Marigold Chain

by Riley, Stella

  ~ * * * ~

  FOUR

  Monday, April the twenty-third was a day of public rejoicing as befitted the feast day of Saint George and the anniversary of the King’s coronation. For Alex and Giles, a week into their list and so far achieving nothing but an awareness of the scale of the task, the day was notable only for the departure of Prince Rupert and the Duke of Albemarle for the Nore.

  Having read and re-read Rupert’s notes, they still had no real clues to follow but knew that the Naval Office in Seething Lane contained information pertaining to most related matters. Alex duly despatched Mr Lewis to keep an eye on it while he and Giles began on the Naval Commissioners. Mr Beckwith went off to Chatham to investigate Peter Pett and Alex checked out Sir Thomas Harvey.

  Both of them drew a blank, the first of many. But Matthew, placidly keeping his finger on the pulse of the Naval Office, was able to offer a piece of advice.

  ‘If that Clerk of Acts isn’t on your list, he ought to be. His name’s Sam Pepys and I doubt there’s much goes on in the Office that he don’t know about.’

  At the end of a week Mr Deveril had found out a good deal about Mr Pepys but none of it indicated any dealings in treason.

  ‘He’s honest,’ he told Giles with a grin, ‘in the only ways that matter to us. In other respects, he’s a lecherous old goat. You’d be amazed what that man can do in a moving carriage or even in a doorway. And he’s got women all over London – respectable matrons too because he doesn’t seem to fancy the common harlotry.’ He laughed. ‘Even if our Samuel had the inclination to try a little sabotage, I doubt he’d find the time.’

  Giles smiled, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

  ‘Fortunate fellow. I often think,’ he said languidly, ‘that I must be missing something. Cross him off then – and Chicheley too while you’re about it. He’s in love with his work – cannon, saker and culverin. Who’s next?’

  Alex struck out the two names. ‘Four down, sixteen to go. Christ! This could take months.’

  ‘True. I should think though, that we might cross off York and Albemarle. It’s hardly likely to be either of them and every little helps.’

  ‘All right. Fourteen then. At this rate, it will still take us nearly two months.’

  Mr Beckwith sighed and opened his eyes.

  ‘Have you ever thought,’ he asked, ‘that it might not be any of them?’

  Alex looked back reflectively.

  ‘Have you ever thought that it might be someone employed in one of their households?’

  Giles closed his eyes again.

  ‘I have been trying,’ he complained gently, ‘not to think of it.

  *

  Whitehall was still officially mourning the death of Luiza Maria of Braganza and, in addition to the usual trappings, the Queen had ordered that the ladies of the Court should dress their hair plainly and discard their patches. For those accustomed to, or dependant on, such aids this was a hardship of no mean order and a good many tongues remarked on the interesting fact that certain accredited beauties – notably my lady Castlemaine – looked a good deal less striking because of it.

  To Chloë, whose only concession to cosmetics was the skilful darkening of her lashes and whose hair, by comparison, was always dressed simply, it made little difference. However, she had come a long way from the girl who, four months ago, rarely spared a thought for her appearance. A latent instinct for colour warned that her hair, which appeared garish against most bright shades would render pastels insipid and that she must therefore choose very carefully. Most greens suited her, as did the darker hues of turquoise, and a cream and amethyst shot silk proved moderately pleasing. But Chloë knew there was one colour that would do more for her than any other and the period of Court mourning gave her an excuse to try it.

  The resulting creation, a dramatically simple gown of supple black satin, was everything that she had hoped; indeed, it was more, for it even produced a reaction in Mr Deveril. For the very first time, the ice-blue gaze rested on her as if it saw more than the usual, mildly tedious responsibility. There was even, thought Chloë incredulously, an element of approval in it.

  ‘My God,’ said Alex at length. ‘If Rupert was here, he’d be drawing you as Circe.’

  And despite the mocking tone, she knew it was a compliment

  She also knew, from the stares and turning heads at Whitehall, that it was not prejudiced – a thought which should have pleased her a great deal more than it did.

  Less pleasing still was the unhealthy pallor of the Queen’s face. Like Chloë, Catherine also wore black but, unlike her, it did not suit her and though her smile was a warm as ever, she looked tired and wan.

  At the other end of the room, Lady Sarah Marsden dismissed her own personal little court and moved with all the graceful intent of a praying mantis towards Mr Deveril; and Alex, seeing her coming, neither advanced nor retreated.

  ‘Well, my dear.’ The kitten’s eyes were bright with speculative amusement. ‘Your wife is making progress. Your doing, I suppose? But you’ve a long way to go, I think, before she’s more than merely presentable.’

  ‘Jealous, Sarah?’ he enquired pleasantly.

  She laughed and shrugged elegant shoulders.

  ‘Of the object of a drunken carouse? Hardly!’ Her eyes trapped his and held them. ‘She has nothing that I lack – or could not have if I wished.’

  ‘She has a brain.’

  This shaft missed its mark altogether. Sarah raised her brows and said, ‘Really? I noticed that, since she couldn’t be a Court beauty, she’s decided to set up as Court Jester – but a brain? And if she had, what good would that be to you?’ She smiled sweetly. ‘You always used to have mundane requirements but high standards. So the last thing you want is a wife whose looks are no more than passable but who has the potential to shake your self-conceit.’

  ‘The woman who could do that,’ he remarked agreeably, ‘hasn’t been born yet. Something I fancy that we have in common.’

  Again, his meaning escaped her and flicking open her fan she said, ‘We’ve many things in common, Alex. In fact, we’re very alike, you and I.’

  ‘No. You may be like me – though I don’t see how – but I, thank God, am nothing like you.’ His glance strayed around the room. ‘I don’t see your devoted spouse here tonight.’

  She looked up into the cool, impassive face and said in a tone limpid with innocence, ‘No. He’s in the country. He won’t return until Saturday.’

  The pale, translucent eyes widened. ‘Sarah! You’re not, by any chance, propositioning me, are you?’

  And her ladyship, who – for the first time in her beautiful life – was doing just that, dropped her fan. Alex grinned and, with a smooth bow, retrieved it. ‘You can’t imagine how flattered I am.’

  With an effort, she pulled herself together while the ambiguity sailed over her head.

  ‘And so you should be – if it were true. As it is, I’m merely offering you the chance to admit you were wrong in your attitude to my marriage and to escape the tedium of your own … for which I feel partly responsible.’

  ‘You’re too kind. Do you think I deserve it?’

  ‘Probably not,’ she replied with superb confidence. ‘But I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Tomorrow evening I shall be alone. If you call, I will receive you.’

  Mr Deveril turned the fan pensively between his fingers.

  ‘You have a fascinating view of my character that is entirely your own,’ he told her gently. ‘I don’t change my mind from minute to minute. And I myself hardly change at all.’

  ‘Even to admit when you’re wrong?’ Faint irritation crept into Sarah’s voice. ‘Everything you said that day was out of pique. You didn’t mean any of it.’

  ‘Sadly,’ mourned Alex, ‘I’m very much afraid that I did.’

  A purely natural flush touched the rose-petal cheeks.

  ‘Including marrying that sandy-haired schoolgirl? Don’t be so fo
olish!’

  He sighed. ‘Why does no one ever believe me?’

  ‘Because you only talk for effect,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t you realise that half the men in this room would give a fortune for what you’re refusing?’

  ‘Then I suggest,’ smiled Alex, extending the fan on outstretched palms, ‘that you offer it to them.’

  For a second Sarah stared at him with utter disbelief and then, seizing her property, stalked off without a word.

  Chloë, meanwhile, had been prised from the Queen’s side by Cousin Simon who, it appeared was consumed with a burning desire to present her to his patron. Bluff and good-natured but totally lacking his brother’s subtle charm, James, Duke of York received Chloë warmly, bestowed on her five minutes of amicable and wholly unexciting conversation and then bade her ‘go and dance with this fancy popinjay of mine’; which, being a sort of royal command, she did.

  It was when they left the floor that she found herself confronted by Lady Sarah Marsden, her hand on the arm of a swarthy gentleman in red and her eye lit by a vengeful gleam. Simon greeted them with every sign of affectionate pleasure.

  ‘Sarah, my dear! How perfectly ravishing you look. I simply don’t understand how Marsden can bear to tear himself from your side.’

  She smiled and spread her hands resignedly. ‘Oh – business. The estates, you know.’ And, turning her attention to Chloë, ‘I have just been telling your husband how fortunate he is. Poor Graham is forced to be away from me a whole week.’

  Chloë received the implication with a blank stare.

  ‘Oh? What a shame. But I expect he enjoys the rest and the change of air.’

  The cornflower eyes narrowed a fraction and, instead of replying, Sarah chose to look up at her escort with a charming blend of coquetry and contrition. ‘Oh George – how thoughtless I am! You don’t know Mistress Deveril, do you?’

  Dark, insolent eyes moved lingeringly from Chloë’s face to her décolletage and back again. ‘I haven’t had that pleasure.’

  Sarah’s mouth curved happily. ‘Then allow me to present you. My dear,’ she said to Chloë, ‘this is Lord George Gresham.’

  And that, thought Chloë, explained a lot. Court gossip said George Gresham was not only notorious rake but also extremely rich.

  He kissed her hand with unnecessary warmth.

  ‘Charming,’ he murmured, ‘quite charming. But then, Devewil’s taste always is.’ Which made everyone smile but Chloë who was busy wondering how she could get away from the bad company into which she had accidentally fallen.

  ‘Mistress Deveril,’ Sarah was saying kindly, ‘is still very new to our life here so we must help her all we can. I vow Alex is so neglectful that he doesn’t deserve so devoted a wife.’

  Chloë looked back reprovingly.

  ‘Not neglectful, my lady – merely trusting. He knows, you see, that he can.’

  George Gresham was unused to being ignored by little ingénues and he had, moreover, a score to settle with Mistress Deveril’s husband. He said, ‘Weally? But perhaps he has had no worthy wival. I wonder who might appeal to you, Mistwess? My lord Rochester, perhaps?’

  ‘Or Prince Rupert,’ suggested Simon, re-entering the lists with a vengeance.

  If Chloë hesitated, it was only for a second.

  ‘I haven’t the pleasure of the Prince’s acquaintance. And then, in my simple, rustic way, I find I’m more than satisfied with my husband.’

  ‘Such loyalty,’ cooed Sarah. ‘Aren’t you jealous, George?’

  Lord Gresham smiled and his eyes caressed Chloë thoughtfully.

  ‘I am never jealous,’ he replied. ‘I am merely filled with a devouwing cuwiosity to know Mistwess Devewil better.’

  The submerged unpleasantness of the conversation was beginning to annoy Chloë but she still thought of and discarded three possible answers before saying brightly, ‘How nice. You must come to supper some time. All of you. And then we can all get to know each other better. Including, it goes without saying, my husband.’ And was rather pleased with the silence she produced.

  A hand touched her elbow and she turned to find Mr Fawsley’s blessedly friendly face at her side. He greeted her companions politely but without any enthusiasm and said, ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Chloë. An old friend has turned up and I promised to take you to him.’

  ‘Oh? Who is it?’ she asked eagerly while her eyes flashed signals at him.

  ‘Wait and see,’ he replied obediently. He bowed stiffly to the others and placed Chloë’s hand on his arm saying, ‘If you will excuse us?’ And promptly led her away.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked again as they moved out of earshot. ‘I suppose there is someone?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Danny shortly. ‘What you do think you were doing with that precious trio? You should know you can’t trust Simon – and Sarah and Gresham are downright trouble-makers. She’s already approached Alex this evening – though, judging from his mood, I’ve an idea it didn’t do her much good – which is probably why she introduced you to lisping George.’

  Chloë shot him a very direct glance. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘About what? Gresham?’

  ‘No. I understood that. About Alex and Lady Sarah.’

  ‘Oh that.’ Danny grinned. ‘I’d say she was casting her bread on the waters – if you see what I mean.’

  She drew a long breath. ‘Yes. I think so. And what about Mr - Alex’s mood?’

  Rupert had taught her a lesson she had not forgotten.

  ‘Oh he’s sickeningly cheerful. The way he always is when he’s found someone to be bloody rude to.’ He grimaced. ‘Sorry.’

  Chloë grinned. ‘For what? It’s the best news I’ve heard tonight.’

  Danny steered her towards the side of the room but he had no need to tell her who the surprise visitor was for she saw for herself.

  ‘Why – Freddy!’ She smiled, holding out her hand.

  Freddy, uncomfortably conscious of the elegance of his surroundings and company, the splendours of his new coat and the tightness of his collar, took it and smiled back nervously.

  ‘Hello, Chloë. I say … you look different. Wouldn’t have known you.’

  ‘It’s only skin deep,’ offered Danny cheerfully.

  Chloë ignored him. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Freddy. Is it just a visit?’

  He nodded, relaxing a little. ‘Tired of Oxford, you know. Thought I’d come and see how you all were. Which reminds me.’ Gloom settled on his face. ‘Got a message for you from Ashton. But it ain’ the kind of thing one likes saying to a lady.’

  Caught in the act of sipping his wine, Danny gave a splutter of laughter and choked.

  Chloë patted him absently on the back and said, ‘Don’t worry, Freddy. My brother can stew in his own ill-humour all he likes but I don’t have to hear it.’

  ‘What she really means,’ explained Danny, ‘is that she’s got enough problems. Alex has more humours than anyone. They’re just different, that’s all.’

  Freddy shook his head dubiously. ‘Can’t – ‘

  ‘Say that!’ chanted Chloë and Danny in unison.

  *

  On the evening of May the twenty-third, Chloë gave a small, informal supper to which were bidden Lady Julia and Sir Thomas Blanchard, Giles, Danny and Freddy. She had tried to persuade Mr Lewis to join them but received only an acidulous grin and the information that he was engaged with a party of friends at the Swan in New Palace Yard.

  No disaster occurred to mar Mistress Jackson’s culinary skills and Chloë, exotic in peacock brocade, was able to sit serenely at table and enjoy with her guests a menu of roast chicken, venison, beef-and-oyster pie, Lisbon melons, syllabubs, fruit tarts and cheeses, all washed down with light Rhenish wine.

  Afterwards they removed to the parlour where Julia, having been persuaded to bring her lute with her, played melodies by Dowland, Morley and Wilbye before turning her talents to more popular songs and encouraging them all to join
in. The evening passed in pleasant conviviality until interrupted by a tap at the door, followed by Naomi’s head and the intelligence that Mr Lewis had returned and expressed a wish to speak with the master.

  Mr Deveril and Mr Beckwith exchanged a brief glance, then Alex said, ‘He’d better come in then. Unless it’s a secret.’

  The hayrick head vanished and Matthew emerged through the doorway.

  ‘It’s no secret,’ he announced tersely. ‘I just thought you’d like to know that they say the French are about to drop on us like bugs at harvesting.’

  There was silence. Finally, Alex rose and poured a glass of brandy which he gave to Matt.

  ‘You were right. Sit down and tell us.’

  ‘I heard it at the Swan from one of the Duke of York’s lads. He said Charles Talbot brought the Elizabeth into Falmouth yesterday with a report of thirty-six French sail under Beaufort approaching the Channel.’

  Mr Deveril’s eyes narrowed a little. ‘Does York believe it reliable?’

  ‘Aye. And what’s more, it seems His Highness thought it worth his while to make a little contingency plan for it before he joined the fleet.’ Matt grinned sourly. ‘It makes your heart bleed for them. By all accounts, York’s staff and the commissioners have spent all day chasing their own tails trying to put it into operation. The King’s sent an order to the Prince that he’s to stop Beaufort joining de Ruyter’s Dutchies and – ‘

  ‘Wait,’ said Alex. ‘Do we know if the Dutch are at sea or about to sail or planning to holiday at home this summer?’

  ‘No,’ said Matthew, ‘to all three. Lord Arlington hasn’t got any recent news of de Ruyter’s movements. If you ask me, the man couldn’t get the juice out of an orange.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Mr Deveril bitterly. He looked at Giles. ‘It seems our intelligence service is in perpetual hibernation. Christ! What the hell to they think they’re doing?’

  ‘What they believe is their best, I imagine,’ said Tom Blanchard pacifically. ‘Go on, Matt. How is Rupert going to deal with the situation?’