The Bishop’s palace stood back from the waterfront at the top of the largest square in the port, a magnificent three-storey building in the classical style, the brilliant illuminations seeming to pierce the air of increasing Toulonais gloom. The steps leading up to the entrance were lined with guards dressed in fifteenth-century uniforms. On being announced, Markham could not be sure, when heads turned, how many had reacted to his name, and how many to Eveline’s beauty. Certainly the men they passed seemed eager to ignore him and extend their greetings to her.
Miss Lizzie Gordon, acting as hostess on behalf of her uncle, was close by the entrance. The contrast between her and the French girl could not have been more striking. Her dress was discreet and primrose yellow, which with her fair hair and pale complexion made her look the very image of Anglo-Saxon sobriety. Only her turban, of heavily patterned yellow and blue silk, and fixed to her head by a large pearl-encrusted pin, hinted at extravagance. When he bent to kiss her hand, he took his time, gently rubbing her fingertips between finger and thumb. The action, a clear signal of interest, was not reciprocated, but he smiled nevertheless as he stood upright, an air of amusement reflected in his eye.
‘I fear your uncle was given a jaundiced report regarding our previous meeting.’
‘He pointed out to me, Lieutenant, that having been in Italy for so long, I was not privy to the latest happenings in London.’
He could just imagine what Elphinstone had said to his niece. Serving in the Russian army wouldn’t do anything for his standing either, since that was generally considered to be a refuge for scoundrels. He would have been condemned utterly, with every detail of his liaisons and his duel laid out in all their gory detail, underpinned by a reflection of his status, both his lack of wealth and the old accusation of cowardice. Certainly not a suitable companion for one such as Lizzie Gordon.
‘Such things can be much exaggerated.’
‘Indeed?’ she replied, as though eager to hear how that could be so.
‘Close to, I’m as dull a creature as the next man. I do hope you have space on your card to permit me a dance, Miss Gordon, so that I can prove this?’
‘Of course,’ she replied, flushing slightly. He could almost see her lack of propriety fighting with her sense of decorum. Part of her was afire with curiosity about the man in front of her. Yet she was also alarmed by his presence, fearful that her knowledge of his reputation as a rake would not protect her. The hint of rouge in her cheeks made his smile even more marked.
‘Good.’ He came forward a fraction, enough to smell the scent wafted upwards by the warmth of her body, his eyes boring into hers. ‘Now, if you will permit me, I have undertaken to escort a family of French refugees. I cannot, regardless of my own inclinations, leave them to their own devices.’
The flash of anger cheered him immensely, hinting as it did at an independent spirit, a person who, regardless of their upbringing and education, could be expected to rebel against convention. ‘If they are the people you arrived with, I hardly think the word refugee appropriate.’
That was a statement it was hard to argue with, given their evident affluence. Nor did they lack the social graces. Eveline was surrounded by men eager to catch her eye, and Rossignol père was in a heated discussion with Hanger. The Picards were walking around the room, introducing Pascalle Rossignol to the leading citizens of the town, which effectively left him at a loose end. He walked over to fetch a drink, aware that people, seeing him coming, tended to avoid his eye. All except one.
‘Markham, is it not?’
‘Captain Nelson,’ he replied, with a slight bow. He turned to the man with Nelson, a bull-like individual whose ruddy countenance was screwed up in evident disapproval.
‘Allow me to name Captain Troubridge, of the frigate Castor.’
‘Sir.’
‘You’re off the Hebe?’ he said abruptly.
The tone was unfriendly, the look damning. ‘I am, sir.’
‘De Lisle told me of you. We had dinner, him, myself and his officers, not two nights ago.’
The sarcasm was unnecessary and probably a mistake, but he couldn’t help himself. ‘Alas, sir, as a mere soldier, I can’t hope to dine in such elevated company. Nor could I pretend to match the wit of the Hebe’s wardroom. Why, I’m all envy.’
A small growl started in Troubridge’s throat, but was overborne by Nelson, who spoke as though the nuances of that short exchange had completely passed him by. He patted Markham reassuringly on the arm.
‘I came across this fellow showing his men the art of musketry, Troubridge. He’s a damn fine shot, who’ll see off any Frenchman who comes within range. I daresay he’s a dab hand with pistols too.’
Markham looked at Nelson, to see if there was some kind of warning there for his fellow captain, that Troubridge should not react to the quite blatant way this marine officer had put him down. But Nelson’s pale blue eyes held no expression other than a degree of regard.
‘It was edifying to see that,’ he continued. ‘Just as I was delighted to see you taking instruction from your sergeant. You are, I believe, an army officer, despite your coat.’
‘He is that,’ said Troubridge sharply. ‘Your notoriety precedes you, sir. I doubt you’d be still commissioned in the navy. That is, if you’d ever had the wit to achieve it.’
‘Hush, Thomas,’ said Nelson. Then he turned back to Markham. ‘I fear we sailors hold ourselves a cut above Bullocks.’
‘So I have observed,’ Markham replied, glaring at Troubridge. ‘Though nothing I have experienced warrants it.’
Nelson laughed. ‘We do have some cause. We’re all obliged to serve our time as mids’, studying the art of what we do. And we’re examined, which makes us feel very sure of ourselves.’
Markham was just about to list the fields of battle on which he’d been examined, but the other naval officer spoke first.
‘Hood,’ said Troubridge softly, responding to a sudden commotion by the door.
The commander-in-chief stood there, surrounded by all the senior officers, admirals British and Spanish, and generals from all the nationalities, surveying the room. Mulgrave was missing, having been indisposed for days by a bilious attack. Regardless of the splendid uniforms that surrounded him, his air of authority was obvious. After a few bows to those he recognised, he stepped forward into the throng, the good burghers of Toulon rushing eagerly to engage his attention.
‘Like pigs at the trough,’ said Troubridge.
‘An unkind allusion, Thomas,’ said Nelson before turning back to Markham. ‘My good friend has little time for our hosts.’
‘They’re Frenchmen, aren’t they? God knows, Nelson, I’ve heard you curse that race enough.’
‘We must, I think, count as a friend any man who resists the Revolutionaries. They, after all, are the enemy.’
‘You’re dissembling,’ Troubridge growled. ‘You’ve no more patience with our presence here than I have.’
‘Captain Troubridge maligns me, Markham,’ replied Nelson, without rancour. ‘He is of the opinion that we should never have landed in the first place. He feels that rather than defend the place we should have destroyed it, burnt every ship that we could not man, then sailed away.’
‘An opinion I thought you shared.’
‘I admit a degree of ambivalence.’ He indicated Hood coming their way, and finished his sentence quickly before turning to face the admiral. ‘And since the responsibility does not rest with me. I’m content to obey my orders.’
‘Nelson, Troubridge,’ said Hood, before turning to look at Markham, standing to attention by their side.
‘Good evening, sir,’ Nelson responded, following the admiral’s look. ‘May I present Lieutenant Markham, of the Hebe. He is the fellow who destroyed the guns at Bregaillon, the first time the enemy set them up.’
‘Are you, indeed?’ demanded Hood, which made the object of this abrupt question turn back to face him. His eyes had been on Nelson, who’d behaved, up till
now, as though he didn’t really know George Markham from Adam. Clearly that wasn’t the case. And if he knew about the attack of the Batterie de Bregaillon, he knew about everything else.
‘The operation failed,’ said Troubridge. ‘The Dons lost half their men and the guns were back in place before nightfall.’
‘But it was exceeding gallant, Thomas, was it not?’ These words were spoken without Nelson taking his eyes off the admiral for a second.
Hood nodded. ‘I suppose it was, Nelson.’
‘I think that sentiment would be best conveyed to the officer involved, sir.’
‘I daresay he can hear me at this range,’ growled Hood.
Markham was embarrassed as Hood passed on. Clearly he’d responded reluctantly, which left Nelson beaming with pleasure. Sam Hood was notoriously reserved, and apparently not given to praising anyone if it could be avoided. Nelson had forced the remark out of him for what seemed like his own amusement.
‘If you will forgive me,’ Markham said, as the band struck up, ‘I have several dances booked.’
‘How lucky you are, Markham, to be so accomplished that the fair sex queue up to dance with you. It is not a skill that I have mastered.’
He nearly blurted out the question of which skill Nelson was alluding to. But the warm smile, at once both so ingenuous and deep, stopped him. He bowed again and turned to leave, finding himself hemmed in by the crush that followed in Hood’s wake. As he eased a way through he heard Troubridge admonish his friend.
‘You baited Hood, there, Horatio, and he won’t forget it.’
‘Good!’ Nelson replied emphatically, in a voice very different to the one Markham had heard up until now. ‘Perhaps he’ll learn that a little recognition goes far, and cease to be so damned stiff.’
‘What do you think of this rumour about a Bourbon Prince coming to help us hold Provence?’
The reply Nelson made to that was lost in the babble of conversation that surrounded Markham. On the other side of the crush he saw several men leading ladies onto the dance floor, Eveline and Miss Gordon amongst them. He also noticed a party of Spanish officers leaving, and wondered idly where they were off to. Several brothels existed in Toulon, as they did in any port. For all their rigid decorum, and deep religion, it looked as though these men preferred such places to an organised ball. Normally he was of the same opinion, and in his mind’s eye he could not avoid conjuring up the memories of some of the better bawdy houses he’d visited. On balance, London was better than St Petersburg. Madrid, he suspected, being a pious Catholic city, was the most comprehensively served in that respect.
‘What are you smiling at, Lieutenant?’ asked Pascalle Rossignol.
‘The music, mademoiselle,’ he responded hurriedly, well aware that his true thoughts would shock her to the marrow.
‘It affects me in the same way,’ she replied, adding a coquettish look.
Markham was too much of a gentleman to miss the allusion. ‘Then might I have the honour of this dance?’
Her hands went to her ample bosom with theatrical surprise ‘Me, Lieutenant Markham?’
‘It would be a pleasure,’ he replied, since there was nothing else he could say.
The reaction, when he took to the floor, was intriguing. The Picards nodded approvingly, but Rossignol was frowning. Eveline gave him a look that was at once friendly and understanding. But Lizzie Gordon, dancing with Augustus Hanger, responded differently. Not sure if he’d seen correctly, he looked hard, ignoring her partner’s glare, when the dance took Pascalle close to the primrose-clad English beauty. The twin lines that appeared above her nose, the same as he had seen the first day they’d met, clearly indicated equal disapproval. Was she, he wondered, questioning why a man like him should be partnering a lady like Pascalle when he could have been dancing with her?
Pascalle prattled on endlessly, seeming quite deliriously happy to be in the arms of such a handsome officer. Markham thought her a little silly, but nevertheless put all his effort in to covering up her inability to dance. His liking for women extended even to scatterbrained ones, and he could not bring himself to do other than his best. The fatality of such an approach was brought home to him as soon as they stopped. Pascalle, ample chest heaving, brought forth her card and signed him up for several more dances.
He partnered Eveline on his next outing, welcoming the admiration that was directed at her, the way that she swayed revealingly inside her loose dress. And the degree of intimacy they enjoyed as the steps brought them into close proximity was even harder to disguise than her beauty, manifesting itself in dozens of different discreet gestures and smiles. Miss Gordon found this even harder to bear, and hardly took her eyes off the couple, much to the chagrin of Midshipman Driberg, busily boasting to her. The poetic justice of that made Markham perform at his very best.
Yet he wasn’t solely concentrating on Eveline. Lizzie Gordon had appeared to him an almost unassailable target for seduction. Being English, and from the stratum of society in which she moved, he reckoned that nothing short of a miracle would be required to get her into bed. But her behaviour tonight, reacting first to Pascalle and now Eveline, denoted a degree of jealousy that hinted at a different character from the one he had supposed. The sirens, which should have been ringing in his head, warning him of the danger he was courting were, as usual, drowned out by the thrill of the chase. Elphinstone’s niece was a stuck-up prig with no notion of what pleasure she could have. Nothing, not even Eveline’s presence, could stop him from imagining what it would be like to change that.
He danced with Pascalle again to add to her annoyance, before making his way across the floor. The stony face cheered him immensely, being so much more encouraging than indifference.
‘Miss Gordon, I have belatedly come to claim my dance.’
‘Have you, sir,’ she snapped.
‘And the crowning prize of the evening, of course.’
The smile on his face clearly infuriated her. The way she snapped her fan shut had several heads turning in their direction. If Markham had cared to look, he would have noticed that two of them belonged to Elphinstone and Hanger. But he had eyes only for her when she held out her hand. As he led her on to the floor, she spoke, seeking by a change of subject to deflect his unnerving attentions by putting him in his place.
‘This must seem uncommon dull after London.’
‘Sure, at this very moment, it is anything but.’
‘Oh come, Lieutenant. The attractions of the metropolis are obvious. Gaming clubs and the like. I believe you moved in rather raffish circles, that Mr Sheridan was a friend.’
‘An acquaintance would be a more accurate description, though he did secure me a box at Drury Lane once or twice.’
‘You are fond of amateur theatricals, I hear.’
That was a very revealing remark, one that demonstrated just how much Elphinstone had imparted. One of his father’s friends in America had been Clinton’s Adjutant General, Major André. A great lover of spectacle, he’d roped in young George Markham to play several, mostly juvenile, parts in the plays he put on for the garrisons. In one production of Hamlet, the naval officer playing Laertes was too drunk to perform. Thrown on into a strange part, Markham had been given a deep cut above the eye by the lead actor in the fight scene, something obviously witnessed by Lizzie’s uncle.
Not that the accident dimmed young George’s pleasure in performance. But it was ended when, one night in Philadelphia, André had cast him as a girl, a young beauty in some danger of seduction. Markham had enjoyed himself hugely. But such a performance, given the dubious inclinations of his son and heir Freddy, had nearly brought on an apoplexy in General John Markham. It would have ended anyway. André, having secured the betrayal of Benedict Arnold, was caught on his way back from West Point, and hanged by the Americans as a spy. Nevertheless the theatre was a bug which, bitten by once, was hard to shake.
‘I had the privilege of seeing some fine acting,’ he replied. ‘Certainly Sid
dons and her brother, Kemble, were very fine, though I thought the child actor Master Betty somewhat overblown. Calling him Young Roscius is too flattering.’
‘I saw Sarah Siddons perform in Bath.’
‘How lucky you are.’
‘Do you really think so? I am given to understand that she’s rather a low creature.’
The smile never left his face, but the tone of his voice was hard. ‘Then I can only suppose, Miss Gordon, that you sat in the Theatre Royal with your eyes shut and your ears closed.’
The sharp intake of breath caused her to hiss. ‘I take it you admire her, sir.’
‘I do. Both as an actress and as a friend.’
That was gilding it a bit. He did know Sarah Siddons, having pursued her eldest daughter for several weeks, not truly intimately enough to term her a friend. However, it had the desired effect on Lizzie Gordon, forcing her into an abrupt change of tack.
‘There is a rumour that a Bourbon prince is on his way from Aachen. Imagine, the Dauphin here.’
Troubridge had said the same thing. Artois and Provence, the late King’s brothers, had led the flight of the nobles after the fall of the Bastille, an act which had done little to help their eldest brother. Artois hungered after the crown, but couldn’t claim it since no-one knew the fate of the heir.
‘King Louis is dead, and who knows what has happened to his poor son. Whoever comes to Provence, it is unlikely to be the Dauphin. And given their past behaviour, I doubt if the late King’s brothers will put themselves in any place where they perceive themselves to be in danger.’
Her lips pursed. ‘I think you malign them.’
‘Would that you were right,’ he replied with deep irony.
The orchestra started playing, and the first dancers began to move. ‘But it would be natural for Provence, at least, to come here. These are his own domains, the one place where the Revolution has been defeated.’
A Shred of Honour Page 21
