An Indecent Gambit

Chapter Twelve: A Weasel

The terrace was too far away from the salon for James to make himself heard by yelling or knocking at the door. After a few minutes experimenting, he determined he could neither climb down to the service lane below, nor slip through a window. There was nothing for it but to wait.

It was a long, long wait. Some two, perhaps three hours later, when James was chilly and tired and sober enough to feel very sorry for himself, a servant entered into the lane below, and he managed to persuade her to rouse Mrs Partridge, who rescued him. When he heard that Benson had driven Emma and Grace home, he knew he had lost a battle, and knowing that, realized he was at war. He took the sleepy horses and his father's coach home and crawled into bed, chill and shivering. Somehow he could not sleep.

Benson's actions meant that he had another possible manner of ridding himself of Grace. Benson, it seemed, was still interested in Grace. Encourage his rivalry, and perhaps they would start it up again and Grace would turn James down. All the same, James did not like the idea. Even if he had been drunk when he met him, he was sure that his impression of Benson as a pompous prat was an accurate one. Besides, Benson had been meeting the opera singer on a balcony — that was low. It was one thing for a man to have a mistress — if the opera singer even merited the title — but it was quite another to meet her during an event under a female friend's roof. An if she were not his mistress, but a mere opportunity — well that was worse.

"I'm not jealous," James told himself. "I don't like Grace, so I've nothing to be jealous of. But the man simply isn't right for her."

He fell asleep to that consoling thought and was woken not many hours later by his mother. He stared blurrily at her through the fog of sleep. Dawn had hardly lightened the room. "What time is it? Is something wrong?"

"I thought you might know," Mrs Redwood said. "Mr Follett sent his coach over. He wants you and your father to attend him immediately." Her upper lip curled in distaste. "It is not yet breakfast."

It was only Mr Follet. Then nothing much was wrong after all, though no doubt James would have some explaining to do about last night.

"That's very bad manners of him," James said soothingly. "I suppose I'd better get dressed then."

He waited for his mother to leave the room, but instead she fixed him with a suspicious glare. James waited.

"Well?" Mrs Redwood demanded, losing patience first, as always, when they played this game.

"Well what?" James asked.

"What on earth is this all about?"

James carefully fixed his blandest look on his face. "I can't imagine."

Mrs Redwood's eyes narrowed but she said nothing and swept from the room. James breathed a sigh of relief; he could not forever put off the consequences of last night, but a cowardly, foolish streak inside him whispered that it was much better to put them off as long as he could.

He dressed and went down to the hall where his father was waiting, dressed in a cloak and carrying his stick. When they got in the carriage, Mr Redwood said drily, "Do you know what this is about, boy?" and James meekly lied, "No, Sir, I don't."

His father could not be kept in ignorance long. When they arrived at the Follett's house, the butler took them directly to Mr Follett's study. James just had time to register with surprise a skull standing in pride of place on the desk before Mr Follett snapped at his father, "What in the blazes have you let your son do?"

That was not how James had expected it to begin. He had not thought Mr Follet would be so angry; indeed, he had had no notion that Mr Follet had a temper.