by Will Thomas
We were both breathing hard, not moving. We aimed our pistols at each other, but we knew mine was empty. How would I defend myself? Throw it at him?
This may have been his plan all along. Shoot an insignificant person in a “safe” country, disgrace himself, and perhaps the tsar’s title would pass to one of the innumerable grand dukes of Russia. Then he could move to Paris, marry his ballerina, and perhaps become a milkman or something.
“Your Highness?” I choked out, my mouth suddenly dry. Nicholas grasped the pistol so tightly his knuckles were white. His eyes bulged in his head. I felt like I represented everything that stood in his way.
Just then the door opened and a man walked in. The tsarevich did not hesitate. He turned and fired. The bullet missed the man’s sleeve by no more than a few inches and struck the plaster of the wall behind.
“Have a care, there, Nicky,” Prince George of Greece and Denmark drawled. “You’ll spoil my new jacket.”
Now there was a natural leader, cool as ice when fired upon, easily parrying a killing blow in Otsu, Japan, or the basement of Kensington Palace.
“I brought some champers, old fellow,” he said. “You look parched.”
A reluctant member of the palace staff entered with a small cart containing a bucket of champagne and glasses. I put out my hand. Nicholas considered for a moment, still not willing to relinquish his weapon, the only weapon he had.
Still nonchalant, George crossed to the tsarevich, traded the glass for the gun, and tossed the latter my way. I opened the cylinder and emptied out three rounds.
George stretched and yawned, still holding the delicate glass. Then he blinked.
“I’m bored, Nicky. Let’s go to the stables.”
He turned and walked out. Without a glance at me, Nicholas followed him. When they were gone, I walked to a corner and sat down facing the room. Then I held my head in my hands and tried to calm down.
For a moment there, I thought I was as dead as Pushkin.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We were traveling down Whitehall Street, having come from Kensington, and were nearing our offices when I noticed an open carriage at the curb. Barker was busy thinking, planning questions to direct at Corporal Dinsdale later that evening, so I nudged him on the side of the knee and nodded toward the cab. He stiffened. We recognized the vehicle at once.
“Philippa,” I murmured. “I wonder what brought her to London.”
Mrs. Ashleigh was the Guv’s lady friend. Their arrangement was unusual because my partner was of a much lower class and unsuitable for society. His money made him slightly more palatable to some. She owned a large estate on the coast between Seaford and Alfriston and could afford all the creature comforts, and would allow him to purchase almost nothing for her. She enjoyed being self-sufficient. He visited her on alternate Fridays if we were not elbows deep in a case, or whenever she was in London at her townhouse.
We entered and found her in residence in our chambers. Jenkins had been shooed out, and was probably at a pub somewhere.
“My dear!” Barker said, coming through the outer office and taking her hand. It was as effusive as he ever was in public. He would never kiss her in front of a partner, but then her hat precluded such an activity, anyway.
“Sit, sit,” he stated.
She did not sit; she merely subsided like a floating bubble into one of the visitor’s chairs.
“I cannot stay,” she said. “I’m seeing my solicitors in an hour.”
“When did you arrive?” Barker asked, putting his stick in the stand and his hat upon the desk.
“Yesterday,” she answered. “I’d have told you, but I’ve been quite busy.”
“And how is your uncle?” he enquired. Mrs. Ashleigh’s uncle had been unwell for some time and she occasionally came to London to look in on him.
“Oh, you didn’t know! How could you? Poor Uncle Harold passed away two days ago. I’ve been dealing with all sorts of legal matters. They are dry as dust and go on forever.”
“Then…” I began.
Barker turned his head. “Then what, Mr. Llewelyn?” he demanded, curious.
“Nothing, sir.”
I gave Philippa a pleased look and she favored me with a dazzling smile.
“Yes, Thomas, I am now Baroness Philippa Ashleigh.”
“Congratulations!” I said.
“Thank you.”
Barker sat down in his chair, not like a bubble, more like a deflating balloon. He nearly missed the chair entirely. This was a moment he had been dreading for some time. Mrs. Ashleigh was titled. She might want things now, things he could not fully control. She had the upper hand in some matters. As linked as they were to each other for so many years, there was a struggle for power, as well. Barker is elemental, but he met his match in Philippa Ashleigh, who is impervious. It was only natural that like should follow like.
“Would you care for some tea?” he asked.
“No, no, thank you. As I said, I cannot stay long. I’ve come to tell you that you shall receive a visitor soon and I want you to be polite. Listen to him. Agree to everything and don’t be stubborn.”
My partner sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Colonel Waverly of Buckingham Palace, perhaps? He came this morning.”
She wilted. Like most redheaded women, she is very pale, and the powder she wore to give her face color soiled her gloves as she pinched the bridge of her nose.
“You turned him down, didn’t you?” she said in a small voice.
“I did.”
“I worked all day yesterday to bring that about, wheedling and flattering and cajoling,” she said. “I kowtowed to people I despise, lunched with old women who have great power but have never read a book. I compromised my principles. I practically begged, and you turned him down.”
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he replied evenly. “Apparently, you informed everyone but me.”
“I was late from that dratted lunch. Countess Wynn-Scott tends to ramble. I came as soon as I could get away. Drat all colonels. They are so deucedly punctual.”
Barker looked scandalized. “Such language, Philippa!”
“You have not heard the language I’m carrying in my head, Cyrus. It would blister your ears. We discussed this!”
“We did, but I made you no promises. You are not the only one floundering in deep waters. I have sworn to protect the tsarevich. I consider the possibility of war between Russia and England to be of more importance than an OVM.”
“That’s OBM,” Philippa corrected. “As you know perfectly well. Mr. Llewelyn, may we have the room?”
I stood, wondering where I should go. I could already hear her voice rose as I stepped out into the street. I was at sixes and sevens before I realized that she was a friend of Rebecca’s now, as well. She stopped by our house in the City when she was in town, and might be planning to visit her next. I had to beat her to the punch if I did not want to find myself in Barker’s situation. Frantically, I began waving my arms to attract a cab, in danger of knocking people’s hats off.
An interminable half hour later I put a pound note in the cabman’s hand and jumped down to the pavement in Camomile Street. There was no carriage at the curb and I hoped my wife was alone.
I stepped inside the front door. The maid did not see me until I reached the sitting room, where Rebecca was seated alone. She didn’t rise and kiss me. That was the only sign I needed. She already knew. I held out my stick and hat to the maid, but I dropped them. The clatter of the stick on the parquet floor made me jump.
“You heard?” I asked. “She already came?”
“Philippa?” Rebecca murmured. “Yes, she called. Mr. Barker is going to receive an OBM! How exciting!”
I swallowed. She only knew the half of it. I had to break the news to her. I didn’t know which would be more difficult, her knowing or her not knowing.
“Mr. Barker refused the offer, Rebecca,” I said.
She rose, not in anger, but complete surprise.
“He refused it? Whatever for? He earned it, Thomas!”
“I’m not completely certain why,” I said. “He said he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. For example, he never wants his photograph or a sketch of his likeness in the newspapers.”
“But darling,” she protested. “Mr. Barker is one of the most distinctive-looking men in London. I’m sure hundreds know who he is.”
“He is,” I agreed. “I wondered if he felt that others would think he was unworthy of the honor, being lowborn. Being wealthy doesn’t make one part of the set.”
“Does that even matter to him?” she asked.
“To him personally?” I replied. “No, but it does to Philippa.”
“But Thomas, that is why she planned this, so he would be more welcome.”
“I suspect he doesn’t like to be got ’round.”
Rebecca blinked and crossed her arms. “And you?”
“Colonel Waverly offered me some sort of medal. He didn’t specify which it would be because I am so young.”
“And?” she asked, holding her hands to her cheeks as if she were afraid of the answer.
“I turned it down.”
“Why?” she asked sharply, crossing her arms.
“Because Barker did.”
Rebecca breathed in and out quickly. “But you earned it, Thomas! You saved the prince’s life.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
My wife clapped her hands to her ears as if she didn’t want to hear any more. “It would have made you more acceptable to my family. You’d be a hero.”
“I’m no different than I was last week,” I argued. “They can accept me or they cannot accept me. It’s their choice.”
She sniffed. I was in the untenable position of both wanting to comfort her and being the one who caused the need to be comforted. I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and she wiped her eyes.
“It’s about honor, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Yes,” I admitted. “I couldn’t accept if he didn’t. It would be disloyal.”
“I don’t understand,” she protested. “What is honor but an arbitrary set of rules made up by schoolboys? Why do men with wives and children suddenly rush off to war when there are plenty of unmarried ones to do it? What is that? What does it mean? What is duty and honor?”
“I did not make the rules,” I said.
“I thought we make decisions together.”
“We do. It was stupid. Honor is stupid, sometimes. But I’ll abide by it all the same. I won’t consider myself a man if I don’t.”
She sat down again on a hassock.
“Where’s Philippa?” she asked.
“When I last saw her, she was in our office, giving my partner a few stern words.”
“I wish I had that gift.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I came here immediately afterward.”
“Could you do something for me?” she asked. “Could you go to the colonel and tell him you changed your mind? I’m sure he’d listen to reason.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I can’t.”
“Think about it a few days. You needn’t answer right away.”
“It’s still no.”
“Let us begin again,” she said. “I need to understand this. Mr. Barker saved the life of the tsarevich, and to an even greater extent you saved the life of Prince George mere days before his wedding. You both deserve the honor, yet Mr. Barker refused the honor. Do you know why?”
“I’m afraid I don’t,” I answered. “It was a complete surprise to me, but then the offer itself was a surprise. Her Majesty’s equerry came earlier in the week to give us a good grilling. He certainly took us apart like a watch and studied every cog. We assumed that was that.”
“You must have had some inkling,” Rebecca said.
“I assumed he thought that ushering a foreign leader to a palace door did not justify such an honor. He may also have thought that my tackling an assassin who had already discharged his weapon was not worthy, either. Had it been a real gun the man was holding, the royal bridegroom would be dead, and I late to the party.”
“Her Majesty’s government did not believe so. I’m certain they discussed the matter thoroughly before offering such an award.”
“Ah, yes, but Mrs. Ashleigh, that is, Baroness Ashleigh, has been using all the influence at her disposal to make the offer available. Mr. Barker might have felt he did not deserve it. He takes chivalry very seriously.”
“Would he have become Sir Cyrus Barker?” Rebecca asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. It wasn’t mentioned. However, that is thorny in itself. If he were made a knight—and understand, the Guv would like that very much in itself—it would forever separate him from all his East End associates and friends. He could no longer receive information from the underground network that he has long cultivated. There would be a wall between them. He wouldn’t be ‘Push’ anymore. He’d be too grand, you see.”
“What is ‘Push’?” she asked, puzzled.
“It is his moniker in the East End. It’s Cockney rhyming slang. Push for ‘push-comes-to-shove,’ which rhymes with Guv.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” my wife said, staring at me intently.
“The name doesn’t matter,” I replied. “If he became ‘Sir’ he could not perform his duties in the East End, some of which he could not complete a case without. That’s all there is to it.”
“Do you believe he would refuse such an honor and any similar ones in the future?” she asked.
“Perhaps.”
“Therefore, you would be forced to do the same in perpetuity.”
“I would hope not,” I said. “If I earned it, he would say I deserved it. If I didn’t, however, it would gall me whenever I pinned it on.”
The maid brought in a tea tray and set it upon a table. Rebecca stared at the tea leaves as if they might predict the future. She wasn’t seeing the tray at all. She was miles away.
“You do understand that many, perhaps most men would not care a fig as long as it would make their wives happy,” she said. “That is another form of chivalry.”
“I know. Chivalry, honor, duty; it’s very complicated.”
She gave a long, shivering sigh as if she were admitting defeat. “Sir Thomas Llewelyn would have been nice to present to my parents and friends. They don’t care for you very much.”
“I don’t believe my being knighted would help, and anyway, there was no discussion of receiving a knighthood.”
That was not strictly true. Colonel Waverly had made an offer, but it was off the cuff, because Barker had refused his.
“I don’t like this case,” she stated. “You are risking your life for little or no reward, for a young man you do not respect.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. “I will most certainly admit to that.”
“Mr. Barker’s sense of honor grinds exceedingly fine,” she added.
“On that we can agree. You know, I didn’t have so much a sense of honor before I met him. I suppose it is contagious.”
“Like a disease,” Rebecca said.
I looked away.
“You are the loser here, Thomas. And Philippa, and I. Even Mr. Barker comes away empty-handed. What was he thinking?”
“I don’t know, Rebecca,” I answered. “He doesn’t reveal his plans to me. Generally speaking, however, everything works out for him. I’m not sure whether he is incredibly lucky or if he leads a charmed life.”
She sighed. “You’re not the easiest person to be married to, Thomas Llewelyn.”
“I suppose not,” I admitted. “But if you’d married a man without honor, what kind of husband would that be?”
“I’m sorry,” she answered. “I still don’t understand, but I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
I stepped forward, but she put out a hand as sturdy as a brick wall.
“Not yet,” she said. “I’m still angry. Perhaps in a few hours I will forgiv
e you. Perhaps not. We shall see by dinner. No medal, Thomas. What were you thinking? They aren’t like daisies one can pick anytime. Now go.”
I went, feeling like the total cad I doubtless was. I was also confused. If there is a choice between a wife and one’s honor, how does one choose?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Later that evening I was sitting sprawled in my easy chair, an unread book in my lap, and one foot swinging slightly in the air to show I was thinking. Rebecca was reading Charlotte Brontë; I don’t recall which book. I’ve long forgotten which book I was attempting to read, as well. I was too full of energy to read a book, which is saying something.
We had hardly spoken since that afternoon. She hadn’t forgiven me, but she was too self-contained to express her feelings on the matter. If I asked her a question, I would receive the briefest response and she had not begun a proper conversation since I had returned. Dinner had been a quiet affair. Once or twice she gave Barker a scathing glance.
“What o’clock is it, dear?” I asked.
“A few minutes past seven o’clock,” she replied. Then she frowned. “Why? Are you thinking of going out?”
“I am,” I replied. “I’ve got a question rattling about in my head. How would you fancy a drive?”
She put down her book. “Really? Are you asking me to accompany you on an errand involving a case?”
“Thought I might.”
“Is this a blatant attempt to cajole me into a better mood?”
“The most blatant.”
“Is it dangerous?” she asked. “Is it in the East End?”
“No to both questions,” I answered. “It’s at the British Museum, actually. Or rather, he is. He’s a friend of sorts.”
“Does your friend have a name?” Rebecca asked.
“He does.”
“Might I be permitted to know it?”
“You may, yes.”
“You think you’re so clever, Mr. Thomas Llewelyn. Very well, you’ve piqued my curiosity. Who are we visiting?”
“You’ll never know unless you get ready,” I replied. “Do you think you could manage it in a quarter hour? We need to be somewhere at the stroke of eight.”