The Best of Men (70 page)

“I will sample poison at this stage. I cannot feel worse than I do.” He poured a few drops into a glass by her bedside and gave it to her. She drank it off, and rested her head back again. “Has Digby told you my news?” she resumed with forced cheer, though she was shivering under the thick layers of bedclothes. “Captain Milne has offered to marry me.” Digby neglected to mention that, Laurence thought, but he said nothing. “I explained to the Captain that he was unlikely to get any issue of me,” she went on, “yet he said he would have me anyway, if he could be paid a dowry by his lordship in order to rebuild his finances, which are in as sorry a state as I am.”

Laurence bit back an exclamation. “And what did Digby say to that?” he asked.

“He refused. He has other plans for me, and he thinks I shall acquiesce, as he always expects me to acquiesce to his every scheme. Hence our disagreement. He must have sent
you
just to rub a little salt into my wounds.”

“What do you mean?” Laurence said, wishing she would look at him.

“Only that he can be vindictive, sometimes. But let us return to Captain Milne. Is he not noble? Most men want children of their wives.”

“How – how do you know you can’t have a child?”

“Why should you care?” When he did not answer, she continued bitterly, “When I was quite young, there was a married gentleman who had his way with me. He hated the prospect of supporting a bastard, and so he sent me to an old crone skilled in removing such obstacles. It was a hideous process, as you may imagine, and it must have damaged me, for since then I haven’t had cause to repeat it. If not for my dear friends, the Cottrells, who nursed me back to health afterwards, I would have lost all will to live. I did not tell Digby until some years later; he would have killed the man, and in so doing ruined his own political career. And that would not have repaired what was done to
me
. Now, Mr. Beaumont, why so moved by my story?” she inquired, finally meeting his gaze. “It must be familiar to you, or have you never troubled to learn the consequences of
your
sport?”

“Yes – I –” He broke off, blinking, and swallowed. “So, what will you do?”

“I should at least consider Milne’s proposal, but the fact is, I despise him. Perhaps he will die in battle. War has its uses, after all.” She paused, as from the room beyond came the noise of raucous laughter and clinking glass. “I heard
you
are to be married soon.”

“No, I’m not.”

She studied him, frowning, then closed her eyes. “Oh, Beaumont,” she exclaimed, in an altered voice, feeble and despairing, “when I am this sick I wish I were dead.”

He reached out and took her clammy hand in his. “I’ll look after you, Isabella. I won’t let Milne near you again, if that’s what you want.”

Her mouth trembled, though she spoke clearly. “Don’t make me any promises that you cannot afford to keep. Besides, you did not come here of your own accord, and don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I would have come to you, I swear, had I known how you felt about –” Laurence stopped and dropped her hand, for as if on cue, Milne had appeared at the door, framed by light from the room beyond.

“Have you had your medicine like a good girl, Isabella?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “And now I must sleep.”

“Good night, then, my sweet.” Milne shut the door after Laurence. “I hope you’ve enough money on you, sir. We’re playing for high stakes.”

“You certainly are,” said Laurence, taking a seat at the table.

Milne poured everyone a round of wine; and as the game progressed, Laurence lost Digby’s money effortlessly.

“Bravo, Mr. Beaumont,” Milne commented, shovelling up the coins. “You accept your disappointments like a gentleman. But then I hear your father’s not short of change.”

Milne’s friends balked as the wagers grew and the wine ran out. At length, Pickett threw in his cards. “Too steep for me,” he said. “I’m leaving.”

Ruskell lasted only one more hand, murmuring something about the hour.

“You’ll stay, won’t you?” Milne said to Laurence, who nodded, smiling. “I’ll just get us another jug.”

As Milne went to the taproom, Laurence slipped outside and into the alleyway, where he satisfied an urgent need, born as much from nerves as from the wine. He now had to win consistently if he was to clear out the Captain’s pockets, and if he could not somehow effect Milne’s departure through bribery, he would have to find some other means to leave with Isabella, who was so weak that he might well have to carry her. And Milne wore a sword, while he had neglected to bring his pistols with him.

He got back before Milne, who immediately asked to inspect the
deck of cards. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, but you never know what can get into a man when he’s been losing all night.”

Laurence shrugged and asked him to deal. Milne lost the first round with apparent grace. At the second, he gave a murmur of discontent. By the third, he was cursing, and in less time than it took them to drain the jug, he was down to a couple of shillings.

“The tables have turned,” he said, in an uncertain voice. “I’m afraid it must be an early night for us, too. I can’t play any more, unless you’ll permit me to owe you if I’m out of luck.”

“I don’t like debts,” said Laurence. “I’ll suggest a bargain, however.”

“What’s that?”

Laurence sat back and cleared his throat. “Mistress Savage told me you and she are to be married.”

“So we are.”

“I’m very happy for you both. And you’re doing her an immense kindness, which she deserves after the life she’s had to lead.”

“It doesn’t matter to me that she had her lovers,” Milne declared generously. “Once she’s my wife, we shall begin anew.”

“You’re an enlightened man, Captain. I agree with you, I’ve always thought virginity was overprized. I far prefer a woman who knows what she’s doing.” Laurence counted out his gains and pushed them to the centre of the table. “Over eighty pounds.” Milne surveyed the coins with poorly disguised covetousness. “Now, I heard from Digby that you happen already to have a few other debts. At how much would you estimate them?”

“Three or four hundred. Why?”

“You can have what’s in front of you, and four hundred more if you give me this one night alone with her.”

Milne gasped and laid his hand on his sword. “Are you proposing to buy my wife?”

“She’s not your wife yet. Come on, Milne. You’ll have her to yourself for the rest of your days, and nights. It’s a fair offer, and my last. You see, I’m getting married too, in a month. Some girl my mother picked out for me.”

“I suppose that’s how it must be, with your sort.”

“After thirty years of freedom, I must do my duty.”

“Look here, Beaumont, if you want a quick poke, there are plenty of willing ladies over in the taproom.”

“But I want
her
. I’ll be gone by dawn, then you can reclaim her.”

Milne was calculating, his eyes on the table. “Just tonight?”

“Yes,” Laurence said, disgusted. Milne had not once objected that she was in no condition to comply with the terms of their bargain, nor had he troubled even to consult her.

“How do I know you won’t try to steal her from me?”

Laurence gave a deprecating laugh. “I’m about to take a wife! I don’t need all the bother of a mistress.”

“When can I get the four hundred?”

Reaching into Digby’s purse, Laurence threw out some gold. “There’s half. You can have another two hundred in the morning.”

Milne still hesitated. “What’s so special to you about Isabella, that you would pay such a sum for her?”

“You know what you said to me when we last met?” Milne frowned, obviously trying to remember. “You made me curious as to her skills. And as for the money, I’ve paid more in the past for a night’s entertainment.”

Milne shot him a resentful glance and began to sweep up the coins. “It’s nearly midnight. Get to it, and be gone by sun-up. And I’ll sleep out here.”

“Oh no. I said
alone
. You can afford another bed.”

“You’re driving a hard bargain!”

“Then let’s forget it.” Laurence rose from the table, yawning. “Give me back my money, and I’ll say good night.”

“No, no, you win, Mr. Beaumont, but tell her I don’t like it. If I weren’t in such straitened circumstances –”

“I understand, and I’m sure she will too.”

Milne stuffed the coins into his doublet, which sagged with the weight of them. “I won’t oblige you again.”

“I wouldn’t ask it of you,” Laurence said, and saw him out.

Isabella was lying in a sweat, her hair wet at the temples and her nightdress drenched as if she had exposed herself to a torrential shower; she must have been delirious, for she did not recognise him at first.

“Isabella,” he said, seizing her face in his hands, “it’s me.”

“Beaumont,” she mumbled. “Where is Milne?”

“He just left.” He flung aside the bedclothes and helped her to sit up. “You must change, quickly. I’m taking you away from here.”

“How did this happen?” she asked, holding her arms over her head, like a child, for him to peel off her nightdress. “Beaumont, what have you done? He is an excellent dueller, and if you have wronged him, he will kill you.”

“He can go and fuck himself,” muttered Laurence, hurrying her into dry clothes. “Now, is there anything else you need?” She pointed at some other garments and her jewellery box, all of which he bundled up, then he wrapped her in covers from the bed, and at the last minute remembered to snatch Seward’s vial from her bedside.

“I’ll be too heavy for you,” she protested.

“No you won’t,” he said, picking her up and cradling her in his arms.

He stumbled to the door, through the other chamber, and into the taproom, which was almost empty save for a couple of men at the front entrance.

“Eh!” one of them shouted, “where do you think you’re off to?”

“Captain Milne said he might try some underhand trick,” the other added, moving towards Laurence.

“Captain Milne should be warned,” Laurence said, “and you should keep your distance. She has the plague. She has sores all over her. If you’re not afraid to be infected –”

“Why aren’t
you
afraid to catch it?” the first man questioned.

“I’ve had it already, so I’ll take my chances. Tell Milne to burn everything in that room, and watch out. It could be only a short time before
he
falls ill.”

Isabella groaned convincingly, at which they stepped back and allowed him to pass. “Beaumont, you
are
inventive,” she whispered in his ear, as he staggered along the street.

In the end he put her over his shoulder, as he had carried wounded men from the field of battle, and since the Merton porter would hardly allow him entrance at such a late hour accompanied by a half-conscious woman, he went around to the back of the new quadrangle, by the meadows. There he let her down gently and propped her against the wall before rapping at Seward’s windowpane.

“Seward!” he yelled. There was no answer, and no lights shone within. “Oh God, what now?” he exclaimed, more to himself than to Isabella.

“Hold me,” she said, “and kiss me.”

He was still kissing her when the window opened and Seward’s head popped out. “Beaumont, is it necessary that I be dragged from my bed to witness such a display? I hope you did not forget my Jesuit’s bark!”

“Of course I didn’t,” Laurence told him, and tossed him the vial.

F
rom the front window of his house at Longstanton, Radcliff gazed out over the flat, sodden Cambridgeshire fields cloaked in a light mist of rain. “How did you guess that I was here?” he asked.

“I caught up with your troop after the siege of Lichfield, but you had just disappeared from their ranks,” Poole replied, in an urgent voice. “In the vain hope that you would surface, I followed Prince Rupert’s forces to Reading, then to Oxford. At last I spoke with your brother-in-law. He told me, much to my amazement, that you had written him some perfunctory note saying you had gone to London to see
me
!”

Radcliff turned to him and smiled. “It was all I could think of at the time.”

“He was clearly discomfited to realise that you had made no such journey. I consulted your wife at Faringdon, but she had neither seen nor heard from you. When I brought news of my failure to his lordship, he flew into a rage. He has sent out his own men to find you. They may soon draw the same conclusion as I did and come knocking on your door,” Poole finished, shaking his head despairingly.

Radcliff felt an unwarranted calm descend upon him, as before a storm. “How is my wife?”

“In fine health, sir, unlike myself.” Radcliff now noticed the dry patches of irritated skin on Poole’s cheeks, and the yellow tinge to the whites of his eyes. “I was delayed in seeking you out because his lordship ordered me to make inquiries in Oxford about a certain Laurence Beaumont, who had testified at the trial of Falkland’s spymaster, Colonel Hoare. Hoare claimed Beaumont had brought him and Falkland intelligence about a conspiracy against the King’s life, though Beaumont said in court that Hoare was lying.”

Why had Beaumont covered up the conspiracy, Radcliff wondered, not that it much signified at this point. “What else?”

“Hoare went to the gallows last week. But my Lord Pembroke is determined to talk to Beaumont. Sir Bernard, do you see what peril you are in?”

“It is worse than you know,” Radcliff said. “Somehow Beaumont found out where my letters were hidden at Faringdon. He probably got that old woman Musgrave drunk and weaselled it out of her. We may now assume with complete certitude that they are in Falkland’s hands.”

“Sweet Jesu!” After a moment, Poole asked, in a sepulchral whisper, “Are you and my Lord Pembroke plotting to assassinate the King? Beaumont told me so last September, when he gave me back the letters. Is that why I was never privy to your code? To prevent me from finding out the truth?”

Radcliff took a breath, dumbstruck. “Poole,” he said, “you should have asked me about this when you came to Newbury at Christmastide – or even before – and I would have explained!”