The Heart That Lies (5 page)

Much as he hated the idea of inexpert players touching his pianoforte, he hated even more the injustice of making Miss Webb, the best player, accompany the dances for the rest of the evening.

Neither sister moved away. The elder stood looking expectantly at Smith, the younger seemed to be fascinated by the floor.

“Mr
Smith, will you not choose a partner?” Meldon nudged him gently.

Smith started. “Oh, I had not
intended to dance.”

“I thought all young people came to an evening such as this
with the express intent of dancing.”

“You do not dance,
my lord?”

“I am no longer...” Young he had intended to say. I am no longer young.

Finch caught his eye and raised an eyebrow.

“Meldon’s wound makes it too awkward for him. Smith, why don’t you dance
with Miss Arbuthnot? Oh, I see Mr Sinclair is there before me. Perhaps Miss Sophia, you would do me the honour.” Miss Sophia Arbuthnot looked up from the floor with a radiant smile and accepted Finch’s proffered hand.

The three of them went off to help move furniture, while Meldon stood alone. When had he started to think of himself as old? He was not yet thirty, not much older than most of his guests and younger than
some of them.

He had kept
himself apart for too long, but, even as he watched the dancers, he had no desire to join them. He had not invited silly women, feeling that Smith would feel about them the same way as he did himself, but none of his female guests made his heart beat faster. He had no interest in being alone with any of them. He did not wonder what it would be like to kiss them. He did not wish to dance with any of his guests.

He turned his attention back to Smith. He danced well and smiled at his
partner as he should, but every now and again he glanced at Meldon. At the end of the set he excused himself from his partner and came to stand next to the earl.

“You look lonely,
my lord. Do you desire company?”

“Would you leave me alone if I said I did not?”

“Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude.” The boy looked crushed.

“No, forgive me, I was rude. Stay if you wish.”

They stood in awkward silence for a while.

“Is she here, the woman you love?” It was impertinent, but he had to
know.

“Yes.”

“I have not noticed you particularly seek out the company of any woman.”

“I do not wish to cause any embarrassment by making my feelings obvious.”

“But you could dance with her.”

Smith’s face became sad, “No, that will not be possible. Please, ask no more.”

“You don’t wish to dance with her.”

“I desire nothing more.”

The boy looked away quickly, but not before Meldon had seen the wetness of a tear in his eye. Here was a man who could not hide his feelings.

“You must become harder, Mr Smith,” said Meldon gently. “Other men will ask more intrusive questions than I.”

“Perhaps I should lie to them.”

“That is certainly a solution.”

“But you do not think I can carry it off?”

“On the contrary
, I believe it is the nature of this age to lie. We are none of us what we appear.”

Smith seemed to pale. “Not even you,
my lord?”

“Especially not me,” said
Meldon, for now it seemed to him that he felt a real affection for the young man standing next to him. He was beginning to cast aside his suspicion that the boy had been sent by the French to embroil him in some scandal or to enable them to blackmail him. He had never been interested in boys and doubted that anyone would think of it as a way to bring pressure to bear on him.

“And what is the nature of my dissembling
?” asked Smith, his face sceptical.

“You are a gambler disguised as a poet.”

Smith laughed uneasily.

“
That is easy for you to discern, since it is what I told you myself. And your own deception?”

Which of the many could he reveal? “That I am a man without passion.”

Smith laughed again. “That is not a disguise you wear very well.”

“Really? I thought I was rather good at
it.”

“Each time we have met you have talked passionately about your estate and your plans for
it. Everyone knows that you would rather be there than here. That is the object of your passion.”

Meldon had always thought that this
was part of his disguise and was shocked to find that he had revealed himself through it.

“Is everyone else in this room as
easy for you to see through?”

Smith shook his head. “I have not spent enough time with anyone else except Mr Finch and he, well, he is not as stupid as he chooses to appear.”

Meldon tried to keep his face blank. He had always considered Finch’s stupidity well done. It was not exaggerated and he did not make himself seem so stupid that he could not be expected to be the friend of an astute man like Meldon.

Meldon looked
at Smith appraisingly. Could this man be a replacement for Vincent? His ability to see through people would be useful, but Meldon found he did not like the idea of introducing Smith to his more dangerous world, even for the sake of his country. Vincent would still be alive if Meldon hadn’t introduced him to General Warren. He couldn’t make that mistake with another man.

“You see a great deal.”

“I see a bit and imagine the rest.”

“Ah,
ever the poet.”

Finch came
up to them. “I believe, Mr Smith, that Miss Arbuthnot would welcome an invitation to dance from you. She has been muttering about Mr Sinclair’s clumsiness.”

Smith bowed slightly.

“Then please excuse me.”

He did not look happy to be called to dance with the beautiful Miss Arbuthnot and Meldon wondered why, then realised that she was not the woman that Smith loved.
Smith had said that his lover was older than himself, but Miss Arbuthnot was more or less the same age.

Once again Meldon watched Smith wind his way up and down the dancers. He
was certain he did not imagine the frequent glances that Smith sent in his direction.

“He dances well,” said Finch after a while.

“He sees through people,” offered Meldon as an explanation for his study of the young man. “He says you are not as stupid as you appear.”

“Does he indeed? Then he might be dangerous.”

Meldon thought for a moment.

“You think he might be an agent for the French?”

Although Meldon had almost convinced himself that this was not the case, he still valued Finch’s opinion.

“I am inclined to think not
, but a man who gives voice to thoughts like that to a man not well known to him could be a danger to himself.”

“I do not feel that he is that open with everyone.”

“He will bear watching.”

Meldon was only too happy to agree.

After his guests had departed, Meldon sat at the pianoforte and ran through a couple of sonatas
that had arrived recently from Austria. He was relieved to find it still in good condition; Miss Howard had a tendency to hit the keys carelessly. He would have to tune it, but that could wait until tomorrow.

More at peace with himself
now, he was able to look back at the evening more objectively. He had received much information and his particular talent lay in examining different pieces of information, seeing a common thread and making connections that other men would miss. First he looked for information that he could pass to Warren. Ever mindful of his duties in that direction, two of his guests had been men who had attracted Warren’s attention earlier in the summer. Meldon had been instructed to seek them out and befriend them. They had visited his table at the gambling club a few times and dined with him twice. He had gone hunting with one of them and entertained the other at Meldon Hall. This was the first time that he had had them both in his company at the same time. Their conversation had not caused him any concern this evening, but still he considered it again and looked at what they had said to his other guests in his hearing. It had all been innocuous, except for... Ah! There it was. Meldon smiled. It was a small enough prize for the amount of effort he had put in, but that was often the way of things. It would please Warren.

Now he set himself to discovering Smith’s lover. By the end of the
evening, Smith had danced with most of the women. He had been pleasant to each of them and had complimented them on their dancing ability in exactly the same way. He had not lingered with any of them after the set was over. Try as he might, Meldon could not see that he had shown a preference for any one of them. Miss Arbuthnot had certainly shown her preference for him, but Smith had danced with each of them only once. He had spent some time talking with Meldon during the dancing, making complimentary comments about each of the dancers. Either Smith had lied about his lover being present this evening, or he was much better at hiding his feelings than most men, which Meldon knew was not the case. Then he remembered that Smith had said that he would not dance with her. That gave him a much smaller number of women to consider. Still he could not discover which of the remaining women Smith thought would be embarrassed by his attentions. The more he thought about it the more it seemed to him that Smith had spent more time with him than with anyone else. He shook his head and started to try out a tune that had been running through his mind all evening. It was only when it occurred to him that the rather feminine tune really represented Smith that he came to an abrupt stop. Through the open window he heard the clock in the nearby church strike three times. He stood and carefully covered the keys of the pianoforte, resolving that tomorrow night he would spend some time on his own sonata.

He snuffed
out the candles as he left the room and went upstairs, hoping that he would be able to sleep and to sleep without dreaming.

Smith stood as Meldon entered the foyer of the gaming club. It had been a week since Meldon had seen the boy and he looked as if he had not slept for a single one of those seven nights.

“Are you well?” he asked with some concern after they had shaken hands.

“Well enough, thank you.”

“Come in and have a drink. Have you been here long?
I apologise for being late; my sister would not let me leave her house unless I ate with them.”

Meldon was very annoyed that Caro had pressed him so hard to stay. She knew that this was his card night, but she had chosen tonight to take him to task for not marrying
, again. They had discussed his need for heirs even though Meldon had pointed out that her son John would inherit everything, save the title. “It’s all in my will,” he had explained, even though Caro had read it. It was not, however, right in her eyes that the title should go out of the family. Meldon did not like quarrelling with his sister. Usually their views differed little, but this one area was a grave cause for disagreement when Caro chose to raise it. It didn’t help matters that Meldon knew she was right. He must marry and soon. He had not poured his soul into his estate to see it go anywhere other than to a son and he wanted to live long enough to show his son how to carry on after him. His own father had died when Meldon had been fifteen and he had felt the responsibility sit heavily on his shoulders. It was not that his father had not prepared him well, but there was so much he still had to learn. It was only with the help of his mother and General Warren that he had managed to build on what had gone before at Meldon Hall. He had a natural gift for managing his estate and it gave him pleasure to see his fields and livestock flourish. When he made money he managed to keep it and his house became a place guests were happy to visit. As Caro had said, any sensible woman would be happy to marry him. Meldon had retorted that he wouldn’t take a sensible woman. Two sensible people in a marriage would be one too many. He hadn’t meant it. He meant only that he found the young girls he was introduced to too vapid and foolish. He knew the kind of woman he wanted would be clever enough to ask questions about where he went and why he spent so much time with Finch and General Warren. Marrying that kind of woman would mean giving up spying, for he would not lie to such a wife.

Seeing Smith again did not improve his temper. He was angry with Caro, which would leave him little energy to deal with the discomfort that Smith caused.
And, despite being prepared for it, the discomfort was great.

“I have not been here long, Lord Meldon. I was not sure you would play this evening.”

“Yes, I’m playing. We’ll have a peaceful evening. I have not invited any guests. Tonight is just for my friends.”

“Then perhaps I should leave.”

The boy looked uncomfortable and Meldon regretted his outburst.

“No, that’s not what I meant. You fitted in very well last time you played. Some of my guests forget they are guests.”
He was more tired than he thought; he was usually more guarded in conversation.

He led the
boy into the smallest of the three gaming rooms. He thought the boy seemed nervous, but put it down to lack of sleep. His own head was aching from his argument with Caro. The one thing he held against her was that she got louder as her argument got weaker and she had shouted at him until his brother-in-law had suggested she might prefer to keep her argument between herself and her brother and not make their neighbours privy to it. Even then she had not been apologetic, but had carried on her argument in a quieter voice sitting on the arm of her brother’s chair.

Despite his tiredness, Meldon thought t
he evening began well. They were a small party of skilled players and these were men whose company Meldon enjoyed. They talked as they played. Their conversation was a level above gossip, but was neither personal nor deep. Smith was quieter than he had been before, which meant that Meldon was not quite so distracted by his presence.

As the evening wore on, however, Smith began to lose more often. Each time he lost he looked at Meldon and it was soon obvious to Meldon, if not to the others, that Smith was watching his hands. Upset by his argument with his sister
and dwelling still on its aftermath, he was too slow to work out what was happening.

“I believe your lordship played that card earlier this hand.”

Smith’s voice was quiet, but the silence that followed was deafening. The men at the table looked at him, then at Meldon. Even as Meldon looked at the card he had just placed on the table he hadn’t understood what the boy meant.

“Meldon’s not a cheat,” said Finch.

“What?” Now Meldon understood. “You think I somehow retrieved the card?”

“I saw you do it. And you played it earlier in the
hand.” Smith’s voice was quieter than before and Meldon thought it was not quite steady.

“By God, he’s right, Meldon. You did play it.” Stallard’s memory was as worthy of trust as the man himself, so Meldon didn’t doubt that he had put the card down before. His only question was how it had come to be in his hand again. If he had been concentrating properly, he would have noticed when it came into his hand,
but he had decided to throw this hand and go home, so had not been paying attention.

“Meldon’s not a cheat,” repeated Finch angrily.

“No,” agreed Stallard, obviously confused. “He’s not a cheat, but he did play the card before.”

Stallard and Finch looked at Smith as if for an explanation. Meldon continued to stare at his card.

“You are silent, my lord.”

“I have nothing to say.”

He turned his aching head to look at the boy.

“You do not deny that y...you are a cheat?”
queried Smith.

“Of course I deny it. I cannot admit to being what I am not.” I wonder how you did it, he thought, and why.

Smith stood. “You will hear from me in the morning.”

“Wait a moment,” said Stallard, “what you’re suggesting is illegal. And you’re not the injured party.”

“Don’t be foolish boy. Meldon can shoot straighter than any man I know.” Meldon almost smiled at Finch’s lie. Finch was a much better shot than he was. Meldon found he was more likely to hit what he did not aim for.

“How did you do it?”
wondered Meldon aloud.  “How did you put that card into my hand?”

Stallard groaned and Meldon saw that Smith was both relived and afraid.

“Now I am the injured party. Good evening, gentlemen.”

Smith turned
and walked away from the table.

“Why did you say that?” hissed Finch.

“Because I wanted to know the answer.”

“That was the worst thing you could have done. N
ow he’ll call you out.”

Meldon stared at him.

“He’s a boy. He can’t intend to call me out. He writes poetry for God’s sake.”

“You insulted him.”

“He slipped me the card.”

Meldon was almost pleading with his friend to understand.

“Of course he did, but I didn’t see him do it. Did you?”

Meldon shook his head.

“Stallard?”

“No.” Stallard tapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully. “Do you think he came here just to call you out? He made you out to be a cheat in front of witnesses.”

Finch’s eyes widened in alarm and Meldon dropped his head into his hands.

Smith’s letter arrived the next morning. It set out the insult in a strong, clear hand and requested satisfaction two days hence. Tomorrow he would call on Meldon to discuss the choice of weapon.

Enraged by the stupidity of it, Meldon flung the letter to the floor. Johnson had told him that Smith had brought
the letter himself. It was clear to him that the boy knew enough about the rules of duelling to know how to issue the challenge, but not enough about how to carry it out, for politeness demanded that his second bring the challenge to him personally.

Cursing, he bent and picked up the letter and read it again. Apart from being illegal, th
e outcome of a duel was never certain, no matter how good a shot a man might be or how good a swordsman. The dangers were many. An unevenness in the ground might make him stumble as he turned. A sudden distraction, a bird’s flight or a horse’s whinny might cause him to miss his aim. Anger or sorrow could cause him to hesitate. Rain could make the ground slippery underfoot. No man called out another lightly, except, it seemed, Smith.

Meldon looked once more at the letter in his hand. What was the boy thinking of?

Briefly, he considered apologising, but he knew that the accusation was false. Honour demanded that he defend himself. He had spent the night working out how the boy had placed the card in his
hand and was convinced that he knew how it had been done; what he did not understand was how he had not noticed it. Did he really find the boy so fascinating that he no longer exercised his usual caution? If so, he was a fool and deserved whatever he received at the boy’s hand.

He called for Perkins.

“I think I’ll change into something more sober,” he said when his valet arrived.

“Yes, my lord.”

“And then I shall go and see Mr Finch. Ask cook to send up some of those biscuits that Mr Freddie likes.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I thought I should see you this morning,” said Finch gloomily after his son had been sent away with Uncle George’s biscuits.

Meldon showed him the letter and paced impatiently whilst he read it. Normally he enjoyed being in Finch’s house, for it allowed him to lay aside his stick and to walk as normally as he could, but today he was nervous.

“I assume you don’t want me to go round with an apology?” asked Fin
ch when he had finished reading.

“I don’t think it would be accepted. Smith made it appear as if I had cheated simply so that he could call me out.”

“Yes, I came to the same conclusion.”

Meldon was touched that his friend had given the matter some
thought.

“Meldon, this is a ticklish subject, but since I assume you’ve come here to ask me to be
your second...”

“Of course,” interrupted Meldon.

“Then what on Earth did you do to him to cause him to go to this trouble?”

Meldon was taken aback; he hadn’t expected this from Finch.

“Nothing. I never met him before you introduced us.”

“That was a month ago. Plenty of time for an insult, real or imagined.”

Meldon sat on the most comfortable chair in the room, but still he shifted as if he were in pain.

“I swear to you, Finch, I have done nothing.”

“Only... Meldon, boys like Smith don’t call out men like you unless... well, unless they feel they really have to.”

Meldon stared at Finch.

“What do
you
think I’ve done?”

Finch looked at his feet, at the empty grate and then back at Meldon.

“I think he misinterpreted something you said or did,” he said heavily.

Meldon clenched his fists
, unwilling to believe that his friend thought this of him.

“No,” he
said firmly, “there can have been no misinterpretation of anything.” He was certain of this and had been aware of Smith’s reaction to everything he had said or done in his company. “There has been nothing to misinterpret.”

“Why else would he risk his own life?” asked Finch helplessly.

“I don’t know, but it’s not because I’ve said or done anything inappropriate.”

“
Before you thought the French...?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“But it’s so convoluted and uncertain. He’s only a boy.”

“Who has been less than
truthful about who he is and where he’s from.”

“Yes. I did ask some questions about him and no one knows him.
We agreed he was dangerous, we just didn’t realise he would be dangerous for you.”

“Will you be my
second?”

Meldon was aware that Finch hadn’t indicated his willingness to fulfil that rôle
, despite his offer to talk to Smith.

“Of course. Meldon, I didn’t mean to insult you, I know you better than that, but it just makes no sense.”

Meldon was relieved that Finch seemed to be back on his side, but he was right; Smith must be insane.

The next morning Finch arrived at Meldon House a few minutes before Smith. Meldon had agreed to keep out of the way so that Finch could talk to Smith alone and try to talk him out of the duel. If that could not be achieved, Meldon would choose swords.

“He
doesn’t fence,” said Finch despondently when Meldon joined him in the drawing-room after Smith had left.

“Pistols it is, then.”

“Don’t joke, Meldon. If he’s as good a shot as he seems to think he is, you won’t stand a chance.”