By half past four, the staff dining hall had filled not just with women, but also with half a dozen footmen as well. Word soon spread to the stables and gardens, and those men that could, entered and took places at the back of the large hall, hats in their callused hands, heads bowed. For half an hour, each man and woman prayed silently for the Stuart and Sinclair families, but especially that their duchess might return to them safe and unharmed.
Chapter Sixteen
5:10 pm – Sunday, Café Royal, Regent St.
Constance Calliope Wychwright ordered a bottle of 1855 Château Margaux Pavilion Blanc to accompany her Marengo chicken with asparagus and carrots au Beurre. Her husband flinched when he heard his wife order the expensive wine, but kept his temper in check as he handed the menus to the waiter. “I’ll have the same, I think, but potatoes rather than asparagus spears. Can’t abide the things.”
“The ’55 Margaux?” he repeated as the slim waiter departed.
“I’m not made of money, Constance.”
“I never said you were, but we come to the Royal to be seen, or so you’ve always claimed. Now, let me tell you what I’ve learnt. This is an opportunity that will not repeat itself!”
“Yes, I’m sure it won’t,” he replied automatically. “And what opportunity might that be? Eating?”
She smirked and shook her head. “Though you make fun, this is very serious, David. I’ve thought of a way to ensure our future, but we must act soon.”
“Act? Act how, my dear? What are you jabbering on about?”
“Aubrey,” she said plainly. “It’s as clear as day, if you’re looking in the right direction. Although, his cousin might even be persuaded.”
“You’re spouting nonsense again, Connie. What’s all this about Aubrey?”
“As a potential son-in-law. Do you never listen to anything I say?”
“Not if I can help it,” he mumbled to himself. Then, seeing her stern face, the baron clarified his position. “What I mean to say, my dear, is that Aubrey is not on the cards. No matter what you might believe, he is anything but smitten with our daughter.”
“Not yet, he isn’t, but he will be. I’ve sent two baskets of roses to Haimsbury House with cards of good will, but that is hardly enough. Now that the marquess improves...”
“You must leave Haimsbury alone, Constance. The man is mourning the loss of his wife.”
“Is it certain then? The duchess is dead?” she asked, her voice rising in pitch excitedly.
Wychwright leaned closer, his hand on hers. “Hush! Constance, temper your voice! Why do you speak with such relish about so awful a possibility?”
“Is it fact or not?”
The baron stared at his wife, completely dumbfounded. “You wish her ill? Why? What has that good lady ever done to you, Connie? I am shocked by the very notion!”
Constance Wychwright cast an indignant glare at her husband; a stony stare that ordinarily sent him spouting line upon line of frantic apologies, but today the visible reproof only caused him to grow evermore concerned for his wife’s sanity.
“Connie, I understand that you have ambitions for our daughter, but tell me that you haven’t considered so hideous a possibility.”
“I said nothing of the kind. I merely asked if she were dead. Is that unusual? Our family is close to the Stuarts, and...”
“I’d hardly call us close, my dear. The duke and I have served together on Home Office committees from time to time, and we nod to one another in public, of course.”
“And my sister’s theatre box shares a curtain with Aubrey’s. Don’t forget that.”
He sighed. “I could never forget that, Connie. As to the duchess, the rumour at Parliament is that she is presumed dead, but there is no proof. Officially, she is listed as missing. We should be praying for her, not looking to prey upon her bereaved family in this dark hour!”
She sipped her water thoughtfully. “You think me a predator? That is a cruel statement, David Wychwright. I do no such thing. All I want is to make a good marriage for Cordelia. Is that predatory? Her beauty is great enough to attract any man, and whilst I’d looked to the earl as a possible suitor, a widower might also make a fine catch.”
“A widower? Constance, you cannot mean Haimsbury!”
“Charles Sinclair is one of the wealthiest men in Europe. He is young and looks to establish himself in government, but he must also produce an heir. Cordelia can provide opportunity for both.”
The baron shook his head. “You can be heartless sometimes, Constance. The Stuarts are not steppingstones to advancement. I see enough of that sort of nonsense at Whitehall. I will not watch it burrow its way into my family!”
“Steppingstones, no, but opportunities, surely. And our family is in dire need of their aid. Our sons will never provide such an opportunity for us! Three sons. Three chances at wealth and power, and each one has turned out to be a disappointment.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he argued as the waiter arrived with the wine and a basket of bread. Wychwright tasted a small sip, enjoying the lovely feel in his mouth but dreading the high cost. “Yes, that’s quite nice.” The waiter poured two glasses, set the bottle into a cooler on the table, and then left.
“Now, what were we saying?” Wychwright murmured, his thoughts now on his bank account.
“We were discussing our future, David. Our sons.”
“Ah, yes, so we were. I’m rather pleased with our sons, Connie. Thomas has found success in the Army, and William does well in his studies—or so he claims. Ned’s marriage has given us two lovely granddaughters. Why must you be so pessimistic?”
“Thomas and William remain unmarried, and Ned is content to manage a brewery! How is that successful?”
“Yes, I do wish Thomas would marry, but his military service makes that unlikely at this time,” the father bemoaned.
“He may never marry, which means the title might eventually pass to another. Neither Thomas nor William has a whit’s chance of marrying into money, therefore we must make certain that Cordelia does! We are destitute, David. Only a profitable marriage can save us.”
The baron took umbrage at this. “Hmph! My income would suffice if you didn’t take so many shopping trips!” Then, seeing her reaction, he grew kinder, taking her hand. “My dear, I would give you the world were it mine to offer, but I was but a poor baron’s son when you married me, and now I am a poor baron. When Thomas inherits the title, he will also be a poor baron, and eventually, Windermere will crumble into the dust from our penniless natures.”
“Then, let us build up that legacy with one of the Stuart fortunes. If, as you say, it is unthinkable to consider Haimsbury, then let us look at Paul Stuart. If Cordelia were to marry him, then our grandson could become the 12th Earl of Aubrey.”
“Does she show any interest in the earl?”
“She likes him a great deal, and I’m sure he’d look her way with the right coaxing,” she declared. “It will take a little nudge, but I believe I can make it happen.”
“Do nothing unseemly, Constance,” he warned her. “And do not ask our daughter to behave contrary to that of a lady.”
“I’d never dream of it,” she replied, sipping the wine thoughtfully. “There is another possibility, however. A rumour circulating amongst the card rooms of London.”
“And how would you know anything about card rooms?”
She laughed. “Not gentlemen’s card rooms, David! My dear, I refer to the whist clubs attended by ladies of quality. I played a few hands with Maisie Churchill on Friday, and she commented as to how the duchess had become ill several times at the wedding reception. Now, I have it from another friend, an assistant to Madam du Monde, who designs all the duchess’s clothing, that Elizabeth’s figure underwent dramatic shifts in the fortnight leading up to her wedding day.”
“And your point?” the ba
ron asked as he nodded to a passing parliamentarian.
“The duchess is pregnant. Or rather was, if indeed she has passed out of this life—God rest her soul.”
David Wychwright’s mouth dropped open, and he set down his butter knife. “That is never to repeated, do you hear me?”
She smiled. “Then you’ve heard it as well. I know you very well, David Thomas Wychwright. Who told you?”
His hands clenched, and the henpecked baron longed to be elsewhere instead of melting beneath his wife’s withering glare.
“It is but a rumour,” he said at last.
“Rumours are often rooted in fact. Who told you?”
“Lord Kendrick, if you must know,” Wychwright confessed. “After the final session on Monday. He didn’t mention who told him, but Kendrick happened to say how dreadful it was that the duchess was abducted, but that her delicate condition made it all the more pitiable. He even said Haimsbury may have lost not only a wife but also a child.”
“You see? Rooted in fact. Kendrick is hardly the purveyor of idle chatter. He’s a sober man with considerable influence and connexions.”
“Poor man,” Baron Wychwright observed. “Haimsbury must be beside himself with grief.”
She tapped his hand with her forefinger. “Not Haimsbury. Aubrey.”
He blinked. “What? Whatever do you mean?”
She leaned in close to offer an explanation. “It is a fact that the earl and duchess planned to marry until their sudden trip to Scotland in October. When they returned, she and Haimsbury were engaged. Isn’t that odd?”
“What are you implying?” he whispered nervously.
“Only that the duchess found herself in a bind, and when he learnt of her deception, the earl discarded her. Haimsbury picked up where his cousin left off, and...”
“You go too far, Constance. Too far! The marquess and earl have been friends for nearly a decade. Why would such fine men conspire in such a way?”
“I do not say they conspired, David. Only that one took the place of another. It’s done all the time in these old peerage families, but it leaves two openings for Cordelia.”
“Two? I don’t follow.”
“It is simple. If the earl rejected Elizabeth because he thought she’d dallied, shall we say, then who performed the dalliance? Surely, it was Haimsbury. That means that he has indeed lost a child.”
“And the second opening?”
“That Aubrey was the actual father, but Elizabeth refused to marry him, for she loved his cousin. Aubrey and the duchess spent many weeks together in France, so it is a strong possibility. If true, then it is the earl who is bereaved of a child.”
Wychwright felt as though he’d spent the past ten minutes inside a gale—lots of wind with no relief. “Constance, do you ever listen to yourself? My dear, you make no sense. How does any of this help Cordelia find a husband?”
“It’s my belief that the earl is bruised and vulnerable, but so is the marquess. Now, if Cordelia plays this hand well, then she can secure a profitable marriage to one of them. Either will do; although, the newspapers imply the marquess has grander titles yet to come.”
“That is pure speculation,” the baron reminded her. “Speak no more of it! Those tales about the queen’s legitimacy slither through London’s press every decade or so. I’ll hear no more of such idle talk.”
“If you say so, my dear. Are you busy tomorrow afternoon, David? I thought Cordelia and I would call on her young friend, Lady Adele, and that you might wish to come along. Maisie mentioned the girl is staying with Haimsbury presently.”
Wychwright had lost his appetite, and he pushed back from the table. “Take care, Constance. Lord Aubrey loves his sister, and he will not brook having her used. Not at all—not by anyone! Paul Stuart may be an eligible bachelor, but he is a formidable man. His reputation is without equal. If you cross him, then you’re done in government. I will not be a part of such deception!”
“It is not deception, David. Not really. I think only of our daughter’s happiness. Cordelia and I will do what must be done. If it means altering the bait to land the greater fish, then I’ll make sure our daughter’s is the only hook in the water. No matter what it takes, I shall discover the lure required to land that formidable fish. You may rely upon it.”
He glowered at his ambitious wife, wishing he’d married her sister Margaret instead. “I’ll hear no more of this. No, you will say not one word further, Connie! If you continue with this mad scheme, I shall go to the earl myself and warn him.”
She sighed and reached for the bread basket. “You’re right, husband. I was wrong even to suggest it.”
“Yes, well, that’s better then. Now, what shall we do this evening? As you’re in London, I could vacate my room at the club and join you at Fitzmaurice Place. Perhaps, we could have the Cartringhams over for a late supper and a game of whist.”
“That would be lovely. My sister and her husband are fine company,” his wife said automatically, her eyes on a paunched man sitting at a nearby table. She nodded, and the man raised his wine glass. “David, I think I’ll take an hour to rest at home before planning for company. This week’s left me wrung out like an old sheet.”
“Never an old sheet, my dear,” he said, recalling why he’d married her in the first place. She’d been a beauty then.
The baron reached for his wife’s hand. “Shall we put off supper with your sister until tomorrow? If you’re worn out, then perhaps an early night is best.”
“Perhaps,” the baroness sighed, happy to spend the evening without her husband. “Can you stay at your club again tonight?”
“Of course. I’d promised to have drinks with Kendrick anyway.”
The waiter arrived with their entrées, and the baroness began slicing into the chicken. “Such a mad time to be alive. Poor Elizabeth! I shall speak to Cordelia and arrange for us both to visit Lady Adele tomorrow.”
“Did you say tomorrow? No, can’t make it. I’ve a meeting at the Exchange.”
“Well, then,” she answered, “I shall write to the earl and make arrangements for a time when we can all go. It’s imperative that we show a united front, David. Although, I might call on Haimsbury this week, on my own, just to offer our condolences. See if he needs anything. Offer a bit of comfort.”
“I doubt he’s receiving,” her husband argued as he salted his potatoes.
“Not ordinary people, no, but friends are surely welcome. Lady Victoria and I spent a great deal of time talking at the reception. She’s an interesting woman. Dominant, but interesting. She suggested that we include Aubrey in our invitations from now on. She’s concerned about him, I think. Poor man must blame himself for the duchess’s death.”
Wychwright’s eyes rounded behind his silver-framed spectacles, and the right corner of his mouth twitched. “Blame himself? What sort of balderdash is that? Constance, do not repeat such a foolish notion to anyone—not ever again,” he warned in a whisper. “And stop referring to the duchess as dead. She is nothing of the kind until it is announced. It’s vile and heartless! Should anyone overhear, it could have very serious repercussions. Do you want Haimsbury and his family to learn you’ve made such statements? London has very large ears, and her streets and restaurants teem with reporters and ministers who would make considerable hay of such idle words. I’ll not hear one word more, madam. I will not! Am I clear?”
The baroness had heard her husband spout similar warnings often, over the years, and she knew how to handle his temper. “I merely repeat what others are whispering—for your ears alone.” She glanced again in the other man’s direction, but this time her husband caught sight of it.
“Why do you look at that vile person, Connie?”
“Vile? That’s an odd statement. He’s an influencer of powerful men. Isn’t that what you once told me?” she countered skillfully. “Surely, cu
rrying the favour of such a man is helpful to your career.”
“Clive Urquhart may be influential, but he is a pot-bellied serpent. He writhes through government offices as though he owns them, spreading his venomous bribes with no thought of the consequences. I wish no commerce with men such as that, and certainly not whilst eating.”
“Men such as that have access to great wealth, husband.”
“Some do, and others merely pretend. I’ve yet to discern which category applies to Clive Urquhart. Oh, dear, he’s coming this way.”
The diminutive half-French, half-Scottish builder pranced towards them wearing a sickeningly sweet smile. Arriving at their table, he kissed the baroness’s hand and then bowed to Wychwright.
“M’sieur le baron, mon ami! It is fortuitous, no? Meeting here in this way? It saves me steps to your very nice office at Whitehall, or do you still make your deals at the Exchange?”
David Wychwright managed to keep his temper and even offered a pained smile of his own. “Afternoon, Urquhart. If you’ve business matters to discuss, then it’s best to do so at Westminster, or, as you say, at the Royal Exchange. I’m there most mornings.”
“Ah, yes, but ministers are so seldom in their chambers. I have a proposal I hope you might pass along to your fellows at the Home Office. A little plan of mine to construct a charity hospital in the east. It is a project that might also open profitable doors to a certain family known to you.”
“And who might that be?” he asked, thoroughly annoyed.
“A family that awaits news of a loved one’s fate. Whisper the words ‘charity hospital’ to Lord Haimsbury and see how he jumps!”
“I rather doubt he’d jump at anything today, Urquhart,” Wychwright snapped back. “The man’s in great distress over his wife’s disappearance. Do you not read the papers?”
“Oui, certainement! I read them every day, many times a day. And some hint our Haimsbury is un héritier royal, no? More than mere marquess.”
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