“Feeling better?” he teased. “What have you been up to?”
“Not I, my love, but Judith! Now who would believe that beneath that air of calm reserve lies the wickedest sense of the ridiculous?”
“I would, for one, and so would Dan.” Sebastian glanced at the scattered sheets of manuscript, and pretended to shudder. “Dan, I fear that we have been pinned to the board once more as interesting specimens.”
Judith gathered up the pages. “How can you say so?” she reproached. “You know it is not true.”
“Not even interesting?” Sebastian glanced at Dan and pulled a face. “I’m crushed, aren’t you?”
“Now, my darling, I won’t have Judith teased. You may not care to know it, but I’ve been working hard. I am now a literary critic…”
“But you always were…” Dan joined in the teasing “…the harshest one I’ve known, and always against the popular opinion. I had thought you must be sunk beneath reproach when you gave your view on Alexander Pope at Lady Denton’s soirée.”
“Turgid stuff! Besides, I was asked for my opinion. Would you have had me lie?”
“Perish the thought!” Sebastian sat beside her on the day-bed. “Shall you come down for nuncheon, dearest?”
“Great heavens! You must all be starving! Give me ten minutes and I’ll join you. Dearest, will you ring the bell for Dutton?”
Sebastian did as he was bidden, and led their guest from the room. In the corridor he took her arm.
“Judith, how can I thank you? Pru is quite herself again today. Dan, don’t you agree?”
Judith looked at her love, and caught her breath as she saw the warmth of his expression.
“How could it be otherwise?” he murmured slowly. “Judith has a certain quality which is not easy to explain…” He caught Sebastian’s eye and looked away.
Their nuncheon was a gay affair, and Sebastian’s chef, who had tried for weeks to tempt the flagging appetite of his mistress, was clearly on his mettle. Well aware that a lady in an interesting condition was likely to feel queasy at the sight of food, he had produced the lightest, freshest dishes imaginable.
Imaginative salads flanked the glazed ham and the platters of smoked duck. The épigrammes of chicken with a celery puree were tempting, and even lighter were the quenelles, tiny fish balls done à la Flamande. They were followed by a featherlight orange soufflé, and a selection of fruit jellies.
Sebastian smiled to himself. His more usual nuncheon, if he took one, consisted of a selection of cold meats and fruit. On this occasion, he announced that he was very hungry. Prudence beamed at him. Animated for the first time in days, she allowed herself to be helped to an excellent meal, almost without noticing.
Later he took Judith to one side. A plan was forming in his mind. It was a long shot, but it might succeed.
“What a difference you have made to Prudence!” he murmured. “Today, my dear, she is a different person. To see her so much more herself is a great joy to me.”
Judith smiled. “I think you have no need to worry. She has enjoyed her nuncheon…”
“For the first time in weeks. I’ve tried not to let her see it, but I have been concerned about her.”
Judith scanned his face with anxious eyes. “She tells me that she is not sick.”
“No, Judith, she is bored to death. What she needs is stimulation. You have given it to her.”
“You can’t quarrel with her temperament. In the usual way she is so full of projects…These last few weeks are hard for her.”
“My dear, I know it. How I wish that you might come to us, if only for a day or two! I have no right to ask. Your own marriage is so close, but is there the least chance that it might be possible?”
“I should like nothing more,” she told him wistfully. “But Charles is to return tomorrow. I must be at home to greet him.”
“Of course! It is selfish of me to put my own concerns before your own…”
Sebastian did not press her further. He knew that her affection for Prudence would lead her to stay at Mount Street if she could. That would be the answer for a time. Events were moving fast, and he trusted neither the preacher nor his friends.
Chapter Nine
The subject of his thoughts was still abed at the house in Seven Dials. Truscott was nursing an aching head.
He’d awakened in the worst of moods after a restless night. Sleep had proved elusive, and he’d tossed for hours, seeking in vain for some solution to his problems. This had required the consumption of the best part of a bottle of brandy, but it had served only to send him into a stupor.
Now he regretted his indulgence. He needed all his wits about him if he were to deal with Margrave. Damn the man! He’d seen the chance of easy pickings and he’d taken it. But he’d chosen the wrong victim.
He raised his throbbing head and glanced about the room to find that he was alone.
“Nan?” he yelled. Then he picked up one of his boots and threw it at the door.
“What is it, Josh?” The girl came hurrying to his side.
“Fetch me some ale, and be quick about it!” He caught sight of her face. “What happened to you? God, but you’re a sight this morning!”
“You beat me, Josh.” She touched her swollen face and winced.
“You must have deserved it!” He grunted and turned over. He had no recollection of striking her, but it was no matter. Women needed to be kept in line.
“I…I did everything you asked…and the lady gave me money…” At the look on his face she fled.
As Truscott sipped at his ale, the mists cleared from his mind. His decision to send the girl to seek out Judith had been a good one. He now had money enough for his immediate expenses, but better still the meeting had provided him with useful information which might prove vital at some future date.
How easy it had been for Nan, a stranger, to approach Judith in the street, and even to arrange a further meeting. Not for the first time he blessed the stupidity of her stepmother. How many young women were allowed to walk the London thoroughfares with only a maid for company, and unattended by either a footman or a groom for protection? It was Mrs Aveton’s selfishness and spite which allowed Judith such infrequent use of the family carriage, and then only when she was to be conveyed to the homes of such members of the aristocracy as Mrs Aveton hoped to cultivate.
He’d wondered at it since the early days of their acquaintance, but he’d made no protest. His heiress must not be too closely guarded. If ever his original plan should go awry, he might turn that fact to his advantage.
He’d run no risk in sending Nan to Judith. The girl knew him only as Josh Ferris, and he’d warned her not to answer questions. All in all, it had been a successful operation. The note had been an extra flourish. He’d thought long and hard before putting pen to paper, and then it was not from a desire to reassure her as to his health.
He’d promised to call upon her on the following day. That should put a stop to any awkward enquiries from that long-nosed stepmother of hers.
“Fetch me a mirror!” he demanded. Close examination of his features showed that most of the scratches were healing, though one, across his cheek, was so deep that he would probably bear the scar for life. The purple bruising around his mouth and nose was fading. By the following day there should be little injury apparent.
If Judith mentioned it he would think of some explanation. Nothing, he vowed fiercely, would lose him his prize at his late stage. She’d hold to her bargain, as long as she continued to believe in him.
That was the danger now. His mother and Margrave had him firm within their grasp, with their threats of blackmail. He doubted if they would carry them out unless they wished to cast to the four winds all hope of sharing in his fortune.
The preacher’s worries rested more upon his future. He’d never be allowed to enjoy the money in peace. And there was his reputation. His rise to fame had been meteoric, but he was not quite at the top of his profession. That would co
me when he was invited to preach at the Chapel Royal, in St James’s Palace.
What a sermon he would give them! Let the fat old Royal Dukes comment upon it in stentorian tones, even as he spoke. He wouldn’t care. It would be enough that they were there, and that he would be preaching before Royalty.
He could almost taste the feeling of power…the sensation of holding his audience in the palm of his hand. He smiled to himself. More properly it should be called a congregation, but for him, standing at the pulpit, the entire setting was pure theatre.
Then a vision of Margrave sprang unbidden to his mind. The man would be constantly at his back, smiling, reminding him always that success must be bought at a price. The preacher’s eyes narrowed. He’d no intention of spending the rest of his life in looking over his shoulder. Margrave must be removed, together with his cronies, but how? The man was as fast and dangerous as a striking snake.
He was still considering the problem when Nan came over to the bed and stood beside him, pulling nervously at her kerchief.
“What is it now?” he asked impatiently.
“I need some money, Josh.”
“I gave you enough for food and drink. What else can there be?”
“It’s the baby, Josh. I ain’t been able to pay the woman for her keep—”
“That’s none of my affair. I told you to get rid of it.”
“I know you did, but it was too late when I found out. Old Mother Gisburn wouldn’t touch me—”
“I’m not surprised! She must have thought that you’d have croaked on her.”
“I wish I had!” The tears poured down Nan’s face.
“Stop your caterwauling!” Truscott flung a coin at her. As he did so he eyed her with distaste. When her brothers had brought her from the country she’d been a plump and rosy wench, and a comfortable armful for any man.
They’d been aware of it, and hoped to earn good money from her charms, but Truscott had seen her first. Now he considered that he’d had the worst of the bargain. Since the birth of her child Nan had grown scrawny and pale. Life seemed to have drained from her, leaving her dull and listless. Time for a change, he thought to himself. It wouldn’t be difficult to replace her.
He was confirmed in this belief when she began to plead.
“Josh, let me have the baby here. I don’t trust that woman down in Lambeth, and it would cost you nothing. She’s but a few weeks old, and I want to care for her myself. I’ll keep her quiet, I promise you!”
“Bring her here, and I’ll keep her quiet for you…”
Nan could not mistake his meaning, and she backed away from him. “Your own flesh and blood? You can’t be so heartless. I thought she would be company for me. It’s lonely here without you. I ain’t even seen my brothers for a day or two.”
“They must be off on business of their own,” he told her carelessly.
“I thought you asked them to do a job for you?”
“Didn’t work out!” he said. “Get off, then, if you intend to go to Lambeth.”
He waited until she’d left the house. Then he examined his outer clothing. She’d done her best to sponge away the traces of his enforced stay in that stinking attic, and, as always, he’d removed his collar and clerical bands before he entered the house in Seven Dials.
When he left here he would bathe and change before presenting himself to Judith, though he doubted if she’d notice anything amiss whatever his appearance. He could never guess what she was thinking. She seemed always to be out of reach, as if she lived in a world of her own. That would change, he vowed. He’d bring her down to earth.
He dismissed her from his mind. Judith was not his immediate problem. What mattered now was to find some way of foiling Margrave. He’d need all his guile. Truscott considered several possibilities.
He could lay evidence of the fellow’s whereabouts before the magistrates. He guessed that the forger was still wanted by the authorities. It would not serve. If Margrave went down, he would take his former cellmate with him in revenge.
As for paying him off? The idea was laughable. The forger and his friends would not be satisfied until their victim had no more to give. There was never an end to blackmail.
There was but one solution, and the preacher had known it from the first. His enemies must be silenced, and permanently. Next time he would not make the mistake of employing idiots. He would do the job himself, but how?
He was still considering the matter when Nan returned. Her eyes were red with weeping.
“Stop your blubbing!” he ordered. “I want some food.”
For once she didn’t hurry to obey him.
“Josh, please listen to me! The baby isn’t well. I’m sure she isn’t being fed…and I don’t trust Mrs Daggett.”
“She found you a wet-nurse, didn’t she?”
“The woman is feeding several children. She hasn’t enough milk for all, and two of those I saw last week have disappeared.”
“Daggett don’t keep them for ever…only till they are collected by whoever owns them.”
“I…I can’t be sure of that. Her neighbour says she is a baby farmer.”
“What of it? If she sells them it’s probably for the best. It saves a lot of trouble all round.”
“If she sells them…” Nan burst into a storm of weeping. “Last week there were two bodies found in the river!”
“Brats die from natural causes,” Truscott said impatiently. “Daggett can’t afford to pay for burials.” Her news didn’t surprise him. If payment for a child’s keep was not forthcoming, Mrs Daggett would solve the problem in the simplest way. It had been in his mind when he sent Nan to her with the child.
Now he gazed angrily at the weeping girl. “I said I wanted food,” he growled. “Set about it, or you’ll find yourself in the street…”
He was tempted to carry out his threat at once, but it would wait. He didn’t want her running about the neighbourhood asking for her brothers. He doubted if they had discussed his orders with any of their friends, but it was best to take no chances.
Next day he left her with the unspoken resolve to throw her out as soon as it was practicable. After his marriage he would keep the house at Seven Dials, but he would have a change of mistress. Nan’s connection with the murdered men would, in time, become a problem. He didn’t fancy constant questioning. Besides, she was little more than skin and bone. His taste ran to a plumper armful.
With this decision made, he began to feel more cheerful. No solution as to the question of Margrave had, as yet, come to mind, but he would think of something. Meantime, he must not allow his enemies to suspect that he intended to outwit them. Robbed of his prey, Margrave would make every effort to destroy him, even to the extent of approaching Judith with his story.
He arrived at the Aveton household to find it in an uproar. The strident tones of Judith’s stepmother were audible beyond the closed door of the salon.
When he was announced, Mrs Aveton looked up and paused for breath. Judith stood before her, flushed and silent.
Truscott raised an eyebrow in enquiry, but before he could speak he heard a gasp from Judith.
“Charles, your face! What has happened to your face?”
Involuntarily, he lifted a hand to touch the healing scratches. “A sad business, my dear! In her delirium my mother did not know me. She imagined that I was come to take her to the madhouse. It was difficult to restrain her.”
“How dreadful for you! Is there no change in her condition?”
“Alas, she grows weaker by the day…” Truscott bent his head and covered his eyes.
“Oh, Charles, I am so sorry!” Judith came towards him. “There is still no hope of a recovery?”
“None! I fear I must return to her without delay.” He was aware that Mrs Aveton had not uttered a word of sympathy and, looking up, he met her hard, suspicious eyes.
“Judith, you may leave us!” she snapped. “I wish to have a private word with Mr Truscott.”
She
waited until the door had closed before she rounded on him.
“Now, sir, what are you about?” she demanded. “Don’t try to gammon me with your stories. Where have you been for these past few days?”
“Judith must have told you,” he replied smoothly.
“Stuff! I don’t believe a word of it. Smallpox, forsooth! Even if it were true, I don’t credit you with sufficient Christian charity to spend your time beside a sickbed.”
“Would you care to tell me what concern it is of yours?”
“It is my concern, and it should be yours. Sir, you are a fool! Here is Judith, constantly with her friends, the Wentworths, and in the company of that penniless creature who still dangles after her. Do you wish to lose her?”
“I won’t lose her!” The preacher towered over Mrs Aveton, and there was something in his face which made her back away.
“You are the fool!” he told her softly. “Won’t you ever learn? Must you always be at odds with her? What was it this time? The Wentworths?”
“Not exactly!” An angry flush stained his companion’s cheeks. “That wicked, ungrateful girl had the impertinence to inform me that I…that we were spending beyond reason on her wedding.”
“Really?” Truscott jeered. “She cannot be referring to her trousseau, since you tell me that her own purchases have been frugal. I take it that she’s been alarmed by the accounts from your modiste?”
“There are three of us to dress,” Mrs Aveton said defensively. “It is expensive.”
“Especially when one provides for the whole of the coming season? No, don’t bother to deny it. I fully understand.”
She gave him an uncertain look.
“But there is something you must understand,” he continued. “These bills will not be settled from Judith’s estate. You will pay them from the share which I have promised you.”
He almost laughed aloud when he saw her stunned expression. For a moment she was robbed of speech. Then she broke into a violent diatribe against him.
“And I shall not pay them,” she said finally.
“Then they will remain unpaid…your credit will suffer with the London mantua-makers.”
The Passionate Friends Page 13