Almost a Gentleman (42 page)

"Well, you're quite obviously besotted with Marston, and he with you as well. No hard feelings, old man. It's not so surprising when one thinks about it: after all, you're one of those rugged, handsome sorts. Vigorous, not at all nancy on the outside: you're the type no one suspects, but who manages to do quite well with the young gentlemen.

"And of course you're young, rich, got that title that goes back to the Stone Age—I shouldn't have expected Marston to enjoy that 'noble, traditional old England' stuff you prattle on about, but one never knows, does one?"

David decided to ignore these compliments, such as they were. "
But you
were at Vivien's.
You
saw me try to throttle him."

"Yes, quite the public exhibition you two put on. I expect you fooled a good many of the crowd in attendance, at least those who didn't have the eyes to see…

"Well, of course you probably have some stiff old relatives who'd die of apoplexy if they knew. Don't worry, man. I understand completely; I'll never breathe a word."

"Th-thanks," David found himself saying.

"You
did
put on a good show," Crashaw assured him. "Very few people credit Dr. Riggs's gossip, even if he
did find
you there in the middle of the night.
Linseley's simply not the sort
, is what people instinctively think—though they
do
wonder why you two went off together the next morning. Of course, it was all quite clear to me, but then, I've been nursing my secret passion for Marston for so long that I feel myself rather an authority on our young gentleman."

David blinked. "People are
talking
about… me and Marston?"

Crashaw shrugged. "Not many people. As I said… it takes a constant observer, a devotee, if you will, like myself…"

David collected himself. There would be time later to worry about what people might be saying. Right now he needed to untangle the nonsense Crashaw was spouting at him. Not that the man wasn't expressing himself clearly. On the contrary. But it was always difficult, he reflected, to credit something quite opposite from what you expected.

"And this… this…
passion
of yours, sir?"

Crashaw looked away. "I'd have thought you'd be able to tell, somehow. Instinctively, you know, just as I'd recognized the truth about you. A bit embarrassing to have to spell it out, but since you will insist… I'm in love with him. Have been for years, I expect. Oh, don't worry. I wouldn't burden Marston with my attentions; I've never approached him and I never shall. I can't even imagine touching him."

He paused for a moment before continuing. "Well,
that's
a lie, of course. I've imagined any number of things. But you know what I mean: he's a sort of cherished dream to me. An ideal, I suppose one might say. And anyway, he'd never
look
at an old walrus like me."

A cherished dream. An ideal
. Crashaw had so idealized Marston, David thought, that he'd rather neglected one important dimension of reality.

"You've never sent him any sort of note, then?" he asked.

"Oh, I've
written
a great deal of romantic twaddle to him. But always tossed it in the fire, you know."

"Yes, I should imagine. And you weren't angry when you were blackballed from White's?"

"Embarrassed, rather. Yes, the story made its way back to me. I do know it was Marston who turned the vote the way it went, and I'm glad you know about it too. Well, it's why I came to see you, after all."

David supposed he must be being very dense. But he needed to be clear about a thing or two.

"And so it wasn't you who hired a Mr. Byrd to set the chandelier crashing down upon us?"

Lord Crashaw allowed himself to take umbrage at that. As well he might, David thought.

"Really, Linseley. That last question was rather out of bounds…"

"Sorry, but I had to know."

"I'm not a murderer, sir."

"No, of course you're not. I heartily apologize."

"Not even in passion.
Of course
I'm madly envious of you, well, what would you expect, dammit? But envy doesn't imply murder, after all…"

For the first time, David looked closely at his guest. He still didn't like what he saw: a crude, selfish gentleman willing to sell England's soul in order to subsidize his own under-funded estates. But he felt a surprising measure of sympathy as well. Crude or not, the man had loved and suffered, burdened with a passion that would never be requited—for all the reasons Crashaw would have expected, and for those he'd never know.

At least, David thought, he'll never know the truth about Marston if
I
have anything to say about it. Let him keep his ideal, he thought. Well, wasn't that what Marston really was? Nothing more than an ideal, an illusion.

Let Crashaw have his illusion, David told himself, surprising himself even further by his sudden protectiveness toward a man who envied him so deeply—for all the wrong reasons. Or perhaps for the right reasons, just turned topsy-turvy. He peered curiously at the man in the armchair opposite his own: it felt rather like examining one's reflection in a warped, tarnished old mirror.

Unfortunately, he still had not an inkling of what Lord Crashaw wanted from
him
. Just as well; he was going to embarrass his guest if he continued gaping at him.

He roused himself, affecting a businesslike demeanor.

"Perhaps, Lord Crashaw, we should proceed to the matter you came to transact."

Crashaw relaxed.

"Still," he said briskly, "I should have had to explain a good deal of this in any case. I contacted you because I thought you could influence Marston on my behalf. And in return, I'm quite willing to pay a good price for whatever bad pieces of property you might want to fob off on me."

"Influence him on your… behalf?"

"Well, not regarding… matters of the heart, of course. I simply mean that, if I were to reapply for membership in White's, could Mr. Marston be prevailed upon to vote for me this time?"

"You see," Crashaw added quickly, "my boots are quite presentable now."

His boots
. The poor man still thought this was about his boots.

David took a deep breath. There were so many truths, whole and partial, woven into the gauzy web of desire that Crashaw cherished. How to pick and choose? Which of those truths could safely be revealed and which of them must, at all costs, remain hidden?

Crashaw was becoming impatient. "I can pay very well. My investments have done wondrously since the Enclosure Act passed."

Ah yes, and there was
that,
as well
.

"You've lost on that one, Linseley. And you'll continue to lose. England's common lands
will be
enclosed, will be developed, and in time will turn a handsome profit. The country will be modernized. Industrialized. No matter if a few headstrong, sentimental traditionalists like yourself resist it."

David could feel his hands balling themselves into fists. "I shall continue to fight you, every step of the way."

Crashaw laughed happily. "Indeed you shall. We need you, after all—you and your yeomen happily tilling your soil in East Anglian Eden out here in the middle of nowhere. A man like you makes such a splendid, chivalrous, knightly sort of… of
image
for England, don't you know. Helps us keep up appearances, makes us look less like those money-loving Yanks across the ocean. Oh yes, man, fight your fight by all means—while grubbier, less noble-spirited types like myself turn our shoulders to the wheel of history, enclosing fields and building factories."

David could feel his muscles straining. If not to break the jawbone that must lie somewhere beneath those quivering jowls, then at least to shoulder the man out the room and kick him out of his house.

His head ached. How could everything have gotten muddled together like this? Style and substance, illusion and reality, desire and self-regard. While the common welfare—such a simple, decent con-cept—became trampled under the boots of selfishness, blackened by the soot of industrial progress.

Still, he thought, there was one decent card left to play. One so obvious that even a bad gambler could see it there at the bottom of the deck.

"I
could
prevail upon Phizz to help you…" he murmured the words thoughtfully, allowing his mouth to shape the name
Phizz
as sensuously as it might say
Phoebe
.

Crashaw maintained his equanimity, though his voice had lowered to a jealous growl. "Need the money, do you?"

"A farmer always needs money. Yes, and I've also been thinking of adding a new classroom to the village school. If we did that, the children could spend another year there; well, that's the sort of progress
I
prefer. So I shall have to sell you a rather smaller plot of land than I originally offered. Of course, this one needs drainage too, not that
you'd
see that…"

"Get to the point, Linseley."

"Gently, gently, Crashaw. Allow me to have my sentimental, knightly, leisurely way with it, won't you? You see, there will be an additional term to our bargain."

"Eh?"

"You shall have to promise faithfully not to inflict physical pain upon your… ah, partners. Unless you're able to find one who's willing—one who enjoys it as much as you do, you know. Otherwise just let your boys give your boots a good polish. I see you've already given up on Drumblestone's. That's a good start. Leave off the spurs, though, will you? Phizz finds them absurd on a man who never sits a horse. But most important of all is a lighter hand with the riding crop."

Actually, Phoebe had never expressed an opinion on men wearing spurs even if they didn't ride;
that
particular modish affectation was David's own bete noire. But why not slip it in, he thought: Crashaw's look of chagrin when he'd mentioned it had made it worth the effort.

And it had made the business about the riding crop easier for him to say without blushing. Awful business, knowing about a man's secret pleasures. Still, one
shouldn't
impose one's tastes on anyone else, especially on those like Billy, who lacked the power to refuse. Pleasure should be a matter of choice for everyone, though Crashaw was obviously having some difficulty accepting this lesson.

"Ah. So it wasn't the boot polish after all."

"Not the boot polish really, no. Though, as you can see, he had informants set on you, the boot-polishers, shall we say, the boys who are the recipients of your other favors."

"I shouldn't have thought he'd care how a gentleman took his sport."

"He's an unusual… personage once you get to know him. Believes in fair play, respect—chivalrous notions like that."

"Hmmpf. And if I agree to lighten up a bit?"

"Of course, I can't promise anything. Well, it's not as though he were answerable to my will. He's not m-my
wife
, after all. A gentleman makes his own decisions. But I think he'll come round in the end. At least I
hope
so."

"Leads you a merry chase, does he?"

"Yes, rather."

"Just as well for me, perhaps, that I continue to cherish him as an ideal, rather than a reality."

"Perhaps."

They finished their business quickly, for Crashaw wanted to try to get back to London before the next storm blew in. The final signatures would be affixed after Marston recommended that Crashaw be reconsidered for membership in White's.

They shook hands on it, rather stiffly, and then David rang for Harper to see his guest out. And after that, he added, do bring in the mail, will you, Harper? Not that he really expected to hear from her yet. But one never knew. David didn't like to think about how often he'd been proven wrong in the past few days. At this point he was ready to be surprised by all events.

But there was no letter from Phoebe. And no surprises in the letter from Admiral Wolfe. Only a communication that Lady Kate didn't believe Crashaw was the culprit; she was sure it was someone who wished ill to Phoebe, rather than Phizz. Wolfe had recorded this speculation with some embarrassment—woman's intuition, what was one to do?—and then had added that for
his
part he heartily hoped that it
was
Crashaw and that they'd straightened everything out by now.

Thank you, Wolfe
, David murmured,
for the hearty, manly, entirely useless expression of support
. And thank
you
, Lady Kate, for the womanly intuition, which, though probably true, wasn't a great deal more useful at this moment. His head ached. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver service at his elbow and stared into the fire.

His mind began to wander. Still, it was good to have friends who were at least trying to help. And it was good that they were so manifestly happy together. He remembered the spark of recognition that had passed between Wolfe and Lady Kate when he'd introduced them… Almack's… New Years Eve…

Pleasant images flickered before his eyes… the admiral twirling Lady Kate about the floor as though he'd been waltzing all his life… And before that, when he'd first entered the ballroom…