Free The Westerby Inheritance by M.C. Beaton Page A

stared about her. The room was richly paneled in primrose silk, and a fine Oriental rug covered part of the floor. Baroque William Kent chairs, their rich red and gold upholstery gleaming in the wavering candlelight, were stationed against the walls. A small console table with a silver tray containing several decanters stood in front of the black cave of the fireplace, which was flanked on either side by two Chippendale armchairs.
    The door opened, but it was only the butler, bearing a plate of cakes and some ratafia. Jane seated herself on one of the armchairs, grateful that it was commodious enough to allow space for her hoop. The butler arranged the plate of cakes on the console table and lit a fire in the grate. He had decided it would do no harm to look after the young lady’s comfort for a little while. It was only one in the morning, and his lordship would not be home before the dawn. He could then assure his lordship of having shown hospitality to the lady, should she indeed turn out to be a friend, and if not—well, he would have got rid of her well before my lord came home.
    Jane thanked him in a clear voice, pleased that it did not waver, and tried to look as if she were in the habit of calling unescorted on a gentleman at his town house. But she was grateful when the butler retired, for her hands were shaking and her heart was beating hard. Now was the time to admit her folly and beat a retreat, but somehow she could not. Having come so far, she knew she would never forgive herself if she went back without seeing Lord Charles. So she drank a little of the ratafia, gritting her teeth, and set herself to wait.
    Lord Charles Welbourne stood on the steps of White’s Coffee House and stared absently down St. James’s Street. He had been playing brag with his friends of the Old Club in the coffee house when he had been assailed with a restless feeling of tedium. The English weather had again returned, to indulge in its normal mercurial changes, and the night air was cold and smelled of smoke and whale oil from the parish lamps.
    He did not know what he wanted. Certainly he did not want wine, women, or cards. All he wanted was something to remove this recurring feeling of lethargy and world-weariness.
    This malaise was of recent date. Never before in his charmed life had he suffered from it. He had been spoiled by fortune from the day of his birth. He was handsome and possessed of vast wealth. He had traveled widely and studied hard. He excelled at every sport and was a first-class swordsman. He had thought himself in love at one time, but his passion had soon burned out, and, since then, he had preferred to pay for his pleasures.
    He had never been able to care for anyone very deeply. He cared for the tenants of his estates, in that he was a good landlord, meticulously fulfilling all his obligations in that direction, but apart from that, he did not really care what happened to any of them.
    His servants were well paid and well housed, but he barely noticed them as human beings. He liked his friends to be easygoing, hard-drinking, and not given overmuch to introspective thought. He was noted for his personal cleanliness in an age when one did not even bother to wash one’s wig when it became dirty or full of livestock, but simply applied another coating of powder. He chose his wardrobe with care; his snuff, his jewels, and his horses were of the finest. He was amused to be designated a rake, for he considered himself to be a rather quiet man and a law-abiding citizen.
    He had certainly killed two men in duels, but he had not instigated either challenge and, had he not killed his assailants, then they would most certainly have killed him.
    It was unusual for him to leave the card tables so early, and, although he was exceedingly drunk, he carried his drink well and betrayed his condition only by a certain glitter in his dark eyes and a certain lazy drooping of his heavy lids.
    He dismissed his coachman and decided to