Jane and the Barque of Frailty (17 page)

“Mr. Chizzlewit is merely playing off his humours,” I said firmly. “Sit down, Eliza, and give him a round tale, if you please.”

And so, between us, we imparted the whole: How a Frenchwoman of dubious morals had deposited a treasure in gems in Eliza’s lap; how we had sought the opinion of Mr. Rundell; how he had betrayed us to Bow Street; and how astonished we were to find that the jewels belonged to none other than the late Princess Evgenia Tscholikova.

“I did not credit the tale of self-murder from the very moment I learned of the Princess’s death,” I confided to the solicitor, “but I regarded Lord Castlereagh as the object of scandal—that it was he who should be suspected of the lady’s murder. I bent my thoughts to considering of Lord Castlereagh’s enemies—”

“Did you, indeed?” Sylvester Chizzlewit’s looks were satiric. “Yours is an unusual character, Miss Austen. Few ladies should have bent their thoughts to anything but repugnance. But I am forgetting: You were an intimate of Lord Harold’s. Naturally you are unlike the common run of females.”

I coloured. “Princess Tscholikova’s killer ought to be hidden among the coils of politics—if, indeed, Lord Castlereagh is the scandal’s intended victim— and it was under this spur that I consulted Lord Harold’s papers in your chambers yesterday. I hoped he might have recorded a rogues’ gallery of the Whig Party—those most likely to oppose Lord Castlereagh. But to discover, upon my return to this house, that it is I who am to be blamed for a stranger’s violent death—!”

“We are granted a week—but six more days—to clear ourselves of suspicion,” Eliza said mournfully. “And that man Skroggs was so bold as to suggest that my excellent husband might have cut the Princess’s throat—when Henry was wholly unacquainted with her! It was I who met her some once or twice at Emily Cowper’s, and chanced to nod when our paths crossed in Hans Place.”

“I fear you are mistaken, Eliza.” I clasped her hand. “Henry informed the coroner’s panel that the Princess required of him a loan a few days before her death—and that he refused her. He blames himself for the lady’s despair.”

“No!” She looked all her consternation. “But he has said nothing to me of this.”

“We have not been overly frank with Henry ourselves. You must know, Mr. Chizzlewit, that my brother is as yet in ignorance that Bow Street has come upon the house.”

The solicitor gave a gesture of dismissal. His lively countenance had sobered during the course of our recital, and he appeared as one deep in thought, rising from the settee to turn slowly before the fire, chin sunk into the snowy folds of his cravat.

“I was used to know an intimate of the Viscount’s household—one Charles Malverley,” he mused.

“Lord Castlereagh’s private secretary! He also was present this morning at the Princess’s inquest.” I straightened in my chair, all interest. “Did you know it was he who attended the discovery of the body—at five o’clock in the morning?”

“How very singular,” Chizzlewit murmured. “In Berkeley Square so early?”

“Mr. Malverley would have it he was working through the night—Lady Castlereagh retired—Lord Castlereagh at one of his clubs—but his lordship will not disclose which !”

“Lies on the one hand, and obdurate silence on the other. How like Charles—he was always a creature of chivalry.” The solicitor rubbed his nose reflectively. “Our firm has served the Earls of Tanborough—Malverley’s family—for time out of mind, and Charles and I were a little acquainted at Oxford. Naturally, our paths have diverged in the days since—I am not the sort of man to seek membership at White’s Club. But perhaps I should endeavour to renew the acquaintance.”

“Then you will help us?” Eliza cried.

“I declared myself to be at your service, Comtesse—and time grows lamentably short.” Mr. Chizzlewit ceased pacing and directed a searching gaze at my sister. “Bow Street would merely frighten you, and thus flush a larger game from the covert. We must give them what they seek. Why have you not already sought an explanation for the jewels from your bosom-bow? —This French opera singer who is married to d’Entraigues?”

“Because I am afraid,” Eliza confessed. “Consider of the awkwardness of such an appeal! Am I to descend upon Anne’s house in Barnes—accuse her of trafficking in stolen goods—demand a reason for her perfidy—and then be shown from the house without the slightest satisfaction? For Anne is certain to deny all knowledge of the thing, Mr. Chizzlewit. She must know the jewels were never hers to sell.”

“But does she know to whom they belonged?” I demanded thoughtfully, “or were they dropped in her lap much as they appeared in yours? We cannot hope for a full confession from Anne de St.-Huberti if we mount a deliberate attack—but with a little policy we might learn much. Eliza, the Countess begged you to have the jewels valued—indeed, to have them sold outright. Might we not pretend that our mission has met with success—that Mr. Rundell is considering of a fair price—but that he requires more information? You might then enquire where the pieces were made—how long they were in her keeping, et cetera—without putting the bird to flight.”

“An excellent scheme,” Mr. Chizzlewit agreed, “but let me beg, Comtesse, that you summon your old friend to Sloane Street. I cannot like you calling in Surrey, and putting yourself in a murderess’s power.”

“I cannot think Anne a murderess,” Eliza objected. “She is a creature of no little malice, to be sure, but depend upon it—her husband is to blame for this coil.”

“The Comte d’Entraigues?” Mr. Chizzlewit glanced in my direction. “That would be politics, again. The Frenchman, tho’ everywhere known for a scholar and a gentleman, was of considerable use to the Portland government in combating Buonaparte. There are those who call d’Entraigues spy.”

I smiled to myself, exultant that my understanding had not failed me—for Lord Harold should certainly have known of every intelligencer who moved in Europe during his days of intrigue; the ways of espionage were as lifeblood to him. “Does rumour name the spymaster in the late Portland government? To whom did d’Entraigues sell his information, Mr. Chizzlewit?”

The solicitor had the grace to look conscious, as tho’ he broached matters of State with the merest female nobodies. “It was said that George Canning was the Frenchman’s confidant. You will know that the Foreign Ministry is charged with management of the Secret Funds—those monies disbursed for the gathering of intelligence—and Canning undoubtedly held the purse strings.”

“But then I cannot make out the matter at all!” I cried in frustration. “Why should d’Entraigues be embroiled in a plot to throw scandal at Castlereagh’s door—when it is Castlereagh and Canning— d’Entraigues’s very patron—that the Regent most wishes to form a new government?”

Sylvester Chizzlewit threw up his hands; Eliza had recourse to her vinaigrette; and so we three parted for the remainder of our precious day—each of us bent upon securing the confidence of some one of those we suspected.

¹
Dun
Territory was a cant term for indebtedness, as those who owed money were “dunned” by bill collectors.—
Editor’s note
.

²
The Ministry of All Talents united notable Tory and Whig political figures under the leadership of Thomas Grenville and Charles James Fox in 1806.—
Editor’s note
.

³
The present-day equivalent of 1810 British pounds may be calculated roughly by a factor of sixty; the value in present-day dollars, by a factor of one hundred. Thus, Jane scraped by on an income roughly equivalent to three thousand present-day British pounds per annum, while the Prince’s debts discharged by Parliament were roughly equivalent to thirty-six million present-day pounds. His annual income was in the neighborhood of 3.6 million.—
Editor’s note
.

Chapter 15
A Calculated Misstep

Friday, 26 April 1811, cont.

∼

W
HEN
M
ANON HAD CLOSED THE DOOR ON
M
R.
Chizzlewit, she turned resolutely and said, “He is too young, that one. It is to be setting un enfant against the likes of ces salopards of Bow Street, yes? But if you will not have Monsieur Henri to know—”

“Monsieur Henri is bound for Oxford on Sunday,” I replied, “and cannot be troubled with this business. That young man is a solicitor—and naturally I should wish to consult with him, when under threat of the Law.”

The maid lifted her shoulders in that most Gallic of gestures. “Do not talk to me of the Law! Do you know they have had poor Druschka to that inn in

Covent Garden, and made her answer their questions? Bah!”

“You would mean the inquest? Indeed, I heard her testimony myself. I cannot recall, however, that she was forced to an indiscretion—”

“It is the judgement she cannot abide! Suicide! And Prince Pirov—the dead one’s so-Russian brother—has enjoined Druschka to silence; not a question, not a protest, may she utter in his hearing. She told me the whole, not an hour after the household was returned from the Brown Bear.” Manon glanced at me under her eyelashes. “We have taken to meeting, vous savez, in Cadogan Place, for our exercise.”

“Have you, indeed?” I regarded Manon with interest. “Would Druschka take flight if I were to accompany you—on your exercise tomorrow?”

The French maid folded her hands. “But no. What she desires is justice—and I have told her my mistress desires it too.”

F
ROM
H
ENRY’S DESCRIPTION, ONE WOULD THINK
that Francis Rawdon Hastings, the second Earl of Moira, was an engaging buck of the first stare, slap up to the echo, and alive upon every suit. In truth he is a man of nearly sixty years of age, sadly given to corpulence, lacking in most of his teeth and hair—and is notable mainly for having survived such bosom-bows as Charles James Fox and my own Lord Harold. He is the indifferent father of a son and heir—the indifferent owner of a series of estates, all heavily mortgaged—and lives in contented alienation from his wife. It did not require Henry’s circumspection to inform me that the Earl was in the habit of supporting a different High Flyer each Season—for what man of position and birth should do less, when convention required of him no more?

And indeed, when we came upon the Earl after a quarter-hour’s desultory ramble along Hyde Park’s gravel, it was to discover his blood chestnuts fretting at their bits, and his lordship pulled up near a woodland path of primroses in full flower. He was beaming down with avuncular fondness at a blushing picture of beauty—none other than the celebrated courtesan, Julia Radcliffe, whose matched greys were apparently languishing in their stables. The divine Julia had adopted a parasol, the better to twirl with indolence, and pursued her demure way in the company of Harriette Wilson. I had an idea of the two Barques sailing regally against the Park’s current of respectable humanity, the better to stare the male half of the Fashionable World full in the face—and perhaps to be taken up in a curricle or two.

“There is the Earl now!” I declared brightly.

“But he is engaged,” Henry said.

Poor Henry—always so solicitous of his sister’s morals, and to such little purpose. He secured my hand—which was drawn through his arm—and would have dragged me past the blood chestnuts without a word of salutation to his lordship.

“Fiddlestick,” I muttered. “It is only a bit of the Muslin Company. If he is a gentleman, he will bid them adieu.”

“But if I wish to be taken for a gentleman,” my brother muttered in return, “I should never carry my sister into the orbit of such a pair! You cannot know who they are, Jane. Walk on.”

There was nothing to be done—my brother’s scruples were too severe—and thus I was forced to rely on a woman’s ingenuity. I gave a little lurch, and a soft cry, half broken-off—and sank to the ground as gracefully as my brother’s grip would allow.

“Henry!” I cried in failing accents. “My ankle! Oh, pray that it may not be broken!”

He gave me a darkling look, but bent immediately to examine the offending foot—and in another moment, I was surrounded by exactly the interesting party whose notice I had hoped to excite.

“Are you unwell?” Harriette Wilson enquired, without the least ceremony. “May we be of assistance?”

I do not suppose she can have been much above five-and-twenty; an intriguing creature whose looks were neither classic nor regular—but whose countenance was suffused with good humour and mischief. Her eyes snapped, her dimples were numerous; but I think I may say without prejudice that her bloom had begun to go off. I had known of Harriette Wilson’s fame nearly eight years before, when in her teens she had figured as the mistress of our

Hampshire neighbour, Lord Craven—who bored her so dreadfully, she abandoned him for Frederick Lamb; but the intervening years of high living and late hours had sadly ravaged her complexion.
¹
She was looking hagged, not to put too fine a point upon it—and the paint she employed to supplement Nature, contrasted painfully with Julia Radcliffe’s unblemished youth.

“My ankle,” I said soulfully. “I turned my boot upon the gravel—-just there—and felt the most tiresome spurt of pain. Pray do not concern yourself—my brother, Mr. Austen, shall do all that is necessary—”

“Austen?” exclaimed Lord Moira, giving his reins to his tyger, and easing his bulk from the curricle. “So it is, to be sure—your servant, Mr. Austen—and you have quite the look of him, my dear, quite the look of your excellent brother.”

“It does not appear to be badly bruised,” Miss Wilson observed, gathering up her jonquil muslin to crouch in the dust of the carriageway, “but ankles are treacherous, are they not? I once turned mine, while strolling along the Steyne in Brighton, and was forced to enlist the aid of Prinny.”
²
Her black eyes sparkled suddenly with mischief. “In point of truth, I had not entirely turned my foot—but I did so long to see the interior of the Pavilion! Very naughty of me, was it not?”