The Birth of Blue Satan

by Patricia Wynn

  The idea that simply giving her another job could keep her from other men’s beds started a fire burning dangerously near his heart.

  He turned abruptly away. “I haven’t promised anything. Just that I’ll speak to him, like I said.”

  They had reached the wagon, and taking his hint that their talk was over, Katy climbed upon the seat. Tom paid the boy who had watched their wagon, feeling as important as the steward at the Abbey with his new authority to buy things for his master’s house. Then he remembered what sort of house it was, and he recalled he was supposed to get what news he could from London.

  He told Katy to wait and went back into the High Street to try to find a chapman in the market place.

  Since the imposition of a tax of a half-penny per sheet, cheap newspapers for the poor had almost vanished from the streets. Tom searched for a pedlar who might have a news-sheet disguised as a pamphlet to evade the tax, but there was none to be found. His only recourse would be a bookseller who might have received a high-priced gazette from London.

  He made one last trip down the unpaved street to a bookseller’s shop they had passed and purchased a copy of the only journal he could find, The Political State of Great Britain, by A. Boyer. Then, as he realized how far he would have to come each time St. Mars wanted the news, he tried to make arrangements for the London papers to be delivered by carrier to Mr. Brown in care of Mr. Lade. The bookseller told him, however, that he would do better to subscribe to the journals through the post.

  Minutes later, as he and Katy were making their way back out of town by means of a street paved with ancient stones, Tom noticed a house the corner post of which was covered with public notices. He paused long enough to read them and was aghast when he saw Gideon’s name and description screaming back at him in bold letters from a sign that had just been posted.

  Taking a quick look around, he ripped the notice from the post. Tucking it into his shirt, he grabbed up his reins and slapped the mules into a brisk walk.

  “What was that for?” Katy asked, looking at him curiously as the wagon lurched onward.

  “Just you mind your own business,” Tom said, and he was so upset by what he had read that he managed to return to the Fox and Goose with hardly a thought of her at all.

  “Boast not my fall” (he cried) “insulting foe!

  Thou by some other shalt be laid as low.

  Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind:

  All that I dread is leaving you behind!

  Rather than so, ah let me still survive,

  And burn in Cupid’s flames—but burn alive.”

  The hungry Judges soon the sentence sign,

  And wretches hang that jurymen may dine;

  CHAPTER 13

  The announcement of Isabella’s and Harrowby’s engagement was sent to all the Whig news-sheets and The Daily Courant. Harrowby reported that the members of the Kit Kat Club had toasted him on his good fortune. They had drunk to Isabella’s beauty, and Hester would not have been surprised to learn than several ribald jests had been made with respect to Harrowby’s luck.

  Harrowby was not remiss in sending a man to measure Isabella’s finger for a ring. She could hardly wait to receive it.

  Mrs. Mayfield’s tea dishes and table had never seen so much use, as the number of ladies who came to congratulate Isabella on her extreme good fortune swelled throughout the week. Hester knew it would be useless to remind her aunt how dear tea was when presumably all their financial worries had been solved. She was kept very busy running errands in the City to replenish their supplies, while Isabella and Harrowby paraded their affection in St. James’s Park every evening.

  The goldsmith sent word that Bella’s ring would be ready to be picked up on Friday. Harrowby would have gone himself to make certain that it had been properly made, but he received word from the Palace of St. James that the King would be happy to receive him that afternoon. The Princess of Wales invited Mrs. Mayfield and Isabella to wait on her at the same hour. In the wake of such an honour, the ring was almost forgotten.

  What they all should wear was the uppermost concern in their minds, and no one remembered the ring until after Harrowby had come, splendidly attired, to escort his bride to her presentation. Naturally, it was Mrs. Mayfield who remembered it as they were leaving the house in a bustle.

  “Oh, my ring!” Isabella cried, too. She had been so happy, she had gone through the week without once thinking of it, but now that she was reminded, her mind latched on and would not let go. “How shall we get it today? I do not think I can wait another minute for it.”

  “Sorry, my dear. No time to send word to one of my men,” Harrowby said, nearly beside himself with nerves. This would be his first visit with his Majesty as an almost-earl. “Afraid you will have to wait. Can’t be helped.”

  Colley handed him his hat, and Harrowby roundly chastised him for ruffling the beaver fur the wrong way.

  “Oh, I do so want my ring,” Isabella wailed. Even her oblivious nerves were not immune to the stress of the impending interview. “Cannot something be done? Could one of our servants go?”

  “You don’t want a menial fetching an important thing like a ring,” Harrowby said. “Better move along now. Can’t keep her Highness waiting. Or his Majesty. Wouldn’t be wise.”

  Mrs. Mayfield had been as anxious for the ring as Isabella herself, perhaps more so, since it would be proof positive of her daughter’s engagement.

  “Hester could go,” she said.

  Waiting for them both in the open doorway, Harrowby grew so fretful that he agreed. “But you must read the posy, Mrs. Kean, and make certain that all the words are there. These goldsmiths, you know—always trying to cheat a fellow out of his money. There should be —” he counted on his fingers, reciting the words of the posy in a whisper to himself— “there should be six words. If there aren’t, you may tell the fellow for me that he’s a knave and the Earl of Hawkhurst will never give him his business again. I don’t think he will cheat me this time—wouldn’t be prudent in a business sort of way.”

  Hester got the name of the goldsmith and his direction in Lombard Street, as they hurried out the door.

  The goldsmith’s shop lay farther along Lombard Street than Hester had hoped. She had left the hackney carriage waiting for her at Wool Church Market, so she could walk its length, not knowing where she would find the shop. Even with a footman accompanying her, she felt a bit uncomfortable in this male part of the City, even though she had been to the Royal Exchange many times with her cousin and aunt.

  It was somehow more pleasant to be strolling arm in arm with Isabella, when she was certain that all the gentlemen only had eyes for her cousin, than it was to be walking alone several paces in front of a footman, who would not exert himself for her comfort. She attracted more men’s attention than she would ever have believed possible, and she found that she did not particularly enjoy the sensation. Some women might find it amusing to be ogled and to have every one of their features loudly discussed, but she did not. She even reflected that if beauty were not believed to be essential for attracting the one gentleman one liked, then she would give off wishing for it altogether.

  She dodged the idle men of business clustered on the footpaths, who seemed reluctant to let her pass, and the frenzied stockjobbers who ran up and down, darting into the coffee-houses dotting both sides of the street. She walked past St. Mary Woolchurch and the entrance to Exchange Alley across the street, hoping soon to be greeted by the sign of the Seven Stars.

  She had almost made it to the entrance of the George-yard and could see the coaches and horsemen passing in and out of it, when she spotted the sign. The shop was small and dark, with stout shutters to close it up at night.

  She had no note from Harrowby to allow her to take the ring, but the goldsmith, Mr. Shales, was willing to let her have it, as long as she signed his receipt. She told him to present his bill at Hawkhurst House. Then she asked to examine the ring before he wrapped it up. He sh
owed it to her, proudly awaiting her approval.

  As she had promised, she counted Harrowby’s words worked into the gold. There were, indeed, six. Since the posy had presumably been written by Harrowby, she would not at all have been surprised to find that it read, “Two made one. Great good fun!” But, instead, the couplet was a standard, “Two made one. By God alone.”

  His words would have been unobjectionable if Hester had any reason to believe that God had had anything to do with the engagement. Mrs. Mayfield seemed to have had a larger hand in it than God.

  Chastising herself for having thoughts that some might have considered blasphemous, she told Mr. Shales that the ring was lovely, glad that she did not have to read him Harrowby’s lecture. She took the package he handed her and walked back into the street.

  By this hour, the daylight had started to wane. Hester told the footman to follow her back to Wool Church Market, and she started off at an eager pace. If she got back to the house before the others, she could have a little time to herself.

  She needed to think about her plans. She was not sure she wished to stay on with her aunt after all that had occurred. She knew she would feel guilty for benefiting from St. Mars’s losses. She didn’t see how she could continue to serve her aunt and Isabella and be polite to Harrowby who had so willingly seized his cousin’s property. She did not have any ideas about whom else she might live with, but she felt painfully compelled to make the effort to find someone.

  Lost in thought, she retraced the length of Lombard Street sooner than she realized. She looked up to see the market place just ahead. Glancing back over her shoulder to make certain the footman was still with her, she didn’t watch when she stepped in front of the traffic coming from Sherborne Lane.

  A man bumped roughly into her, and she dropped her parcel. As she reached after it with a cry, afraid that a pickpocket might have jostled it from her grasp, she encountered the thick, knobby wrist of the man who had stopped to pick it up.

  His hand was quickly covered by the fall of long lace of his cuff. Reassured by this evidence of a gentleman, she nevertheless glanced up to see whether he intended to return her property to her, and was surprised and relieved to see that the hand belonged to Mr. Letchworth.

  “Oh, sir, I apologize. I was not attending.”

  He did not immediately recognize her. He had never paid her much mind, not with Isabella in the room.

  “I am Mrs. Mayfield’s niece,” she reminded him. “Hester Kean is my name. I thank you for picking up my parcel.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Kean. I remember you now. How is your cousin?”

  Hester had forgotten in the confusion of the moment that he had planned to come back to demand an answer from Mrs. Mayfield. He seemed to have taken Isabella’s engagement very well, considering how insistent he had been.

  “They are very well. I thank you, sir.” She curtsied, then took Mr. Shales’s parcel from his hand. She was glad it had been wrapped. It would have been awkward for Mr. Letchworth to know he had handled Harrowby’s ring.

  “You may tell your aunt that I shall be by tomorrow. We have an important matter to discuss. I told her I should be back after taking the air in Bedfordshire. She will be expecting me.”

  His tone as much as his words implied an ignorance of the true state of affairs. Although she could not like him, Hester felt she could not let him labour under a deception. She imagined the chagrin he would feel on speaking to her aunt on the morrow, although it was more likely that someone would break the news to him tonight. She thought she should try to soften the blow for him.

  “I gather that you did not receive the London newspapers while you were gone, Mr. Letchworth, else you would have read the news concerning my cousin Isabella. She became engaged to Sir Harrowby Fitzsimmons, recently named Earl of Hawkhurst.”

  For a moment, she thought that he had decided to take her news in graceful part, but in the next, he grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a desperate shake.

  “That is a lie! Isabella Mayfield is mine!”

  Hester tried to extricate herself from his grasp. “I assure you, sir, that I am speaking the truth. If you do not believe me, you may apply to my aunt. My only thought was to spare you the pain of a call.”

  Hester’s footman, slow to notice anything was wrong, came up to them, and requested the gentleman to release Mrs. Kean.

  Mr. Letchworth paid him no more attention than he would a pesky fly. “I will go and see her,” he said. As before, when she had seen him annoyed, angry knots appeared on both sides of his neck. His face was so dry beneath his cosmetics, she wondered how he could have fooled himself that a beauty like Isabella would consider marrying him.

  “Here, what is going on? Sir? Madame?” A plainly clothed man came up Sherborne Lane behind Mr. Letchworth. “Mr. Letchworth, is that you?”

  “Leave me alone, Vickers! Go back to your house and mind your own business!”

  “I beg you to release me, sir,” Hester said in a clear voice. The man Vickers seemed reluctant to interfere. He stopped a few paces short of them to look on uncertainly.

  “You may tell your aunt —” Mr. Letchworth nearly spat the words— “that I will be around to see her very soon. And I shall know who to blame for this.”

  “Sir, won’t you let the lady go?” Mr. Vickers ventured timidly.

  Mr. Letchworth loosened his grip and nearly thrust Hester from him—not, she supposed, because he had been requested to, but because he had said all he intended to say. He stalked off, and only then did Mr. Vickers and Hester’s footman show a proper degree of solicitude.

  “Are you quite all right, madam?” Vickers asked. “Is there anything I can fetch you?”

  He was staring inquisitively at her as if wondering what she had done to provoke his friend to such anger.

  “I shall be all right when I have found our hackney coach and gone home.”

  “Why do you not send your man for it? I shall be happy to wait here with you until it comes.”

  Hester thanked him and asked the footman to fetch their coach.

  “I would invite you into my house,” he said. “It is just here in the lane where Mr. Letchworth was so good as to seek my advice. But I fear you would find yourself uneasy accepting an invitation from a stranger.”

  “You are very kind, sir. And quite right. I should much rather get home.”

  “And where might that be, Mrs. . . .” He let his question trail expectantly.

  “I am Mrs. Hester Kean, and I live in Westminster.”

  “Oh.” His voice fell flat. “I take it you are not the young lady my friend hopes to make his wife?”

  “No, she is my cousin. Although during Mr. Letchworth’s absence this week, she became engaged to another. That is why he was so upset.”

  Mr. Vickers looked very grave. “Dear me,” he said, biting his upper lip. “I am certain he must have been very disappointed.”

  A hackney carriage pulled up by the kerb, and Hester’s footman jumped down.

  “I hope you will not hold his temper against him,” Mr. Vickers begged. “He has had a great deal to unsettle him of late. I would hate to see more added to his burden.”

  “I will try not to blame him overmuch, sir.” Stifling her resentment, she disengaged herself and climbed into the carriage as hastily as she could. With her arms still hurting from Mr. Letchworth’s grasp, she would not be willing to forgive him all that soon, although she still pitied him.

  Apparently, he had loved Isabella far more than she had given him credit for.

  A hue and cry had been set up, and a reward of three hundred pounds had been posted for his capture.

  When Tom delivered him the news, Gideon was constructing a plan to meet the Duke of Bournemouth. He had searched all day through the papers in Lade’s parlour, and had come up with the repeated fact that the Duke of Bournemouth was the only conspirator on the list who had gone over to the Hanoverians. The other names were very familiar to Gideon, as they would be
to anyone, for they included a number of the most prominent Tories in Britain.

  The Duke of Ormonde, the Duke of Marlborough’s great rival—an undoubted Jacobite—as well as others long suspected of leaning towards the Pretender—Bolingbroke, Strafford, Prior, and Attenbury, Bishop of Rochester. But none of these others had gone over to the Whigs. And none had threatened Gideon except the Duke of Bournemouth.

  Even allowing for his own bias, Gideon could not deny that the Duke of Bournemouth was the only logical suspect on the list. The others were already under suspicion. They had retreated from Court. Murdering a fellow conspirator could only have exposed them to greater danger.

  Only the Duke had much to lose.

  Gideon had been thinking up a way to lure the Duke into a meeting when Tom arrived with the handbill, and the immediacy of his danger temporarily drove everything else from his mind.

  His description had been spread all over the county. It could not possibly take long before someone, to whom the sum of three hundred pounds was an inconceivable fortune, would think of the stranger, Mr. Brown, who lodged at the Fox and Goose.

  He became aware of Tom’s anxiety and forced a grin. “Well, it’s not nearly the hundred thousand placed on the Pretender’s head. Still, it’s not an unattractive sum. I suppose I should be flattered. Thank you for bringing me that information, Tom.”

  “Shall I have Lade bring you a bottle of his good French wine?”

  “So I can drown my sorrows in a rousing spate of drunkenness? I will admit, the notion has appeal. But I think we had better put our heads together and figure out how much it will cost me to keep friend Lade’s tongue quiet when he sees this handbill, which he undoubtedly will.”

  Gideon could see that Tom had not thought of the danger from Lade, which was greater than the chance that someone else would recognize the Viscount St. Mars in this out-of-the-way place.