Seduction In Silk: A Novel of the Malloren World (Malloran)

by Jo Beverley

Chapter 33

  Perry went to a meeting at Malloren House, hoping to see the end of the mess.

  The council the day before had laid out the plans. In addition to the marquess and Cyn, in attendance again had been the high officials of the Admiralty and Horse Guards and the secretaries of state. It had become clear that Rothgar was representing the king’s interest in the case. In that capacity, he had suggested that Pierrepoint and Ryder be offered immunity from prosecution if they would reveal all.

  Perry had remembered the king’s concern about innocent men, which he’d suspected meant a personal concern. Pierrepoint or Ryder?

  Pierrepoint, he decided, so easily removed from active service. Pierrepoint and the king were close in age but not on intimate terms, so it was probably pressure from the king’s mother, perhaps on behalf of a friend of hers. Irrelevant here, but he’d find out.

  The politicians caught the way the wind was blowing and agreed to the plan. The military men were more reluctant and were persuaded only when promised that the traitors would be punished. Pierrepoint must return to active service, and Ryder must never hold public office again. A mild punishment, but he was ambitious, so it would sting.

  Today they were separately presented with their guilt and their options. Pierrepoint’s nerve broke almost immediately, and indeed he’d seemed relieved that it was over. He admitted taking or copying documents and passing them on at the Merry Maid. He said the person he’d met there had given the name Harrison.

  No connection to France other than there being a well-known family there by the name Harrison.

  No matter how pressed, he wouldn’t say why he’d done such things. He claimed to have been bribed, but his demeanor shrieked that a lie. Never had eyes so wildly avoided contact. Threat of prosecution and hanging had reduced him to tears, but he hadn’t changed his story.

  Ryder had been harder to crack, but Perry had been struck by the accuracy of Claris’s insight. Beneath the stony exterior dwelled a tortured soul.

  In the end he’d used that. The questioning had all been about duty to his office and the Crown. Though Perry was supposed to be an observer, he’d put it to Ryder that his immortal soul depended on his speaking the truth.

  Ryder had covered his face with one hand and perhaps even sobbed. “Alas, alas, I have put myself in danger of damnation. I admit my sins. I admit them and beg for your forgiveness on earth, and Almighty God’s in the hereafter!”

  “All very well,” Lord Hawke had snapped, “but our forgiveness is conditional upon you revealing the whole truth, sir!”

  Ryder’s tale had been similar to Pierrepoint’s. He’d passed on information to a man called Harrison in a private room at the Merry Maid.

  “A disgusting stew,” he’d added.

  When asked why, he’d not even tried an excuse. He’d refused to answer with all the stoicism of a martyr. When pressed, he’d retreated into prayer. Eventually he’d said, “Hang me if you must, sirs. I deserve it. I will say no more.”

  Afterward, Perry, Cyn, and Rothgar had been at a loss.

  “What terrifies them more than hanging?” Cyn demanded. “Torture? They believe the French are going to torture them before the hangman gets them?”

  “Torture by means other than physical?” Rothgar asked. “What could Guerchy reveal about them that seems worse than hanging?”

  “They’re such different men,” Perry said. “There’s no commonality between them at all. It’s damned frustrating to be missing the last key. What worked once could work again.”

  “We’ve done our best for now,” Rothgar said. “We’ll pressure them some more.”

  As Cyn accompanied Perry to the door, he said, “Chastity would like a closer acquaintance with your wife. She was universally admired.”

  “Thank you. I wasn’t sure how she’d cope with the haute volée.”

  “She has adequate wings, mostly by natural honesty and intelligence.”

  “The natural philosophies, yes. I believe we’re to go to a gathering at Sappho’s tonight. Will you and Chastity be there?”

  “The theater, I believe.”

  Perry left, thinking he must take Claris to the theater. For another kind of magic, he visited a jeweler on his way home.

  * * *

  Claris was in an emporium, overwhelmed, though in a most delightful way, by waterfalls of silk. The room was lined with shelves, each holding a roll or bale, and some were loosed to fall down and display their wonders.

  As soon as she or Genova showed interest in any, an assistant spilled some and invited them to feel its quality. If it was a high bale, he would climb nimbly up a ladder. It reminded Claris of the men clearing the ivy off the manor walls, which reminded her of Perry. . . .

  He was never far from her mind, but she still enjoyed the silks. Perhaps she would buy some lengths simply to play with.

  Genova soon chose three lengths. “You should buy some, Claris. The prices are excellent. So much less than from a shop or through a mantua-maker.”

  “A mantua-maker would still make up a gown?” Claris asked.

  “Of course.”

  So she succumbed to the figured silk that had first caught her attention. Though lighter in weight, it was the exact shade of her pink silk robe. She knew it would make Perry think of bed, even in the middle of a ball.

  She also bought a long shawl in pale lilac to go with her lilac gown. It was woven as a piece and had been enhanced with embroidery and fringing. Discarding frugality, she purchased two more, one blue and one green, for Athena and Ellie, and then enough of a heavy brown and gold brocade to make a waistcoat for Perry. He doubtless had more than enough waistcoats, but she wanted to buy him something.

  They accepted an invitation to dine with the manager of the silk warehouse and his family, and then it was a long journey back to Mayfair, so Claris put aside any idea of visiting Sir Henry Cheere’s workshop today. But when she saw how close they came to Westminster Abbey, she asked if they could pause.

  “I have in mind some marble work at the manor, and I admired his statues in the abbey. He’s retired now, but his workshop continues.”

  “Do let’s explore,” Elf said. “I know nothing of the sculptor’s business.”

  Claris smiled at Elf’s constant interest in business.

  She could hear noise from the work yard, and blocks of marble were being unloaded from a wagon, but there was also a neat shop, and they went in there. The first thing she wanted to establish was that the work produced was as fluid and natural as the examples she’d seen. It was. She admired a bust of a man with flowing hair and vague draperies at his neck that gave the illusion of soft linen.

  A middle-aged man came to her side. “An excellent piece, is it not, ma’am?”

  “It is. Is this Sir Henry’s work? I understand he’s retired.”

  “He is, ma’am, though he still takes an interest. This is by Mr. Crane, trained by Sir Henry, as I’m sure you’ll detect.”

  “Of course. How long does such a piece take to make?”

  “I could guarantee delivery in three weeks, ma’am, and sooner if there was urgency.”

  “Is it suitable to be placed outside?”

  “Certainly, ma’am, though such busts are usually displayed indoors. And on a plinth. We have a number of designs to choose from.” He gestured toward a rank of them against one wall.

  “I suppose a more normal outside piece would be a statue. Or a tomb.”

  The assistant put on a solemn face. “We execute a great many tombs and memorials, ma’am, all to the commissioner’s express design. May I direct your attention to this headpiece for a stone, with mourning cupids?”

  Claris turned and was struck by how real the marble cupids looked, with their sturdy legs and round cheeks. A pity they were eternally sad. She couldn’t resist stroking one smooth cheek, as if to console the creature.

  Cold, of course.

  “What happens if a piece is damaged? Chipped, perhaps.”

  �
��A chip is easily repaired, ma’am. Sir Henry has developed his own formulation of powdered marble and other ingredients, which can restore a piece to perfection. Even a badly broken one can be restored.”

  “What if I didn’t quite like the finished result? Could it be altered?”

  She could see he thought her a difficult customer, but he preserved his amiable manner. “That rarely happens, ma’am, but some correction can be made. Most easily if material is to be removed, but in the case of a lack, the marble paste can be built up.”

  She had the information she needed.

  “I want some work done for my house, Perriam Manor, near Windsor. Would it be possible for someone to visit there to consult with me?”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  “Then I shall write when I return home.”

  Claris settled back in the carriage, thinking of those cherubs. They were cold, but at least they weren’t smothered.

  She hadn’t told Genova and Elf that she was with child, but her baby’s presence became more real every day. It would be born in the spring.

  A good time, surely.

  And by then, there’d be no smothered babes to haunt Perriam Manor.

  * * *

  Perry was home when she returned and listened with amusement to her description of the silk warehouse. She didn’t mention the visit to the sculptor’s because she wanted to be sure her plan would work before sharing it, even with Perry.

  “Are you sure you want to attend Sappho’s soiree?” he asked. “You must be tired.”

  “Only a little. A rest and some tea will restore me. I’m only here for a week and want to experience all I can.” She glanced at him. “You haven’t forgotten about Wellsted?”

  “No. I believe we can go tomorrow.”

  She thanked him with a kiss, delighting that kisses were as natural as breathing to them. Tomorrow, she’d rid her mind of the curse entirely. She was sure of it.

  The lady poetess was as unconventional as promised. Her skin was the color of coffee with cream, and her dark eyes slanted over high cheekbones. She wore her long, dark hair in a plait woven with ribbons, and her gown was a loose robe of opulent fabric. To Claris, she seemed magnificent and extremely foreign.

  Her company was as unconventional as she was. Claris was introduced to a poetical duke, a female mathematician, and a hunchbacked mapmaker in shabby black.

  The event, alas, was not to her taste. She used fatigue as an excuse to leave early.

  When she and Perry were in the carriage, he asked, “Bored?”

  She had to confess it. “I’m sure I should have been interested in sonnet forms or whether animals have souls, but I wasn’t.”

  “Nor I. London is a rich banquet. We don’t have to eat every dish.” He looked at her in a way she’d come to recognize. “A benefit of leaving early is a longer night at home. You could display some of your silken purchases.”

  “I could wear the shawl, but the length of silk isn’t made up.”

  “All the better to play with,” he said.

  “Exactly what I thought when I purchased it.”

  Play with it they did, until she protested that she wouldn’t have it ruined. They made love on white linen sheets, the shawl and length of silk draped over the bed rail like a rainbow waterfall.

  Chapter 34

  Perry hired a chair for their journey to Wellsted and suggested they both dress simply. Claris chose her blue skirt and caraco jacket, and he wore the same riding clothes he’d worn when they’d first met.

  “We could almost be back at Lavender Cottage,” she said as he gave the sturdy brown horse the order to go.

  “Or at least en route to Cheynings. Instead of an old married couple.”

  She chuckled at the idea, but it caught at her heart. They looked like the sort of couple who could live contentedly in a place like Perriam Manor.

  She put such foolishness aside. Blessing enough that they suited each other in a surprising number of ways.

  She was interested to see a different part of London as they traveled toward the river and crossed by a bridge. It gave a unique view of the mighty river.

  “So many boats, from tiny to grand.”

  “The big ones are barges,” he said. “Beyond London Bridge there are sailing ships that cross the oceans, and all the services and warehouses that involves. We could have made our journey by boat, but we’d be at the mercy of the tides, and the water’s still low from the summer heat. People have been stranded on stinking mud banks.”

  “Then I’m very glad we’re driving.”

  When they left the bridge, they drove along a street between buildings but were soon in the countryside.

  “Ah, this is pleasant,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Who can converse with trees and fields?”

  She thought back to Sappho’s. “Poets, it would seem.”

  Though the weather was cooler than it had been in summer, it was still warm for autumn. Claris wore a hat with a brim wide enough to shade her face and with a veil to be let down if they encountered dust.

  The roads here were lightly used, but that left them rough in places so that it took more than an hour to travel the few miles to Wellsted. After a while the view to their left, toward the river, included the tall masts of ships, some of them substantial.

  “Greenwich, Woolwich, and such places,” Perry said. “Shipbuilding and repair, chandleries, customhouses.”

  “My grandfather Dunsworth made his fortune by supplying timber for shipbuilding and repair. Better for his daughters if he’d been less successful.”

  “Why?”

  “Then they’d never have taken the notion of venturing into fashionable life in search of a fine husband for Aunt Clarrie.”

  But in that case she would never have met Perry.

  “It could have been in their natures.”

  “I’m not sure it was ever in Aunt Clarrie’s. It’s strange, but I feel I know her. I spent a lot of time as a child looking at her portrait and at the mementoes my mother treasured.”

  “She wrote that curse.”

  “In anguish and despair.”

  “Do people alter so completely?”

  “If they go mad,” she said.

  “True, we speak of the insane as deranged, which means altered. Ah, nearly there.”

  He turned the carriage as directed by a fingerpost that read “Wellsted, 1 mile.” Ahead the tip of a spire rose above trees. Claris’s heart was beating faster than was reasonable. She’d probably learn nothing of significance here.

  “How shall we go about this?” she asked.

  “Churchyard first, seeking your grandparents’ graves.”

  “But I don’t care about them.”

  “It gives a purpose to our visit and an excuse for your curiosity. We probably won’t find out much,” he warned.

  Claris realized that her fingers were clasped. She relaxed them. “I know that. But I have to try.”

  They passed between farmhouses, complete with yards and animals. Perry had to rein in the horse when some hens wandered into the road. A narrow bridge took them over a stream and into the center of the village. She saw two inns, a shop, the church, and a nearby house that was probably the clergyman’s residence. There were three other houses of modest grandeur on the opposite side of the green.

  “Your mother and aunt probably grew up in one of those,” Perry said, halting in front of the Ship in Full Sail.

  A hostler ran out to take charge of the chair and horse, and Perry helped Claris down. She wanted to begin questions immediately, and Perry must have guessed, for he shook his head.

  He’d said that solving puzzles was his talent, so she’d trust him in this. In any case, the hostler couldn’t be more than thirty. He’d know nothing of Aunt Clarrie’s time.

  They strolled over to the low wall around the churchyard and surveyed the graves.

  “This could take some time,” Perry said.

  “We could inquire
at the vicarage. I remember people doing that now and then.”

  “An excellent suggestion.” He led the way to the lych-gate and opened it. “With luck the vicar is ancient and can answer all our questions.”

  Alas, slender Reverend Thurstow was not much older than the hostler, but he clearly recognized Perry’s quality and became embarrassingly eager to help.

  “Dunsworth, Dunsworth. I’m sure I’ve heard the name. We must consult Bowerbridge. The sexton, you see. He knows all these things. Let me take you to his cottage.”

  At the cottage behind the church, Mistress Bowerbridge informed them that the sexton was “out and about somewhere.” She was quite elderly, and Claris would have questioned her, but she was very deaf. She hoped the woman’s husband had better hearing.

  However, when they found the sexton, ripping out invasive weeds in a shady corner of the churchyard, it was clear the strapping young man must be her son, or possibly her grandson. At least he was open faced and ready to talk.

  “Dunsworth, sir? Aye, I know the grave.”

  He led them across the grass. Claris noticed one marble headstone surmounted by cherubs because it reminded her of the one at Cheere’s. There was no other like it here.

  “Here we are,” the sexton said, stopping at a plain rectangle on which the writing was still clear.

  Here lies Samuel Dunsworth, merchant,

  1665–1730

  And Mary, his wife, 1690–1736

  Those who labor with a good heart will reap their reward.

  Also,

  Samuel 1714–1717

  John 1716–1724

  George 1721–1724

  Marianne 1724 aged 6 months

  Claris read that sorry tally and shivered. “So many little ones lost, and all at once.”

  Another curse?

  But the curse that haunted her had been created by a Dunsworth, not directed at one.

  “There were many burials that year,” Reverend Thurstow said. “Wellsted was afflicted by a virulent fever. The incumbent at the time recorded details. Fully a half of the village caught the pestilence, and a quarter of the afflicted died. It fell hardest on the young, as you see, but it carried away others, leaving some families in dire straits.”