"The Slightest Provocation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rosenthal Pam)

Chapter Nine

Kit couldn’t decide whether his week in town had crawled or flown by. Time seemed to have lost its shape; he could better account for the past nine years than these few days. Let’s see, he thought, I’ve ridden in the park, purchased a new pocket watch, dined with my sister and her family in Upper Brook Street… The rest, it seemed, was a fog of uncertainty about his career and worry about his sick brother (and what a time for poor old Wat to be struck down too, with the countryside so rife with dissension).

And then there were the distracting reveries he kept drifting into. Sometimes angry, sometimes penitent. Distressingly real and on occasion dizzyingly physical-like the sudden torrent of feeling that had nearly immobilized him the afternoon he’d allowed himself to walk down Curzon Street.

Peering up at the window of what had been his bedchamber… the bedposts, looped with scarlet silk cord… first time they’d tried that… her back arched, breasts lifted against the pull at her wrists-legs splayed, ah yes, her ankles too. What artful knots he’d tied; he’d practiced while she’d been visiting her sister. He’d computed the length of cord he’d need, with diligence and rare thrift as well.

He’d visited the draper’s himself. The shop man was barely able to contain his amusement: evidently Kit wasn’t the only gentleman who’d ever bought a length of drapery cord, though he might have been the youngest and most serious about it.

Worth it, though, worth everything-her eyes so wide, body thrashing about (good to leave a little play in the cords), mouth loosened in such a wobbly, woozy smile afterward. The best times had always been when he’d been able to surprise, to amaze her.

Yes, and dashed painful to hobble home under the assault of that particular memory. He’d never walk down that street again, rankle though it might that there should be places in England that were off-limits to him.

Not that her presence at Beechwood Knolls was keeping him from going down to see Wat. Not at all. His sister-in-law had written that he needn’t bother; silly to travel all that way and then back again when he had imminent business in town. Wat must have told her about his Home Office aspirations; Susanna had been most definite that her husband wouldn’t want Kit to change plans on his account.

You see, Mary? As though any of it would have made a difference to her, given her stiff-necked, Penley-ish view of all the Stansells except the dowager marchioness.

Only one more day of this limbo to get through. He’d be dining with the Home Office secretary tomorrow; his head felt clearer already in anticipation. This morning he’d visit Shumway in the City, see how his money was faring. Tonight he’d stay home, reread some documents, try to sound like he knew what he was talking about, for when he met Lord Sidmouth.

Only the afternoon to dispose of.

Lovely weather. The sun shone through the skylight; his boots quite glistened as he stepped downstairs.

The house’s marble-walled foyer was set with a row of mirrors. Happily, the Old Kit couldn’t be seen in any of them.

On the contrary. Retired army officer done up in excellent linen, good French waistcoat and well-brushed blue coat snug about a torso and shoulders he’d never thought he’d have when he’d been such a stick of a boy. Even his nose didn’t look so bashed up this morning; its blunted, broken shape might possibly pass for Roman (well, that’s what she’d always called it). No point wishing for more height, of course, though he’d doubtless continue to do so for as long as he stood on his legs. He mussed his hair a bit; his valet had made it too pretty.

Nothing in the newspaper about a disturbance in the Midlands.

But there wouldn’t be one yet. Not according to his eldest brother’s last letter anyway.

Kit had been surprised about a year ago when Wat had begun sending him regular and detailed communications. The two of them had never been congenial; Will had been the brother everyone got along with, his death on the march to Corunna a blow even to the Eighth Marquess, and probably hastening the old man’s death.

Perhaps Wat had felt isolated in the country, especially after his first bout of apoplexy. Very likely he regretted not having his own chance for military glory. At home in placid Derbyshire, the Ninth Marquess must have wanted to show the family’s scapegrace-turned-war-hero that he too was doing his part for England.

As-rather surprisingly-it had come to seem he was. Kit had replied to the letters, at first out of a kind of shamed sympathy (poor, dull, stay-at-home Wat), later from guilty curiosity (but should English magistrates be setting spies upon the people of their districts?), most recently with some genuine alarm (well, perhaps they should, if the situation were really so dangerous).

Lord Sidmouth would know about the extent of the danger. Kit would ask him when they dined tomorrow.

“No,” he told the butler at Park Lane, “don’t bother ordering the carriage. I’ve plenty of time to get to the City. Interesting to walk about and see how things have changed. Besides, I can see how hard you’re all working.”

The house being turned upside down-maids beating carpets, workmen regilding the moldings-in preparation for the marchioness’s imminent return from the continent.

“It’s coming splendidly. No, truly, I’m glad to walk.”

South and east on St. James Street. Sunshine bounced off the bow window at White’s Club and rendered it opaque. He wondered who sat there nowadays, in the deep armchairs. Probably the same overbearing ninnies as before, telling the same overwrought jokes and dispensing equally bad advice. Growing gray in those chairs, running to fat or shriveling to leather.

Still, he might drop by. Pay the fees that had piled up in his absence. Have a drink, play a hand or two, hear all the gossip, of clothes and horses, fortunes married or gambled away. He had time to waste this afternoon. Why else had institutions like White’s been invented, except to help you waste your time?

Stumbling on an uneven length of paving, he caught his balance and righted himself. New construction made crossing treacherous; the route he’d chosen had almost been swallowed up in a confusion of building and demolition. The air rang with the cries of workmen, quivered with the anxieties of populations relocated, houses and shops destroyed or soon to be so.

He was approaching Whitehall Palace now, with the Thames nearby. A crowd swarmed at the entrance to the government offices-returning soldiers, most likely, who hadn’t gotten their pay yet. The wind off the river reeked of fish and food, tar and timber, the strong sweat of boatmen, and odors whose provenance was better left unknown. The fellow pulling his oars so evenly would make an excellent boxer; how long, Kit wondered, since he’d seen a pair of good British pugilists demonstrate their sweet science?

The capital was larger, louder, busier, but not so awe-inspiring anymore, now that he was older and had spilled his blood for it. Better that way. Dearer. England. Home. His and (even if she would make her disapproving observations about the Lord Liverpool’s government) Mary’s home as well. He wanted to protect it.

“Everything in good order, my lord, especially since I took the liberty of investing a thousand in Mr. Bakewell’s new manufactory. Lady Christopher has done very well to direct her, ah, separate funds in that direction, and I didn’t think you’d find it amiss to profit from it as well.” Shumway’s plump face glistened pink behind silver-rimmed spectacles, his surprisingly slender fingers precise as he traced the history of Kit and Mary’s still-linked finances, trapped in clear rows and columns of pounds, shillings, and pence.

He’ll be taking care of your money, the old marquess had said, after Kit and Mary had returned from Gretna.

“My solicitors met with Penley’s,” his lordship had continued. “We’ve settled some money on you. Cleared up some other long-overdue business too. Penley conceded his risible claim about the estate boundary. In return, he took the opportunity to stipulate some clever ways to keep some funds apart for her in trust-just so you don’t suppose, Christopher, that your new father-in-law”-he’d fairly spat out the word-“is any happier about this, um, misbegotten alliance than I am-or more sanguine about its chances for success.”

The money in trust had its own column in Shumway’s ledger, next to her settlement from the separation. And yes, Kit was definitely rich enough to pay for the Act of Parliament necessary to obtain a divorce.

“Nothing amiss, Mr. Shumway, so long as I’m benefiting from it. Rather what I pay you for, I expect-perhaps you should invest another thousand if Mr. Bakewell’s prospects are really so good. And the man so capable, so… trustworthy.”

Indeed, quite so, the money man agreed. Excellent prospects, and very forward-looking too: the earlier, smaller manufactory a model of efficient yet humane employment of labor. “He conducts tours of it, you know, for investors and charitable sorts. The ladies quite enjoy it, him being such a well-spoken gentleman, quite tall and well-looking too, Mrs. Shumway says…”

Kit glanced carelessly at his fine new pocket watch, “My word… the time. I must scamper. Thanks, as always, for your excellent… ah, and well wishes to the very discerning Mrs. Shumway…”

More pleasant, the welcome he got at White’s. Toasted as a hero, stood to an excellent dinner. He settled back to lose a little at whist, win it back at piquet. Placed a few bets on the most trivial items he could find: the Earl of Derby’s favorite fighting cock, the cost of the Duke of Ennisbourgh’s divorce, and whether Mr. Smythe-Cochrane could down three bottles of port every day for a fortnight. And learned that bets had recently been laid on him.

“With your eldest brother’s illness, and then there’s only that nephew, the viscount, standing between you and the marquisate. Reckless boy, broke his arm last year hunting…”

“But of course Kit must have his own bets laid on his fortunes.” Henry Claringworth was a particularly unpleasant specimen of the genus Nobilus Britannicus. Kit could remember him flirting, languidly and patronizingly, with Mary one night. (I’d like to kick him, she’d said.)

The talk made its inevitable way to women; his memory turned to a particular earlier conversation in this high-ceilinged room. Thin, bored voices echoed over the chasms of the years.

But you can’t only be making love to your wife, Stansell.

Why? Well, because it’s indecent, that’s why.

No question that she’s very pretty and all that. But you wouldn’t always get your champagne from the same vintner, would you?

Though not champagne, I expect. In her case it would rather be ale, wouldn’t it?

A laugh all around. Claringworth had laughed the hardest.

No matter. Penley brews the best ale in Britain. Surely his daughter should be made milady for that. Must have set you up with lots of blunt, Kit. Well done.

Following it up, soon enough, with a challenge. What, never had two girls together-really?

Shamefaced at twenty-two, he’d had to admit he hadn’t. Not until that night. But often after that.

To find out what they all found so thrilling.

To turn his darker passions to the sort of women who were paid to tolerate it-for he’d begun to fear that it wasn’t right to implicate Mary in so much playacting. She seemed to like it as well as he did-but could a lady really?

Most importantly perhaps, to demonstrate to all and sundry that though it might look like a rich old brewer had bought his daughter a Stansell for a husband, Lord Kit was under no obligation to anyone, and was free to do whatever he liked.

As now he most indubitably was.

For all she (and her tall, well-spoken Mr. Bakewell) might care.

Hell, he’d lost count of his cards.

Looking up into Claringworth’s wide, guileless eyes, he affected a careless smile as his opponent played his trump and took him for two hundred pounds.

“He’ll need it,” Raikes murmured, “to support that mistress of his. And that pair of… grays for his phaeton.”

Claringworth laughed and put down his cards, and sauntered off. “Think I’ll be going, to make use of my winnings. My woman needs to be coaxed, my wife to be consoled, rather.”

Hope you kicked him bloody hard, darling. Kit followed Claringworth out of the room.

Back at Park Lane, he had a cold supper brought into the library. Time to prepare for tomorrow’s dinner conversation.

The Parliamentary Committee’s report had been published in Gentleman’s Magazine the prior February. First time he’d read it, he’d been put off by its inflated, rather fatuous language. Rather like some of the dreadful diplomatic prose spun out at Vienna. Still, he’d mastered diplomatic communication-just as (with a little help) he’d mastered Latin. Soon, he promised himself, he’d be reading reports like this one with ease.

He gave a short bark of embarrassed laughter, remembering something foolish he’d once said. It had taken a decade to learn he couldn’t play and carouse all the time. His afternoon at White’s had rather driven the lesson home.

Upon second reading, however, the important words of the Committee of Secrecy’s report rather leaped out at one.

… The widely diffused ramification of a system of clubs associated professedly for the purpose of Parliamentary Reform… to include every village in the kingdom…

… Whatever may be the real object of these clubs in general, your Committee have no hesitation in stating… particularly in those which are established in the… districts of Lancashire, Leicestershire, Nottinghamshire, and Derbyshire, and… composed of the lower sorts of artisans, nothing short of a revolution is the object expected and avowed.

Was it true? Was there evidence to back it up?

The committee couldn’t reveal the sources of their information. Which meant that it came from informants. Unpleasant, the notion of Englishmen spying on their fellows. What was worse than unpleasant was what he’d learned from military intelligence: information so gathered wasn’t necessarily reliable.

Which would put one in rather a sticky situation, if one had to use force against fellow Englishmen, based solely on such information.

But what would one do, if the informers were telling the truth? If, having been taught to look to… London as a signal for their operations… the revolutionists had agreed that a day, at no very great distance, is appointed for a general rising…

Again, no corroborating evidence.

Except if you counted the fact that Wat had been hearing the same thing. From his informant. In the years Kit had been away, had half of England taken to informing on the other half?

For a moment, he forgot to be nervous about his dinner with Lord Sidmouth. For a moment, he was simply curious about what was really occurring.

Which was probably why the dinner went as smoothly as it did. One always makes a better impression when one is sincerely interested in the conversation. And Lord Sidmouth knew how to make it interesting, even compelling.

He put his case modestly, dispassionately.

“Regrettable, Lord Christopher, about having to get our information as we do. But what’s our alternative? Are we to accept no intelligence but from persons of the purest virtue? Or, given what’s at stake, do we employ the means that offer themselves?

“For surely we Britons have something worth holding on to, wouldn’t you say, from your time spent in less happy nations?”

Kit could hardly deny it.

“There’s been a certain diffusion of knowledge, these past years-by our press, in particular-spreading unchecked among the uneducated. Apt to instill an unwonted self-confidence among angry and distressed elements of the population who lack the advantages of tradition, culture, leisure-the broad view of things.”

Easier to accept if you didn’t picture Henry Claringworth as someone taking the broad view. Still, Kit knew what it had felt like to be angry and distressed. And no, it didn’t encourage wise decision-making.

“When the radicals turn the people on the soldiery, there will be violence. In an intellectual sense, there is already violence. Fortunately, we are in a position to influence the course of these events.”

Violence inevitable; only its outcome at issue.

The young assistant drinking sherry with them had nodded gravely before taking his leave.

Lord Sidmouth smiled after him. “A pity he couldn’t stay for dinner. He’d have given you a sense of the nature of our work-from the bottom up, you know. Merely the volume of correspondence is overwhelming: details, details. Still, there’ll be time…”

All very encouraging, Kit thought, as the Home Secretary led him in to dinner. For in his letter, the general had particularly praised Major Stansell’s skill with details.

They worked through that same letter of introduction over a delicate pea and lobster soup, discussed the peace negotiated at Vienna during the dory and salmon on a bed of pickled cucumber, touched upon a famous battle or two during a lime sherbet, and reviewed Kit’s school and family connections over a fine haunch of venison served with jelly.

Kit kept his face still, as though over a hand of whist. A footman was serving around a splendid pineapple with port and Sauternes.

A pity, though, the Secretary said now, about the Ninth Marquess’s very recent illness. For they absolutely needed their magistrates to be pulling together at this time, with the danger so pressing.

In fact, Lord Sidmouth recommended that Lord Christopher go down to Derbyshire, at least for a month or so.

“Your brother was wise to apprise you of his activities; puts you in a good way to take the reins. Anyone can collect his rents, but what’s important is order in the countryside, when the London radicals urge a rising in your district and others nearby.”

So Wat’s story was more than a stay-at-home brother’s self-regarding fancy. It would be very agreeable to help, of course. Go back home as… the New Kit. With his military intelligence experience to guide him.

“I’ve enjoyed our conversation, Stansell,” Lord Sidmouth told him. “And you’re much the sort of person we need.”

Kit let out a very long breath, which it now seemed he’d been holding for a week at least.

“But not now, when your brother needs you so much more. Go down to the country; keep watch over the situation. We’re depending on you lads to call out the troops… Coordination, clarity… in light of the present danger… and then come back and talk to us and we’ll find a place for you at Whitehall.”

He’d go tomorrow if they could get the traveling coach ready. He’d interview Wat’s informant and report back to London, talk to the men of the militia, make sure they had the arms they required. A pity if there had to be bloodshed on English soil. Still, the secretary had been sure of the plot and of the necessity of protecting the people in the countryside against the poison spreading among them (even those of them, like a certain lady, who were too deluded to understand the danger).

He’d keep busy (which in itself would be a relief), fighting anger and rebelliousness as best he could. As he’d done since Spain. Quelling his own anger and rebelliousness had saved him; he was happy to put the experience in the service of his nation.

And as for the deluded lady in question-well, they’d simply have to keep out of each other’s way, or she out of his way, to be more precise. For her own good, after all.

And afterward, when she saw what important work he’d done. Afterward, perhaps…

He celebrated his plans that night at a pugilistic exhibition and won a thousand into the bargain. Great sport, boxing. He waved to the young Home Office assistant from across the large room.

Or perhaps it wasn’t the assistant, for he didn’t wave back, and seemed deep in conversation with a tall, bewhiskered fellow in a flash brown coat. Not the sort of companion Kit would have imagined for a member of the Home Office, but then, sport made Britons equals as few things did.

No matter either way. England was beginning to feel like home again. He shouldered his way up to the table to collect his winnings.