Page 7 of The Rum and The Fox

Chapter 3

A swell - a well-dressed gentleman

- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose.

After giving the link boy a generous tip for both his patience and his information, Ash returned home to hear his grandmother's strident voice echoing from the front parlour. Grimacing, he kept his tread light and prayed she'd not heard the front door, nor him greeting their butler. His prayers, as ever, were not answered, however, and an autocratic demand in the form of his name being barked at high volume moved him in the direction she desired.

He entered the yellow salon to find his grandmother, resplendent in apple green and looking quite in prime twig.

"I say, Grandmama," he said, quite forgiving her imperious tone in the face of such elegance. "If that's not all the crack, I don't know what is." His tone of obvious admiration softened – momentarily, at least - a face which had once been extremely beautiful, but was always, and without fail, fierce and implacable.

"Hmph," Lady Margaret, the dowager Duchess of Chartley, replied with a little sniff, though Felix could see she was pleased. He next turned his attention to his mother and did his best not to wince. How such a beautiful woman could have such lamentable taste was a question which assaulted him almost daily.

Today, she was dressed in orange satin, which might have been acceptable if not for the virulent shade she'd chosen, which was almost painful to look upon. Set against the bold yellow stripes of the wallpaper behind her, the results were quite eye-watering. He was so startled that for a moment he could do nothing but stare.

"I've told her," his grandmother said, before he had the chance to brush over the subject, as he really wasn't in the mood to persuade his mother down from her high ropes for having criticised her taste once again.

"Well, really," Lady Anne replied, her lip trembling a little as she held a lace handkerchief to her delicate nose. "I shan't stay here a moment longer if all you are going to do is bully me."

Ash sighed.

"Come, come, Mama. It's really ... not ... so bad," he said, lying manfully and sitting beside her. He took her hand and patted it before adding in alarm, "I say, you didn't go out in that, did you?"

His mother dissolved into tears whilst Lady Margaret tutted with impatience.

"No, she didn't, but only because I forbade it," she said, green eyes flashing with irritation. "It's time you put your foot down," she added as Ash's heart sank. What she meant, of course, was that he ought to do exactly as she told him to, and then, as he was head of the family - he suppressed an indignant bark of laughter here - force everyone else to do the same.

"Since you've been gone, your mother has quite lost her head," Lady Margaret continued, her tone arctic and disapproving.

"I have not!" Lady Anne wailed, emerging from behind her hanky to disprove the theory that all women were unattractive when they cried. "You don't know him," she added, sounding for once remarkably forceful as Lady Margaret sneered in response.

"I do," his grandmother said, giving her daughter a hard look. "I've known men like that all my life. Can smell them a mile off. I'd lay everything I own on the devil being a blasted fortune hunter."

“He is not, he is not!” his mother shrieked, her voice becoming shrill and hysterical. “And I won’t stay here to listen to you both malign a good and … and honourable man.”

With this, she ran from the room, sobbing and causing his grandmother to curse her idiot daughter in quite an uncompromising fashion.

Ash felt his spirits sink further as he realised that not only was his grandmother well aware of a situation he'd hoped to keep from her, but that his mother was quite obviously much enamoured of her latest beau. Any hopes he may have harboured that the affair wasn't serious dissolved immediately.

"Well, my lord?" Lady Margaret demanded, green eyes which were an echo of his own giving him a sharp-edged look that made him feel as though he was in short coats once more. "What are you going to do about this unfavourable, not to say disastrous, friendship she has encouraged?"

Ash reminded himself in severe terms that he was now four-and-twenty and had no reason to still be in awe of his grandmother.

"Actually," he said, grateful for once at having acted rashly. "If you are speaking of Viscount Rennard, I've just returned from calling on him," he said, meeting her eyes with a little defiance.

He was rewarded with a look of patent surprise which turned to scepticism shortly thereafter. "You've met him?" she said, her voice clearly disbelieving.

Ash faltered. "Well, no ... not as such. Not yet, at least," he said, feeling his confidence ebb as she returned a superior look that suggested she'd known it all along. "Well, he wasn't in, dash it. Not my fault if the man's not at home, is it? I did meet his daughter, however."

"A daughter?" she repeated with little interest. "I hadn't heard of a daughter, not that it changes anything, Felix, you must do something!" she said, banging her hand on the arm of the chair as she grew agitated once more.

"It's Ash, Grandmama, I don't like Felix," he said, though it was as futile as any other argument he'd ever had with her. Not that he was adverse to doing something to protect his mother and family, but what that something was and how it could be achieved without finding himself at the wrong end of a sword, with a bullet in his chest, or with his closest relation hating him forever, he just didn't know.

Lady Margaret favoured him with a withering look. "Felix," she said with particular emphasis. "You must extricate your mother from this disastrous affair before it goes any further. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, I do," he replied with some heat. "Though what the devil you think I can do about it, I can't imagine. She won't even listen to my advice about that blasted puce monstrosity, so why you would think she'd heed me on any other point is quite beyond me."

"For God's sake," she barked, fury turning her eyes a rather startling shade of emerald. "Are you a man or a mouse? You're the Duke of Chartley, may the Lord preserve us," she added with disgust. "You've surely more to occupy your mind than your blasted waistcoats and shiny boots? Show me you've got even an ounce of your late grandfather's backbone, and I'll be satisfied."