Silence followed a moment of utter confusion. Letty looked at Lord Fanshawe, trying to make sense of what he had just told her. He seemed to find it all quite a joke.
"I don't understand," she finally said. "You put the box that Colonel Tavington is looking for in his father's coffin?"
"Yes. Precisely."
Another pause of incredulity. "Why, my lord?"
"On a whim, I suppose. Jack Tavington enjoyed plaguing his lady. They were very much at odds in those days before his last illness. He had taken this box from her, he told me, because he did not want her to profit from it. Something about the Tavingtons being many things, but that they had not yet stooped to extortion. He asked me to look after the box--to hide it where his wife could not put her hands on it. Shortly thereafter he took to his bed, and died before he could tell me how to dispose of it. I was at his deathbed, but could not manage a moment alone. Just before they shut the coffin, I slipped it in, and never thought about it until now."
"What is in it?"
"You know, Madam, I never looked. Tavington required me, on my honor, never to look. I did not. Of course, I can guess—and I believe I have a good idea. Yes, the papers, if they contain what I believe they do, could be very damaging to very important persons."
"You were never tempted to take them yourself?"
"Madam!" Fanshawe smiled, but he clearly was a little put out. "I am not an extortionist either! Besides," he said, more calmly, "there is nothing that I desire that I cannot get for myself. I have all the money and land any man could rationally want, I care for no offices, and I never felt the least impulse to wed a princess."
"Isn't there anything you dream of?"
He gave an odd laugh. "Eternal Life, my youth restored, my lost friends and mistresses returned from the dead, I suppose. Can any mortal man, be he King, Pope, or Emperor grant these wishes? The documents were useless to me, and I desired only to be rid of them. Now that Lady Cecily is dead, and had the Tavingtons not vexed me, I might have told them about the box—a very pretty coffer, by the way—if I had happened to think of it. It might be amusing, anyway. I shall consider it. Would they pursue it, if they knew they must open their father's tomb? I wonder."
----
"I'm an authoress!" Caroline cried, rushing up to the music room, waving a letter. "Mr. Tregallon is going to publish my book! I shall even be paid—one hundred pounds!"
"Oh, Caro!" cried Penelope, "That is splendid!"
"Yes!" agreed Jane, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. "You will be our own literary light. We shall drag you about the city and bask in your reflected glory. We must celebrate tonight!"
A little more talk, more praise, more excited speculation, and Penelope remarked, "Oh, we must not forget to plan for John's trip to Kent! I should have liked to have gone, but perhaps it would be better if you went to Kent to fetch Mrs. Martingale, Caro. I have that meeting on Friday at the Magdalen."
"You ought not to go alone, Penelope," Jane cautioned her.
"Very well—come with me!" Penelope urged. "I would like you to see the wonderful work they do. Do come! We shall attend service in the Chapel there, and then visit the schoolrooms and inspect the quarters. You will find it very interesting. Perhaps—" she paused, "—perhaps your maid would like to come along. She might know people there. The Matron would be proud of her, I know, if she could see how well poor Pullen is doing."
"I shall ask her, " Jane replied, "but I shall not order her to come. Perhaps it would be painful to revisit the place. I don't want her to be made unhappy. But yes, I shall come with you and see the place. Are you willing to go to Kent with Sir John, Caroline?"
"Yes! I think I should like that. I have not been further south than London since that year we all went to Paris before the War. Do you remember, Pen? Mamma ordered those lovely gowns. I still have mine, though it is long out of date. Perhaps I should give it to my maid."
"Oh, don't" cried Penelope, "It is too pretty!"
"—and since skirts are narrower now," Jane suggested, "perhaps your maid could take it apart and create a new dress for you in the current mode."
"Perhaps. There is no point in worrying about it now. I could not wear it for nearly a year. I considered ordering a better traveling habit in black, but I do not want to be so fine that Mrs. Martingale imagines that I am trying to intimidate her!"
"Ah! The terrifying Caroline Tavington," laughed Jane. "Too grand for the likes of her brother's fiancée!"
"Don't laugh!" Caroline objected, laughing herself. "Who knows what the poor woman imagines we are like? Perhaps she think us to be arrogant London ladies, who will sneer and smirk at a woman from the country."
"Many would," Jane admitted wryly.
"Just so."
"But we are not like that," Penelope declared. "I am so, so happy that John has found someone nice! William says Mrs. Martingale's little girl is a pretty, sweet thing. John is her godfather, and quite dotes on her. What a joy to have a little girl about." She added, embarrassed, "—not that we don't love your little boys, Jane—"
"I'm not at all upset," Jane said. "I would love a little girl about, too. She would stay at home and we would all cram her with accomplishments and lavish her little gowns with frills and flounces and embroidered fancies. I once saw a little girl's dress—yellow, with butterflies stitched in brown and green and gold—"
"—Oh!" cried Penelope, becoming very excited, "let uss give the child a gown just after the wedding, as a present—oh, but stay—she is in mourning—"
"—half-mourning by then, Pen," Caroline reminded her. "the gown could be white, with a black or silver sash, and silver embroidery at the sleeves. Perhaps some touches of lace. Something very delicate for such a little girl—"
"Do you think Sir John is planning a wedding trip? "Jane wondered. "If so, would the child stay with us? Perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Clarke would prefer that she stay with them, until John and his bride return."
"Oh, I hope she stays here," Penelope said. "It would be delightful!"
"In the meantime," Jane remarked, "Let us return to the matter at hand. When is your book to come out, Caroline?"
"In less than a month! Mr. Tregallon thinks well of it. I am so pleased. The book was such a pleasure and comfort to write."
"Perhaps you shall write another!"
"Oh, Jane!" Caroline groaned. "You don't know what you're saying! Such an effort! I shall rest on my laurels—as soon as I have any!"
Jane gave thanks every day that she had such wonderful companions as her husband's sisters. Lucy came too, at least twice a week, bringing Ned to play with Ash. The little boys were so adorable together, taking turns on the rocking horse, good old Dapple-Grey, or making up incomprehensible puppet plays in the little theatre. Rose was adapting to life in London fairly well, though caring for three small boys was a taxing business. Jane thought she needed a deputy, and set little Jenny to work as under-nurse. Jenny seemed to love the nursery, being little more than a child herself. At first Jane wondered if the girl was strong enough to lift and carry the growing boys as needed, but she had built up her muscles carrying pails and buckets and trays and hods of coal, and seemed to cope quite well. If another housemaid were to be needed, they could take on a new girl. Jane preferred that the nursery be staffed with those she knew and trusted.
She was still suckling the babies, and was quite tired of it. She had considered weaning Thomas when he had his first birthday on February twenty-fourth, but soon recognized an insurmountable problem. She could hardly nurse William Francis without the other baby noticing and being hurt. It was just too inconvenient to take William Francis away to another room. It would all have to wait until William Francis was one in May, and then she would wean them both at once. Satisfied with that solution, she wondered if she would ever nurse another child of hers at all. It was such a lot of work and bother, but Biddy had always said a baby did best with his own mother's milk.
Perhaps I shall nurse the child for a month or two, and then turn the task over to a wet-nurse. It would give me so much more freedom, and I wouldn't be sore and bitten all the time. On the other hand, I wonder what my figure will be like after I wean the boys. Probably as flat as before. Poor William. I wonder if Lord Fanshawe will allow Letty to nurse her own child—Her cheerful mood evaporated. Jane sat back in her chair, listening to her sisters-in-law's happy chatter, and was overcome with misery. She had not heard from Letty in a week. Bellini had come, and told her that Lord Fanshawe had demanded that Lady Fanshawe give him no messages on pain of dismissal. He was not permitted to tell Letty anything about Jane or the rest of the Tavington household. Letty was not to speak of Jane and could not write to her. However, nothing prevented Bellini from telling Jane all the particulars of Letty's appearance and demeanour.
"Beautiful as always—a little sad. The young Miss James is much improved in her manners to the lady, and they work hard at their lessons."
He assured her that Lord Fanshawe continued to treat her sister with respect. If Miss James had improved, that was all the better. Jane wondered if Letty had spoken to her, or if Lord Fanshawe had. She hoped it was not all a show for Bellini's benefit. Thinking it through, she hit upon a plan to send Letty a message that would at least tell her she was missed. Before Bellini left, she secured his cooperation.
She could not sit here moping. "I think I should pay some calls today," she told them. "Do come with me if you can—William prefers it. I need to call on Mrs. Tazewell and the Pagets, and I have put off Lady Melmerby and her daughters too long—"
"Of course we shall come. Perhaps we can squeeze in some time for Mrs. Montagu, too, " agreed Penelope.
"And next Wednesday, we shall take you to the British Museum again," declared Caroline. "A treat for us all."
Jane smiled painfully. "I like the Museum very much. I could go a hundred times and not see it all." They went upstairs to change for visiting. Jane knew they chose Wednesday as the day for the Museum visit to distract her from her exile from Letty's At Homes. How she longed to see her sister. What if Letty had her baby and Jane was not permitted to hold and kiss her own nephew or niece? A wicked thought slid like a sharp knife through her mind. Lord Fanshawe is old. If he were to die, Letty would be free of him, and we would be reunited. I wish he would—I wish he would die…
It was dreadful and wrong, and Jane forced the idea away, thinking instead about the curiosities and wonders of Sir Hans Sloane's collection, open to the public at the British Museum. She had never imagined such a place when she lived in South Carolina. There were not even any colleges in South Carolina, much less museums and libraries and observatories. When the weather was better, she hoped to see the great Observatory at Greenwich. When the boys were weaned she would have the time. She thought industriously about natural philosophy and magnetic attraction, but thinking of observatories made her think of telescopes, which made her think of astronomy, which made her think of Letty. She read the inscription Letty had written in the astronomy book for ladies that Jane had received.
"To the dearest of sisters—" If only he would die--She must stop. The tears would start running down her cheeks and ruin her cosmetics and Pullen would be vexed. Jane decided to think about the mummy she had seen at the Museum. How macabre, but fascinating. She kept her mind on it as she changed into her black visiting ensemble and her enormous plumed hat. She had bought a wonderful hatpin with a black pearl head. Black pearls were a satisfactory line of thought. They reminded her of Lady Trumfleet snoring in her chair. That brought a smile to her lips, and Jane went downstairs to join her sisters-in-law in the carriage with improved spirits.
The first two visits were pleasant, but unremarkable. It was at the Marchioness of Melmerby's that Jane heard that Lady Carteret was dead.
-----
Lady Melbourne swept into Lady Fanshawe's drawing room rather early, her eyes glittering with excitement at being the bearer of such shocking news. She was early, but not the first. After the delicious scandal of last week, Lady Fanshawe's house was bursting with visitors, hoping for another entertainment.
There was Fanshawe, slim and elegant, his white hair and black velvet coat making him look like a drawing in charcoal on white paper. He bowed graciously, and Lady Fanshawe looked up and saw her. Such an exquisite creature, if of suspect origins. She would no doubt be distressed by the news. Better that she should hear it from a friend, than read it in a vulgar newspaper.
"My dear Lady Fanshawe. Such dreadful tidings! In truth, it wounds me to break it to you, but I fear someone must!"
Lord Fanshawe overheard, and frowned, wondering what the lady was speaking of. There was no disaster at Mortimer Square, he was certain. A footman in the Tavingtons' employ was well paid to keep Fanshawe informed of the doings there.
Lady Melbourne took Letty's hand, with a show of tender sentiment. "It is poor Lady Carteret. She died Monday night. Her heart simply stopped, I am told, while Doctor Malahyde was ministering to her. With such a regimen of purgings and bleedings and hot plasters, and such a careful diet, one wonders how it could have happened, but it is so, alas!"
Letty stood immobile, her face tightening and she took in the news. Lady Melbourne hoped for an explosion of tears, but was distracted when the explosion came instead from Fanshawe's ward, who screamed aloud and rushed from the room.
"So Doctor Malahyde has killed her. I wish I could say I am surprised," was Letty's first, frozen response. "Excuse me, but I must see to Harmonia." White and trembling, she gave a cursory nod to the company and left.
The other guests crowded in to hear the awful tale.
"Well," Lady Melbourne declared. "There was such a tremendous blow-up! Lord Carteret sobbed over his wife and begged her to forgive him, and then accused Doctor Malahyde of murdering her! And then the Dowager tried to intervene, and Carteret laid hands on a dog whip and thrashed the poor doctor until his coat hung in tatters, while the old lady shrieked for her son to spare him. Lord Carteret is quite inconsolable, for of course the unborn infant would have been his heir, and naturally it died, too, though I am told that Mary must have known she was dying, for she had begged Lord Carteret to save the child. But of course no one would have performed such an outrage on the lady's lifeless form as to cut her open."
"Did not this Doctor Malahyde have the skill?" asked Bellini from a corner of the room, with a hint of a sneer.
"Certainly not," was Lady Melbourne's brusque answer. "He is a physician, not a mere surgeon. At any rate, mother and child were both lost. There was nothing to be done. Doctor Malahyde is fled, and the dowager was only prevented from following her—" Lady Melbourne's painted mouth twisted with amusement—"favorite—by a threat from Carteret that he would never see her again if she had any contact with that man in future. What a to-do!"
"Very melancholy news," agreed Fanshawe gravely. "I am sorry for Harry, and shall write him at my first opportunity. This must grieve Lady Fanshawe greatly, I fear. Pray excuse me. I fear our revels must be cut short today, as Lady Fanshawe will need my support. Good day to you all."
Lady Melbourne was rather put out, for she had hoped to be invited to stay and comfort the lady during the inevitable torrent of tears. No doubt Lady Fanshawe would have more interesting things to say about Malahyde and about the fracas involving her sister. It was positively cruel of Fanshawe not to permit her to be of use. He was already striding from the room. The party, even without him, continued; for there was the news and there were the refreshments, and really, it would be too insulting simply to leave at once, without staying to denounce the incompetence of doctors and praise the late Lady Carteret's many charms and virtues.
Fanshawe left them to it, cynically wondering how many would still be there by dinner time. Women died from childbearing all too frequently—as had his second wife, the amiable and well-dowered Hester. Very sad always, but of course, this misfortune was coupled by the silly dowager's devotion to a quack, and his friend's inability to refuse his mother anything—until now, it appeared. Lady Fanshawe had warned him, but he had dismissed it as an unsophisticated young woman's ignorance of modern medicine. She would need careful handling.
He found them in Harmonia's room—a charming place, all white and delicate primrose yellow, trimmed in clear blue. The ladies in it, unfortunately, were in utter disarray, for Letty was in a small chair with Harmonia's head in her lap. The girl was hysterical, and Lady Fanshawe herself was weeping. Fanshawe noted in passing that she wept more attractively than most women, for her face was as yet undisfigured by her grief, while Harmonia's was red and distorted, her blue eyes blood-shot and puffy, her nose swollen and dripping. He grimaced in distaste, but knew he must speak.
"I beg your pardon," he said softly. "Forgive me, my dear Lady Fanshawe, and Harmonia, my dear child. I am at yours to command in this unhappy hour. Pray let me know how I may serve you."
Letty felt ill and heavy and could hardly bear to look at him. "There is nothing to be done now, my lord," she answered, equally softly. "Harmonia feels dreadful about causing Lady Carteret to be taken away. It will be a reproach to her forever, but I suppose if it had not been her, it would have been something else to set that stupid old lady off. After she has her cry out, I'll send for some tea, and we'll take it here. I do not think that either of us will be equal to dinner tonight."
"Yes, I expect it is best that you both rest. A very sad business. You did not hear, I believe, that Lord Carteret is inconsolable, and drove Malahyde away with blows and reproaches."
"No, I didn't hear, and how does it matter? I don't want to hear anything more about it. Nothing can bring poor Lady Carteret back, and I don't want to hear the details about how that wicked man starved and tortured her to death. She told me enough about the cruel, indecent things he did. She's safe now, and I will have to be satisfied with that." After a pause, she added, "And her poor baby." She turned her head away and a sob escaped her. Feeling that his presence could do no good, Fanshawe bowed and left the room.
He went to his library, considering the matter. He could send for Mrs. Tavington, but the thought repelled him. It would mean having to apologize to her, and then the wretched woman would be glaring at him with those beady, lashless eyes over that lamentably long, sharp nose. She was, he decided, rather like a suspicious rabbit. He could not endure the sight of her, and perhaps Lady Fanshawe and Harmonia were best left to themselves at such a time. Shared grief often brought people together. Certainly this distasteful affair would curb Harmonia of her schoolgirl tattling. That would certainly be a gain.
His lady would probably not wish to pay calls tomorrow, either, he acknowledged. She had a tender heart, and Lady Carteret had been an unusually charming and agreeable companion. He felt sincere regret at her death. The world was always poorer for the loss of a pretty and pleasant-tempered lady, and Harry had been quite taken with her. Losing the child would be a great blow. None of Harry's children by his first wife had lived past their second birthday. It would be a grim business to start all over again at his time of life. Fanshawe selected a sheet of fine writing paper, and began composing an elegant letter of genuine condolence.
-----
Why could things not happen one at a time? Jane wondered, in despair. She was feeling overwhelmed. She had quarreled with Lord Fanshawe and had been forbidden to see or write Letty. Lady Carteret was dead, just as Jane felt she was making a delightful new friend. Over them hung the mystery of Lady Cecily's papers, which they were no closer to solving than ever.
William was not telling her everything. Why was he so concerned for their safety? It was horrid that a spy had infiltrated their house, but Mrs. Venable was gone now, and they were free from surveillance. They seemed safe enough to Jane, but William would not let her go out alone or unarmed. They talked often, speculating on what the secrets contained in the mysterious casket of ivory and ebony must be. William wondered if somehow his mother had laid hands on letters concerning the Prince of Wales. He was constantly embroiled in scandals, and perhaps something he had written one of his mistresses had come her way. There had been some gossip about letters to the lovely Mrs. Robinson. Perhaps the Prince had been indiscreet, and had promised his Perdita more than he could perform.
"I'll go pay a call on Tarleton tomorrow," Tavington told Jane, as they settled down to bed one night. "He's taken a house with the lady. Rawdon tells me they're like a pair of doves in a cote—quite sickeningly enamored."
"She is married to another, is she not?" Jane inquired tartly. "Sickening indeed! How prophetic is was that she played a role like "Perdita!' She has rather convincingly 'lost' her virtue!"
"Oh, I'm told Robinson's a trifling, worthless fellow—someone told me he's in Italy. What's the girl to do? The husband abandoned her with a child and no money. Then the Prince pressured her into becoming his mistress, ruined her reputation and her stage career, and afterwards left her, too. She must have a protector, and she has no family to care for her. Tarleton and she might rub along quite happily."
"No doubt!"
He laughed. "She's very beautiful, but beauty has its limits, as I'm sure she's found. I'll just chat them up and see if my mother ever met her. Mamma met all sorts of people when she went out gambling. For all I know, she might have struck up an acquaintance before Mrs. Robinson became someone she could not acknowledge."
"So you will not be going with Sir John to Kent?"
"No. He'll go with Caro, and take plenty of armed outriders. The last visit was all right. Perhaps it's best that both of us are not gone from home at once. I'll stay here with you and Pen, and nose about town a little more."
"And I will prepare your old room for Mrs. Martingale. I am so happy that you agreed to have your things moved next door to me. It is very convenient."
"Very convenient," he murmured, his hand brushing up the hem of her shift.
-----
He was there a little after one. Banastre Tarleton tended to sleep late, now that he was back in England, without any particular duties or responsibilities. Tavington found the house without difficulty, and was shown in at once to a small but elegant drawing room.
Mary Robinson greeted him alone. "Colonel Tavington," she said, her voice luscious, as if she had been eating ripe fruit. Tavington paused to admire her. She was setting the fashion, as always, in her delicate dress of white muslin, somehow looking ethereal without looking at all untouchable. "Tarleton is out, the brute!" She smiled enchantingly. "I am sorry to disappoint you. He promised to be back by half past two. If you care to wait, you will have to put up with me."
"How shall I bear it?" he asked, straight-faced.
She laughed, melodious and mocking, and invited him to share the sofa with her. "Lord Rawdon may join us later. Have you not seen him today?"
"No, but I would have missed him if he called. I have been out and about."
"Men ought to be active," she applauded. "Tarleton has told me that you were always very—energetic—in your pursuits. And a first-rate horseman. It's very important that a man know really know how to ride."
Tavington noticed, as if for the first time, how low-cut the bodice of her gown was. Just a hairbreadth lower, and he would see… He shifted, his breeches feeling uncomfortably snug. He forced himself to remember that he was here to make inquiries.
"Actually, I wanted to speak to you as well. It may seem an odd question, but were you acquainted with my mother, Lady Cecily Tavington?"
Her luminous eyes opened wide at the question, so clearly unanticipated. "Your mother?" She thought, briefly, taking care not to wrinkle her brow. "Yes, I believe I had the honor of speaking to your mother: once at Mrs. Crewe's, and once at the house of Mr. Sheridan. She was a very elegant, striking lady. I was very sorry to hear that she had died."
"I thank you for your sentiments. You would not describe your acquaintance as intimate?"
"Hardly!" she laughed at him, putting a fingertip to her lips and dimpling. "Lady Cecily was of unimpeachable reputation, whilst I, alas—"
"--I was gone you see, until last September, and have been trying to understand her activities. She was ill and rather secretive in her last days."
Mary Robinson bit her lip. "You are not here about the fifty pounds, I hope? I simply don't have it."
Tavington blinked. "Fifty pounds? Are you saying that—"
"Never mind—a trifling matter—and already forgiven, of course. No, I cannot claim an intimate association. I spoke to her last—oh, Heavens! It must have been nearly two years ago. So much has changed since then. She has died, alas, and I have been to Paris."
She leaned back against the sofa with a sigh. Her dress moved with her, diaphanous and cloud-like. Tavington found himself mesmerized by the way the trimming of the bodice pressed in against her breasts. She noticed him looking and smiled pertly. "Do you like my gown? It is the Parisian style. The Queen has forsaken silk and satin and dresses in white muslin, like a simple shepherdess!"
"No shepherdess of my acquaintance ever wore anything so—exquisite."
She laughed outright. "A stage shepherdess, then. And opera shepherdess. A shepherdess of Arcadian fantasy. But my costume does please you?"
"It could not fail to please any man," he replied, feeling that gallant speech came rather easily with such a beauty. She had lovely hands, too, and Tavington admired how her fingers stroked the sleek brocade of the sofa. It would be very pleasant, he thought, to be stroked by those same tapered fingers…
"So you are trying to discover your mother's secrets?" she asked, looking deeply into his eyes. "You must be warned that a lady's secrets are not lightly to be revealed. All manner or hazards and penalties may arise to punish your curiosity. You may find yourself, like Actaeon spying on Diana, torn by the dogs for knowing what you ought not to know."
"It is—possible, but I must know them all the same." He could not resist, but laid his hand softly over hers. The small hand was smooth and very warm. It was the most natural thing in the word to bring her hand to his lips and kiss it, and then to turn it over and kiss the blue-veined wrist.
She gave a deep sigh of pleasure. "I am so glad you came to call. I was feeling quite forsaken."
"Tarleton is a fool to leave your side, even for an instant."
She dimpled again, and rose lithely from the sofa. "You quite enthrall me, Colonel. Let me show you all my secrets!" She drifted from the room, laughing over her shoulder.
He stood up, uncertain and confused. What was the woman at?
"Follow me!" she called from the staircase.
Tavington, by now certain that she had nothing to do with his mother, was both disappointed and rather excited. Perhaps he should go, but there was just a chance—
"Up here!"
He was climbing the stairs before he realized it. There was an empty room, and another, and beyond them a closed door.
"Come in!"
He opened the door, and started in surprise. Somehow she had already thrown off her gown. It lay, carefully spread out on a daybed, so as not to wrinkle the delicate linen. He realized now why it had looked particularly diaphanous. She really had had nothing on beneath it other than her silk stockings and garters. No stays—not even a shift. And her snowy breasts really were as perfect as he had imagined.
A naked woman is always cause to revise one's immediate plans. She was very clever with Tavington's buttons, he discovered: very clever about everything. Her bed was wonderfully comfortable and allowed the proper support for all their improper activities. She had not drawn the curtains, and the sun through the long window revealed that she had nothing to hide, even if she had been the sort of woman who felt she had anything to hide. It was quite amazing to explore a woman so perfectly lovely, and quite amazing to enjoy the expertise of a woman who had actually given the art of love some real thought. Dazed and pleasured, it occurred to him that she was really quite intelligent, in an unusual way he had never imagined in a woman. A touch, a caress, a delicate movement, slowing and quickening; everything in its perfect moment. After an hour, he had fallen back, head on a pillow, utterly, blissfully spent.
"I do adore fucking. I have promised myself never to deny myself anything I want. Life is too short."
Tavington was still collecting his thoughts, as he lay beside her. The incongruity of this lady-like beauty's lovely manners and her choice of language was rather disconcerting. "Eat, drink, and be merry—and so forth?"
"Especially 'and so forth.' In the blink of an eye, we shall all be old, and then we shall be dead. I want to experience everything in life. You have no idea what it is for a woman to cross the line from so-called virtue to vice. It is really escaping bondage and embracing freedom. I love Tarleton most passionately, but when I see a man I desire, it seems foolish to let him pass by. You are such a splendid lover," she appraised him frankly, running a soft hand over his chest, tweaking a brown nipple. "I thought I should never stop coming." She consulted the little gold watch by her bed. "It is twenty past two, Colonel. Perhaps we ought to tidy ourselves. Tarleton should be here momentarily, and I would not want to give him the wrong impression of our pleasant conversation." She produced a delicate handkerchief from the bedside table, and began erasing the evidence of their encounter.
"Nor I," Tavington agreed, sliding off the bed, and hastily clothing himself. It crossed his mind that somehow, it was he who had been made use of, rather than she. He glanced at the young woman, who was rearranging herself with unhurried serenity, glowing a little with satisfaction. "I have no wish to quarrel with Tarleton."
"Of course not. It would be a pity for good friends to part over a trifle." The dress was donned with a hushed whisper of muslin. She went to the mirror and arranged her hair with deft, expert fingers. "There. I look quite as I should." She looked Tavington over judiciously, and smoothed his hair back. "And so do you. Let us go down and await our friend."
They returned to the drawing room. Tavington did not join her on the sofa again, but found a chair he liked opposite her. She rang for tea, and talked to him about what she had read lately. He told her about the dinner with Doctor Johnson. It was all very sedate and agreeable. Tavington relaxed into the chair, glad that this beautiful woman was someone Jane would never meet socially. He did not regret her impulsive seduction, but Jane would not understand that such a woman could mean nothing to him…
In less than five minutes, Tarleton came bounding through the front door and into the drawing room with Rawdon in tow.
"Heyday! Here is Tavington! How splendid! Oh—yes, my love, tea would be perfect—"
"My dear Tavington—" exclaimed Rawdon. "So glad to see you! You must know about this scandalous affair!"
"Which one?" Tavington blurted out. All his companions laughed immoderately, Mary Robinson as gaily as the others.
"A wit, upon my word," grinned Tarleton, throwing himself down on the sofa next to his mistress. "But really, Tavington, it was in the lobby of the House of Commons. I don't know what the Duke of Richmond was doing there, but he was blathering in the grossest way about the war and Rawdon hanging that rebel scum, and going on about Rawdon being a disgrace "to his Country and to the Profession of Arms!" He snorted, and then added, "He nearly jumped a foot when he looked about and saw Rawdon, standing there listening!"
"Good God!" Tavington was sorry that John was in Kent, and had missed it. He wanted to know every detail. "What did you do?" he asked Rawdon.
Before the lanky Irishman could reply, Tarleton cried, "He challenged him! Called him out on the spot! Damned dashing of him, with all the politicians and toadies and crabbed old clerks gaping on."
"Yes, I could not let such an insult pass without instantly dealing with it," Rawdon said, very red and indignant himself.
"I should be very happy to stand with you, Rawdon," Tavington assured him forcefully. "And not just because you were so good as to act for me in a similar case. All of us who fought in America and know America must support each other against such outrages!"
Tarleton nearly spit out a mouthful of tea, laughing. "Won't be necessary, my dear friend."
"What do you mean?"
Looking very vexed, Rawdon explained. "The coward stood looking at me with eyes bugged out, and then gabbled an apology! Said he was sorry to have distressed me. Said I had misunderstood what he had just declared in front of half the members! Groveled away like a worm, and so—no duel."
"He just—apologized?"
Mary Robinson remarked, straight-faced, "How very civilized of him. Fighting is so untidy and disagreeable."
Another howl of laughter from Tarleton. Rawdon began to chuckle. Tavington did not think it all that amusing, but smiled civilly. "A despicable creature. 'The Profession of Arms,' indeed! What would he know about it? He wouldn't know a bayonet from an olive pick!"
"Yes, he would," Mary Robinson disagreed. "Bayonets are bigger."
More laughter. Tavington laughed himself, rather reluctantly. He heard more of the details, but as there would be no duel by dawn in this case, he decided it was time to report to Jane. After another half-hour of soldier's gossip, he took his leave. He kissed Mrs. Robinson's hand in farewell, thinking it best he not return. An hour's interlude was all very pleasant, but he had been lucky in avoiding discovery, and he needed his luck for other things too much right now to waste any more on the fair Perdita.
Once home, Tavington took Jane into the study and confessed that his idea of Mrs. Robinson being involved in their mystery was mistaken. "A blind alley, I'm afraid." He added, "I think the woman might have owed Mamma some money, but I never saw a note signed by her, and it seemed best not to take up the hint with no proof."
"Certainly not," Jane agreed.
"But you must hear what Tarleton and Rawdon had to tell me!" He briefly recounted the Duke of Richmond's insults, Rawdon's challenge, and the nobleman's craven capitulation.
"How can he bear the humiliation?" Jane wondered in disbelief.
Tavington shrugged. "What can it matter to him? At the end of the day, he's still a Duke, even if he's a sniveling poltroon. His position in society is unassailable. He's immune from disgrace, more or less. I hate the swine and his vile Fox nephews, too."
"Oh—you have a letter, William. It is on the tray over there."
He nearly gave her an impulsive kiss, feeling a little ashamed of his afternoon's escapade, but then thought better of it. Mary Robinson had been wearing a light but unusual scent. It would not do for Jane to smell another's woman's perfume on him. He would have a bath tonight. He said as much to Jane while breaking the seal on his letter. He recognized neither the seal nor the writing, but was arrested by the content.
My dear Colonel Tavington,
It has come to the attention of my associates and myself that you may have some papers that would be of interest to us. Others have approached you, but we have reason to believe that you have not settled with those applicants. Perhaps their offers have not been to your liking. Do nothing rash, I entreat you, until we have had an opportunity to present you with our own terms. Leave your reply with the landlord of the Cheshire Cheese. You will find us liberal men of business, if you do not do us the discourtesy of attempting to ignore this friendly overture.Your obedient servant,
HarmodiusTavington groaned. Jane was concerned, and asked immediately, "What is it? What is wrong?"
He considered lying about it, but that would be unfair to her. She ought to know something of their situation. "Here, read it for yourself."
She did, and frowned, "A vague promise, and a not-so-veiled threat. 'Harmodius?' What sort of name is that? A pseudonym, surely?"
"Yes, of course," he answered impatiently, In fact, it had taken him a minute to remember who in the world Harmodius had been. Then he remembered his Herodotus, and the two famous tyrants-slayers of ancient Athens: Harmodius and Aristogeiton. Radical Whigs, then, or worse—out and out Republicans, seeking to undermine the Crown.
"Those papers of your mother's must really pertain to someone in the royal family," Jane said slowly. "But to whom?"
"I would still put my money on the Prince of Wales. He's already known to be so disreputable that it is not hard to imagine him involved in something genuinely scandalous."
"How would your mother obtain any of his papers?"
"I've no idea. It must have been before we arrived. I'll continue to trace her movements and I'll see if any of the Prince's other fair companions may have some information."
"Well, at least, you were able to visit with Lord Rawdon and Colonel Tarleton today. Your visit to the Fair Perdita was not a total loss."
He grimaced. "No, indeed."
Note. The reason for Lady Melbourne's contemptuous remark about surgeons is that in the 18th century, physicians enjoyed a higher status than surgeons. What surgeons did looked suspiciously like work, and thus their status as gentlemen could be questioned.
The name "Perdita" means "She who is lost" or "A lost girl." Perdita was the role Mary Robinson played in a version of Shakespeare's A Winter's Tale, in which Perdita is the long-lost daughter of a king.
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