“That will be rectified once it is learned that you are back. Castlereagh will find something for you to do.”
They stopped in a clearing beyond a screen of trees. Daniel handed over a sheet of paper and Adrian carried it to a tree twenty paces away.
“Head or heart, Daniel?”
“Head.”
Daniel flipped open the box. Nestled atop the pistols was a little blue velvet purse. Cursing under his breath, he tucked it in his pocket.
He knew that it contained one hundred pounds. When he had given Louis this property ten years ago, he had refused any payment. The old chevalier had other ideas, however, and with regularity the pound notes would appear, but never put in his hand. Whether intended as rent or toward purchase, Daniel did not know.
“Ready,” Adrian said.
Daniel handed him one of the pistols and loaded his own. They faced the tree, where the paper had been attached at the height of a man’s head.
Adrian fired. The ball hit low and wide, chipping off a chunk of tree trunk.
“You are still a terrible shot.”
“I would have hit his shoulder.”
“His left shoulder, which means he can still fire back. You must hit the head or the heart, Adrian. The head or the heart.”
Daniel raised his own pistol and aimed. “Why doesn’t Dupré need a secretary anymore?”
“Didn’t I explain that? He won’t be writing treatises for a while. He has come to England.”
Daniel’s gaze snapped to Adrian as the pistol fired. The shot missed, wildly.
Adrian pointed to the pristine white paper. His dark eyes glinted. “It appears that you missed, Daniel. Remember, the head or the heart.”
“My presence in his household became a burden,” Adrian explained as they strolled back to the house. “It was obvious that he harbored a great secret and important plans. He feared that I would learn of them.”
“But why come to England? He should be preparing to announce his discovery in Paris, to remind the world of the brilliance of the French mind.”
“I’m not convinced that he plans to announce it in Paris. He was not writing a treatise and even missed several important scientific assemblies.”
“Did he bring the manuscript with him?”
Adrian shrugged. “Perhaps he plans to arrange a demonstration here. Reminding the world of French brilliance would be even more effective if you did it in the capital of France’s conqueror.”
If Adrian was right, it would be perfect. The humiliation of failure would be twice that in Paris. It would be a fitting punishment for a man whose vanity had obliterated his humanity.
Unfortunately, he doubted Dupré intended such a thing. More likely he had something very different in mind, and Daniel suspected what it was.
Vanity had succumbed to a more powerful vice.
Greed.
Daniel contemplated whether that heralded trouble.
The Dueling Society was dismounting from horses when they arrived at the house. Vergil Duclairc hailed them and came over with Julian Hampton, the young solicitor whom Daniel now used for business affairs.
“Will you be joining us, St. John?” Vergil asked.
“I have had my lesson. I must return to town.” It was the truth, but he would not have stayed in any case. He avoided being absorbed into this group, much as he envied their camaraderie. He really had little in common with them in terms of history or goals or occupation.
As with his social circles and his neighbors in Mayfair, he moved among them, but was not really a part of them. Furthermore, they were children of their class, and when the time came that would matter more than any friendship with the likes of him. They would never side with him against one of their own. If he permitted these friendships to grow, there would have to be betrayals eventually.
Vergil and Hampton aimed to the house. Daniel caught Adrian before he followed.
“If you can resist the offer of a mission from the Foreign Secretary, I would appreciate your services for a while longer. Find out where Dupré is staying. Keep an eye on him if you can.”
chapter 10
The trouble with money was that one never had enough of it.
Andrew Tyndale considered that unfortunate truth as he sat in his garden, sipping tea. He did not need to peruse any accounts to know things were getting leaner than he liked. A continual balance had run in his head since the day he came of age.
Fate had dealt him a cruel blow in making him the brother of a marquess instead of the marquess himself. Worse, his older brother had proven not only stingy, but robust and virile. Three strapping nephews now stood between Andrew and the title.
He never stopped resenting that, but he had learned to make his own way. He wielded more power in the Commons than his brother did in the House of Lords. Through shrewd investments and a profitable marriage, he had built his own wealth. Of course, it had all depended on the bold move he had made as a young man. Without that, he would not have had the money for those investments. Katy would have never considered him without that fortune he had unexpectedly come upon.
Memories of Katy slid into his head. She had been waifish and pretty, with a childish manner. For a few months he had felt like a different man. Unfortunately, he had discovered quickly that she was also stupid and tiresome, and that being a different man wasn’t very interesting. She whined when she was unhappy, which meant that she whined a lot. By the time she died, he had been relieved to be free of her.
The butler approached with the morning mail. Andrew flipped through the invitations. He paused at one with a familiar penmanship.
As expected, there were no words, only a date. A very special diversion awaited him tomorrow night.
The inside of his mouth thickened as he imagined the gift. Mrs. P. had better have found one who was truly a virgin this time. The last girl had not been, he was sure, despite her cries to the contrary and Mrs. P.’s reassurances. He set the letter aside and suppressed the anticipatory arousal making his loins stir.
The butler returned, looking dismayed. “There is a gentleman who has called. I told him you were not receiving, but he is insistent.”
“It is an uncivilized hour to call, so he cannot be a gentleman after all.”
“Of course. However, he claims an old association.” He held out the salver.
Andrew snatched the card with exasperation. When he glanced at it, his awareness took a little jolt. He had not seen the name, nor the man who owned it, in over twenty years.
He debated continuing the disassociation. Curiosity got the better of him. So did suspicion and concern.
“Put him in the library. I will see him.”
Gustave Dupré examined the shelves in the library. They held a predictable collection of classics and a few modern masterpieces on natural history. It was the sort of intellectual showcase owned by men who considered themselves educated, but who never bent any bindings after they left university.
These bindings were very expensive, as was the room and house in which they were displayed. Andrew had done very well for himself. But then, he had the kind of mind that would always find profit in a situation, and pursue it. He liked money more than was tasteful. The best blood might flow in his veins, but his heart was that of a tradesman.
Gustave ruefully admitted that Andrew also had the talent for executing plans with precision, and for instilling the kind of trust in people that assured the plans would work. Gustave himself lacked that ability and quality.
Which was why he was here today.
“It is surprising to see you, Dupré. We agreed never to meet again.”
Gustave turned abruptly. He disliked being caught unawares, and remembered that Tyndale could be slippery in that quiet way of his. He remembered that those plans sometimes worked out differently than people expected, because Tyndale often kept bits of information to himself.
Well, not this time.
“I decided to visit London. After all, half of Engla
nd is visiting Paris,” Gustave said.
“If you have left your own library to peruse mine, there must be a better reason than taking a holiday.”
The reference to his library made Gustave uncomfortable. It was bad form for Tyndale to speak of it. The temptation to return a similar allusion to Tyndale’s own gains almost overwhelmed him.
Gustave decided to get to the reason he had broken the old agreement. “I have made a major discovery. One that will change the world as we know it.” It was the first time he had put that into words and they rushed out with all of his pent-up excitement. He had intended to sound very bland, as if, for him, such a discovery was an everyday occurrence.
Tyndale barely turned a hair. He withdrew his snuffbox and took a pinch. “It cannot have been all that significant. If it had been, I would have read of it. Another proof?”
Gustave felt his color rise at this further allusion to the past. “You have not read of it because I have told no one.”
“Why not? Your reputation is your greatest concern. Accolades are to you what land is to other men.”
And what pound notes and virgins are to you. “I have not revealed this discovery because it has a practical application. A revolutionary one.” That got Tyndale’s attention. Gustave paused for effect. “This discovery will make the men who possess it wealthy.”
Tyndale absorbed that while he took another pinch of snuff. “How wealthy?”
“It cannot be calculated, it would be so massive. However, exploiting this discovery will require money.”
“And so you have come to me. Why not offer it to some of your own countrymen?”
Gustave smiled, feeling rather clever. Almost as clever as Tyndale could be. “Because I know that you will not dare to cross me.”
Tyndale’s eyes turned icy. “Is that a threat, Dupré?”
“It is a reminder.”
“How much will this discovery require?”
“I calculate five thousand to start, to convince industrialists of its practicality.”
“Five thousand, out of hand! You misunderstand my financial position.”
“Once you learn what is at stake, you will find a way to get it.”
Tyndale appeared unimpressed. His attention began drifting. Gustave considered that he had not handled the discussion very well. He should have dangled the prize more specifically before mentioning the five thousand.
Tyndale looked at him, scrutinizing. Gustave watched the notion of massive profit reclaim his interest.
“Tell me about this wonderful discovery of yours, old friend.”
Gustave hesitated. Putting it into words would mean losing some control. He had no intention of being one of those men who never saw a franc from his scientific work. He knew from experience that Tyndale could not really be trusted either. For a moment he wondered if the threat of exposure about what had happened years ago was enough to keep this man honest.
He took a deep breath. He would tell Tyndale about the discovery, but never let him know the details of how it was accomplished.
Crystal goblets and silver forks.
Balls and parties and afternoon calls.
Punch and cocoa, cakes and tea.
The Countess of Glasbury kept Diane busy every day, every evening. The countess, or Penelope as she asked Diane to address her, might be outrée to some, but most of London’s drawing rooms opened to her. Diane met duchesses and poets, impresarios and earls.
The season had started and London was busy. In the grand houses of Mayfair and Grosvenor Square, in the theater boxes and dining rooms, a colorful pageant of privilege played out.
It was enough to turn a girl’s head.
Enough to silence the questions and obscure the void.
Enough to make her not mind that Daniel’s help in finding her family kept being delayed. Her disappointment every morning at discovering him already gone from the house got quickly drowned in the preparations for more calls and parties, in the intoxicating attention of men young and old, in the illusion that she was accepted and that this was her world.
But it was an illusion. Diane admitted that to herself one evening as a maid dressed her hair for a ball. Looking into the glass, watching the piles of her thick tresses being scrunched and pinned, the frivolous joy disappeared in a blink.
She stared at her own features and, as she had so often at school, scoured her mind for memories of similar eyes and lips. Sometimes when she did that, phantom images would come to her of these eyes looking back, but not reflected in a glass.
The people she met all belonged to someone else whom she met. There were connections of birth and marriage, of schools and politics. She belonged to no one. Certainly not the countess. Not even Jeanette and Daniel, despite the lie that she was a cousin.
She dismissed the maid and opened her window to the early spring chill. Twilight was falling and pink and gold lights glowed in the garden below. In the distance a disturbance rumbled, with sharp notes carried on the wind.
It was another demonstration. The drawing rooms and theaters might be a pageant of gaiety, but in the streets another drama dragged on, one of frustration and discontent. The sacrifices of war had been shouldered stoicly, but after several years of peace the people were rebelling against the continued privations.
She had grown accustomed to that sound, but tonight it might have been the blare of a horn calling her to her true fate.
She felt her hair and fingered her gown. She filled her mind with beautiful, exciting images from the last two weeks. It did not help. She might have been back at school, standing beside the chipped washbowl, wearing braids and an old sack gown.
The void swelled, bursting out of the place where she restrained it. It grew until it filled her heart. Its vacancy quaked with a loneliness so intense that it brought tears to her eyes.
All the parties in the world would never fill it, never make it go away.
Diane barely had time to catch her breath at Lady Starbridge’s ball. Young men lined up to be introduced and to ask for a dance. The Countess of Glasbury did her duty as chaperon.
Daniel kept his eye on the spot near the terrace windows where the countess held court. He saw her discourage a gentleman known to be a rake. Instead she favored the fourth son of a baronet, a man of little fortune who would not find a shipper’s cousin too far below him.
His reaction to that was quick annoyance, and he had to look away in order to swallow the jealousy. It was getting harder to do that, but he could hardly tell the countess that Diane should not be pushed at eligible men. Playing matchmaker was part of the fun of being a chaperon.
Diane accepted the offer to dance and swept into his view. It was a waltz, and the fourth son of a baronet smiled as he spun her around the chamber. Diane looked so happy, so lovely, that Daniel could not take his eyes off her.
His view of the dance turned into a daze of colored gowns and flickering lights, of hazy bodies and floating movements. Only one figure remained clear and sharp. Diane became a detailed, beautiful woman sliding amidst a watercolor.
Suddenly another figure loomed crisply. Across the room a man stood out, immobile and vivid, intruding on the hazy dream. His eyes followed Diane too. He examined her so completely that he did not notice Daniel watching.
The rest of the chamber lost substance. Even Diane grew dim. Daniel saw only the man and the tiny calculating lights barely visible in that gaze.
So. It had happened.
Diane had caught Andrew Tyndale’s attention.
A rebellious yell swelled in Daniel’s chest. He clenched his teeth against it and kept his gaze on the only other person who now existed in the room.
Other images came to him, of that face and those eyes in another chamber, in another time. Of a sincere smile and soothing voice offering salvation. Of trust born of desperation. Of good people forgetting that sometimes evil doesn’t announce itself, and that devils have the same forms as angels.
The memories killed the rebel
lion and evoked other emotions, bitter ones, and a resolve so cold it crystallized his blood.
You do not know me, but I know you. I know what you did. I know what you are.
The music ended. Tyndale’s gaze followed a path toward the terrace windows.
Tearing his attention away from Tyndale, Daniel found Diane again. It was her progress that Tyndale watched. Tyndale began walking toward the countess.
Daniel enjoyed one instant of dark satisfaction. Then abruptly, unaccountably, he lost total hold on the resolve and the memories. A chaos of primitive energy made him move.
Tyndale could wait. It all could wait. It had waited years. Decades. Another month or two would not matter.
He reached the windows before Tyndale. The fourth son of a baronet had not left and was chatting with the countess and Diane. Daniel positioned himself so that the three of them formed a protective circle around Diane, one that Tyndale could only breach by being rude.
The countess introduced Daniel to Diane’s fawning dance partner. He pretended he was glad to make the acquaintance of ruddy-faced, plump-cheeked, round-eyed Christopher Meekum.
Diane immediately excused herself to go to the withdrawing room. The countess decided to go too. As she brushed past, Diane tilted her head toward Daniel.
“His older brother is involved with canals up north,” she whispered behind her fan.
She was alerting him to the business that might be done and the benefits in knowing this admirer. She was trying to fulfill her side of the bargain.
She had no idea that she would do so, only not the way she expected.
A hot pain seared his chest as he watched her walk away. For an instant he hated himself as thoroughly as he did Tyndale.
“I wonder why they always do that,” Meekum mused.
“Do what?”
“Withdraw together. Have you ever noticed that it is never just one. I mean, I never take a companion when I, well, you know.”
“I am glad to hear it. As for the ladies, I suspect that they go together so that they can talk in privacy.”
The Seducer Page 10