Page 95 of Heiress of Longbourn (Pride and Prejudice Variations)
The Talbot Inn
Southwark
April, 1791
A morning of blue skies and exuberant sunshine had given way to a most disagreeable afternoon consisting of sullen clouds and occasional downpours of rain. The Eagle Inn, located conveniently near the turnpikes along which dashed carriages and stagecoaches and the Mail, was busy on this Friday evening. Mr. Terrence Birks, landlord of the Eagle, stood under the covered main entrance of the inn and glanced around in satisfaction, well content with his lot. He had inherited the inn from his father, who had, in turn, inherited it from his uncle, and he was proud of his hostelry, which served nobles and commoners alike. Birks glanced around to be sure that all was well, but not with much concern; he could trust the ostlers to do their work in changing horses for the coaches, and the cook and her minions to manage the kitchen, and Jem Smith to slake the thirst of the coachmen and passengers who wished for a few drinks to whet their whistles.
“Take my horse, boy!” a male voice called from nearby and Birks turned in an instant.
“Birks! Birks! Get over here now, man!”
Birks smiled with pleasure as he rushed out into the rain, where Viscount Castleren, eldest son of the Earl of Lawburn, stood on the saturated ground next to his bay stallion; the horse was flecked with sweat and breathing heavily, indicating that his master had been galloping him to escape the rain. The nobleman himself, a dark, handsome man of some five and twenty years, was drenched from the recent storm and his aristocratic face was twisted in irritation.
“Welcome, my lord!” Birks said, bowing obsequiously. “Billy, take his lordship’s horse into the stable and rub him down. Come in, my lord, come in and dry yourself!”
“T’will be precious hard to do that until my fool of a valet arrives with my coach and luggage. Curse this rain! If I had expected this downpour, I would never have come ahead on horseback. I will take your best suite, Birks, along with a bottle of Madeira; make certain that one of your boys stops my carriage when it comes by! I will want supper, but not until I am dry.”
“Of course, my lord,” Birks said soothingly. “Timothy, take Lord Castleren into the Oak Room. I will bring your wine directly, my lord!”
He rushed along the flagged corridor which led into the great kitchen and gave orders about his lordship’s meal, which needed to be the very best his hostelry could offer. Agnes, the middle-aged widow who presided over the kitchen, sniffed a little at the additional work, but said nothing, which was for the best. He had no time to waste in fetching his very best Madeira for his noble guest; the viscount paid well, but he was an impatient man.
He stepped out of the kitchen and into the corridor, but had only taken a few steps toward the cellars when a high voice cried from a nearby pantry, “Papa? Did I see Lord Castleren? Is he here?!”
Mr. Birks turned and beamed down upon Maria, his only daughter, who was eighteen years of age and the acknowledged beauty of the local neighborhood. She was of medium height, slim, with dark hair and blue eyes, a perfectly straight nose, and rosebud lips. Many a young man courted her, and thus far she had bestowed her smiles on many, but her heart to no one. Indeed, and here Birks sighed inwardly. She was rather a flirt, his Maria. Sadly, the girl’s mother had died several years previously, and he often felt himself at a loss in raising his daughter well.
“Indeed, he is here, my girl, and we must be grateful indeed that he has chosen to patronize us again so soon,” Birks said cheerfully. “I will serve his lordship his wine, but you and Emma must be ready to bring his supper in an hour or two.”
“Of course, Papa!” Maria returned. “Now I must arrange for the sweetmeats for my lord’s dessert!”
There was an outraged bellow from Agnes in the kitchen, doubtless over some malfeasance of one of the kitchen maids, and Maria kissed her father on the cheek before gliding away.
***
Viscount Castleren strolled into his private parlor and over to the fire, relishing the warmth upon his dry breeches. His coach had made good time, and thus he had not been forced to stay in wet clothes for more than an hour. Now he was dry, and warm, and very hungry. His appetite for food was his current concern, but once that was assuaged, he would make an effort to satiate his other appetites. He had caught a glimpse of the landlord’s daughter Maria hovering near the front door, and in the month since he had last seen the girl, she had grown only more beautiful in his eyes.
Castleren wandered over to a large mirror against the wall, which made the room seem more expansive, lifted his hands to adjust his neckcloth slightly, and then allowed his appreciative gaze to wander from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. His hair, dark, unpowdered, and cut a little long, curled charmingly over his high and noble forehead. His skin was fair, his eyes a steely gray, and his aquiline nose and determined chin made him a truly handsome gentleman. His broad shoulders and slim waist filled out his blue coat perfectly, and his muscular legs nicely set off his pale breeches.
He smiled to himself in satisfaction; he was good looking, of excellent birth, and once he had captured an appropriate heiress to mitigate his own poverty, he would have the world at his feet.
Of course, in a better regulated world, he would not need to wed an heiress to enjoy a fortune; no, it was thanks to his father and his father’s father that the Lawburn wealth had fallen so far of late. Both had been reckless gamblers, both at the gaming tables and in the ‘Change. Castleren enjoyed gambling as well, very much, but not to the absurd extent of his forefathers.
Now it was up to him, as the eldest son of the Earl of Lawburn, to restore the family wealth through marriage, and he had his eye on quite a prize, Miss Susanna Westmore, the only daughter of the exceedingly wealthy Mr. Westmore of Surrey. He had been courting Miss Westmore for some six months now, and while there were many gallants pursuing the lady, he was, he flattered himself, the one who was currently in the lead to win her hand in marriage.
Indeed, he had hoped to propose to Miss Westmore this very week, but a distant relation of the Westmores had been so ill-bred as to die a few days ago, and the Westmores had packed up and journeyed to Surrey for a brief period of mourning. Given that the man in question was a distant cousin, Miss Westmore would not be required to put on black gloves for more than a week, and would soon be back enjoying the routs and balls and pleasures of the Season in London.
Soon Castleren would propose to the lady, and if she turned him down, well, he had learned a few things in the last years. He would make certain that when he was done with her, she had no choice but to marry him.
For the hundredth time, Castleren’s mind cast back three years previously, when he had tried and failed to win Lady Catherine Matlock’s hand in marriage. The elder daughter of the earl of Matlock was beautiful, handsomely dowered, and exceptionally well connected, and he had been quite pleased when he successfully locked her in a secluded room during a ball and took her virtue.
He had assumed, when he left her weeping, that Lady Catherine’s father would call on him within the week to arrange for their marriage; the girl was ruined, after all! Instead, the very next afternoon, the news spread throughout Town that Lady Catherine Matlock was engaged to be married to an older widower, Sir Lewis de Bourgh!
He had considered going public, but at the time, he was but a callow youth of two and twenty, and if the Matlocks refused to acknowledge that Lady Catherine was a besmirched woman, he had no real hope of contesting their assertion.
He did wonder if Sir Lewis de Bourgh knew the truth, but it mattered not.
In any case, if it was necessary for him to take stronger measures with Miss Westmore, he would approach her father immediately afterwards so that the situation could not be hushed up without his assistance.
The door swung open behind him, and he turned to bestow an appreciative look on the landlord’s daughter, Maria, as she and an older maid entered to place various dishes on the table. The girl was a most pleasing sight in her dress and lace cap, her modest attire poorly concealing her voluptuous form.
He had been visiting the Eagle regularly for the last year, flirting with the girl, ingratiating himself with her father, and he was well on his way to enticing the maid into his bed, perhaps even tonight. Maria was young, foolish, and romantic, and possibly dreamed of marriage to a lord, as ridiculous as that was. No, she was nothing more than a plaything, but a very beautiful plaything...
***
The viscount’s supper, which had been excellent, was finished, and he had imbibed an entire bottle of Madeira and started on a second bottle. Now he stood in front of the mirror again, but this time the beautiful Maria stood in front of him, her blue eyes glowing in the candlelight, her dark locks peeking out of the lace cap atop her head. She watched, breathing rapidly, as the viscount carefully fastened the necklace around her delicate neck.
“Oh, my lord! ‘Tis too much, it is!” the girl gasped.
“My dear, you are truly a brilliant star compared to the ladies of London, I assure you!” the viscount declared, smiling down munificently on Maria. “You deserve the very best.”
She met his eyes in the mirror, her face aglow, then lifted a tentative hand to stroke the beads. “Are they… are they real, my lord?”
“Indeed, they are real pearls,” Castleren lied. “They are lovely indeed, but you deserve all this and more, my glorious Maria.”
With the ease of long practice, he shifted his hands to guide her around to face him. The girl was nearly panting now, her face becomingly flushed, eyes downcast. “You flatter me, my lord, but thank you.”
“Oh Maria,” he breathed, reaching up his right hand to cup her rosy cheek. “I am no flatterer, I assure you. Come, my dear, let me show you how much I truly adore you. My bedchamber is but a few feet away, my darling.”
“Oh, my lord, I am not certain that…”
What more the girl planned to say would never be known, for the door to the viscount’s parlor suddenly swung with a crash, and a gentleman backed in, crying out, “I protest that is not true, Roddy, not in the least!”
Castleren, who had been in the very act of leaning down to kiss Maria, straightened and with an oath cried out, “How dare you come in here!”
The interloper, a tall, fair-headed young gentleman of some twenty-odd years, spun around at these words, his eyes wide, and then tripped over a chair. The goblet of wine in his hand jerked and the full cup of dark red liquid spurted out in an arc to drench the viscount’s snowy white neckcloth and blue coat. A moment later, the man lurched to the left into the table, which was knocked over, sending the remaining bottle of Madeira crashing into the fireplace.
Maria shrieked in astonishment, and Castleren pushed her aside with another oath, snarling, “What are you doing in my private parlor?”
The youth’s eyes widened, and he looked around at the chaos and said, “By the King, you are entirely correct … my heartfelt apologies…”
“Colborne!” the viscount screamed, taking a step forward and shoving the younger man harshly to the floor. “You again! This time you have done it, you foolish, idiotic, ridiculous nincompoop!”
“Castleren, stop, stop!” an older man cried out, rushing into the room and pulling the enraged viscount away from the younger man, who was struggling to his feet. “It was a mistake, man, a mistake!”
The viscount turned his attention to Maria, who was still screaming, and snarled, “Shut up, you foolish wench! Get out of this room now!”
Maria, open-mouthed at this sudden attack from her admirer, started sobbing just as Emma, the older maid, rushed into the room and quickly ushered the girl out. Castleren, now beet red with anger, hissed, “Manton! What are you doing here with this mongrel cur!?”
Mr. Manton looked shocked at these impetuous words and said, “Lord Castleren, I really must protest your…”
“I must insist that you retract those words,” the younger man snapped, glowering down into the viscount’s face. “I am Mr. Colborne, eldest son of Lord Millward. How dare you call me a cur?”
“How dare you , sir?!” Castleren interrupted, his face twisted into a furious snarl. “Everywhere I go, I trip over you. You have interfered at the card table, and at the horse races, and now, you have interrupted my tête-à-tête with…”
“I believe you think rather too much of yourself, my lord,” Colborne interrupted, a sneer marring his boyish features. “I assure you that I do not care enough about your entirely tedious life to bother following you about. And I am waiting for that apology, both for knocking me over and insulting my name.”
“And you will get no apology,” the viscount declared, stepping closer to the younger man. “None at all. Indeed, I demand an apology from you, for tripping over like a fool, for throwing wine on me, for driving away the truly lovely maid who was to be my companion for the night.”
“An apology?” Colborne barked incredulously, “From me? Do you imagine that I would apologize to a dashed commoner like you...?”
“Name your friends, Mr. Colborne!” Castleren shouted. “Name your friends!”