She followed her father, finding him at the little satinwood table. The coffee cups had been pushed aside, and he was pouring wine; he handed her a glass and nodded for her to sit.
“Don’t you think of it, my girl.” Her father was watching her over his own glass, not unkindly. “After you’re married, you do what you like. But you need to keep your virginity until we’ve got you settled. The English are notorious bores about virginity, and I have my heart set on an Englishman for you.”
She made a dismissive noise with her lips and took a delicate sip of the wine.
“What makes you think I haven’t already…?”
He lifted one eyebrow and tapped the side of his nose.
“Ma chère, I could smell a man on you a mile away. And even when I’m not here…I’m here.” He lifted the other eyebrow and stared at her. She sniffed, drained her glass, and poured another.
Was he? She sat back and examined him, her own face carefully bland. True, he had informants everywhere; after listening to him do business all day behind the latticework, she dreamed of spiders all night, busy in their webs. Spinning, climbing, hunting along the sleek silk paths that ran hidden through the sticky stuff. And sometimes just hanging there, round as marbles in the air, motionless. Watching with their thousands of eyes.
But the spiders had their own concerns, and for the most part she wasn’t one of them. She smiled suddenly at her father, dimpling, and was pleased to see a flicker of unease in his eyes. She lowered her lashes and buried the smile in her wine.
He coughed.
“So,” he said, sitting up straight. “How would you like to visit London, my darling?”
London…
She tilted her head from side to side, considering.
“The food’s terrible, but the beer’s not bad. Still, it rains all the time.”
“You could have a new dress.”
That was interesting—not purely a book-buying excursion, then—but she feigned indifference.
“Only one?”
“That depends somewhat on your success. You might need…something special.”
That made something twitch behind her ears.
“Why do you bother with this nonsense?” she demanded, putting her glass down with a thump. “You know you can’t cozen me into things anymore. Just tell me what you have in mind, and we’ll discuss it. Like rational beings.”
That made him laugh but not unkindly.
“You do know that women aren’t rational, don’t you?”
“I do. Neither are men.”
“Well, you have a point,” he admitted, patting a dribble of wine off his chin with a napkin. “But they do have patterns. And women’s patterns are…” He paused, squinting over the gold rims of his spectacles, in search of the word.
“More complex?” she suggested, but he shook his head.
“No, no—superficially they seem chaotic, but in fact women’s patterns are brutally simple.”
“If you mean the influence of the moon, I might point out that every lunatic I’ve met has been a man.”
His eyebrows rose. They were beginning to thicken and gray, to grow unruly; she saw of a sudden that he was becoming elderly, and her heart gave a small lurch at the thought.
He didn’t ask how many lunatics she’d met—in the book business, such people were a weekly occurrence—but shook his head.
“No, no, such things are mere physical calendar-keeping. I mean the patterns that cause women to do what they do. And those all come down to survival.”
“The day I marry a man merely to survive…” She didn’t bother finishing the sentence but flicked her fingers scornfully and rose to take the steaming kettle off its spirit lamp and refresh the teapot. Two glasses of wine were her strict limit—particularly when dealing with her father—and today of all days she wanted her wits about her.
“Well, you do have rather higher standards than most women.” Her father took the cup of tea she brought him, smiling at her over it. “And—I flatter myself—more resources with which to support them. But the fact remains that you are a woman. Which means that you can conceive. And that, my dear, is where a woman’s pattern becomes brutal indeed.”
“Really,” she said, but not in a tone to invite him to expand upon his point. It was London she wanted to hear about. She’d need to be careful, though.
“What are we looking for, then?” she asked, pouring tea into her own cup so she could keep her eyes fixed on the amber stream. “In London, I mean.”
“Not we,” her father corrected. “Not this time. I have a bit of business to do in Sweden—speaking of Jacobites. You—”
“There are Swedish Jacobites?”
Her father sighed and rubbed his temples with the forefingers of each hand.
“My dear, you have no idea. They spring up like weeds—and like the grass of the field, in the evening they are cut down and wither. Just when you think they’re finally dead, though, something happens, and suddenly—but that’s of no matter to you. You’re to deliver a package to a particular gentleman and to receive information from a list of contacts that I’ll give you. You needn’t question them, just take whatever they hand over. And naturally—”
“Tell them nothing,” she finished. She dropped a sugar lump into her own tea. “Of course not, Father; what sort of nincompoop do you think I am?”
That made him laugh, deep lines of amusement creasing his eyes almost shut.
“Where did you get that word?”
“Everyone says nincompoop,” she informed him. “You hear it in the street in London a dozen times a day.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” he said. “Know where it comes from, do you?”
“Samuel Johnson told me it was from non compos mentis.”
“Oh, that’s where you got it.” He’d stopped laughing but still looked amused. “Well, Mr. Johnson would know. You’re still corresponding with him? He’s an Englishman, I grant you, but not at all what I have in mind for you, my girl. Bats in the belfry and not a penny to his name. Married, too,” he added as an afterthought. “Lives on his wife’s money.”
That surprised her, and not in a pleasant way. But he was entirely straightforward; his tone was the same as he used when instructing her closely in some important aspect of the work. They didn’t fence or mess each other about when it came to the work, and she sat back a little, indicating by the inclination of her head that she was ready to listen.
“Mind you,” her father said, raising one ink-stained finger, “many folk would tell you that women have nothing on their minds but clothes, or parties, or what Lady Whatnot said about Sir Fart-Catcher at yesterday’s salon. And that’s a reasonable observation, but it’s only an observation. When you see something like that, you ask what’s behind it. Or, perhaps, under it,” he admitted judiciously. “Push the wine over, sweetheart. I’m done with business for the day.”
“I daresay you are,” she said tartly, and plunked the decanter of Madeira in front of him. He’d been out all morning, nominally visiting booksellers and collectors of rarities but in reality talking—talking and listening. And he never drank alcohol when working.
He refilled his glass and made to top hers up, as well, but she shook her head and reached for the teapot. She’d been right about needing her wits.
“Chalk up another woman’s pattern there,” she said, sardonic. “They can’t hold drink in the quantities that men do—but they’re much less likely to become drunk.”
“Clearly you’ve never been down Gropecunt Lane in London after dark, my dear,” her father said imperturbably. “Not that I recommend it, mind. Women drink for the same reasons men do: in order to ignore circumstance or to obliterate themselves. Given the right circumstance, either sex will drown itself. Women care much more about staying alive than men do, though. But enough talk—cut me a fresh pen, my dear, and let me tell you who you’ll see in London.”
He reached into one of the pigeonholes along the wall and came out with a s
habby notebook.
“Ever heard of the Duke of Pardloe?”
Précis: Harold Grey, Duke of Pardloe
Family background: Gerard Grey, Earl of Melton, was given the Title Duke of Pardloe (with considerable Estates) in Reward for his raising of a Regiment (46th Foot, which served with distinction during the Jacobite Rebellions of 1715 and 1719, seeing Combat at Preston and Sheriffmuir). However, the Duke’s Allegiance to the Crown appeared to waver during the Reign of George II, and Gerard Grey was implicated in the Cornbury Plot. While he escaped Arrest at that time, a later Plot caused a Warrant for his Arrest on a Charge of Treason to be issued. Hearing of this, Pardloe shot himself in the Conservatory of his Country Estate before the Arrest could be made.
Pardloe’s eldest son, Harold Grey, succeeded to the Title at the Age of twenty-one, upon his Father’s Death. While the Title was not formally attainted, the younger Grey considered the Title stained with Treason and refused to adopt it, preferring to be known by the older Family Title, Earl of Melton. Married to Esmé Dufresne (a younger Daughter of the Marquis de Robillard) shortly before his Father’s Suicide.
The present Duke has publicly and violently rejected all Jacobite Associations (from necessity), but this does not mean such Associations have rejected him, nor that such Rejection reflects his true Inclination. There is considerable Interest in some Quarters as to the Duke’s political Leanings and Affiliations, and any Letters, known Meetings with Persons of interest (List attached), or Private Conversations that might give Indications of Jacobite Leanings would be valuable.
Précis: Sir Robert Abdy, Baronet
Succeeded to the Title at the Age of Three, and while living a personally (and regrettably) virtuous Life, became heavily involved in Jacobite Politics and, Last Year, was so injudicious as to sign his Name to a Petition sent to Louis of France, urging French Invasion of Britain in support of a Stuart Restoration. Needless to say, this is not generally known in Britain, and it would not be a good Idea to mention it directly to Sir Robert. Neither should you approach him, though he is active in Society and you may encounter him. If so, we are particularly interested in his present Associations—names only, for the Present. Don’t get too close.
Précis: Henry Scudamore, Duke of Beaufort
The fourth-richest Man in England, and likewise a Signatory to the French Petition. Very much seen in Society and makes little Secret of his political Inclinations.
His private Life is much less virtuous than Sir Robert’s, I’m afraid. Having adopted his Wife’s Surname by Act of Parliament, he sued last Year to divorce her on Grounds of Adultery (true: she was having an adulterous Relationship with William Talbot, Heir to Earl Talbot, and she wasn’t discreet about it). The Lady—her Name is Frances—promptly countersued on Grounds that the Duke was impotent. The Duke, who is no shrinking Violet, demonstrated before several Court-appointed Examiners that he was capable of having an Erection, won his Divorce, and is now presumably enjoying his Freedom.
Don’t get too close. Associates, Names only for the Present.
Précis: Mr. Robert Willimot
Lord Mayor of London until 1741. Presently associated with…
2
COLD HONEY AND SARDINES
London, May 1744
Argus House, Residence of the Duke of Pardloe
THE ROOM SMELLED OF dead flowers. It was raining heavily, but Hal seized the window sash and shoved, regardless. The action was regardless; the wood had swelled with the damp and the window remained shut. He tried twice more, then stood breathing heavily.
The chiming of the little carriage clock on the mantelpiece brought him to an awareness that he’d been standing in front of the closed window with his mouth half open, watching rain run down the glass, for a quarter of an hour, unable to make up his mind whether to call a footman to open the damn thing or just put his fist through it.
He turned away and, chilled, made his way by instinct toward the fire. He’d felt as though he were moving through cold honey ever since he’d forced himself out of bed, and now he collapsed joint by joint into his father’s chair.
His father’s chair. Blast. He closed his eyes, trying to summon the will to stand up and move. The leather was cold and stiff under his fingers, under his legs, hard against his back. He could feel the fire, a few feet away in its hearth, but the heat didn’t reach him.
“I’ve brought your coffee, my lord.” Nasonby’s voice cut through the cold honey, as did the smell of the coffee. Hal opened his eyes. The footman had already put the tray down on the little marquetry table and was setting out the spoons, unlidding the sugar bowl, placing the tongs just so, tenderly removing the napkin folded about the jug of warm milk—the cream was in its twin jug at the other side, keeping cold. He found the symmetry and Nasonby’s quiet, deft movements soothing.
“Thank you,” he managed to say, and made a small gesture indicating that Nasonby should see to the details. This Nasonby did, and the cup was placed in his limp, waiting hands. He took a mouthful—it was perfect, very hot but not so much as to burn his mouth, sweet and milky—and nodded. Nasonby vanished.
For a little while, he could just drink coffee. He didn’t have to think. Halfway through the cup, he briefly considered getting up and sitting in another chair, but by then the leather had warmed and molded to his body. He could almost imagine his father’s touch on his shoulder, the brief squeeze the duke had always used to express affection for his sons. Damn you. His throat closed suddenly, and he set the cup down.
How was John managing? he wondered. He’d be safe enough in Aberdeen, surely. Still, he ought to write to his brother. Cousin Kenneth and Cousin Eloise were incredible bores, so rigidly Presbyterian that they didn’t even countenance card-playing and disapproved of any activity on the Sabbath other than reading the Bible.
On the one occasion he and Esmé had stayed with them, Eloise had politely asked Esmé to read to them after the stodgy Sunday dinner of roast mutton and bashed neeps. Ignoring the text for the day, bookmarked with a handmade lace strip, Em had blithely thumbed through the book and settled on the story of Jephthah, who had sworn that if the Lord would grant him victory in battle against the sons of Ammon, then Jephthah would sacrifice to the Lord the first thing to greet him when he returned home.
“Really,” said Esmé, swallowing the “R” in a particularly fetching French way. She looked up, frowning. “What if it should have been his dog? What do you say, Mercy,” she said, addressing Hal’s twelve-year-old cousin, Mercy. “If your papa should come home one day and announce that he was going to kill Jasper there”—the spaniel looked up from his rug, hearing his name—“just because he’d told God he would, what would you do?”
Mercy’s eyes went round with horror and her lip quivered as she looked at the dog.
“But—but—he wouldn’t,” she said. But then she glanced at her father, doubt in her eyes. “You wouldn’t, would you, Papa?”
“But if you had promised God?” Esmé put in helpfully, looking up at Kenneth with her large blue eyes. Hal was enjoying the look on Kenneth’s face, but Eloise was going a bit red round the jowls, so he coughed—and with a distinct, exhilarating sense that he was driving a carriage over a cliff said, “But Jephthah didn’t meet his dog, did he? What did happen? Do remind me—been some time since I’ve read the Old Testament.” In fact, he’d never read it, but Esmé loved to read it and tell him the stories—with her own inimitable commentary.
Esmé had carefully not looked at him but turned the page with delicate fingers and cleared her throat.
“And Jephthah came to Mizpeh unto his house, and, behold, his daughter came out to meet him with timbrels and with dances: and she was his only child; beside her he had neither son nor daughter.
“And it came to pass, when he saw her, that he rent his clothes, and said, Alas, my daughter! thou hast brought me very low, and thou art one of them that trouble me: for I have opened my mouth unto the Lord, and I cannot go back.
“And she said unto him, My father, if thou hast opened thy mouth unto the Lord, do to me according to that which hath proceeded out of thy mouth; forasmuch as the Lord hath taken vengeance for thee of thine enemies, even of the children of Ammon.
“And she said unto her father, Let this thing be done for me: let me alone two months, that I may go up and down upon the mountains, and bewail my virginity, I and my fellows.
“And he said, Go. And he sent her away for two months: and she went with her companions, and bewailed her virginity upon the mountains.
“And it came to pass at the end of two months, that she returned unto her father, who did with her according to his vow which he had vowed: and she knew no man. And it was a custom in Israel that the daughters of Israel went yearly to lament the daughter of Jephthah the Gileadite four days in a year.”
Then she’d laughed, closing the book.
“I don’t think I would have bewailed my virginity for long, me. I would have come home without it”—then she’d met his eyes, with a spark that had ignited his vitals—“and see whether my dear papa still considered me a suitable sacrifice.”
His eyes were closed; he was breathing hard and dimly aware that tears were leaking out between his lids.
“You bitch,” he whispered. “Em, you bitch!”
He breathed until the memory passed and the echo of her voice faded from his ear. When he opened his eyes, he found that his chin was resting in his hands, elbows on his knees, and that he was staring at the hearth rug. An expensive bit of carpet for such a use. Soft white wool, tufted, with the Grey family coat of arms in the center and an extravagantly worked “H” and “E” in black silk on either side. She’d had it made for him—a wedding present.
He’d given her a diamond pendant. And buried it with her and her child, a month ago.
He closed his eyes again. And breathed.