No Wind of Blame Read online

  Copyright © 1939 by Georgette Rougier

  Cover and internal design © 2009 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover image © Mary Evans

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  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Heyer, Georgette.

  No wind of blame / Georgette Heyer.

  p. cm.

  Originally published: Great Britain: William Heinemann, 1939.

  I. Title.

  PR6015.E795N6 2009

  823’.912—dc22

  2009021845

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  VP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  One

  The Prince is coming by the one-forty-five. That means he’ll be here in time for tea. Well, I do call that nice!’

  No answer being made to this remark, the lady at the head of the table repeated it, adding: ‘I’m sure you’ll like him. He’s such a gentleman, if you know what I mean.’

  Miss Cliffe raised her eyes from her own correspondence. ‘Sorry, Aunt Ermyntrude: I wasn’t attending. The Prince – oh yes! Then the big car will be wanted to meet the train. I’ll see to it.’

  ‘Yes, do, dearie.’ Mrs Carter restored the Prince’s letter to its envelope, and stretched out a plump arm towards the toast-rack. She was a large woman, who had enjoyed, in youth, the advantages of golden hair and a pink-and-white complexion. Time had committed some ravages with both these adjuncts, but a lavish use of peroxide and the productions of a famous beauty specialist really worked wonders. If the gold of Ermyntrude’s carefully waved hair was a trifle metallic, the colour in her cheeks was all and more than it had ever been. Artificial light was kinder to her than the daylight, but she never allowed this tiresome fact to worry her, applying her rouge each morning with a lavish yet skilled hand which recalled the days when she had adorned the front row of the chorus; and touching up her lashes with mascara, or (in her more dashing moments) with a species of vivid blue that was supposed to deepen the perfectly natural blue of her eyes.

  The exigencies of this facial toilet apparently exhausted her matutinal energy, for she never put on her corsets until fortified by breakfast, and invariably appeared in the dining-room in a robe of silk and lace which she referred to as her négligé. Mary Cliffe, who had never been able to accustom herself to the sight of Ermyntrude’s flowing sleeves trailing negligently across the butter-dishes, and occasionally, if Ermyntrude were more than usually careless, dipping into her coffee, had once suggested, with perfect tact, that she really ought to stay in bed for breakfast. But Ermyntrude was of a cheerful and a sociable disposition, and liked to preside over the breakfast-table, and to discover what were her family’s plans for the day.

  Mary Cliffe, who addressed her by the title of aunt, was not, in fact, her niece, but the cousin, and ward, of her husband, Wallis Carter. She was a good-looking young woman in the early twenties, with a great deal of common sense, and a tidiness of mind which years of association with Wally Carter had only served to strengthen. She was fond of Wally, in a mild way, but she was not in the least blind to his faults, and had not suffered even a small pang of jealousy when, five years before, he had, rather surprisingly, married Ermyntrude Fanshawe. The possession of a small but securely tied-up income of her own had ensured her education at a respectable boarding-school, but her holidays, owing to Wally’s nomadic tendencies and frequent insolvencies, had been spent in a succession of dingy boarding-houses, and enlivened only by the calls of creditors, and the recurrent dread that Wally would succumb to the attractions of one or other of his landladies. When, during a brief period of comparative affluence, he had patronised a large hotel at a fashionable watering-place, and had had the luck to captivate Ermyntrude Fanshawe, who was an extremely rich widow, Mary, with her customary good sense, had regarded his marriage as providential. Ermyntrude was undoubtedly flamboyant, and very often vulgar, but she was good-natured, and extremely generous, and so far from resenting the existence of her husband’s young ward, behaved to her with the utmost kindness, and would not hear of her leaving Wally’s roof to earn her own living. If Mary wanted to work, she said, she could act as her secretary at Palings, and perhaps help with the housekeeping. ‘Besides, dearie, you’ll be a real nice companion for my Vicky,’ she added.

  This had seemed to Mary to be a fair arrangement, although, when she met Vicky Fanshawe, a precocious schoolgirl, five years her junior, she could not feel that they were destined to become soul-mates.

  Vicky, however, was being educated, at immense expense, first at a fashionable school on the south coast of England, and later at a still more fashionable finishing-school in Switzerland. During the last two years, she had spent her holidays abroad with Ermyntrude, so that Mary had hardly encountered her. Her education was now considered to be completed, and she was living at home, a source of pride and joy to her mother, but not precisely an ideal companion for Mary, who was alternately amused and exasperated by her.

  She reflected, on this warm September morning, that the presence of a Russian prince in the house would be productive of all Vicky’s most tiresome antics, and inquired in tones of foreboding whether the Prince were young.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say young,’ replied Ermyntrude, helping herself to marmalade. ‘He’s at what I call the right age, if you know what I mean. You never saw anyone so distinguished – and then his manners! Well, you don’t meet with such polish in England, not that I’m one to run down my own country, but there it is.’

  ‘I don’t like Russians much,’ said Mary perversely. ‘They always seem to talk so much and do so little.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be narrow-minded, dear. Besides, he isn’t actually a Russian, as I’ve told you a dozen times. He’s a Georgian – he used to have a lovely estate in the Caucasus, which is somewhere near the Black Sea, I believe.’

  At this moment the door opened, and Wally Carter came into the room. He was a medium-sized man, who had been good-looking in youth, but who had run rather badly to seed. His blue eyes were inclined to be bloodshot, and his mouth, under a drooping moustache, sagged a little. In the days when he had courted Ermyntrude, his fondness for strong liquor had not made him quite careless of appearances, but five years spent in opulent circumstances had caused him to deteriorate lamentably. He was naturally slovenly, and his clothes never seemed to fit him, nor his hair to be properly brushed. He was generally amiable, but grumbled a good deal, not in any bad-tempered spirit, but in a gently complaining way to which none of his family paid the slightest heed.

  ‘Here you are, then!’ said his wife, by way of greeting. ‘Touch the bell, Mary, there’s a love! We couldn’t have had a better day, could we, Wally? Though, of course, as I always say, to see Palings at its best you ought to see it when the rhododendrons are out.’

  ‘Who wants to s