Mask of Duplicity (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 1) (44 page)

 “I am not talking about Edinburgh,” Sir Anthony waved his hand airily about, “as beautiful as it is. No, the weddings I have attended were both far north of that fair city. And I have had other dealings with Highlanders.”

“Oh, Sir Anthony, you are very brave!” cried Isabella, while Beth was trying to imagine what the warlike, hard-drinking clansmen would have thought of her betrothed as he mincingly danced a minuet at their weddings. “Were you not afraid to deal with such savage...” her voice trailed off and she looked nervously at Beth, no doubt expecting an explosion.

Beth had hardly heard her cousin’s words. She focussed only on Sir Anthony. In spite of his air of casualness she was certain there was a hidden agenda. What was he trying to tell her? That he did not consider it a matter of shame that half her blood was barbaric? Or was he trying to find out her mother’s clan so as to discover how involved they had been in the Jacobite rebellions, to gain a further hold over her? That was the most likely reason, she thought.

“I do not wish to invite any Scottish relatives I may have to my wedding. And although I have friends in Manchester whom I could invite, I do not think they would care to be present at such a...” she had been going to say farce, but managed to stop herself just in time, “an occasion,” she finished, her tone making it very clear that she would discuss the subject no further. She picked up her book and resumed reading.

“It is such a shame,” said Charlotte wistfully, “that the king is out of the country at the moment. I am sure he would wish to be present at the wedding of such a close friend as yourself, Sir Anthony.”

The baronet perused the crowded seating plan with interest. Richard had been placed next to Beth at the top table. He glanced at his bride-to-be, who appeared completely absorbed in her book. It was doubtful that she was even aware of what was certainly a faux pas on the part of Isabella.

“Perhaps you would wish to delay the wedding until his Majesty returns?” Isabella asked doubtfully. Sir Anthony observed her anxious frown, and smiled reassuringly.

“Oh, my dear Isabella, I would not be so bold as to call myself a
close
friend of the king’s! I would not dream of spoiling all your exquisite plans, unless of course, my darling fiancée would prefer to postpone our nuptials in the hope that the king would condescend to attend our modest affair.”

His darling fiancée looked up, enraged. How dare he provoke her this way? The last thing she would want was for the usurper to the throne to attend her wedding, as he well knew. He also knew that she could hardly say so outright, in front of her innocent and well-intentioned cousins.

“Oh, I see no sense in delaying the wedding,” she replied. He smiled, and she lowered her eyes modestly to lull him into a false sense of security. “After all, the king has been over the water for some considerable time, and shows no sign of being able to return at present. Although of course, with his son’s assistance, we may hope for an earlier return than expected.”

Beth smiled a challenge at her fiancé, ignoring Isabella and Clarissa’s twin gasps of shock. They at least had realised that while this remark could apply to George and William Augustus, it was in actuality more appropriate to the exiled James Stuart and his son Charles. Indeed, the only man ever referred to as ‘the king across the water’
was
James, and he was only referred to as this by Jacobites.

Sir Anthony nodded slightly in acknowledgement of this hit. He glanced up at the pale faces of the cousins, then back at Beth. His eyes sparkled, and even before he spoke she knew she had not succeeded in discomfiting him.

“Indeed, if you wish so much for the king and his son’s blessing on our union, I see no reason why we may not make a slight detour to visit them whilst we are on our travels. Would you like that, my darling?”

Beth had no desire whatsoever to be his darling, or to further her acquaintance with the Elector of Hanover and his overweight second son, as her husband-to-be well knew.

“I hardly think the king will be disposed to entertain his subjects at such a crucial moment in his life, sir,” she replied coldly. She flashed Sir Anthony a look of dislike, and to her surprise he looked puzzled, even hurt momentarily, before he lowered his gaze back to the paper spread out before him.

“Well, then,” he said brightly after a moment, favouring Isabella with his most charming smile. “It seems that none of us need to alter our plans in any way. My dear fiancée is most considerate, is she not?”

Beth returned to her book. Isabella bit her lip uncertainly.

“Although I do think, my dear Isabella,” he continued smoothly, “that as the senior lady of the Cunningham family, it would certainly be more appropriate for you rather than Sergeant Cunningham to sit next to the bride. I am sure he would not mind being moved.”

Beth’s eyes flickered, but she did not raise them from her book.

“Oh, what an excellent suggestion!” enthused Charlotte, who had realised that the atmosphere in the room had become uncomfortable after she had mentioned the king, but had no idea why. “When I was married to my poor dear Frederick, Isabella remained at my side all day. I could not have done without her. The excitement, you realise...”

Isabella blushed, Sir Anthony beamed, and if anyone noticed that the bride took no further part in the resultant lively discussion of the seating arrangements, no one commented on it.

* * *

Dear Friends,

I am writing to tell you that I have finally accepted a proposal, and am to marry Sir Anthony Peters on the fifth of August. I have accepted him, because, if I had not, I would certainly have been forced by my brother and cousin to marry Lord Redburn. I am truly unhappy, so much so that I feel increasingly desperate. The days drag endlessly by, and...

Beth crumpled up the expensive sheet of paper and threw it to the floor. She laid her pen to one side, and put her head in her hands despairingly. She had to tell Jane, Thomas and Graeme, she knew that. She had waited a week, and could delay writing the letter no more. But she had to tell them in a way that would not cause them to worry unduly. She sighed, and busied herself with trimming another quill while she tried to order her thoughts.

Dear Friends,

            I am writing to tell you that I have accepted a proposal of marriage from Sir Anthony Peters, and am to be married on the fifth of August. I have considered my situation, and think it to be the best thing. I will not pretend to you that I am in love with the man. You have seen him, albeit briefly, and know how unlikely it would be that I could become infatuated with such a creature. However, I have come to know him in the last months...

She paused, her brow furrowing, then carefully inserted two words into her previous sentence.

I have come to know him a little in the last months, and he seems to be kind, and in no way a violent man. Everyone seems to feel that he cares for me, and he can be very amusing and witty. He has assured me sincerely that he will allow no one to hurt me, and that he will not force me to do anything against my will. Of course, it goes without saying that he will pay for Richard’s commission. And once I am married, the hold Richard has over all of us will be gone. I would urge you to seek other positions. I have spoken to Sir Anthony about the possibility of him employing you all, so that you could remain together, but he has regretfully said it is not possible at present. He did rather enigmatically state that he has a possible solution to the situation, but refuses to discuss it until after the wedding, by which time he says he will be more certain as to whether the solution is a viable one. He will not be drawn further on the topic, but I assure you that as soon as we are married I will pursue the matter relentlessly.

I have not invited you, or any of my friends to the wedding, as I cannot pretend it will be a happy event for me. Instead, after my honeymoon (six weeks or so in Europe), I hope to travel up alone to visit you, when we can have our own party to celebrate my liberation from Richard. I will look forward to that, more than you can imagine.

She put her pen down, and re-read the letter. Yes, it would do. She picked up her pen again, and settled to the more simple task of describing the wedding preparations, her outfit, and caricaturing the various characters who would be appearing at the performance, as she thought of it. Certainly there would be more play-acting on the fifth of August than had ever been seen at a Drury Lane production.

* * *

Sir Anthony moved gracefully down the carpeted corridor that led to the duke of Newcastle’s private apartments, looking around with interest at the Palladian décor. Statues of Roman Emperors long deceased stared severely at him from alcoves, and elegant marble columns made a pretence of supporting the ornate plastered ceiling. Certainly designed to impress and intimidate, Sir Anthony thought, as the footman stopped at a set of double doors and rapped imperiously three times. A voice from within barked a command, the doors were opened and Sir Anthony was ushered in to a private interview with Thomas Pelham, Duke of Newcastle, Secretary of State and brother to the current First Lord of the Treasury.

Sir Anthony looked to be neither intimidated nor particularly impressed. He now ceased his perusal of his surroundings and turned his attention to the imposing figure of the man who rose from his chair by the fire and came to greet his visitor. Every inch of him screamed ancient aristocracy; the aquiline nose, the mouth, narrow but finely shaped. His wig was old-fashioned, long and curling past his shoulders, and his clothes exquisitely tailored but a sober brown in colour, in startling contrast to his visitor’s canary yellow breeches and waistcoat, and royal blue frock coat. If he was surprised to see such a garish display of finery, the duke was too well bred to comment on it. Instead he accepted the deep bow of his guest with a nod, and beckoned him to a chair.

Sir Anthony sat, arranging the skirts of his coat fussily, and waited for the duke to tell him why he had been summoned to see him.

“Well, Sir Anthony, I suppose you wish to know why I asked you to attend me this morning,” the duke began, after having waited a short time for the baronet to ask the question.

“I must confess to a mild curiosity, yes,” Sir Anthony admitted, deliberately understating his feelings considerably. He relaxed back a little in his chair and waited for the duke to continue.

“I would like to congratulate you on your impending marriage, sir,” Newcastle said. “I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting the bride, but have been told that she is the most beautiful woman in London. You must be very happy.”

“Thank you,” Sir Anthony replied politely. “I would say that you are not misinformed as to my fiancée’s appearance, although as the devoted groom, I would be bound to think her the finest woman in the capital.”

“Yes, yes, quite so,” said the duke, clearly having no more than the most superficial interest in the lovely Miss Cunningham. “I believe you intend to make a Grand Tour with your wife directly following the happy event.”

Sir Anthony smiled. “Oh, I would hardly call it a Grand Tour, my lord. We only expect to be away for a short time, two or three months, perhaps. It depends entirely on Elizabeth. One must indulge one’s partner, particularly in the early days, do you not think?”

“Certainly,” said the duke enthusiastically, who only indulged anyone when it was in his own best interests to do so.

There was a pause. The duke of Newcastle had certainly not asked him here to merely make casual chit-chat about his forthcoming nuptials. Sir Anthony waited for him to come to the point, amusing himself by not giving his host any assistance.

“Ah... which countries are you intending to visit?” Newcastle asked casually.

“I have not yet fixed my itinerary. Would you perhaps care to make a recommendation, my lord?”

“I believe Rome is a most beautiful city, with many works of art that would delight even the most discerning lady.”

Ah, here it was, then. Sir Anthony bent his head, as if considering the idea.

“I do not know, my lord. I had thought of Italy, it is true, but intended to confine our sojourn to the north – Venice, perhaps. I have been told that Rome is lovely, but it is of course so very...Catholic, would you not agree?” He looked up innocently at the duke, who turned away and began to pace the room.

“I understand that you may find Rome a somewhat distasteful place to visit, holding such staunch Anglican beliefs as you do. Indeed, it is greatly to your credit that your family succeeded in living for so many years in France without succumbing to the corruption of the Romish faith.”

“We lived also in Switzerland for a goodly number of years,” Sir Anthony informed the duke, although clearly he already knew that; he had no doubt that the man knew almost everything there was to know about the Peters family.

“Yes, yes,” said the duke impatiently, waving a hand dismissively. “I will come to the point, sir. Both myself and the First Lord, to say nothing of the king himself, would be greatly indebted to you if you could see your way to including Rome in your itinerary.”

“Oh, well, if you put it that way,” replied the baronet, obviously deeply impressed by the fact that the king was thinking of him in the midst of his preoccupation with the foreign war. “I would be only too delighted to oblige. I will of course make detailed observations of all the beautiful buildings and monuments to be seen in that fair city. I take it that the king is thinking to visit the city himself then, at some point in the future?”

Newcastle looked sharply at his guest.

“Of course not, sir! The king would never dream of visiting the centre of popery! He has no interest in architecture and idolatrous art. I will make myself plain. We would like you to pay a call on James Stuart and his son, and report back anything that you think may be of interest to us.”

Sir Anthony’s face was immediately a picture of the utmost horror. He leapt to his feet.