Gay Defeat

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Life had always smiled sweetly on Delia Beringham. As well as being disarmingly lovely, she is the only daughter of a wealthy financier who indulged her every whim. Naturally Delia assumes that her indulgent father will eventually allow her to marry Lionel Hewes. But the sudden crash of the family fortunes and her father?s suicide changes all that. Lionel abruptly faded from the picture and Delia is left with only her own courage and determination to sustain her.

Release date: December 5, 2013

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 80

Sample

When Delia walked through the beautiful, cool lounge of the Ritz at cocktail time that bright August morning, people looked at her and then turned to look again.

The tall, fair man who followed her through the lounge, and seated himself beside her at one of the small tables, had more than admiration in his gaze when he looked at her.

“What will you have, my sweet?”

“A gin and It, I think,” she said. “It’s frightfully hot. I do hate London in August; it’s unbearable, isn’t it, Lingo?”

Lionel Hewes, known to his particular circle of friends as “Lingo”, drew a thin gold cigarette-case from his pocket and handed it to the girl.

“I’d hate it if you weren’t in town.”

That drew a smile and a sigh from her. She rejected the cigarette, shaking her head, and peeled off her long, delicate suede gloves. Then she took a little gilt and enamel box from a green silk bag, which had her monogram D in diamonds, and examined her face in the mirror. Delia, at twenty, had no need to resort to cosmetics. Dark eyes, rather almond-shaped, thickly lashed, which flashed like onyx when she laughed; hair, black and sleek as a raven’s wing, cut straight; and this was Delia. She did not look altogether English. Her mother had been French. But she had been born and bred in London and was the finished, expensive product of her day.

The French mother had died when Delia was ten. Her father, Charles Beringham, had brought up this one and only daughter in the way which he considered best. He was a very rich and a very busy man. He adored Delia and saw as much of her as he could. She had had luxury and attention since she was born, and because she was exceedingly pretty and amusing she had also had more than her fair share of flattery and spoiling. If her mind was given up largely to the pursuit of pleasure, it was not to be wondered at. She had had nothing else to think about, until early this summer. Then she had met Lingo Hewes. She had fallen in love with him, and she found that being in love gave her a great deal too much to think about. Especially when the affair was as difficult as it was disturbing.

Lingo was a married man. Delia had tried hard not to fall in love with him, but she was not really given a fair chance. He was ten years older than she was and extremely attractive. Very expert at lovemaking and flattery was Lingo; a little too expert, perhaps. But Delia thought him marvellous, and it was rather thrilling to have this secret affair. At least it was a secret from her father, if from nobody else, in their circle of mutual friends. And they were quite certain that it was a secret from Lingo’s wife.

This morning, sitting in the Ritz with Lingo, Delia felt a little less gay and hopeful than usual. She raised her cocktail, looked at the ice-cold pallid liquid which gleamed through the misted glass, and said sadly:

“How’s it all going to end, Lingo?”

“It can only end one way,” he said, and stretched out his long legs and drew deeply on his cigarette, watching Delia through the blue smoke. “We must chuck everything and go.”

“Darling, I think I would, if I hadn’t got such a conscience. But there’s your wife and my father.”

“My wife,” said Lingo coldly, “won’t suffer much if we do quit. She isn’t in love with me any more. We’ve been married six years, and for the last two we’ve lived in the same house like strangers. Phil will be perfectly satisfied with her freedom and alimony.”

“The thought of Daddy is a great worry,” announced Delia, while she sipped her drink. “He adores me, and I think it would be an awful blow to him if you and I eloped, Lingo darling.”

“But he’d soon forgive you—he doesn’t dislike me.”

“Nobody could dislike you, darling,” said Delia, with one of her sweet, flashing smiles. “But I think Daddy might feel less friendly towards you, if he knew how it was with you and me.”

“I’ve been awfully good, my sweet.”

“Frightfully,” she agreed. “We’ve both been good.”

“But it can’t go on. I want you to belong to me—for ever.”

“Do you really love me as much as that?” she whispered.

His hand reached out for hers. Swiftly he kissed the shell-pink polished tips of the slender fingers.

“You know it, Angel.”

Her heart beat a shade faster.

“If only you were free!” she sighed.

“I must get my freedom, that’s all.”

“And then there’s Martin Revell,” added Delia.

The man beside her frowned. A slight colour ran up under his fair skin, which showed that he was irritated. The mere name of Revell was sufficient to irritate him. Damn the man—he played much too prominent a part in Delia’s existence. He was always at the Beringhams’ house; Charles Beringham made an absurd fuss of him. Martin’s father had been the Beringhams’ solicitor for years. And now that he was dead, young Revell was carrying on his father’s business and seemed to have made himself very popular with the famous financier. But that seemed to Lingo no reason for foisting himself upon Delia at the same time.

“There’s Martin!” repeated Delia. “Daddy’s always urging me to be nice to him.”

“Why should you?”

“I must say I’m not interested in him. I’m in love with you.”

“But you wouldn’t have looked at young Revell anyhow, even if you hadn’t met me, would you?”

“No, I don’t think I should. But there has never been any question of love between us.”

She spoke emphatically.

“Don’t let us think about Martin,” she said, after a pause. “Let’s think of ourselves and what we’re going to do.”

“That’s certainly more to the point,” said Lingo, and looked at her through narrowed lids.

“Look here, darling,” he said, leaning a little nearer her, “supposing we take the plunge tonight?”

She looked at him, startled.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, supposing we face your father together and tell him that we love each other and that I’m going to get a divorce and marry you.”

“Oh, Lingo—do you think we dare—?”

“Don’t you love me enough?”

“I feel so guilty about your wife.”

“You needn’t. She won’t mind divorcing me.”

Delia’s bright eyes turned away from him a moment.

“Let’s have some lunch here and talk it over,” suggested the man.

“I’d love that,” she said.

“I’ll see the head waiter and order something special for you. You love red roses—you shall have some on your table.”

He spoke eagerly. He felt that this lunch was going to be the deciding factor in their lives. He left her for a moment and she followed the tall, smart figure with her gaze, and thought how marvellous he was to her; sweet to think of the red roses.

She might have had a little shock if she could have overheard the conversation between Lingo Hewes and another man of his own breed whom he met in the bar at this precise moment.

“Can you lend me a tenner, old boy? I’ve got to take a girl out to lunch and I’m broke.”

The man in question lent Lingo the tenner and passed on, wondering whom he could sting for twenty pounds at the club, as he was himself by way of being broke.

Lingo Hewes gave Delia her lunch and made himself more than usually attractive during the meal. The result was a success. Delia said:

“I’m going to be all brave, darling, and we’ll put it to Daddy this evening. He’s sure to help me.”

“I hope to God he does,” said Lingo devoutly.

They walked out of the hotel into a brilliant blaze of sunshine. Piccadilly felt and looked swelteringly hot. Delia gasped as she drew on her gloves.

“Let’s walk—you can come with me as far as home, can’t you?”

“What are you doing this afternoon?” Lingo asked, as he fell into step beside her, going towards Charles Street, where the Beringhams had lived for the last fifteen years.

“I’ve got my friend, Betty Willis, who was in Paris with me, coming to tea.”

“Lucky Betty—” began Lingo, and then stopped. His attention had become arrested by the headlines of a poster held by a newspaper man at the corner of the street. “Hallo,” he added, “what’s this?”

Delia followed his gaze.

“What’s what?”

“See what that poster says.”

Delia read it. The headlines flamed at her:

SUDDEN CRASH OF WELL-KNOWN FINANCIER FOLLOWED BY SUICIDE

Delia’s heart gave a little jerk.

“Lord, how horrid! I wonder if it’s one of Daddy’s friends. Buy a paper, Lingo, and see.”

They stopped in front of a newspaper man and Lingo bought the Evening Special. Walking slowly along beside Delia, he unfolded the paper. Then he stopped dead.

“Good God!” he exclaimed, and the colour mounted to his forehead.

“What’s the matter, Lingo?”

She had never seen him so perturbed. She reached out her fingers for the paper. He tried to fold it up and keep it away from her, but she snatched it from him. A horrible fear had sprung to life within her.

“No—let me see—don’t stop me, Lingo.”

Then she saw the name leaping at her from the evening paper:

“CHARLES BERINGHAM. Beringham, the well-known financier, found dead in his office, with a revolver in his hand. Suicide following news of his ruin …”

The paper dropped from Delia’s hand on to the pavement.

“Oh!” she said in a moaning voice. “Oh, Daddy—Daddy!”

Lingo Hewes put an arm around the slim, young figure. He thought that she was going to faint. In a panic, he hurried her to the kerb, hailed a passing taxi, put her in it, and gave the driver her home address. Then he took his place beside her. His face was al. . .