The Birth of Blue Satan

by Patricia Wynn

  To the ambitious he granted titles and the promise of land. Both of these motives would stand him in good stead if he ever invaded England, for every man who fought for James Stuart would also be fighting for his own benefit.

  The priests who supported him—and there were many—needed no glue to bind them. They secretly published treatises on the divine nature of authority and suffered the consequences of being barred from their posts. Whether rightly or not, it was these men who served the Pretender with the greatest purity of heart. And Gideon’s father had been one to share in their beliefs. If he had been different from the nonjuring priests, it was in the aspect that he would gladly have taken up arms in the struggle for which they only wrote and intrigued.

  Gideon knew, however, that his father had always acted with his eyes and his ears wide open. A true Fitzsimmons, he was seldom deceived by things unseen.

  Invisibilia non decipient.

  His father had not been deceived by Isabella or her mother. Yet he had turned his back on a treacherous murderer. How? And why?

  Had he known the financier or the superstitious man so well that he trusted him?

  In this current dangerous climate, a person with a great deal of wealth would have to have a powerful motive to want to overthrow a king. Especially in the cause of one who might never make it to England’s shores. A wealthy man had too much to lose, unless he had a reason that was more powerful than the temptation to keep his riches.

  Something told him that his father had courted a terrible risk in attempting to raise money for the Chevalier. Again he wondered if the Duke of Bournemouth knew whom his father had approached.

  Gideon went to find his horse, concealed in the woods beyond the ruins. Then, mounted, he made his way down the old monks’ path through the woods and over the abandoned stone bridge towards the inn that was his current home.

  He thought of James, sleeping in comfort in the house their father had bought him. Mrs. Kean did not believe that James was a murderer. She had not said so specifically, but he had read it in her tone. No matter. He had realized—stupidly—that it was unlikely that James could have done it.

  If he, himself, had not been attacked in London, he might have wondered if his father had not drawn his bastard son into the Pretender’s cause. James might have looked to treason as the only way to establish himself with a peerage of his own. In the tense emotional atmosphere of their confrontation, Gideon had failed to check his brother’s arm for the sign of a wound.

  But whoever had killed their father had either followed Gideon to London to attack him or sent a confederate to do the job. On that day, James had found their father dying, had sent for the magistrate, and presumably had remained at the Abbey to care for his father’s body. He had not sent anyone after Gideon to give him the news until Sir Joshua had found him at Lord Eppington’s ball.

  Gideon knew that he could not be certain of James’s movements after he had alerted the household. That was one more thing he might have asked Mrs. Kean to investigate for him. But there was something deep inside him that revolted at the notion of hounding his own flesh and blood.

  Sir Joshua had made the long ride to London in one day, travelling a good portion of it after dark. The murderer would have followed much closer on Gideon’s heels, but he had not overtaken him on the road. If he had, he might have tried to strike him before reaching London and left him for dead, in the hopes that it would seem he had died from his father’s cut. Since he had not overtaken him, he had been forced to wait in the darkness of Piccadilly for Gideon to emerge, when he could not have been certain he would go out.

  This last thought snaked around in Gideon’s mind. The murderer could not have been absolutely certain that he would go out that evening. But he might have been reasonably sure. If he knew the gossip, he would have been aware of Gideon’s intentions with respect to Isabella Mayfield, and many people had known she was to attend Lord Eppington’s ball. Wherever she had gone, he had foolishly followed.

  Perhaps the murderer had been certain that he would ride out that evening.

  The long journey from the Abbey might possibly have been made by one horse, but it was far more likely that his attacker had stopped to change his horse along the way.

  And if he had ridden up to London, then he had also ridden down—in which case an ostler at a posting house just might remember him.

  But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppressed,

  And secret passions laboured in her breast.

  Not youthful kings in battle seized alive,

  Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,

  Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss,

  Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss,

  Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,

  Not Cynthia when her manteau’s pinned awry,

  E’er felt such rage, resentment, and despair,

  As thou, sad Virgin!

  In the clear Mirror of thy ruling Star

  I saw, alas! some dread event impend,

  Ere to the main this morning sun descend,

  But heaven reveals not what, or how, or where:

  Warned by the Sylph, oh pious maid, beware!

  ‘Twas then, Belinda, if report say true,

  Thy eyes first opened on a Billet-doux;

  Wounds, Charm, and Ardors were no sooner read,

  But all the Vision vanished from thy head.

  CHAPTER 19

  When Tom came in from the stables the next morning, Gideon told him he had a job for him to perform.

  “It will not be easy,” he said, watching Tom’s square face light with the prospect of action.

  It had not been easy, either, for Tom to wait for him to have an inspiration, especially penned up in a small inn with Katy, who was trying very desperately not to make eyes at him. Gideon had watched them with a mixture of amusement and pity, and exasperation with Tom for being so hardheaded, when it was easy to see what he wanted.

  Tom was hoping they would leave the Fox and Goose before temptation grew too strong for him, but Gideon was determined to stay. Lade had cooperated. He had not tried to sell Gideon to the law. They were close to home, yet hidden. With its out-of-the-way location and its dilapidated appearance, the Fox and Goose did not attract many new faces, and certainly no one who knew them.

  His new furniture had arrived, and his rooms were nearly comfortable. Katy had worked wonders with his clothes. Avis was a reliable stable hand. The cellar was full of smuggled French wine.

  The only two drawbacks were that they were not at home—and that Tom needed a diversion to take him away from a pair of cheerful brown eyes.

  “I would do this myself—” Gideon fretted at his own inactivity— “but having travelled the London road so many times, I would surely be recognized. I want you to visit every posting house between Cranbrook and Bromley and see if you can discover anyone who remembers seeing a man riding fast and alone, either on the day before or on the day of my father’s death. If someone does, get the traveller’s name or, failing that, his description.”

  “Some of those ostlers and post boys are sure to know me, too, my lord.”

  “Yes, but I doubt if they know you’ve left the Abbey with me. Be careful, of course. But until I see your name on a posted notice, too, I think you can say you are travelling on Abbey business, and none will be the wiser.”

  “Is there someone in particular you’re looking for?”

  “No. But I hope the Duke can point me in that direction. Here—” he handed Tom a letter addressed to the Duke, with money for his expenses— “you can post that once you get closer to London. I’ve asked for a reply to be delivered to the postmaster in Smarden. I am not known in that village, so I can call for a letter there myself. I do not trust his Grace enough to have his reply directed here.”

  “You think he knows who killed my lord?”

  “I think he may know of him, but does not suspect what he did. I hope he can give me a name. But it is
only a guess.”

  He could tell that Tom had lost most, if not all of the hope he had had. But he would never let on. As long as Gideon could think of clues, he would pursue them.

  “Yessir,” Tom said, making his bow. Before he moved to the door, he said anxiously, “You won’t get yourself tooken up by the law while I’m gone now, will you, sir? This calling at every posting house could take a long time.”

  “I promise not to get myself into trouble if I can help it. Be off with you, now, and keep your face hidden and your nose to the ground.”

  Gideon allowed three days before riding into Smarden to see if any messages had been delivered for a Mr. Mavors.

  But there was none.

  He tried to convince himself that the Duke had not yet received his letter and had time to respond, but he was very well aware that there were other reasons why his Grace might have chosen not to. Gideon’s own letter might have been intercepted by the Crown. He had tried to phrase his message in a way as to lead anyone reading it to believe that he was inquiring about the provenance of a horse. If it was read by a government agent, he believed it would still go through, but if an answer never came, he would never be certain it had.

  There were other possibilities, too—ones that he did not care to face. The Duke might not know the name of the man the conspirators had approached. Or, he might know it and see no reason to help him. He might fear that in naming the man, he stood a chance of risking his own exposure. Gideon’s gratitude could be counted on, but what was to keep the other man from betraying him?

  If the Duke failed to answer him for any of these reasons, he would be left with no leads.

  But worse than all of these was the lingering possibility that the Duke of Bournemouth was the murderer. In which case, Gideon had made the same mistake in trusting him that his father had made.

  As the days wore on, Hester felt alternately helpless and hopeful. Helpless, because there was no longer anything she could do to help St. Mars. And hopeful, because it looked as though they might return to London soon, and she desperately needed something to take her mind off her uselessness.

  Harrowby needed to return to take his seat in the House of Lords. The King had granted him leave to examine his affairs, but at a time when Jacobites and Tories were retreating to their country estates, no Whig could appear to be gone from Court too long. When Mr. Hare, who was secretary to Lord Bolingbroke ceased to appear, it was rumoured that he had fled to France as well, when according to this morning’s copy of The Daily Courant, he had only retired to his house at Skiffington.

  There were many other reasons to go back. Appointments were being made, and honours were being handed out. Although Harrowby could not expect, nor would he desire, to be appointed to some posts, there were always lucrative and influential positions for which few talents were required.

  Every afternoon after dinner, as they sat in the withdrawing room, Hester read The Daily Courant aloud to the others. Harrowby had begun this task, but they had soon found that his reading was more laborious than Hester’s, so they had begged him to give the task to her in order to “spare his eyes.”

  From these readings, they learned that the Honour of Knighthood had been conferred on Mr. Richard Steele, Mr. Robert Thornhill, and Mr. Samuel Letchworth, as well as other titbits that whetted their appetites to return to Court before the King departed for the summer.

  A pension of two thousand pounds had been granted to the Earl of Pembroke and Montgomery from the Civil List. The daily news of others being rewarded made Harrowby very anxious not to be forgotten in the King’s largess.

  The Marquess of Wharton had died rather suddenly at the age of seventy-six. As a fellow member of the Kit Kat Club, Harrowby felt he should attend his funeral. Letters from friends had teased them with a scandal brewing over the death, and both Harrowby and Isabella hated being far from the gossip. Lord Wharton’s illness, it seemed, had followed hard upon the heels of his son’s elopement, and now Philip was blaming his bride for his father’s death, even though he had disobeyed his parent in eloping with the girl when she refused to be seduced.

  For all three of Hester’s companions, to whom the peace of the country had begun to seem tedious, such goings-on were bound to provide strong inducement to pack their bags. Mrs. Mayfield had found that, after all her machinations, she did not particularly care for country life. After acquainting themselves with the house and the grounds, the only occupation that had amused her was planning the decoration of Isabella’s bedchamber. But after the architect had come down from London, and the upholsterers and joiners had been to show their wares, she had found it best to remove herself from the scene of the actual work.

  Mrs. Mayfield had not thought it prudent to suggest a return to London yet, hoping for a sign that Mr. Letchworth had recovered from his sense of injury. He had got wind of where Isabella had gone, and had written her a letter in his former vein, apparently unaware that she was already married. Mrs. Mayfield had read the letter herself, declared it to be nonsense, and advised Isabella not to think of it at all. It had been tossed into the pile of letters which had been forwarded from home. But they had judged it prudent to insert a notice in all the news-sheets announcing that the nuptials had taken place. It was now hoped that Mr. Letchworth’s elevation to a knighthood would solace his pride and that they might soon receive his note of congratulations in the post.

  “Here is your notice, Isabella,” Hester said as they sat in the parlour on a Thursday afternoon. She had found it in the day’s packet which had been posted to them on Tuesday. It says, ‘Yesterday was Sevennight, a marriage took place between the Earl of Hawkhurst and Mrs. Isabella Mayfield, the daughter of the late Honourable Geffrye Mayfield, at Rotherham Abbey, Lord Hawkhurst’s country seat.’“

  “But that’s wrong! We were married in Sevenoaks.”

  “Yes, my dear,” Mrs. Mayfield said, “but it sounds better to say that you were married at your husband’s house, and so you will say to anyone who asks. They have put it very well, although I never have understood why they do not say more about the people who attended the ceremony. They should have said that your mama was there.

  “What else does the paper say, Hester?”

  Hester’s eye had been caught by an advertisement on the third page, but since it was unlikely to interest her aunt, she reverted to the gossip. “There is more here on Lord Wharton’s business. ‘We hear the Marchioness of Wharton has taken out a Process in Doctors Commons, to prove her Marriage with the Marquess, who is said to be going to travel.’“

  “Poor Martha!”

  Mrs. Mayfield’s sympathetic remark could not fool Hester since, as she recalled, her aunt had not been so fond of the girl when the marquess had fallen in love with her. Lord Winchendon, as he had been then, had figured as one of Mrs. Mayfield’s favourite prospects for Isabella, and she had been irate when he’d fallen in love with a general’s daughter.

  Mrs. Mayfield continued in a commiserating tone, “Only fifteen years of age, and already abandoned by her husband! Why, just think, my dear,” she said to Isabella, “how that might have been you. But you was not so easily taken in by that rake, no matter how he courted you. And only see how fortunate you are to have married our own dear Lord Hawkhurst. I always said that Philip Wharton was a scoundrel.”

  Not always, Hester might have reminded her. Only after he’d turned his back on Isabella. Still, she felt sorry for the poor marchioness. Her husband was said to be an even bigger rake than his papa had been.

  “I suppose we ought to return to town,” Mrs. Mayfield said, in a carefully disinterested tone, “to see if anything can be done for her ladyship. I would not want her to think that all her friends have abandoned her. What do you say to our returning, my lord? I would not wish to inconvenience you.”

  Harrowby still bloomed beneath his mother-in-law’s flattery, and obviously her suggestion was welcome. “I say we go back. What do you say, my dear?”

  “Yes, let’s do!
I cannot wait to show Martha and all the others at Court my ring.”

  “Then that is settled. Not but what it has been very pleasant to be here, just the four of us. But we mustn’t be remiss in remaining away from Court too long, and you will want to find a house for the summer.”

  They started discussing where they had best stop, whether nearer to Hampton Court or Kensington, but since this was to be King George’s first summer in England, it remained to be seen how much time he would spend at either palace. They did decide, however, that Monday would be the soonest they should start out for London, since otherwise they would have to spend all of Sunday at an inn.

  While they were talking, Hester listened with half an ear while she perused the portions of the paper that interested her. An advertisement that had caught her eye was for a recently published pamphlet called The Black Day, or, A Prospect of Domesday. It purported to be about a great and terrible eclipse, due to happen on Friday, April 22, 1715—tomorrow—and it claimed that the like whereof had not been visible in the Kingdom of England for over 500 years. Hester might not have believed it, except that, according to the advertisement, the prediction had been based on calculations by Mr. Halley, Professor of Geometry in the University of Oxford, a noted astronomer and secretary to the Royal Society. Even as unschooled as she was, it would have been hard to miss hearing of this gentleman. She would enjoy seeing if the prediction was right. At least the eclipse would give her something to think about besides Lord St. Mars.

  Her meeting with him had ended her part in his trials. He had no more use for her, that had been clear. It had been all she could do to hurry through their good-byes, knowing that the most compelling role in her life was to be taken from her. She had not wanted to reveal to him how absolutely vital it had become.

  She was supposed to enjoy the luxury of his home and ignore his rights to it. Forget his losses, and pretend they had never touched her heart. Benefit from his riches while he was consigned to ruin.