The Last Gamble Read online

  The Last Gamble

  Mary Nichols

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  OUTSIDE a watery sun shone in a pale sky and swallows twittered in the eaves, gathering for their autumn migration. Inside it was gloomy because the library curtains had been drawn almost fully across the windows. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the clock, even though there were two people in the room, an elderly man and a young lady dressed from head to toe in black crepe.

  She was tiny, though perfectly proportioned. Her straight raven-dark hair, topped by a wisp of black lace, was drawn up into a Grecian knot, with one or two tendrils of curl left to frame an oval face which, in the last two weeks, had lost every vestige of colour. The silence seemed to stretch interminably.

  ‘Miss Sanghurst,’ he said, at last. ‘You do understand what I have been saying?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked up at him, green eyes wide with shock; otherwise, there was no indication of how she felt. Her hands were perfectly still in her lap. ‘I think I do. Is there nothing left?’

  He hated having to tell her that the father whose death she mourned had gambled away her inheritance and left debts of such magnitude his passing had changed her almost overnight from a pampered, wealthy young lady into nothing short of a pauper. But there had been no point in trying to soften the blow with half-truths and platitudes, she would know the extent of it when his lordship’s creditors, hearing of his demise, started knocking on the door. ‘Nothing, I am afraid, except the money you inherited from your mother. She made sure he couldn’t touch that.’

  ‘She knew then?’

  ‘What he was like? Yes, I am sure she did.’

  ‘And yet she still loved him.’ It was a statement, not a question; she knew her mother had adored her father.

  ‘I believe she did, and that he loved her. You know how much her death affected him.’

  ‘Yes.’ Papa had shut himself away for days when her mother had died four years before. When he finally emerged, red-eyed and grey-faced, he had been a changed man, broody and curt instead of cheerful and considerate as he had hitherto been. And he started staying out at night, all night sometimes, as if he couldn’t bear to be in the house without his wife. Until today Helen had no idea he had spent those nights gambling. How could she have been kept in such ignorance?

  She had tried to understand how he felt about losing his wife, tried to make it up to him, and occasionally he would pull himself together and they would laugh and chat together and make plans. Last year they had been planning a European Tour. She had been unusually well-educated for a young lady and had been looking forward to learning more. It was meant to recompense her for her disappointment in not finding a husband.

  Her come-out the year before her mother’s last illness had been lavish and he could never understand why none of the young eligibles of that year had offered. Several had shown an early interest, but there had been no proposal because Helen herself had not encouraged them to think they would be looked on favourably.

  She did not know why she was so particular, except that she had a clear idea of the man she would like to marry and would not accept anything less, and in this she had had the support of her mother. Her father failed to understand that she did not subscribe to the premise that any husband was better than none at all. Now, at four-and-twenty, she was almost an old maid.

  In the event, their journey had been postponed because one of Papa’s investments had failed. It was something to do with a ship carrying his merchandise which had sunk on its way from the Orient. He had assured her it was only a temporary setback and they would go the following year. Now she never would.

  ‘I wish he had told me the extent of it,’ she said. ‘I could have made economies.’ Her father had never stinted her, never complained when she asked him to buy her a new gown or a bonnet. In truth, he positively encouraged her to have whatever she wanted. Her mother’s inheritance, which had been invested to provide her with a tiny monthly allowance, was looked on as pin money; she wasn’t expected to use it to clothe herself. ‘We could have let some of the staff go…’ She paused, as the full horror of her circumstances was borne home to her. ‘Now, I imagine, they must all go.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Even Daisy? She’s been with me ever since I came out of the schoolroom.’

  ‘I am very sorry,’ he said.

  ‘And this house?’

  ‘It will have to be sold to pay his lordship’s debts.’

  ‘Oh. Then I shall have to repair to the country. We haven’t been there for two or three years, Papa never liked the Peterborough house, he said it was draughty and isolated from Society. And he still thought I would make a match if we stayed in town…’

  ‘Miss Sanghurst,’ he interrupted before she could be carried away by her plans. ‘The Peterborough house was sold last year. His Lordship was hoping the money he realised on that would keep his dunners quiet for several months and pay for your tour but I am afraid he was over-optimistic.’

  She looked up at him, her face betraying the horror and grief she had been feeling ever since her father had been discovered in the stables with his brains blown out. It was bad enough to have a father shoot himself, but suddenly to learn that the security you have always enjoyed was no more to be trusted than a puff of wind must be truly terrifying.

  He had expected tears and wailing and a refusal to face the truth, but she had been surprisingly strong for one so slight, taking each blow on her pretty little chin and then sticking it out just that bit more. Her head was high and her back straight, but for how long? Surely she must break soon?

  ‘Then I must find employment. I can teach, I love children, you know. Or be a lady’s companion. Or perhaps I can be a clerk or a seamstress…’ Each suggestion was more abhorrent than the last, but she must do something to earn a living and it was no good being top-lofty about it.

  ‘There is one other thing I must mention,’ he said, admiring her courage. ‘His Lordship appointed a guardian for you.’

  ‘A guardian?’

  ‘Yes.’ He smiled at her astonishment. ‘Every young lady, however mature she considers herself to be, needs someone to care for her and protect her if she should be so unlucky as to lose both her parents. Your father made this provision some time ago.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Ever since her father’s death, she had accepted the fact that she was alone in the world, that she had no relatives, and must fend for herself, even though the full extent of it had only just been communicated to her by the lawyer—she was not only alone but almost penniless.

  She had many friends, but none she could call close, so who could possibly have agreed to take her on? It would be a heavy responsibility, especially as she brought nothing with her. Instead of being the considerable heiress everyone believed her to be, she was a nobody, dependent on the charity of her sponsors and everyone would know it. The idea did not appeal to her at all.

  ‘The Earl of Strathrowan.’

  ‘I know no one of that name.’

  ‘I believe he was a great friend of your father’s when they served together in India. You were only a baby at the time, so you would not remember.’

  ‘I certainly do not. Is he still out in India? Am I expected to go to him there?’ Was there to be no end to the revelati
ons being heaped upon her? She didn’t think she could take many more without collapsing under the weight of them. Mourning a father she apparently did not know at all, was bad enough, but how much worse the humiliation of being foisted on a stranger and one that probably wouldn’t want her anyway.

  Oh, how she wished she were a man, then she could get on with her life. As a man she could find a gainful occupation and make her own way, but as a gentlewoman her hands were tied by convention. She was not expected to work for a living, she could not live alone, she could not even travel unescorted.

  ‘I have discovered he is in Scotland,’ Mr Benstead went on. ‘He has an estate in the Loch Lomond region. He was a younger son and it was only on the death of his brother, the Viscount, that he became the heir. He succeeded soon after your father returned to England after inheriting his title.’

  He might as well have said India, she thought, it was just as wild and inaccessible. ‘Does he know that Papa…?’ She gulped quickly and went on before she could lose her courage altogether. ‘Does he know Papa is dead? And how he died?’ The manner of her father’s death was important too; it was a stigma she would have to carry with her.

  ‘I have written to him and await his reply.’ He shuffled the papers on the desk in front of him, drawing the painful interview to an end. ‘There is nothing to be done until we hear from him.’ He stood up and came round the desk to where she sat and put his hand on her shoulder. She had not moved since first sitting there, it was almost as if she dare not. ‘I am deeply sorry to have brought you such distressing news.’

  ‘Did you know how bad it was?’ she asked, staring straight ahead. ‘Before he died, I mean. Could you not have done something to stop him falling further into debt?’

  He allowed himself a tiny smile. ‘Your Papa was a very obstinate man, my dear, and if he would not listen to your mother when she was alive, how could I influence him? I tried. I warned him again and again that he was overreaching himself. It wasn’t just gambling at the tables, he gambled on the markets, buying commodities and hoping to sell at vast profits. On each occasion he was confident he could recoup his losses. It never worked.’

  ‘No.’ She turned her face up to him at last and he noticed that the shock and misery he had seen there had been replaced by determination. There was a light in her luminous green eyes which could almost have been humour. ‘If I ever marry,’ she said. ‘I shall ensure that my husband is not a gambler. I’ll have it written into the marriage contract.’ The humour spread to her lips in a fleeting smile. ‘That is, if I am so fortunate as to find someone to marry me.’

  ‘Of course you will, my dear,’ he said. ‘You are a handsome young lady, you know, and there must be dozens of young men eager to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘In Scotland?’ Now there was a definite twinkle in her eye and he breathed a sigh of relief. Her father had died by his own hand because he could not face up to life in poverty and he had wondered if she might be cast in the same mould, but evidently she was not. She was a fighter.

  ‘We cannot tell what the Earl will decide to do,’ he said. ‘But as soon as I hear, I shall come and tell you.’

  ‘Is there a Lady Strathrowan?’

  ‘One must presume so.’

  ‘And children? Sons and daughters, grandchildren, perhaps?’

  ‘I have no way of knowing until I hear from him.’

  ‘In the meantime?’

  ‘You may live here until the sale is concluded, of course, but please limit your expenses to the minimum. Do you wish me to inform the servants?’

  ‘No, I’ll do it. Is there enough to pay them?’

  ‘No, not until the sale goes through and then…’ He shrugged. ‘There might be something we can give them but if the dunners get there first…’

  ‘They must be paid,’ she cried. ‘It’s bad enough losing a position without having to go without the wages owed to you. I shall pay them from my own money.’

  ‘You will need every penny of that for yourself, Miss Sanghurst,’ he said. ‘And they will soon find other positions.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I shall pay them,’ she said firmly.

  He sighed as he bowed and took his leave. She was as obstinate as her father had been. He only hoped that her tenacity would stand her in good stead in the future. She would need all her resources, of strength and determination, as well as money, if she were going to survive.

  Helen did not rise, knowing that Coster was standing outside the door and would see the lawyer out. But Coster had to be told the news and so did all the other servants. Telling them was to be the first of many unpleasant tasks she was going to have to do and she supposed she had better get on with it.

  She rose slowly and smoothed down the skirt of her mourning gown, reflecting that if she had only known how bad things were she would not have spent so much on it. Then, lifting her chin, she moved over to the door and opened it. The footman was shutting the outer door. ‘Coster, will you ask everyone to come here, please. I have something to tell you all.’

  ‘Poor little devil,’ he murmured as he made his way to the back regions of the house to convey her orders. All alone in the world and, if the rumours were true, not a feather to fly with. If the old devil hadn’t shot himself Coster would have been tempted to do it for him, except that it wouldn’t have helped Miss Helen. Nor would it have put bread in his own mouth, not to mention the mouths of all the other servants. He could guess what was coming next. They were all going to be out on their ears.

  He was proved right before another ten minutes had passed. The house was being sold and Miss Sanghurst was going to live with her guardian. It was the first any of them had heard of a guardian but they were glad for her sake; she needed someone to look after her. They were very fond of her; not one of them would have hesitated to serve her on half-wages if she had asked it of them, but she didn’t.

  It was strange how she hadn’t shed a tear until Daisy had asked if she could stay on for little more than her keep and then she had run from the room and they could hear her flying up the stairs. The door of her room banged shut and there was nothing any of them dare to do but return to their duties, knowing that the following day, there would be none to do.

  Helen threw herself across her bed and sobbed as if she were trying to cry the Thames dry. She had loved her father dearly, but how could he do this to her? How could he turn his back on her when she needed him so much? How could he have had so little concern for her future as to gamble away every penny and everything they owned and then refuse to face up to what he had done? Why had she never suspected there was something wrong? The questions went round and round in her brain but she had no answers.

  His answer had been to end his own life and leave her to a stranger, just as if she were a mongrel dog needing a good home. She hesitated to call his behaviour dishonourable, but she could find no other word for it. He must have known the disgrace would reflect on her, the daughter he professed to love. The tabbies would have a field day and she would be ostracised. It had already begun, for the Dowager Lady Carruther had cut her dead in the lending library two days before and Mrs Courtney had stopped her daughter, whom Helen considered a friend, from speaking to her in the park. Unable to condemn her father, she detested the unknown guardian instead.

  She sat up at last and mopped her tears with a face cloth, then rinsed her burning cheeks in cold water from the pitcher on the wash-stand. Crying never achieved anything, except to make her look ugly. She sat at her dressing table and peered into the looking glass above it. Her eyelids were puffed and red from weeping, and there were two high spots of pink on her cheeks, but otherwise she looked drained of all colour. Her hair, usually so neat, was falling down from its pins.

  Was this the picture she was going to present to the Earl? A dishclout full of self-pity? Or someone strong enough to weather life’s storms and take whatever was thrown at her right on the chin? She lifted her head and pulled a face at herself in the mirror. ‘Now pull you
rself together, Miss Helen Sanghurst,’ she said. ‘No one loves a watering pot, and sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will take you nowhere. Look on it as an adventure, an adventure into the unknown. Are you afraid? Of course you are not, you are your father’s daughter…’

  And then she began to cry again, but this time not for herself, but for the father she had lost. She had lost him long before that pistol went off; if the truth be known, she had lost him on the day her mother died. But only now could she grieve.

  Her sobs subsided at last; she would not cry again. She washed her face, combed her hair and re-pinned it, then went downstairs to give orders for supper, the last orders she would ever give. Tomorrow all the servants except Daisy would leave, each clutching their wages and carrying their personal possessions; Daisy would remain until she herself left. Her maid was more than a servant, she was a friend, and Helen wished she could take her with her wherever she was going, but she had no intention of asking favours of her guardian.

  Waiting was irksome, made worse by the fact that no one visited her except her father’s creditors who, hearing the news, swooped on her to be first with their claims, and a few prying busy-bodies whose only motive was gathering titbits of gossip to pass on over the tea cups or behind their fans at the latest Society ball. It was easier to say she was not at home to callers.

  By the same token, she could not go visiting and so her only recreation was walking in the park, which cost nothing, and sorting her father’s books. He had a unique collection of military books and some fine maps; these were expected to fetch a good price. Not that she would see any of the money; Mr Benstead had told her that it was earmarked to pay debts.

  The books, the silver and porcelain, the horses and the carriage, even his clothes were all going the same way. The furniture was expected to be sold along with the house; all Helen could call her own were her clothes and the little jewellery she had inherited from her mother. She wondered if some of it might have to be sacrificed.