The Best of Men (12 page)

“When it suits him,” remarked Beaumont, with a laugh. “But no, I’ve something else to do. I hope you feel better soon,” he said to Radcliff.

“Thank you, sir.” Radcliff bowed to him, and the party broke up.

Radcliff waited until the others were out of sight before heading inside and upstairs to his chamber. He went in, shut the door, and lay down on his pallet, taking deep breaths to calm the fluttering in his chest. What a calamitous stroke of fate! He could not have predicted it. Blinded to his own future, he was like a man fighting with one arm tied behind his back.

Gradually, however, his nausea abated. He was looking at things from the wrong perspective, he realised, as if from the wrong end of a spyglass. There must be a design behind it all: he and Beaumont had met so that he could regain what was rightfully his.

More optimistic, he descended to the taproom and paid a boy to deliver a message for him. Half an hour later, he heard three raps at the door to his chamber.

“Come in,” he said.

Tyler entered, ducking so as not to hit his head against the doorframe; as always, he wore his wide-brimmed hat tipped low, perhaps to hide the fact that one of his eyes was askew, lending his face a permanently sinister quality.

“Did you avoid the garden on your way in, as I told you?” Radcliff asked at once.

“Aye,” Tyler said. There was nowhere for him to sit, so he squatted on his haunches, resting his massive forearms on his thighs. “Wouldn’t do for us to be seen together.”

“Indeed it wouldn’t. And now we must be particularly vigilant. Remember the cardsharp at the brothel?
Monsieur Beaumont
, as they called him?”

“How could I not, after you had me chase him and his slut across France.”

“Well, he’s here in Oxford. I was introduced to him this afternoon in the garden.”

“By the very devil!” Tyler removed his hat, which left an indentation in his thick hair that would normally have provoked Radcliff’s mirth. “How in hell –”

“It came about through Walter Ingram, who was badgering me to meet a friend of his, lately returned from the Low Countries, a nobleman’s son by the name of Beaumont. Not for the life of me would I have expected it, but he is the same Beaumont.”

“You must be mistaken!”

“You couldn’t mistake a man like him. He is exactly as the Jew’s grooms described him to us, scar and all.”

“Might he have recognised you?”

“Certainly not. Neither he nor the gypsy saw me that night. Tyler, we have been given a wonderful opportunity. If Beaumont still has my correspondence, I may be able to retrieve it. Of course he’ll have spent the gold, but the letters –”

“Why would he bother keeping them?” said Tyler, scratching at the stubble on his chin. Radcliff frowned, for it was a good question. Still, he had not forgotten what Ingram had let slip about Beaumont’s experience with ciphers. “And if he did, what could it matter?”
Tyler went on. “You said the code couldn’t be broken, so why worry?”

“I am not worried, Tyler – I just want the letters for my own satisfaction,” Radcliff answered shortly.

“Oh, I see now.” Tyler grinned. “Whatever I didn’t do abroad, I’ll do here.”

Radcliff let out a harsh sigh. “Listen to me. We are in England. Beaumont is not some Jew’s minion whose throat you can slit in a dark alleyway without any consequences. His father is a respected peer.”

“I shall make it look clean.”

“I forbid you to try it yet. We could lose any chance we might have of getting back the letters. Is that understood?”

Tyler assumed a sulky expression. “When have I disobeyed you?”

“Not once, and rest assured, I shall reward you for that in time.” Radcliff paused, then said more quietly, “I know from Ingram where Beaumont’s family estate lies, in the Cotswolds, and can easily ask when he might next be there. We shall confront him on his father’s territory, which will come as something of a jolt to him, I believe. I shall send Poole to demand that he surrender the letters for a reasonable sum.”

“You said his father was a peer! Why would he need money? Even if he spent your gold, his dad must be rich enough to keep him.”

“I have thought of that. If the money doesn’t spark his interest, Poole will suggest what the letters could cost him should he refuse to hand them over. The mere hint of menace to his noble family could be enough, though if he fails to bend, you might be allowed to demonstrate to him that our threats are far from idle.” Radcliff smiled at Tyler. “Only play your highest card when it is imperative for victory: a rule of gaming with which Beaumont must be very familiar.”

“Poole can’t game.”

“He’s a lawyer. He games with words.”

“Words,” murmured Tyler disdainfully, yet Radcliff could see that he was flattered to be held in reserve.

“Beaumont won’t be hard to keep track of around here, and I can also provide you with information about his movements from Ingram. I want you to stay on his tail, as you did in France. But if he catches sight of you, we are both finished –
you
above all. Is that clear?”

Tyler nodded and stood up, his head grazing the beamed ceiling; he was fingering the brim of his hat. “Why won’t you tell me what’s in those letters? I risked my neck to get them for you.”

“You were paid generously, even though you were unsuccessful.”

“If I hadn’t fallen sick in Paris, I wouldn’t have lost him.”

“And you found him, and lost him
again
.”

“I did my best. I wanted him and the slut dead as much as you. He may be the son of a lord, but I know him for a canny rogue. He could still do you mischief. Let me take him down!”

“Not until I know about the letters. After that, we shall see. Good day to you, Tyler.”

When his servant had gone, Radcliff sat back down on his pallet and heaved another sigh. How to raise enough money to tempt Beaumont into handing over the letters, if he still had them? Radcliff’s own scant funds were almost spent in outfitting the troop. He had no choice: he would have to sell some of the jewels that Pembroke had given him for Kate as a wedding present.

What a nuisance, Laurence thought, on his way out of Oxford. As soon as he had arrived at the Lamb Inn, he had run into Wilmot and Danvers, both of whom he had known abroad. They had asked if there was any truth to the rumour that he had narrowly escaped being hanged for desertion last winter. He had laughed it off, and was called away conveniently by Ingram, but the question would be posed again. Danvers had insisted on meeting up with him at a different tavern, towards early evening.

As for Ingram’s new friends, Laurence recognised in Corporals Blunt and Fuller a certain cast of soldier: brave, simple, and slavishly loyal to their senior officers. Sir Bernard Radcliff he read less easily, though he was puzzled that Ingram could be so fond of the man, with his inquisitorial grey eyes and chilly demeanour. Yet Radcliff might be well suited to Kate Ingram. Laurence had only met her once when she was sixteen, and while undeniably beautiful, she had seemed to him a proud, spoilt girl. He had taken no more to Radcliff today, and the needling reference to a prior commitment to the Secretary of State still bothered him. He had scolded Ingram afterwards for being so indiscreet, and Ingram had sworn it would not happen again.

With some hours to spare in the afternoon, Laurence decided to visit Diana Stratton, to learn how she was faring, as an old and dear friend, and to see if she had changed over the years; any more than that, he did not admit to himself. If Sir Robert were home, which might preclude any frank conversation with her, Laurence would say he had come to present his father’s greetings and leave as soon as he could. Then he would return to town and share a jug with Danvers, and call on Seward late, when he would be sure to find him at Merton.

Northwest of the city, on the border of Wytham Wood, Laurence asked a girl picking berries in a hedgerow for directions to the house. She stammered them out so fearfully that he had to strain to understand her. Annoyed, he rode on. Just a few weeks back in England, he was already beginning to tire of the effect his looks had on most people.

Stratton’s house was an old, timbered mansion, standing in an apple orchard surrounded by a wall of weathered Cotswold stone. As Laurence approached, he heard the shrill cries of children at play. He reined in his horse and peered over the wall. A fat, cheerful woman was sitting in the shade of a tree with two small boys playing about her, picking daisies and tossing them into her lap, while she threaded
them into chains. When she observed Laurence, she gave a start, and the boys clung to her, regarding him with wide eyes.

“What do you want?” she shouted, struggling up and pressing them to her side as if he were about to snatch them from her and devour them whole.

Such concrete evidence of Diana’s motherhood stirred in Laurence a vague apprehension: she might not welcome his visit at all. “Is Sir Robert Stratton at home, madam?” he inquired.

“And who are you to ask?” When Laurence gave his name, she said sharply, “Stay here,” and herded the children from the orchard and through the front door of the house, shutting it firmly behind her.

He dismounted and waited, kicking a pebble about in the dust, tempted to disappear. Then the door opened again to reveal another woman, younger than the nurse, and pretty. She dropped a curtsey, examining him from beneath her eyelashes. “Mr. Beaumont,” she said, “the master is away, I am afraid, but the mistress will see you. Pray come in.”

The woman guided him into a parlour where he found Diana arranging some flowers in a vase. She had on a gown of blue that matched the colour of her eyes and set off her fair skin and blonde hair; and she looked to him as lovely as before. She bade him good day and gave him her hand to kiss as though he were, as indeed he was, a distant relative. “Such a long time since we have seen you, sir,” she said, in such a way that he could not guess whether she was being cautious or genuinely indifferent. “His lordship your father and her ladyship must be so very grateful for your safe return.”

“Are you in good health, Lady Stratton?” he asked.

“Excellently well, thank you.”

“And Sir Robert?”

“He is well, also, though preoccupied these days with the war, and how it might affect his trade. He is in town, negotiating a contract.
I do not expect him home early. Thank you, Margaret,” she told the other woman. “You may go.”

Margaret obeyed, closing the parlour door.

Immediately Diana threw her arms about Laurence. “Beaumont,” she whispered, “why did you leave me without even a note, nothing to explain your absence! I cried for weeks and weeks afterwards! And now I can’t believe my eyes! Here you are, my sweet lover, come to find me!”

“Diana,” he began, taken aback as much by this wave of emotion as by her eagerness to rekindle their affair, “I only came to see how –”

But she would not let him speak, kissing him with violent force. Then she rushed over to the window and drew the curtains. “Make love to me,” she said, hurrying back to him. “Margaret will keep guard for us.”

“We can’t,” he said.

“Why not?” Her expression altered. “Don’t tell me – are you – were you
hurt
in that terrible war?”

“No!” he replied, nearly laughing; was this everyone’s concern?

“Do I not please you any more? Have I lost my looks?”

“Far from it.”

“So make love to me,” she urged, searching beneath his doublet to caress him.

For the briefest moment he forgot himself, enjoying her touch. But as she started to unbutton the doublet and unlace his breeches, he moved away and took her hands in his. “Diana, I’m here on a friendly visit. I wanted to find out how you were.” She gazed up at him, frowning. “Look,” he persisted, “I’m sorry, all those years ago, that I couldn’t tell you I was leaving. Even if I’d stayed, it wouldn’t have been wise for us to continue our … our meetings.” Remembering his conversation with Ingram, he added, “I wasn’t thinking of the consequences for
you
. It was very selfish of me.”

“As though I hadn’t a mind of my own! I desired you, Beaumont, and I desire you now.” She grabbed his arm, trying to drag him to the door. “We can go into the woods, if you’re afraid we’ll be discovered!”

“No,” he told her, gently detaching her fingers. “You must understand, it’s finished. But I was hoping we could still be friends.”

“We were
always
friends, Beaumont,” she said desperately. “Loving friends! Why should that change?” And she kissed him again.

Suddenly they heard Margaret’s panicked voice outside the door. “Sir Robert is home, my lady! He’s riding into the courtyard!”

Thank God, Laurence thought, as Diana at last released him. “I do apologise most sincerely for everything,” he said, aware that this was an inadequate parting speech. “Goodbye, Diana.”

She did not speak, but only stared at him, so he bowed to her and walked out.

After a tiring day in the city, Sir Robert Stratton desired only a quiet meal with his wife. He was therefore irritated to ascertain, upon dismounting in the courtyard, that they must have a visitor, for an unfamiliar black stallion was tethered there, twitching its withers and stamping its slender hind legs. Then the front door opened and a man exited hastily, though he stopped short when he saw Stratton.

“Mr. Beaumont, such an unexpected pleasure!” Stratton declared, with a bow. “It has been many years since we last met. I must thank you for calling on us, sir. Surely you are not about to leave just as I arrive?”

“Yes, you must excuse me, Sir Robert,” Beaumont said, in a subdued tone, fumbling with a lower button on his doublet. “I have an appointment in town.”

“But you must be late for it and share a glass of wine with us,” Stratton said, thinking what a contrast there was between this new
Beaumont and the lounging, impudent rascal who had once graced their London house. Those years abroad had taken their toll on him: the sauciness of privileged youth was altogether gone from his manner, and instead he had the air of a fox run to ground.

“No, I – er – I can’t, I’m afraid.”