Belgravia (27 page)

Anne wondered what Lady Brockenhurst was fishing for. If Charles was demonstrating some quality in his blood, it was surely James’s influence they could trace, not the Bellasis side of his ancestry. No Bellasis would have troubled himself to balance the books since the Crusades. For a moment, she felt rather proud of her husband. He could be tiresome in his eagerness to better himself socially, but he was a clever man nonetheless, with a real flair for business.

“How did you know I was the son of a vicar?”

A good question. The Countess floundered, but only for a fraction of a second. “You told me. When I was here last.”

“Ah,” Charles said, and nodded. “Well, he wasn’t the average vicar, which probably explains it. He was an exceptional fellow.”

“Was?”

“He died not long ago.”

Of course he’d died. Anne had forgotten that. When James told her, he’d suggested he had read it in the
Times
, but now she wondered. Would James have missed their correspondence? she asked herself. Twenty-five years’ worth of letters, reporting Charles’s progress all that time. Although once James was in contact with Charles himself, the role of Mr. Pope in passing on information must have diminished almost to nothing. Still, he seemed to have been a good man. “He sounds like an excellent person,” she said.

“I have been very fortunate.” Charles glanced up at a pastel that hung behind his desk. The sitter was elderly, with a sprinkling of gray hair and dressed entirely in black. The white bands of a cleric set off his finely boned face, which was almost in profile, his mind perhaps on higher things. In his right hand he carried a book, which, on closer inspection, turned out to be the Bible. The chalk highlights were well done, and the whole thing put Anne in mind of the work of George Richmond. In truth, she was grateful to the Reverend Mr. Pope, when all was said and done. Maybe the increase in his income had been the initial incentive to take in a
stray and unwanted fledgling, but clearly he had grown fond of the boy and given him a good grounding with which to take on life.

“It’s an attractive picture.” Lady Brockenhurst stared at it. “At least, it is the sort of picture that suggests it is a fine likeness, even though I did not know the sitter. He looks clever and kind. I hope he was.”

“He was both those things and more. I think I told you about him when we first met.”

“Tell me again.” What a cool liar she was. Anne almost admired her for it. That is the problem of a situation such as ours, she thought. It makes liars of us all. In this very room, she and Lady Brockenhurst were liars incarnate, both parading as innocents before their ignorant grandson. Even Maria was a liar, if she still pretended she was going to marry John Bellasis when it must be clear that she was not—not willingly, anyway. Only Charles was not lying, unless he was hoping to hide that he was head over heels in love with Maria Grey.

“I was not their blood child.” Charles was quite easy in his manner. But then, why should he feel uncomfortable? “My mother died in childbirth and my father in battle not long before, or so I was told. My father was Mr. Pope’s cousin, and he and his wife—or my mother, as I think of her now—felt they should take me in. They were childless, and so perhaps there was something to be gained on both sides, but the fact is, they were very good to me, and she is kind and loving to this day.”

“What about Mr. Trenchard? What was his role in all this?” Anne was curious how the first link was made.

“I had originally been intended for the Church, as Lady Brockenhurst suggested. But as I grew older my father could see that my gifts lay elsewhere, and so he managed to get me apprenticed to a banking house. But when I first came to London I saw at once that it was not a world I would easily understand. So my father asked Mr. Trenchard if he would be my guide until I found my feet. He and my father had been friends for many years.”

Anne watched Lady Brockenhurst. She was clearly enjoying herself as she learned the secret history of her grandchild. “How fortunate that the Reverend Mr. Pope had friends in business.”

“He had friends in all walks of life. Fortunately, Mr. Trenchard took an interest in me and has kept an eye on me ever since. When I decided to leave the bank, I came to him with the idea of purchasing a mill, and he agreed to back my instinct, which made it possible, and now Lord and Lady Brockenhurst have been kind enough to give me what I need to establish the operation fully.”

“Is the mill already working?” Maria felt she had been silent long enough.

“Yes, but in a rather haphazard way, using what raw cotton I can find. Now I want to put in place a more stable arrangement that will allow me to expand. That is what Lady Brockenhurst has made possible. Shall I ring for some more tea?”

“I don’t think so. Thank you.” Anne was sitting with Maria on the sofa as sunlight streamed in through the large shuttered windows, creating a striped pattern across the wooden floor. Charles gathered up the tea things and placed them on the tray. Anne watched his fluid, even graceful, movements. How incredible that the fat, mewling baby she’d briefly held in her arms a quarter of a century ago had grown into such a handsome and self-assured man.

By her side, Maria was also watching Charles Pope. His father a soldier, she was thinking, and the cousin of a churchman… what was wrong with that? He might not be a catch, but he was at least a gentleman. Of course John Bellasis had a great fortune coming, but wouldn’t Charles make a great fortune himself? And might it not come sooner? Lord Brockenhurst looked good for many years yet. And as she thought this, she talked, asking question after question about Charles’s business and his schemes, hanging on his every word. How long would it take him to get to India? Would he be traveling alone? How would he know if his sources were reliable when he got there?

“It’s not the reliability that matters most, initially, it’s the quality,” he explained, pacing the office in his enthusiasm. “The
situation in India is difficult, and most of the cotton is currently low grade, but when one finds the right supplier one needs to commit to them. Only then can we start to improve the business. The weather is perfect, so it must be possible.”

“Hear, hear!” came a voice from the door, accompanied by a slow, loud handclap. “Well said, that, man!”

John Bellasis was lounging against the door frame of the office. Charles stared at him in surprise. “Sir?” he said. “May I help you?” The man looked familiar to him, but his manner was proud and somehow hostile, as if he and Charles were already enemies. John’s eyes were narrowed, his mouth hard. He was the very picture of arrogance.

“John?” said Lady Brockenhurst. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask the same of you, my dear aunt.” But he did not wait for an answer. “Lady Maria, as I live and breathe. Good day to you,” John continued, ignoring Charles entirely as he strode across the office toward Maria, who was frozen with shock.

As if voicing her thoughts, Lady Brockenhurst spoke again. “How did you know where we were to be found?”

“I didn’t. That is, not all of you. I expected to see you here, Aunt, but not…?” He stared vacantly at Anne. “I’m so sorry.”

Charles spoke. “Mrs. Trenchard.”

“Mrs. Trenchard, of course. I know just who you are.” The irony being that he really did know—he had sat at a table with her at his aunt’s soirée, after all—but he didn’t want to show it. “And to discover Lady Maria here is a positive blessing from above.” He did not sound as if he thought Maria’s presence in Charles’s office was much of a blessing. He did not sound like that one bit.

At first, when he’d received Ellis’s note asking him to come to Piccadilly, he had been infuriated at her impertinence in sending for him, but when he heard what Billy had told her, that today was the date of the planned trip to Bishopsgate, he admitted she’d acted sensibly. Who was Mr. Pope, this figure from nowhere who had so mysteriously caught their attention? He needed to get to the bottom of what the fellow’s hold over them was. Could it be blackmail, for some earlier misdemeanor buried in his uncle’s past? But
how would that explain the interest of the Trenchards? He had given Ellis a coin and thanked her. “Mrs. Trenchard said nothing more that would explain her reasons for the visit?”

“She made no mention of it, sir. It was the footman who told me. She keeps her own counsel as a rule.”

“Does she? Well, we’ll see if she’ll keep it when I beard them in the lion cub’s den, Mrs. Trenchard and my beloved aunt.”

“You won’t give me away, sir?” Ellis was not yet ready to lose her position. She would go when it suited her and not before.

“Don’t worry. If you were sacked, you’d be no more use to me.”

His problem, of course, was how to explain his following Anne Trenchard, a woman he barely knew, to an appointment he would have no information about.

Quickly he made his way to Brockenhurst House, and by good fortune Lord Brockenhurst was at home. It did not take John long to prompt his uncle into telling him that Caroline had gone to Bishopsgate to call on young Mr. Pope. John nodded.

“You are both taking such an interest in that man, sir.”

“Caroline finds him promising, and he seems nice enough to me.” Peregrine would never challenge any enthusiasm of his wife. Since Edmund’s death, she had so few of them.

“That’s very strange,” said John. “I’m on my way to Bishopsgate this instant. How is that for a coincidence? I might look in and see if I can find her there.” He knew the address of Pope’s office. His research had already yielded that, and Lord Brockenhurst would never remember that he hadn’t asked for it. His alibi established, he hailed a cab and set off.

And now here he was, facing his nemesis with Mrs. Trenchard, Maria Grey and his aunt thrown into the mix.

“I’m afraid we’ve finished tea, unless you’d like me to ring for some more, Mr.…?’

Charles’s inability to recognize John irritated him profoundly. How dare this young upstart not remember him from the supper? Who was this odious fellow who seemed to have the ladies so entranced? That was normally John’s territory. His father had been right about this: There was something very odd—and deeply
unattractive—about the way his aunt was carrying on with this insignificant nobody. More to the point, money was being diverted from him and his father, and he didn’t care for it. Until now, his future had seemed comparatively easy to envisage. He simply had to borrow until his uncle’s death, and then his father’s inheritance—or more probably his own—would set everything straight, and all would be as merry as a marriage bell. Except that now the arrival of Mr. Charles Pope threatened to overturn the cart.

“You have already met Lord Brockenhurst’s nephew, Mr. Bellasis, at the soirée,” said the Countess, getting out of her seat. She was annoyed by John’s intrusion. That was clear. And subtly undermined. She caught Anne’s eye. This episode was over. It was time for them to leave.

“Mr. Bellasis, of course,” said Charles, nodding briefly as his heart sank. So this was Maria’s fiancé. “I do apologize. There were so many people, I was quite overwhelmed.”

“You didn’t look it.” John stared at Charles from the chaise. The man had nothing to recommend him, and yet his aunt had crossed London to drink tea in this nondescript office. “So here we all are,” he said, lightly tapping his fingertips together.

“That’s what we’d like to know,” said Maria. “Why are
you
here?” She smiled as she spoke, but it did not reach her eyes.

Lady Brockenhurst nodded. “Yes, John. Why are you here?”

“I was at your house this morning, and my uncle told me you had gone to Bishopsgate. I had an appointment in the area and was curious to see Mr. Pope again. He is quite the man of mystery. To me, anyway. Half my family and now the wife of one of the most famous builders of London together beat a path to this modest door, and I wanted to know why. I may call it modest without offense, I hope, sir?” he said with mock servility.

Charles forced a smile. “By all means.”

John continued. “When I heard you were on your way here, Aunt, it seemed the perfect opportunity.”

Charles felt it was time to join in, to make things smooth again. “Don’t worry, Mr. Bellasis. It’s a mystery to me, too. Why everyone seems to have taken such an interest in my welfare.”
This time Charles’s smile was more genuine. “You may be sure of that.”

“I was wondering.” John turned to Maria. “I’m going down to Epsom on Thursday. A cousin of mine has a horse running, and I thought you and Lady Templemore might like to accompany me.”

“I’ll ask Mama, of course, but I’m afraid she’s not very fond of racing.”

“What about you, Pope? Are you a man for the horses?”

“Not too much,” replied Charles. His heart was singing because Maria had turned down the chance of spending a day with this man. Could he take it as a sign?

“No, I suppose not,” said John, moving to stand in front of the map of India with his hands behind his back. “Your head is probably too full of cotton.” He laughed to disguise the insult as a joke.

Lady Brockenhurst started moving toward the door. “It’s time to leave Mr. Pope to his business. And we ladies have some business of our own. Will you come shopping with us, John?”

“I don’t think so, Aunt. Unless you don’t trust yourselves to make the right decisions.” But he smiled as he said it. “As I said, I have something I need to attend to.” Lady Brockenhurst nodded. Clearly he had no desire to spend the rest of the day trailing round some silk merchant’s warehouse, but she did not blame him for that.

As it happened, John Bellasis really had made other plans. He’d arranged to meet Susan Trenchard later that day at Morley’s Hotel in Trafalgar Square. In the final analysis, he had to admit there was nothing that staved off humiliation and irritation more effectively than sleeping with someone else’s wife.

He had reserved the room in a woman’s name, albeit a false one, and he found Susan waiting when he pushed open the door of number twenty-seven on the first floor. He’d seen her maid, Speer, waiting patiently in the hall downstairs, so he knew she was there. She’d said she didn’t have the time to travel to Isleworth, and they both knew he would not invite her to Albany. Not yet. His set of rooms was not quite right for the lazy, luxurious
aristocratic image he liked to project. Comfort in Isleworth was achievable on his budget, comfort in Piccadilly was not. Or barely. He would mention his address as often as he could, reminding the listener that Lord Byron used to inhabit Set A2, but he never entertained there, not even fellows. So instead, this time, he had paid for a room in the Morley. The expense was an annoyance, but he was forced to conclude that Susan was worth it as he lay on the bed later that afternoon, naked and content. Rarely had he come across a more enthusiastic lover. Most of the women he slept with were boringly concerned about the dangers of conception and the inevitable scandal that would engulf them, but Susan Trenchard did not appear to be troubled by any such thoughts. She was compliant and completely obliging, and John liked that, and her, very much.