Pasha (15 page)

He began with his self-imposed exile for a compelling moral reason as a common seaman into the gun-deck of a man-of-war, there to meet a young press-gang victim called Tom Kydd. How they had formed a friendship so deep it had sustained them over the years to follow until they had both won through to the quarterdeck.

He spared her nothing, in a flood of release telling of the dangers and exhilarations of the war at sea, breath-stopping adventures across the South Seas, fighting against Napoleon Bonaparte himself
at the gates of Acre, battles of conquest and betrayal, feats of heroism and defeat.

And he told her, too, of his being swept into the maelstrom of deceit and treachery that was the failed uprising and assassination attempt against Bonaparte, how later he had travelled into the very heart of Paris to woo the American inventor Fulton, with his crazy plans for a submarine boat.

Then finally, only that very year in the Caribbean, his near-disastrous but ultimately successful penetration of a plot to bring Britain to its knees with a privateer fleet, which had nearly cost him his life.

She clung to him, held him, loved him: what she had heard was thrilling, marvellous and, ultimately … heartbreaking.

This was the death-knell of his life of danger and excitement, of companionship and fulfilment. Whatever he had been before he could be no longer. He was now to know life arrayed only in velvet and silk, cosseted and fawned upon.

What, in the name of their love for each other, could she find for him that could even begin to match the thrill and drama of what had gone before?

“I'm surprised his lordship has not yet advised you, Mr Bardoe,” she said, to the hovering bursar. “He insists always that books of account should be rendered in proper form, double entry and traceable to the day-books. I see here that it's frankly impossible to determine how your figure is arrived at without it is correctly entered.”

“Yes, my lady. I'll see to the bookkeepers today.”

There were going to be changes at Eskdale.

“Do ask Mrs Grant to attend me, if you please.”

Cecilia now had her private sitting room, equipped with a desk and bookshelves, serving both for entertaining ladies to tea and
as an interview room for the staff.

“Good morning, Mrs Grant. Do sit down. I wanted to speak to you about the condition of the public rooms in the east wing for which you have the charge. Do you not feel …”

The day wore on. At eleven she tiptoed to the door of the earl's study and listened.

He was dutifully attending to the tenant roll on this the first Monday of the month.

Inside, a grizzled farmer was telling a tale of woe about the season and the crops in a practised moan, and her husband was hearing him out politely, the estate steward standing by with an ill-tempered scowl.

She slipped back to her sitting room. This afternoon, she vowed, they would ride together over the winter-hard slopes to the woods, the wind in their hair, hearts beating fast. And then return happily to their home.

A tug on the tasselled bell-rope brought an awe-struck maidservant with a tray.

As she sipped her tea, she realised she was so happy with Nicholas that she had not noticed how alone she was. As if she was in a foreign country. No doubt she would make friends later but there was something she could do about it right now.

She reached for a pen and paper.

Dear Hetty,

I do hope you have got over your shock about the wedding, my dear, for here is another one.

I was just wondering if you can bear to leave your odious brood to take a position here as my companion. We shall have fun together and …

Renzi finished his breakfast. “My dear, I feel I should show my
face in London. I've a suspicion Father may not have left affairs in as regular a fashion as I'd like.”

He knew of his father's political cronies, the fast set at the races, the disgrace at Almack's and, no doubt, there would be other distasteful matters to deal with.

“Do we have a town house, Nicholas? I would so like to entertain!”

“We do, dearest, but I fancy now is not the time for you to be seen in Town. Let them get over their rude curiosities first, I beg.”

He would do all in his power to protect her from the tittering behind fans and ogling from the ill-bred that would be her lot if she went with him.

“I won't be offended, Nicholas dear—don't concern yourself on my account, please.”

“Sweetheart, I won't hear of it. I'll be gone only a short while to see how things are and I shall return at the gallop, I swear!”

There would be no shifting him so she took charge of the packing and saw him off in the carriage, waving forlornly as it ground away down the long drive.

Renzi shifted into the agreeable comfort of the padded seat and let his mind wander.

What would he find in Curzon Street? He had been there only once, long ago, when his mother had sent him to implore the earl to return to his neglected estate. He had found him in raucous squalor with his sycophants, deaf to pleading, sarcastic and threatening. Renzi felt a twist of sadness that his mother, in her arranged marriage, had never known the deep happiness that was now his.

Dear Cecilia—his heart went out to her. As long as he drew breath he would shield her and safeguard her from the savagery and hypocrisy he knew lay behind much of the façade of gentility and politeness at the pinnacle of society.

The town house was much as he remembered, a little shabbier, a little sadder. The butler was surprised to see him, and somewhat surly, and the rooms smelt stuffy and uncared-for although he could see they had been used recently.

Renzi went to the drawing room and hesitated for a moment before sitting in the grand high-backed leather chair his father had used. It felt stilted, awkward, and he found another. Damn, but there were ghosts here he couldn't shake off.

The front-door bell sounded and the butler came bearing a card on a tray.

Charles Grosvenor. The thin-faced wretch who'd been his father's electoral agent. He'd lost no time in making his number, but as he lived opposite he would have seen his arrival.

He strode in, dressed in the fashionable tight pantaloons and ridiculous high collar, then bowed, with a wide smile and a click of heels. “Hail to you, sir, the new lord of Eskdale and the parliamentary seat of Noakes Minor!”

“Yes?” Renzi said flatly. He did not get up, or offer a chair.

The smile slipped a little. “Why, my good lord, I came to enquire as to your plans for your installation in the House.”

“I haven't made any.”

“Sir, it is the season, Parliament does sit and there are those in the Party who are anxious concerning the fate of the upcoming Rents and Imposts Bill. The Tory Party that is—whose cause you will, of course, be warm to.”

Lord Farndon could take his seat in the House of Lords but also had the right of patronage of a local rotten borough. Votes in the upper and lower house both.

“Mr Grosvenor. Let me be clear: the entire practice of politics is distasteful to me. It is founded on the odd notion that all of nature and man, in all its diversity and wonder, might be compressed and then divided in twain—one or the other, none else. How then
is it possible to reach an understanding of a matter touching on the behaviour of all men, when one is obliged to regard it through the lens of one artificial polity?”

There was now no smile at all.

“Thank you for calling. I shall doubtless inform you should I feel a sudden urge to politick. Good day to you, sir.”

There would be other pressures. For a certainty he was now labelled awkward, and bigger guns would be brought up. He sighed and closed his eyes.

It would be better once Cecilia was here but in the meantime there was so much to—

“Hello—who the devil are you?”

Renzi's eyes snapped open. A tousled, unsavoury man of years in a dressing-gown stood in the doorway, blinking.

“I'm Lord Farndon. And who the devil are you, sir?”

“Ah, of course. The old boy popped off and you're his whelp.”

Anger suddenly boiled and Renzi got to his feet. “I demand an explanation from you, sir,” he barked, “or I'll have you thrown on the street as you stand.”

The man sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “You can't do that, it ain't allowed.”

“I can, and I—”

“I've got assured and legal occupation in this house for a peppercorn rental—your father was generous to those that were useful to him for … certain purposes. As you will be, when you know the lie, young fellow.”

The utter banality of a pointless, aimless existence for the rest of his life threatened to choke him. Head down, Renzi stormed out of the house.

The Mayfair streets were stirring. Calls were being made, assignations of the evening settled. Footmen hurried on their errands and tradesmen of the better sort were making their rounds.

As he turned the corner a black carriage taking the shorter path turned across and obliged him to flatten to the wall. It ground past and he caught a glimpse of an old, pale face. Their eyes met but then the coach was gone.

He set off in the opposite direction, in his black mood ignoring the faint shouting behind him.

Then he became aware of a commotion. It was the black carriage in a desperate tangle, trying against the irate flow of traffic to turn about and come back. Curses and cries from other carriages rang out as it finally trotted up to him.

The door was flung open and a man leaned out and cried, “Dear fellow! Ren—that is to say, my lord Farndon! Well met, well met indeed! Are you in haste? Or would you do me the honour of a luncheon at my club?”

It was the Marquess of Bloomsbury, Cecilia's previous employer, now retired from some discreet diplomatic post on account of health.

“Most willingly, sir,” Renzi said, brightening, and climbed in to sit beside him.

“I do beg your pardon most humbly,” the marquess said. “I see from the
Gazette
you are now ennobled. I could scarcely credit the news. My earnest felicitations, of course.”

He had aged greatly, was frail and bent, but his eyes nevertheless held a keen humour.

“More deserved of your kind sentiments, sir, is my recent marriage to the woman of my heart—Miss Cecilia Kydd as was.”

“Splendid! Now, why do I believe the marchioness will not be surprised one whit?”

Time passed agreeably on the way to Boodles. They had first met in dramatic circumstances together in a shipwreck in the Caribbean and much had happened since.

After the rib of lamb they retired to the library for brandy.

“I can't pretend that I find our meeting other than fortuitous,” Bloomsbury said. “I've been vexed for some time to think of an excuse to speak to you alone, as it were.”

“Sir?”

“In truth I'm in despair of my health. It has cruelly affected me. Particularly where it bears on my service to my country.”

“I'm sorry to hear it, sir.”

“Are you aware, dear chap, of just what it is that I've been engaged upon for these years in the country's cause?” he said quietly, glancing about.

“To be frank, no.”

“I will tell you. But only in the strictest confidence that you are able to conceive.”

“In that case, sir, I'd rather you—”

“Be certain, this is no trivial matter. You may believe I have my reasons for divulging it to you.”

“Very well.”

“Then you will hear it.” He waited until a club member clutching a newspaper had passed then began, speaking softly but with compelling force.

“When nations strive against each other—as they have always done and will ever do—there is a code of conduct between them that rises above their bitterest rivalries. It is the diplomatic code, to which all civilised nations subscribe. A country's nominated representatives, your ambassadors, plenipotentiaries and so forth, are empowered to treat, with the object of arriving at an understanding that ends expressed in the form of protocols, treaties and the like.

“This level of intercourse rises far above petty politicking, involving as it does the highest levels of state to which it is possible to go.

“I ask you to reflect upon this, if you will. The players are known to each other. They sit in their entrenched positions, which
are also known, holding their cards to their chests and playing them to the greatest effect they can manage until the situation stabilises, whether in the form of a treaty or perchance a stalemate.”

He paused then continued with increased intensity: “This is how it has always been done. And it has to be said to the dispassionate observer there is a major flaw. Since the positions are known they may not be modified by concession without possible loss of reputation and standing of the player and his principal. You may easily see how this can result in ruinous confrontations, to the desiring of neither side. How much better, then, that an unknown agency might, by judicious intervention, cause one or the other to yield covertly?”

“I'm not certain I follow you, sir. Are you suggesting a form of clandestine mediation?”

“Not at all. This agency operates with the sole intent of furthering the interests of its principal—in our case the Crown of Great Britain.”

“A form of espionage, then.”

“No, sir,” Bloomsbury said coldly. “It is never that. The practices of gathering intelligence and acts of secret assassination have their place, but are beneath notice for this agency. It is in the realm of princes and governments that it has its calling.”

“Do be plain, sir, I beg. If this is your following, I honour you for it but its remit is not clear to me. Do you—”

“I will be plain, my dear Farndon. With distressing regularity there are situations in this world that loom suddenly to menace the interests of this country. If there is any possibility that I can be of value, that I perceive an opening, however slight in the crisis, I will hasten there to see what can be achieved.”