrously late, Lucille! I had quite given up hope of you! We sail with the tide tomorrow morning, so there isn’t much time.’ She did not ask whether Lucille had had a good journey, or if she was hungry, nor did she invite her to sit down.
‘Now, my carriage will take you to Dillingham in the morning. I have left Felicity there—my housekeeper, Felicity Appleton,’ she added irritably, seeing Lucille’s look of incomprehension. ‘She will help you choose your clothes appropriately. I have left a large wardrobe at Dillingham, but Eddie will buy me more in Paris, won’t you, darling?’ She touched his hand and fluttered her lashes at him.
The gentleman, whom Lucille assumed to be Sir Edwin Bolt, had been scrutinising her through his quizzing glass these few minutes past with what Lucille considered a most ill-bred regard. Now he guffawed.