The Prince of Eden (29 page)

This had been done, and over the years it had become Marianne's favorite room as well. Now before the handsome carved oak doors, Marianne stopped and waited patiently, head down, for Sir Claudius to open them for her.

At the center of the room, she stopped and said quickly, "Please have a seat, Sir Claudius. With your kind permission, I believe I will stand."

He nodded, and settled rather stiffly into a green velvet settee on the other side of the fireplace. Marianne stood with her back to the dead fire, feeling that it was a good position, the portrait of the young Lady Eden at the height of her beauty and power hovering over the old Lady Eden, certainly now less beautiful and less powerful.

"You had business," she said, when at last they were arranged.

He nodded. "But first—" He sat up straight on the settee and commenced to fumble inside the blue waistcoat pocket. "A small gift," he smiled, producing at last a black velvet case.

She'd not expected this and was in no way prepared for a response. Genuinely flustered, she could only murmur, "I don't understand. Sir Claudius-"

But he dismissed her confusion. "What's to understand? I had occasion, not too long ago, to be in Roger Mayboles' and I saw it and thought how greatly you would enhance its already considerable beauty."

He smiled. "Mind you, it isn't of the same caliber as Lord Eden's many gifts to you from Roger's establishment, but it is antique, certifiably sixteenth century, according to Roger, Florentine, I believe he said."

Confused, yet touched, Marianne took the small case and opened it. There on a bed of white satin was a pearl ring, exquisitely designed, a filigree of gold petals, a water lily image, the modest though perfect pearl forming the center of the blossom.

"It's lovely," she murmured, lifting the ring from its case and slipping it on her third finger, right hand. "A perfect fit," she exclaimed, holding out her hand. "Look!"

Sir Claudius bobbed his head. "Considering the number of excursions I've made in the past to Roger Maybole's on behalf of Lord Eden, I would be remiss not to remember the exact dimensions of your lovely fingers, your wrists, your neck—"

There was a strange intensity in his voice and manner now as he took her hand and drew her close, on the pretense of studying the ring. "I knew it," he smiled. "It rests there as though it had been created for that dear hand."

Before she could protest, he tightly enclosed her hand in his own. She felt his palms, damp and sweating, and watched, helpless, as he lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips.

When the kiss stretched on, longer than necessary, she tried gently to withdraw her hand. "I thank you for your thoughtfulness. Sir Claudius," she smiled, "and I shall always feel a fondness for the ring, and each time I look at it, I shall remember the generous giver, my husband's loyal friend."

After a brief and unsettling struggle, she retrieved her hand. He appeared to be looking at her now with great cow eyes. Bewildered by his gift as well as his attitude, she went to the window seat, feeling the need to increase the distance between them and wanting only to get on with the purpose of the meeting.

Feeling certain that he would take his cue from her, she was therefore surprised when he merely followed after her and sat close beside her, his manner still intimate and growing more so. "It has been my experience," he began, his voice low, almost breathless, "that separation by death of a loved one only increases our craving for affection."

She moved farther down the window seat. "The days pass rapidly," she said lightly. "Actually I'm kept so busy, I'm scarcely aware of loneliness."

"But it's still there, isn't it?" he persisted, his arm slipping behind her. "How do you view me?" he asked.

"As a loyal and trusted friend," she pronounced firmly. "Nothing more, I'm afraid."

But his romantic inclination seemed only to feed on her denial. "I don't believe that," he whispered. "We've gone through too much together for you not to feel—"

"I assure you. Sir Claudius," she said, forcefully, "I speak the truth." She felt a burning blush on her face, mingled with a strange surge of pride. She thought she'd fought off her last seducer years ago, Lord Sedgeworth, it had been, who'd tried to corner her in the solarium of his country house in Kent. She'd been quite skillful then at leading them on, then abruptly turning them around. Thomas had never approved of her little flirtations, but she'd always known they were innocent, so what was the harm?

However, she'd flirted in no way with Sir Claudius, had never in her wildest dreams viewed the pompous little man as anything but the family solicitor, who with great regularity increased the size of his fee. "Sir Claudius, I beg you," she pleaded now. "Release me or I'm afraid we both shall make fools of ourselves."

She caught only a glimpse of his reddened face, then at that moment, behind her, she heard a soft knock on the door. Struggling to restore herself, she opened the door quickly, grateful to whoever it was on the other side.

"Your sherry, milady," Sophia announced after a discreet pause, as though those eagle eyes were assessing the tension in the small room. "Shall I pour?"

Without looking at her, Marianne murmured, "No, thank you. We'll manage—"

There was another pause, then she heard Sophia leave the room, heard the door close and did not at first hear retreating footsteps, as though she were lingering in the hope of hearing something.

In an attempt to give the woman nothing on which she could feed, Marianne turned to face the solemn-looking little man still sitting in a state of abandonment on the window seat. "May I serve you. Sir Claudius?" she asked lightly, as though nothing at all had transpired between them.

But the man shook his head and withdrew a lace handkerchief from his waistcoat and delicately patted his forehead.

Despite his negative response, Marianne poured a small glass of amber sherry and carried it to him. In order to speak softly, in fear that Sophia might be outside the door listening, she had to decrease the distance between them. "Here, drink," she urged tenderly. As the pitiful little man accepted the glass, she took his handkerchief from him and kindly patted his brow. "Dear Sir Claudius," she began, *'you are one of my dearest and most respected associates. You have never been anything less, and—" She paused for emphasis, then softly added, "And you will never be anything more."

To blunt the directness of her last statement, she sat beside him. "Words cannot express how important you are to me and my family. You know our affairs as intimately as we know them, and what a terrible hindrance it would be if you withdrew your support." Again she hesitated, then went on. "As for my affection, and any craving I might experience, both, I fear, were buried with Thomas." She smiled and lightly tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket. "Now it's merely a memory, providing me with neither comfort nor torment." Her speech over, she concluded gently, "Do you understand?"

Harshly he laughed, as though to rebuke her. "Madam, I have no idea what prompted that curious outburst. I simply made you a gift of a modest ring, nothing more. I hope you did not misinterpret it as some declaration of lasting love."

Amazed, she stared up at him as he paced now before the fireplace, impressed as always by the ability of the male ego to deceive itself. Well, no matter. At least she'd put him off. Let him assume whatever defense he needed to get on with the dreary encounter and end it as soon as possible.

On that hope, she stood, assuming an air as businesslike as his own. "Then the subject at hand," she began, "if you will—"

"The subject at hand, madam," he began, his voice without margin, "is you and your somewhat disintegrating family."

She moved directly into the onslaught, with only the table between them. "I don't understand, Sir Claudius—"

"The fact is, madam," he began, only briefly glancing at her, "your elder, illegitimate, son is slowly destroying the Eden estates, valuable property which has been carefully amassed over the last six hundred years by a long line of noblemen who were dedicated to the realm and who served England well; all that is being systematically obliterated by one errant bastard who consorts with pimps and whores while the present Lord Eden is forced to occupy a position scarcely above pauper with his hand outstretched like a beggar for whatever pittance Edward chooses to drop in it. The situation has always been intolerable, madam, but now, with James approaching the honorable state of matrimony, he insists and I agree with him that he will tolerate it no longer."

As he paused for breath, she tried to clear her head of the barrage of offensive words. Never had she heard him refer openly to Edward as a bastard, in fact all his words had been alarmingly naked, as though he cared not at all for her feelings.

Strangely, his cruelty made her feel resilient. "Do go on, Sir Claudius," she invited politely.

And he did, with enthusiasm. "Then steps must be taken to alter the arrangement immediately," he said. "I'm kept well informed of the books of Eden Castle. Each year, in spite of Miss Cranford's superior juggling act, you slip deeper and deeper into debt. Were you aware of that condition, madam?"

"I knew the annual income was limited and limiting, but I thought—"

"According to my sources," he went on, interrupting, "you pay little or no attention to the business of the estates."

"I am not apprised of—"

"You should make it your business to be apprised of everything."

"Thomas always—"

"Lord Eden is dead," he said with what seemed unnecessary cruelty.

For the first time, she retreated, a fatal mistake. Sir Claudius saw her weakness and moved to exploit it. "Now," he went on with clear relish, following after her to the window seat where she'd sat wearily, head down. "Let me apprise you," he said, filling the word with sarcasm, "of your elder son's recent activities and see if you find him competent to control such a vast pool of wealth."

As he began to talk, he commenced pacing again, as though deriving both energy and pleasure from what he was saying. "He sells monthly,

yes he does," he declared, "on occasion coming to my private chambers himself, foul-smelling, frequently in the company of his street friends, demanding, arrogant, ordering me about as though I were little more than a common lackey. And when he isn't selling land, he passes time either with his radical friend. Spade, who is slowly bilking him of all profits from the sales. Or he busily occupies himself with tavern brawls so he can get arrested and thrown into Newgate." He shook his head as though freshly shocked. "Twice, frequently three times in the course of a single month, my clerk is forced to pay his bond. And that expense too comes out of the estate."

She continued to listen, hearing nothing that she did not know, but finding it worse coming from Sir Claudius's condemning lips.

"But all of this, madam, is merely prelude to his last offense, the result of his involvement in the adultery case with the Longford woman." He stepped closer. "I don't think you realize how much you are in my debt concerning the successful outcome of that trial."

Successful? Marianne looked up. "I read that the young woman had died as a result of her ordeal."

"A fitting end," Sir Claudius nodded. "But in case you failed to notice, Edward's name was kept clear of it, through my efforts and my efforts alone. If the fool had had his way, he would have leapt forward and admitted complete involvement in the matter."

"Was he—involved?" she asked warily.

"Of course he was," Sir Claudius snapped. "Involved from the beginning in every way. And further, that once elegant domicile on Oxford Street has now been stripped and serves as a watering hole for every radical leader in London. They meet surreptitiously, but don't think I don't know about it."

"I thought it was a school," she protested.

"A front, madam, I assure you, merely a front." He lifted his face as though on a note of pride. "I have eyes and ears, good ones, I might add. My own as well as others'. The list of men passing in and out of those doors could one day spell ruination for this England, as we know it."

"Go on. Sir Claudius," she said. "But not about Daniel Spade and his activities, I beg you. I have no authority there, let alone influence. Tell me of my son."

"The two are inseparable, madam, both in body and philosophy. Mr. Spade manipulates Edward as though he were a master puppeteer."

She sat up, her anger increasing. "I find that hard to believe—"

"What would you say, madam, to attempted murder?"

She looked up. "I don't understand—"

He seemed eager to inform her. "The last time I was summoned to Newgate, less than a week ago, Edward had been charged with attempted murder."

"Why?" she begged. "Surely it was a false charge. Edward is incapable of—"

"Was," he corrected her. "I saw his handiwork for myself. The night warden suffered a heavily damaged throat. He could scarcely talk."

"Then there had to be a reason—"

"None," Sir Claudius cut in. "The warden had treated him with extreme kindness, had broken all rules to permit him passage to the Longford woman's cell. You see, it was the night before the sentence was to be carried out. I suppose he had some foolish notion of helping her to escape. It wasn't necessary. The woman was dead. He was apprehended himself, imprisoned for the duration of the night. Then only because of my close professional relationship with the magistrate and a sizable bribe was I able to get the charges dropped, on one condition, that he leave London immediately and stay away for a period of several months. Now, I ask you, madam, where is he?"

"Edward?" she asked vaguely.

"Yes, Edward," he snapped. "He should have been here days ago. But James tells me he has not as yet—"

"No, he hasn't arrived," she murmured, "though I expect him any—"

"The magistrate's conditions were clear. He was to leave London immediately."

"Please, Sir Claudius," she murmured, "I cannot answer for him. You must ask him yourself."

"As I intend to," the old man replied. "It was on the strength of my reputation that he enoys his present freedom. He may do what he likes with his own reputation, what is left of it. But he is in my debt now."