Forty-Two

A Pound of Flesh

“Ah, just the man I seek,” said Lord March, upon remarking George Selwyn’s entrance to White’s. The three gentlemen with whom he played scarcely glanced up from their cards when March rose and beckoned him to their table.

George bowed in greeting. March offered him a pinch of snuff, which he declined before flipping his coat skirts aside to sit down at the table.

“George, you’ve a long-standing acquaintance with the devil of whom I speak. I’ve a curious bit of information about our friend Hastings I wish you to confirm or refute.”

“I almost dread asking. What has he done now?”

March laughed. “I only inquire of a matter concerning the Hastings title and estate. I hear the whole is in dispute before the Chancery Court.”

Lord Weston froze in the process of retrieving a card for his next play.

Remarking the presence of Philip’s former nemesis at the table, George replied evasively, “Did you indeed? I’ve heard not a word of it, though to be candid, I’ve not shared Hastings’s confidence for a number of years.”

Pinning George with a piercing stare, Weston retrieved his card.

Lord March continued nonchalantly, “I have a petition of my own with the courts and quite by happenstance overheard some discussion of the particulars regarding our friend’s misfortune. It is claimed a mere infant, and a female at that, may be the true heir to Hastings’s title and estates.”

“Curious indeed,” Selwyn said. “It is true Philip’s elder brother sired a daughter before his untimely death.”

“Then the child is a considerable heiress,” March remarked.

“Why such avid interest, March?” George asked, “Are you considering a match with a babe in arms to add the Hastings earldom to your collection of cornets?”

Lord March pulled at his lip. “In truth, I hadn’t considered it… until now. Just how old is the child?”

“Hang you, March! It was said in jest! The infant can’t be more than six or seven.”

“Delayed gratification with a wait of ten years, but then again, I am a patient man.” March smirked.

“An unscrupulous, poxy blighter more like,” Selwyn retorted.

“I take exception to the poxy remark,” said March. “But we digress. I’d like to propose a wager regarding the outcome of the Hastings estate. Care to take me up on it?”

“What do you mean?” George asked.

“I would wager on whether Hastings retains his title or if it will be conferred upon the child. ’Twill be a matter of great debate after he has held it these—what? Six years or more? Poor sod, had it only been seven, he might have met the statute of limitations.”

“You would wager on the fate of a friend?” George was taken aback at the notion.

“Why not? It’s not as if it will affect the outcome in any way. Besides, it’s nothing personal. One should never let friendships interfere with a good wager.” He addressed the gentlemen sitting at cards. “I’ll lay any of you fifty guineas that in less than a twelvemonth the Chancery will decide in favor of the child. Do you take the bet, George?”

“Without all of the facts at hand, I’ll have to defer the matter.”

Lord Weston slowly laid down his card, quoting softly, “La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid.” He raked in his winnings with a meaningful look at George Selwyn. “I’ll accept your wager, March, and I’ll lay three to one odds that Chancery settles the matter within a six-month.”

“Preposterous!” exclaimed Beau Colyear, Earl of Portmore. “The Chancery takes years to settle any case. I’ll double your odds, both of you!”

“Very well, then. We’ll make of it a general wager.” March summoned a lackey to his side, commanding, “Bring the betting book.”

His words caught the attention of another nearby group at cards, one of whom, the self-styled Count Taafe asked, “What is this new wager, March? We’re still awaiting the appearance of your mythical chaise.”

The group rumbled with laughter.

“The match is imminent, gentlemen, an event that will live forever in the annals of history.”

“So you say!” Taafe was openly cynical. “And now what is this new madness for which you call the betting book?”

“Have you not heard? The Earldom of Hastings is in dispute.”

A white bewigged head jerked up from his cards. “What did you say?”

“Hastings’s estate is in Chancery,” another replied. “It appears there is question of the entail.”

By the arrival of the betting book, nearly every member of White’s Chocolate House had placed a wager of some sort upon the outcome.

Waiting until the moment Lord Weston rose to enter his wager in the book, George Selwyn remarked, “I wouldn’t have any dealings with Weston if I were you, March, especially where Hastings is concerned.”

“And why is that, dear boy?”

“Didn’t you note the look in his eye? And I doubt his revenge quote was over the game.” George lowered his voice for Lord March’s ears alone. “Have you never wondered how Weston acquired that peculiar list to his walk?”

“A list? As to one side? Can’t say I’ve ever remarked it.”

“Assuredly, he lists slightly to the right, as if that side were somewhat heavier than the left.” George smirked. “And don’t you wonder why he keeps so many mistresses?”

“Some men like variety.”

“And others, to hide their inability to perform, pay a mistress or three to merely ornament their arm and eat sweetmeats.”

“What are you saying, George?”

“I’m amazed you never heard of it. But then again, you were yet in Scotland when the whole affair transpired.”

“Do tell. You’ve teased me long enough.”

“Some time ago, the Marquess of Weston dueled with a young rogue named Philip Drake and was, let us say… relieved of half his manhood.”

Instinctively, March crossed his legs. “Vindicta.”

“Indeed. He has every reason for seeking vengeance, though he himself instigated the duel,” George replied.

“It matters not in the land from whence I hail. Nemo Me Impune Lacessit is the motto of Scotland.”

George reddened. “I confess my Latin is not what it should be.”

“‘None shall injure me with impunity,’ George.”

“Then you would sanction Weston’s lust for revenge?”

“We Scots, dear boy, are known as a bloodthirsty breed. If Weston seeks vindication for an old injury, who am I to judge?”

***

At least the Jew enters with the proper air of deference, thought the Marquess of Weston, seated behind a massive Makassar ebony-wood desk.

When the footman departed the financier glanced at the nearby chair, but the marquess studied him in an oppressive silence before waving his lily-white bejeweled hand. “You are my guest, Mr. Gideon. Pray relieve your burden.”

Gideon propped his cane against the chair and sat, but tension, as much as his tightly laced stays, served to maintain his rigid posture. “I am honored to have been summoned, but how might I be of service to you, my Lord Weston?”

“Ah, you misapprehend, my good man. My purpose is only to serve you a good turn.”

Gideon look baffled. “I don’t understand, my lord.”

“There are few secrets in London. Word has come to my ear that your daughter is to be betrothed to a pretender.”

“A pretender?” Gideon looked surprised.

“Indeed, a certain scoundrel who presumes to impersonate his betters, one who fraudulently calls himself the Earl of Hastings.”

“Assuredly you are misinformed, my lord,” Gideon protested. “I have known the present earl for a dozen years or more, and his father before him. The man is no imposter.”

“The courts will soon deem him so, Mr. Gideon, and it would sicken me to see an honest man, who only desires the betterment of his family, be taken in by a charlatan.”

“Why is it I’ve heard none of this?”

“Because Philip Drake has held the title for six years, the Chancery has kept the matter quiet to save embarrassment to all involved parties. The result, however, is that the title is in question. I pray you’ve not wholly committed to this fraud?”

“No, my lord.” Gideon retrieved a handkerchief to mop his brow. “It is but a preliminary agreement, as the matter of Lord Hastings’s divorce must first be settled. I am much in your debt for providing this information.”

“Ah! Debt. That is the second matter I wish to discuss with you, Gideon. I understand the gentleman in question owes you a considerable sum.”

“Indeed, my lord. A loan of ten thousand pounds, made in good faith, is yet to be repaid in full. It is not my habit to discuss such private business, but given the circumstances…”

“I would like to buy this debt.” Lord Weston said. “I’ll pay you all that is owed plus an additional ten percent.”

Gideon sat back. “That is exceedingly generous, my lord.”

“I have two conditions.”

Gideon regarded him intently.

“The first—you must pledge to speak of this meeting and our subsequent transaction to no one.”

“As you say, my Lord Weston. And the second?”

“Under no circumstances are you to communicate with Philip Drake without my prior knowledge.”

Gideon’s thick brows drew together. He wondered about this havey-cavey business between Lords Weston and Hastings, but then again a premium of ten percent interest was enough to dismiss his misgivings. “Very well, my lord,” he agreed.

The Marquess of Weston inclined his head with a thin-lipped smile and rang for his footman. “Then I deem our business concluded.”

With this abrupt pronouncement, Samson Gideon realized he was dismissed.

***

Under normal circumstances a peer of the realm would be immune from civil prosecution, but with the Hastings title in dispute, opportunity had presented its lovely head. The Marquess of Weston had waited years for such a chance, and here it had dropped into his very lap.

Having purchased the debt, he only needed to call in a favor from an old family friend, Philip Yorke, Lord High Chancellor Hardwicke, the head of the Court of Chancery. Lord Weston sat back in his chair with a self-satisfied smile.

“I will have my pound of flesh at last.”