The Reluctant Widow (36 page)

Francis sighed. “Very well, between these four walls, then, let us lay bare the whole truth. As I fancy you have already guessed, my lamentable parent is the somewhat inexpert schemer you have been trying to-unmask.” He paused, but Carlyon only continued to regard him steadily. He sighed again. “One sees why, of course.”

“Does one?”

“Oh, I think so! His fortune was never large, you know, and he has not the least notion of management. That peerage which affords him such satisfaction was unfortunately unaccompanied by a grant that might have enabled, him to have supported his new dignity in the style he thought proper to it. My dear Edward, have you ever seen the enlargements he saw fit to undertake at Bedlington Manor? Quite dreadful, I assure you! I have only to tell you that he had the Regent for his architectural adviser to make it unnecessary for me to say more.” He covered his eyes with one hand and shuddered eloquently. “There is even a Chinese drawing room. You might almost fancy yourself in poor Prinny’s little summer residence at Brighton. The only consolation is that when it is put up for sale, as it assuredly must be, I have not the least doubt of its fetching a fantastic sum. It is just the thing to appeal to some city merchant with social ambitions.”

“And does your father mean to sell it?” inquired Carlyon politely.

“Yes,” said Francis. “Yes, dear Edward, he does. I have prevailed upon him to see the wisdom of this course. Happily I have a certain influence over him. Not always as much as I could wish, but if I exert myself, enough, I trust. He is not as young as he was, you know, and it must be acknowledged that prolonged intercourse with the Regent is rarely conducive to health or prosperity. When you add to that a turn for playing whist at Oatlands with the Duke of York, which my poor father has lately developed, I cannot think that you need seek further for a reason why he should be endeavoring to recruit his fortunes in this very foolish fashion. He has not the head for such a dangerous game. In fact, he has not the head for meddling in public affairs either, and I am happy to be able to tell you that he has been brought to own as much. Yes, he is retiring. His gout, you know, has been very troublesome. He will retire full of years and honors, and from my knowledge of his buoyant temperament I do not doubt that the events of the past few months will rapidly fade from his memory.” “How came you to learn of his activities?” Carlyon asked. “He told me of them himself,” replied Francis. “What?”

“Oh, yes! Upon inquiry, you know. To be sure, I had already begun to feel just a trifle uneasy about him. You see, I am on such gratifying terms of intimacy with so many of his colleagues! I am sure you may meet me everywhere in polite circles: I am very good ton, you know; Indeed, I have often wondered if I should not challenge Brummell, for there is a set which holds that my way of tying a cravat is superior to his. The younger dandies are already much inclined to follow my lead.”

“Shall we return to the point of this discussion?” Carlyon suggested.

“Ah, forgive me! How very right of you to recall me to it! Yes, the point! The point is, my dear Edward, that being blessed with a large circle of acquaintances I hear quite a number of things which I expect I should not hear at all. I knew that a little pucker was being caused at the Horse Guards, for instance. Leakage of information is not, alas, quite unprecedented. One is forever hearing of lapses, but I was induced to give this particular pucker more than passing attention. One or two circumstances, into which I need not drag you, had caused me to feel that all was not quite well with my parent. I told you that he is wholly unsuited to a life of intrigue. It had begun to prey upon his mind. A devoted son, you know, cannot be insensible of uneasiness in his father. My devotion led me to keep a filial eye upon his activities—so far as I was able. I even began to visit him with a frequency as trying to my nerves as I have no doubt it was to his. Alas, we have never agreed quite as one would wish! Our tastes, you see, are so dissimilar. But I don’t grudge my visits, however much they may have lowered my spirits. For if I had not formed the habit of calling to see how he did I might never have known of his sudden journey into Sussex. I presented myself in Brook Street to be met by

the intelligence that his lordship had been called away suddenly, and the merest lift of an eyebrow elicited the further information that poor Mr. Eustace had met with an accident and was dead. That in itself did not surprise me: one had always felt that poor Mr. Eustace would, sooner or later, meet with an accident. It was with only polite interest that I inquired how this news had come to his lordship. It was then that I learned of Louis de Castres’s visit to Brook Street. The butler thought that he had brought the sad tidings.” Francis paused, and frowningly regarded the nails of his right hand. “Well, you know, I did find that surprising. So far as I was aware, Louis was not acquainted with my father. Of course, you may say that it was very natural in him to carry the tidings to one who had a value for Eustace. But what—I confess—I was at a loss to understand was how Louis, who had positively informed me only the previous day that he was going into Hertfordshire for a night, to visit his estimable parents, came to be in Sussex.”

“What I am at a loss to understand,” interrupted Carlyon, “is why Eustace was ever employed in the business if De Castres was aware of the identity of the man who stood behind him?”

“My dear Edward, Louis was no fool! I dare say he guessed from the start, for who in the world but my father would have dreamed of using such a doubtful tool? Possibly he had the truth out of Eustace any time Eustace was in his cups. But Louis had such tact! such exquisite perception! He would be the first to appreciate that my father’s little whims must be indulged. But when Eustace died so inopportunely and he discovered Eustace’s widow in possession at Highnoons, and failed so signally to effect an unobtrusive search of the house, then it was no longer the moment to be considering poor father’s foibles. By the way, I cannot but be thankful that Nicky missed his shot. Really the scandal that must have ensued had he not missed would have been more than either you or I could have averted.” “I had rather, certainly, that he met his end at your hands than at Nicky’s,” Carlyon replied. Francis’ eyes lifted swiftly to his face, very wide open. “So you know that, do you?” he said softly. “Now, how do you know that, Carlyon?”

“You told me so.”

“Did I indeed? And how did I do so?”

“A slip of your too ready tongue,” Carlyon said. “You informed us that De Castres had been stabbed and his body left under a bush. But it was not so stated in the journal from which you said you had culled the tidings. I discovered it to be the precise truth.” “Yes, you know, this habit of yours—I have referred to it before—of fastening on trivial points is scarcely endearing,” said Francis with a slight edge to his voice. “How glad I am that at least you had the good taste not to introduce a third person into this interview! It is quite true, of course: I did dispose of poor Louis. I regretted the necessity; indeed, the whole episode was most painful, but what else was to be done? One could not permit an enemy agent to continue his vocation; one had no means of ascertaining how much that was in that memorandum he already knew; and one shrank from laying information against a dear friend. Indeed, it would be unthinkable to do so! Every feeling must be offended by such a notion!”

“Indeed!” Carlyon raised his brows. “I collect that the notion of persuading De Castres, by what false message I know not, to present himself in Lincoln’s Inn Fields so that he might there be murdered, awoke no revulsion in your breast?”

Francis looked a little pained. “My dear Edward, you misjudge me! Nothing could have exceeded my revulsion! Of all things in this world, I shrink most from bloodshed, or, indeed, from any form of violence. Poor dear Louis! Quite one of my oldest friends, you know! So very distressing that he should have taken such an ill-judged step! A man of his birth becoming a spy, and for Bonaparte, of all vulgar persons! One can only wonder at it. I had believed his ton to have been almost as unimpeachable as my own. I confess, it has been a dreadful shock to me. Are you acquainted with his father, the Marquis? A truly estimable creature. It must be an object with his friends to keep the sad truth from him. But as for sending false messages to poor Louis—really, I am overcome whenever I think of him!—I

had no need to do anything so repugnant to one’s feelings as a gentleman. He lodged near the Strand; I had an engagement in Holborn; nothing could have been more natural than for him to give me his company. We walked together in perfect amity. It is the greatest comfort to me to reflect that he can never have known what happened to him. Oh, yes! He died almost instantly: it would have been a shocking thing in me to have bungled. I could not have supported the thought that he had suffered. Friendship carries with it the gravest obligations: I have always been sensible of that. I do feel that I performed the last possible office for him. Only fancy if he had been shot as a common spy! I must not allow my mind to dwell on such a horrid thing: it affects me profoundly.”

Carlyon drew a breath. “You should be felicitated on your resolution!” he said. “Thank you, Carlyon, thank you a thousand times! It is always such a mistake to allow sentiment to outweigh judgment, is it not? I knew you must feel it so.” “Don’t credit me with a similar resolution, I beg! I must forever fall short!” “You disappoint me,” Francis said mournfully. “I had thought you must have entered into my feelings upon this event. You have such amazing good sense! Where must sentiment have led me and, I must point out to you, both our families and poor Louis too? I cannot think that you would have had me shut my eyes to treasonable activities! No, no, sentiment must have led Louis to an ignominious death, plunged my family into eclipse, embarrassed yours, and quite shattered the poor Marquis and his charming wife! We shall now brush through the affair quite silently.”

“I do not know that. But pray continue!”

“We have had such a digression that I forget which point I had reached. Ah, yes! Poor Louis’ failure to ransack Highnoons, was it not? His subsequent loss of decision encourages me to hope that he had not been for long engaged on that work. No better course suggested itself to him than to post to London to divulge the whole to my father. Yes, the discovery that his complicity was perfectly well-known to Louis quite overcame his lordship. As you are aware, he at once came into Sussex, but with what purpose in mind I know not. He had not the least idea where he should search for that memorandum. It is a source of constant wonder to me how I came to have such a cork-brained parent. However, I have not the slightest reason to believe that my poor mother played him false. It must remain an enigma. The turmoil his brain was got into by the time he again reached Brook Street was such that I flatter myself he greeted my arrival on his door step with relief. It needed only a trifle of persuasion—I am very persuasive, you know—to induce him to admit me at last into his confidence. I have seldom found him more ready to listen to my advice. It was most gratifying. I was obliged to point out to him that the state of his health demands that he should retire from public life. I really could not answer for his life if he were to continue in office. Thank God, I was able to bring him to acknowledge the justice of my arguments! He had not been aware of the danger in which he stood. How often a man will go on in his harness long after his friends have perceived that the time has come for his retirement!”

This was said in the gentlest tone, but had the effect of sending a cold shiver down Carlyon’s spine. His face remained impassive; he merely said, “I understand you, I believe.” “Yes, I thought you would,” smiled Francis, carefully removing a speck of dust from his sleeve.

Carlyon stood silent for a moment, frowning down into the fire. His guest had sunk into a chair and now crossed one slim leg over the other and fell into admiration of the silver tassels on his Hessians. Carlyon looked up, saying abruptly, “How came you to know where the memorandum was hid?”

“My dear Edward, nothing could have been more obvious to me! Eustace assured my father that he had a hiding place which no one would ever think to suspect. You must know that the poor fellow cherished a touching regard for me. Yes, indeed. He had been trying for years to achieve my way with a cravat, with such distressing results, too! I must confess that his frequent invitations to me to visit him at Highnoons have done much to embitter my life. I have often wished I were not such a good-natured creature. I have felt myself several times

obliged to gratify his desire to entertain me in Sussex. And I have no real taste for cognac, you know! But I well remember his placing a valuable snuffbox—I never discovered to whom it belonged—in that clock, and informing me with all the mystery engendered by a somewhat maudlin state of mind that whenever he had anything which he wanted no one to see he put it in this cunning place. He recounted with glee his having once coveted and obtained from your brother Harry some trinket or other which he allowed Harry to search for all over the house, secure in the knowledge that even so suspicious a person as Harry would not think to look in the clock. Fortunately, as it has chanced, he retained no recollection on the following morning of having taken me into his confidence. When I learned that all his papers were in your hands and that the memorandum was plainly not among them, it seemed to me more than probable that the clock had once more been put to a strangely improper use.” “Good God, Cheviot, why could you not have come to me like an honest man and told me the whole?” Carlyon demanded.

“Really, my dear Edward, this is not worthy of you!” Francis protested. “Can you possibly suppose that anything other than the direst necessity has led me to confide in you today? Do, pray, consider! To be obliged to sit here, recounting to you the peculiar exploits of my father is an experience I shall not easily recover from. Your reserve made it impossible for me to discover the precise extent of your knowledge; my pre-eminent desire was to recover the memorandum while your suspicions remained unsubstantiated. Had Nicholas not entered the house at a most unnecessary moment, I must have succeeded. Poor boy! I dare say he would be quite sorry to think he had embarrassed me!”