Belgravia (51 page)

“Of course. That must be it.”

None of which answered any of the questions that were crowding Charles’s brain. “I don’t understand why you’re here,” he said. “Trenchard and I have a private matter to resolve. What is your part in it?”

John nodded, as if absorbing the information. “I can only assume that he wants us to reconcile, too.”

Charles looked at him. Once his eyes had grown used to the light, or the lack of it, he could make out John’s face. For all his friendly talk, the man’s expression was as haughty and arrogant as ever, with his cold eyes and his curling lip. “I was not aware we had a quarrel, sir,” he said.

What he did not notice was that Bellasis had been ambling slowly down the lane toward the river as he spoke, and without thinking, Charles had kept up with him, gradually falling into step as they made their way toward the water. They had only to cross the road to reach the edge. There was a long, low guardian wall along this stretch of the river, reaching down into the water, as they were standing on what must naturally have been a hill before it was built upon, and so the Thames was flowing at least ten feet below them. It was deep. John knew that from the fast-flowing current. He had chosen the tavern at this point on the river for exactly these reasons.

“I’m afraid we do have a quarrel, Mr. Pope. I only wish we did not,” said John with a sigh.

Charles looked at him. There was something strange about
his voice, an almost strangled quality that distorted his words. Charles began to wish that there was some traffic passing, but there was nothing. “Then I hope we may resolve it, sir.” He smiled as he spoke, trying to make it seem as if this were a normal conversation.

“Alas, we cannot,” muttered John, “since the only resolution possible for me depends on your—”

“On my what?”

“On your death.” And with that, in a sudden movement, John seized him and forced him back against the low wall. Taken by surprise, Charles fought like a tiger, kicking and pushing with all his might, but the other man had already confused his sense of balance, and the parapet of the wall was pressing into his knees. John Bellasis was only rendered stronger by the fight. He had made his decision now. If he failed to kill Charles, he would still hang for attempted murder, so he had nothing to lose by finishing the job. With a final massive effort, he hooked his foot around Charles’s ankle, forcing his leg against the other man’s thigh, while giving a sudden mighty push to his chest, then releasing his hold. Charles felt himself falling backward, over the wall and down and down, until he was in the icy water, choking on the filth, dragged under by his thick coat, which was already soaked through and as heavy as lead, trying and failing to kick off his shoes, reaching for something, anything, to grasp onto, anything to hold him above the surface. But there was nothing on the plain brick wall above him, and John knew there was nothing.

Bellasis peered down into the darkness. Was Charles gone already? Was that his head still above the water, or was it simply a ripple, a piece of flotsam? In his concentration, he did not hear the running feet, nor feel anything until two hands seized his shoulders and swung him around. He found himself staring into the faces of James Trenchard and his son.

“Where is he? What have you done?”

“Where is who? What are you talking about? What might I have done?” John never flinched. As long as Charles was dead, they had nothing on him. Even now, John could be saved. Every
detail could be blamed on Oliver, and James’s testimony would be worthless, or so John thought. Then they heard the cry.

“Help me!” The disembodied voice came out of the darkness like the call of a dead spirit speaking from beyond the grave.

Without a word, James wrenched off his coat and shoes and plunged into the river. As they heard the splashing and shouting below them, Oliver and John stared at each other. “Leave them,” said John, his voice like warm oil. “Let them go. Your father’s had a good life, but let him go now. Then you will have a great inheritance, and so will I. Let us be free of the pair of them.” And Oliver hesitated. John saw it. He saw Oliver weaken for a moment, for Oliver Trenchard was a weak man. “Don’t worry. He’s an old man. It won’t take long. You know it’s for the best. For all of us.”

For the rest of his life Oliver would struggle to understand how he could have entertained the notion even for a second, but he did. He never spoke of it again, but he knew that he did. The death of Charles Pope seemed no great loss to him in that moment, and to be spared his father’s judgments and disapproval, to have the money but be free of the chastisement… “No!” he shouted, pulling off his own coat and jumping in after his father. He could hear that he’d been weakened by the cold of the water. James had gone in without thinking and John Bellasis was right. He couldn’t hope to last long. But Oliver reached him before he went under. He took hold of him under his armpits and began to swim back to the river’s edge, commanding Charles to follow them and hold on to his waist. How he got the three of them back to the wall he never knew; maybe it was guilt that spurred him on, remembering the notion he had entertained, if only for a fraction of a beat. The steep wall might have defeated them, as Oliver grappled vainly at the smooth and slippery surface of the bricks to find something, anything to hold onto, but the hubbub had brought a group of the drinkers from the pub to the scene, and one man came with a rope.

James was lifted out first, then Charles, then Oliver, until the three of them were sitting side by side, coughing up river water, almost dead to the world but not quite. When he saw that they
were saved, John Bellasis slipped away. He’d moved farther back through the crowd as it gathered, and now he left it entirely. His victims might be in a daze, but if one of the men or women helping them had seen any part of what had happened, they would have no qualms in handing John over to the Peelers, who were no doubt on their way. He threw off the cloak and hat, kicking them into an open drain, and found his way back into Bishopsgate, where he hailed a cab and disappeared.

Anne could not remember her dream. Only that it had been happy until suddenly there was a disturbance and she opened her eyes to find she was being shaken awake by Mrs. Frant. “You must come at once, ma’am. There’s been an accident.”

After that, it was a relief to run into the library and find James, Oliver, and Charles, all soaked through but still alive. Charles seemed to have suffered the most. The servants were all awake by now, and she rang at once for Billy and her husband’s valet, Miles, to help them all upstairs. While the other servants prepared baths, she ran down to the kitchens to supervise some hot soup. No one dared disturb Mrs. Babbage, so Anne and Mrs. Frant contrived to do their best, and Mrs. Frant carried up the tray.

Charles was in bed, washed and dried and wearing one of Oliver’s shirts when Anne saw him next. He was groggy and tired, she could see that, but he was alive. James had given her enough of the story for her to understand what had happened.

“I still don’t see why John Bellasis wanted to kill me. What am I to him, or he to me?” For Charles, the nightmare they had lived through seemed completely illogical.

For a moment, Anne thought of telling him the truth, there and then, but it seemed late, and he was confused. Surely it would be better to wait until he could absorb what they were saying. “We’ll discuss all that tomorrow. The first decision we have to make is whether we report this to the Peelers. It has to be your choice.”

“If I could understand why, then I think I would know better what to do,” said Charles, so there they left it for the time being.

Later that night, Anne discussed it with James. “I don’t believe we can turn Bellasis over to the law without telling the Brockenhursts,” she said. “They would bear the brunt of the story when it became public knowledge.”

But James was still enraged by what they had lived through. “You weren’t there when he threw Charles to his death, for his death it would have been if we had not appeared at that moment.”

“I know.” She reached for her husband’s hand and squeezed it. “You saved our grandson, and I shall follow your lead, whatever you and Charles decide.”

“Oliver saved us both. I was going under for the third time.”

Anne smiled. “Then God bless Oliver for a loyal son.” Which was all she would ever know about the matter.

Oliver himself was in a very different state of mind at that moment. Susan had woken in time to see him being brought in by Billy, bathed, and put to bed, but he had been silent throughout, refusing to answer her questions. Indeed, it was the servant who told her what had happened. Then Billy left and they were alone. “I shall cancel the coach for tomorrow. We can wait another day until you are quite well.” Still he said nothing. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” Susan asked as gently as she knew how.

To her amazement, Oliver burst into tears, seizing her and holding her to him as fiercely as she had ever known, sobbing as if his heart must break. So she stroked his hair and spoke soft words of comfort and knew that her plan was coming together and that before too long she would have him back, completely under her control.

Lady Brockenhurst had chosen to receive them all in the main drawing room. She wanted to make a show of it, and the footmen were instructed to wear dress livery. The Trenchards had arrived first, predictably enough, with James almost dancing with excitement at the thought of the evening to come. Caroline was prepared for his elation, and Maria had been deputed to keep him happy until the gathering had properly begun.

Lord Brockenhurst had arrived, as promised, but he was quite bewildered by all the preparations. “What on earth are we celebrating?” he asked, time and again, but his wife wouldn’t tell him. Since he had not been part of any of the process, he might as well hear the news at the same time as Charles and the others. She had written to Stephen and Grace, rather than invite them to witness their own humiliation and the dashing of their hopes. She did not admire anyone in that family, but she did feel sorry for them now. Their manner of living was finished, since, when the truth got out, their credit would be gone, and while Peregrine might bail them out from time to time, he would not give money to fund their bad habits indefinitely. In short, now that John would not inherit, it was time for them to learn to cut their cloth accordingly.

Lady Templemore was the next to present herself, along with her son, whom Caroline had hardly seen since he was a boy home from school. “Is Mr. Pope here yet?’ he asked, curious.

“No,” said James. “He stayed with us last night, and he had to go home to fetch his mother. She will join us for dinner.”

Reggie received this information with more joy than his own mama, although she did concede that it was probably “better to know the worst now.” When Charles himself came into the drawing room, with Mrs. Pope on his arm, the party was finally complete, and Caroline asked them all to come down into the dining room.

“You’re stretching it out rather, aren’t you?” said Peregrine, but he didn’t object. The truth was his wife intended to stretch it out, for this would be one evening none of them would ever forget.

When Stephen Bellasis read Caroline’s letter he felt physically sick. For a moment, he actually thought he was going to
be
sick, but the sensation passed and he simply sat there, staring into space, the sheet of paper in his trembling hands.

“What is it?” said Grace. As an answer, he handed the letter to her, watching as the blood drained from her face. At last she broke the silence. “So this is why he’s gone. He must have known.”

“Maybe they told him,” said Stephen.

Grace nodded. “Peregrine might have written to him. It would be only fair.”

“Fair!” Stephen snorted. “When did Peregrine ever do anything that was fair?” But although he tried to sound disdainful, inside he was terrified. Would he have anything like the hold on Peregrine he had enjoyed as father of the heir? Of course not. They were doomed to be a sideshow now, nearly-people, of no account. No wonder John had left.

They’d found the note pushed through the door, though whether John had brought it himself or sent a servant they would never know. He was leaving London, he said. He was leaving England. They could dispose of his rooms, keep what they wanted of his possessions, and sell the rest. He would not be coming back. When he was settled, he would let them know where he might be found. For Stephen, the news was as if someone had pulled the string out of a pearl necklace and sent the beads of their life flying in all directions. And now Caroline’s letter had destroyed what little hope remained. Who was this Charles Pope? A sneaky little tradesman who had trespassed into their lives and stolen all their dreams.

“At least we now know why Caroline has always made such a fuss of him,” he said.

“No, we don’t,” snapped Grace. “If he is the legitimate heir, why has he been hidden away since birth? We know nothing. Nothing. Except that John is gone and he won’t be back.” She was crying as she spoke, crying for the loss of her son, for the loss of her son’s future, for the loss of everything they had been counting on, everything they held dear. As soon as the news reached the streets, the last of their credit would be gone and the moneylenders would engulf them. She supposed the Harley Street house must go, although she doubted the sale price would cover their debts. They would retreat to the rectory at Lymington, and she would try her best to keep Stephen away from temptation, but it would not be easy. The truth was they were beggars, and beggars are never choosers. It was a matter of survival, of getting by, of
gathering what crumbs they could catch from Peregrine’s table. That was all that lay ahead.

Grace stood. “I’m going up,” she said. “Don’t be too late. Try to sleep, and maybe things will look better in the morning.” She didn’t believe her own words, and nor did he. On her way to bed, she wanted to check on the silver wine cooler she had stored in John’s old room years before. After all, she’d hidden it away in case of a rainy day, and now it was all set to pour. She would need to get it out of the house in the morning as the bailiffs could arrive at any moment. But when she entered the room, she could see the boxes on the wardrobe had been disturbed, and so, with a sinking heart, she knew it was gone, even before she had climbed onto the chair. She was not surprised. It was all of a piece with the rest of her luck. “Well,” she thought, “I hope he spends it sensibly.”