Mask of Duplicity (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 1) (38 page)

“Well, it is certainly a weighty one,” he replied.

“Have you read it?” she asked, pretending to peruse the shelves in search of it, although she remembered exactly where it was.

“Oh, good Lord, no. It is far too lengthy for me. Why, I fall asleep sometimes just reading the periodicals!” he retorted.

She could believe it. Although clearly well educated, fluent in German, and French and Latin too from what she had heard, it appeared he had not opened a book since leaving university. She wandered around a little more, and then turned to him.

“I have found it,” she said. “But it is a little too high for me to reach. If you would be so kind?”

“But of course, anything to assist a cherished friend,” Sir Anthony gushed. He leapt to his feet and came across to her, reaching up to retrieve the volume.

“It doesn’t seem particularly weighty to me,” she said, looking at the book in his hand.

“Ah, but it comes in four parts,” he replied, glancing along the shelf before reaching up again to retrieve another volume, “although the third and fourth parts are a later addition. If, after you have read the first two, you wish to continue,” he sounded as though he doubted in the extreme that she would want to, “then I am sure I can procure the others for you.” He smiled down at her, and weighed the book carefully in his hand before passing it to her. “I would keep this tome by me at all times, if I were you, my dear,” he said. “Then if you have another...ah...discussion with your brother, you can always use this to emphasise your point if necessary.” His eyes twinkled merrily as he looked down at her, and she smiled back politely.

“Thank you,” she said, choosing not to respond to his comment. She was about to make her excuses and leave, but after a moment he yawned theatrically.

“Well, I must admit to feeling a little tired. This always happens to me after indulging in exercise and then a little perusal of a book.”

To say nothing of a few glasses of brandy, she thought wryly, noting the depleted contents of the decanter.

“If you wish to read your book in peace, you may stay here. I will not be so rude as to impose my company upon you,” he added. He paused, seeming to be waiting for her to contradict his statement and plead for the pleasure of his sparkling conversation.

Silence reigned.

“Make yourself at home, sweet child. I shall make my weary way to my house, I think.” He bowed. “I bid you goodnight.”

After the door had closed, Beth waited, forcing herself to count slowly to a hundred, certain he would suddenly reappear to regale her with a
bon mot
of some sort
.
Then she threw the books onto the chair and crouched down by the hearth, rooting frantically through the ashes with the poker.

There was not the slightest fragment of either amber or silver in the ashes. There was no hope for the leather case, and the silver had probably melted into a blackened lump, indistinguishable from the tiny fragments of charred coal. But she had hoped that something would be left of the beads. Did amber melt in fire? She had no idea, but one thing was certain. The last tactile memory of her mother was gone, and Beth sank down on to the hearthrug, finally allowing herself the luxury of tears, which did nothing to ease the knot of absolute misery that had lodged in her chest.

* * *

By the end of the week Richard was breathing a little easier. Sir Anthony could have heard nothing of the altercation between him and Beth, he thought. He must have appeared at the door at the very moment they saw him. Otherwise he would surely have told everyone. He had not discussed his concern with his sister. In fact they had not spoken to each other since the incident, maintaining a polite distance by mutual consent until their tempers had cooled enough for them to at least be civil to one another.

Beth had also given the situation some thought. Unlike Richard, she knew from Sir Anthony’s dry comment about the books that he had been fully aware of the fact that there had been nothing affectionate about the embrace he had caught them in, although she had no idea how much he had overheard.

She observed the behaviour of the ladies at every opportunity, watching for signs that Sir Anthony had let slip that dear Elizabeth and her brother hated each other; the curious glances, the comments behind hands followed by a surreptitious glance in her direction. Nothing.

When Sir Anthony visited the house a few days later, he was his usual gregarious self, flitting around the company in his obscenely gaudy costume and painted mask of a face, alighting on one group for a time, rousing them all to laughter with his malicious humour before flitting off to the next to repeat the experience, trailing a cloud of violets and admiring women in his wake.

Instead of fruitlessly pondering Sir Anthony’s motive for keeping quiet, Beth resolved instead to concentrate on how to persuade Richard and Edward that Lord Redburn would
not
make a suitable husband for her. She had not been proposed to for a few weeks. Presumably that meant that either Daniel’s slur on her mother’s character had been believed, or alternatively, that any interested gentlemen were leaving the way clear for his Royal Highness the Duke of Cumberland. She was certain that Lord Redburn would have no such inhibitions. If Edward or Richard were to hint to him that she would be amenable to a marriage proposal, he would be down on one knee like a shot. She shuddered. No. She would refuse. No one could force her to marry him against her will. But would Richard carry out his threat if she did? He was far more capable of it than she was of carrying out hers. That had been empty bluster, and he would have recognised it by now.

She thought of her ticket home, the six sovereigns wrapped in a cloth now hidden in a hollowed-out Latin grammar in her room. Could she do it? Could she resign herself and her servants to a life of poverty by deserting London and alienating the Cunninghams forever? No, she thought, not yet. After all, Lord Redburn had not yet proposed. Richard had given her two months. Anything could happen in that time. It was only in her quiet moments that she felt the desperate misery of her restricted life, when the breathless claustrophobic panic that she would never be free again threatened to overwhelm her. She would have to make sure there were no quiet moments. Not difficult to achieve in the heady rush of social engagements that comprised the London season. She could continue dissembling for now, she resolved; after all, it was fast becoming second nature.

The resolve lasted a week.

Chapter Fourteen

The dinner party was in full swing. In spite of the fact that Britain was now most definitely, in spite of the lack of a formal declaration, at war with France, and everyone was talking of the king’s magnificent victory at Dettingen at which he had led his troops in person, no one, not even Lord Edward, commented on the fact that the meal had obviously been prepared by a French chef.

Isabella was in her element. Everything had gone without a hitch. The company had all been carefully invited with regard to their breeding and ability to keep a constant flow of interesting conversation going. She beamed down the table at her guests. Lord and Lady Winter were there of course, and Miss Anne Maynard, so enamoured of Sir Anthony, who was seated to her right with Richard on his left. Opposite Richard was his sister, and next to her was Mr Jeremiah Johnson, a po-faced man of almost puritanical leanings who Isabella hoped would be a good and sobering influence on her young cousin Elizabeth. The friendship with the somewhat forthright Caroline Harlow was something to be discouraged, however, and Isabella had refrained from including her among the party this evening.

The main topic of conversation was of course the breaking news of the Battle of Dettingen.

“The casualties among the French were considerable, I believe,” commented Lord Winter smugly.

“Presumably so,” said Richard. “Although in his despatch, Lord Carteret did not specify numbers, merely that twenty-five thousand of the enemy had passed the main, and considerably fewer repassed it later.”

“I am surprised that you have not been recalled to barracks, Sergeant Cunningham,” said Sir Anthony. “Would you not wish to have participated in such a glorious event?”

Richard frowned. “Indeed I would, sir,” he said. “But it is always necessary to keep some regiments at home, in case of Jacobite insurgency whilst the king is away. In that event I could rejoin my regiment within a day.”

“Quite. Although there must be little likelihood of that now, with the king showing his true colours. England could not wish for a finer monarch. The Jacobite traitors must be trembling in their shoes.” Mr Johnson spoke for the first time.

“I am sure they are, my dear sir,” Sir Anthony replied smilingly. “Although the British have also suffered casualties, I believe.”

“Yes!” cried Miss Maynard. “Poor General Clayton is killed!” She spoke as though she was a close friend of the general, although she had never heard of him prior to reading the newspaper yesterday.

“The duke of Cumberland was also wounded, was he not, Elizabeth?” put in Lady Winter. “That must have caused you some concern.”

“Of course,” Beth replied smoothly. “But it was only a leg wound, and did not touch the bone. I believe there are no fears for his life.”

“Oh, but many men have died of such wounds!” exclaimed Anne.

“I am sure we need not worry. The Duke will receive the best of attention. It is the common soldier who risks the most and is most likely to die of infection if he is wounded, is it not, Richard?” She looked at her brother, who surveyed her warily. She had changed subtly since the incident in the library, was quieter, more moody. The sooner he got her off his hands, the better.

“Yes. But common soldiers are easily replaced,” he replied. “The duke is unique.”

“He certainly is,” Beth agreed.

“I must say that I am most relieved that the king saw fit to leave some of his troops in England,” Miss Maynard said. “Goodness, one cannot even travel the roads in safety any more! There are no end of robbers lying in wait for innocent travellers. Why, only yesterday I read of a respectable businessman who was robbed of over three hundred pounds by a highwayman in broad daylight!” She shuddered.

“It is not the job of the dragoons to patrol the roads for highwaymen, Miss Maynard,” Lord Edward replied. “But you are right. These villains are becoming bolder by the day. Something must be done about them.”

“I read the account you speak of, Miss Maynard, and I cannot help but think the victim partially deserved his fate,” Beth said thoughtfully. Lord Edward glanced sharply at her, and she looked innocently back at him. “Mr Harlow does not think ladies incapable of understanding the news, Edward. I read the newspapers with Caroline.”

Before Lord Edward could reply to this remark, Sir Anthony cut in.

“What makes you say that, my dear? Surely you are being a little hard on the poor man?”

“The newspaper published a description of the highwayman as being over six feet in height, with a black wig, red breeches, and a patch on his eye. He must have looked most disreputable.”

“Quite so. Horrible!” Anne Maynard trembled, inadvertently placing her hand on Sir Anthony’s arm in her agitation. Uncharacteristically he started at her touch, looking down at the small hand, pale against the dark brocade of his coat, as though he had never seen such a thing before in his life. Then he remembered himself, and placing his gloved hand on hers he patted it absently but continued to give his complete attention to Beth, to the other lady’s consternation.

“And yet not only was the gentleman, Mr Highmore I believe his name was, riding alone with a large sum of money and no armed escort,” Beth continued, “but when this highly suspicious-looking man suggested that there was a better way to a destination Mr Highmore no doubt travels regularly to, the idiot accompanied him down a secluded lane without the slightest hesitation! How stupid can anyone be!”

“Do you not think it a sad state of affairs when no man can trust his neighbour?” Mr Johnson said.

“Of course I do! But in the real world it is folly to trust disreputable strangers. In fact, in my experience I have found it unwise to trust anyone at all.” Her gaze rested on Richard for a moment, then turned to Lord Edward. She smiled pleasantly, her eyes cold.

There was a short silence, during which Lord Edward excused himself and went to use the privy and Richard tried to think of a pretext to remove his dangerously unpredictable sister from the room. Clarissa coughed nervously.

 “So, my dear Elizabeth, how are you getting along in your reading of ‘Pamela’?” Sir Anthony said brightly.

“I have finished it, sir,” she said.

He raised a carefully pencilled eyebrow. “Really? It is a most weighty volume. You must read very quickly.”

“I didn’t find it challenging reading. The most difficult part was in staying awake to read it.”

“So, you did not enjoy it enough to continue on to volumes three and four, then?”

“I enjoyed the first part of the book, although I fail to understand why Pamela didn’t leave immediately after the hero’s first attempt to seduce her, as she said she intended.”

“But the girl sought to retain her position in the house. She was of a very poor family, and had reason to believe that her master had reformed,” Mr Johnson put in.

“I don’t see what reason she had to believe he’d reformed,” Beth countered. “If she valued her virtue as much as she claimed, she would have left immediately. Her family were supportive, after all. Instead she stayed long enough for him to abduct her.”

The whole table now became involved in the conversation. Everyone had read the novel. It had been a sensation when published, and had caused great controversy.

“Oh, but then it is so romantic!” Charlotte put in. “After all, she reforms him with her virtue, you know. It is every woman’s duty to show a good example by her behaviour. Not of course that my dear Frederick needed a good example to follow.” There were murmurs of agreement from the ladies.

“So what would you have done, had you been abducted by such a rake?” Sir Anthony asked.