"Go to it." Tom rose and walked to the Adam fireplace. "Write up your satire," he shot over his shoulder, "print it, circulate it, and I'll call on you from time to time at Newgate." He kicked at the coals, not a wise action in patent pumps.
They had dined à deux and were now recovering from the chef's excesses over a decanter of brandy. Richard had been in Town several days, but Tom had only just bumped into him that morning in the street.
"Where are you staying this time--not Chelsea?"
"No. It's too far from Albermarle Street."
"Albermarle Street? Oh--Murray. You're still working on the history, I take it."
Richard set his brandy down on the occasional table. "I do not make a habit of breaking contracts," he said through his teeth. "And I agreed to deliver three volumes to Murray."
Tom stopped in mid-stride, surprised by the heat in his friend's voice. "I just asked."
Richard leaned back. "Sorry. Everyone seems to think I should forget about my writing."
"That be damned, but I thought you wanted to give up the history. 'Tripe,'" he quoted. "'Hackwork.'"
Richard flushed. "That was mostly croaking. It's dreadful stuff, to be sure--two shillings the yard--but Murray wants the book and I agreed to supply it. I don't like unfinished business."
"I see." Tom resumed his seat and eyed his friend thoughtfully. "I wish you will finish it soon."
"So do I," Richard shot back. "It's plodding work, every syllable."
"Well, plod faster. Now that you're as rich as Golden Ball."
"I am not as rich as Golden Ball and never will be," Richard rejoined, "and if I wind up in chancery I'll be as bankrupt as old Sheridan."
Tom turned that unpleasant possibility over in his mind.
"Besides, after I finish the history, I must settle a few small domestic concerns," Richard went on.
Tom frowned. "Such as?"
"Such as where to set up my household." He explained Emily's remove to Mayne Hall. "It's a temporary expedient. Sir Henry and Emily go on more comfortably at a distance."
"He must be a terror."
"I like Sir Henry," Richard said unexpectedly. "Beneath the rugged exterior beats a heart of pure marzipan. He doats on his grandchildren, and would happily take the burden of domestic decision from Emily's shoulders. Unfortunately, Emily thrives on decision making, domestic and otherwise. Therein lies the rub."
"Emily looks like marzipan," Tom offered. He was fond of Richard's second wife.
"An illusion. Emily could have run the regiment with a hand tied behind her back," said her doating spouse. "She managed young Matt's estate for years..."
Tom reached into his memory. "And increased the revenues."
"She has a head for figures and a way with Matt's tenants. Do you think I ought to purchase an estate?"
"For Emily?"
"God knows, not for me. I add on my fingers and I can't tell oats, peas, and beans from barley."
Tom poured more brandy. "Don't you object to rural living?"
"Not if Emily's there," Richard said simply. "The thing is, my mother's properties are urban, or suburban. I rode out today to St. John's Wood to see a villa she owned. The house is large enough, the air's clean, and the prospect is pleasant, but there's no land attached. It won't do."
"So you mean to sell off some of the houses and buy land?"
"When... If...the will is proved."
Tom brooded over his brandy.
After a pause, Richard said, "I have been trying to reach a settlement with Newsham and the other heirs, to avert a suit in chancery."
Tom sat up. "I hope you're not going to give the legacy up to that lot. They don't deserve it of you, Richard."
"Deserve'?" Richard's mouth twisted on the word as if he had tasted lemon. "It's not a question of deserving. If it comes to that, I don't deserve that much wealth either. No one does." He added, defensively, "You needn't look at me like that. I've turned the matter over to the lawyers. They'll drive a stiff bargain--it's in their interest to do so. I'm not a complete fool, Tom."
"No more than half." Tom was sure the wealth Richard had inherited was still a vague hypothetical figure in his friend's mind. Giving away imaginary sums was probably no more painful to Richard than discarding a botched chapter in a novel. The question was why he was ready to accommodate his half brothers and sisters. The Ffouke family, Newsham and Lord George in particular, had treated Richard abominably. The thought of Newsham profiting from Richard's scruples made Tom's blood boil.
"If you're bent on throwing the duchess's estate to the winds, give it to Eddystone lifeboat," he burst out. "Or to our Canadian scheme. Your loving brothers and sisters won't starve."
Richard smiled. "Lord John is under the hatches, or so I've heard. Let be, Tom. Do you expect Lady Clanross and her sisters soon?"
"Next week," Tom growled. He would have pursued the matter of his friend's quixotic generosity, but Richard had given him a clear signal to sheer off and Tom was too old a Falk hand to press farther. He's more accommodating to old enemies than old friends, Tom reflected, but without resentment. The dowager's will was, after all, Richard's business. "Elizabeth and Johnny will escort the twins to Town next Wednesday. Heyday for the mantua makers."
"Does Lady Clanross mean to present the girls in May?"
Tom described Elizabeth's plans briefly, but he knew Richard's interest in the fashionable world was at best tepid, so he turned--or returned--the conversation to his earlier question.
It transpired that Richard was staying at an inn in Holborn convenient to the City and his publisher.
"You ought to come here," Tom said.
Richard laughed. "You've a large contingent arriving from Brecon. I appreciate the offer, however."
"But an inn cannot be an ideal place for writing."
"There is no ideal place for writing."
"Grosvenor Square is quieter than High Holborn," Tom shot back. "I'm not short of room." He cleared his throat. "And I'd like you to know Elizabeth."
Richard was frowning at him. "I've met Lady Clanross."
"For ten minutes before the christening." That rankled. Richard had stopped at Brecon precisely one night to discharge his godfatherly duties, and Elizabeth had been too weak still for social intercourse. "Come, or Elizabeth will be thinking you've taken her in dislike."
After an uncomfortable pause Richard agreed. Tom wondered if the invitation had been wise, but he had come upon a brilliant idea as Richard spoke of buying an estate, and the brilliance of the idea was beside the point if Elizabeth and Richard disliked each other. No time like the present to test the waters.
* * * *
As it happened, Elizabeth's mind was on her sons. She had never been separated from them, and she had felt a jolt of something surprisingly like grief as she parted from them. They were well attended, of course, and enjoyed vigourous good health. They had even taken their inoculation with the cowpox in stride. It was foolish in the extreme to feel the separation so acutely.
Perhaps if Elizabeth had liked town life, thrived on it as her stepmother had, as her sister Anne did, the prospect of some weeks in society would have turned her mind sooner from the loss of her sons' company. As it was, she missed her boys and her new telescope, in that order.
When Elizabeth and entourage finally arrived in Grosvenor Square on a rainy April afternoon, she was not best pleased to discover that Clanross had installed his old army friend in the green guest chamber. Indeed, she and Tom almost came to cuffs.
"I meant that room for Johnny Dyott."
Tom said callously, "Johnny may sleep in the attics. He's a young sprout after all."
"You sound like his grandfather."
"When it comes to uncomfortable billets I am his grandfather. Richard needs room for thought."
Elizabeth had been lying on the chaise in her dressing room, reading an article on dark nebulae and recruiting her energies for dinner at her sister Anne's. She sat up, laying the journal aside.
"Will Colonel Falk stay through the Season?"
Tom's eyes narrowed. "Do you object to welcoming my friend?"
"Not at all. I'm glad to see Colonel Falk. But I thought he lived in Hampshire."
"He's finished his history and the publisher apparently awaits each day's output with bated breath. I thought Richard might find it quieter here than in Holborn." He leaned on the mantle.
"Quieter? With Jean and Maggie in residence?"
Tom's mouth eased in a grin. "Are they aflame with social scheming?"
"I'm not sure," Elizabeth said gloomily. "Maggie is, Jean isn't."
"I thought the plan to storm London was Jean's idea."
"It was. That's what has me worried. When I suggested we visit Mme. Thérèse tomorrow to select designs for the presentation gowns, Jean turned downright snappish."
"Something's amiss," Tom agreed. "Perhaps she's off her feed."
"It's not that."
"Never mind, my dear. She'll come about." Tom drifted to her dressing table, picked up a silver-backed hairbrush and set it down. "I mean Richard to stop here as long as he likes. He has legal business to finish as well as the manuscript." He gave her the terse outline of Richard's inheritance and the problematical consequences.
Elizabeth digested the revelation. "I have every desire to accommodate your friend, Tom, but I'm no good with strangers and Colonel Falk is a stranger to me, for all that he's Dickon's godfather."
Tom moved to her side. "True, but--"
"I shall have to make small talk," she explained. "When I don't know a man I like to have a fund of polite phrases at the ready, and the leisure to brood about his interests beforehand. Otherwise I'm lost. I can think of nothing to say."
Tom smoothed his hands over her shoulders. "I had never supposed you shy with strangers."
"I am. Dreadfully. I have read the first of Colonel Falk's Spanish satires, however."
"And..."
Elizabeth smiled. "I thought it witty and good-hearted, if a trifle warm. I should like to congratulate your friend. But the question is, do I wish to face a satirist at breakfast?"
Tom laughed. "Richard won't eat you, my dear."
"You relieve my mind. Now, tell me, was I wise to drag the girls south when there's so much unrest? The Mob were rather thick in Great Portland Street, I thought."
"Were there incidents?"
Elizabeth looked up at him. "I kept the shades drawn. When the crowd saw your arms on the carriage doors they gave three cheers for Radical Tom."
Tom grimaced. "That should enhance my stature with the Lords." He went to the window that overlooked the square. It had gone dark. He pulled the curtain to and turned back to her, tassel in one long hand. "To answer you, I don't know what a wise course would be. The queen's business will keep the Mob stirred up all summer. Unless you can talk Jean and Maggie into making their come-out next year, you might as well present them in May. The June levee will be a crush, too, and may provoke worse demonstrations. We'll have to be careful of the girls."
Elizabeth frowned. "Keep a close watch on them, do you mean?"
He stared. "See that they're protected and amused. Do you anticipate more serious problems?"
Elizabeth rubbed her brow. "I have the oddest sensation that Jean and Davies have been plotting, but Johnny says they've not had time alone together. Johnny did me sterling service en chaperon, by the bye, though it went against the grain."
"So I should imagine, poor chap. At least he may relax his guard now Jean and Davies are apart."
Elizabeth murmured agreement, and Tom went into his adjoining dressing room. As she dressed, Elizabeth was still troubled by the uneasiness that had beset her since Davies had come to Brecon. It was too vague a feeling to put into words.
She was sure Jean and Owen would do nothing wrong, but either or both might well scheme to do something harebrained.
* * * *
Jean found the map of London in the book room. It was a framed architect's plan and probably twenty years out of date, but at least it gave her an idea of the relative distance between Grosvenor Square and Greek Street.
Conveying Owen's precious manuscript to his friend had seemed the simplest thing in the world in the familiar safety of Brecon. Jean had forgotten how noisy and confusing London was.
She meant to hire a hack. That was the easiest plan, but even that would be difficult, for she was never left alone.
Until Owen swore her to secrecy, she had meant to tell Maggie of her mission. That troubled her, too--she could see that Maggie knew something was up and that her twin was hurt by her lack of openness. Jean hated hurting Maggie, though she could see Owen's logic. The more people who knew of the scheme, the more likely it was to be betrayed, if only by accident.
So Jean made her plans alone and with an uneasy conscience. Her ignorance of simple things worried her. Hackneys were not numerous in Grosvenor Square where the householders kept their own carriages, but she noticed that they were thicker on the ground a few streets over. She meant to walk to Bond Street and hail a driver there. That would surely throw any lurking informers or Runners off the trail.
How much ought she to pay the jarvey? She did not know. And what if Owen's friends should be out when she called? She could not write him to warn she was coming because Owen had said his friend was closely watched. Was the address Owen had given her a private dwelling? What ought she to wear?
The last was not a frivolous question. She knew she must hide her flaming hair. Indeed, she would have tried to procure, a wig if she had had any hope of doing so without being trapped in explanations. Elizabeth would have thought her a candidate for bedlam if she had tried any such thing.
Lying abed the first night, brooding, with Maggie asleep beside her, Jean decided to tuck her hair into her old grey bonnet. and "borrow" an enveloping cloak from one of the servants. Not an ideal disguise, especially if the weather were warm. On the whole, though, she thought the simplicity of the disguise would work in her favour. That and the unlikelihood of a very young lady going off into the heart of London on her own.
Days passed--days full of shopping for fabrics and being poked and stared at by dressmakers, of having to choose between virtually identical hats at the milliner's, of dragging through the Burlington Arcade in the wake of Anne, Elizabeth, and enthusiastic Maggie, and three laden servants, whilst her sisters twittered over gloves and ribbands and slippers. Jean's mind was above all that. If only she could dash out, hire a hackney, deliver the poem, and dash back without being missed. The impossibility of escaping detection weighed on her spirits like a millstone.
Of course, everyone noticed her preoccupation. The gloomier Jean felt, the more anxiously Elizabeth and Maggie hovered over her. Elizabeth was sure she was sickening for something and very nearly sent for Anne's favourite physician. Maggie thought she was missing Owen--true enough--and tried to divert her. Even Clanross took time from the nation's business to sweep Elizabeth and the twins off one evening to the theatre. Jean scarcely heard Mr. Kean.
It was after the theatre party that Maggie finally forced a confrontation.
Their new maid, Lisette, left them at last, carrying their gowns over her arm. Maggie was brushing her hair.
Jean watched her in the mirror. "I think I'll go to bed."
"Not yet."
"Oh, Mag, I'm tired. We can talk in the morning."
Maggie's grey eyes locked on Jean's. "I am not going to sleep until you tell me what's wrong," the image in the glass said.
"Nothing's wrong."
The reflection's mouth set.
"Oh, Mag, I'd tell you if I could but I'm sworn to secrecy!"
Maggie turned so quickly her low-backed chair almost overbalanced. "It's Owen, isn't it?"
Jean nodded, miserable but mute.
"I think you might tell me," Maggie said after a pause. "I've never betrayed a secret yet. Besides--"
"Besides, you're. my twin." Jean shivered. "I swore, Mag."
"Then I'll swea
r, too."
Jean shivered again. "Do you promise never to divulge what I've told? Ever?"
"I promise."
Jean thought of informers and spies. "Even on pain of imprisonment?"
Maggie blinked. She took a deep breath. "I promise."
Jean heaved a sigh and began to describe her mission. The words tumbled out. "And I haven't been able to get off by myself long enough to do the thing. It's dreadful. At least at Brecon we can go about the grounds without a maid in attendance."
"We shall have to bribe Lisette," Maggie said calmly.
Jean stared.
"Well, it stands to reason. She's the one who walks with us. Elizabeth said we might go to the park or that circulating library in Moulton Street whenever we liked--so long as Lisette went with us."
"You're right." Jean brooded. Her pin money was reserved for paying the hackney. "You'll have to pay Lisette, then. And what if she's not corruptible?" That sounded horrid. Lisette had been with them only a week, but Jean thought she was a good maid, if a trifle haughty.
"Perhaps we can fool her--give her the slip."
"I don't know." Jean felt exhausted suddenly, but she was relieved to have an accomplice in residence and grateful that the accomplice was Maggie. More than grateful. She blinked back unexpected tears. "Let's sleep on it. Perhaps things will look clearer in the morning."
Maggie jumped up. "Of course they will, sister." She gave Jean a hug. "And when we've done it, will you promise me something?"
Jean returned her twin's comforting squeeze. "Any thing."
"Promise me you'll enjoy our come-out." Maggie picked up the candle and led the way to their bedchamber. "Because I mean to enjoy it, and I shan't if you don't."
"I promise."
As they snuggled into the cooling sheets, Jean made a mental vow to throw herself into the coming festivities--even being fitted for ball gowns--with every appearance of enjoyment. Maggie deserved no less.
11
"Madam wishes to be driven to Greek Street," Maggie said with an artful touch of Lincolnshire in her vowels. She was dressed in a severe grey gown and plain cape they had borrowed from the chambermaid, ostensibly for a masquerade. She had tied a neat cap over her tightly braided hair. It scarcely showed red.
Love & Folly Page 11
