Cross of St George (19 page)

S
IR
W
ILFRED
L
AFARGUE
put down the empty cup and walked to one of the tall windows of his spacious office. For such a heavily-built man he moved with remarkable agility, as if the young, eager lawyer was still there, a prisoner of his own success. Lafargue had once been described as handsome, but now, in his late fifties, he was showing signs of good living and other excesses which even his expensively cut coat and breeches could not disguise.

The coffee was good: eventually, he might send for more. But he was content for the moment to stand looking out of this window, one of his favourites, across the City of London, where, despite more buildings than ever before, there were still many restful parks and ornamental gardens. This was Lincoln's Inn, one of the centres of English law, and the prestigious address of many legal practices which served a world of both power and money.

This particular house, for instance, had once been the London residence of a famous general, who had met an ignominious death by fever in the West Indies. Now it held the offices of the legal firm which bore his family name, and of which Lafargue was the senior partner.

He idly watched some carriages as they rattled past on their way to Fleet Street. It was a fine day, with clear blue sky above the spires and impressive buildings. From the far window he would be able to see St Paul's, or at least the dome of the cathedral; it was a sight that always pleased him. Like the centre of things, in his world.

He considered the visitor who was waiting to see him. His staff had been busy on her behalf, but this would be his first meeting with the lady in question, Lady Catherine Somervell. When he had mentioned the appointment to his wife she had been sharp, even angry, as if it offended her personally in some way.

He smiled. But then, how could she understand?

Now he would see for himself what the notorious viscountess was really like. She was certainly one of the most discussed women of the day: if only a tenth of it was true, he would soon discover her strength and her weakness. She had risen above it all, the scandal and the secret slander. The fact that her last husband had died mysteriously in a duel had been conveniently forgotten. He smiled more broadly.
Not by me.

He turned with irritation as a door opened slightly, and his senior clerk peered in at him.

“What is it, Spicer?” The offices revolved around the senior clerk, a dedicated man who missed no detail in all the legal papers and documents that passed through his hands. He was also very dull.

Spicer said, “Lady Somervell is about to leave, Sir Wilfred.” He spoke without expression. When the Prime Minister, Spencer Perceval, had been assassinated by some lunatic at the House of Commons the previous year, he had announced it in much the same fashion, as if it was a comment on the weather.

Lafargue snapped, “What do you mean, leaving? That lady has an appointment with me!”

Spicer was unmoved. “That was nearly half an hour ago, Sir Wilfred.”

Lafargue contained himself with an effort. It was his practice to keep clients waiting, no matter how high or low they stood on the social scale.

It was a bad beginning. He said curtly, “Bring her in.”

He sat at his vast desk and watched the other door. Everything was in its place, a chair directly opposite him, an impressive background of leather volumes from floor to ceiling behind. Sound, reliable, like the City itself. Like a bank.

He rose slowly as the doors were opened and Lady Catherine Somervell entered the room. It was far too large for an office but Lafargue liked it for that reason: it often intimidated visitors who had to walk almost its full length to reach the chair by the desk.

For the first time in his experience, the effect was completely reversed.

She was taller than he had expected, and walked without hesitation or uncertainty, her dark eyes never leaving his face. She was dressed all in green, and carrying a broad-brimmed straw hat with a matching ribbon. Lafargue was intelligent enough to appreciate that his clumsy ploy of allowing her to wait could never impress a woman like this.

“Please be seated, Lady Somervell.” He watched the easy way she sat in the straight-backed chair, confident, but wary. Defiant, perhaps. “I regret the delay. Some difficulty arose at the last minute.”

Her dark eyes moved only briefly to the empty coffee cup.

“Of course.”

Lafargue sat down again and touched some papers on his desk. It was hard not to stare at her. She was beautiful: there was no other possible description. Her hair, so dark that it might have been black, was piled above her ears, so that her throat and neck seemed strangely unprotected. Provocative. High cheekbones, and now the merest hint of a smile as she said, “So what news may I expect?”

Catherine had seen the assessing glance. She had seen many such before. This illustrious lawyer, recommended by Sillitoe when she had asked for his advice, was no different, in spite of the grand setting and the air of showmanship. Sillitoe had remarked, “Like most lawyers, his worth and his honesty will be measured by the weight of his bill!”

Lafargue said, “You have seen all the details of your late husband's affairs.” He coughed politely. “Your pardon. Your previous husband, I mean. His business ventures prospered even during the war between Great Britain and Spain. It was his surviving son's wish that you receive that which was always intended for your own use.” His eyes flicked down to the papers. “Claudio Luis Pareja was his son by his first marriage.”

She said, “Yes.” She ignored the unspoken question: he would know, in any case. When Luis had asked her to marry him he had been more than twice her age, and even his son, Claudio, had been older than she. She had been afraid, desperate, lost, when the small, amiable Luis had taken her as his bride. It had not been love as she now knew it to be, but the man's kindness, his need of her, had been like a door opening for her to step through. She had been a mere girl, and he had given her vision and opportunity, and she had learned the manners and graces of the people he knew or did business with.

He had died when Richard Bolitho's ship had taken control of the vessel in which they had been passengers, on their way to Luis's estate in Minorca. She had known afterwards that she loved Richard, but she had lost him. Until Antigua, when he had sailed into English Harbour with his flag flying above the old
Hyperion
.

She could feel the lawyer's eyes exploring her, although when she looked at him directly he was examining his papers again.

She said, “So I am a very rich woman?”

“At the stroke of a pen, my lady.” He was intrigued that she had shown neither surprise nor triumph, not since they had first exchanged letters. A beautiful widow, envied, wealthy: the temptation would be a great one for many men. He thought of Sir Richard Bolitho, the hero, whom even common sailors seemed to admire. He glanced at her again. Her skin was brown like a country woman's, like her hands and wrists. He speculated on their life together when they were not separated by the ocean, and the war.

The thought made him remark, “I have heard that things are moving at last in North America.”

“What is that?” She stared at him, one hand moving to her breast. How quickly it could happen. Like a shadow, a threat.

He said, “We received word that the Americans attacked York, crossed the lake in force and burned the government buildings there.”

“When?” One word, like a stone falling into a still pond.

“Oh, some six weeks ago, apparently. News is very slow to reach us.”

She stared at the window, at the fresh leaves visible beyond it. Six weeks. The end of April. Richard might have been there: he would be involved, in any case. She asked quietly, “Anything else?”

He cleared his throat. Her unexpected anxiety had encouraged him: perhaps she was vulnerable after all.

“Some story of a mutiny in one of our ships. Poor devils, one can hardly blame them.” He paused. “But there are limits, and we
are
at war.”

“What ship?” She knew he was enjoying her concern in some way. It did not matter. Nothing else did. Not the money, unexpected gift though it was from poor Luis, dead these many years. She asked more sharply, “Can you remember?”

He pursed his lips. “
Reaper
. Yes, that was it. Do you know her?”

“One of Sir Richard's squadron. Her captain was killed last year. I do not know her, beyond that.” How could he understand? Mutiny … She had watched Richard's face when he had described it, and what it cost the guilty and the innocent alike. He had been involved in the great naval mutinies, which had stunned the entire country at a time when the enemy was expected to invade. Some had believed it was the first fire of the same revolution which had brought the Terror to France.

How Richard would hate and loathe such an outbreak in his own command. Would blame himself for not having been there when the seeds were sown.

A total responsibility.
And a punishment to him, also.

Lafargue said, “Now, the other matter we discussed. The lease of the property has become available.” He watched her hand at her breast, the glittering pendant moving to betray the heightened pulse. “The owner of the lease, an earl impoverished by bad luck or over-confidence at the tables, was more than willing to exchange deeds. Expensive property, madam. And occupied.”

He knew; of course he knew. She said, “By Lady Bolitho.” She glanced down at the ruby ring on her hand, which he had given her in the church at Zennor on the day Valentine Keen had married Zenoria. It wrenched at her heart. They would all be waiting for her in Falmouth: the admiral's lady, or whore, as the mood dictated. “It was my decision. I intend to lower the cost of the lease.” She looked up suddenly, and Lafargue saw the other woman in her eyes, the woman who had braved the sea in an open boat after shipwreck, who had captured the hearts of all who knew her. Now, in her face, he could see that everything he had heard of her was true.

She added, “And I intend that she shall know it!”

Lafargue rang a small bell, and his senior clerk, with one other, appeared as if by magic.

He stood up and watched Spicer preparing the documents, a fresh pen already placed by her hand. He looked at the ring, assessing the cost: it was of rubies and diamonds, like the pendant she wore, which was in the shape of a fan. He thought of his wife and wondered how, or even if, he would describe his day to her.

Spicer said, “Here and here, my lady.”

She signed her name quickly, recalling the small, untidy lawyer's office in Truro, which had handled the Bolitho affairs for generations. Chairs filled with files and dog-eared documents, far too dusty to ever have been used. Not surprisingly, it had been the portly Yovell who had guided her there when she had told him what she had heard from Seville. From Spain, where she had left childhood behind.

Untidy, yes, but she had been received there as if she had always belonged. As John Allday would have described it,
one of the family.

Lafargue said, “We are accustomed to such transactions, my lady. A head so beautiful should never be troubled by affairs of business.”

She looked up at him, and smiled. “Thank you, Sir Wilfred. I value your skills as a lawyer. Flattery I can have at any time from a Billingsgate porter!”

She stood, and waited while Lafargue took her hand, and after a small hesitation held it to his lips.

“It has been an honour, my lady.”

She nodded to the two clerks, and saw the smile on the impassive features of the one named Spicer. It was a day he would remember, for whatever reasons of his own.

Lafargue made a last attempt. “I noticed that you arrived in Lord Sillitoe's carriage, my lady …” He almost flinched as the dark eyes turned toward him.

“How observant of you, Sir Wilfred.”

He walked beside her to the double doors. “An influential man.”

She regarded herself in a tall mirror in passing. Her next visit was to the Admiralty, and she wondered if Bethune would eventually tell her about the attack on York and the mutiny.

“With respect, my lady, I think that even Lord Sillitoe would regard you as a challenge.”

She faced the lawyer again, her heart suddenly heavy. Wanting not to be alone: wanting Bolitho, needing him.

“I have found that a challenge can so easily become an obstacle, Sir Wilfred. One which may need to be removed. Wouldn't you agree?”

Back at his favourite window, Sir Wilfred Lafargue saw the liveried coachman hurry to open the carriage door for her. One of Sillitoe's hard men, he thought, more like a prize-fighter than a servant. He saw her pause to watch a clutter of sparrows drinking from a horse-trough's overflow. Distance hid her expression, but he knew she did not see or care for the passers-by who glanced at her.

He tried to arrange his impressions rationally, as he might marshal facts and arguments in a law suit, or with an opposing brief. But all he could find was envy.

The Old Hyperion inn at Fallowfield was crowded on this warm June evening, mostly with workers from the surrounding farms, enjoying the companionship of their friends after a long day in the fields. Some sat outside at the scrubbed trestle tables, and the air was so still that the smoke from their long pipes hung in an unmoving canopy. Even the banks of tall foxgloves barely quivered, and beyond the darkening trees the Helford River gleamed in the fading light like polished pewter.

Inside the inn every door and window stood open, but the older customers, as was their habit year round, gathered by the great fireplace, although it was empty but for a tub of flowers.

Unis Allday glanced from her parlour door and was satisfied with what she saw. Familiar faces, thatchers from Fallowfield, and the carpenter and his mate who were still working on the local church, where she and John Allday had been married. She repressed a sigh, and turned to the cot where their child, little Kate, lay sleeping. She touched the cot: another reminder of the big, shambling sailor who was so far away. He had even made the cot with his own hands.