Young Peter might not be the best of valets, yet he preferred him to an older man—who might have been bold enough to comment yesterday on his sodden shoes and dirty stockings.
“Good,” Gervaise drawled, ever grateful to The Almighty for the treasure he came upon by luck while employed in Bengal by The East India Company; treasure which enabled him to buy this house near St. James Square, and live surrounded by luxury.
“Your periwig, sir?”
Gervaise shook his head. He sat down before the mirror waiting for Peter to comb his hair and tie it back with a broad, black ribbon.
“Thank you. That will be all.”
Peter bowed and quit the bedchamber.
From a secret compartment on the right of the bed head, Gervaise removed an amethyst ring, which he slipped onto the index finger of his right hand. He held an amethyst pin up to the light before he arranged it in his neck cloth. Yes, he decided, amethysts are less ostentatious than more precious stones but they add the desired cachet to my appearance.
Gervaise slipped his small-sword into its scabbard. He tucked his beaver hat under one arm and then picked up his cane, the movement causing the knot of multicoloured ribbons ornamenting it to flutter.
Now, he thought—his heart beating faster than usual—to visit Mistress Kemp. Yet when he arrived at her lodgings, he had to face her landlady.
“Mistress Kemp is asleep, sir.” Mrs Budgeon’s sharp eyes stared at the ring prominent on his finger which curled around the gold knob of his cane.
If only he could go to Mistress Kemp to arouse her with a kiss on her luscious lips. Impossible, besides which, he would not break his vow not to take advantage of her situation. “After the lady wakes up, please tell her I will return later in the day.”
Gervaise turned the corner of the narrow street into Chancery Lane. To while away his time, he entered Man’s, opposite Lincoln’s Inn Gate, a crowded coffeehouse almost exclusively patronised by lawyers. He knew none of the men of law—with their green bags and black gowns—who visited the establishment. The combined sound of their gossiping voices buzzed like a swarm of bees. Some of them paused in their conversation to eye him, doubtless hoping he was a potential client.
He surveyed the cheerful room. At the far end burned a fire, above which iron cooking pots hung from hooks. Adjacent to the fireplace was a counter, behind which a buxom woman observed customers who sat down on benches at stained, well-scrubbed wooden tables arranged across the width of the room.
Gervaise approached the counter, flanked with an array of pewter mugs and jugs on shelves. After ordering coffee, he sat down on a bench facing a window overlooking the crowded street. On the opposite side of the table sat a pair of elderly lawyers deep in conversation. Overhead, a haze of pipe-tobacco smoke hovered. He coughed. A boy served his coffee. Gervaise sipped the strong beverage. While he drank, one of the men of law, purple-cheeked and plump of face, looked at him. Out of courtesy, Gervaise inclined his head before he picked up the latest copy of The Gazette.
While he read the news, he heard snatches of gossip and discussions about clients, litigation, and politics. His attention not wholly on the broadsheet, he glimpsed the lawyers seated opposite him glance at him with cautious expressions in their eyes. Their heads drew closer together as if they did not want to be overheard, but in spite of the hubbub he did overhear the stouter of the two men say, “I had the utmost respect for my client, the late Lord Kemp. However, I am sorry to say the son is despicable. Rumour says he will disown his sisters—”
The speaker glanced up, obviously realising his words had caught Gervaise’s attention. “You have some interest in the matter, sir?”
“A slight one,” Gervaise admitted after a moment’s reflection.
The thin lawyer looked at him; his eyes sharp, he introduced himself and his companion. “Mr Hutchinson at your service, sir. My brother lawyer, Mr Yelland, and I are discussing his client’s disgraceful treatment of his sisters. We are not indiscreet, sir, for all the coffeehouses hum with the latest gossip. It is common knowledge that his lordship will repudiate his sisters. His reason for it causes speculation.”
Impatient to see Mistress Kemp, Gervaise replaced The Gazette on a wooden rack and then nodded to the lawyers.
After the canny-eyed Mr Hutchinson rose, he bent toward him. His pale grey wig and face, coupled with his thin body attired in a black gown and sombre garments, created a spectral impression.
“My card, sir.” Mr Hutchinson offered it to him with a bony hand marked by prominent veins.
“And mine,” Mr Yelland said.
Gervaise stood, accepted both cards, and then thrust them deep into his pocket.
As Mr Hutchinson was not at Westminster Hall in search of clients, more than likely he should be occupied not at the bar but in his chambers. In all probability he busied himself with wills, conveyances and other matters, and, from time to time, sallied forth to partake of refreshment. In the future, he might ask Mr Hutchinson to act for him instead of his family’s lawyer, whom he did not trust. However, this depended on the important news he awaited; news which might change his life forever.
He turned, settled his bill, and then still deep in thought, marched out into the street. His footsteps quickened until he reached his destination at the same moment as Mrs Budgeon came out of the house, dressed in black from head to toe. “Your lady’s up now, sir.”
“Thank you.” Gervaise moved aside so she could step out onto the street.
He inclined his head to the woman before he raced up the stairs, like an impatient youth, to tap on the outer door of Mistress Kemp’s rooms.
When she admitted him, her cheeks reddened.
He looked at her appreciatively. “Is anything amiss?”
Like a portcullis guarding a castle, Juliana’s eyelids lowered. Her cheeks flamed as red as the heart of a fire. “You should not visit me. The landlady is suspicious. She implied that you and I are lovers.”
Enraged by Mrs Budgeon’s slur on Mistress Kemp’s honour, anger boiled within him. “If she were a man she would answer for the insult. You cannot stay here.”
Juliana looked up at him. “You are kind, but you need not be concerned about my reputation. Mrs Budgeon will find me a maid who shall sleep here and, if it is ever necessary, testify that I am a chaste maiden.
“Mrs Budgeon’s daughter has been most obliging. So has her son, who fetched my coal. But what am I thinking of, I should have asked you to be seated.”
While Gervaise considered Mistress Kemp’s plight, he rested his cane against the wall and sat down on a stool at one side of the fireplace. “We both know you should not stay here unprotected.” When she opened her mouth to speak, he motioned for her to remain silent. “I called on you earlier while you slept and then went to a coffeehouse frequented by lawyers. There I met your half-brother’s man of business, Mr Yelland. I overheard him say your family has disowned you and your sister. Is it true?”
When she nodded, he stood and led her to a chair. “Will you not sit down?”
After she sat down, careless of his fine clothes, he knelt, gazing into her eyes. “Tell me the whole. Trust me. I swear I will not fail you.”
* * * *
Juliana clasped her hands on the lap of her black gown. Since she met Mister Seymour, he had demonstrated nothing other than consideration. Yet she must be wary of men such as she had met while staying in London with Father. Insincere men of all ages, who flattered one and swore to be one’s friend while courting. She frowned, unsure as to whether or not Mister Seymour was such a man. Discomposed by being alone with him, she admitted to herself that she had never found any other man as attractive as the gentleman about whom she knew so little.
Mister Seymour’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Why are you frowning? Would it be difficult to be frank with me?”
She forced herself to smile for politeness’ sake. “I don’t want to bore you.”
He started to reply. She forestalled him by
quickly changing the subject. “I shall be grateful if you would accompany me to the Strand. I am reluctant to walk alone in London, for fear coarse men might attempt liberties.”
“It will be my pleasure to accompany you, but there is no need to walk, I shall hire sedan chairs.”
She rose to fetch her cloak. “I would enjoy a stroll through Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”
He took the cloak and then draped it round her shoulders. “I think the distance would fatigue you.”
“Very well.” She did not deem it necessary to tell him she insisted on being accommodated here because of the house’s proximity to Mr Yelland’s chambers. As for the gossip, it was only to be expected in all the coffeehouses where gentlemen gathered to read the newspapers and exchange the latest on dits, for they loved nothing better than scandal.
Juliana turned to the mirror with the intention of tying the ribbons of her hood at her throat. She recoiled at the sight of her clipped locks level with her ear lobes. Unable to tolerate her reflection, she put her hands over her face. She would buy a wig as soon as possible.
“What is amiss?” Mister Seymour asked.
Too upset by her appearance to reply, she could not face him.
“Please, turn round and confide in me.”
She complied, looking at the floor.
Gently, he drew her hands from her face. “What is amiss?” he repeated.
“My hair, I am so ugly.”
“Ugly? Never! You are perfect.”
“Gallant.” She looked up to study his face.
With a tender expression in his eyes, he fastened the black satin ribbons in a bow beneath her chin.
Her cheeks grew hot. “Thank you.” She wondered what it would be like to be clasped safe in his arms. Her cheeks grew hotter. What was she thinking of? What folly it would be, to be swept away on a tide of his kindness. Not only did such foolishness frighten her, even more she feared losing control of her emotions.
She went to the bedchamber to fetch her pearls, returned to the parlour, and put them in the pocket of her cloak.
“Beware of pick-pockets, Mistress Kemp.”
After the loss of her purse, she should have learned her lesson. She took the jewellery out of her pocket. “Thank you for the warning.”
Juliana removed her hood. Standing before the mirror, she slipped her earrings into place before fumbling with the necklace’s gold and diamond clasp.
Mister Seymour crossed the room. “Please allow me.” He fastened it without waiting for permission.
Once more, his proximity affected her. Her spine tingled in response to his warm touch against the back of her neck. She swung around to face him.
“Your servant, madam.” He inclined his head. “Please wait here while I order our sedan chairs. No, don’t argue with me. I insist on being of service to you.”
Alone, she considered his amethysts, fine lace, and impeccable clothes. Without doubt, Mister Seymour was a gentleman of means.
Juliana glanced at her gold mourning ring decorated with black enamel. She would give it to him as a token of her gratitude for his unfailing courtesy.
Oh, she must learn more concerning Mister Seymour.
“The letter,” she said to herself. “I forgot the letter addressed to Baron Kemp which Mister Seymour gave me when we first met.”
Perhaps the letter contained important information. Her conscience protested. It would be unethical to open correspondence entrusted to her. Yet it might reveal something about Mister Seymour. Her nose twitched. Although she did not want to risk losing his good opinion of her, surely he would understand her dilemma. After all, if the missive was addressed to her beloved father, she might choose not to give it to her half-brother. She hesitated, but could not resist temptation.
Juliana returned to her bedchamber. She rummaged in her bag, pulled out the thick, folded paper, and returned to her parlour to sit by the cheerful fire. After breaking the red wax seal stamped with an insignia of a stag, she read the contents of the undated missive. Did the unknown writer send it from France to her father, William, or to William, her half-brother?
She sprang to her feet and paced the small room. The written words rang in her mind as if spoken aloud.
“You may trust the bearer of this private letter with your life for he will never betray our rightful king.”
Without doubt, this referred to the Roman Catholic pretender to the throne, the son of the deceased second James, whom the fourteenth Louis of France had publicly acknowledged the third James, King of England.
“Treason,” she murmured in disbelief.
Who was the traitor to Queen Anne? If Father had been, how did he conceal it from her? After all, he had kept her almost constantly by his side.
Juliana scarcely knew what to think. Until now, though she admired Father for having been more tolerant of other faiths than the majority of his contemporaries, she took it for granted he had upheld the Anglican Church.
She frowned. Years ago, at the age of no more than six or seven years old, she sat down in Mother’s private parlour listening to Mother reading from Foxe’s Book of Martyrs when Father joined them unexpectedly. On that occasion—the only one on which she remembered him losing his temper with Mother—his face purpled with rage. He had snatched the book and flung it onto the fire. “‘Judge not that ye be not judged,’” he had quoted, his voice so loud that it frightened her.
Juliana had looked from Mother’s shocked face to Father’s furious one. All too well, she knew Mother paid lip service to the Anglican Church—which the Queen was the head of—to please Father, while she remained a Huguenot at heart.
“William,” her mother cried out while watching the book burn.
A slight smile lifted the corners of Juliana’s mouth. How grateful she had been to Father for throwing Foxe’s book, with its gruesome illustrations, into the flames.
“I’ll have no child of mine raised as a Puritan.”
“Puritan, my lord? My family did not raise me to be one of your English Puritans. They raised me to be a French Huguenot.”
Father frowned. “That is as it may be, but I will not countenance bigotry beneath my roof.”
Her mother stood, hands clasped to her breast. “You accuse me of being fanatical. Did not I, a good Huguenot, fall in love with you, an Anglican convert? To please you, do I not accompany you to church with our daughter?”
Juliana pressed her hands to her hot cheeks, and re-read the letter, the memory of the incident—which made such a profound impression on her—foremost in her mind.
After the death of Queen Anne’s son, the heir to the throne, perhaps Father had believed that, with a kingdom at stake, James Stuart would renounce his Roman Catholic faith and succeed Queen Anne to the throne.
Alternatively, maybe her father did turn traitor. Yet, if his true allegiance was to the Church of Rome and the Jacobite cause, surely he would not have married a French Protestant.
Juliana shook her head while she tried to assemble her patchwork of knowledge. Before the French King, a Roman Catholic, revoked The Edict of Nantes, which gave Huguenots some protection from persecution, Mother’s family, the de Hautvilles, had fled to England. Although his vast estates in the Loire valley were later confiscated, unlike many other refugees, Mother’s father, Sieur de Hautville, brought a fortune with him to England.
Who was the traitor to Queen Anne? Her late father, or her half-brother who, whatever the cost, wanted the second James’s son to be king.
However, because Mister Seymour had carried a Jacobite message, her only certainty was his loyalty to the Pretender.
Juliana squeezed her eyes shut. She could not deny she liked Gervaise Seymour, regardless of his political allegiance. How shocking of her, for she had been raised to shun Roman Catholics, who, as everyone knew, constantly plotted against the government.
Although Juliana believed Mister Seymour’s politics and religion differed from hers, she respected him for always behaving like a true
gentleman. He was nothing like dishonourable Ravenstock, her brother’s candidate for her hand in marriage. Nevertheless, Mister Seymour’s exquisite manners and warm touch at the nape of her neck when he fastened her necklace would not excuse treason. Her hand flew to her throat. Dear God in Heaven, he might be in league with traitors. If so, his life might be forfeit. A sigh shuddered through her. The thought of Mister Seymour being hung, drawn and quartered, horrified her. She pushed the dreadful possibility aside. Although, like her father, she was a member of the Anglican Church, she believed no one should be persecuted for their faith. Conspirators who threatened the good of the nation were another matter.
Juliana caught her lower lip between her teeth. Of course it was not treacherous to believe the son of the third James was the rightful king, but to plot to put him on the throne would be the act of a traitor. So, what sort of a Jacobite was Mister Seymour? She must face facts. If he proved to be a ruthless one, it would be rash to tangle with him. Yet, although she realised this, she could not find it in her heart to dismiss him from her life. Juliana clenched her teeth. Could she bear to tell him not to call on her again? No, she found the thought of not seeing him in future intolerable.
Someone knocked on the door. Her body tingled with apprehension. She thrust the letter into her bag before pulling her hood over her head again and retying the ribbons with unsteady hands. “Enter,” she called.
Mrs Budgeon bustled in. “Your sedan’s here.”
Chapter Five
When Mister Seymour came forward to hand Juliana into a sedan chair, he tried to speak to her. However the rattle of iron-rimmed wheels over cobblestones and hawkers’ loud voices drowned his words.
Before she could ask him what he had said, he entered another sedan chair. She settled back, listening to the familiar cries. “Old shoes for some brooms.” “Any work for John Cooper.” “Lily-white vinegar, three pence a quart.” “Buy a new almanac.”
Far Beyond Rubies Page 5
