The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) (25 page)

“Really?” said the envoy, colouring with pleasure and curving his full lips in a smile of genuine warmth. “I must confess that no one has ever complained that my modest entertainments are tedious. The Palazzo Masnetti is looked upon as a little England. You will feel at home here, I am sure.” He offered his guests a plate of small pastries. “Now, what do you say we dispose of business matters, and then we can devote the rest of your stay to pleasure? Do you have your report on Rome about your person, Sir Anthony?”

 Sir Anthony looked deeply flummoxed. “Oh!” he cried. “I did not realise that I was meant to produce a dossier on the Pretender’s son. I thought I would merely be expected to answer questions. I am sorry, but as you know, of course, I am new to the exciting business of espionage, and unfamiliar with its routines. If you will provide me with paper, pens and ink, sir, I will set to work immediately.” He made a move to stand, clearly upset. Sir Horace waved at him to be seated.

“Did the duke of Newcastle not tell you to submit a report to me of your findings?” the envoy asked a little impatiently. He was a slender man, whose face was nevertheless heavy-featured, the eyes dark, his nose aquiline, his lips thick and fleshy.

“Well, yes, but he did not specify that it should be a
written
report,”

“Do not distress yourself, sir,” sighed Sir Horace, ringing a bell by his side. A young man appeared so quickly that Beth surmised he had probably been listening at the door. He took a seat at the escritoire by the window and sat silently.

“Philip here will take notes of all your observations, Sir Anthony. Now I already know that you were successful in cultivating the friendship of the Young Pretender, for which I congratulate you, sir. What did you discover about the boy?”

“Well, I am ashamed to say it, Sir Horace. I am afraid you will be angry with me, and I could not bear to upset such a delightful host as yourself.” The baronet smiled ingratiatingly at the man sitting opposite, and Beth raised her eyes to heaven, a gesture which did not go unnoticed by Sir Horace.

“Are you trying to tell me you spent three days in the constant company of Charles and formed no opinion of him?” he said incredulously.

Sir Anthony was shocked.

“No, not at all,” he replied. “What I am afraid you will find distasteful is that I found him to be an excellent fellow! A man quite after my own heart! Why, we talked for hours about our tailors, and he recommended me to several good suppliers of silk in France and Italy. He is also a superb dancer, and although I am only moderately accomplished in that art, he was too well-mannered to criticise my performance. We did not attend any formal dances of course, but there was that night in the taverno de, oh, something-or-other. We had imbibed a considerable quantity of brandy. Had I not, I would never have agreed to attempt a balletic performance on the table. Quite an impossible endeavour, I assure you,” he tittered. “I truly thought that I had severely injured myself at one point. Really, there are positions the human body is not designed to achieve. Now, what was the name of the tavern? It has quite slipped my mind, but I am sure your observers can supply it later. If you just leave a space for the name, Philip, my dear,” he called to the young clerk. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes, he informed me that he plays the cello quite well, although he did not actually honour me with a performance. I assure you though, that he can tell an excellent bawdy tale! He also recommended me to several high-class houses of ill-repute, although of course I would not dream of frequenting them, being as happily married as I am.” He seized his wife’s hand and pressed it passionately to his breast, a gesture to which she responded by withdrawing her hand as quickly as possible. Philip scribbled away quietly in the corner.

“What did you think of him, Lady Elizabeth? You also spent time in his company, did you not?” Sir Horace asked unexpectedly.

“Yes. He insisted on showing me the sights of Rome, waxing lyrically and at stupefying length about its many attractions. He seems to have made himself entirely at home there. He is very Roman,” she said disapprovingly. Sir Horace waited for her to elaborate. “He is very free with his hands,” she added after a pause, blushing slightly, and casting a pleading look at the envoy not to insist on details.

“Ah. Yet many ladies find him a handsome man, I believe, with his height and his blue eyes, added to the accomplishments your husband has just outlined.”

“Perhaps they do,” replied Beth indifferently. “I am not overfond of dancing, myself, or the scraping of a cello. As for Charles himself, it is true that he is tall, but very thin and pale, and I am sure his eyes would be his best feature if they did not lack expression. His face is a little long and sharp for my liking,” she said. “And he is quite insufferable in his arrogance, insisting on being called ‘Your Highness’ all the time, and spouting on about how he has been deprived of his throne, without showing the slightest inclination to do more than grumble endlessly. Which, of course, is a good thing,” she added.

Sir Anthony looked at her.

“You did not tell me this, my dear,” he said, astounded. “I was under the impression that you liked Charles. He certainly thought you did.”

“Well of course he did! The insufferable fool thinks everybody likes him, merely because he is of royal blood,” Beth replied, exasperated. “I hardly think we would have been able to deliver any report at all to Sir Horace, had I declared to the Young Pretender that I detested him from the outset!”

“Ah, yes, I see your point, my dear. But you really should have told me if he was making free with your person. I am quite disgusted with the duplicity of the man. I should have called him out, had I known. After all, it is my job to defend you, my dear.” Sir Anthony shook his head in astonishment that he could have thought well of such a scoundrel.

The disbelieving expression on Sir Horace’s face said clearly that he was fully aware of Beth’s altercation with the guard and Sir Anthony’s marked lack of interest in defending her on that occasion.

“Did he speak to you at all of his plans to invade England, Sir Anthony?” Sir Horace asked hopelessly. This mission had been a waste of time. The lemon-clad idiot had clearly not asked any pertinent questions of the Young Pretender at all.

“Well, no, not at all. We spent most of our time, when not discussing fashion and so on, talking about his prospective marriage to Louis’ daughter.”

Sir Horace, who had been expecting a lengthy comment on Charles’s well-documented love of the opera, or some other triviality of this sort, suddenly froze.

“What?” he said. “Louis? Do you mean the king of France?”

“Yes, of course,” replied Sir Anthony, puzzled. “Did you not know? He is hoping to marry the princess, has said he may even travel to France before long to negotiate in person, as things are going very slowly due to the delays in the mail, and he grows impatient. The plague, you know,” he added, misinterpreting Sir Horace’s stunned expression.

“Yes, I am well acquainted with the problems due to the quarantine, sir. Are you sure of this? Did he speak of it in detail?”

“Oh yes,” replied the baronet. “When he had been drinking, anyway. He consumes the most prodigious quantities of alcohol.” It was a relief to say something truthful. “And when he does, he becomes very chatty, even more so than normal. We talked in detail about how he could charm the young lady into becoming his wife, on which subject I consider myself particularly well qualified to give advice, having succeeded in obtaining the hand of my own exquisite lady here!” His hand fluttered out, and Beth hurriedly removed hers out of reach before he could inflict another passionate gesture on her. “We discussed the presents he should buy for her and so on and what he should wear on his wedding day. He opted for the blue silk in the end. A wise decision, and I am proud to say I had not a little influence on him in this matter. The colour will complement his eyes magnificently.”

The envoy looked about to explode with frustration.

“I think Sir Horace means did he discuss the reasons why he wishes to marry the princess, Anthony,” Beth prompted gently. “Political reasons.”

“Oh. Well, no. I assumed he was in love. Why else would anyone wish to marry?” he said naively, smiling affectionately at his wife.

“Did Charles mention his impending nuptials to your good self, Lady Elizabeth?” Sir Horace asked somewhat desperately.

Sir Anthony coughed delicately.

“No, he did not,” replied Beth. “He was too busy droning endlessly on about Bernini, and the glories of ancient Rome. In fact, this is the first I have heard of it myself.”

“Is it really, my dear?” asked her husband. “I thought I had mentioned it to you. I certainly intended to.”

“I wish you had,” she replied, irritated. “If he had, Sir Horace, I assure you I would have asked some pertinent questions. But my husband has a tendency to be a little forgetful at times, particularly when he is drunk.”

“I was not, at any time, drunk!” protested the baronet. “Only a little…ah…tipsy on occasion. I merely attempted to keep up with Charles. A man is expected to be able to hold his liquor, and I couldn’t have my manliness called into question by abstaining. You will understand this of course, Sir Horace, being a man of breeding. But I was most certainly not drunk!” He glared at his wife, who returned his look with equanimity.

“If the
tipsy
state of my husband on his return home from drinking sessions with Charles was anything to go by,” she said coldly, “and the ability to consume vast quantities of spirits is the measure of a man, then Charles is most certainly a formidable specimen of masculinity.”

Philip had stopped writing. Sir Horace stood.

“I thank you both for your endeavours. I will take up no more of your time for the present. You must be tired after your long journey, and in need of rest. I trust I will see you at this evening’s reception? Although it goes without saying that you will mention nothing of the conversation we have just had to the company.” It was a statement, not a request. “I have been assured by many of my guests that they consider my house to be a home from home. I hope you will feel happy here,” he added coolly.

“We already do, Sir Horace,” said Beth, standing. Sir Anthony, belatedly comprehending that they were being dismissed, also came slowly to his feet. “Our rooms are delightful. It is a shame that we will only be able to accept your hospitality for one night, or two at the most.”

“Why, no, my dear Lady Peters. I expect you to stay here for at least a week. And after that I have reserved rooms for you at the Hotel Margherita. You will of course now be staying in Italy until the spring. Tonight I will introduce you to a number of English people who are also wintering here. You may as well stay in Florence, where you will be amongst friends.” Sir Horace smiled at the young lady. She really was adorable. Such a pity that she was wasted on that vacuous idiot. What had possessed the duke of Newcastle to recruit him? True, he had come up with one piece of astounding information, but only by mistake, and having apparently won the Pretender’s confidence, had failed utterly to capitalise on it.

The adorable young lady was now looking quite anxious.

“No, Sir Horace, it is quite imperative that we return to Britain at the earliest opportunity. You really are most kind, but it is unthinkable that we can stay in Italy. We must cross to France as soon as possible.”

“My dear child, you are surely not entertaining the notion of crossing the Alps in December? It will be a dreadful journey, at the least perilous, if not absolutely impossible.”

“Nevertheless,” said Beth determinedly. “I mean to try. I will not have my first child born anywhere other than in England, and if I do not leave now, then my condition will certainly render me unable to travel by the spring.”

“I had no idea…I congratulate you. Both of you,” Sir Horace replied, looking doubtfully at the baronet. “But Sir Anthony, you really cannot contemplate attempting a winter crossing of the Alps, with your wife in such a delicate state.”

If Sir Anthony was surprised at the unexpected news that he was soon to be a father, he showed no sign of it.

“Could you deny her anything, if she were your wife, sir? She is the most delightful creature! And as strong as an ox!” He smiled down at the delicate figure of his wife. Anything less ox-like could hardly be imagined. “I think one should indulge one’s dearest spouse wherever possible, and especially when she is soon to make me the happiest of men!”

Or especially when it is the line of least resistance, thought Sir Horace as the simpering baronet followed his wife from the room. How the hell such a limp creature had managed to impregnate his wife at all was a mystery. It would be no loss to the Hanoverian world if the man were to be swept away by an avalanche. Shame about the woman though. With a small effort he dismissed them from his mind. If they wished to commit suicide in the Alps, so be it. They were of no further use to him.

Had he been a witness to the whispered scene that took place in the bedroom five minutes later, he would have revised his opinion somewhat. No sooner had the door closed behind them than the limp baronet picked his wife up and swung her round in the air as though she were weightless, with scant regard for her condition.

“That was a stroke of genius!” he whispered ecstatically, crushing her to his chest briefly before releasing her. “I do take it you’re not really with child?” He raised his voice. “This room is quite the most beautiful one we have stayed in, do you not think, my dear?”

“Of course not!” she replied in a low voice. “If I was, don’t you think I’d have told you first? Would you be disappointed if I was? Yes, it is delightful, although I thought the apartment at Nice just as lovely, if a little more gaudy.”

“Perhaps you are right, although I am a great lover of gold work myself,” he trilled in reply. “God, no, I’d be delighted,” he whispered. “Although it would be a little inconvenient at the moment. But even so…” his voice trailed off wistfully. “We have plenty of time to have children,” he continued. “And the making of them is great fun.”