Playing with Fire (8 page)

Sir Julian was taking breakfast in his house in Park Lane. He wore his dressing gown over his shirt and breeches, and there was an embroidered skullcap on his head. The morning sun flooded into the dining room, which looked onto the gardens behind the house. Snowdrops and crocuses flowered on the pocket-handkerchief lawn, where the overnight frost had now melted. It was, Sir Julian reflected a little sadly, the last time he would see them in bloom here. But he wasn’t sad enough to want to change his mind about selling.

A coal fire flickered in the hearth, its flames pale and almost transparent in the bright light from the window, where Ozzy was taking the sun on the sill. The tomcat had enjoyed a feast of crisp bacon fat, which had been neatly cut up for him on his special plate on the table, Sir Julian being no stickler for etiquette. Now a cheeky robin fluttered to the ground just on the other side of the window, which annoyed Ozzy very much. His tail lashed, and he began to make angry clicking noises with his jaws.

“Oh, do stop that, you foolish creature,” Sir Julian muttered, picking up his newspaper and attempting to read. But Randal kept intruding upon his thoughts. At last the newspaper was set aside, another cup of thick black coffee was poured, and proper consideration was given to the man who threatened to stir up so much mud from the bottom of the lake. How very alarmed Randal must have been when he discovered the scandalous family secret that could conceivably rob him of everything. Was that the real reason for the match with Amanda? The security her fortune would provide if he did lose all because of the secret? Yes, of course….

Sir Julian’s eyes cleared as he began to unravel Randal’s motives. Of all the likely heiresses, how clever to choose her, for once she was Lady Sanderby, the letter’s revelations would ruin her life too. Randal was taking the calculated risk that her uncle would not be able to bring himself to do that to his own flesh and blood. He was also relying on the fact that Felice’s doting lover would continue to protect her son and her good name, as he had for all these long years. Sir Julian could imagine Randal’s apoplectic fury at finding his future so completely in the hands of a man he loathed, and who loathed him.

It would be no less than justice if it were to come out at last, but there were degrees of justice, and Felice had been desperate to bury it all so that it never saw the light of day. Sir Julian reached into his dressing gown pocket for the battered leather pouch that never left his side. There, in a double lining, he kept a folded theater handbill, dog-eared now and fragile, but still legible. It was for David Garrick’s farewell performance at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane on Monday, June 10, 1775. But it wasn’t the handbill itself that Sir Julian studied now, for in the margin was the message Felice had sent to him by the box keeper.

My adored J,

My heart is filled with love as I sit here opposite your box. I see only you, not great Garrick’s last glory. You are so near and yet so far, but soon we will be together forever. My decision is made. I will slip away from E directly after the performance is ended. There will be no going back.

F.

Tears shimmered in Sir Julian’s eyes. That night had seen the last moments of reckless hope, the last sighs of foolish abandonment, for as the final curtain came down upon the stage, her husband took cruel delight in revealing that he knew of her illicit love affair. Esmond then told her the shocking truth that changed everything. So few words were needed, just the plain, unpalatable facts, and as the audience rose to cheer Garrick’s parting speech, Felice, Countess of Sanderby, had fallen in a faint from which it took much sal volatile to bring her around. From that moment on she had been bound to her despised husband as surely as if with iron chains. Only one person in the world did she place before herself, before even the lover she had so nearly gone to, and that was her child. Randal Fenworth, so mean hearted and despicable, did not deserve such a mother, but even he would have ceased to be of such importance if—

Someone coughed. “Begging your pardon, Sir Julian, but Lord Sanderby has called.”

“Eh?” Sir Julian hadn’t heard the footman enter.

“Lord Sanderby has called, sir.”

What now? Sir Julian composed himself as he replaced the handbill in the pouch.

“His lordship respectfully requests a few moments to speak with you about arrangements for his forthcoming marriage to Miss Amanda,” the footman explained.

“Very well, show him in. But if he should still be here in ten minutes, be sure to remind me it is time to prepare for my very important appointment in the city.”

“Yes, sir.” The footman began to withdraw, but then he remembered something else the caller had requested. “Begging your pardon again, Sir Julian, but his lordship trusts the cat will not be present.”

“Does he, be damned? Well, he can trust away, for Ozymandias stays.”

“Yes, sir.” The footman bowed and went out.

Sir Julian tossed his napkin on the table, rose from his chair, and addressed the cat on the windowsill. “Ozzy, there is more bacon fat for you if you make yourself useful while this fellow is here.”

The door opened again, and Randal was shown in, his gilt spurs clinking on the marble floor. He was dressed to ride in Hyde Park, in a dark green coat, dull golden waistcoat, and white breeches, although riding was one of his least favorite pastimes. His fair hair was tied back with a ribbon that matched his waistcoat, and his starched neck cloth was an intricate work of art. An indifferent horseman at the best of times, he was nevertheless prepared to obey the rules of fashion by being the peacock in Rotten Row. To this end he was so perfectly turned out that a hair out of place would have ruined the effect. What would also have ruined the effect would be a horse that showed any sign at all of blood or spirit. However, in the bay gelding now attended at the front entrance by one of Sir Julian’s grooms, he had found a mount that pranced a lot, but was actually quite docile.

He waited until the door was closed behind him, then sketched a stylish bow. “Good morning, Sir Julian. I trust you had a good journey from the coast?” he greeted, his eyes and nose initially quite unaffected by Ozzy’s close proximity.

“I think you already know how my journey went, seeing you followed me for a while,” Sir Julian replied, going to the fireplace and standing with his hands clasped behind him.

“Followed you?” Randal was all innocence. “If you were followed, it was not by me.” Ozzy chose that moment to jump up onto the table. Ginger fur floated invisibly, and Randal’s nose immediately began to react, and he reached hastily for his handkerchief. “Dab it all, Richardson. I bade it clear I wanted no cats!”

“This is my house, not yours, and it pleases me to keep Ozymandias with me. Now then, what brings you here, Sanderby?”

Randal had been on the point of advancing to a more dominant position in the center of the room, but now he kept well back by the door. “It is a while since our beeting at Chelworth, so I thought I would pay you a friendly call.”

“Only a fool would believe
that;
so get to the real point, whatever it is.”

“In good tibe, Richardson, in good tibe. A few social niceties first, eh?” Ozzy bestowed a baleful look on the visitor and growled low in his throat. Randal eyed the tomcat uneasily, then blew his nose again and continued stoically. “Have you heard when Abanda will reach England?” he asked Sir Julian.

“If she has any sense, she’ll still follow her father to Australia.”

“Ah, how droll you are, to be sure,” Randal murmured, watching Ozzy, whose amber eyes did not waver from him.

“Drollness has nothing to do with it, Sanderby, for I mean every word.”

“I ab sure you do, but your opinion bakes no difference to be. What
does
bake a difference, however, is the knowledge that as a child I cabe within an inch of being deserted in favor of you.”

That isn’t really what matters to you now,
Sir Julian thought, in his mind’s eye seeing Felice’s all-important letter in the statue’s secret compartment at Chelworth. Ozzy was acutely conscious of the atmosphere between the two men, and he ventured to the edge of the table closest to Randal, then spat as threateningly as he could. Sir Julian could barely conceal his admiration for his pet’s noble efforts. Ozymandias was past master of delivering feline invective. There would
definitely
be another plate of bacon after this, as deliciously light and crisp as the cook could manage.

Admiration was the very last thing Randal felt for the bristling ginger quadruped. He furiously regarded Ozzy, and then sneezed again. Handkerchief flapping at his nose, he spoke again. “Sir Julian, I suggest we stop beating about the bush. Your affair with by dear baba is really neither here nor there, is it? What really batters is what happened five years before you and she exchanged so much as a glance, let alone stole a clandestine kiss.”

Sir Julian contrived to look puzzled. “What in God’s own name are you getting at?” he demanded. “I know nothing of anything that might have gone on five years before I met her.”

“You are playing with fire again, Sir Julian. I know frob by father’s diary that she wrote you a long and exceedingly delicate letter.”

Sir Julian’s heart missed a beat. Until this moment, Randal’s knowledge of the letter had just been guesswork, unconfirmed and therefore not to be entirely believed. Now it was confirmed.

Randal went on. “She detailed her exact reasons for not seeing you anybore. Naturally enough, given the circubstances, by father tried to prevent the letter frob reaching you. He failed, but then you already know that, because you have the letter. Don’t you.” The last two words were a statement, not a question.

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sir Julian replied, determined to protect the letter at all costs, but he could see by Randal’s eyes that the denial failed to convince.

“Oh, I think we both know there was a letter, Sir Julian.” Randal blew his nose. “That’s why you’re here in London, isn’t it? To see how great a ripple you can cause in the pool?”

So that was what had prompted the visit. “You’re wrong…about everything. I’m here in London to attend to the sale of this house and to visit the British Museum in order to examine a papyrus. And I tell you again that I know nothing of any letter from your mother.”

“Why do you persist in speaking to be as if I were a boron? The letter is fact, you know it and I know it, so will you
please
stop this dabbed pretence?” Randal’s eyes were now very red and bloodshot, and he looked quite dreadful, but his voice remained cold and level.

“There is no letter,” Sir Julian insisted. “Believe me, don’t believe me, I really could not care less.”

“On the contrary, I think you care very buch. You still have the letter, and the only reason you haven’t used it is because it would hurt by baba. You don’t give a dab about be; in fact, I would have been sacrificed long since if it weren’t for her. And I still will be if you were to find a certain other party; isn’t that so?” The last words were uttered quietly, reasonably, as if remarking upon the fine weather outside.

“Certain other party? Heavens above, man, will you please stop speaking in riddles?”

The moments hung so silently in the room that the crackle of the fire seemed suddenly very loud. Ozzy growled again, and he shuffled up and down the edge of the table, as if gauging whether or not he could leap upon Randal.

Randal tried to ignore the animal. “You know, Sir Julian, the fellow bust be dead and buried. Don’t you think by father bade it his business to search? But there was no trace.” His face hardened. “I warn you, Richardson, bake trouble for be and I will see you are dead and buried too.”

Sir Julian raised his chin. “I’ve had enough of this arrant nonsense, Sanderby. How dare you enter my house and presume to threaten me! If and when you are married to Amanda, I suppose I will have to tolerate you somehow, but in the meantime, if you ever cross my threshold uninvited again, I will have you thrown out like the cur you are. Now get out!”

There was a tap at the door, and the footman entered. “Begging your pardon, Sir Julian, but your carriage will soon be ready to take you to your appointment.”

“Ah, yes. Lord Sanderby was just leaving.”

“Sir.” The footman lingered attentively at the door.

“This isn’t the last of it, Richardson, not by a very long chalk.”

Sir Julian gave him a beaming smile. “Enjoy your ride in the park, Sanderby. Take care not to fall.”

Randal glowered at him, then turned to leave; but as he reached the door, Ozzy
decided to go out with him. The tomcat leaped from the table and darted between Randal’s ankles in such a way as to unbalance him. It looked almost deliberate on the cat’s part, Sir Julian thought, as his visitor’s modish spurs tangled and Randal went sprawling. The dismayed footman bent to attend to him, and Ozzy, well pleased with himself, dashed away toward the kitchens, tail in the air, ears pricked.

Sir Julian made a mental note to add a dish of the very best cream to the plate of bacon fat.

It was midmorning in the delta, and a palm dove was fluting in the tamarisks. The temperature had risen pleasantly with the dominance of the sun, and the wind had dwindled to the occasional zephyr that stirred the tall reeds where the
canja
lay concealed. When darkness fell, the gauntlet of the Rosetta channel would be run.

Leaving Amanda and Hermione still slumbering, Tansy slipped out of the cabin after several hours of much-needed sleep. She still wore the black robes, and her short dark curls were in a terrible tangle because she had no comb or brush. Amanda’s hair, however, was once again a smooth stream of molten gold flowing over her shoulders. This could only be because the sly madam had discovered a comb somewhere, but she denied this most vehemently in order to deny the others the chance to make themselves presentable in front of the two men.

Such pettiness was proof positive of Amanda’s true colors, but Tansy guessed that even so Martin only saw how beautiful she was. To make matters worse, Amanda flirted with him at every opportunity, and he seemed taken in. It seemed to Tansy that if the future Countess of Sanderby fell in a midden, she would emerge smelling of spring flowers!