"Well, you've risen, that's for certain. Was it truly only a forgiven debt that motivated Prinny?"
"That and his gratitude for bringing the fair princess to our shores so long ago," John said ironically.
Devlyn smiled. "No, had he thought of Tatiana, he would have made you an earl."
John saw no profit in quibbling with this sentiment. He was fond of the princess, as a rule, but had never quite understood how his sensible friend chose to entangle himself with one of the world's more troublesome women. Diplomatically he changed the subject. "And I've just brought him a manuscript he'd been hoping for. The Jerusalem."
"Is that where you've been all spring? Jerusalem?"
"No. The manuscript is called the Jerusalem. But it's never been there, as far as I know. It was scribed in Alexandria more than eight hundred years ago. I found it in Greece, in a convent."
"Eight hundred years ago? And the nuns still had it?"
John said wryly, "They hadn't any sense of what it was. Used it for a doorstop. And they were all too eager to let it go for a pittance. Had to argue them into accepting the equivalent of ninety pounds."
"Well, ninety pounds is quite a price for an old book," Devlyn commented.
Annoyed by this dismissal of his great prize, John retorted, "Not at all. As I was leaving the convent, Franco Alavieri from the Vatican arrived. He told me he would have paid fifteen hundred pounds for it."
Devlyn drew in his breath at this new figure. Then, thoughtfully, he folded up the newspaper and secured it on the table with the brandy bottle. "You might have given him the manuscript, pocketed the fifteen hundred, and told the Regent you got there too late."
John regarded his old friend with dawning approval. "There's hope for you yet, Michael." But he could tell Devlyn was already regretting the suggestion. "Oh, I see. You meant that I might have done it, not that you would ever do such a thing. You know, you should appreciate me better. You might have to commit your own sins, were you not able to participate vicariously in mine."
"You have plenty to spare, I think," Devlyn replied. "So why didn't you sell it to the Vatican? Surely if the thought occurred to me, it occurred to you."
John almost said something foolish and sentimental, that the money didn't matter, that he wanted the Jerusalem to himself at least for the length of his voyage. But no one would believe that of the hard-headed businessman John Dryden. "Oh, I've my reputation to consider. And it is such a fine book. The Vatican would have buried it, you see. Not destroyed it—Alavieri would never have allowed that—but hidden it away in some corner of the library. They couldn't acknowledge its existence, you see, or they'd be acknowledging its authors. And the Coptics have been considered heretics since the fifth century. They practice monophysitism, you know."
Devlyn nodded gravely, then had to ask, "Some shocking ritual, I suppose?"
John laughed. "No. Oh, it's shocking enough to the pope, I suppose, but the rest of us wouldn't understand the fuss. Something about Christ having only one nature, not two, human and divine."
Devlyn agreed that this must be condemned in the strongest terms, perhaps forgetting that his own Anglicanism had long been considered heretical by the pope. "Prinny apparently hasn't any difficulty with the heresy?"
"Oh, no. He's looking to build a rare-book library, and, if I know him, he will probably have a special display for heretics. It's a beautiful book, hardly aged at all. The binding is camel skin. Most Copts were Egyptian, you know." Absently, he trailed his fingers on the stone wall, feeling instead the velvety texture of the book. "And gold leaf as fine as a hummingbird feather, vines all over the front, worth every bit of trouble."
He broke off, embarrassed, knowing Devlyn could only wonder at his enthusiasm. But he tried to explain in a way Devlyn, a former soldier, might understand. "It's always an adventure, you see, because manuscripts are an odd trade. The buyers are few but intense, and intensely jealous. Alavieri was generous enough in defeat, or so I thought. But he had a trio of banditti waiting for me at the dock."
"What happened?"
"Oh, I was half-expecting it. My mare got away, and alerted my crew, and we made short work of them."
Devlyn was laughing, forgetting their adult reserve enough to lapse into a long-abandoned nickname. "Jack, you never fail to get into scrapes. Only you could turn some dusty old book into an occasion for pillage and derring-do."
Some dusty old book. John let that go by. Devlyn was an intelligent man, well-read, with a sure if conventional taste in art. He was also John's oldest friend, and probably knew him best. They had begun running together at five or so, as soon as John was old enough to escape the confines of the village and make his way up the hill to the Keep. But Devlyn, no doubt, understood this passion for old books less than John's earlier passions for adventure and art. A book is for reading, Devlyn said once, trying to puzzle this out, for conveying information. When it gets old and starts to fall apart, I'd buy a new edition so I'd have all the pages. But that's when you start wanting the book—when it's no longer usable.
So John took a certain pleasure in retelling a few of his Alavieri adventures. No one who had encountered the Vatican curator could ever think of the rare books trade as anything but the height of intrigue.
He didn't mention that moment, however, when Alavieri confessed his great misfortune of seeing and losing what he claimed was a work of Shakespeare. John was discreet by nature, and close by business habit. All he needed was Alavieri to hear that the Shakespeare play might have survived the Terror. He'd send an army of Jesuit warriors, not just a pack of thieves, after John.
He looked up to find Devlyn studying him. He was an observer, was Devlyn, and knew something was up. "Exciting, no doubt, these acquisition trips of yours. But now you've this new title, and it's sure to bring you more business. You've got a fleet of—what? Seven ships?"
"And the Coronale," John murmured, so as not to slight the lady.
"You could send them all out with their cargo, and spend all your time in London as a consultant and dealer. You don't have to make these trips, risking your life with the lunatics you keep meeting along the way."
"Alavieri's no lunatic," John replied defensively. "He's the best in the world. I'd give my right arm for half his ability and knowledge."
Devlyn raised his hand as if calling a halt to this. Still he gave it an ironic consideration. "Let me see if I have understood you correctly. You admire the man—a priest, by God—who tried to kill you over some old book?"
"It was nothing personal. I daresay, had he his druthers, he would let me live, and perhaps even take me on as a junior partner of sorts. But the Jerusalem is more than an old book. And the book business is—"
"More than cutthroat."
"Well, yes. But I assure you it is no more dangerous than free-trading, and I did that for years. It is surely less trying than smuggling guns to the Calabrian resistance. And Alavieri is only slightly more ruthless than Bonaparte."
"Somehow that doesn't reassure me. Whenever you leave on a voyage, I go out and look at that old raft we built, and think probably it is the last time I will see you."
Devlyn, John realized yet again, had a deep streak of pessimism down the middle of his practical mind. And it was disconcerting to find bits of maudlinity in a man of sense. But then, Devlyn had always cherished mementoes of his past. In one of the barns, next to the old raft, he kept the aeroballoon the princess had stolen from France. And he had kept John busy over the years, tracking down and retrieving the mediocre family portraits the late Lord Devlyn had sold to pay his gambling debts.
Restlessly John twisted the sapphire signet ring on his left hand. It had left a pale circle against the tan leather of his skin, mute evidence of the amount of sun he had gotten since he started wearing it seven years earlier. He shoved it back into place, and flexed his hands. He felt confined suddenly, both by his old friend's concern and the new change in his circumstances. Baronets, he gathered, weren't supposed to take risks.
"You're a fine one to talk, Devlyn. You were how long at war?"
"Nine years in the army. Seven at war, I suppose."
"And nary a scratch."
Devlyn shrugged. "But I am lucky."
"And I am smart. I earn my luck."
"Well, perhaps you are right. I must say, I never thought you'd earn a title, never in all my days." And so, with less than grace, Devlyn gave up. The role of the older advisor had never suited him anyway; he was no model for the staid and secure life, since he was married to a princess. "Just be cautious, won't you?"
A tiger kitten wandered through the door, wended its way around Devlyn's chair, and finally came to nuzzle at John's boot. He wriggled his toes to scratch the cat's throat. "I'll be here in cautious old England all summer, as it happens. Nothing very interesting will occur, you may be sure."
"Then you'll be able to come to Tatiana's charity ball next week."
Though he was here for that very purpose, John knew Devlyn would expect him to demur. He bent to pick the kitten up, and to hide any eagerness his expression might betray. "I hadn't considered it, actually."
"Do me this one favor, lad, and come. It will be nigh unbearable otherwise. All our charitable neighbors will be there."
The kitten was digging her claws into John's breeches, and he distracted her by stroking the stripe between her golden eyes. This set off a low chorus of purring. "You have charitable neighbors? Intriguing. And I thought I knew the neighborhood well."
"Social-climbing neighbors, then. They'll make a contribution to Tatiana's school, just to have a chance to say they have visited with the princess in her home. But Tatiana's Russian, remember, and her idea of neighborhood is rather commodious. She's got some coming from as far as Exeter." He tore off a piece of the newspaper and balled it up, tossing it up and catching it. The kitten stopped purring and started watching. Then, with a growl, she leaped off John's leg and seized the ball of paper, tumbling to the floor with it. Devlyn took the loss of his toy dispassionately, then observed, "Now that you are a respectable baronet, you have no excuse."
The Devlyns had always invited John to their parties, and sometimes, if he was in a defiant mood, he accepted. But Dorset wasn't as accepting of unconventionality as London, or perhaps they just knew him better. The mysterious past that fascinated a few London hostesses was no mystery here where John grew up. He might be a hero of sorts to the wilder youth on the South Coast, but to the gentry he was just the criminal upstart son of an apothecary. It would be entertaining, at least, to see how they would treat him now that he was titled.
Titled. Good Christ, what was the Regent thinking?
Devlyn must have sensed an opening, because he added, "Tatiana wants your consultation on decorating the ballroom."
"That, I suppose, is the clincher? In order to receive such a commission, you think I will jump at your invitation? I know nothing about decorating ballrooms."
"You need only endorse the plans she has. She thinks you have buckets of good taste. I expect it's the company you keep. Come, she will want to greet you anyway."
Devlyn led him back through the dark library, into the sunfilled great hall, past the bust of Napoleon John had gotten after Marshal Ney's execution. He remembered, back when they were boys, that the Keep was almost empty, stark even beyond the usual spare precision of a Palladian home, the only evidence of life the figures writhing on the Michelangelo-inspired dome. Now that Devlyn had hired a staff, bought back most of the lost furnishings, and installed a new generation of Danes, the great dome no longer echoed with loneliness.
The primary reason for this change was approaching them even now, running down the stairs with a hand skimming over the oak bannister, her red hair loose about her shoulders like a girl's. The Princess Tatiana called out gaily, "John! Just in time for my party. Come see what I mean to do to the ballroom."
Devlyn smiled sympathetically and murmuring, "Better you than I," headed back to his refuge on the balcony.
But this was, after all, what John had been waiting for, a chance to get the princess alone.
Between them was none of the complexity that characterized his relationship with Devlyn. From the first, when the Russian princess had boarded his sloop for her secret voyage to England, they had been something akin to friends. She had the same ease that made her cousin the Regent an unexpectedly good companion: She noticed no one's class but her own, treating everyone with equal, imperial charm. John liked that, and liked her, and in this, as in most things, he would do her bidding.
"I'm no expert on decorating ballrooms, God forbid. But I will walk with you there."
So he let her bear him away to the empty space at the back of the Keep where he and Devlyn used to skate in their stockinged feet. Unlike the rest of the house, this austere room had resisted Tatiana's efforts to make it comfortable. It was so cavernous that their footsteps echoed like gunshots against the panelled walls, and they had to speak softly to keep their conversation from resonating. The sun through the tall windows glanced off the marble floor, but the light brought with it no heat. Even in his coat, John was shivering from the chill that rose from the stone.
But Tatiana was of a hardier race, and though her muslin gown was insubstantial, she never noticed that she had left her shawl behind. She stood bare-armed in the middle of the room and gestured around, proposing to make the cavern a romantic wonderworld via a crimson silk ceiling drape and a fountain of champagne.
She spoke with that gallant optimism that never failed to charm John. But he was a realist, and could calculate to a shilling or so how much a ceiling of silk would cost. "At this rate, your highness, there will be little profit left for your school."
"I was hoping," she said, giving him a sidelong glance, "to meet that friend of yours, and persuade him to give me a good price on French champagne."