In the Brief Eternal Silence (28 page)

It was not his usual mode of transportation,
himself much preferring to drive the racing curricle, as he had the
day before, despite however good or bad the weather may be, or
riding astride. But as he was out-fitted in the outlandish attire
that Effington had deemed appropriate for his visit, it was perhaps
best that he was not concerned with any detail other than trying to
keep from wrinkling his turquoise coat. He looked down at himself
with disgust as the carriage door was closed behind him. Yellow
pantaloons and shirt! God help him, at least Tyler was not here to
see him, for there was no way, he would wager, that man could have
restrained from laughing outright.

St. James had rained a great deal of insults
upon Effington's head as that man had fulfilled his duty in
dressing milord, but for once, he could not provoke Effington in
the least. He had gone about his purpose in an unflappable manner
and had answered St. James' ongoing abuse with, “Yes, milord. No,
milord. You have my deepest sympathies, milord.”

To which St. James had answered, “Yes, I can
see that I have, Effington,” and had at last said no more, merely
gritted his teeth and endured as best he could being dressed in a
manner he despised as being unmanfully vain and damningly
restrictive in any natural movement. How was he to even bloody walk
in boots that had heels nearly as high as any woman's slipper? He
asked this of Effington, half begging to at least be allowed a more
practical choice of footwear, but the valet, face shining with
pride in the result of his efforts, said with certainty, “But you
carry it off so well, milord! And I must say, your only lacking in
attributes is your height, and you see now how easily that has been
remedied?”

“I have never been so short that I could not
thoroughly thrash someone who has annoyed me, Effington,” St. James
returned. “And I put you on notice that you are annoying me!”

Effington, who had appeared to be taking as
much pleasure from his lordship's discomfort as from the effect he
had created, only smiled with smugness and replied, “And when have
I not, milord? Now mind that you do not muddy your boots for I have
taken an hour to shine them this afternoon.”

“Bloody nurse maid,” St. James muttered
beneath his breath, but now as he sat in the carriage, he did
glance down at them to be sure that they were not sullied in any
way. Then a movement from outside his window caught his eye as the
carriage jolted into motion, and he banged his cane, a before now
useless accessory that Effington had insisted upon, on the roof of
the carriage, commanding it to stop.

“You, lad,” he opened the door to call to the
messenger boy he had hired that day, for it had been he that St.
James had caught sight of, watching the duke's preparation to leave
with a look of longing from the mew to the side of the house. “Care
to be a footman tonight?”

The boy came forward eagerly, gray eyes
shining in anticipation. “You mean it, m'lord?” he asked. “What am
I need do?”

“Just ride on the back there, you'll see the
platform and the holds, and when I arrive at our destination,
you're to jump down smartly and open the door for me, and see that
I in all my feebleness do not trip and land upon my face when I
alight from the carriage,” St. James told him.

“Coo, I can do that, m'lord!” the lad said,
and without waiting for further instruction, he went to where St.
James had indicated. The coach dropped down a small bit as his
gangly figure climbed to stand up behind. St. James tapped the roof
again, and the carriage resumed moving. He sat back, and oddly,
instead of studying upon his strange summons to Buckingham, he
wondered what Miss Murdock's reaction had been to his not coming
this evening. He imagined her with her hair pulled back in its prim
bun, the soft loops of it coming down like an arrow from her
forehead to cover her ears, and her plain brown dress that
whispered with reticence when she walked. For all of her
unobtrusiveness she had somehow managed to become a focal point to
him for the past near forty-eight hours. The lingering of
hummingbird wings, perhaps, that quietly and efficiently held one
captivated at their delicate strength of rhythm, moving so quickly
that one could barely discern them and yet one was keenly aware of
them all the same.

Yes, St. James thought, there was an essence
to Miss Murdock that was barely discernible, but that was
engagingly evident. He wondered if Miss Murdock were even aware of
it? Or if the very charm of it was that she was not and dismissed
the notion of it out of hand as having no place in her practical
outlook on life.

If one wished someone to quit drinking, one
threw that person's flask away.

If only it were that easy, St. James
pondered.

If one wanted to live, one made the decision
to live.

An option not open to him.

If there was a heretonow not evident
bitterness in this thought, he did not entertain it. It was only
that he had the suspicion that he was at last stirring his foe, and
hence he now felt that the past many years of his quest had been
only so much exercise. In possibly a very short time, he would
engage in the true conflict. He had always been aware that his
opponent had very much the advantage on him and that there may in
fact be little that he could do before he became enough of a threat
to receive his own speedy dispatch. It was part of the puzzle that
this person had apparently never sought to dispatch him in the
years since his parents' murders, but with St. James resolutely
digging about, whatever had stayed the murderer would no doubt stay
him no longer.

But it was oh so satisfying to find that he
had finally found the proper means of disturbing his enemy, and to
know that even at this moment, said enemy must be feeling, for
once, hunted himself.

In the midst of these dark, nearly
unconscious thoughts, the carriage entered the gates at Buckingham
Palace, where it was stopped by two beefeaters as the occupant's
business was made known and acknowledged as expected. Then it moved
forward up the long drive, but instead of going to the circle in
front of the main entrance, took another road on around the long,
overpowering length of the building, then down one side of it to a
smaller, but still impressive entrance. There it stopped, being met
by yet another beefeater, whose only recognition of their presence
was to stand from parade rest to full attention at their arrival.
The messenger boy did not disappoint St. James, but perceiving they
were at their final destination, jumped down as before instructed
and opened the carriage door for him. St. James alighted out by the
small step of the carriage, his yellow shirt and pantaloons glowing
in the jealous light of the moon and twin torches that lit the
entrance way. His turquoise coat was shadowed to inky purple and
his highly polished boots reflected like deep, dark mirrors. The
boy bowed in inspired respectfulness, and as he rose from it, he
looked up at the duke and said, “Thank you, m'lord!”

“I thought you may enjoy this,” St. James
returned. “Now mind you stay with the carriage and the groom. I
don't think they take kindly to street urchins running willy-nilly
about the grounds.”

Then he stepped forward and the tall doors
were opened to him by a butler that made his own Applegate seem
like some clumsy oaf in comparison. He was led but a short way down
the long hallway, shown into a rather intimate small chamber where
a fire was built up in the fireplace. It was an elegant room, but
it had neither the opulence nor style of the social rooms he had
prior seen of the palace when being there for the occasional
function years earlier. The butler directed him further into the
room to a chair by the fire. There was one other chair there,
well-upholstered but not otherwise remarkable and it was occupied
by a woman of no great beauty. Her nose was rather long, her jowls
rather fleshy, and her hair was dark brown streaked with gray and
worn in a bun, remarkably, not unlike the one Miss Murdock wore.
She was in her mid forties and she made no apparent artifice in
concealing it. There was a matronly, comfortable look to her, and
an air of one who speaks plainly and expects the same in
return.

St. James sketched a deep and humble bow.
“Your Majesty,” he intoned.

“St. James,” the Queen acknowledged. “I am
glad that you were available. Will you be seated?”

St. James took the proffered seat, which was
close enough to Queen Victoria that they could converse without
effort. The butler offered him a cup of tea, which he accepted and
the Queen joined him. They sat in silence for a moment, each
sipping their tea and the fireplace snapping when the mood suited
it.

“I had heard from my intimates,” the Queen
began, “that you were in the habit of dressing extremely plainly,
much to their disappointment. I must count myself honored, I
suppose, that you have put some effort into your apparel this
night.”

St. James smiled. “It only goes to show, Your
Highness, that I am willing to sacrifice even my dignity for the
crown's sake.”

She did not laugh, but she did smile at this
light sally. “Or,” she went on, “perhaps you have taken to dressing
appropriately to better impress your new fiancé.”

St. James did not quite choke on his tea,
although he felt very close to it. Instead, he paused with the cup
to his lips for a long, deliberate moment and then took a small sip
before replacing the cup on his saucer. His eyelids half-hooded
over his gold eyes and when he at last answered, his words were
measured and thoughtful. “I pity those who believe that you have
become such a recluse that you are not properly aware of the
activities of the realm, Your Majesty, for I can see that they are
grossly mistaken.”

“Yes,” she said, her eyes penetrating. “They
are mistaken. I could tell them that since Prince Albert's death I
have been more devoted than ever before to seeing that things are
done in a proper and respectable manner. It is the mistake my uncle
made before me, you know. He did not realize that the only way we
now have of leading is to earn the respect of the people, lords and
commons alike. If the people are behind the throne, the prime
minister dare not wander too far from our edicts. If they are not
behind the throne, then the prime minister can and will go counter
to the crown's policies.”

St. James nodded once but he did not speak.
The Queen hardly needed his stamp of approval on her thoughts.

“But I digress. You did not directly
acknowledge that you are engaged.”

“I am not officially engaged, if that is what
you mean, Your Highness.”

“But you are engaged all the same?”

St. James paused for a moment, and his face
must have shown how unsettled he was with this conversation, and
the possible reasons behind it, for the Queen raised a brow before
he could answer. “I am being rather blunt, I am afraid. And prying,
you may believe.”

St. James raised a brow in return. “I admit
that I am. . . shocked at your knowledge.”

That did bring a laugh from her, a very short
one. “Do not doubt that if it is possible that I know then it is
possible that there may be others that know. Prepare yourself well,
St. James.”

He did not answer, and if his silence was
taken as impertinent he could not help it for he could not think of
anything to say that would not further reveal his position.

Of an impulse, Queen Victoria reached out her
hand and touched his arm. “I had great respect for your father, St.
James. If it is true that you are to marry, there is work that he
had started that needs to be carried on. We recently had a great
victory in China that allows us to send in Christian Missionaries,
but I fear that the complete legalization of the opium trade there
can be looked upon as nothing but a defeat, despite our monopoly
upon it and the profits it brings to our country.”

St. James was mystified, for he had no idea
what work his father had done for the crown. He only sipped again
from his tea, and kept his face unreadable.

“I have hesitated to approach you,” the Queen
continued, “for, candidly, I was not sure if you could leave go the
trail of vengeance you had set for yourself so many years ago in
order to give the tasks I have for you your full attention. I wish
to know if it is true that you are to marry this daughter of a
Squire,” and she smiled as though this amused her very much. “I
wish to know if at last the trail is too cold for even you to
pursue.”

St. James answered with care, “I am going to
marry this daughter of a Squire. But I beg Your Highness for just a
short time longer before asking for my assistance on the matters
you have referred to. If you can grant me that short time, I will
deem it an honor to perform any task you hand me, especially any
that my father may have left. . . unfinished.”

She sat back in her seat a degree. This time
it was she that took a long moment to answer, and when she did she
spoke with as much care, her words as veiled as his own had been.
“Then it shall be as you ask. However, in preparation for your
impending duties, I will have certain documents made available to
you, so that you may review them, and gain some idea as to what
your father had worked on before you.”

For just a second, St. James' eyes flickered
to meet hers squarely, flaming up like twin candles. “I would be
very interested to know how my father served the crown before me,
Your Highness, and how I will function in serving the crown in his
stead.”

“I believe you shall be. Perhaps. . . these
documents will be

useful to you as well.”

“And if they are useful to me. . . ?”

The Queen gave a grim smile. “Then I am sure
that your

conclusions will be useful to the crown also.
We will speak again, St.