The Birth of Blue Satan (35 page)

“
Non
. But
mademoiselle
must realize that Lord ‘Arrowby does not have the physique that draws the eye. I put all my attention this morning into arranging his lordship’s clothes, but I will examine his arm tonight and tell
mademoiselle
what Philippe finds.”

Hester thanked him and assured him that she would get the message to his master. They named a rendezvous for that evening before the others retired to their rooms.

That night found Gideon sitting at a table in a dark corner of the taproom at the Catherine Wheel in Southwark. Seated on a wing-backed bench near the chimney-piece, with his back to the wall and his face towards the room, he could easily make out the features of anyone stepping through the door.

At ten o’clock, most of the tables were filled in the low, smoky room. The men who conducted their business in the taproom during the day had given way to others who came to meet their friends and carouse. The general hum, broken occasionally by the raucous roar of male laughter would be excellent cover for his confrontation with the Duke. The busy motion of the drawers as they filled and delivered mug after mug, and of the wenches who flirted with the customers, would offer enough distraction to keep the Duke from spotting Gideon, if he decided not to be seen.

The innkeeper, sitting on a stool behind the counter, arguing with an acquaintance, had been told at a signal to direct the man who asked for a Mr. Mavors to his bench. Tom was stationed outside to see how many men the Duke brought with him. It would be his job to warn Gideon if the Duke’s servants moved to enter the inn. He could be reasonably certain that his Grace would not call in the law as long as Gideon had his father’s compromising papers, but he might choose to overpower him with a few of his men.

Neither one was likely to be recognized here, unless the Duke drew attention with his dress. Gideon had clothed himself like the tradesmen who frequented the place, and he had instructed Tom to cover his face. It was unlikely that the Duke or his men would know Tom, but in the event of trouble, it would be best if they could not describe him.

Having arrived much earlier in the evening, Gideon was growing impatient for the Duke’s arrival. He hated to think that his Grace might not have recognized the significance of his notice. If this plan failed, he did not see how he could speak to the Duke without placing himself in too much jeopardy.

He was working on an alternate plan, when he heard the hoofbeats of a group of horses outside. A minor bustle at the entryway alerted him that someone was about to come in.

Gideon shielded his face, while keeping a sharp eye on the door, and was soon rewarded by the appearance of the Duke of Bournemouth. He had disguised himself in a suit of unfashionable clothes.

The innkeeper would not be entirely fooled by an outdated suit, which could only be a legacy to a trusted servant. Not when their wearer was accompanied by a retinue, as this one had been. But he was unlikely to discover the precise identity of either of his two distinguished visitors.

As the Duke approached this worthy, Gideon gave him a nod, and he pointed to the corner where Mr. Mavors was to be found. Gideon kept the brim of his hat pulled low to protect his profile until his Grace moved directly in front of him.

He raised his eyes and met with an astonishment he had not expected, before it was quickly concealed behind a satirical expression.

“Mr. Mavors,” his Grace said, declining to bow. “I had thought you sojourning in France. I had expected your emissary, perhaps. I had not thought you so foolish as to come.”

“In what way foolish, your Grace?”

As Gideon had expected, his use of the Duke’s title raised a scowl on his face. He quickly glanced around to make sure that no one had heard it, then fixed his eyes on Gideon again.

“Why, quite simply—” with an effort at insouciance he tried to regain the upper hand— “that a rather large price has been placed upon your head. Just one word from me, and the rabble in this room would start fighting over the right to take you in.”

“But if they did, I should have to tell them about your signature on a very interesting piece of paper.”

Bournemouth flushed. “If you did, one of my men would shoot you before you could open your mouth.”

“And one of mine would see to it that a very damaging letter came into the hands of the Lord Chancellor.”

“You wouldn’t dare! Your own property would be forfeit!”

Gideon raised a brow. “But would I not be dead? I was under the impression that your servant had already dispatched me with a bullet. And, in that case, I have to tell you that Harrowby’s inheritance is unlikely to be my concern.”

His amused answer had a strange effect upon the Duke. He first seemed enraged. Then, as if a small sense of humbled arrogance seemed to infuse him, he collected himself and gave Gideon a measuring look.

Gideon decided that it was time to stop playing games. “Will you not be seated? It seems we have some matters to discuss.”

The Duke still hesitated. He checked behind him again, before taking a seat on the bench across from Gideon.

“How much do you want for those papers?” he asked, as if the deal were understood.

“They are not for sale and never will be.”

Bournemouth tightened his jaw. “Then why did you bring me here?”

For the first time since he had entered the room, Gideon leaned forward. “I brought you here to get answers to my questions.”

The Duke was not stupid enough to ask what Gideon would do if he refused to answer. The stakes had already been named on both sides.

“Did you kill my father?”

As the Duke started violently from his bench, his right hand reaching for his sword, Gideon said through gritted teeth, “Not so hasty, your Grace! I have a cocked pistol pointed directly at your stomach. You would never survive the wound.”

Half-way to his feet, the Duke froze, then dropped back onto his bench, his face crimson with rage.

“How dare you try to pin your crime on me!” he said.

Gideon stared at his enraged expression and felt his first doubt. How he wished with all his soul that the truth could be read in a man’s features!

“I did not kill my father,” he said, “nor have I ever committed a treasonable act. I read
your
hand in the charges brought against me.”

The Duke’s eyelids flickered, and Gideon knew that he had, indeed, had something to do with them.

But the charges against him were unimportant. “You have not answered me. Did you murder my father?”

The Duke’s impatient scoff surprised him. “What possible reason could I have had?”

“He knew that you had flirted with the Pretender’s cause. You are the only man on his list who turned coat and profited by doing so.”

A defensive twitch appeared in the corner of the Duke’s mouth. “I am not ashamed of being the only one sensible enough to embrace the realities.”

“Especially when that reality conveys such advantage to yourself. Did I not hear recently that King George has arranged a splendid match for you?”

Unruffled, the Duke inclined his head.

“That match would never have been possible if my father had taken his knowledge of your treachery to the King.”

Now it was his Grace’s turn to lean forward, and he spoke with conviction. “He never would have given the King that information because he could not have done it without implicating himself and his friends.”

He let the words settle in, before continuing in a dogged voice, “I did not kill Hawkhurst, because as long as he was alive, I did not have to fear that those papers would fall into the wrong hands. It was only after his death that I began to fear that someone—you perhaps—would use them against me. Your father was a true believer in the Stuart succession. He never would have jeopardized the Pretender’s cause or his supporters.”

He went on, “You say that you did not kill him. And I have to suppose you speak the truth, or you would never have arranged this meeting.

“But neither did I kill him. I had no motive. In fact, it was in my interest for your father to stay alive.”

Gideon had intently watched his face throughout this monologue, and he had seen no signs of prevarication. No blinks. No averted gazes. And, in the end, it was he who first lowered his eyes.

“Please pass me your sword,” he said.

Surprised, but betraying no uneasiness, the Duke removed his sword from its sheath and offered it to him sideways on his upturned palms.

Gideon reached for the hilt and examined it. It had an ornate basket design with the Duke’s arms wrought into the steel and covered in silver. A peculiar curl in the metal tip satisfied him that this was not the sword that had been used to murder his father.

He handed it back without a word.

After the Duke had replaced it, and a few moments of silence had passed, he asked, “What is your intention with respect to those papers?”

“I shall keep them for a while. Eventually they must be burned.”

“Why keep them at all?” Clearly, he had been astonished by Gideon’s honesty.

“I have to keep them, until I find the man who killed my father. Until then, I cannot be certain that they have no significance.”

In a more thoughtful tone than he would have expected, the Duke said, “The same reasoning is likely to apply to those other names as to me. Even more so, since his Majesty already suspects them. You will find nothing among them to help you, St. Mars.”

Gideon shook his head. “I shall have to keep them. Once I have found my father’s murderer, I promise to destroy them. I do not wish for my father to be labeled a traitor.”

He could feel the Duke’s lack of satisfaction with his decision, but also his acceptance that he could do nothing to change his mind. His Grace made ready to go, but before he stood, he said, “I should be grateful—and mind, my gratitude may count for something in future—if you will notify me when those papers are destroyed. It would greatly add to the peace of my sleep.”

Gideon gave a nod, upon which his Grace rose to go. “I would offer to send you word if any information comes to me that could assist you; however, I do not know where to forward it.”

“I will be receiving
The Daily Courant
. An advertisement would reach me.”

The Duke inclined his head, and Gideon stood to repeat the courtesy. His visitor had turned to go, when he bethought himself of something else and turned back.

“You have undoubtedly by now seen the announcement of your cousin’s engagement to Mrs. Isabella Mayfield. If it is of any consolation, I will tell you of my certainty that she will take a lover before the first six months of her marriage is out.”

Gideon felt a sickening wrench in his stomach. He made no response, however, only watched the Duke’s retreating back as he made his way through the brawling, sprawling drunks and out into the night.

Tom joined him as soon as the Duke and his men had ridden off on their horses. He found him staring cheerlessly into his mug.

“You let him go?”

St. Mars gave a curt nod. “I don’t believe he did it. He had no good reason. We shall have to start over, Tom.”

Looking up, then around, he ordered, “Sit down and join me, or you will draw too much attention.”

Tom obeyed uneasily, saying in a whisper, “Shouldn’t we ride out of here in case his Grace sends for the law?”

“He won’t. He has too much to lose if he does. Never mind why. Just know that we are safe from him.

“It is pleasant to be back in London, is it not?” St. Mars said, changing the subject. He drained the rest of his mug. “I suppose we shall have to establish a house to live in here, before long.”

“You’re never giving up!”

“No, Tom.” St. Mars gave him a sad smile. “I am not giving up. I just wonder how long it will take us to discover the truth.”

Some thought it mounted to the Lunar sphere,

Since all things lost on earth are treasured there.

There Heroes’ wits are kept in ponderous vases,

And beaux’ in snuffboxes and tweezer cases.

There broken vows and deathbed alms are found,

And lovers’ hearts with ends of riband bound,

The courtier’s promises, and sick man’s prayers,

The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs . . .

CHAPTER 17

They rode back all that night and half the next day. Without the ability to change horses at the posting houses where he was known, they could not make the time they were used to making. Penny had been bred to race, not to plod along at this pedestrian speed, but she performed like a royal trooper.

Gideon regretted the hours he’d been given to think, especially in the dark. He had tried not to think about Isabella’s defection, but the Duke’s parting words had forced him to consider her in a different light. His feelings on hearing her shrieks, when she had shrunk from him, had run from shock to dismay and revulsion. It was the revulsion that had bothered him ever since.

He had been repulsed by her fear, because of what it had meant. She had not known who he was. If she had loved him, if she had had any thought of him in the past few weeks, she would have looked for him in every face she saw. But she had forgotten him entirely—presumably even before his father had been murdered. He could no longer think of her smiles the way he had thought of them before. They had little to do with goodness, and everything to do with a childish happiness. There was nothing wrong with childishness, but that had not been the foundation for his love.