After a brief awkward silence, Alistair spoke in his usual soft drawl. ‘Yes, he’s dead, and at just the wrong moment. That’s why we need you.’
‘Me?’ Max asked, his brows drawing together. ‘Why should I be needed in such a case?’
‘We need you to be me,’ Alistair replied with the ghost of a smile.
Chapter Three
‘To be you?’ Max exclaimed. ‘What the deuce do you mean?’
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said Hampson, in the tone of one who clearly felt that it was time he regained control of the situation. ‘Your Grace, pray let me enlighten Mr Persault. ’
‘I’d be deuced glad if someone would,’ said Max frankly.
‘Very well,’ Hampson responded, indicating to Boughton that he should fetch the decanter and refill everyone’s glass. ‘I don’t know whether you are aware that your cousin has been spending a good deal of time on the Continent recently?’
Max nodded. ‘In Italy, wasn’t it?’
Alistair smiled faintly. ‘Gambling, flirting and drinking my away around the courts of any princeling who’ll have me,’ he agreed, extracting his snuff box from inside his coat and taking a pinch.
‘A useful fiction, cooked up for the benefit of the curious,’ Hampson corrected. ‘In fact, your cousin has been in France.’
Max looked incredulous. ‘In France? Alistair, that’s where they execute people who look like you.’
‘I don’t look like this when I’m in France,’ Alistair replied.
‘So what have you been doing?’
Instead of answering, Alistair got up from his place and walked back to his position at the window. Hampson glanced briefly at his back, then said ‘His Grace’s activities have been many and varied. Just now, he is procuring vital information concerning the remaining members of the royal family – principally the Queen and the Dauphin.’
‘But surely, now they have executed the King, they will be satisfied,’ said Max.
‘They will not stop there,’ Hampson told him. ‘Remember the traditional cry—’
‘Le roi est mort! Vive le roi!’ said Alistair in perfectly accented French, without turning round. Max recalled that his cousin’s grandmother on his father’s side had been French, and that he had spent some of his formative years in France.
‘Do you know how old King Louis XVII is?’ Sir Stafford Prince asked his stepson. ‘He is eight years old. Eight, Max! His father was executed in January. We have now heard just this week that he has been separated from his mother. For what purpose, do you suppose?’
Max stared at his stepfather. At the outset, the French Revolution had had its English supporters, who believed that reform of a corrupt system was desperately needed. The execution of Louis XVI in January of that year, however, had alienated many people’s sympathies, obviously Sir Stafford’s among them. The baronet had always seemed an amiable, even-tempered man, if anything rather indifferent towards politics. He sounded anything but indifferent now.
‘Good God! You are going to attempt a rescue,’ said Max, looking round at the assembled company.
‘Mr Persault!’ exclaimed Hampson urgently. ‘We must not take anything for granted, even if we are in a safe house.’
Sir Stafford got up, walked to the door, opened it and went out onto the landing. ‘Higgins?’ he called. ‘Is anything untoward?’
‘All’s well, sir,’ the voice called back.
‘Very well,’ said Hampson, after the door was closed once more. He sighed. ‘Something must be attempted. Louis-Charles should never have been king. He had an older brother who died in 1789, leaving Louis-Charles as the Dauphin. Now, with his father’s untimely death, he is the uncrowned King of France and the hope of the royalists. The revolutionaries have killed his father. They cannot allow the boy to live.’
‘Why should they execute a child?’ Max asked. ‘He cannot have offended against the state, surely.’
Alistair laughed humourlessly. ‘What do you think was the charge against Louis XVI? High treason! Once France had been declared a republic, any monarch by virtue of his very existence would have to be a traitor.’
Sir Stafford nodded solemnly. ‘Little Louis-Charles will be executed because of who he is, not because of anything he has done – unless we do something about it.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ said Max. ‘What I do not see is where I fit in.’
‘It’s quite simple,’ said Alistair. ‘I returned to England to receive further instructions. It was while I was here that the death of my grandfather occurred. This means that I am now Duke of Haslingfield, with all the attendant responsibilities that the position entails. Fortunately, I shall not be expected to take my seat in the House until the autumn. However, my accession to the dukedom does make me more noticeable.’
‘We have no way of knowing how many people connect M. Variens – as your cousin is known in France – with His Grace the Duke of Haslingfield,’ Hampson put in. ‘It is safest if we assume that some will have their suspicions. But if we can muddy the waters a little, then that might make His Grace’s task all the easier, and gain us some time.’
‘And we propose to do that by having you masquerade as me,’ Alistair put in.
‘I can’t do that!’ Max exclaimed. ‘Am I the only one who has perceived a major stumbling block to this enterprise? Has no one looked at us side by side? I am nothing like Alistair. Not even a short-sighted person seeing me at a distance from the back on a gloomy evening would be fooled. How can this possibly be carried out?’
‘Quite easily,’ replied Hampson. ‘We propose to send you to one of the duke’s estates which he has never visited, and where he is not known.’
‘I suspect you have one in mind,’ said Max.
‘Yes, I do,’ said Hampson. ‘The estate just outside Cromer would do admirably. There is a skeleton staff there. It’s small, it’s out of the way, and no duke has visited in years.’
‘Then why the deuce should any duke wish to go there now?’ Max asked.
Alistair raised an eyebrow. ‘We great men have our whims, you know.’
‘Do we indeed?’
Hampson cleared his throat. ‘By your leave, gentlemen. With any luck, Mr Persault, you should be able to arrive with a severe chill and take yourself off to bed.’
‘I’ve never had a chill. I don’t believe I’ve ever had a day’s illness in my life.’
‘It’s quite true, you know,’ put in Alistair. ‘The fellow is quite tiresomely robust – almost vulgarly so, in fact.’
‘Well, you will just have to pretend,’ said Hampson.
‘There’s no need for such measures,’ said Sir Stafford. ‘The place is out of the way. All he need do is live very retired.’
‘For how long?’ Max asked.
‘Until His Grace appears.’
‘Which will be – when?’
Alistair shrugged in a way that made it clear how easily he could pass for a Frenchman. ‘When my task is accomplished; or at least until I can do no more.’
Max caught hold of his arm. ‘Alistair, surely you must see how impossible this is?’ Alistair glanced down at his sleeve. He released it, and the older man brushed it as if to smooth out the creases. ‘Poseur!’ Max exclaimed.
‘Perhaps,’ Alistair replied. For a moment, his mask slipped and he looked deadly serious. ‘Max, I need to have someone to cover my back – someone I can trust, without even thinking about it.’
There was a brief silence. ‘What do you say?’ Hampson asked. ‘Will you do this for us?’
Max stared at his cousin. ‘Is there any possibility of your succeeding?’ he asked.
Alistair returned his gaze. ‘The chance is slight; I judge it to be worth the risk.’
‘Your cousin’s mission is a perilous one,’ put in Hampson. ‘I have absolutely no doubt that if you help us in this way, his position will be much safer, and his success and survival much more likely.’
Eventually, Max grinned ruefully. ‘Then what c
an I say?’ he answered resignedly. A collective sigh of relief passed through those assembled there, which he halted by raising his hand. ‘There is one condition: Abdas Okoro comes with me.’
‘Abdas…?’ queried Hampson.
‘Okoro,’ Max finished. ‘As my travelling companion.’
‘This cannot be permitted,’ said Hampson decisively.
‘Why not?’ Max asked. ‘I doubt whether you will allow me to travel as I would wish – on horseback with the saddle-bags as my only luggage.’
‘Certainly not!’ Hampson agreed. ‘You will need an entourage, of course.’
‘Then Abdas can be part of that.’
‘Out of the question,’ Hampson declared.
Max stood up. ‘Then you find someone else to undertake your masquerade,’ he said, moving towards the door.
With the exception of the duke, the other men looked at one another in consternation. A small smile hovered over the duke’s lips as he took out his snuff box and helped himself to a pinch.
‘Mr Persault, you must see that this is impossible,’ Hampson said in the kind of tone that might be used in reasoning with a six-year-old. ‘We will only be employing trusted men to accompany you.’
Max stared at him for a long moment. ‘Precisely,’ he answered. ‘You tell me that I can trust them, when I have never met them. I know that I can trust Abdas Okoro with my life. My cousin needs someone at his back whom he can trust. So do I. Deny me this, and you may kiss goodbye to my involvement in this scheme.’
Again, the men looked round at one another. Alistair put his snuff box away. ‘Gentlemen, if my cousin vouches for this man, then you can be certain that he is to be trusted.’
Boughton cleared his throat. ‘If I might be permitted to speak,’ he said. ‘I am acquainted with Mr Okoro in a business capacity, and judge him to be trustworthy.’
Hampson sighed. ‘In that case, we agree to your terms,’ he said.
Max lifted his arms, his hands open as a gesture of acknowledgement. ‘Then I’m your man.’
‘Mr Persault, we are in your debt,’ said Hampson.
‘Call him “Your Grace”,’ said Alistair. ‘He might as well get used to it.’
‘I suppose you realize I don’t even look like a duke,’ Max pointed out.
‘That is true,’ Alistair agreed, walking around him slowly. ‘You look like a Thames bargee, in fact.’
‘We can soon attend to that, Mr Persault,’ said Boughton earnestly. ‘We have arranged for you to be measured and for new clothes to be made for you.’
Max frowned. ‘You have arranged? You take a good deal for granted, by God.’
Alistair raised his brows. ‘Haughty! That tone should do it,’ he said.
‘What of my mother and Ruth? They will be expecting me.’
‘Leave them to me,’ said Sir Stafford. ‘I’ll tell a story that will satisfy them.’
Max looked at him with a narrowed gaze. ‘There’s considerably more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there?’
Being referred to as ‘Your Grace’ was not the only thing that Max found himself obliged to get used to over the next few days. Another was the quantity of clothes that the other men seemed to think that he should need.
‘Your mother would be delighted,’ Sir Stafford remarked, before he left for Warwickshire. ‘What a pity I won’t be able to tell her.’ His story was to be that a return voyage to Spain could not be undertaken without Max’s presence, since some delicate negotiation had to be conducted which only he could do with any authority.
‘Pray send her my regrets, and assure her that I will wait upon her as soon as may be.’
‘And looking as fine as fivepence, no doubt.’
‘I shall look like a damned dandy,’ Max grumbled later, as he was asked to pronounce on the fabric for yet another coat. ‘Four evening coats! Five day coats, and breeches too – not to mention riding clothes! What the deuce do I want with it all? And as for shirts! Mind you,’ he went on, looking down at his feet, ‘I like the boots.’
‘It is necessary to have all those clothes because I have that many clothes,’ Alistair explained patiently, not for the first time. ‘If you arrive looking like a brigand camping out, and with no more than a change of linen, no one will be deceived for a moment.’
There was a gentle knock on the door, and a discreet-looking individual entered. ‘Your choice for the fabrics that I left with you, sir?’ he murmured.
Alistair turned to the samples of fabric that had been laid out on the table. ‘The maroon, I think, and the silver grey.’
‘An excellent choice if I may say so,’ replied the discreet individual, as he bowed and withdrew.
‘You might show a little interest,’ said Alistair mournfully after the man had gone. Max’s response was a shrug. ‘Anyway,’ his cousin went on, ‘you may console yourself with the thought that you need never buy another item of clothing as long as you live.’
‘That is a great comfort to me,’ Max assured him sincerely.
In truth, the thing that horrified him more than the clothes he was to wear was the fact that Alistair insisted on his getting used to his hair being powdered. ‘Either powder, or we cut all your hair off and put you in a wig,’ his cousin told him.
‘Why?’ Max exclaimed. ‘I’ve never worn powder in my life.’
‘To hide one’s real hair colour makes an excellent disguise,’ Alistair explained, ‘especially when you are so dark and I am so fair. Once out in the provinces, where no one has ever seen either of us, you may do as you please.’
‘That’ll make a change,’ Max muttered.
A third thing which Max was obliged to endure was the purchase of a number of items on his behalf, all financed by the ducal estate, including a coach and horses, together with a pleasure carriage and a gig, both of which were timed to arrive in Cromer two days after his own appearance. ‘Why can’t I ride?’ he asked, when Hampson came to consult him upon the fittings of the said coach. His own horse, Filigree, was to travel with the later party, ridden by a groom.
‘Because you are a duke, Your Grace, and you will be expected to arrive in style,’ Hampson replied patiently. ‘The less people find themselves questioning your actions, the less suspicion there will be about who you really are.’
‘Indeed,’ Alistair agreed. ‘Really, Hampson, your patience has been remarkable, considering the recalcitrance of my oaf of a cousin.’
Max coloured slightly. ‘You are very right,’ he responded. ‘I don’t know how you’ve borne with me, Hampson. But I am what I am, and frankly, I’ve no interest in what colour the cushions and fittings of this damned coach are to be. Black, white, orange or pink with turquoise spots, it’s all the same to me.’
‘No, is it really?’ Alistair asked him, his eyebrows raised.
Max laughed. ‘Well, perhaps not pink,’ he conceded. ‘Otherwise, I’m quite indifferent.’
‘Let it be green,’ said Alistair, after a moment’s thought. ‘Sea green.’
‘Aye, that’ll do,’ Max agreed with a grin.
Eventually, everything had been purchased that was judged to be necessary, and all Max’s clothes had either been made, or were in the making, to be sent on to the address of the ducal estate near Cromer. He would also be taking with him some clothes for Alistair, to be available when his cousin joined him. ‘You may be happy to wander around looking like a conscripted sailor, but I am not,’ Alistair remarked.
The plan was that they would leave together in the new carriage. A coachman, a footman and two outriders had been newly employed for this mission. The backgrounds of the men had been carefully looked into. Nevertheless, all were starting work in the belief that Max was the Duke of Haslingfield. ‘What they don’t know, they can’t give away,’ Alistair remarked laconically.
For the same reason, the skeleton staff at present in residence would not be augmented until Max’s arrival. ‘At present, there is only a bailiff, a head groom and a caretaker,’ Hampson expla
ined, at a planning meeting attended by himself, Max and Alistair. ‘The bailiff lives in his own cottage, and the groom over the stables. The caretaker is the only servant in residence.’
‘It’ll be a little difficult to live in style under those circumstances,’ Max remarked with a grin.
‘There has been no need of a steward or housekeeper in recent times,’ Hampson replied, confirming by his manner that he had absolutely no sense of humour.
Max grunted. ‘I assume they have been apprised of my coming.’
Hampson shook his head. ‘No one has been alerted concerning your arrival,’ he said.
‘But what on earth is the purpose of that?’ Max demanded.
‘You will, of course, insist that a letter had been sent on ahead, which must have been lost,’ Alistair explained. ‘That will provide you with an excuse to throw your ducal weight about. It will also wrong-foot the bailiff, who will be falling over himself to oblige you.’
‘It will also mean that you can make your own choice as to servants,’ Hampson pointed out. ‘My advice would be to manage with as few as possible for discretion’s sake. You can always say that you will be sending for others from London.’
‘You would be very well served if I took on enough for a royal palace and charged them all to your account,’ Max told his cousin.
Joining them on horseback later would be Abdas Okoro. The African had made his home in Hampshire, not far from Southampton. During Max’s absence, he had been supervising some work on board the Lady Ruth there as a favour to his friend. It was to the Lady Ruth that Max sent a letter with Hampson asking Okoro to support him in this enterprise.
Once the nature of the task had been explained to him, Okoro, who was always ready for a new adventure, willingly agreed, with the proviso that he would need to conclude certain business of his own first. Hampson furnished him with Max’s itinerary, so that he could meet them at some point during the journey. The rest of the party would be informed that he was Max’s secretary, who had been undertaking some business for his employer in another part of the country.
The party was to leave London through the Mile End Gate, passing through the village of Stratford. Their route would take them through Chelmsford, then to Colchester, where Alistair would leave the coach and travel on to where a ship would be waiting for him at Harwich.
Imperfect Pretence Page 3