Rather than try to catch the Duke at home again, when he would have to dodge acquaintances in the street, Gideon decided to leave a message. The porter invited him in to write it, and they walked through the massive hall, lined with dozens of leather buckets bearing the Ormonde crest, coronet, and monogram, to a downstairs antechamber, which was furnished with nothing more than a single table and two simple chairs. The porter fetched a piece of parchment and inkstand and stood at the door, while Gideon accomplished his task.
He had just finished scribbling the note, in which he begged the Duke to appoint a time when he might deliver some news about his Cousin Jonathan, giving his address at the White Horse in Smithfield, when he heard a lady’s voice calling out for the porter.
The man gave a start. “That’ll be the masther’s daughter,” he said, as light footsteps came towards them through the hall. “I’ll have to see what her ladyship wants. Just you stay here.”
As soon as he went through the door, Gideon hid himself behind it. He could hear the porter’s response and the voice of the lady who had called.
He recognized it as belonging to the Lady Elizabeth, the Duke’s eldest daughter, an unmarried lady of Gideon’s age. They had met as children and had danced together at Court, paired by rank in the minuet.
She asked the porter who had rung the bell, in an anxious tone that hardly seemed warranted by the event. It was unusual for a lady to concern herself with the identity of an evening visitor, particularly the Lady Elizabeth, who with her wit and charm had always attracted friends. Even the impossible-to-please Dean of Dublin Cathedral, Jonathan Swift, confessed to being one of her admirers.
Gideon was torn between the desire to set an old friend at ease and uncertainty as to how he would be received. The porter assured her that it was no one she knew—just a tradesman on business. Gideon heard her doubt, and he longed to reassure her that she had nothing to fear. But the moment’s delay had made his position clear.
The Duke would not want his daughter dragged into a conspiracy. Neither would he wish her to converse with a man charged with murder, a person he might believe was guilty.
Something as tight as a clamp closed about Gideon’s heart.
In another moment, the porter had convinced her that the visitor was not worthy of her notice, and she retreated upstairs. After waiting to make sure she would not reverse her steps, Gideon handed the note to the porter in the hall and headed out, careful to make no noise as he went. He left Ormonde House behind him and started to walk with no destination in mind.
The inability to divulge his presence to a friend had bothered him more than he cared to admit. Disappointment spawned his anger, and he strode from the Square, careless of his gait. Fortunately, night, his friend, had fallen now. It would hide him again.
He wandered blindly, made heedless by his temper, until he found himself perilously near Hawkhurst House. He had automatically turned his steps up Duke Street towards home. Burlington House, with its gate and imposing courtyard, loomed just before him. Only one sharp turn to the right and he would see the walls of his house.
The clamping sensation threatened to squeeze the life from his chest. It took all his fortitude not to give in to the wish to see his home. He could not think of one place in this whole parish where he would be safe.
That left him with the choice of retiring to the White Horse, to a flea-ridden bed, or finding a coffee house in the east end of London where few aristocrats would ever go.
He was about to settle for the latter, when he thought of the only house in Westminster where he might be welcomed. With a slightly lighter feeling, he turned and directed his steps to the Palace Yard.
* * * *
Earlier in that week, Harrowby had come home from the House of Lords and had related, with a touch of unease, that Mr. Walpole had revealed that the Committee of Secrecy would soon be ready to make its report.
“He had the Tories quaking in their boots, I can tell you,” he said, to the ladies and Dudley, who had gathered in the salon before going for a stroll in the park. “’Pon my honour! But the man seems out for blood! He said there would be charges of treason laid—against Harley, I’m sure, but it seems there will be others. He even said, ‘Heads will roll.’”
Harrowby gave a shudder, while nervously playing with his fob.
“But why should Lord Oxford or anyone else get his head cut off?” Isabella was straightening a ribbon on her bodice and asked this in the tone of a woman making conversation with her husband when her mind was really on something else.
Harrowby’s gaze was unfocused, too, but he answered, “They will say that he schemed with Louis to end the war and did it secretly, behind our allies’ backs.”
“Then maybe he deserves to die.” Mrs. Mayfield folded her arms with a righteous huff. “I don’t hold with creatures who connive behind their friends’ backs, and I’m sure his Majesty don’t either.”
No one would have dared to challenge the accuracy of this statement, but Harrowby was not even listening.
“There was some talk of papers,” he mumbled, musing aloud. Then, fright leapt into his eyes. “I must speak to James Henry.” He started to bolt from the room, tossing over his shoulder, “You will forgive me, Isabella, if I do not come with you?”
“James Henry left for Rotherham Abby yesterday,” Hester said, before he could reach the door.
“Plague take him! You’re right!” Harrowby turned, and his face was pale. “We must send for him immediately. I don’t even know what sort of papers my cousin kept, but they must be burned right now!”
“St. Mars’s papers?” Isabella was confused.
Hester glanced at her aunt and saw that she had tensed.
“No—well, perhaps his, too! But I was speaking of his father’s, don’t y’know. The old gentleman was a terrible Tory. I don’t know what he might have written down.” Another thought struck him and his eyes grew wide. “What if the government took his papers after he died? They took Bolingbroke’s about then.”
“But wouldn’t someone have told you?” Hester asked. “I cannot believe that James Henry would fail to inform you of something so important.”
Her calmness and sense finally penetrated his panic. A desperate relief lit his features. “That must be so! You are sure to be right, Mrs. Kean. What a treasure you are, to be sure! Now, you must write to James Henry at Rotherham Abby and tell him to burn all my cousin’s papers. Then, there will be nothing left to worry about.”
“I still don’t see what Lord Hawkhurst’s papers have to do with Lord Oxford’s head,” Isabella complained.
“Nothing, my dear!” Harrowby’s mood had turned ebullient, now that Hester had quieted his fears. “There is very likely nothing in them at all. But, with Walpole’s blood up the way it is, I assure you, we cannot be too prudent.” He reached over the back of her chair to pinch her cheek. “And you wouldn’t like to lose your pretty coronet, just because of some bit of twaddle the old man jotted down, now would you?” He sobered slightly. “But, now that I think of it, I don’t want any of you writing letters or keeping diaries, or whatnot.”
“That won’t be hard,” Dudley said, with a laugh. “I never write letters unless I have to.”
“I hate the very thought of writing,” Mrs. Mayfield agreed.
“Good for you!”
“Hester does all my writing for me,” Isabella said, with more honesty than her mother.
Harrowby turned to face Hester again, but he was not as comfortable giving her a strict order as he was with the others.
“Well, I suppose some kinds of letters will have to be written, but you must be cautious Mrs. Kean! Nothing must be said about the King or the government or, especially, about any person or anything over the water! In fact, if I was you, I should never employ the word water in any of my letters.”
Hester managed to smother her smile, long enough to assure him in a serious tone of voice that the word water had never figured largely in her prose.<
br />
He accepted her reassurances with gravity.“Well, you can thank me for alerting you to the danger of using it. I doubt you would have suspected it on your own.”
Hester agreed with him, and as he had just given her the task of writing a letter to James Henry, she excused herself from their walk. She saw them off before seeking pen and paper in Isabella’s escritoire.
The message would have to be carried down by one of the grooms, for she dared not trust it to the post. If government agents were reading all letters, as everyone believed, their ears were sure to perk up at the news that a peer’s papers were being destroyed. And whether there were any papers remaining at Rotherham Abby that could implicate the former earl, Hester knew that there once had been.
That was not the largest problem facing her, however, she reflected with pain, for she would have to ask James Henry to burn the remains of his dead father’s thoughts without revealing that she knew what their relationship had been.
* * * *
A few days later, Harrowby and Dudley left for Guilford with a great many other gentlemen to watch the horse matches with the King. Their conversation over chocolate that morning had consisted of excited speculations as to which horse was likely to win the Fifty-Pound Plate. Harrowby had not decided whether to put his money on the Duke of Somerset’s bay, Star, or the Lord Great Chamberlain’s grey horse, Governor. Dudley was sure it would be a mistake to underestimate Mr. Broderick’s Hermitage. But Harrowby cautioned him not for any fortune in the world to bet on Sir William Windham’s gelding, Smiling-Tom.
“Why not?” Dudley asked. “Have you seen the horse?”
Harrowby pursed his lips and arched his brows, as if he could tell his brother-in-law a thing or two, but all he said was, “There have been whispers. And it wouldn’t be wise to be seen to support Sir William right now, or even his horse.”
That seemed to put him in mind of the fright he had taken earlier in the week. His parting orders for his wife were to be careful who she was seen with. The Committee had not yet delivered its report, but would after the King’s return.
He was no sooner gone than Isabella announced her intention of going out in the evening, and of taking Hester with her. It was the privilege of a married lady to go wherever she liked, unescorted by either mother or husband, but that night would be the first that Isabella exercised her new rights.
A pair of footmen were all the protection they needed as, later, they wandered from one friend’s tea table to another’s drawing-room. But, finding nothing to hold her interest at the first house, where the company discussed the latest play, or at the second, where Mr. Pope was roundly criticized for taking on the translation of Homer, Isabella said that they would drop by Lady Oglethorpe’s.
In vain, Hester reminded her that Harrowby wanted her to exercise exceptional prudence in her choice of companions. Lady Oglethorpe’s invitation had promised the sort of entertainment that Isabella particularly liked. And she shrugged off her husband’s concern with the argument that several of their most intimate friends knew and visited Lady Oglethorpe. Hester suspected that she was thinking of Lord Lovett in particular, for they had not seen him at all that week. And her uneasiness encompassed the worry that Harrowby’s absense would give Isabella a chance to advance her flirtation with that gentleman, whose handsome ways many ladies would find hard to resist.
But to try to dissuade Isabella from indulging her desires was fruitless, and Hester soon found herself being handed down from the Hawkhurst carriage in the Palace Yard.
Their hostess greeted them with delight. In her withdrawing room, they found some of the friends Isabella had alluded to, Sir Humphrey and Colonel Potter among them. Lord Lovett, however, was not there. Sir Humphrey whispered that their friend had been called away to Kensington to conduct some business for a relative, but that he had promised to see them at Isabella’s card party that week. Isabella would have pouted and left, if Lady Oglethorpe had not presented another gentleman, a man dressed in exceptional finery with a very fine periwig.
Despite a rather unprepossessing name, Blackwell, he had the decided manner of a courtier. A quantity of lace at his throat, a coat and vest embroidered with flowers and birds in the palest of shades, and a slightly foreign air suggested that he had just arrived from the Continent. His luxurious blond peruke had to have come from France. He had large, rather flattened features, and hazel eyes that held no warmth. His interest in Isabella increased the moment that Lady Oglethorpe told him her title.
“And Lord Hawkhurst?” he inquired, as he bent to kiss her hand. “He is with you this evening, I hope?”
“No, my husband has gone to Guilford with the King. To see the horse matches.”
“And left his pretty, young lady all alone? One hopes that he will not learn to regret such a serious neglect.” The compliment was delivered with the appropriate smile. Nevertheless, Hester got the feeling that the gentleman’s keenness had waned as soon as he had learned Harrowby’s whereabouts. She doubted she would have to worry that this gentleman would try to lead Isabella astray, but she wondered what his interest in Harrowby was. Most likely he was searching for a patron like everyone else.
Colonel Potter, who was still waiting to hear whether Harrowby would engage him as his secretary, came over to join them. Since asking for the position, he had not missed a single one of Harrowby’s levées.
“I trust his lordship will not deprive us of his company for long?”
Before Isabella could answer, Sir Humphrey piped up, “I hope not, too. Lovett and I have taken a box for the opera on Saturday, and we are counting on all of you to come. We’ve taken a box on the stage—though I’ve read that none of the audience will be permitted to set foot upon it, what with all the moving scenery and machines. It sounds quite the spectacle. You must join us, Potter. Lady Oglethorpe has had to refuse me, but you would be very welcome in her place, Blackwell.”
Sir Humphrey issued this last invitation with the geniality that was so much a part of his nature.
Both gentlemen accepted; however, Hester noticed a moment’s hesitation on Mr. Blackwell’s part. A pointed look from Lady Oglethorpe appeared to decide him. Her commanding gaze moved from Isabella’s face back to his, before he said, with scarcely concealed annoyance, “I should not waste so imminent a chance of meeting my Lord Hawkhurst, I suppose.” He flashed Lady Oglethorpe a venomous smile. “If he is not to be met with here, where one might have hoped to have seen him, then a greater effort will obviously be called for.”
He made no efforts to charm Isabella, other than an attempt to conceal his immense boredom. This failed, however, where both Isabella and her cousin were concerned. Isabella required more flirting in her entertainment, and Hester could only ponder the motive of a gentleman who expressed a wish to know another, when that wish was obviously not his. She was certain that Lady Oglethorpe had forced Mr. Blackwell’s hand or else he would not have accepted Sir Humphrey’s invitation.
Colonel Potter took advantage of Isabella’s presence to press his suit. He told her of the services he had performed for his superior officers in the Foot-Guards.
Hester said, “I read that the King is to review your regiment next week in Hyde Park. You must be very busy with the preparations.”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she sensed that she had said something wrong. Colonel Potter appeared discomfited. He recoiled, like a horse resisting the halter.
“He’s not that busy now,” Sir Humphrey said in the uneasy silence. “Poor Potter’s been dismissed. He was replaced along with a number of our friends. Just got his letter this week.”
Colonel Potter could not hide his annoyance. He nearly rounded on Sir Humphrey, before Isabella exclaimed, “Poor man! Well, you must come to work for my husband, then. A handsome gentleman will always be welcome at Hawkhurst House.”
Colonel Potter had to restrain his temper to bow in her direction. “My lady is generous, but I hope that Lord Hawkhurst can be brought to make a de
cision in my favour soon. I am not a man to be idle. I must have employment.”
Isabella assured him of Harrowby’s complete willingness to accede to her wishes, making it clear what those would be. Hester used the moment to ask Sir Humphrey if he knew the reason the Colonel had lost his commission. James Henry would want to know if Harrowby was about to engage a man under disgrace.
It was easy to turn Sir Humphrey aside for a private word. He was a gentleman easily led, and he seldom, if ever, appeared to have a fixed object in mind. His temper was congenial to a fault, for he seemed completely unaware that his friend’s confidence had been breached.
“Why were Colonel Potter and the other officers you spoke of dismissed?”
The baronet assumed a knowing expression. “They are Tories, don’t ye know. The King has seen what is coming. He thinks if he makes all his officers Whigs, then he won’t have anything to worry about. But he’s wrong, of course.” This last, and most treasonous of statements, was said in an offhand tone.
Amazed that Sir Humphrey could speak so casually of rebellion, Hester threw a nervous look over her shoulder and found that not only was Colonel Potter frowning at them, but that Mr. Blackwell, too, had tilted an ear in their direction. His expression was more difficult to read than the Colonel’s, but it gave Hester a sudden chill.
Lady Oglethorpe glided over to take Sir Humphrey by the arm. “My dear, you must tell me what you know about this opera of Mr. Handel’s. The news-sheets say that Nicolino will play Amadis, but who will sing Oriana’s part if Mrs. Robinson is ill?”
She had deftly turned the conversation into a safer channel. Hester allowed her to draw Sir Humphrey away, and soon most of the guests had seated themselves for cards. With no money to wager, Hester did not play, so she could do nothing but watch Isabella lose more of St. Mars’s fortune, saying a prayer on every turn of the cards.
Chapter Seven
Bring then these blessings to a strict account;
The Spider's Touch Page 12
