They rode in silence for some time. Jane could not stop turning the puzzle over in her head. So many pieces to consider, but the connections between them were perplexing. She leaned against Vincent and whispered, “Do you think the message was genuine? Or—or was she acting on instruction from Lord Verbury?”
Vincent groaned and sat forward in the seat. His next words were subdued. “I would wish that you had not learned to ask that question.”
Jane rubbed Vincent’s back, wishing she could do more for him.
Sixteen
Animated Spirits
Vincent shut the door to their bedchamber and stood with his hand on the knob. “Jane … I might go up to the studio for a while.”
“Shall I come?”
She could almost see the “no” forming on his lips but he nodded instead. “Please. My head is too full.”
“Oh, my dear … I wish—I so wish…”
The corner of his mouth bent, and he shrugged. “I cannot help but wonder about my mother speaking to Melody like that. And to you. ‘Right to get out.’ Gah. Would that I could tell if she had been put up to it.” He scrubbed his face and stood with his hand wrapped in his hair. “It is of no use thinking of it.”
“There is—there might be a reason to consider it.” Jane came to stand by him. “Do you remember the servant that I told you I overheard at Mr. O’Brien’s? He is a footman at your sister’s.”
“What—but … are you certain?”
She nodded. “He started when he saw me, so I am quite certain.”
Vincent let go of the door and paced farther into the room, lifting his other hand to wrap it in his hair as well. “But … why? Muse, I will tell you that I was inclined to think that you were seeing intrigue where there was none—out of concern for Melody, but still. Now, though … now … but why? What could the connection be?”
“Could … your brother said that Lord Verbury wants to take Eldon’s seat as Lord Chancellor. We think that he wanted you to spy for him. Perhaps this is another avenue. Could he be using Mr. O’Brien to get information from the coldmongers about Eldon?”
Vincent stopped in front of the window with his back to her. “Surely simply engaging a coldmonger to spy would be easier.”
“Yes…” Jane chewed her lower lip, thinking. “But recall how William would not accept charity? Perhaps the honour of the guild is too high.”
Vincent lowered his hands and wheeled to face her, with an expression that suggested that he had no such faith in the honesty of man. “I could believe that of one man, but a group? Among them, there must be at least one, with a family in need, who would be willing to sell out his fellows for their sake.” He sighed and tucked his chin into his cravat. “No … no … perhaps the answer is not in the coldmongers, but … consider that we have been back in the country for some time. Why should the Earl wait to approach us? Consider that he did not until we had been employed by Lord Stratton. Perhaps his interest lies there, and not with the coldmongers.”
“I almost wish that I had not suggested to Melody that she discourage Mr. O’Brien. She might have been able to shed some light on his character.”
“Eh? Did you?” He lowered his head and scowled at the floor. “I am sorry to hear that. He seemed sincerely attached to her.”
“But you know it is not possible. Why should Melody risk heartache?”
“I rather think—but she is your sister, of course.” He rolled his neck and straightened to face her again. “The fact remains that your thought is correct. We need to know more about the gentleman than we do. I—I … Do I want to offer this? Yes. I have—had—some friends who would be likely to know all the gossip connected with the house.”
It was Jane’s turn to hold her breath. He could not be suggesting … “Miss de Clare?”
“What? Oh, Lord no. Jane, no.” He crossed the room in four great strides and gathered her hands. “No. From that part of my life, yes, but never her.”
Jane found that she was crying.
Vincent pulled her close to his chest and wrapped his arms around her, soothing and murmuring to her. The sound of his voice rumbled in her ear, with no meaning, except that he loved her. She clung to him, utterly ashamed of weeping, of suspecting him, of giving in to his father’s schemes. She held on to him and fought for control of her sensibilities once again.
She lifted a hand to brush the tears off her cheek. “I am sorry.”
“No … no … hush.” He kissed the top of her head. “I am sorry I suggested it.”
“It is reasonable.” She pushed back a little so she could see his face. His eyes were pink around the edges. “I only regret that I let your father— No. I will not call him that, for he is no sort of father— that I let the Earl so infect my thinking.”
“It is what he does.”
Her heart broke all over again for him, to have grown up under that twisted grasp. “Not to us.”
“Muse…”
“Rogue.”
Vincent bent to kiss her, and the room and the world beyond was lost in the warmth of his lips. When they broke apart, Jane’s heart beat against the confines of her stays.
Her husband traced the line of her jaw with his thumb and considered her. “Now, Muse … now that we understand each other, let me explain what my offer meant. I can go to the club frequented by some of the gentlemen I knew at university. Skiffy will be there, likely, and some others. If there is gossip to be had, they will have it.”
Jane remembered Vincent at Almack’s and hesitated to ask him to slip into that skin again. “You do not mind it?”
“I have been thinking that I could let my father rot for his own sake, but if what he is doing chances to touch on you or Melody, I will not stand for it.” He bent closer. “So, no. I do not mind it. Do you?”
She shook her head.
“Good.” He lifted her and spun her to the side. “Then I shall be off. Do not wait up.”
She stared at him in surprise. “But so late?”
“I am already dressed. I see no reason to wait.”
“I meant the hour. Will there be anyone to meet?”
“Muse…” Vincent paused by the door. “They will only just be starting.”
* * *
In spite of Vincent’s suggestion, Jane had no intention of falling asleep while he was out. She pulled the counterpane off the bed and settled herself on the bedroom’s small sofa in front of the fire. She made some effort to read, but the late hour and her worry kept her from being able to engage in the book.
She closed her eyes, but only for a moment. When she opened them again, the candle had burned down, the fire was nearly cold, and she had a horrible cramp in her neck.
Vincent stood in the door with a candle in one hand and his shoes in the other.
Jane pushed herself into a sitting position, rubbing the back of her neck. “I am awake. You do not need to be quiet.”
“I was hoping you would be asleep.” He shut the door carefully behind him. Vincent crossed the room and set the candle on the table a trifle too hard. He winced, then lowered himself into a chair facing her. He turned his head as though he were balancing a glass of water upon it. “I am inebriated.”
“Are you?”
“Indeed.”
Jane had never seen him deep in his cups before, and found herself more amused than anything by the careful way in which he moved.
“Should you like to hear what I learned about Alastar O’Brien, or shall we wait until I am somewhat more respectable?” He spoke precisely, with an overemphasis on his consonants, as if to make up for his state.
“Will you remember in the morning?”
Vincent paused and tilted his head, considering the question with more seriousness than she had thought it had merited. “I believe so, but I am also afraid that I mistook my capacity. It might be best to have my recital done with tonight.”
“Then please, continue.” Jane climbed off the sofa and went to the hearth to try to revive the
fire. As she passed Vincent, she caught a waft of port wine.
“May I help?” He made as if to rise, but stopped when Jane shook her head.
“I am afraid you will combust should you come too near the flames.” She tucked her nightdress out of the way and pulled a log off the stack by the fireplace.
He chuckled. Rubbing his eyes, he yawned prodigiously. “Ah, Muse … I am sorry you should see me in such a state.”
“So far, I have seen nothing to cause me any alarm, save for concern that you may have some discomfort tomorrow.” She tended the fire until the logs caught. “Do you feel ill?”
“Thankfully, no.” He yawned again. “I had that much judgement left. Skiffy and Poodle can be … insistent … and they would not share their information unless I indulged. They felt the need to ‘rechristen’ me into the club.”
Jane settled herself at the end of the couch closest to him and pulled the counterpane over her again. “So, what news did they have?”
“None. Or rather, they had much, but nothing that bears upon our questions.” He raised a hand and pulled at his cravat. “As far as I can tell from their descriptions, apart from being an Irish Catholic, the young man has an irreproachable character. His father likewise. They have no debts and are widely considered to be good stewards of their property. They spent some time on the Continent giving Mr. O’Brien a tour when he reached his majority and brought some nice marbles home. Lady Stratton is known for doing charitable works, and has visited the women’s ward at the Marshalsea prison on more than one occasion. The only thing any of the men had to say about Mr. O’Brien that was at all objectionable is that he had a red horse that Beau Brummell wanted and he would not sell it. Which turns out to be just as well since Beau has left town to escape his debts. I think they are irritated that O’Brien had the good sense not to be added to the list of people to whom Beau owes money.”
Jane frowned. “Nothing about the coldmongers?”
Vincent shook his head. “Nothing.”
“That seems to be an interesting omission, given how deeply Melody implied that he was involved with them, and William’s statement that he was a great friend of theirs.”
“This set is not likely to note charitable works as worthy of gossip. Lady Stratton’s was so only because it involved a prison.” Vincent dropped his cravat on the floor. He bent his head to worry one of the buttons on his waistcoat free. “I do not think there is anything more to it than that. His mentions of the coldmongers to your sister are likely nothing more than that she found the topic interesting, so he continued to speak on the subject. Speaking of your sister: according to Skiffy, she made quite the impression on the Prince Regent. Do tell her to watch out for him. He does not always act the gentleman.”
“I am well aware of that.” She could have used the reminder before the skating party. “Was there any connection with your father?”
“That was harder to inquire about, but given that Skiffy knows my past, he would have found a way to bring it up if there had been anything relevant.” Vincent sat up further, still struggling with the same button.
“Do you need help, my love?”
He fidgeted with the button for a few more moments and then sighed heavily. “Yes, please.”
Jane, resolutely, did not laugh at his impairment. She knelt in front of him and applied herself to undoing the various buttons on his clothing. As she did, she pondered what Vincent had learned, which was little enough. “I must acknowledge that I have no real grounds for suspecting Mr. O’Brien beyond seeing him speak to Lord Verbury.” She freed his waistcoat and turned her attention to the buttons on his trousers. “No … that is not true. I heard him, most distinctly, say that they would march upon Parliament.”
“Likely a literary metaphor for a speech.” He grimaced and rubbed his head. “I did inquire about Lord Verbury’s plans as well. That he detests Lord Eldon for his common ancestry is generally known. He is also campaigning for the Lord Chancellor position, saying that Lord Eldon’s policies will lead to a revolt among the working class, particularly the coldmongers. In specific, promoting the fear of coldmongers is gaining Verbury a substantial following. He insinuates that they are responsible for the weather, without going so far as to present unsound scientific theory. Still … it is having some effect, even among those who should know better. Do you know, I was pressed to admit that coldmongers could affect the weather, and when I would do no such thing, Poodle cursed me for making him lose a bet. No amount of detail would satisfy him about why it was not so. It was infamous conduct, really.”
“I am certain.” Jane finished with the last button on his breeches.
He yawned again, jaw cracking audibly. “Ah, Muse … I am beyond tired.”
Jane glanced down. “Not all of you appears to be weary.”
Her husband blushed and pulled his shirt lower. He stammered charmingly until Jane took pity on him and stood. “Come, my love, let us get you to bed. I promise not to take advantage of your honour.”
He stood slowly, keeping one hand on the chair’s arm for balance, and the other on the waistband of his breeches. “You are very good to me.”
“I am no better to you than you deserve.” Jane walked him to bed and resolved to send a note to the Strattons in the morning to say that they would not be to work. She did not like to imagine Vincent’s head when he awoke.
Seventeen
Hidden in the Copse
Jane woke earlier than Vincent, who sprawled on the bed with his head half buried under a pillow. He snored. It was not unpleasant, his snore. Her husband had the slightest snore imaginable, rather like a small cat sleeping on its head than a broad-chested man. She sat in bed watching him sleep for some minutes, taking in the rise and fall of his chest and the shape of his shoulders under his nightshirt.
She had not heard the maid come in to light the fire, but it burned cheerfully in the grate, and the room had a tolerable warmth to it. She found it absurd that she should still require a fire in June, and began to wonder if the year would be entirely without a summer.
Sliding out from under the counterpane, Jane eased off the bed, trying not to disturb Vincent. His breathing did not change, and the slow wheeze of his snore continued. Jane dressed as silently as she could, wincing as she opened drawers and the quiet room exaggerated the sound of wood on wood.
On her toes, Jane crept out of their bedroom and shut the door behind her. It seemed unlikely that Vincent would be in any condition to work, so Jane made her first business of the day to send the note over to Stratton House to let them know not to look for the Vincents that day. Lord Stratton often sent a meal in for them, and Jane did not want the staff to go to the extra trouble if they were not there.
She went next to Mrs. Brackett and asked her not to send anyone to tidy the room until Vincent arose on his own.
With those duties out of the way, Jane had time to seek her own breakfast and chat with Melody. Her sister was in the breakfast room with a newspaper open on the table before her.
“Good morning. Is there anything interesting today?” Jane put a slice of toast on her plate and considered the herring.
“It looks as though the price of grain will continue to go up. Crops are failing everywhere. The Luddites had another march in Bristol and destroyed three or four frames. Two of them were shot. The Luddites, I mean, not the frames. A volcano exploded on the isle of Tambora—that is in the Indies.” Melody tapped the paper and wrinkled her nose. “Also, long sleeves are very much in vogue right now, which only makes sense with the weather. Oh! Do you think we might go to Fairfax’s Symphonium sometime next week? They have a glamoured recording of the pianist John Field playing his newest composition that I should like to hear.”
Jane raised her brow with some surprise at the range of items that Melody found interesting in the paper. “Yes to Fairfax’s—perhaps on Tuesday? Long sleeves make me glad. And more riots? That is a shocking thing.” It occurred to her that Melody might be better inf
ormed than she was about current events, a situation that she found uncommonly odd. “Is there anything about the coldmongers?”
“Oh, the usual cries about their interference with the weather. La! You would think that people could understand that it simply is not possible.” Melody rubbed her forehead. “It makes me tired simply thinking of it.”
“You should see Vincent when he gets in form. Best keep the paper away from him.” Jane settled at the table next to Melody and applied herself to her breakfast.
“Where is Vincent this morning?”
“Still asleep. Last night took something of a toll on him, I am afraid.”
“I am hardly surprised. His family was horrid to him.”
“Mm … as a result, we are not going to the Strattons’ today, so you and I do not need to rush our morning calls.”
“Oh…” Melody rubbed her head again and winced. “I had actually thought to not make calls today.”
Jane looked at her sister with some concern. “Do you feel unwell?”
“Only a headache.” Melody smiled, but it did not seem entirely sincere. “I shall be quite comfortable later. You should go to the Strattons’ without worry for me. I suppose last night took a toll on me as well.”
Jane frowned at her plate. In truth, she would very much like to get some work done. Vincent had done so much more on the glamural than she of late that the opportunity to even the balance intrigued her. The thought of working alone, in fact, had some appeal to it. She could set her own pace and not worry about him measuring her work. She resolved to leave a note for Vincent and then be on her way.
* * *
Jane found the empty ballroom to be a balm to her nerves. While the house was not quiet, with servants moving through the halls and the general bustle of a large establishment, none of it concerned her. She did not need to worry about Melody or Vincent or Lord Verbury. She could pay attention to her art.
Without a Summer Page 17
