“I said,” he swore through gritted teeth, “that your master is expecting me. He is always expecting me. Now move aside, my girl, and let me pass.”
“Well, I dunno,” the girl said with maddening slowness, assessing the elegant gentleman that stood on the doorstep as urgently and impatiently as if he were being buffeted by cruel winds and biting cold, although it was only a cool, fair night outside. “You’re still not saying what yer business is, or if you come from that handsome coach out there.”
“Devil take it,” hissed the Marquis. “It’s because of that coach that you must let me in. Now do you open the door, or do I do it myself?” he threatened.
This seemed to confirm the girl’s worst fears, and she made as if to close the door on him. As he reached out one hand to stay her, he caught sight of a grim-faced, middle-aged woman behind her.
“Mrs. Teas,” he called out in relief. ‘Tell this fool to give me admittance, at once!”
“Oh, sir!” gasped the older woman, and clutching the maid by the shoulder, she spun her aside.
“Oh sir,” she said, shutting the door behind the Marquis. “Excuse the girl, please do. She’s new here, and doesn’t know a thing. It won’t happen again, I assure you. Belinda, get downstairs. I’ll have a talk with you by and by, my girl, I will. Sir,” she panted, having quickly escorted the Marquis to a study to the right of the door, “please sit down. Please to wait. The Master’s just returned hardly an hour before. But I know he’ll want to see you. He’s just finishing up his dinner. Please to wait here, sir.”
“Tell him not to hurry,” St. John said, his temper cooling. “I’ll wait here for him,” and he took a large leather chair near a neat desk. “But mind you, Mrs. Teas, if the chit’s such a fool as I think she is, kindly do not inform her of my name.”
“Oh never, sir,” gasped Mrs. Teas, red-faced. “That I’d never do, sir,” she swore, and she walked quickly from the room.
“Aye,” thought St. John savagely, that she had better never do. He sat back in the chair and crossed his elegantly booted legs. Here, in this small dark study, with its innocent looking shelves of books, deep turkey-red carpeting, and flickering lamplight, he was at the same moment both fulfilled and at his most vulnerable. Of all the places on the face of this earth, the marquis thought, this was the one place he must never be discovered.
When he had come down the street and seen, at the last moment, the coach waiting by the curb, with its easily discernible crest, he had known a moment of pure terror. But by then it was too late to retreat. He must brave it out, for if he had turned and left, he would have called more attention to himself. He had kept his face turned from the glow of the lamplight, and raised the doorknocker, hoping that the shadows concealed his face. And thinking that if perhaps the mission of the occupant of that coach was the same as his, there would be sufficient reason for the tale to go no further if he had been recognized. Two men entangled in the same endeavor would not cry attention at each other. But when the maid had refused him admittance, he had known that he could not turn and leave. He had to enter this house, where he had always been welcome, never refused admittance, not for the past nine years and more.
Nine years, the Marquis thought. It had been nine years since he had first entered this room. Since he had been a desperate young man, encumbered with a worthless legacy, bequeathed a mountain of duns’ notes, three expensive entailed estates, and no future save that which his name and few hoarded guineas could provide. He could have sold himself on the marriage market, but something within him rebelled at that. He could have tried gaming to restore the estate to what it had been before his father had gamed it away, but he had seen too much of the result of that route in his own house. He had heard, then, through the loose talk among his young friends, that there were certain men of business…. Men of trade. Socially unacceptable men who dirtied their hands with commerce but who were amassing large fortunes. And who were always on the lookout for fashionable patrons to cast their lots in with for social advancement, for themselves or for their families. Or for influence, should the need ever arise for that.
The trail he followed had led eventually to this room, to George Berryman, a stolid man from a merchant family, but a man who was reputed to have a touch of gold. He had eyed the young Marquis and, sighing heavily, had asked finally the inevitable question. “And what shall you bring to this enterprise, My Lord?”
“My money, such as there is left of it,” the Marquis had answered, “my connections, such as I can utilize, and my influence, such as I will make if this venture succeeds. But, never my name. No never, that I cannot give you.”
That, the merchant had understood. Obviously, this was a proud youngster who had got it into his head that it would be social suicide if it were known that he was engaged so deeply in commerce. But he assessed the grave young man and concluded that this was also a bright one, and, by his own standards, an honest one.
And, perhaps this young Noble could, in a circumlocatory way, provide that information, that entree, that access, which he needed in some phases of his business. And so the bargain was struck. St. John Basil St. Charles, Marquis of Bessacarr, whose blood was documented from Norman times forward, became the silent partner of George Berryman, whose blood, though no less rich, was derived from as mixed a pedigree as any mongrel roaming the London streets.
Over the years, St. John had taken a secretive but active part in the business. He had told George Berryman of the plans and maneuvers of the members of Society that he personally knew. Which families were badly dipped, which noble names would discreetly but anxiously be willing to sell off which holdings. Which way the war seemed to be going, the words taken from the top, where George Berryman would never have been able to hear them. All of which gave the pair both the information and access to the goal they wanted. They traded in property mines in the north, holdings in the islands, shipping shares, war supplies.
There were other business dealings whose nature could not bear too close a scrutiny—certain dealings in a certain trade off the Ivory Coast, certain imports from across the not-completely-war-locked channel, business matters best left in the dark where they could grow full and rich, like mushrooms in a damp cellar. But profitable. The pair had profitted, And all that was required now, as always, was trust, and secrecy.
Nine years, St. John thought, which has given me time to regain all that my father had lost, and more than he ever dreamed of.
Enough blunt to restore the estates, to live at the top of fashion, to marry off one small silly little sister in a manner to which she had never become accustomed. Enough money to let me make the world what I choose it to be. More than enough, really. But the prizes were too rich to give up the venture now that the original goal had been reached.
And no one would ever know that the riches had not dropped into his lap by accident, in the way, St. John felt, a nobleman should acquire his fortune. A fortune acquired as impeccably and easily as his birth and lineage, that was the hallmark of a true gentleman, and he would fight savagely to keep both his fortune and his title impeccable in the eyes of Society.
“Your Lordship,” George Berryman said, hurrying in through the door and closing it carefully behind him. “My pardons, please, for the treatment you received at the hands of the maid. She’s a new girl, and no one had told her…well, your visit was unexpected, My Lord,” he continued reproachfully.
“Indeed it was, Mr. Berryman,” answered the Marquis as he watched the elder man settle down behind the desk. “But I sent notes and messages, and received no answer. You were to have returned a week ago, and when I did not hear from you, I decided to come and see for myself if there were any problem. You know,” the Marquis went on, “that if something…should…if any evil should befall you, there is no one, I hope, who would have the knowledge that I must be informed.”
“No, indeed, but you have made that your stipulation, Your Lordship. At any rate, rest easy, if I should have…some evil befall me, there is no way to connect us. I keep no such papers. It would only mean that you would have to find yourself a new partner.”
“No,” laughed the Marquis, his good humor restored, “you and I are truly wedded, Berryman. If I should be widowed, I should seek out no other partner. I have all that I want now. I continue only because it pleases me to do so now. Now, what of Amerberly’s holdings?” he asked imperatively.
“That is what kept me so long,” Berryman answered. “He did not want to sell, not really. He equivocated, he hesitated, but in the end, as you predicted, he capitulated.”
“Ah!” said St. John, his eyes shining, his languid airs gone, his body alert. “Tell me all, tell me all, I have waited for this. How much?”
The early evening wore on as the two men talked and pored over their papers. The elder finally handed St. John a bank draft. “There you are, Your Lordship, your full and anonymously donated share. It was a good day’s work, for all that it took me two weeks to accomplish it. I must be getting older.”
“Old and slyer,” laughed St. John, noting the sum on the check with a smile before he put it in his pocket.
“Well then,” said St. John, rising and stretching himself. “Well done.”
“Your Lordship,” said George Berryman in an altered voice, “before you go, there is another matter which I would like to discuss with you.”
Something in the elder man’s tone made St. John pause. It was not like Berryman to detain him for even a moment after the work of business was done.
“It is a little difficult,” the older man admitted, and stared down at his desktop.
What the devil is this about? St. John frowned. For nine years, things have gone on smoothly, does he want a larger share now, for his old age? Which is fast approaching, St. John suddenly noted, seeing as if for the first time the new deep lines in his partner’s face, the imperceptible droop to his jowls, the sparse white hair, the pallid complexion. B’God, St. John noticed, he is growing old.
“It is not business, Your Lordship,” Berryman went on. “It is in the nature of a personal request.”
Now this is new, the Marquis thought, for nothing of this nature has ever been discussed before. When he thought about it, the Marquis remembered that he knew far less of the personal life of his partner than his partner knew of his own. For St. John was Society’s darling, and every scandal of his was well documented, while his partner, a bachelor, as he did know, lived his life in quiet seclusion.
Seeing that he had the Marquis’s undivided attention, George Berryman went unhappily on. “I have never asked anything of you, in so far as your social influence goes, but now, I am forced to apply to you for a…favor.”
By God, the Marquis thought, has some lady of fashion caught his eye? Has he a nephew he wants to promote in the Beau Monde? He is in for a disappointment if he expects my help there. But he is too sly an old fox for that.
“Do go on,” St. John said calmly, noting the other man’s uneasiness.
“Ah, did you happen to notice the carriage out on the street, My Lord?” Berryman said softly.
Suddenly tense, St. John nodded curtly.
“Who would not? It’s Torquay’s crest, it’s hardly anonymous. I was going to ask you about it myself, but it slipped my mind when you gave me the good news about Amerberly. What does he here, Berryman? The same as I? Have you become a bigamist, with two partners?”
“Hardly, sir,” Berryman frowned. “He has money enough for both of us, but it is this house that he watches.”
“Has he got wind of my involvement?” St. John asked, his lips white.
“No, no,” Berryman said. “Nothing at all like that. It is such a foolish thing that I am almost embarrassed to mention it, but I did not think…I…. Your Lordship, you know I am a man of power, but only in certain circles. And, I finally admit, because I feel it these days, I grow old. Still, here is a situation that neither my worldly wisdom, what there is of it, nor my money can handle. Simply put, then,” he said, seeing his youthful partner’s impatience, “it is an affair of the heart.”
“What?” drawled St. John, much entertained. “Has His Grace taken a fancy to you then, Berryman? I knew his tastes were varied, but really, I am much surprised.”
George Berryman only responded with a weak smile. “No, no. But I do not think it a joking matter. It seems that he has taken a violent fancy to a young woman here in my house. If, from what my servants tell me, he is running true to form, he has expectations…of abducting her. This, I cannot allow. But who would hear the word of a common merchant against a nobleman? And he has done nothing, actually, except station his servants to watch the house. No, I cannot say a thing. But, Your Lordship, many years ago you promised me…your influence in certain matters. I call upon that influence now, if I may, on the basis of the long years of association we have had. I do not like to do so, but I see no alternative. Could you…speak with the Duke…perhaps defer his interests? Deflect his fascination with my poor house, put a word in his ear? I would be most grateful.”
The words came easily enough to St. John. “Of course, Berryman, I shall do what I can, but for the moment, although I doubt that Torquay himself is sitting in the carriage, could you show me out a back entrance? For it would hardly do for his servants to spy me leaving here. Servants talk.”
“And Your Lordship,” hesitated Berryman as he showed the Marquis to the back-stair door, “one other thing.… As I do grow old, if ever things come to a pass…that is to say, may I tell the young woman that she may make application to you for…protection?”