Sovay (8 page)

‘If he has gone to France?’

‘Like you said, we don’t know that. There are names, contacts. People who
might
know. I want you to help me go through them. Come tomorrow, but don’t tell Fitzwilliam –’

Just then came the sound of steps approaching. Fitzwilliam moved smartly away from the door. He did not want to be caught eavesdropping by a servant. ‘Is there anything you require, sir?’ Mrs Crombie asked.

‘No, nothing. I was just admiring this fine collection of Sèvres porcelain. Mrs Crombie, isn’t it?’ Fitzwilliam smiled. He prided himself at remembering the names of servants.

‘Yes, that’s right, sir. Didn’t I see you at Compton with Master Hugh?’

‘You did, many years ago now.’ Fitzwilliam’s smile widened. ‘Fancy you remembering!’

‘Oh, I forget nothing, sir.’

Mrs Crombie’s face closed like a shutter. She remembered him all right, and there was something about him that she didn’t like. He’d been a knowing child, too ready with the charm, and there was something about those odd, light eyes. They saw too much, always darting about. He hadn’t changed. She could have sworn he was listening at the door to a private conversation for all he said he was examining the contents of the china cabinet.

On the way back to Hanover Square, Fitzwilliam asked when Gabriel might be visiting Miss Sovay again.

‘She has asked me to call on her tomorrow morning. On estate business,’ Gabriel added, mindful of her warning to come alone.

‘Morning, you say? Rather you than me. After a night in town, I am not good in the morning. Estate business sounds desperately dull.’ Fitzwilliam laughed. ‘A pity to worry such a pretty head over such matters.’ ‘Miss Sovay is no fool,’ Gabriel replied. ‘She might be headstrong at times, stubborn, too, but she is no silly young thing. Rather the opposite. With her father absent, her brother too, responsibility rests with her and she has a good enough head on her shoulders.’

‘Doesn’t she have an aunt?’ Fitzwilliam inquired. ‘Surely she –’

‘Lady Harriet is an invalid and rarely leaves her room,’ Gabriel answered. ‘Miss Sovay is quite capable, I assure you.’

‘I meant nothing by it,’ Fitzwilliam said mildly. ‘It is just that she is so young.’ He patted Gabriel’s arm. ‘It is good that she has you to help her.’

The aunt drank. He remembered that from his visits to Compton. A perceptive boy, and older than Hugh, he had read the signs that the family had tried to hide. Anyway, he had aunts of his own who liked to nap in their room after a brandy or two laced with laudanum. He had found Hugh interesting, with his passions and his poetry. He was one of the only boys who
had
interested him in the slightest bit, even among his contemporaries. That he was younger had mattered not a jot. The rest had been so deadly dull, apart from one or two of the prettier ones, who had been diverting in their own way, but Hugh had looks
and
conversation. A captivating combination. In return, Hugh had worshipped his older friend and continued to do so until this day, which was pleasantly gratifying.

‘The night is young,’ Fitzwilliam said, when they came to his rooms. ‘What say we go to my club? Seek some entertainment.’

Gabriel declined, pleading tiredness and that he did not have the right clothes.

‘Nonsense!’ Fitzwilliam ran an appraising eye over him. ‘You are about the same size as my brother, Henry. He leaves a press of clothes here for when he is in town. I’ll send Rufus to attend you. You are sure to find something to suit.’

Gabriel chose a set of clothes in the most sober colour that he could find: midnight blue with the minimum by way of decorative embroidery. Fitzwilliam’s tastes were more extravagant. Perhaps he wished to show himself to be different from the young Oxford don, for he appeared in the height of fashion, his hair powdered, his dark green velvet coat lined with ivory silk, the facings embroidered with quantities of pastes and spangles which winked and glittered in the light. He wore his black velvet breeches tight and his low-heeled shoes were fastened with shining steel buckles. He looked down to make sure that there were no wrinkles in his white silk stockings and laughed to see Gabriel’s reaction.

‘The don transformed.’ He poured a glass of brandy from the decanter that Rufus had left in the drawing room. ‘I’m the third son,’ he said. ‘In my family, the third son is destined for the Church. I find University life more congenial than some country parish. College life is rather like a club. Fine cellar, reasonable company for the most part, only the food leaves a little to be desired.’

Upon leaving the house, he summoned a couple of chairs for St James’s. Gabriel felt uncomfortable, he did not like to be carried and felt sorry for the poor fellows who would have to bear his weight, but Fitzwilliam had no such scruples.

‘How else are we to get there?’ he asked. ‘The streets are a midden. The muck will be over our shoes before we’ve gained the corner of the square. Besides, the poor devils are glad enough of our money. Would you deprive them of a living?’

Fitzwilliam looked at Gabriel. He was a pleasant enough fellow, but there was a fresh-faced naivety about him, a lack of sophistication. He wondered if taking him to the club might turn out to be a mistake.

Fitzwilliam went to play cards, leaving Gabriel to wander from room to room to observe the occupants eating and drinking, laughing, talking and gambling. So this was how rich men enjoyed themselves? He settled against a wall, sipped his glass of wine and smiled to himself. Not so different from the local inn, apart from the opulence and the lack of women. He supposed that they would be visiting the ladies later.

He was not aware of it as he surveyed the passing scene, but he in turn was being watched. Sir Robert Dysart’s eyes scarcely flickered from his cards but he saw Fitzwilliam as soon as he entered the gaming room and noted his companion. He’d never seen Fitzwilliam’s young friend before and saw immediately that he was not used to such surroundings, yet he did not seem ill at ease. He conducted himself with a natural grace and dignity. That in itself was enough to make him stand out in the present company. Sir Robert turned in his hand, much to the relief of those who remained in the game. Dysart had a reputation for always winning. The only men who would sit down with him were as skilful as he was, or rich fools who thought they could go up against him and win. There were plenty of those sitting around the table.

Dysart was above average height, although his narrow build and slightly stooping posture made him seem smaller. He wore an old-fashioned wig, curled at the sides and queued at the back. His face was thin, with a rather prominent, pointed nose above narrow lips and a sharp chin. His pale, watchful eyes seemed focused on nothing in particular, but Dysart saw everything: who was at play and who was not, who was winning, who was losing, who was betting, how much and on what. He gave up his place to another and went to prowl the room. Neat to the point of fastidiousness and always dressed in black, he stood out among so many men of fashion like a raven in a room full of peacocks.

The men gathered here were among the richest, most powerful in the country: politicians, members of the aristocracy. They greeted Dysart genially enough, but few stopped to exchange words with him or cared to meet his eye. Dysart passed with a nod here, a thin smile there. His smile never reached his eyes. He was not here to socialise. He had something of interest on almost every one of them and liked to remind them of his presence.

Certainly, he knew a great deal about Mr Fitzwilliam. The young man was heavily in debt. He had no head for cards but he liked to gamble. He was the kind who became more reckless with every poor hand, throwing good money into the same pit as the bad. A younger son, dependent on a rich but miserly father, he had expensive tastes and lived far beyond his allowance. He was perfect for Dysart’s purposes. He was well connected. And desperate. He was handsome, personable, with an open face and charming manner, he moved with ease in many different circles. However vicious he might be underneath, people had a tendency to like Fitzwilliam, to trust him. The young Irish don was the very image of an aristocratic gentleman, yet all Dysart had to do was call in a tenth of the promissory notes in his possession and Mr Fitzwilliam would find himself in the debtors’ ward in Newgate Prison.

Dysart positioned himself behind the young man in question. Another poor hand. No high cards and no tricks. He was doing both Fitzwilliam and his partner a favour by taking him out of the game.

‘Fitzwilliam. Losing, I see. Care for a turn round the room with me?’

‘Ah.’ Fitzwilliam turned at the touch on his shoulder. ‘Dysart . . .’

‘Tell me, who is that young man who accompanied you here tonight?’

‘Oh, his name is Gabriel Stanhope. He’s a friend of Hugh Middleton’s.’

‘His Steward’s son, more like.’ Dysart’s dry, creaking laugh was without a shred of humour.

‘How do you know?’ Fitzwilliam turned to him, genuinely amazed.

‘You are not the only spy I have in your ancient foundation. Would that be the same Hugh Middleton who was sent down from his college and is currently residing in Paris, a cowardly traitor to his country?’

‘How do you know . . .’ Fitzwilliam started, but what was the use of asking? Dysart knew everything.

‘My understanding is that his father, Sir John Middleton, has lately joined him there, but that is of no interest to me. At the moment. I’m wondering if you might know something of Miss
Sovay
Middleton.’ ‘Why, I was just now at her house!’ Fitzwilliam expressed surprise. ‘That
is
a coincidence.’

‘Perhaps, so.’ Sir Robert gave a thin smile. ‘If one believed in coincidence. I do not. So,’ he went back, calibrating the conversation as finely as if he were operating some exact instrument of measurement, ‘she is in town? When did she travel down?’

‘She arrived today, I believe.’

‘Did she?’ Sir Robert nodded, although Fitzwilliam failed to see any particular significance. ‘Their neighbour, Sir Royston Gilmore, has lately arrived from the country.’

‘Another coincidence?’ Fitzwilliam laughed at a higher pitch than he would have liked. Conversations with Dysart always made him nervous.

‘I told you, I don’t believe in them.’

‘Is he in tonight?’ Fitzwilliam looked about. Sir Royston was even worse at cards than he was and it would be a good excuse to get away from Dysart.

‘Unfortunately not. He is feeling incommoded. He was set about by some ruffian on the road. Used most cruelly, poor fellow. He’s of a mind that this rogue is the very same one who recently attacked his son and several other coaches. A highwayman, new to the trade, who goes by the name of Captain Blaze.’

‘These highwaymen are everywhere. We had a narrow escape coming from Oxford. You should do something about it, Dysart.’

‘Sir Royston’s very words. Much obliged, Fitzwilliam,’ he turned as if to leave him, ‘unless you have anything else for me?’

Fitzwilliam thought hard. It would be good to give Dysart something, but it was like taking a turn round the room with the Grim Reaper; his disconcerting presence tended to put everything out of one’s mind.

‘Wait!’ he said, just as Dysart was about to drift off. ‘Stanhope and Miss Middleton had a bit of an argument, I couldn’t help but overhear, you understand?’ Dysart nodded impatiently for him to go on. ‘Stanhope accused her of consorting with a highwayman – but his name wasn’t Blaze, it was Greenwood.’

‘Was it, indeed?’ Dysart’s death’s-head grin showed that he was pleased.

‘There’s another thing.’ Emboldened by this success, Fitzwilliam had thought of something else. ‘Now I do recall . . .’

‘What, man?’

Something in their conversation was making Dysart impatient. Fitzwilliam was tempted to spin it out, make him wait, but then a look from those cold eyes changed his mind.

‘Their talk turned to a wallet and some papers. I don’t know what was in them, but she was anxious to keep it secret, from me, at any rate.’

Dysart nodded, showing his satisfaction with another skull-like grin. ‘Much obliged, Fitzwilliam.’

Fitzwilliam was just about to ask him, in a roundabout way, whether this information might be worth something, but Dysart was already gliding away.