Now Face to Face (49 page)

“Steal two thousand pounds and some odd shillings from my grandmother? She counts you as her closest friend, but I would call your action a failure of friendship.”

“No!” Sir John tried to calm himself. “I never meant to hurt your grandmother, for whom I have all the admiration in the world. I had obligations that were insistent, and in the heat of the moment—surely you remember how mad that time was—only last year it was, Your Grace, and men were jumping from windows, slashing their throats. I had immediate obligations that threatened. Everyone was desperate for coin, calling in loans. I could not—”

“Jump from a window? So you stole from my grandmother and from me. The estate is hers only until her death, Sir John. Then, under the terms of my grandfather’s will, it becomes mine.”

We are foes, Sir John thought, in a state of shock. He regards me as foe and fool and thief.

“I cannot put my hands upon such a sum at the moment, but I will write out a mortgage to the Duchess upon Ladybeth Farm even as we speak. Ladybeth is worth far more than what I borrowed—or it will be, when land prices become stable again.”

His hands were shaking, he could not stop them, and the ink blotted and ran, but he was writing out words crookedly upon a sheet of paper he grabbed at random from the table between them. He scarcely knew what he was writing, so upset was he. “If you would allow me a few months, I will have every penny of the money—”

“I do not require another farm, Sir John. And I find I do not require your services as the member in the House of Commons from Tamworth. I won’t have Tamworth served by a—” The Duke did not finish the sentence, but he did not have to.

“Your Grace, you have the account books before you. Look them over, and you will see that in all the time—”

“I waited for you to come to me, Sir John. Once I found the loss, I thought, There must be an explanation, and Sir John will come to me and give it to both our satisfactions. He is my grandmother’s closest friend. But you did not come, not yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. I do not think you were going to speak of it today. If my grandmother cannot trust you, I, who do not know you and have never counted upon your friendship in the manner she does, certainly cannot.”

Words seemed to stick in Sir John’s throat. He could feel tears again in his eyes—how different these tears were from those he’d felt coming before—and he said a quick, fierce prayer that he would not weep before this remote, cold young man. “I will return the funds, with interest, within the month. I always had the intention to do so, but—You have my word of honor.”

“Then no more need be said. Good evening, Sir John.”

“Your Grace, your grandmother—”

“I have not spoken of this matter to my grandmother, nor will I. But I remain silent out of regard for her and not for you.”

The young man’s contempt could not be borne.

“You’re scarcely wet behind the ears,” Sir John heard himself say. “My father owned Ladybeth and his father owned it before him, and they were able to live decent lives. They and men like them, honest men of the land, made this country what it is today. In my time, I’ve seen taxes upon land rise, and income from that same land fall. I’ve seen the great lords take more and more for themselves. I’ve seen good men reduced to little or nothing because they wouldn’t go to court and lick some flatterer’s boots and so be given a place or office. Yet any clerk with a head for figures and too heartless to forgive loans may call himself a banker, like that hard-eyed son of an old Dutch merchant, that Gideon Andreas downstairs, whose father was wise enough to ride in on William’s coattails and be—”

“Good evening, Sir John.”

In the hall, Sir John found he was breathing far too hard, his heart pounding, aching, a literal ache that made him think he would not be able to walk down the stairs and outside the house without fainting. He could feel grief and shame blocking his chest.

Out of his loyalty to the Tamworth family, he had abstained from voting when Lord Devane’s part in the scandals came up from committee. He had had every intention of returning the funds to Alice. Only desperation had made him take them in the first place. She never looked at the accounts, left the money untouched sometimes for years because she had no need of it. He had not quite been able to catch up his affairs since the Bubble; nagging debts remained, and he had let more time than he realized slip by. All his life he had served—

Stop this, he told himself.

The world had changed. It belonged to the London moneymen and their clerks, who schemed bubbles and took honest men’s coin and found themselves favored for it, like Andreas downstairs. It belonged to vain young dukes who squandered their fathers’ patrimonies and know no love of the land and no decency, like Wharton. It belonged to churchmen who dealt in policy rather than God, not to old squires like him. It belonged to Whigs, the more venial the better. As Robert Walpole bragged, every man has his price.

Go on home, Sir John said to himself, as quietly as you can. He managed to walk down the stairs, even though the shame at what had occurred was like hot stones in his chest. The doors to the great parlor were mercifully closed; he would not have to see that company again.

One of the footmen standing in the large hall followed him to the front entrance doors. “Her Grace, the Duchess, asked that you join her upstairs.”

“No, I am unable—tell Her Grace how sorry—”

He had just enough sense about him to give the footman a coin for Christmas, as the fellow put a parcel in his arms. That parcel for Jane, from Barbara. Barbara and Jane had grown to womanhood together in the orchards of Tamworth and Ladybeth. Why, Harry might have married Jane, had Diana not needed a better match to cover the funds she had squandered in her misspent life. The Lord above knew Diana was on her knees at that time, and a squire’s daughter would not have been too low a match. How proud he had been of his years serving Tamworth. He’d seen a road put through, gotten funds for refurbishing the church, helped this or that family find places for extra sons in the army or navy. In one hand was the crumpled-up paper on which he’d written out the note pledging Ladybeth, his home, his life, to repay the money.

“Give this to His Grace,” he managed to say.

Outside Saylor House, it was raining, but Sir John walked unseeing toward the lodging he kept in London and where his horse awaited him. He found he was weeping as he walked, weeping as if his heart was broken; and, truth be told, it was.

A
T A
knock on the door, Tony started and put down the tomahawk, whose handle he had been so absently caressing.

“Come in.”

In came Tim, carrying the Duchess, who still wore the headdress that had arrived this afternoon from Barbara. Does she intend to wear that to the wedding? thought Tony.

“Wait outside,” the Duchess said to Tim, and to Tony: “What’s this?”

In her hand was a piece of paper, which had been crumpled. Smoothing it out, Tony read the words, “I, John Ashford, do pledge to the Duke of Tamworth…”

“How did you come by this?” He rubbed at the pulse in his temple.

“Why do you rub your forehead? Your debauch last night?”

Tony had a vague memory of inviting the actor Laurence Slane to his wedding. Had he done so?

“It says that he pledges his farm to you. What has happened? I can see in your face that something has occurred. He didn’t come upstairs to say good-bye to me before he left. That is not like him. Have you quarreled? I’ve been meaning to talk with you about him, but there hasn’t seemed to be the time. He has been the member from Tamworth since before you were born, and—”

“Sir John, and I say this with all respect to him, won’t do. He agrees with me—”

“Won’t do? What on earth are you talking about?”

“This is not something for you to involve yourself in, Grandmama. Trust me in my—”

“To whom do you think you are speaking? I know more about policy and intrigue than half the men downstairs. I wish Sir John to continue as Tamworth’s member of the House of Commons.”

Tony turned away. “I am sorry, Grandmama. That is not possible.”

The Duchess pursed her lips. “Tell Tim to come and fetch me.”

She saw Tony glance at her out of the corner of his eye. Yes, I am taking it well, she thought, because I have no intention of allowing it.

In her bedchamber, she was full of orders. “Go out on the street and hire a carriage,” she told Tim. “Find my warmest cloak,” she told Annie.

“There’s a wedding at nine. Where are you going?”

“Never mind that. Give this to Tony.”

And when Annie didn’t move, only stared at the letter: “Go on.”

“He’s the best of those before him.”

Were those tears in Annie’s eyes? The Duchess set her mouth stubbornly.

“The servants adore him, cannot say enough good things about him. When all is said and done, he’s the best.”

“Do as I say. What’s that?”

“Another New Year’s gift for you.”

“Open it.”

It was a scratchback, wonderfully made, of chased silver, resembling a cane in its length, but with a slender ivory hand at one end, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, a ring upon a finger of that hand. It was a wonderful gift, extravagant, and handy for reaching those itching places one could not reach when wearing a tight gown and stays.

“Who gives it to me?”

“Tommy Carlyle.”

That rouged spider. Why? Never mind. Here was Tim.

T
ONY STARED
down at the map in front of him. It was Sir Gideon Andreas who had told him to look to his estates, who warned that bailiffs and stewards left unchecked while young heirs grew to manhood soon developed fingers to which many coins stuck. I have seen it time after time, Andreas said. It was Andreas who knew Sir John Ashford had been bitten deeply by the South Sea, and who had told Tony of it.

And it was Andreas who was buying land all around Devane Square, as quickly and as quietly as he could.

At the sound of another knock on the door, Tony expected Tim and his grandmother, but Annie whirled in like a dervish, handed him a letter, and tried to whirl out again before he could speak.

“Wait,” he said. “What is this?”

Annie didn’t answer for a moment.

“Lady Devane’s letter,” she finally said, and her mouth was grim.

Blood pulsed strong from head to heart, heart to head. Barbara’s letter had come today. The moment he’d seen it, he had felt as if it were June, and she was freshly gone.

“Why does she give this to me? It is my wedding day.”

Annie compressed her lips.

“To be kind, or to hurt me? You know, Annie.”

“I know nothing, Your Grace.”

D
IANA MOANED
. The carriage lurched, and she moaned louder and shifted backward. She pushed aside her cloak impatiently, pulled down the front of her gown, that crimson gown whose top was so low that no man could keep from staring.

She brought Charles’s head to her breasts and closed her eyes. The inside of the carriage was dark, and cold in spite of fur cloaks and carriage blankets. Charles made an impatient movement, as if he would throw her down to the seat opposite, but she stopped him. She was sitting in his lap, facing him. Legs braced against the seat opposite, he had his hands on her bare hips under bunched folds of gown and petticoat.

“I can’t, cannot think,” Charles said.

She leaned into him. Her breasts were at his mouth. He tasted the nipple of one, a diamond in her necklace sharp against his cheek. He kneaded the soft flesh of her hips as she pushed against him…. Ah, the pressure…ah, the feeling…the sway of the carriage, the cold, the ways they were dressed but undressed—

“Soon.” Her tongue flicked a moment in his ear. “Oh, Charles…” She put her arms around his neck and the carriage lurched and swayed. They were on their way to who knew where, the coachman had simply been ordered to drive. The insanity of what they were doing made him insatiable. The pleasure was hurtful, it was so exquisite it was unbearable, and then—sharply, suddenly—over.

He sat there, watching her. He felt unable to move, but she was pushing herself back into her gown, straightening her jewels, touching her hair, pinning it back with its diamond pins. She pulled up her skirts to retie a garter. He wished he could see her face more clearly, but the shadows were too great. God, he felt so cold suddenly. As cold as ice. She pulled the edges of his cloak together and covered him with a carriage robe.

“You called out Barbara’s name,” she said. “Never mind. I am getting out now. Don’t be late for the wedding. Are you listening, Charles? Charles!”

“Yes.”

The carriage stopped, and she opened the door and was gone.

He lay back against the leather seat, shivering inside his cloak. He would have the carriage go back to his room in the city, near St. Paul’s Cathedral, where he could wash off her rouge and change into another shirt and think about what had just occurred.

T
HE ROOM
was cold. Freezing. Charles’s hands shook as he lit a candle. He took the time to light a fire, knelt before the fireplace, holding out his hands to the small flames, willing the fire to grow before he died of cold. Parts of the fire were yellow-red, and he was reminded, sharply, of Barbara’s hair in certain lights. He found another shirt and changed into it, shivering and cursing. Standing before the mirror, he stared at himself, rubbing at his face with the first shirt long after any trace of rouge was gone. You have a deceiving face, sir, Barbara had said in one of their quarrels.