Black Gold (33 page)

Chapter 28

Spring Ball

Monday, April 9

Saint-Martin gripped his racquet and squinted through sweat at his opponent. On the other side of the net, Sir Harry positioned his feet, preparing to serve. Rogers had more than tennis on his mind. He had summoned the colonel out of a sound sleep, and they had begun to play without breakfast. The early morning sun had barely lighted the court enough for them to see the ball. For an hour, the tennis hall had echoed with the sharp snap of the racquets, the thudding of the small leather ball, the stomping of feet, the grunts of the players.

Sir Harry hammered the ball as if it were his worst enemy. But he remained in full control of his game, playing skillfully off the shed roofs and laying down difficult chases. His returns rarely went into the net. Saint-Martin had to muster all his reserves of stamina and coordination to keep the score even at five games each in the set they had agreed to play.

As they began the sixth game, Sir Harry's serve weakened, his pace slowed down. He gasped for air. Saint-Martin made him earn his points, but let him win the next two games and the set. Winning, Saint-Martin realized, was Sir Harry's single-minded goal in life to which he devoted his extraordinary strength and intelligence. He looked pleased with himself as he walked up to the net to shake Saint-Martin's hand. They walked off the court together, commenting on the games.

In the dressing room they continued their chat about tennis. After a few minutes, Sir Harry fell silent, looked out into the antechamber to ensure they were alone, then closed the door securely. Saint-Martin waited with mounting curiosity.

“Colonel, I've a proposition to put to you. Been thinking about it for several days.” His voice had the edge of cold steel. He pointed to a couple of benches and the two men sat down facing each other. “Let me say, first, I've investigated you, and I know precisely why you're here. We have a common point of view where Captain Fitzroy is concerned—the vile brute who beat and raped Sylvie de Chanteclerc, who tried to kill you on the road from Bristol.”

His eyes black with anger, Rogers leaned toward Saint-Martin. “The captain has cuckolded me, foisted his bastard son on me, made me the butt of jokes in Bath. He thinks because the government protects him, he can do as he likes.” Rogers' voice thickened and rasped. Saint-Martin strained to hear him. “I assure you, Colonel, the Irish rogue has met his match. Saturday of this week, my ship,
The African Rose
—you saw it in Bristol—will set sail for Africa. It will stop in Bordeaux to take on a shipment of cognac brandy in exchange for bales of fine English woolens and…Captain Fitzroy. He will leave behind a note, saying he had freely decided to return to France to clear his name and vindicate his honor.”

Saint-Martin raised an eyebrow. He hadn't expected Sir Henry to be so forthright. “An unusual trade! What would I be expected to do?”

“My men will secure the person of said captain on Saturday and stow him bound and gagged on the ship. I would like you to sail with
The African Rose
as my guest in comfortable quarters and remove Fitzroy from the ship at Bordeaux. I'm sure you have the proper papers to bring him into France. I'm confident that, once Baron Breteuil gets his hands on him, he will receive the punishment he deserves but would escape in England. The voyage should take no more than a week.”

“And Fitzroy's friends?”

“I shall arrange for the arrest of his two red-coated bodyguards on charges of swindling.” He smiled malevolently. “Roach brought the evidence to me last week.”

“It's as reasonable and generous a plan as I could imagine,” remarked Saint-Martin, admitting to himself that something could go wrong. Fitzroy was elusive and armed. No one should imagine that apprehending him and returning him to France would be free of risks. But Sir Harry had both the means and the will to carry out his plan.

For a few moments, Saint-Martin stroked his chin, balancing risk and opportunity. Then he met Sir Harry's eye. “On Saturday, then. I'll be ready.” The two men rose from their benches and shook hands.

At the door Sir Harry glanced back at Saint-Martin. “I needn't remind a provost of the Royal Highway Patrol that secrecy in this matter is of the utmost importance. Fitzroy must have no warning. I also trust that the Bow Street officer will leave before we set our plan in motion. In any case, he must not know about it or he might interfere.” With a wave, Rogers let himself out. The firm beat of his boots faded, the outer door closed.

In the silent building, the colonel remained seated on the bench for a short while, trying to sort out the impressions he had just gained. Behind Sir Harry's charm and geniality was a powerful, ruthless will. He had conceived a daring plan which most men would shrink from, a plan Dick Burton would oppose. Saint-Martin felt torn between the loyalty he owed to the Bow Street officer and the mission he had received from Baron Breteuil. He recalled the battered face of Sylvie de Chanteclerc, and he knew what he must do.

***

Dressed in a pink satin robe, Lady Margaret was drinking her morning coffee. An uneaten roll lay on a plate in front of her. She waved the maid out of the room and invited Anne to take a seat at the table facing her. “Coffee?” she asked.

Anne hesitated momentarily, studying the noblewoman. No sign of duplicity. None of the usual cool detachment. Instead, there was warmth and tenderness. Lady Margaret was feeling for her son, Anne realized, and was rewarding her for the happiness she had given him. “Yes, that would be lovely.”

“Where's Charlie?” Lady Margaret glanced toward the door as if expecting the boy to enter at any moment.

“I left him sleeping. He had a difficult night.”

The mother's eyebrow shot up. “Oh, what happened?”

Anne explained how William Rogers had terrified the boy and the shock had nearly killed him. She stopped short of mentioning Jeffery, since he was supposed to have been locked in his room.

While Anne spoke, Lady Margaret clenched her hands on the arms of her chair. Her face flushed with growing anger. “William! That wretched bastard!” she exclaimed. “I'd send him packing this very minute, but Harry insists he stay with us. Uses him as a spy. No point telling Harry what happened. He'd only say, boys will be boys and Charlie's a timid little coward.”

She reflected for a long moment, her face clouding with confusion. “You were asleep. Who saw William and saved Charlie?”

“The black footman, Jeffery,” Anne replied calmly, though her heart was pounding. “He suspected William would attempt to injure Charlie during the night.”

“But the slave was locked in his room!”

Anne shrugged, then lied. “The steward apparently neglected his duty. The footman found the door unlocked.”

“No matter,” said Lady Margaret emphatically. “I don't care if he tore the door off its hinges, or broke through a wall! From now on, he will sit in Charlie's hallway during the night until dawn. He's the only footman I can trust. Sir Harry be damned!”

***

Charlie woke as Anne entered her room. He sat up on the sofa, his eyes still full of sleep. Then the memory of the night's horror returned and threatened to overwhelm him.

“William tried to kill me,” he cried, so agitated that Anne could hardly understand him. His breathing grew short. He began to wheeze.

She sat by his side and put an arm over his shoulder. “He probably only meant to play a mean trick on you. Don't worry, we won't let him do it again.” She stroked him gently until he relaxed and his breathing returned to normal. She puzzled in her own mind about William's intentions. He must have known that Charlie suffered from asthma. Frightening him badly could trigger a fatal attack. Is that what William wanted to do last night? He could have killed Charlie without leaving a mark.

Anne kept this troubling conjecture to herself. She rose, drew the boy to his feet. “I've just spoken to your mother, Charlie, and explained what happened last night. You don't have to worry anymore. Lord Jeff will watch over you.”

The boy mustered a wavering smile.

“You may go to your room now and dress. I'll order breakfast for you.”

When he had eaten, and was nearly his old self again, Anne assigned some lessons to occupy his mind. She had temporarily taken over Critchley's tutorial duties, though the boy knew better than she how to conjugate Latin verbs and the like. After a few minutes, she left him busy at his desk and returned to her own room.

She opened her closet, hoping to find a suitable gown for tonight's Spring Ball at the Upper Assembly Rooms. Harriet would sing during intermissions and had asked her and Paul to come for moral support. The thought that Sir Harry would also be there had unsettled her. Anne could think of much she'd rather do than see and be seen in a noisy, crowded ballroom. She had even less desire to play whist for pennies and share gossip in the Card Room.

She sighed softly. Her wardrobe from London offered little to choose from. A white silk gown trimmed with gold thread would have to do. She walked to the window and looked out. It was midmorning. Paul must have been delayed. At that moment, she heard a knock on the door. She opened for him, beckoned him in, and sensed immediately that something weighed on his mind.

“Sorry I'm late.” He closed the door behind him. “I've just been speaking with Georges. An hour ago, Sir Harry told me he'll put Fitzroy in my hands.” He went on to explain Rogers' plan to abduct the Irishman to
The African Rose
and send him off to Bordeaux. “I'm to sail with him on Saturday and bring him to Paris. Baron Breteuil himself couldn't have designed a plan more to his liking.”

Paul's news shocked Anne, triggering a riot of conflicting feelings. Her hands leaped to her face. She struggled to compose herself.

Paul stared at her. “What's wrong, dear?”

She hesitated before answering. “I realize you must leave on the ship with Fitzroy. That's why you came to Bath. But, I'm concerned for Charlie. He's in danger here.” She told him how William had attacked the boy and Jeffery had saved him. “You've become his friend. Your leaving will discourage him.”

Paul sighed softly, but he remained silent.

She put her hands on his shoulders, looked into his eyes. “Perhaps, deep down, my anxiety has more to do with our parting than with Charlie, with wondering if I shall ever see you again.”

Paul held her in his arms, gazed at her tenderly. “Who could have imagined just a few weeks ago that we would be together in Combe Park? We should have confidence in our future.”

Her lips met his, then she broke away, fondly tousling his hair. She drew him to a bench by the window. “What's to become of the boy?” she asked. “Sir Harry told Harriet he'd have Lady Margaret out of the house by Wednesday. He's shipping Jeffery to Jamaica and Fitzroy to Bordeaux by the end of the week. You, Georges, and Mr. Burton will also be gone by then. Charlie and I will be left here alone with Sir Harry.” She shuddered violently. “I'm convinced he's half-mad! And dangerous!” She stared out the window, hugging herself.

Paul stood beside her, his hand on her shoulder. “Sir Harry would send the boy back to Braidwood in Hackney, and you with him. I should think that would please Charlie.”

“That's what a reasonable man would do,” she agreed. “But toward Charlie, I fear Sir Harry might not act reasonably. He's convinced the boy is Fitzroy's son. And, if Jeffery tries to escape sometime this week, Sir Harry might react violently. At the least, he would suspect me of aiding Jeffery and send me away. Then Charlie would be alone with him. The thought of it is almost more than I can bear.”

“Unfortunately, the law gives a father exclusive rights over his son,” Paul replied gravely. “Sir Harry may do as he wishes, short of killing the boy, and we may not interfere.” He turned silent for a moment, as if hunting for a straw of hope to give her, then added, “As a last resort, you might bring the matter to the mayor or another magistrate.”

She drew a deep breath and sighed. “There's no point imagining the worst. You're probably right. Either this week or the next, Charlie will return to Hackney, hopefully a happy boy. Who knows what will happen to the others.” She walked to the closet and opened it. “This much is certain. We are going to the Spring Ball tonight.” She held up the white gown against her body. “Help me decide. Will this do?”

He gazed fondly at her and smiled. “It's lovely. I look forward to this evening with you.”

***

At the entrance to the Upper Assembly Rooms, sedan chairs and carriages disgorged their passengers. With Anne on his arm, Paul gaped in amazement at the social stew milling around them. In the ballroom the mixing of classes was even more glaring. Mr. Tyson, the master of ceremonies, had assigned seats according to rank and honor. The first places went to a sprinkling of aristocrats; the next best to people of quality: professional men, prominent military officers, wealthy gentry. The rest of the seats were left to plain-looking men and women decked out in fine clothes.

In a low voice, Paul asked Anne, “Have these people—tailors, grocers, and the like—come into more money than they know how to spend? In Paris, on such a formal occasion as the Spring Ball, the lower classes would be strictly excluded.”

Anne replied, “Society in Bath is like a masked ball. People high and low escape from convention without harm to their reputations. Unless you are a prince, or a bishop, or a general, social distinctions mean little. Money and appearance are what counts.”

“Let's see what they make of us.” Paul presented himself to Mr. Tyson in the formal velvet suit of a French nobleman: a knee-length, cutaway medium brown coat embroidered with metallic yarns, a light brown waist coat, and dark brown breeches. Taking note of his aristocratic bearing as well as his title, the M.C. directed Paul and Anne to sit between an earl and a bishop.