The Birth of Blue Satan

by Patricia Wynn

  She wished to be alone to grieve for St. Mars. She felt powerless in a way she never had before. Her one aim had been to help him win Isabella’s love, since that was what he had wanted. Then she had hoped to help him clear his name. She was grateful to know that he was safe, but she could not be happy when she suspected her aunt had done her utmost to encourage Sir Joshua Tate in his suspicions. And since last night, she had known exactly why. Mrs. Mayfield had wanted to rob St. Mars of his fortune so that Harrowby Fitzsimmons could inherit it.

  Hester wondered what Harrowby’s part in this scheme had been, whether he had killed his uncle and cast the blame on St. Mars to win himself an earldom. Did a murderer sit in their drawing room now? With a sigh of despair, she asked herself how she could find the truth, and if it were not too late now to help St. Mars.

  If only she could find some proof that someone else had killed his father.

  But how would she—a waiting woman—ever come by such proof, even if it existed?

  Far from eager to return to the drawing room, she took her time in searching for her aunt’s wrap. It was not to be found in Mrs. Mayfield’s wardrobe. After looking carefully through all her aunt’s garments, Hester sighed again at the thought that her aunt might have left it anywhere in the house.

  She looked in the bedchamber, her aunt’s privy, and every other closet nearby before deciding she had better resume her search downstairs in the small parlour where Mrs. Mayfield sometimes sat. She walked back through the bedchamber and had almost left it when a flash of brown, peeking out from behind the bolster on the bed, caught her eye.

  Hester turned, and there, folded and stuffed behind the high, plumped cushions, lay her aunt’s fur tippet, wedged carefully as if hidden.

  A sudden suspicion brought flutters to her stomach.

  She could not imagine that an accident had led to the wrap’s being placed there. It had been purposely tucked behind where she would not find it without turning the room upside down.

  With a sense of foreboding, she took it from behind the pillows and made her way down to the first floor.

  Outside the withdrawing room door all was quiet. There was nothing strange. Undoubtedly, Mrs. Mayfield had meant to get Hester out of the room so that Harrowby might find it easier to declare himself.

  To knock on the drawing room door in defiance of all convention would indicate that she suspected something improper was going on. Her sense of tact would not allow her to embarrass Isabella by doing that. She could only be as self-effacing as she knew how to be.

  Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and passed quietly into the room.

  She would have gasped at the sight in front of her, had her lungs not already been full of air. As a consequence, her entrance made insufficient noise to alert the two tightly wound in the chair. The hinges of the door were well-oiled—too silent to protect her from a scene she would rather not have witnessed.

  Isabella lay sprawled across Harrowby’s lap. They must have been locked in their embrace for quite some time, judging by the fact that his hands were no longer visible. The little bit of lace that had protected Isabella’s modesty from probing male glances was no longer in place. It had been tossed aside to provide greater access to the treasures underneath.

  Isabella held his face to her breasts and arched her back in a passion that could only be real. Even as Harrowby—in his drunken fog—became aware of Hester’s presence and tried to extricate himself from this compromising position, Isabella whimpered in protest.

  Hester felt a jolt of shock, then a warmth beneath her skin. Chagrin at her untimely arrival would have overcome her feelings had it not been for the rapt expression on her cousin’s face.

  “Oh, my! Oh, my dear!” From close behind her came a loud, theatrical cry.

  Hester whipped around to see that her aunt had entered the room behind her, making no noise. She must have descended the stairs close behind her niece.

  But no, Hester realized as, stunned, she watched her aunt walk past. Only seconds had separated their entrances. Mrs. Mayfield must have been waiting for her to come down, lurking perhaps in the small parlour next door, to follow so closely on her heels. Had this been her plan?

  Hester turned back to see Harrowby furiously smoothing Isabella’s skirts which had risen well above her knees. With horror, he tried to move her off his lap, but Bella had latched onto his neck to bury her blushes in his disheveled cravat. As she bewailed her shame at being caught in such a compromising situation, he stared at Mrs. Mayfield with round, frightened eyes.

  He must have expected her to scream and throw him from the house, but Bella’s mother was far too cunning for that.

  She moved to within two feet of the chair and stood looking down at him, her thick arms folded.

  “I never should have left you two love-birds alone,” she said, with a mixture of harshness and coyness. “I should have known not to turn my back on you for an instant, but I thought Hester would return soon enough and that I might escape to the privy for one minute without any harm. Thank heaven she did come in time, or my poor chick would be ruined for sure!

  “But—” and here her voice turned on a positive note— “nothing’s broke that can’t be fixed.

  “You should have applied to me, my lord.” She gave Harrowby a saucy wag of her finger. “If you was desirous of wedding my Isabella, I would not have withheld my consent, not when I know how much her heart has been set on you from the first. Oh, but you’re a shrewd one, an’t you! You wanted to make good and sure of her before you applied to me, and I cannot blame you—not when half the beaus in London have been vying themselves to death for love of her.

  “But you see now that she loves you more than anyone else, and I will do nothing to put myself in the way of my daughter’s good fortune. It is a good thing for you that you are becoming an earl. But I can’t have you sampling the goods before the marriage now, can I? You two love-birds will have to let each other go, so you and I can conduct our business, my lord.”

  Throughout this one-sided exchange, Harrowby looked stunned. His fuddled mind seemed unable to grasp how he had been trapped in this fix. He did not look in the least like a man who had been granted his heart’s greatest desire.

  He looked lost—in fact, so dazed—that Hester began to wonder if he had only then realized that an earl could aspire to a greater match than to Isabella Mayfield. He had been attracted to her silliness, her immense popularity, and her sense of fashion, and he had obviously enjoyed her attentions enough to allow himself to be seduced. But Hester doubted he was very much in love.

  “Oh, Harrowby!” Isabella raised her face to look joyfully into his. “We shall be so happy. Think of the clothes we will have! We shall be the most admired couple in London!”

  She could not have said anything surer to remove the horror from his eyes. Her delight was infectious, despite her spotty teeth. He was not immune to her happiness, but more powerful than either of these was the satisfying image she had drawn of the elegant figure the two of them would cut.

  Especially when Bella gave a wriggle of delight in his lap, followed by a ripe giggle. He nearly forgot himself again, imagining all the fun they had in store.

  “By gads!” he said, beaming. “We shall make a dashing couple, won’t we? Zounds! I doubt but I’ll be the envy of all the beaus. They’ll be ready to tear me to shreds for snatching such a beauty away. Stap me, if they won’t! It shall all be great good fun!”

  Hester was sickened by his shallow sentiments, but her cousin obviously shared his feelings. If Isabella could find happiness with such a fool, she would not say anything to spoil it. But Hester could not believe that a marriage founded on such feeble grounds would stand a chance of bringing anyone a lasting joy. At least, Isabella would be spared the worse fate of being married to Mr. Letchworth.

  Some feeling of disillusionment must linger, however, when she thought of how easily Isabella’s passion had moved from one gentleman to another. For the
unfeigned ecstasy she had surprised on her cousin’s face had been every bit as intense as Isabella’s expression with Lord Kirkland last night.

  Her aunt made certain that Harrowby did not leave the house until he had agreed to her conditions. Though the shock of his impending nuptials sobered him to a degree, he would never be sharp enough to outfox his future mother-in-law. She took him into her parlour and extracted a promise of a generous settlement for her daughter with a thousand pounds in pin money per annum. Hester would not have been surprised to learn, either, that she had wangled a number of lavish benefits for herself.

  Others on earth o’er human race preside,

  Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide:

  Of these the chief the care of Nations own,

  And guard with Arms divine the British Throne.

  Our humbler province is to tend the Fair,

  Not a less pleasing, though a less glorious care;

  To save the powder from too rude a gale,

  Nor let th’ imprisoned essences exhale;

  To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers;

  To steal from rainbows e’er they drop in showers

  A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs,

  Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs;

  Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow,

  To change a Flounce, or add a Furbelow.

  CHAPTER 12

  After his encounter with James Henry, Gideon had spent the rest of the night struggling with the news that he had a brother. His emotions were so complex, he had been forced to try to sort them from his suspicions, a difficult task that had kept him awake until dawn. By noon the next day, when he awoke from a troubled sleep, he had still not decided once and for all if these revelations had cleared his brother from the murder.

  If James spoke the truth, he would have had no reason to kill their father. But what if he had lied? What if the payments their father had made him had been extorted rather than given? Gideon did not question the essential facts of his birth. The evidence in his face was too strong. But there was no proof that the payments had been made out of affection. Gideon wished he had a stronger sense of intuition to help him through the fog in his mind.

  Rubbing his face, he laughed ironically. His family motto had never been more inapt than it was now.

  Invisibilia non decipiunt.

  Things unseen do not deceive us.

  How long had he believed that his family had greater powers of discernment than the rest of mankind simply because of that phrase?

  He had deceived himself badly. James’s heritage had been carved in flesh for all to see, and still he had not seen it. Gideon wondered how many people had guessed the truth and kept silent. He recalled the words the Reverend Mr. Bramwell had used the last time they had spoken and realized that the old man had been trying to tell him.

  But he had been too obtuse. Now, he had to question his ability to discover his father’s murderer. If he had failed to notice the obvious, wouldn’t he be equally incapable of uncovering a darker secret?

  A whimsical notion came to him. If Mrs. Kean had only heard James’s story, she would have been able to give him her opinion of its truth. Gideon had the impression that she had a key to people that he lacked. But, of course, he would not have an opportunity to ask her. He had only his own cloudy wits, and no one else’s on which to rely.

  He would have to live up to the Fitzsimmons’ motto. He would have to hone his wits. And he needed activity to make them sharp.

  He shaved himself, using a basin Tom had brought, but when his clothes were presented and he saw how poorly washed and pressed they were, he realized that something would have to be done to make his life at the Fox and Goose more tolerable.

  “I want you to engage a sufficient staff for this place,” he told Tom later, as he carved his way through a breakfast of bread, meat and cheese. “I may be hunted like an animal, but I see no reason to live like one.

  “Talk to Lade. Get him to hire the people he needs to make this place decent. But make sure you approve them first. We’ll need servants we can trust. I want someone to look after my clothes, and perhaps a few more in the kitchen. And I want a bed with warm curtains, a dressing table and stool with a looking glass, a desk, and a chair. And I’ll need pen and ink.”

  “You want me to ride into Maidstone?”

  Gideon nodded. Then, as he tossed back the rest of his morning beer, he noted Tom’s worry. “Think you can manage the lot?”

  Tom’s brow puckered. “I’ve never worked in the house. What if I buy something you don’t like? Or what if somebody cheats me?”

  Gideon sent him a smile full of trust. “I doubt anyone will. It’s like buying a horse off a stranger. Go with your instincts. And if you want to know the kind of clothing I like, take a look at what I have. The mercers in Maidstone can help you find the artisans and tradesmen you need.

  “But if you’re truly worried, take Katy. If Philippe were here I would send him, but I doubt there’s a man in this village who knows anything about furniture or cloth. The girl has a neat style. I noticed it last night. She must know something about fashion.”

  “That’s no job for a girl,” Tom said gruffly.

  Gideon saw that he’d offended Tom. Although he had to wonder if something other than offended sensibilities could account for the crimson in his cheeks. “No, it’s not. But in my experience, women have a better eye for what suits. Do as you wish,” he said, coming to his feet, “just get started. I don’t know if I can bear many more nights in that bed.”

  “What should I do with them papers you brought back last night?”

  Gideon had forgotten all about the papers in his eagerness to confront James, and later in the aftermath of their talk. At the mention of them now, he felt a certain relief. He would need something to occupy him while Tom was gone, for he could not very well ride about in the day when he might be recognized.

  “Bring them in here.” The little parlour, with its solid oak tables, would afford him a place to examine them thoroughly.

  Tom left and returned in a few minutes with a thick roll of parchments. Gideon took them all together and tried spreading them open on the table. Rolled as they had been, he had to weigh them down with his mug.

  “Will you be needing me for anything else, sir?”

  “No, Tom. You may go.”

  With the papers before him, Gideon was reminded of how long it had been since he’d had any news from London. His own escape would certainly have caused a stir. “Bring me whatever news-sheets you can find,” he called over his shoulder to Tom.

  Then he returned to the papers, which consisted of letters in a few different hands, enough to amount to a formal correspondence. Among them was a list of names. With a hasty perusal, he recognized most as being his father’s friends. The letters had all been directed to Lord Hawkhurst.

  Gideon tried to leaf through the sheets, but their ends had been curled irreparably by the damp in the passageway. He uncurled one corner, and a loose object fell out.

  He picked it up and examined it. It was a bronze medal cast with the picture of a man in Roman armour. Gideon didn’t need to read the words engraved on the other side to know who the figure was, for he had visited this man himself on his trip to the Continent. His father would never have let him travel through France without paying his respects to the Pretender.

  He turned the medal over and on its back read the slogan, “Cuius est.” To anyone versed in Latin, the double meaning would be clear. It meant not only “Whose is it?”, but also “He whose it is,” referring, of course, to the Crown that should have been James Stuart’s. The phrase had been taken from the Book of St. Mark, from the passage in which Jesus advised his followers to render unto Caesar the things that were his.

  It was not what the medal said, for he had heard similar words before, but rather its existence that disturbed him now. The words were the same sort of sly reference seen in the Jacobite press
. But the medal’s presence among his father’s papers suggested that he had been in correspondence either with the Pretender or with his agents—both treasonable acts. Gideon had seen these medals at James’s court. Along with portraits and miniatures, they were given to his adherents as rewards or bribes. Some would also be sent as talismen to persons afflicted with the King’s Evil who could not come to his court in Lorraine. For James, like all the Stuarts before him, practiced the Royal Touch.

  It was a ceremony that Gideon had never given credence to, although it had been carried out by both French and English kings for centuries and was a sacrament in the Book of Common Prayer. The sovereign was believed by some to hold the divine gift of healing. William III, as a genuine Protestant, had said the ceremony smacked of Papacy and refused to use it. Queen Anne, a Stuart, had resumed the ancient practice.

  Another use for the medals was to acquaint the Pretender’s supporters in Britain with his image, for despite the genuineness of their loyalty, most had never seen him. If he were to try to return for his crown, it would be imperative for his followers to recognize him as soon as he landed, so they could rise instantly to his aid.

  Gideon’s father would have had neither of these last two needs. Except for a touch of the gout, he had been healthy right up until his death, and he had seen the young James. He also possessed one of his portraits.

  That meant that the medal had been sent for services already rendered or promised by someone else.

  Gideon had convinced himself that his father’s devotion to the Stuarts was hardly more than a sentiment, that he would have been too astute to risk his life and all he possessed for a futile cause. He had so often bemoaned the lack of good leadership at James’s court, and he had mistrusted Harley, Lord Oxford, and other members of the October club, a group of extreme Tories to which he had belonged. Now Gideon realized that his father had been more actively involved in the Stuart cause than he had ever imagined.

  Gideon had found it disappointingly easy to resist the famous Stuart charm when he had seen the sort of toadies with whom James surrounded himself. He had felt sorry for the prince who had been wrongfully deprived of his throne, but nothing about the Pretender or his favourites had inspired Gideon to join them.