Moonstone Obsession

by Elizabeth Ellen Carter

  “Governor Lomax’s insistence that Morcombe's death was a result of misadventure with another prisoner is a manifest lie,” James began baldly. “Morcombe was murdered.”

  Pitt, arms crossed, face calm, rocked ever so slightly on his heels in reaction to James' words. The passion of his assertion was the surprise, not the revelation itself.

  “My proof is in a letter,” James continued. “It's unsigned but addressed to Governor Lomax of Newgate Prison, asking him that ‘special arrangements’ be made for the prisoner should enquiries be made of him by the Prime Minister’s office. It is dated one week after we returned to London.

  “Morcombe had been in custody for nearly two months, so it cannot be a coincidence that this letter is sent so soon after Alexandre Charlemont learns that we know of Henri Renauld. Morcombe only became a threat afterwards.”

  “Was this among the documents left behind by Renauld?” asked Pitt.

  “No.”

  “Do I want to know how and where you came by it?”

  “Probably not.”

  “And its present location?”

  “I have it,” Sir Percy informed him. “It’s been walked through the cabinet room. It is now part of the official secrets.”

  “But we have no clue as to the identity of the author?”

  James looked at Selina. She glanced at him before addressing the Prime Minister.

  “Not directly,” she answered.

  Pitt frowned and Selina hastened to give him a full answer.

  “Whoever he is, we know he has a direct connection with Renauld,” she explained.

  “As you know, I have translated letters from Renauld’s apartment. I have also seen the letter to Mr Lomax.

  “All three of us...” she indicated James and Sir Percy as she spoke “are certain that it and several letters of instruction from the Renauld papers, including the order to kill the man Mirabeau, were written in the same hand and on the same paper.

  “Sir Percy is trying to identify the paper's watermark in the hope of tracing the maker and the purchaser.”

  “Unfortunately time consuming, however,” Sir Percy added.

  “And time is a facility we don’t have, my friends,” sighed Pitt. “Mirabeau is France’s last great hope.

  “If he can persuade Louis to accept limits to his power and a Parliament like Britain’s, it will be enough reform to satisfy most of the French revolutionaries, and the agitation to spread revolution to our shores will wither on the vine.

  “But if he cannot, it means Louis’ head on the chopping block and no turning back the tide of bloodshed.

  “And if history is our guide, should France go to war with itself, it will also go to war with England.”

  Pitt paused, suddenly thoughtful.

  “Where are Lady Selina’s sketches of Renauld?” he asked.

  Pinpricks of unease climbed their way up James’ neck.

  “They were despatched the day Morcombe was transported to London,” said James. “They were received, weren’t they?”

  Sir Percy and Pitt looked at one another.

  “If they did, no one let me know,” said Sir Percy. He rose and swiftly crossed to the door. With his hand on the door knob, he turned back. “If they didn’t, then we have a spy very close at hand.”

  The breakfast room door closed behind him with an affirmative thud.

  Selina added the facts together.

  “Only someone in Government, in the Cabinet, would have access, would they not?” she asked.

  “Alas dear lady, you are correct,” Pitt replied soberly, sitting across the table from her and James. “So, until we know who our traitor is, it is imperative that not a word go beyond these four walls and beyond the four of us.

  “Without those sketches as evidence to prove a connection between Morcombe and the plot against Mirabeau, the French authorities will not help us find the man.”

  Pitt's reverie was broken by Sir Percy re-entering the room.

  “The runner has returned,” he said, jaw set. “The sketch book is not to be found.”

  James quietly took Selina's hand.

  “James...” Pitt began.

  “William…no,” said James, softly.

  Pitt leaned toward him across the table, his expression filled with regret. “If there was but any other way, James, I would not ask. You know that.”

  Selina knew something significant had just passed between her husband and the Prime Minister. She couldn’t fathom the communication, but it seemed to involve her in some way.

  “How is it that I feel as though I am being talked about behind my back?” she asked them.

  Later that night, Selina would sit at her dressing table, brushing out her hair in long even strokes. As she did so she would catch James’ reflection as he lay on the bed. Well muscled arms caught the even yellow glow of the lamp light, hands hidden as they supported his head. He was stripped to the waist, the bedding draped carelessly around hips.

  Her husband… she could scarcely believe that he was hers to touch.

  He was incredibly handsome and, at that moment, still incredibly angry. Not at her, but that didn’t stop Selina feeling the furnace blast of his fury that had been directed at no less a person than the Prime Minister of Great Britain himself only a few hours ago…

  “France is in turmoil on the edge of bloody revolution and you want my wife to become a spy? To find a man who has proved quite capable of killing?”

  What followed was invective such as Selina had not heard before.

  Pitt stood against it with equanimity and waited for James’ rage to exhaust itself. When it did, he offered a small smile of apology.

  “I know what I’m asking, James,” he said. “That's why I’m asking and not ordering.

  “If you want to walk away from here tonight, then you do so with my blessing and with no harm to our friendship. I will not talk about your duty as an Englishman or love of your country.

  “But remember that the threat to you and your wife at home is as pressing as a theoretical one in France. At least in France, you can take direct steps to cut the head off the hydra.”

  James said nothing in reply. His posture of tightly folded arms and eyes resolutely on the floor told Selina that his anger had reduced to a simmer, for now.

  “Does my opinion count for anything?” she asked quietly.

  James turned and regarded her bereft, already knowing what her opinion would be. His voice ached as he spoke.

  “It does, my sweetheart. Of course it does.”

  He gazed into her eyes for a long time; silent communication seemed to flow between them, then, heedless of the company, James swept Selina into his arms and hugged her fiercely.

  With his arms still around her, he turned to Pitt.

  “It seems I am overruled,” he said, resigned.

  “But William, if we are to do this, I go too and I will not allow Selina out of my sight.”

  Now, hours later, they were at home and James had said less than a dozen words since.

  Selina set her hairbrush down and walked over to the bed. She removed her pale blue satin wrapper and slipped into a white cotton nightdress before climbing into bed. James shifted position, supporting his head on one hand while stroking her shoulder and arm with the other. She settled in beside his warmth

  “Don’t ask me to be happy with this intrigue, Selina,” he told her. “I have all manner of misgivings about this, not the least of which is the idea of you being anywhere near harm.”

  “But what else can we do?” she replied. “If by warning Mirabeau we play a part in a peaceful reform and keep England out of an inevitable war…”

  “And that’s exactly the point.”

  Selina frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “I think war with France is inevitable,” James sighed. “I believe it’s too late to bring revolution back from the brink. Nothing but the taste of royalist blood and complete overthrow of the social order will be enough
to satisfy them.”

  “If you believe it’s so hopeless, then why did you agree to help Pitt?”

  “Because you asked?” he shrugged, half smiling at last.

  Selina traced a finger from the centre of his chest, up his chin, and tapped him on the nose. The corners of her mouth raised in a smirk.

  “Mmmm, I don’t think so,” she considered. “I don’t believe that I have you so completely in thrall.”

  He raised himself up and positioned both arms either side of hers to loom over her.

  “You don’t?” he enquired lightly. “You can be very persuasive.”

  Selina giggled and was treated to a cascade of butterfly light touches from his lips across her face.

  “Not that persuasive,” she answered between kisses.

  James momentarily stopped.

  “You really want to know why I’ve agreed for us to go to Paris against my better judgement?”

  Selina nodded.

  “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Paris

  Just as the main artery of London was the Thames, so too did the Seine serve the city of Paris.

  The Seine snaked its way through the sprawling city embracing as it did two islands, Ile de la Cite and Ile Saint-Louis, whose backs were crossed with numerous bridges to link the Rive Gauche to the Rive Droit.

  The most magnificent of these bridges, which grazed the downstream edge of the Ile de la Cite, was the Pont Neuf, the most remarkable and elegant of all the Parisian bridges. Its impressive span of stone arches, decorated with elaborately formed corbels, spandrels, and cornices, glistened gold in the rays of the afternoon sun as the official English diplomatic delegation started its crossing over to the Left Bank.

  Unlike London Bridge and indeed the other bridges of Paris, Pont Neuf contained no houses or superstructures, affording residents an unimpeded view across the Ile de la Cite to the Louvre.

  The carriage crossing the bridge conveyed Earl George Granville Leveson-Gower, his wife Lady Elizabeth, their two young children, and their guests Lord and Lady Penventen. It attracted attention not just because of its size, but also because of its livery and crest. Displays of title had been outlawed in the new egalitarian France. That the crest denoted a diplomatic vehicle was of little interest to the people who watched it pass with scorn in their eyes.

  Selina clasped James' hand in excitement as she gazed at the Louvre Palace, now home to the finest collection of art and jewellery belonging to the royal family. Also within the Palace's walls was the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture which Selina ardently desired to visit. She had been delighted to learn their hostess, Lady Elizabeth, was an accomplished oil painter in her own right and hoped to visit the Académie with her.

  Selina explained to her patient husband that the Pont Neuf had been constructed by Henry III and completed by his son Henry IV nearly 200 years ago. She pointed out as they crossed the Ile de la Cite, that there, overlooking the bridge, stood a bronze statue of Henry IV on his war horse as though still surveying his lasting creation.

  The bridge was capacious, much wider than any crossing Selina had ever seen. It was quite capable of carrying traffic in both directions and still have plenty of room for stall holders to ply their wares. A carnival atmosphere reigned in the crisp late October afternoon as purveyors of clothes and handcrafted jewellery competed with the fish, meat, and vegetable vendors for the attention of pedestrians.

  The carriage left the smells and noise of the bridge and turned onto a pleasant tree-lined road.

  Unlike London’s mosaic of crooked, narrow streets, Paris spread her arms wide to boast expansive avenues and broad boulevards that took advantage of the flat topography on which the city stood. On one of these green leafy avenues was the new home of the British ambassador.

  An efficient retinue of servants saw to luggage while maids prepared the evening toilette for the two ladies. James and Gower retired to the library.

  At the age of thirty-two, Earl Gower was one of the young freshmen ambassadors in Paris, but his appointment came as a surprise to many with an interest in British politics. It had been widely tipped that the more highly experienced Randall Dobell, Earl of Canalissy, would reopen the embassy which had been closed for the past year in response to the events of 1789.

  “You have to credit Pitt’s persuasive abilities,” remarked Gower, who had discovered that the library was stocked with a particularly fine brandy and was now pouring some for them. “I had no idea I was to be ambassador to France until a month ago. I don’t recall actually agreeing.”

  He handed James a balloon of the golden liquid.

  “But now that I’m here, I rather think I’ll enjoy it.”

  James lifted his glass in salute.

  “Enjoy it while it lasts George. Paris is not going to be pleasant if the population decides to commit regicide,” he commented.

  “Well, let’s see how long we can forestall that event, shall we?” Gower replied pleasantly, raising his glass in reply.

  “I've applied to the National Assembly for leave to meet with Louis and Marie-Antoinette at the Palais des Tuileries. We’ve made it very clear to the Assembly that England would take a dim view should harm came to the French royal family. That appears to be the consensus policy of many of the ambassadors here.

  “From my briefing with Pitt and my predecessor, Lord Sackville, I understand the Americans might also be persuaded to stay out of any war but only if they’re convinced that we’re not interfering in France’s internal politics.”

  That earned a bitter laugh from James.

  “I know, I know,” said Gower, “but the Americans are very sensitive about such things, especially since they are debtors to France and consider themselves brother revolutionaries.

  “I'm actually looking forward to meeting with the American ambassador. Short. William Short. He’s been in Paris for a few years now. He was private secretary to Thomas Jefferson when he had the post. Was made ambassador earlier this year.

  “Sackville says he’s a very able man, but a lousy cricket player.”

  “He didn’t make him play, did he?” laughed James.

  “Absolutely! You know how obsessed Sackville is with the game. Cricket mad, him and his father. You must have heard about the ambassadorial cricket match he staged on the Champs-Elysees. Indeed!

  “However, on a more serious note, Sackville says Short has formed an attachment with Rosalie, Duchess de la Rochefoucauld. As a member of the aristocracy, she and her family have a lot to lose if the rebellion becomes violent; I don’t think he will get carried away with revolutionary zeal as long as she's in the picture.”

  Suddenly the sound of two small children shrilly protesting leaked through library door. The Gower youngsters, exhausted and fractious from their long journey, were being herded by their nanny to bed.

  “Your Selina is getting on well with Elizabeth, isn’t she?” smiled Gower fondly, thinking of his family.

  “Yes, and I wanted to thank you and Elizabeth for your kindness,” said James. “It’s not been easy for Selina. Our courtship was a whirlwind affair and now this adventure… she’s not had the opportunity to make many friends in her new world.

  “But she’s very fond of children. She misses her nephews and niece, so the opportunity to help Elizabeth with your two has been a blessing this past week.”

  “Well, she’s a delightful young woman, James. Couldn’t be happier for you. I can tell you this now. Elizabeth was very much looking forward to meeting your wife even before we knew about this appointment.

  “Bess was somewhat delighted to see Abigail Houghall get her comeuppance this summer. She never did like the girl. Was firmly convinced she'd make life a misery for any man unfortunate enough to marry her.”

  “An insightful lady, I think,” said James.

  “Yes. Dodged a musket ball there, my friend.”

  * * *

  Rain washed the city of
the dust and smell of decaying autumn leaves and flushed the Seine of the acrid tang of detritus that assaulted the nostrils every time one crossed a bridge. Then, after several days of drizzle, a mild autumn sunshine chased away the cloud and a cool breeze promised a few fine days to come.

  Selina wound her arm through James’ as he assisted her from the carriage outside Notre Dame de Paris on the Ile de la Cite.

  The cathedral, nearly twice as wide it was tall, dominated the landscape for miles around, and stood imposing against the azure blue sky, its two square towers on the western side stretching two hundred and twenty-six feet tall, but even then dwarfed by the magnificent three hundred foot centre spire.

  James and Selina strolled around its perimeter, stopping every so often for Selina to swiftly sketch a different view in a small notebook she carried in her purse.

  As they walked around the curved apse, Selina asked James for the small telescope he had brought. He produced it from his coat pocket, and Selina peered up at the gargoyles.

  The grotesque masks had fulfilled their duty as water spouts during the recent rains and now only the occasional drip of water issued from their lips.

  Glancing to see that they were unobserved, Selina kissed James on the cheek.

  “Thank you, my love,” she told him. “I cannot tell you how much it means to be here, just you and I.”

  In deference to their public location, James held her hands in his, stroking her fingers gently.

  “You make me the happiest man in the world, Selina,” James replied. “I can’t think of any place I’d rather be than here with you.”

  Despite his initial misgivings about going to France, he was satisfied with the arrangements Pitt had put in place.

  Sir Percy had men in his employ who would actively hunt for Renauld in the Parisian underworld using a sketch that Selina had drawn from memory. The likeness seemed good as far as James could recall of the original drawings, but Selina complained there was a lot about it that wasn't right.

  Nonetheless, it was agreed it was sufficient for the present scheme, in which James would be contacted through an intermediary if a suspect was located and, unbeknownst to the quarry, Selina would confirm the man’s identity from a discreet distance.