The Fall of The Kings (Riverside) (40 page)

“His heart is not what concerns me, Duchess,” Arlen said dryly, whereupon Katherine laughed and rang the bell and indulged in friendly small-talk until Farraday arrived to show Lord Arlen to his waiting carriage. When he’d gone, Katherine did not immediately seek her bath, but sat down at her desk, wrote a brief, emphatic note, sealed it, and directed it to Lord Theron Campion at Riverside House. Then she sat staring at the letter until her maid Molly came down to bully her upstairs and out of her sweaty clothes. She was very stiff indeed.

THERON WAS AT HOME IN RIVERSIDE HOUSE WHEN HIS cousin’s note arrived. He was in the library, a delightful cave of a room with heavy curtains, thick rugs and well-stuffed chairs, and books that seemed to breathe dust. It was a cold day; a fire roared in the grate, but still he had himself wrapped in a beat-up old quilt. He was reading a famous essay on the difference between power and persuasion. His mind kept straying from the main point, wondering hazily if anything in the essay would be of use to Basil in preparing his debate.

He was not pleased to be handed an envelope with the duchess’s crest. Written herself, not dictated by a secretary; it could not be good.

It wasn’t. Nor was it particularly informative. Visit her on Monday week. Matters of state to discuss. He turned the paper over, as if there were a translation on the back.
Matters of
state
. What in the Seven Hells had he to do with matters of state?

Theron stretched, and swore again. It was no use trying to read anything serious now. He couldn’t concentrate. He went upstairs to frame an answer, and found an old pile of invitations he’d been ignoring. One was from Charlie Talbert, son of the odious cousin Gregory, inviting him to join some friends in a theatre party. Poor Charlie had never been interested in theatre before, but he was courting a girl who was mad for it. He’d begged the use of the Tremontaine box from Katherine; presumably Theron would be another ornament to the event. It was this afternoon, after lunch and before his evening lecture. Theron shrugged; why not? Maybe Charlie knew something of the matters of state. Or his father had let slip something. He dashed off a note to Charlie, penned a polite response to Katherine, and shouted for Terence to find him something decent to wear.

THERON COULD BE PERFECTLY POLITE WHEN HE REMEMBERED to be, and he really did exert himself with Charlie and his friends, so much so that Charlie’s sweetheart, Lady Elizabeth Horn, asked later what all the fuss was about the Mad Duke’s son, since Lord Theron had been pleasant, even if his hair was somewhat ridiculous.

The play was dull, one of those comedies about lovers kept from marrying each other by endless misunderstandings. But Theron wasn’t looking much at the stage. His eyes kept straying to the Randall box, where the Lady Genevieve sat, surrounded by suitable chaperones. Lady Genevieve Randall was dressed all in white, like a nymph of winter, with silver drops in her ears and brilliants glittering high in her soft dark hair and around her slim neck. He found himself delighted by the way her hand flew to her mouth at the comic scenes, the careful way she always turned her head to reply to her friends’ comments, the air of propriety that breathed from her like perfume.

And suddenly he knew why he had come. Genevieve was the answer to all his problems.

At the interval, he bought a bunch of white hothouse violets from a flower-girl, and gained admittance to the Randall box. Lady Randall was delighted to see him. Genevieve ducked her head to smell his bouquet, and smiled up at him between her dark lashes. His heart jumped in his chest, and he knew there would be no impediment to his desires.

“I wish,” he said, to be sure, “that I could escort you to your carriage after the play. But I must dash off to attend a lecture.”

“At the University?” the girl said.

“Yes. I study there. You must think me very dull.”

“Oh, no,” said Lady Genevieve. “It must be terribly exciting.”

“It is exciting.” Theron bowed, and took his leave.

He nearly danced back to his seat, and saw nothing of the final act. Everything unfolded before him in perfect sequence, like a well-made length of brocade rolling off the loom, flowers and ribbons and curlicues all patterned as they should be. He would not tell Basil, not yet. Basil had kept the challenge from him; well, he would keep his secret too, though in the end it was one that would please his lover well. A little social fuss, a legal ceremony, and everything would be in place, with Theron free to live the life he chose, as he chose to live it. How could anyone object to that?

chapter
IV

SOME TIME AFTER INFORMING LORD NICHOLAS GALING of the debate between St Cloud and Crabbe, Henry Fremont wrote his patron one last letter.

I have thought about it, he wrote, and I have decided that I am
not cut out for a spy. I don’t like being responsible for people going
to jail, even irritating fools like Finn and Lindley and their
Northern friends. I think Doctor St Cloud is an honest man and a
great scholar, and I don’t think he would give a bean-fed fart for a
new king. All he’s interested in is truth, and if you’re going to put
him in prison for that, then I don’t want to be part of it.

He’d signed himself
Your Humble & Ob’d’t Sv’t,
with an ironic flourish.

Nicholas swore long and fluently. After all he’d done for that miserable hat-rack, he had the brass-bottomed gall to quit? He deserved to be thrown in the Chop for questioning—or brought straight to Nicholas himself. It would be pure pleasure, Nicholas thought, to torture information out of the rude historian, and it would pay Arlen back for not asking him to attend the questioning of the Northerners. Feeling much more cheerful, he called for his servant to drag Henry out of his scholarly lair, considered the irritation of actually having to be in the same room with him, and decided not to bother. Instead, he dashed off a note to Lord Arlen:
My University contact broken; shall I make another? I must talk
to you.
He scratched out the last line, wrote
I am ready to
make a preliminary report on the Northern matter. Would tomorrow afternoon be convenient?
and sent it off with his servant. The servant returned without an answer, which did nothing to sweeten Galing’s temper.

If Galing was still angry when he showed up at Lord Filisand’s some hours later, none of his fellow guests would have known it. Dispensing smiles and embraces, he moved through Filisand’s stuffy, overheated rooms looking for someone who was well-acquainted with Lord Theron Campion. The University was not Galing’s world; he’d been a fool to try and enter it without knowing how it worked. But the Hill—the Hill was his native hunting ground. He’d caught Arlen’s eye because of his ability to nose out noble secrets elegantly and thoroughly. And Lord Theron Campion of Tremontaine was a noble, whether he liked it or not. Nicholas knew in his hunter’s bones that, no matter who else was involved, Lord Theron was at the heart of the whole affair. Thanks to Ysaud, Nicholas possessed the bait to lure Lord Theron. All he needed was to get close enough to set the trap.

Thus Lord Filisand’s supper, a weekly evening of cards, food, and talk through which almost every man on the Hill passed sooner or later. Wives were not welcome, nor daughters, sisters, or even mistresses. Men came to gamble, to flirt, to discuss horses or swordsmen or votes on troublesome measures up before the Council—to enjoy themselves, in short, without having to worry about moderating their tongues or their consumption of brandy-punch. Ancient history had kept Galing away since MidWinter. Now he must make up for lost time.

“Absolutely tied to my bed,” he explained solemnly to Lord Condell, who wanted to know where he’d been hiding. And then he winked, which caused Condell to call him a naughty man and tap him on the wrist with a fan of brown silk. The fan was new—clearly the latest cry of fashion. Galing noticed several men busily plying them against the fug. Even young Lord Clarence Randall had taken up the fad, awkwardly flapping a girlish scrap of pink lace before his sweating face. The boy looked like an idiot. A charitable impulse, inspired by having won a great deal of money from him at Davenant’s MidWinter card party, sent Galing to his rescue.

“Hot, isn’t it?” asked Randall plaintively.

“Lord Filisand suffers terribly from the cold,” Galing explained. “And we suffer with him. The fans are an inspiration. It would do you more good, however, if you held it like this”—he adjusted the fan in Randall’s fingers—“and moved it thus, from the wrist.” He watched Randall critically, nodded, and said, “That’s better. But may I say without offense, that your fan is perhaps a bit . . . delicate for your hand? A larger one would be more effective.”

“It’s my sister’s,” Randall confided. “I pinched it from the hall table.” He eyed the spangled lace doubtfully. “Likely she’ll have my ears for taking it.”

“Surely not,” said Galing, beginning to be bored, “if she left it lying about.”

“She didn’t. She left it behind because Campion gave her a new one. Had to carry it—manners, you know. Devilish attached to this one.”

Galing was no longer bored. “What’s a fan, more or less,” he said carelessly, “when you have a lover to give you new ones?”

“That’s what I thought,” Randall agreed. He leaned forward to murmur in Galing’s ear. He smelled of brandy-punch. “Theron Campion’s spending a devilish lot of time with her, if you know what I mean. They’re seeing
Fair Rosamund
at Kean’s. Very romantic play,
Rosamund
.”

Galing plucked the fan from Randall’s hand and furled it neatly. “It is indeed, and one of my favorites besides. Let us abandon this amazingly hot room and refresh ourselves at the well of immortal love.” Lord Clarence goggled at him. Unoffended, Galing laughed. “The play, man, the play. I propose we go to see
Fair Rosamund
.”

They reached the theatre just as the third act was beginning. Lord Clarence led Galing to the Randall box and introduced him to his mother, Lady Randall, in a piercing whisper. Lady Randall looked only moderately pleased to see her son and his friend, and when Lord Theron would have given up his seat at the front of the box to Galing, she declared that she was feeling quite faint and would rather sit at the back. So Galing settled himself beside Lord Theron, fixed his eyes on the stage, and turned over ways of intriguing the irritating young heir of Tremontaine into a private conversation.

It wasn’t going to be easy to get his attention. Every time Galing glanced away from the posturing actors, Campion was turned toward the Randall girl, his knee breaking the white foam of her voluminous skirts. Once he heard her murmur something; once he heard her sigh: Lord Theron’s courtship seemed to be proceeding well. Remembering Henry’s history lessons, Galing wondered how a queen might figure in his plans.

On stage, King Alexander Ravenhair, in a long black wig and a short tunic that showed his excellent legs, was hurling poetic defiance at the evil Wizard Guidry, who was listening with a patience remarkable in so choleric a personality. Galing chuckled. Startled, Campion glanced over his shoulder at him. Galing cocked his brow at the stage, rolled his eyes, and gnashed his teeth. Campion’s lips twitched in unwilling amusement before he turned again to Genevieve. At the interval, he allowed himself to be distracted from her long enough for Galing to strike up a conversation about how a good actor might transform a bad play.

“Have you seen Mistress Sedley at the Buttery?” he asked. “Her voice is pure alchemy, able to turn the hoariest bombast into tragic gold. They say she’s the Black Rose come again.”

“Ah.” Campion was politely interested. “There’s a portrait of the Black Rose as the Empress hanging in the breakfast-room in Riverside House. I quite feel she’s a member of the family.”

“The Black Rose, or the Empress?”

“Oh, both. I always think of them together.”

Galing was visited by inspiration. “I believe Mistress Sedley has chosen
The Empress
for her subscription performance. I usually take a small party to these events—shall I include you?”

Campion, with one eye on Lady Genevieve, professed himself flattered and begged Galing to tell him the date. Galing suspected that the boy was only being civil because of his audience, but it didn’t matter: Galing could now claim acquaintance with him. And the young man’s interest in the Randall chit added considerably to the value of Ysaud’s paintings.

Nicholas settled back to watch the last act of
Rosamund
in a mood of happy confidence.