Paxton Pride (69 page)

Lord Penscott belched, motioned his guest to sit across the table. “A brisk morning serves to revive one after a night of excess, or so I've found,” he grunted acerbically.

Two pewter pots rested amid a craggy landscape of cheeses, smoked fish, oysters and diminutive loaves of steaming hot bread. Penscott pointed to the larger of the two pots. “Coffee. The smaller is tea. I find chocolate an abysmal drink fit for Tories and women. Gwen prefers it, to my undying distress, but I refuse to allow it on my table.”

“The tea will be fine, please.”

A waiting butler stepped forward to fill Gregory's cup. Wasting little time, the husky young man attacked the platter. The thought of playing a duke for a cuckold, tasting his wife's voluptuous fruits and then those of her husband's well-set table, appealed to the captain's sense of daring. Of course, now that the old man knew, he'd have to be a bit more careful.

Captain Gregory's eyes lifted from the plate to meet an unwavering gaze. Bread and cheese caught in his throat momentarily, but he smiled as if nothing had happened, swallowed and went after the fish. Plate as empty as his host's, Gregory sipped the tea, noticed Lord Penscott had chosen coffee and found himself wishing he had done the same. It wouldn't be the first time a jealous husband had countered an erring wife's contrivances with poison.

A breeze from the north whipped around the corner of the mansion and eddied across the protected lawn to ruffle the surface of the pond. Lord Penscott sniffed wistfully for a scent of sea breeze. It was ages since he had last been aboard a real ship. No more. No more … “Have some more fish.”

Captain Gregory declined, but his host paid no mind. The breeze promised colder days to come, and soon. Penscott did not shiver but noticed Gregory did, which was well enough.

“My lord,” the captain began boldly, “I am grateful for your extended hospitality, but I'm afraid my ship waits. And I must take my leave. You must visit father in London when the snow lies deep.”

“Pah! Visit that pestilence-ridden center of disquietude and disease? I prefer the role of country squire. Let your father, my good friend, journey here.”

“As respectfully as possible, sir, I might suggest that with our new monarch, London might be the better place. After all, the king's authority—”

“—is fragmented still. The king comes to Penscott on the morrow, but look well at those who ride with him. There are more masters than meet the eye these days.”

“But only one England, Lord Penscott.”

“Aye.” Penscott's eyes narrowed. “I serve her from here—as you will within the next few days.”

“I regret not,” Gregory answered warily. “There are rumors of strife in Scotland and Ireland, and winter stays neither smuggler nor pirate. A sailor must attend to duties both enjoyable and unpleasant. In truth, one frequently offsets the other.”

“And you are a dutiful man, as we have seen.”

The captain's facial powder disguised a quick blush. “I hope so, sir.” He paused, loath to play verbal games any longer. “I fear this chill ride, but an early start brings a journey's end all the sooner. With your permission, sir? I'll ask your servant to call my coachman.”

The nobleman smiled and leaned forward on his cane. “It has been done. He's been sent on his way.”

Gregory bolted to his feet. “What? You had no—”

“Sit down.”

“I will have a horse, sir!”

“Sit down!” The captain sat awkwardly, subdued by the crackling voice of authority unmasked. “Duty!” Lord Penscott scoffed. “You talk like the quivering bag of guts that fathered you—if he did.”

The captain blanched. The blatant insult fired his rapidly vanishing courage and his face froze in anger. “Guard your tongue, sir! As my father's son, I will—”

“Do exactly nothing.” The tone was flat and measured. Without pausing, Penscott reached for and broke a piece of cheese, slowly chewed both portions while enjoying the rage and consternation writ on the younger man's face. “Matthew Gregory is more than aware of my opinion, young man. You needn't bristle so.”

“But … but I thought you were friends,” Gregory stammered. “He has spoken of you often and well.”

“And wisely so, for he's my man, lock, stock and barrel. As such, he comes in handy from time to time and has been rewarded in kind. An ear at court is always useful. But know this. The name of Penscott survives and prospers not through the affection—though affection is useful from time to time—of servants and lackeys, but through fear.”

Again the name of Gregory had been besmirched. “Then I must tell you, sir, I fear no man. Nor will I suffer even a duke to—”

“Suffer? My dear sir, you have no conception of suffering. If you persist in this impertinence, though, I promise you you will.”

“M'lord. Perhaps it were best if you knew that I have fought two duels this past year,” Gregory went on rashly. “Both men were so bold as to proclaim themselves my betters. Both are dead.”

“I have gout in my leg, James, not in my head. Do not threaten me with duels. I've not achieved success by entertaining the anger of fools. The night is full of dark agents readily hired to seek redress. Choose the course you wish. But beware. Your tongue seeks for you the company of ghosts.”

Captain Gregory stiffened. The implication was impossible to avoid. A king didn't travel to visit fools. I should have known better, the officer thought belatedly. Curse the household and seductive invitation that had enticed him to stay too long.

“Now, then,” the wily old man continued. “Down to business. Have you enjoyed my wife?” Gregory could only stutter an inaudible reply. “I should think she gave a most marvelous performance. Or performanc
es
, if I may make so bold as to judge this morning's lethargy.”

“My lord—I—”

“Come, come, young man. You have savored my wife, romped like a playful satyr through bushy park, so to speak. Now you must favor me”—the older man leaned forward and lowered his voice—“and your king.”

The captain failed miserably to conceal a growing panic. “What do you mean?” he asked deferentially, the fight gone out of him.

“This!” With a flourish Penscott reached forward and opened a handsomely wrought walnut case. A pair of superbly crafted dueling pistols gleamed in the morning light.

“I do not understand,” Gregory said, unable to take his eyes from the guns.

Penscott approved of his interest. At least the man understood weapons. “The king comes to visit tomorrow. With him, an entourage of nobles. Among them will be one who must not leave.”

Gregory looked about apprehensively, wet his lips. Like a fool, he'd been trapped. At least the price was cheap enough. To kill a man with such a weapon would be a pleasure. “Who?”

“Jason Brand.”

“Brand? Should I know him?”

“He's a Lowlander with an estate near Kelso, north of the border near Tweed. His mother was a Highlander … and a Catholic.”

Gregory shrugged. “Then he is a Jacobite, I presume.”

“Yes and no. He has come to plead moderation.”

“A wise policy. Should they choose war, English force of arms will most cruelly prevail,” Gregory replied, lost in the confidence of the moment. Then it was his turn to grow shrewd. “You host a king newly crowned. There is more than good courtesy afoot here. A malleable king … whose policy you seek to shape?”

The older man chuckled. “Not I alone. There are others.”

For a long moment Gregory stared in amazement. The morning was turning into an education. Abruptly, he rose and paced the length of the table. The country lord he had taken for granted as a wealthy eccentric with a voluptuous wife was in truth a member of some inner circle among the Whigs. Perhaps even the Junto, that select, forceful and oftimes secretive assembly of the most powerful men in England. It was they who had long paved the way for the accession of the Hanoverian George to the throne. Gregory glanced at the pistols once again. He had been manipulated most artfully since the invitation to Penscott Hall. Even Gwendolyn—had she known? “What is my function in this charade?” he finally asked.

“Merely to do your duty.”

“Which is?”

Penscott smiled. “There are those who dislike our present king. They spend hours wrangling and disputing, conspiring to replace him with another line. Such insidious dissent is unpredictable and, perforce, dangerous. However, if those who oppose us should follow a more overt path, one admittedly anticipated and cut off quickly and at great cost to their cause, the danger is broken. The Crown, victorious and in a position of strength, will be secure beyond all doubt.”

“The king is the king. What impedes such a—”

“Again, Jason Brand, who counsels arrest of those leaders who foment open rebellion. And so he hopes to save the peace and gain favor. If there are no arrests, the leaders will rally the Stuart malcontents and an uprising will ensue. The Pretender's support will then be annihilated. To that end, you will issue a challenge to this man. You are reputed a fearless and capable marksman, and have proved so twice. Now you shall do so again. We must not allow this persuasive Scot to sit in council with the king.”

“Then sit he shall not.” Gregory smiled. “But what then?”

Penscott shrugged. “Your reward may not be immediate, but will be inevitable. Meanwhile, I'm afraid you must be satisfied with Lady Gwendolyn—and, of course, the knowledge you have done your duty.”

Gregory stared at the older man, lowered his eyes and took the pistols. “I should like to acquaint myself with their balance.”

Penscott waved his hand toward the lawn beyond. “Please feel free.”

Gregory smiled tightly. “How long will the king stay here?”

“Three days. Plenty of time to arrange an amusement for Jason Brand.”

Captain James Gregory sighed, looked at the pistols, then back at the Lord of Penscott Hall. The old man's eyes glittered like flint in the cold winter sun.

Night crept softly over the land, trailing a bridal veil of moonlight to set the low hills ablaze with silver. The waters of the Thames became a bejeweled playground for the gods. Penscott Hall was waiting for the king. Servants still scurried through the household, finishing required chores. Others wearily trundled off to narrow bedchambers. In the upstairs dining room, Lord and Lady Penscott sat alone at the table, finishing supper. The hour was nine, and early, but the day had been long and tiring. Neither spoke; each sat immersed in his own thoughts.

Penscott gazed at the painting of the
Glorianna,
the ship named after his first wife. Next to it on the wall hung a magnificently detailed map of the Caribbean. His mind's eye beheld the swelling sails. He faced the salt sea spray and welcomed the roll of deck beneath his feet. Lines creaked, sweet music to a seagoing man's ears. A tiny noise from outside distracted him and he tore his eyes from the past to stare out to the dark Thames. Brows furrowed, he considered the dismaying truth. Lord Roger Penscott would never go to sea again.

Gwendolyn dabbled at the sweet. Unlike Roger, she assayed future rather than past. What had happened between James and her husband was a mystery she spent little time trying to solve. James had let her know he wouldn't return to her chambers and that was that. There was always tomorrow, in any case. Edmond Penscott was reputedly the most handsome of the Penscott heirs. From paintings of his brothers, the reputation was deserved. The thought was forbidden but titillating. Her own husband's son! She sneaked a glance across the table and smiled demurely. A stepson might make the affair that much more interesting. How old was he? Twenty? A handsome age …

In the bedroom down the hall, Marie finished preparing for the night, double-checked to make sure there were no wrinkles in the sheet and eased out the door. Tired but not sleepy, still excited about the new role she was to play at the party, she made her way down the back stairs and instead of going directly to her room, found a wrap and sneaked out the side door. The stars and moon overhead were the same as on Mysteré. At least there was some contact with home.

The night was cold. It had never gotten this cold on Mysteré. Though this would be her third winter in England, the climate still plagued her with chills and ague. Nearing the end of the outside wall, she counted the windows to find her room. A light was on. There was nothing to do but wait until Arabella had gone to sleep. Only then could she sneak in and avoid a confrontation. A man's head crossed the window. Marie counted again. The room was certainly hers.…

She stood on tiptoes and peeked in, managed to stifle a gasp of surprise and draw to one side that her presence might not be discovered. Slowly, she peered into the room again. Arabella was sprawled on her back on Marie's cot! One of the groundskeepers lay atop the maid, thrusting himself up and down. Two other roisters, younger than the first so lustily employed, stood half naked, their own eager lances throbbing forward in anticipation.

“Hurry it up, Reuben. The little tart will be returnin' soon.”

The man atop Arabella grunted. The other youth gripped his staff with a dirty paw. “Let her just. A worthy bit, she is. I've got what she needs right here.”

Reuben groaned. Arabella clasped him with her thighs, laughed ecstatically as he rolled off. He scratched his privates and gestured to the last in line. “You'd waste it on the likes of the French bitch. Now here's a lass what knows when and how.”

Arabella chuckled proudly, ponderous breasts shaking as she rolled onto her stomach. “A fine wench,” Reuben repeated, smacking the maid's ample buttocks.

“Come on, Johnny,” Arabella giggled, lewdly spreading her thighs. “Bring me that you've in your hand, and I'll make a cowed repentant of it.” The youth next in line hurriedly jumped atop Arabella while his companion cursed aloud, angry he should have to wait.