Poetic Justice (28 page)

"Unusual trade, that. Shipping art."

As Parham had brought up that significant word, "trade," John had nothing more to add. But Parham cleared his throat and poured another glass of brandy. "I understand you had another trade too."

Self-abnegation must become easier with practice, because now the words came trippingly to John's tongue. "I was a free-trader for years. That's how I acquired the ships. The usual South coast trade—silk, brandy. Whiskey and wool going back. And art."

Parham held up his glass with a hint of pride. "This is smuggled cognac."

"I know. Out of Shelmerston, I wager." Anger made him cruel. He came over and picked up the decanter and held it up to the light. "You're being taken, you know. This isn't from Charente, but further south."

"What does that mean?"

"It's not real cognac." John set the decanter back on the table and restoppered it. "It's not bad brandy, but the grapes are from Bordeaux, I think."

This disspirited Parham so much he could hardly rouse himself to continue the inquisition. But sulkily he said, "I hear you had another profession too."

John stepped back, wary again. "What's that?"

"With the Foreign Office."

That wasn't generally known, even among John's friends and crew, none of whom were the sort to gossip. More likely it came from the FO, which had never been good at keeping secrets. "I had a letter of marque, letting me take enemy ships. But most of us got one, by hook or crook. Cut down on the competition from the other side of the Channel."

Parham laid a finger alongside his nose and nodded sagely. "I understand. Can't divulge national secrets. Very patriotic of you."

Irritated, John said, "I'm not patriotic. I told you, harassing the enemy is good business practice."

"But you weren't paid, now, were you? Not for the Foreign Office work."

John wasn't about to admit that he had anything to do with the Foreign Office, but he might have retorted that his payment was his freedom. Smuggling was punishable by deportation or hanging, and he liked both his homeland and his neck too much to turn down his government's commission. And there was the risk too—that was a form of payment. "I try to avoid associating with the British government as much as possible."

"But that's why you got the title, isn't it? For that patriotic work you won't admit you did."

This, at least, was one mistake he could correct. "No. I forgave a debt, that's all."

"Must have been quite a debt."

"It was."

"Kind of you. It's cruel, how whenever Prinny spends a bit of funds, those Radicals tie the pursestrings and try to foment revolution."

It wasn't just the Radicals, of course, who objected to Prinny's artistic extravagance. But John wasn't about to get into a debate on royal privileges. He just wanted out of this prison of a room. "As you say. At any rate, a new title hasn't any currency anyway, on the usual account books, no matter how it's acquired."

"Well, that new Duke of Wellington might disagree!" Parham laughed merrily at this, one hand on his chest. "A title's a title. In another generation, no one will remember why you got it. I've always suspected the first Baron Parham was raised for procuring Charles I some likely wenches."

"Have we done now?"

"Done? You're not finished, are you? No other objections to your suit?"

This was too much to abide. "Haven't you heard enough?" With heavy irony, John held up his hand and began counting off on his fingers. "One. Wrong class. Two. Wrong profession—that is, any profession at all. Three, criminal background. Four, havey-cavey wartime doings, real or imagined. That's all I've got."

"What about your irregular birth?"

John stilled his restless pacing, planting his feet firmly as if the carpet were the deck of a ship on treacherous seas. "My birth was perfectly regular. I survived, my mother survived."

"A bit early, weren't you?"

John had been expecting something of the sort, but this euphemism was simultaneously too delicate and too crude. "Say what you mean, Parham."

Parham flushed and looked down at his brandy glass. "Didn't mean to give you offense. Just heard your father was some lord."

"I told you. My father was an apothecary. Tom Manning. I care naught for any lord."

"Right. I understand." Parham added heartily, "Appreciate such loyalty. But Devlyn. The current one, not his father. The one married to the princess."

As far as apology went, it was the best John was likely to get. So he stopped halfway to the door. "What about him?"

"Do you get on well with him?"

"Devlyn?" John shoved that last encounter to the back of his mind. "We grew up together."

"You're friendly, then."

"What are you getting at?"

"The princess. Are you, ummm, friends with her too?"

It took a moment for the rage to subside enough for John to realize that Parham, in his clumsy way, was only angling for an introduction, not suggesting the unimaginable. "The princess occasionally gifts me with a bit of royal approval, I suppose."

"You see them in London, ever, the Devlyns?"

"Yes."

"Never met the princess, my wife and I. Don't run in those circles, and then, well, Lady Parham hasn't been getting about much. But to meet the pretty princess, she'd go out for that. Even to a ball, I think."

John sighed, thinking of Lady Parham and her lugubrious black gowns and her lasting lamentation. If anyone could cheer her, it would be Tatiana, she of the blinding smiles. "Perhaps when the Devlyns are next in Town, they'll give a party. The princess does love to give parties."

"And—" delicately Parham hitched his trouser legs up and leaned forward. "And Lady Parham will receive an invitation?"

Why John should be expected to cater so to the family that was set to reject him, he didn't know. But here he was, tangled up with these tenacious Setons. And it was a minor enough request, he supposed. "I will mention her name to the princess. Now can we get on with it? I've an appointment at two."

Parham straightened in outraged affront. "Wait just a minute, young man. I don't suppose you know much about this hand-seeking business, but I have been through it many times with Jessica's other suitors. You can't expect just to say your piece and go on to your other appointments. There's a certain ritual to these affairs. For instance, I haven't asked you yet why I shouldn't accuse you of fortune hunting."

"Fortune hunting?" Parham had enough reasons to prefer the poet. John wasn't about to start making them up. "No. I've got plenty of my own funds. There's twenty thousand or so just in the ships and their cargo, and another twenty probably in art. And stocks on the 'Change. I don't need to marry an heiress."

"Don't you want the Parham collection?"

"That's Jessica's. If your brother had a particle of sense, he would have left it to her outright. She'll do well by it, if she gets it."

"You'd like to advise her on it, though, wouldn't you?"

John kept a stubborn silence. Jessica and he had their own agreement. Parham didn't need to know about it.

"Come, Dryden, she's a bright girl, but she hasn't any experience. You'd like to counsel her, wouldn't you?"

"If she needs advice, I'll give it to her."

"You don't think that would be a trifle awkward, considering your feelings toward her?"

John turned away, but he could feel Parham's scrutiny on his back. "I'll learn to live with it."

"What are your feelings, by the way?'"

There was a limit to duty, and he had fulfilled it. Parham had gotten his pleasure; Jessica no doubt would get her poet. John just wanted out. "My feelings are of the usual sort."

"Usual? That's all?"

Two more minutes, that's all he'd stay. John started counting off the seconds, watching the spasmodic little hand on the mantle clock. It said twenty-nine when he said thirty. Two seconds lost every minute; that would be two minutes every hour. A very poor chronometer—

"Dryden, are you paying attention? I said, I don't think your feelings are the usual sort at all."

"You needn't call me a liar on top of all the rest."

"Now, boy, take that scowl off your face. I'm not calling you a liar. A lover, that's all. You want to tell me, don't you, that if I refuse you you'll run off with her anyway. Even if she wouldn't agree, and she wouldn't. She can't afford my disapproval."

The two minutes up, John started for the door. But Parham's genial voice followed him. "I can sense these things, you know. Not many men would subject themselves to this kind of humiliation, you know, not a man with your kind of pride. There's a sacrifice involved there, don't you think I don't know it. You'd like to fling all my questions back in my face, wouldn't you, and just walk out. But you won't. Have to play it out, don't you? For her sake."

"No." John got his hand on the doorknob, but didn't turn it. He just stared at his scarred hand, fisted around it. "She deserves to inherit the library. You know that. It means the world to her. She's played by these rules of yours. Now it's time to let her win."

"You're right." Parham rose and approached him, nodding all the way. "All right, young man. You have my consent. You'd best get down and post those banns. If you do it right away, you can be wed before her birthday."

Anguish, injustice—these vanished into shock. He whirled around. "You mean—wait. What about the poet?"

"Blake?" Parham shook his head. "No. His feelings for my niece really are the usual sort, however he pretties them up in verse. And he knows her naught, does he, though he's known her all her life. Gives her sonnets, he does. You bring her old books. She ought to prefer the other, I suppose, but Jessica doesn't like to do as she ought. She wants the old books. You know her better."

"But—" It was all too much to take in, this hearty Parham clapping him on the back, this unrequested consent—well, not unrequested, but undreamed.

"No time to waste, lad. She's outside in the garden, I think. Go make your proposal to her. Not that she's likely to turn you down, with the collection at stake. But this is a ritual, and you have to play it out."

He kept hearing that as he walked to the garden. Not that she's likely to turn you down, with the collection at stake. Parham had gone mad, of course, approving this marriage, but in that much he was correct. Jessica couldn't afford to refuse. And John wouldn't let her, were she mad enough to try.

The sunlight glancing off her hair was like a beacon, lighting his way to shore. He located her sitting on a blanket in the little arbor, frowning at a book—the Hannah More book, with Aphra inside. When she saw him she smiled, and he saw in her face relief mixed with trepidation. What was she worried about? She would get her wish, one of them anyway.

Mindful of eavesdroppers among the gardeners yanking weeds, he pulled her to her feet and out to a distant corner of the garden. In a low angry voice he explained that he had just met with Parham about their proposed marriage.

She sat down hard on a stone bench. "Proposed? John, I never meant for you to do that. You said you would pretend to court me, not propose marriage. Why did you do that? It must have been horrid."

"It was. It was." Her confusion made him angry, if he needed any more excuse for that. "I thought you understood. I had to request your hand to force his hand. To force him to do better for you than this, if he cared at all for you."

"But you shouldn't have done it. I didn't want him to insult you again."

Pity was worse than the rest. "I complete my contracts, and I will complete this new one also." Furious now, he grabbed her hand. "I haven't a ring yet, but I'll get one this afternoon."

"A ring?" She shook her head, as if he had awakened her from a deep sleep, and focused all her attention on the hand that held hers. "Oh, I see. You've lost your ring."

Through gritted teeth, he said, "I didn't lose the ring. It's just gone. And I'm not talking of that ring anyway, but a betrothal ring. I'll post the banns this afternoon. You'll want St. George in Hanover Square, I make no doubt."

"You don't want—John, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying—" He broke off and took a deep breath to cool off his voice. "Your uncle approved my suit. God knows why. Lunacy runs in your family, I've always suspected. So we'll have to marry."

She went utterly still, and savagely he realized he'd made a hash of it, that she hadn't understood until just then that they would be marrying. "Do you realize what I'm saying? Your uncle approved it. We'll marry. You'll get the collection."

"John, I didn't mean for this to happen, you know it."

"It happened. Accept it. He's not going to approve the poet now. You have no choice in the matter. "

"No choice?" She was still very quiet, still staring down at his hand. She rubbed with her thumb at the white circle on his ring finger, as if it were just paint and would come off with a bit of effort.

He jerked his hand away and rose. "I'm not going to be the cause of you losing your inheritance. And I'm not going to have it said that my behavior was less than that of a gentleman. I'll call on you tomorrow to get the arrangements started."

When he looked back from the garden path, she was still sitting there, her full mouth more mutinous now. But there was still that dazed look in her eyes, as if he'd struck her instead of proposed to her. He felt a stirring of guilt. She deserved better, he supposed, than all this. Tomorrow he would take time to make it up to her, to explain all the benefits of this arrangement, to assure her he'd do his best to make her happy.

But today he had to find a church and post the banns.

He was so preoccupied that he hardly heard the carriage lurch to a halt beside him. But he turned when he heard someone leap out of the hackney and call his name. He had just an instant to see the cool intent in the other man's eyes and reach for his knife. But an instant wasn't long enough. The assailant already had his truncheon lifted, so it was only a matter of bringing it down with sufficient force. And that he did, connecting smartly with John's head. John's last thought was regret that he hadn't turned back to conciliate Jessica, that she hadn't run after him to witness this, that he wouldn't get the banns posted this afternoon after all.