The Corinthian Read online

  Copyright © 1940 by Georgette Heyer

  Cover and internal design © 2009 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover photo © Fine Art Photographic Library

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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.

  Corinthian / Georgette Heyer.

  p. cm.

  I. Title.

  PR6015.E795C67 2009

  823’.912--dc22

  2009002354

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  VP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  One

  The company, ushered by a disapproving butler into the yellow saloon of Sir Richard Wyndham’s house in St James’s Square, comprised two ladies and one reluctant gentleman. The gentleman, who was not much above thirty years of age, but sadly inclined to fat, seemed to feel the butler’s disapproval, for upon that dignified individual’s informing the elder of the two ladies that Sir Richard was not at home, he cast a deprecating glance at him, not in the least the glance of a peer of the realm upon a menial, but an age-old look of one helpless man to another, and said in a pleading tone: ‘Well, then, don’t you think, Lady Wyndham – ? Louisa, hadn’t we better – ? I mean, no use going in, my love, is there?’

  Neither his wife nor his mother-in-law paid any attention to this craven speech. ‘If my brother is gone out, we will await his return,’ said Louisa briskly.

  ‘Your poor Papa was always out when one wanted him,’ complained Lady Wyndham. ‘It is very affecting to me to see Richard growing every day more like him.’

  Her fading accents were so lachrymose that it seemed probable that she would dissolve into tears upon her son’s doorstep. George, Lord Trevor, was uneasily aware of a handkerchief, clutched in one thin, gloved hand, and put forward no further objection to entering the house in the wake of the two ladies.

  Declining all offers of refreshment, Lady Trevor escorted her parent into the Yellow Saloon, settled her comfortably upon a satin sofa, and announced her intention of remaining in St James’s Square all day, if need be. George, with a very clear idea, born of sympathy, of what would be his brother-in-law’s emotions upon returning to his residence to find a family deputation in possession of it, said unhappily: ‘You know, I don’t think we should, really I don’t! I don’t like it above half. I wish you would drop this notion you’ve taken into your heads.’

  His wife, who was engaged in stripping off her lavender-kid gloves, threw him a look of indulgent contempt. ‘My dear George, if you are afraid of Richard, let me assure you that I am not.’

  ‘Afraid of him! No, indeed! But I wish you will consider that a man of nine-and-twenty won’t relish having his affairs meddled with. Besides, he will very likely wonder what the deuce it has to do with me, and I’m sure I can’t tell him! I wish I had not come.’

  Louisa ignored this remark, considering it unworthy of being replied to, which indeed it was, since she ruled her lord with a rod of iron. She was a handsome woman, with a great deal of decision in her face, and a leavening gleam of humour. She was dressed, not perhaps in the height of fashion, which decreed that summer gauzes must reveal every charm of a lady’s body, but with great elegance and propriety. Since she had a very good figure, the prevailing mode for high-waisted dresses, with low-cut bodices, and tiny puff-sleeves, became her very well: much better, in fact, than skin-tight pantaloons, and a long-tailed coat became her husband.

  Fashion was not kind to George. He looked his best in buckskin breeches and top-boots, but he was unfortunately addicted to dandyism, and pained his friends and relatives by adopting every extravagance of dress, spending as much time over the arrangement of his cravat as Mr Brummell himself, and squeezing his girth into tight stays which had a way of creaking whenever he moved unwarily.

  The third member of the party, reclining limply on the satin sofa, was a lady with quite as much determination as her daughter, and a far more subtle way of getting her wishes attended to. A widow of ten years’ standing, Lady Wyndham enjoyed the frailest health. The merest hint of opposition was too much for the delicate state of her nerves; and anyone, observing her handkerchief, her vinaigrette, and the hartshorn which she usually kept by her, would have had to be stupid indeed to have failed to appreciate their sinister message. In youth, she had been a beauty; in middle age, everything about her seemed to have faded: hair, cheeks, eyes, and even her voice, which was plaintive, and so gentle that it was a wonder it ever made itself heard. Like her daughter, Lady Wyndham had excellent taste in dress, and since she was fortunate enough to possess a very ample jointure she was able to indulge her liking for the most expensive fal-lals of fashion without in any way curtailing her other expenses. This did not prevent her from thinking herself very badly off, but she was able to enjoy many laments over her straitened circumstances without feeling the least real pinch of poverty, and to win the sympathy of her acquaintances by dwelling sadly on the injustice of her late husband’s will, which had placed his only son in the sole possession of his immense fortune. The jointure, her friends deduced hazily, was the veriest pittance.

  Lady Wyndham, who lived in a charming house in Clarges Street, could never enter the mansion in St James’s Square without suffering a pang. It was not, as might have been supposed from the look of pain she always cast upon it, a family domicile, but had been acquired by her son only a couple of years before. During Sir Edward’s lifetime, the family had lived in a much larger, and most inconvenient house in Grosvenor Square. Upon Sir Richard’s announcement that he proposed to set up an establishment of his own, this had been given up, so that Lady Wyndham had been able ever since to mourn its loss without being obliged to suffer any longer its inconveniences. But however much she might like her own house in Clarges Street it was not to be supposed that she could bear with equanimity her son’s inhabiting a far larger house in St James’s Square; and when every other source of grievance failed her, she always came back to that, and said, as she said now, in an ill-used voice: ‘I cannot conceive what he should want with a house like this!’

  Louisa, who had a very good house of her own, besides an estate in Berkshire, did not in the least grudge her brother his mansion. She replied: ‘It doesn’t signify, Mama. Except that he must have been thinking of marriage when he bought it. Would you not say so, George?’

  George was flattered at being thus appealed to, but he was an honest, painstaking person, and he could not bring himself to say that he thought Richard had had any thought of marriage in his head, either when he had bought the house, or at any other time.

  Louisa was displeased. ‘Well!’ she said, looking resolute, ‘he must be brought to think of marriage!’

  Lady Wyndham lowered her smelling-salts to interpolate: ‘Heaven knows I would never urge my boy to do anything distasteful, but it h