Treachery at Lancaster Gate (16 page)

“Oh…yes,” Cecily said with a forced smile. “That would be very nice. You have a house in the country, don't you?”

“Yes. Just a few days' escape…” Emily did not know how to finish. She had not meant to be clumsy, but now that she had, she was looking for a way to redeem the situation.

“So have we,” Cecily murmured, avoiding Emily's eyes. “But I'm not sure if I want to go. There seems to be…so much here…” She too stopped.

“Can I help?” Emily said gently.

Cecily looked startled. “Am I so obvious? I'm sorry. No, there is nothing anyone can do. But thank you…” She seemed about to go on, then changed her mind.

“It is your son…” Emily began, then seeing the pain in Cecily's face and the quick stiffening of her shoulders, she wished she had not. It was intrusive, but it was too late to retreat.

“He is still grieving for Dylan,” Cecily explained. “He doesn't say anything about this fearful bombing, but I can see the change in him when it's mentioned. He hates the police. There's nothing Godfrey can say to him that changes his mind.” She stared at something inside herself, her eyes blank to the color and movement around her, the swirl of dresses and glitter of jewels. It was as if she could not hear the laughter.

Emily searched for something to say, and everything that came to her mind was banal, and would only sound as if she didn't have the slightest understanding.

“Godfrey and Alexander had another quarrel about it yesterday,” Cecily went on, her voice so quiet Emily had to concentrate to hear her. “I don't think Alexander will come back home again for a long time.” The loss in her face was bleak and total.

“Sometimes you have to believe in your friends,” Emily said. “Even if nobody else does, and all the evidence seems to be against them. Actually, when you are young, and loyalty is passionate, especially then. I think you will have to allow him to accept reality when he is ready to, and perhaps not make any comment. The friendships of youth can be very strong. It's all tied up with what we believe to be honor. I'm so sorry.”

“You're right,” Cecily said with a faint smile. “It is a matter of loyalty. They were there together. Alexander escaped and Dylan didn't. He feels as if he is alive at Dylan's expense. Sometimes I'm terrified he'll take his own life, as if he didn't deserve to have it.” She searched Emily's face, trying to see if she understood.

Emily put her hand very lightly on Cecily's arm, a touch so soft only the warmth of her would be felt. “All of us would take the pain ourselves for those we love, most especially our children. We still try to, even when we know perfectly well that we can't. Right from the time we first held them in our arms, all through their growing years, we pick them up when they stumble, encourage them, believe in them when no one else does, weep for them when they are hurt. The tragedy is if we don't. No one should be unloved.”

Cecily blinked hard but the tears slid down her cheeks anyway.

“Thank you,” she said huskily. “Now I think I had better excuse myself and go and talk to someone I dislike enough to mask all my feelings from them. Please don't chastise yourself. I feel far less alone.” And without adding anything more she turned and walked away toward a group of people deep in enthusiastic argument.

I
T WAS THE FOLLOWING
evening before Emily had the chance of speaking to Jack about any of the events at the party. After dinner, when Edward and Evangeline had left the table, the sudden silence that lay between them required some remark before it became awkward.

She was not certain how much not only Jack's career but also his own money might rest upon the contract's success. She did not like to ask if he had invested earlier in any of the companies that could be affected. It was highly improper for government ministers to place their own money in businesses whose profits their decisions could affect. It was more than dishonorable; it was a criminal offense.

But money invested earlier, before the issues of the contract existed, would not have been removed and reinvested. That too could be a signal to those who were clever enough to see it, of advantage to come.

For that matter, her own fortune might be involved. Both the house in the city and Ashworth Hall were entailed, and would pass to her son, Edward, who was actually titled Lord Ashworth since his father's death. But what of the rest?

What was Jack withholding that caused the anxiety she could see in his face across the polished table? He had protected her on several occasions, from one sort or another of pain or unpleasantness. She was happy to allow him to, not because she needed it but because it was important to establish the balance of their relationship.

She had been Lady Ashworth when they met: beautiful, titled, and rich. He was handsome and charming, but the third son of a family with neither wealth nor connection to the aristocracy except of the most distant sort. What could he offer her? It did not matter in the slightest to her; she already had such things. But she quickly learned that it mattered to him. A couple of thoughtless mistakes had shown her that wounds to one's self-belief were deep and did not heal easily. Like broken bones that had knitted at last, a change in the weather could make them ache all over again like new injuries.

“Are you still going to recommend Abercorn a government position?” she asked him.

“Yes. I think he's a good man, and he's going to stand for office next chance he gets…I mean when there's a seat open, even before the next general election. Why?”

“What about Godfrey Duncannon? He wouldn't agree with you, would he?”

A shadow crossed his face. “I work with Duncannon on this particular project; I don't have to agree with him over everything.”

“So he doesn't agree?” she said quickly. “But it's more than that, Jack. The other night, at the Parsonses', I happened to glance at Abercorn, and for an instant there was hatred in his face. I don't mean just dislike, or a difference of opinion. They were nowhere near each other, and Abercorn looked across at Godfrey with…with a terrible expression in his eyes.”

Jack shook his head, his lips tight. “You're probably imagining it. I daresay he was bored to death with the conversation. And what makes you certain it was Godfrey he was looking at, if he was as far away as you say? They don't like each other. I know that. They are from very different social backgrounds. Godfrey comes from aristocracy and inherited privilege, Abercorn from relative poverty, and made his own way. There are bound to be differences. Heavens, Godfrey is for the establishment, and keeping everything the same. Abercorn is for change, and what he believes to be social justice, or at least something close to it.”

Emily wanted to argue. What she had seen was not political difference, it was hate, but she could think of no argument that Jack would listen to and believe.

“They agree on the contract,” he went on. “They are both experts on China and sea trade, in their own way. You don't have to like someone to work with them. It's politics, Emily, not lifetime partnership!”

She knew better than to argue any further. She changed the subject.

“Do you think we should go to the country for Christmas?” she asked, trying to keep emotion out of her voice.

He hesitated, watching her, trying to read how much it mattered to her.

She did not want to be too obvious. Condescension could deliver the deepest cut of all, like a fine razor. You did not even know how deep it was until you couldn't stop the bleeding.

“I think it would be rather nice to have it here, for a change,” she went on. His failure to answer told her more than he knew. “Perhaps we should invite Charlotte and Thomas over for dinner? We haven't done that for ages. If Thomas can come, of course? This horrible bombing at Lancaster Gate is taking all his time.”

“On condition we don't talk about it,” Jack said with a smile.

“For heaven's sake!” she exclaimed. “He wouldn't even think of it. I imagine he dislikes it a lot more than you do. Besides, he's not allowed to talk about his work. It's not like it was when he was in the police.”

Jack leaned back a little in his chair. “I know that. And I think it would be an excellent idea. Frankly, I would prefer not to spend a day traveling, and be out of touch with any developments in this contract. But I owe Duncannon every support.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “It's quite a relief, really. It's going to be cold, and possibly even snowing. It would be nice not to have to go anywhere. I'll tell the staff. And tomorrow I'll invite Charlotte. I hope I haven't left it too late. It does look a bit last minute, doesn't it?”

“Yes,” he agreed with a smile.

She stood up and walked around to his chair. She put both hands on his shoulders and gently kissed his cheek. “Well, if they can't come, it will just be us. I would be very happy with that, too.” She felt the tension ease out of him. He said nothing, but put his hand up to cover hers.

E
MILY WENT TO SEE
Charlotte, as she had promised. Normally neither of them would stop in the middle of the afternoon for tea. It was a meal no one really needed, but it was a nice excuse to sit and talk. Charlotte had baked fresh mince pies.

“My favorite Christmas food,” Emily said as she sat down at the kitchen table.

“Better than roast goose or Christmas pudding?” Charlotte said with much surprise.

Emily did not bother to answer. Even with silver sixpences in the pudding and brandy butter on top, it still did not beat hot mince pies.

She had rehearsed in her mind a dozen times what she would say, but it never sounded as she wished it to. Underneath their differences in taste, social position into which they had married, and the entire styles of their lives, they knew each other too well.

“Jack doesn't discuss this contract very much, but I know it is extraordinarily important…” Emily began.

“Are you afraid it's not going to be ratified? Or that it's not what it is purported to be?” Charlotte asked.

“You don't give me any room to come at it sideways, do you!” Emily protested with a slight smile.

“Your tea will get cold…” Charlotte's meaning was obvious, but she said it gently, and pushed the plate of mince pies over toward Emily's side of the table.

Emily took one and bit into it. It was exquisite, sweet and sharp, and its pastry melted in her mouth.

“I don't actually know what I'm afraid of,” she confessed. “On the face of it, it's foolproof. But Jack was so hurt the last time. I mean…”

“I know what you mean. There may not be such a thing as an honest politician, but there are degrees. Is it Godfrey Duncannon you distrust, or the people behind him?”

“I think it's the circumstances,” Emily replied, finishing the mince pie. “Cecily told me that Alexander's closest friend was Dylan Lezant, a young man who was hanged for murdering a passerby when he was arrested during a major drug purchase. Alexander is convinced Dylan was innocent, and he can't or won't let the matter rest. He believes the police are corrupt…that they let the real killer go and planted false evidence to implicate Dylan.”

“If he's still in great pain, and on opium—as I understand from Thomas—is it not possible that he
is
a little mad?” Charlotte said softly.

“I don't know…maybe…”

They sat in silence for a moment. Emily took another pie.

Charlotte took one too. “He's a young man, Emily.” She went on with the thread, following it all the way. “If he feels an injustice has been done and his friend was an innocent man, hanged for a crime he did not commit, if he has any decency at all, he must have tried to save him. It's too late now, but won't he try to clear his name, at least?”

“Yes, Cecily said he has tried repeatedly to do that. But bombing the house in Lancaster Gate isn't going to help!”

“Special Branch will have to look into his possible involvement if they don't find anyone else guilty of it. I understand people who know about bombs can make them quite easily, using dynamite, which is tightly controlled but can be stolen, from quarries or when it's used for demolition.”

“You think Alexander Duncannon would have broken into a quarry's storehouse and stolen dynamite?” Emily said incredulously.

“No, I think it's more likely someone else stole it and sold it on. Does Alexander spend his time in his parents' home in the city, or in the country? Or has he his own apartment and live on his private means, attending parties, or whatever amuses him?”

“He has his own place,” Emily agreed quietly. It was all becoming dreadfully clear as a possibility. Was this what Cecily feared? “And he keeps some odd company.”

“Most young gentlemen with time to spare do,” Charlotte pointed out. “Which you know as well as I do. Some of them have a few very strange ideas. Some are aggressive, a great deal more are idealistic, longing for reform, for greater fairness, freedom…however they see that.”

“But his family…” Emily began.

“Have you ever listened to Aunt Vespasia tell you about fighting on the barricades of the revolutions that swept Europe in '48?” Charlotte asked earnestly. “It was a noble cause. They nearly won…in some places.”

“Yes, I know,” Emily said quietly, looking down at the crumbs on her plate. “And then the repression clamped down again like an iron lid, and, if anything, it was worse than before.”

“We need the young to believe that they will one day succeed,” Charlotte said urgently. “If they have no dreams, no passion to change the injustice and create something better, then we are as good as dead. It doesn't matter whether it's political freedom across Europe, or fairer pay for people in hard and dangerous jobs, or women's rights to their own property, or against disease, usury…bad plumbing…or anything you like. We have to care. Alexander Duncannon isn't wicked because he wants to fight against police corruption, but if he's guilty of the Lancaster Gate bombing, that's a totally different thing. Is that what his mother is afraid of?”