The Spider's Touch

by Patricia Wynn

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to turn you out—” she started.

  But he stopped her with a glare. “You’ll do as you’re told! Mr. Brown told me to watch over all his belongings, and that means you, too.”

  Her eyes grew round, then they relaxed into a cautious, but friendly stare.

  Tom could not be certain, but he thought he detected a measure of relief in her gaze.

  He knew he should say something cutting—something like, he wouldn’t have her wagging her tongue about Mr. Brown to every man who stopped at the inn. He couldn’t let her think he cared if she slept with Mr. Menzies or anyone else. But he couldn’t bring himself to say it, not when it just wasn’t fair.

  St. Mars had given no sign that he regarded her as his property. But, Tom reasoned, she had always belonged to somebody or other. Better St. Mars than anyone else he could think of.

  She was still staring up at him, as if wondering what had brought his anger on, when he had always been so careful not to take any notice of her.

  Tom felt a hoarseness in his throat. “I just don’t like this Mr. Menzies, is all.”

  The smile Katy gave him was rather sad. “Neither do I. So I’m glad if Mr. Brown doesn’t want me to please him.”

  “I’m sure he don’t. Not him or anyone else. You’ve got enough work to do, and you couldn’t do a good enough job if—well, if—“ His tongue felt tied.

  “I understand, Mr. Barnes.” She gave a lift to her shoulders. “Thank you very much for giving up your room.”

  Chagrinned by the stories he had made up, Tom lowered his head and mumbled a goodnight.

  Then, he did not breathe again until the door to St. Mars’s chamber was closed behind him and locked with a key.

  Chapter Two

  Fools! who from hence into the notion fall,

  That Vice or Virtue there is none at all.

  If white and black blend, soften and unite

  A thousand ways, is there no black or white?

  Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain;

  ‘Tis to mistake them, costs the time and pain.

  II. iv.

  His opponent was swift and keen, with a wrist so astonishingly supple that Gideon had been forced more than once to leap sideways to avoid the point of his blade. The two men padded about the empty room, silent except for the sound of their breathing—each breath coming faster now—Gideon’s light and quick, his opponent’s deeper, like the huffing of a bull. Gideon would not make the same error he had made the last time the two had fought. He would not mistake the master’s wheezing for a sign that he had tired. His carelessness on that earlier occasion had almost cost him an eye.

  In a moment of recklessness he had pressed an advantage that had existed only in his mind. It was a feeling that had no place either in a master’s classroom or on the dueling field.

  “Attention! Parez...riposte!”

  He steadied himself for the moves. A sudden lunge. His parry en tierce. The master’s riposte and his parry again.

  With a quickness that surprised even him, he followed his parry with a lunge. But a start from his opponent made him check himself, even as Monsieur Andolini drew away. At the safe distance of a few paces, the Frenchman touched the point of his small-sword to the floor and regarded his pupil with a cold eye.

  “Monsieur le vicomte grows tired of Andolini, oui? He wishes to dispatch him to the l’enfer?”

  “No, of course not. Forgive me. I would never be so careless. When I see an opening, though, I find myself eager to take it.”

  “If monsieur had taken that particular opening, I am not certain that Andolini would have parried it in time. In that case, monsieur would have found himself accused of murder in France as well as England.”

  This last was said so wryly that Gideon knew no offense had been meant. Still, he found it hard to laugh at a jest, even a sympathetic one, about his unhappy situation. Perhaps in time he would be able to find a certain irony in it, but not so recently after his father’s death. Only two weeks ago, he had come to the Chateau of St. Mars, his French estate, hoping to find some manner of relief—here, where he was not an outlaw and had the freedom to go anywhere he pleased.

  But the relief he had prayed for had not come. Certainly he had welcomed that first day when he could ride out in the sunlight without the fear of being caught. He had been able to breathe with the all freedom of the innocent man he was. But soon, his malaise had returned—not from any fear of being captured, but from a combination of guilt and loneliness that refused to go away. Guilt, because even though he had not murdered his father, he knew that his own foolishness had made it easier for his father’s murderer to kill.

  And loneliness, because, no matter how welcome he was here on his own estate, his heart belonged to his home in Kent.

  “I have offended my lord.” Andolini bowed, with the serenity of a man who knew the superiority of his fighting skills.

  “It is nothing.” Gideon shook off his gloom. “You must not regard my ill-humours. They come upon me with no warning, but they have nothing to do with you.”

  Andolini’s face betrayed a concern that surprised Gideon, for they were not of long acquaintance. The master had only come to St. Mars this week. Gideon had stumbled upon him on the road to Chateaubriant, where Andolini had gone to give lessons to its lord. Restless and eager for distraction—though not for the company he had found at Versailles—Gideon had invited Andolini to instruct him at St. Mars before returning to Paris. Their sessions, numbering two per day and each lasting for an hour or two, had restored the strength Gideon had lost when the wound from a sword had festered, rendering him as weak as a posset with no ale.

  Gideon had taken to the Frenchman, who offered him this counsel now, “Monsieur must always resist the temptation to make the lunge, especially when dueling with a poor student of the art. It is the unexpected that gets one killed. The épée is not the English back-sword, my lord. It is not even the French rapier.”

  “That is understood. At least—” Gideon laughed— “I say I understand, but it is not in my nature to think before I act. My impulsiveness has landed me in trouble on more than one occasion.”

  “Then it is good that monsieur has the grace of a cat. For only a cat will always land on its feet.”

  “I cannot always do that, Maître Andolini.”

  The master’s expression, which had retained a trace of the pedagogue, underwent a significant change. He spoke with genuine sympathy. “Mais non, bien sûr. There is no one who can always land on his feet, monsieur, but you have the grace and the heart to endure more misfortune than your enemies. Your quickness will be your ally. Just do not let it lead you. You must be the master of it. There is no place for carelessness in the duello. It will only lead to a contretemps, which is not a good thing.”

  “I shall try to keep that in mind, monsieur.”

  They put their swords away and walked to the center of the house. At the top of the marble stairs they parted, Andolini to his room to collect his belongings, Gideon to his chamber to dress for a solitary meal.

  Today’s lesson had been their last. Gideon was sorry to see the master go. They had enjoyed conversation over their meals, and the lessons had been invaluable. During their sessions, too, Gideon had come close to rejoicing in the use of his body and in the challenge of meeting someone whose skills were superior to his own. But caution, which had to be used in a classroom in which two men were armed with épées, with no protection from their blades, had kept the exercise from quieting his restless soul. He needed something unrestrained to purge him of his unhappy thoughts. He wanted something to make him burn, a sense of purpose, a quest, or a goal. But everything he truly cared about had been torn from his reach.

  Andolini’s sympathy was the first he had received since his last meeting with Hester Kean, which perhaps was the reason why, while Andolini had been speaking, an image of her had briefly entered his head. Gideon had seen her again the way he had seen her last, st
anding in her bedchamber with the neck of her bodice untied. He did not know why that particular memory should have come to him then, though he had visited it many a time. Andolini had certainly looked nothing like Mrs. Kean.

  Mrs. Kean, in fact, had not looked very much like herself at that moment, when he had startled her in her room. He had waited too long to inform her of his presence, to warn her before she removed the modest piece of cloth at her breast. But it was the curve of her neck that had made him hesitate. The graceful sight of it in the glow of her candle had provoked a huskiness in his throat—one that he had been forced to clear before speaking.

  Then, her look of delight when she had turned had startled him. Her face had lit with so much welcome. Shock, he had expected. Even fear, for how could she have known for certain that he would never hurt her? They had been completely alone, with the thickness of the Abbey walls between them and anyone else. But she had been certain of her safety, and her pleasure in seeing him had warmed him in the most unsettling way.

  She completely forgot the opening at her throat, until he reminded her of it himself. And then she showed such a pretty confusion, the sort of girlish emotion that he had never expected to see on her face, for Mrs. Kean had always seemed such an imperturbable girl. She had never flinched when he had abducted her, had not shrunk when he had asked for her help in a murder involving treason, and had not screamed when she had watched him put a sword through a villain. That a little thing like an opening in her gown could throw her out of countenance brought a smile to Gideon’s lips every time he recalled it. He had actually tried not to recall it, for the pleasure it brought him was inevitably followed by the lowering realization that he might never see Mrs. Kean again.

  Shaking off this memory again, Gideon dressed himself in a fresh linen shirt with a long, ruffled jabot. He completed his costume in the style négligé, leaving the neck of his shirt open, the collar loosely turned down, and his waistcoat unbuttoned. He had lost his valet Philippe along with everything else, but he was not of a mind to replace him yet. He could not think of taking on a personal servant until he knew what his next step would be.

  On top of his dressing table lay a paper that he had found waiting for him the moment he had arrived at St. Mars. It had been sent with no message attached. Gideon picked it up and stood musing over it for, perhaps, the hundredth time.

  It was something he had read last year, along with everyone else, when many gentlemen had received it in the London post. It was a declaration from the Pretender, James Francis Stuart, which had arrived in England months after his sister Queen Anne’s death. Dated the 29th of August, 1714, and written from Plombières, where James had gone to take the waters after being rebuffed by his Majesty of France, it was the desperate plea of a prince who believed he had been betrayed by his friends.

  The first time Gideon had read it—in England, in English, and in possession of his life—he had not given it the degree of attention he did now. This copy had been printed in French, but the message was the same.

  James declared that he had been led by his supporters in England to expect that his sister would name him her successor or, failing this, that his loyal British friends would change the Act of Succession in his favour. Believing all they told him, and expecting to be restored to his throne, he had waited, leaving the management of his concerns to “his trusty and well-beloved Cousins and Counsellors, then encompassing the Throne” who, he said, from time to time sent him intelligence and encouragement. He went on to say that these counselors, “whose names, till known,” would be concealed, either falsely or foolishly, did lose the opportunity of bringing him home. And what had proved a further mortification and disappointment, when he had given notice of his intention to cross the water, he was prevented by some of his best friends.

  The news-sheets in England had reported that, on hearing of his sister’s death, James had set out from Bar-le-Duc in Lorraine, his current place of exile, for Versailles, where he had expected to receive the French king’s help. Being notified of his departure by England’s spies, Louis XIV had dispatched the Marquis de Torcy to intercept him and send him back. In the peace with England, France had agreed not to harbour the Pretender, which the marquis had reminded him. James had only been allowed to travel to Chaillot to see his mother before seeking comfort from his woes in taking the waters at Plombières.

  Although his bitterness and disappointment had always been clear, Gideon could now feel James’s emotions as strongly as his own. As recently as last autumn, all that had concerned him in the declaration was James’s refusal to forsake his Catholic religion. Unlike Charles II, he was unabashedly a papist and unwilling to pretend a conversion to the Protestant faith, though he promised that he would allow his subjects to worship as they pleased. Gideon had not known whether to admire James or blame him for his honesty, because it had certainly cost him the throne. With the former ministry in chaos—many of them professed Jacobites, according to James’s declaration—Gideon had privately concluded that the cause was lost.

  But that was before his own misfortunes had made him an exile, too. When he had arrived at St. Mars, he had opened the declaration and read it again.

  Under the Great Seal of England, which had been smuggled with his father to France, James had made several promises that he termed his Royal Will and Testament. Gideon’s eyes had immediately been drawn to the phrases that some anonymous messenger had marked for him by hand.

  “And for quieting the Minds of all our Loving Subjects from Fears,” James had written, “for offences committed against us, and our Pretences in times past, we do farther promise and declare under our Great Seal, that (as soon as Counsel can draw the same after the said Exchange) we will cause a general Indemnity (as good as any Act of Oblivion) to pass under the said Great Seal, for pardoning all Traitors, Murderers, Felons and Fugitives, and Felons of themselves, Fore-faulters, Fore-stallers, Fidlers, Fortune-Tellers, Prize-Fighters, Flesh-Eaters in Lent without License, and all other Offenders whatsoever, who have any ways acted contrary to Law.”

  Whoever sent Gideon this declaration knew what he wanted. James’s supporters were experts at offering people whatever would tempt them to his cause. And in Gideon’s case, this was not a title or a place at court. James had promised peerages to so many men that it was questionable whether he would be able to make his promises good, even if he did ascend the throne. But if he could regain it, he would be able to grant Gideon’s most profound wish with just a stroke of his pen.

  Night after night, Gideon had tried to think of a way to clear himself through the courts of justice, but he had not found any means. If he did nothing, his estates would never be restored to him, but he still did not know what he was willing to do to get them back. Make war on his countrymen? Force a king on them against their will? Take the chance that James would prove to be a tyrant and impose his Catholic religion on England?

  Gideon had met James on his tour of the Continent and had liked him. It was impossible not to like a prince with the Stuart charm. James’s followers, though, had not inspired him with their leadership or their disinterest. He had turned his back on the Stuart cause two years ago. He still could not bring himself to join them unless his path became clear.

  For nearly the hundredth time, he put James’s declaration back on his dressing table and left his chamber in search of his dinner.

  * * * *

  Harrowby’s footmen had returned to Hawkhurst House with blackened eyes and bruised lips. Then, later, the family learned that the riot had been repeated in other towns, especially in those, like Oxford, where the Stuarts had always held sway. Clearly the Tories fall from power had exacerbated the people’s feelings, and King George, by appointing only Whigs to the ministry, had convinced some that their duty was to fight.

  Isabella and her mother had to take more servants along on their shopping expeditions, for through the month of May, the Jacobites seized every pretext to riot. The anniversary of every Stuart triumph
was found to bring them out, from the Pretender’s birthday to Queen Anne’s coronation day. The populace even revived the celebration of the Restoration—not observed these past twenty years—in order to riot against King George.

  When visitors now came to Hawkhurst House or the family attended another hostess’s drawing room, the conversation turned as often to the latest political pamphlet as it did to fashion or the plays. Mrs. Mayfield declared that she never wanted to hear another word from the Tories or the Whigs, and that as far as she was concerned, they could paper the city with their accusations and justifications, but she would never lower herself to read them. If they choked on all those nasty papers, it would only serve them right.

  She refused to let the turmoil interfere with her own plans. Her mind was ever employed on the many ways that her daughter’s brilliant marriage to an earl could benefit the Mayfield fortunes. With summer approaching soon, when the Court would leave town, she had very ittle time to waste.

  She cornered Hester one morning before Isabella was awake and drew her into the small withdrawing room, which was equipped with an escritoire for the countess’s use.

  “I want you to write a letter to Mayfield for me,” she said. Mrs. Mayfield never referred to her eldest son by his first name, Dudley, for she thought it beneath his dignity. It had been she, and not her poor, abused husband, who had framed the Mayfield genealogy and hung in the hall of his house. “I want him to come immediately, so Hawkhurst can get him a place at Court.”

  “You want me to write to your son?”

  Mrs. Mayfield bristled. “I hope, you are not too good to do a service for your aunt, now that you are waiting woman to a countess! I wonder where you would be if I had not taken you into my house?”

  “I meant no ingratitude, Aunt. I was simply wondering why you would not choose to write to him yourself?”