The Moonless Night (12 page)

Such a course was certainly open to Lord Sanford. He had only to leave her alone and she would have been well pleased, but he came to sit beside her as soon as the gentlemen had taken their port, taking up the other half of the sofa she had mentally assigned to Mr. Benson. David was trotting at Benson’s heels like a puppy, leading him from the rear to a private corner to draw out his book on the flag signals, to discuss with his fellow spy how useful a tool this would be to them. He assumed Mr. Benson’s ignorance on the subject was a further part of his cover, and determined to keep a secret his own mastery of the code if he ever got onto it—dashed hard.

Sanford meanwhile took up the other half of Marie’s settee, hoping to avoid Biddy. He thought he had failed when she came running to him with a pillow and footstool, but she only arranged them under his slippered foot, then went to sit beside Henry, to try to pester him into using vast political influence to get her a dozen Hungarian green leeches from Turkey. The best Hungarian leeches, oddly enough, were immigrants to Turkey.

Sanford looked at Marie with a smile of relief at Biddy’s departure. Miss Boltwood looked back with a scowl as black as pitch. “
Now
what have I done?” he asked. He was not accustomed to such ill usage at the hands of nubile young ladies.

“Nothing,” she answered abruptly, looking across to the other side of the grate, where David was heard to call Mr. Benson Everett. Her brother was making long strides with the spy, while she always got stuck entertaining this lantern-jawed nuisance.

“Ought I to have done something?” he inquired, in an effort to discover the reason for her latest fit of pique. “You will notice I refrained from broaching the subject of Madame Monet at dinner, taking your not so subtle hint that it was none of my business to try to get her here.”

“I suppose you will ask Papa as soon as you can get him alone.”

“No, actually I was about to ask you to do it for me when Biddy interrupted us in the morning parlor earlier. You will recall we were discussing your owing me some help due to having crippled me.”

“That is your interpretation of the matter. I cannot feel I owe you anything because you so clumsily fell off the door.”

“No dice on Madame, eh?
N'importe
, I have alternative plans for her. I’ll introduce my other request. About the winch and chain...”

“If you bring that subject up again, Papa will invite you to leave!”

“My godfather would take that sorely amiss,” he told her, having a sharp idea what made him tolerable to Sir Henry. “He’ll take back his inkwell. That chain really is a menace. You must see it.”

He explained again briefly his reason for thinking so, and much as she disliked having to agree with him, she was obliged to admit to herself (certainly not to him), that there was some inherent danger in it.

“I'll discuss it with Mr.—my father,” she said. But of course it was the London agent who must make this important decision. Again she looked across the grate to David and Benson, hearing fragments of a conversation in which she was longing to participate. The word Bonaparte was heard—plan—rescue—Madame Monet—all syllables to excite her greatly. And there Lord Sanford sat with his long jaw, waiting to be entertained.

She turned to him with her best smile and asked with an  interest wholly feigned, “Your property on the Isle of Wight, do you usually summer there?”

“It was my uncle’s place of retirement. I have often visited it in the past. He died last year and left it to me.”

This brief answer was soon expanded by ingenious questions. Miss Boltwood sat nodding and smiling while a house of stone in the gothic manner was being described to her. “How nice,” she said, then led him on to a description of Paisley Park. He seemed not at all loth to give her a rundown on some pictures recently purchased from his Italian agent, which left her free to try to hear the other conversation in the room while she was told of bargains discovered in unlikely spots, brushwork that suggested Rembrandt, and chiaroscuro that might quite likely denote the work of Caravaggio.

“Isn’t that nice,” she said, when he came to a stop and looked at her as if he expected a comment.

“We should have preferred to find the work was authentic,” he answered, regarding her with astonishment.

“Oh! Oh, yes, indeed, so vexing to find one has been taken in,” she said with a guilty start “But then there is no telling with Rembrandt, is there? I heard somewhere that he had painted about three hundred paintings, and there are seven hundred passing for Rembrandts in England alone, so obviously many collectors must be in the same position as yourself, having works that are not authentic.”

“Very true, but it was the Caravaggio I spoke of,” he told her. He then sat back with his lips closed and regarded her steadfastly, as if he had run across an interesting portrait of doubtful authenticity. His eyes were of a very dark blue—bright, penetrating beneath those half-closed lids. They held a question. She felt too foolish to demand any further details, and after an uncomfortably long silence which he showed no interest in breaking, she forced out a statement.

“I don’t believe I’m acquainted with the work of Caravaggio,” she said.

“We have already discussed Caravaggio, ma’am. Or rather I have discoursed on him. What would you like me to talk about next? My stables? I can run on for hours uninterrupted about my horses. If I pitch my voice low enough, I think my speaking will not interfere with your listening to the more interesting conversation.”

She blushed up to her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said in a rather small voice. “I was preoccupied with something else, you see.” Her eyes darted across the grate to Benson.

“I shouldn’t lose too much sleep over missing out on Benson, if that is what has been distracting you. It can hardly be called a lasting attachment as I am given to understand this is his first visit. Your father will not allow a match, but there can be no harm in your amusing yourself with a flirtation, so long as you know he is ineligible. Like most young ladies, I expect you have your head full of nothing but beaux and balls.”

“I am not a flirt, Lord Sanford, if that is what you mean to imply.”

“I noticed. You can well use a little practice. Shall I try my charms on David and give you equal time with Mr. Benson?”

This conversation, had it been carried on in a joking way, would have surprised Marie, for her companion had no air of frivolity about him. Its being said in a perfectly serious manner threw her for a loss. She hardly knew what answer to make, but wished it to be in the nature of a setdown. “That is not at all necessary,” she replied, and knew she had not succeeded in her wish.

“You are thinking I would have only a poor chance of success, but really it is yourself who is at fault for the dull nature of my conversation till now. Conversation, like a love affair, requires the participation of two parties. I don’t usually rattle off the excellencies of my possessions unless asked specifically about them, preferably by a knowledgeable speaker. Even then I can be diverted by a strong enough show of indifference. It would have been easier on us both had you told me your wish. I’m curious myself to hear what Benson is up to. He don’t seem to have romance on his mind. Not reading your signals at all.”

He proceeded to turn his shoulder on her and sit listening quite shamelessly to the other two, even cupping his hand behind his ear to aid hearing. Bereft of a partner, Marie, too, looked to her brother, and was soon straining her ears to overhear what he said. The talk had taken a turn towards cockfighting. It was redwings and duckwings and Welsh mains that were being discussed.

Some few moments later Sanford turned back to her. “I’ve heard enough lies about their gamecocks. How about you?”

“Yes,” she answered, looking with fascination to hear what outrage he would come up with next

“Good. I’ve been thinking with this game leg I could use my yacht. I think I’ll have it sent down from Portsmouth.”

“Would that not take a long time? How long do you plan to stay?”

“Till I’m kicked out. How long do you figure that will be?” he asked with a quizzing look. “Providing, of course, that I am silent on the subjects of French widows and winches and chains, and restrict myself to a litany of my artworks.”

“How long do you find people can usually stand you?” she asked. Even the oddest manner of conducting a conversation is eventually got on to, and she was coming to see that no formality was necessary with Sanford.

“Depends on their level of tolerance. I spent the years between my twenty-first and twenty-third birthdays with the Devonshires at Chatsworth. They were very tolerant, and so must their guests be. Then, till I was twenty-five I battened myself on the Somersets at Petworth. For the last five years I've shortened my visits to eighteen months. When my hostess is so sullen as the present one, however, she may expect with luck to be rid of me within the twelvemonth.”

A reluctant smile was forced from her. “You must admit you have not put yourself out an inch to be agreeable.”

“I have a feeling I might have dislocated myself a mile without much better results. Being agreeable to malicious females is no part of my plan, unless it should be necessary to bring you round my thumb to get your help.”

“I don’t wind easily. Would you not do better to seek the help of the gentlemen, Mr. Benson and David?”

“Probably, if they weren’t a jackdaw and a puppy—respectively, you understand. The whelp will grow into a too solid citizen, like his father. But I always find women more amenable, so shall concentrate on you, instead. We shall be taking a little trip tomorrow, you and I.”

“You can’t go anywhere with that sprained ankle!”

“I didn’t mean to infer we would walk, ma’am. And we shall take care to hide it from your aunt. I would prefer to get away without either posset or tree stump. My malacca will carry me. It is no prolonged voyage I plan to make in any case. I must get over to see Hazy.”

“My father will never allow me to go there!” she said at once, happy for such an unexceptionable excuse to refuse him.

“Your aunt tells me you are on terms with Mrs. Hazy. Yes, I have been busy buttering her up behind your back. She winds very nicely. There is a period in there between forty and fifty where a persistent gentleman can do anything with a spinster. Around the mid-fifties they become quite impossible.”

“Gentlemen become impossible some twenty-five years younger.”

“You are too sparing of the butter boat, ma’am. A little butter softens up the toughest old bird. Speaking of which reminds me of another point of interest. Tell me, as a resident hereabouts, what do you know of this Rawlins who seems to be the bigwig at the naval station during Keith’s absence? He is important, as it seems Keith means to stay aboard the
Tonnant
. Liaison between the
Bellerophon
and shore must be in his hands. Are they capable hands?”

“They have been known to tremble.”

“What does that mean?” he asked very sharply. The change from his former playful attitude was very marked.

“Oh—I have never heard his integrity questioned. I don’t mean to blacken his character. He is an older man, fifty or so, but not from the local area. He came here a few years ago and has kept pretty much to the station. The thing is—it was a demotion, you see. They say he drinks a little more than he should. Not a drunkard—he would not be long in his position in that case, but I have overheard the officers share a joke about him from time to time. I know several of them, meet them at the balls and so on.”

“I see,” he said, considering this with a look of concentration.

“Surely you don’t think the navy would be instrumental in helping Bonaparte escape!”

“I can give you a better answer after David takes us out in his yacht, to see at close range how things are handled aboard. If things are as Wingert told us, I don’t see how else it could be done. We’ll do that in the morning, and go to Hazy in the afternoon. I don’t plan to quite keep you from Mr. Benson all day long, you see. He will be with us on board, and in the evening I insist on entertaining David, to give you a full hour to bat your lashes at Benson.”

“I don’t bat my lashes at men,” she said, anger arising again at this contemptuous way of putting things.

“Have I been singled out for special marks of attention? I am honored, Miss Boltwood,” he said with a bow of his head.

“You certainly have not!”

“The draft from your fanning has nearly blown me from my chair. Such
long
lashes. And still she glares! That was a
compliment
, Miss Boltwood.”

She was on the verge of some extremely ill-natured remark when Biddy interrupted them to remind Lord Sanford he wanted to retire early with all those wounds, and she had a nice paregoric draught simmering for him, a little camphorated tincture of laudanum, with a drop of clove oil for taste.

“You see how she spoils me,” he said to Marie. “I have just been telling your niece, Miss Boltwood, how well you and I go on. Really, you are too kind to me, and I a virtual intruder, uninvited. With this sort of care I may lengthen my visit indefinitely.”

Biddy smiled fondly, at either the butter or the simmering draught. She was back within a minute carrying her brew. It was absurd to think of a grown man going to bed at eight-thirty, but Sanford submitted to the laudanum with a suspicious meekness, and drank it down. “That clove oil gives it a delightful taste. Could I have a little more?’

“Oh, laudanum is strong, Lord Sanford. You only want a touch of it, just a soother, not a real sleeping potion.”

“You shouldn’t make it taste so delicious,” he chided gently, while Marie fumed at his duplicity.

He said good night to everyone, complimented Biddy again on the excellent walking stick, and was trundled upstairs with the help of a stout footman. At last Marie could join David and Benson, just in time to hear her brother say, “Everett and I are going to rattle into town and see what’s afoot.”

He nipped upstairs to freshen his toilette before leaving, and Marie was at his heels. “Have you discovered if Mr. Benson is the spy?” she asked.