Lord John and the Private Matter
Page 19

“Very amusing, Mother,” he said tolerantly, scratching Eustace behind the ears. “Do you mean to read the Cleland thing, or do you intend merely to leave it artfully displayed in the salon, in order to drive off Lady Roswell in a state of shock?”
“Oh, what a good idea!” she said, giving him a look of approval. “I hadn’t thought of that. Unfortunately, it hasn’t got the title on the cover, and she’s much too stupidly incurious simply to pick up a book and open it.”
She reached over and rummaged through the stacked books on her secretary, pulling out a handsome calf-bound quarto volume, which she handed to him.
“It’s a special presentation edition,” she explained. “Blank spine, plain cover. So one can read it in dull company, I suppose, without arousing suspicion—as long as one doesn’t let the illustrations show, at least. Why don’t you take it, though? I read it when it first came out, and you’ll be needing some sort of present for Joseph’s bachelor party. That seems rather appropriate, if half what I hear of such parties is true.”
He had been about to rise, but stopped, holding the book.
“Mother,” he said carefully. “About Mr. Trevelyan. Do you think Livy is terribly in love with him?”
She looked at him with raised brows; then, very slowly, closed her book, took her feet off Eustace, and sat up straight.
“Why?” she asked, in a tone that managed to communicate all of the wariness and cynical suspicion regarding the male sex that was the natural endowment of a woman who had raised four sons and buried two husbands.
“I … have some reason to think that Mr. Trevelyan has … an irregular attachment,” he said carefully. “The matter is not yet quite certain.”
The Countess inhaled deeply, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and regarded him with a pale, clear blue gaze of pragmatism, tinged only slightly with regret.
“He is a dozen years her senior; it would be not merely unusual, but most remarkable, if he had not had several mistresses. Men of your age do have affaires, after all.” Her lashes lowered briefly in delicate reference to the hushed-up scandal that had sent him to Ardsmuir.
“I could hope that his marriage would cause him to abandon any such irregular liaisons, but if it does not …” She shrugged, her shoulders sloping in sudden tiredness. “I trust he will be discreet.”
For the first time, it occurred to Grey to wonder whether either his father or her first husband, Captain DeVane … but this was not the time for such speculations.
“I think Mr. Trevelyan is highly discreet,” he said, clearing his throat a little. “I only wondered if … if Livy would be heartbroken, should … anything happen.” He liked his cousin, but knew very little about her; she had come to live with his mother after he himself had left to take up his first commission.
“She’s sixteen,” his mother said dryly. “Signor Dante and his Beatrice notwithstanding, most girls of sixteen are not capable of grand passion. They merely think they are.”
“So—”
“So,” she said, cutting him neatly off, “Olivia actually knows nothing whatever of her intended husband, beyond the fact that he is rich, well-dressed, not bad-looking, and highly attentive to herself. She knows nothing of his character, nor of the real nature of marriage, and if she is truly in love with anything at the moment, it is with her wedding dress.”
Grey felt somewhat reassured at this. At the same time, he was well aware that the cancellation of his cousin’s nuptials might easily cause a scandal that would dwarf the controversy over the dismissal of Pitt as Prime Minister two months before—and the brush of scandal was not discriminating; Olivia could be tarred with it, blameless or not, to the real ruin of her chances for a decent marriage.
“I see,” he said. “If I were to discover anything further, then—”
“You should keep quiet about it,” his mother said firmly. “Once they are married, if she should discover anything amiss regarding her new husband, she will ignore it.”
“Some things are rather difficult to ignore, Mother,” he said, with more of an edge than he intended. She glanced at him sharply, and the air seemed for an instant to solidify around him, as though there were suddenly nothing to breathe. Her eyes met his straight on and held them for a moment of silence. Then she looked away, setting aside her volume of Burke.
“If she finds she cannot ignore it,” she said steadily, “she will be convinced that her life is ruined. Eventually, with luck, she will have a child, and discover that it is not. Shoo, Eustace.” Pushing the somnolent spaniel aside with her foot, she rose, glancing at the small chiming clock on the table as she did so.
“Go and look for your German wine, John. The wretched sempstress is coming round at three, for what I sincerely hope is the antepenultimate fitting for Livy’s dress.”
“Yes. Well … yes.” He stood awkwardly for a moment, then turned to take his leave, but halted suddenly at the door of the boudoir, turning as a question struck him.
“Mother?”
“Mm?” The Countess was picking up things at random, peering nearsightedly beneath a heap of embroidery. “Do you see my spectacles, John? I know I had them!”
“They’re on your cap,” he said, smiling despite himself. “Mother—how old were you when you married Captain DeVane?”
She clapped one hand to her head, as though to trap the errant spectacles before they could take flight. Her face was unguarded, taken by surprise by his question. He could see the waves of memory pass across it, tinged with pleasure and ruefulness. Her lips pursed a little, and then widened in a smile.
“Fifteen,” she said. The faint dimple that showed only when she was most deeply amused glimmered in her cheek. “I had a wonderful dress!”
Chapter 12
Along Came a Spider
There was unfortunately not time to visit Fraser et Cie before his appointment with Quarry, whom he found waiting in front of the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, as advertised.
“Are we attending a wedding or a funeral?” he asked, stepping down from the coach that had brought him.
“Must be a wedding—I see you’ve brought a present. Or is that for me?” Quarry nodded at the book beneath his arm.
“You may have it, if you like.” Grey surrendered the presentation copy of Fanny Hill with some relief; he had been obliged to leave the house with it, as Olivia had come upon him as he passed through the hall and then had accompanied him to the door, flourishing further samples of lace beneath his nose while asking his opinion.
Quarry opened the book, blinked, then looked up at Grey, leering.
“Why, Johnny. Didn’t know you cared!”
“What?” Seeing Quarry’s grin, he snatched the book back, discovering only then that there was an inscription on the title page. Evidently the Countess had been in ignorance of it, too—or at least he hoped so.
It was a fairly explicit verse from Catullus, inscribed to the Countess, and signed with the initial “J.”
“Too bad my name’s not Benedicta,” Quarry remarked. “Looks quite an interesting volume!”
Gritting his teeth and hastily reviewing a mental list of his mother’s acquaintance for persons beginning with “J,” Grey carefully tore the title page from the book, stuffed it in his pocket, and handed the volume firmly back to Quarry.
“Who are we going to see?” he inquired. He had, as instructed, come in his oldest uniform, and picked critically at an unraveling thread at his cuff. Tom Byrd was an excellent barber, but his skill at valeting left something to be desired.
“Someone,” Quarry said vaguely, looking at one of the illustrations. “Don’t know his name. Richard put me onto him; said he knew all about the Calais business; might be helpful.” Richard was Lord Joffrey, Quarry’s elder half-brother, and a force in politics. While not directly involved with army or navy, he knew everyone of consequence who was, and generally was informed of any brewing scandals weeks before they erupted in public.
“Something in government, then, this person?” Grey asked, because they were turning into Whitehall Street, which contained little else.
Quarry closed the book and gave him a wary look.
“Don’t know, exactly.”
Grey gave up asking questions, but hoped that the business wouldn’t take too long. He had had a frustrating day; the morning spent in futile inquiries, the afternoon in being fitted for a suit that he was increasingly sure would never be worn at the wedding for which it was intended. He was, all in all, in the mood for a hearty tea and a stiff drink—not interviews with nameless persons holding nonexistent positions.
He was a soldier, though, and knew duty when it called.
Whitehall Street was architecturally undistinguished, bar the remnants of the Palace and the great Banqueting Hall, left over from a previous century. Their destination was neither of these, nor yet any of the faintly moldy buildings in the neighborhood that housed the minor functions of government. To Grey’s surprise, Quarry turned in instead at the door of the Golden Cross, a dilapidated tavern that stood across from St. Martin-in-the-Fields.
Quarry led the way to the snug, calling to the barman for a pair of pint-pots, and took a bench, behaving for all the world as though this were his local place of refreshment—and there were in fact a number of military persons among the clientele, though most of these were minor naval officers. Quarry kept up the pretense so far as to hold a loudly jocose conversation with Grey regarding horse-racing, though his gaze roamed ceaselessly round the room, taking note of everyone who entered or left.
After a few minutes of this pantomime, Quarry said very quietly, “Wait two minutes, then follow me.” He gulped the rest of his drink, shoved the empty glass carelessly away, and went out, going down the back passage as though in search of the privy.
Grey, rather bemused, drank the rest of his ale in a leisurely manner, then rose himself.
The sun was setting, but there was enough light to see that the cramped yard behind the Golden Cross was empty, bar the usual detritus of rubbish, wet ash, and broken barrels. The door to the privy hung ajar, showing that to be empty too—bar a cloud of flies, encouraged by the mild weather. Grey was waving off several of these inquisitive insects, when he saw a small movement in the shadows at the end of the yard.
Advancing cautiously, he discovered a personable young man, neatly but unobtrusively dressed, who smiled at him, but turned without greeting. He followed this escort, and found himself climbing a rickety stair that ran between the wall of the tavern and the neighboring building, ending at a door that presumably guarded the tavern owner’s private quarters. The young man opened this and, going through, beckoned him to follow.
He was not sure what this preliminary mystification had led him to expect, but the reality was sadly lacking in excitement. The room was dark, low-raftered, and squalid, furnished with the well-used objects of a shabby life—a battered sideboard, a deal table with bench and stools, a chipped chamber pot, a smoky lamp, and a tray holding smudged glasses and a decanter full of murky wine. By way of incongruous decoration, a small silver vase sat on the table, holding a bunch of brilliant yellow tulips.
Harry Quarry sat just by the flowers, close in conversation with a small, fusty-looking man whose pudgy back was turned to Grey. Quarry glanced up and flicked an eyebrow, acknowledging Grey, but made a small motion with one hand, indicating that Grey was to stay back for a moment.
The discreet young man who had brought him in had disappeared through a door into the next room; another young man was busy at the far end of the room, sorting an array of papers and portfolios at the sideboard.
Something about this gentleman piqued his memory, and he took a step in that direction. The young man suddenly turned around, hands full of papers, looked up, and stood stock-still, gaping like a goldfish. A neat wig covered the golden curls, but Grey had no difficulty in recognizing the white face beneath it.
“Mr. Stapleton?” The pudgy little man at the table did not turn round, but lifted a hand. “Have you found it?”
“Yes, Mr. Bowles,” the young man said, hot blue eyes still fixed on Grey’s face. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Just coming.”
Grey, having no idea whom this Mr. Bowles might be, nor what was going on, gave Stapleton a small, enigmatic smile. The young man tore his eyes away, and went to give the pudgy man the papers in his hand, but could not resist a quick, disbelieving glance over his shoulder.
“Thank you, Mr. Stapleton,” the little man said, a clear tone of dismissal in his voice. Mr. Stapleton, alias Neil the Cunt, gave a short, jerky bow and moved away, eyes flickering to and from Grey with the air of one who has just seen an apparition but hopes it will have the good manners to disappear before the next glance.
Quarry and the shabby Mr. Bowles still murmured, heads together. Grey sauntered unobtrusively to an open window, where he stood, hands folded behind him, ostensibly seeking air as an antidote to the fug inside the room.
The sun was nearly down, the last of it gleaming off the rump of the bronze horse bearing the statue of Charles I that stood in the street below. He had always felt a sneaking fondness for that statue, having been informed by some forgotten tutor that the monarch, who had been two inches short of Grey’s own current height, had had himself rendered on horseback in order to look more imposing—in the process, having his height unobtrusively amended to an even six feet.
A slight clearing of the throat behind him informed him that Neil the Cunt had joined him, as intended.
“Will you take some wine, sir?”