by Regina Darcy
“I can play, madam, but not as well as Her Ladyship on the harp. Might I play the spinet?”
“Certainly.”
Phoebe had been playing since she was a little girl and was quite adept at making her way through the most complicated of tunes while her mind pursued other trains of thought.
Assassins? What on earth were they talking about assassins for? What for her uncle was likely to be a hypothetical discussion on the reasons why Brutus had become one of the men who, fearing Julius Caesar’s overreaching ambition, had brought his knife to the Senate was perhaps much more concrete to the other men present, none of which, as far as she knew, had scholarly intentions.
SEVEN
By the time Phoebe had finished playing a series of songs, all well received with enthusiastic rather than polite applause, the other gentlemen had returned. Phoebe, with a keen eye, noticed that her uncle looked preoccupied. The thought crossed her mind that instead of playing the spinet, she should have found a way to eavesdrop upon them as they had been sequestered in their conversation; now the opportunity was lost.
There had to be a way . . .
Lord Billingham, under cover of the determined if not skilled practice of another of the lady guests performing, said to Phoebe, “I say! You’re quite a musician.”
“Not at all, but I thank you. Are you fond of music?”
“I’m fond of anything you do, Miss Stanford, and I wonder—”
His preamble, the conversation topic, and her own worry solidified. “Are you fond of hauntings, Lord Billingham?”
“Hauntings?”
“Yes. I’ve heard that your uncle’s castle has a ghost. I should so like to see a ghost,” she said with a wistful tone.
“Would you not be frightened?”
“Oh, yes, dreadfully frightened, but I’m sure that if you accompanied me, I would be well protected.”
He chuckled appreciatively at the prospect of protecting the timid Miss Stanford who wanted to see a ghost but was in need of a guard. “Well, I daresay that if you’re so intent on seeing a ghost, my uncle would be glad to welcome you to the castle. I don’t know that he’s planning anything at the moment, but perhaps when we return after the season, you would be inclined to visit us?”
“I would dearly like that,” she told him, her eyes looking at his intently as if nothing could bring her such uplifting joy as visiting his ancestral home. “But is there no way to visit before the season ends? We’re months away from the real start of the season; it’s only February.”
“I saw, I could probably talk him into having something at the old manor. He’s quite proud of the place, you know.”
“I’m sure it’s exquisite.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Give me a modern house in London over a big, old fashioned castle any day. But there have been Chessingtons at Glamis Hall for generations.”
“Glamis Hall?”
“Yes, that’s the name of the estate. My family is Scottish.”
“Scottish. Does not Glamis have something to do with Macbeth?”
“I’ve no idea. Who are the Macbeths?”
Grimly, Phoebe thought of her uncle’s prediction that marriage to Billingham would lead him to a stroke. What would he think, she wondered, if he knew that Billingham was unacquainted with the tragedies of Shakespeare?
She did not tell her uncle of the conversation that had preceded the invitation, but as they returned home later that night, she asked him if he had enjoyed the evening.
“Yes . . . ” he said after a pause which revealed that he was considering all the facets of his response. “But it’s very odd, Phoebe. Usually when the gentlemen retire, the topics of conversation are not particularly noteworthy. But I couldn’t escape the feeling that the discussion tonight was conducted on two different levels. One was the ostensible subject; Chessington has a bust of Caesar in his library without thinking I began to quote—”
“Shakespeare?”
“No, actually I quoted Patrick Henry.”
“Who is Patrick Henry?”
“An American orator who delivered rather stirring, not to say inflammatory speeches before the war with the colonies. The colonies were in a state of perturbation over taxes and Henry rose to give a speech which included the line ‘Caesar had his Brutus, Charles the First his Cromwell and George the Third may profit by their example. If this be treason, make the most of it.’ The colonist were outraged and accused him of treason. The point I was making was merely an oratorical and not a political one.”
“I am sure of it. Were you misunderstood?”
“I believe I was. I told you the conversation was conducted on multiple levels. I was struck by how often references to Caesar appear in modern context. But my quotation seemed to unleash a different mood in the room. Several of the men, including young Billingham, left. Perhaps they were bored; not everyone enjoys listening to old men drone on about Roman emperors. But the ones who stayed were not at all bored. It was as if something had ignited. I didn’t feel that I quite knew what they were talking about, although the conversation did not stray from its historical context.”
“A historical context, Uncle, or an assassination context?”
Her uncle looked at her, and even in the darkness of the carriage she could detect a troubled expression on his face.
“I don’t know.”
By the next morning, however, her uncle’s humour had altered and over breakfast he was once again his usual even-tempered self. He would not rise to any of Phoebe’s speculative queries no matter how skilfully she phrased them, dismissing his thoughts from the night before as an excess of Madeira and too much spice in the sauce. Phoebe gave up her attempts to probe him for more information but when Lord Billingham called in the afternoon to suggest that she join him for a walk in the brisk air, she pleaded the absence of an abigail. Thus prodded, her uncle added his belated refusal to the suggestion, although Phoebe knew that he regarded the convention as foolish.
“Lord Glastonburg, will you and Miss Stanford be my guests at the theatre tomorrow night? There’s a devilishly funny comedy playing, I’m told, and it’s sure to be enjoyable.”
Phoebe knew that her uncle loathed modern plays, but as he had already denied her the opportunity to take a walk, he was obliged to agree to make one of the company to the theatre.
“Capital!” said Lord Billingham, his pleasant young face alight with anticipation. “I’ll tell my uncle. We’ll all sit in the family box. It’ll be most jolly, I’m sure.”
After he left, her uncle sighed and turned to his niece. “I was unaware that having a beautiful female of marriageable age would place such a burden on me,” he noted.
“I’m sorry, Uncle. I know this is not how you would have chosen to spend an evening, but perhaps the play will not be so bad.”
“Oh, it’s not the play, although that will take endurance. No, I’m not at all sure that I want to be seen spending an evening in the Chessington family box.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. This turnabout, after only this morning protesting that he had overreacted the night before to the topic of conversation at the Chessington supper, was puzzling but revealing. Her uncle was without artifice and he was keenly sensitive to his own intuition. His reluctance to spend time with the Earl told her that while he did not wish to express his doubts about the Earl’s intentions, he did not wish to be exposed to them either.
“Nothing, my dear,” he said as if he had made a decision. “You are a young woman and you must have entertainment. I shall accompany you and find something to laugh at, even if plays nowadays are paltry things. ‘The play’s the thing, wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.’ “
“Uncle, Hamlet is not a comedy.”
“No,” he agreed. “What I wouldn’t give to see a rousing production of As You Like It. Drury Lane offers nothing of interest to men my age.”
“You sound as if the only ones who appreciate the works of your beloved Bard must be mouldin
g in their graves, Uncle. The Earl of Chessington is your age, is he not?”
“He’s somewhat younger than me by a half dozen years or so. I have no idea what he favours in the theatre.”
“Have a care not to become his conversation partner,” Phoebe warned.
“There’s very little of mirth in the subject of assassins,” her uncle noted. Just then the butler walked in.
“Yes, Tyler, have we another caller?”
“The Viscount of Sunderland, my lord.”
“Oh, that’s all right then. Tell him to come in.”
“Too late,” said the Viscount, who had entered upon the butler’s heels. “If you did not intend to be at home to receive me, I have foiled you.”
“We are always home to you, my dear boy, and you are welcome. It’s a pity you aren’t going to the theatre tomorrow night.”
“How do you know I am not? Good afternoon, Miss Stanford.” The Viscount bowed. “A pleasure as always to see you.”
His knowing smile indicated that he was well aware that the pleasure was not returned, but she could not leave just as he arrived for fear of seeming rude.
“Are you going to the theatre?” her uncle asked eagerly.
“I have thought of doing so.”
“Then perhaps you can join us,” her uncle suggested with the first indications of enthusiasm that he had displayed since the subject of a night at the theatre had been broached.
He was clearly oblivious to the fact that Phoebe did not share his enthusiasm, something which, with all requisite tact, she intended to remedy, regardless of the amused smile on the Viscount’s face that indicated his own awareness of her views.
EIGHT
“Uncle, would it not be rude to invite a guest to share the Earl’s box when we have no idea of how large his party may be?” Phoebe asked, phrasing her question as if it were merely a matter of propriety rather than personal preference which inspired her concern.
“The Earl? Chessington, I take it?”
“Eh…Yes.”
“You sound singularly unenthusiastic, my lord,” the Viscount noted. “Why go if you do not wish to see the play?”
“Young Billingham has invited us and Phoebe wishes me to accompany her.”
The Viscount seemed to be processing the unspoken morsels of disclosure. “Then why did you accept his invitation?” he finally asked Phoebe.
“I wish to go,” she replied, completely avoiding his question. “But I do not have a chaperone.”
“The Chessingtons are not sufficient chaperones?”
He was asking perfectly logical questions but his discernment was as irritating now as his amusement ever was.
“I’m not quite sure about Chessington,” her uncle said.
The Viscount sat down. “What do you mean?”
Phoebe supposed she was imagining it, but there seemed to be a heightened eagerness in the notoriously idle young viscount’s manner, as if he were very interested in what her uncle had to say. That seemed absurd, of course because it could not possibly be of any concern to the viscount, but she found himself studying him as he looked to her uncle for an explanation.
“I don’t know.”
“Well,” the Viscount said, “if you are about to become Lord Billingham’s uncle-in-law, you had best acclimate to his company.”
“I am not marrying Lord Billingham!” Phoebe snapped.
“Really? The going wager at the window at White’s is that he will offer for you. The assumption is that you will accept.”
“Did you place a wage on my acceptance of his proposal?” Phoebe asked indignant.
“I? No, certainly not.”
She was mollified, the Viscount went on to say, “I prefer a wager with a significant challenge attached. There is no satisfaction in winning when the outcome seems certain.”
“How can you assume that I am going to accept a proposal from Lord Billingham?”
“You danced with him several times at the Duchess of Tenley’s ball,” he said, ticking off the reasons on his fingers. “You went to a supper at his uncle’s home. I just saw him getting into the Chessington carriage as I was arriving. My dear Miss Stanford, marriage invitations have been anticipated on less.”
“My niece will not be marrying Lord Billingham,” her uncle interjected. “I would forbid it.”
“But does that not—hypothetically—trespass upon her own right to refuse him as a husband,” inquired the Viscount, “were she so inclined?”
“She is so inclined and I am her advocate and partner in this,” Lord Glastonburg replied with a distracted wave of his hand.
“You seem most emphatic on the matter,” the Viscount said, taking out his snuffbox and helping himself, after a polite offer to her uncle, which was refused. Lord Glastonburg deplored the habit, regarding it as an affectation. His disdain for snuff did not seem to alter his regard for the Viscount, however.
“Billingham is not the equal of my niece in intellect,” her uncle continued. “It would be a most inharmonious match.”
The Viscount considered this, studying Phoebe as if she were an exotic specimen brought back from the South Seas and requiring the evaluation of superior minds before she could be correctly labelled. She found the scrutiny vexing.
“You are silent, my lord. Do you disagree or disapprove?”
“I am intrigued, Miss Stanford. I have never, in my nine-and-twenty years, heard a man speak so objectively of the female mind.”
He did not sound disapproving, she realised. She also realised that the barrier imposed by her dislike of the Viscount had closed her powers of observation to his character. He did not instinctively reject the notion that she was the equal, or in fact superior, of another man in her mental capacity. Of course, the epiphany should not have rested upon the validation of another man, she reminded herself, eager to restore her opinion of the Viscount to its former negative state, but it should have been based upon his own assessment of her mind.
“And now you have,” her uncle beamed. “I shall put it another way: what you are in chess, Phoebe is in thought.”
“Perhaps you flatter us both,” the Viscount said quietly, with no trace of sarcasm. “Perhaps we both wish that we were the equal of you in character. Now then,” he said in brisk tones, as if the discussion had veered too near boundaries which were better left unexplored, “tell me more about your concerns about the Earl.”
“Do not trouble yourself, Lord Sunderland. I am merely, in my old age, becoming susceptible to fancies.”
“Then share your fancies. I am curious.”
Again, Phoebe had that sense that the Viscount was pursuing some unseen path of thought which mattered very much to him. Her uncle did not seem to perceive the Viscount’s intention, but Phoebe found herself watching the handsome young man very closely.
Reluctantly, clearly feeling as if he were foolish to express his observations, her uncle relayed the previous events which had aroused his discomfort when in conversation with the Earl. The Viscount listened intently, not interrupting except to clarify a detail which required more explanation.
“As you can tell, my dear Lord Sunderland, I am being exceedingly silly,” her uncle concluded with an apologetic smile. “Pray forgive me for wasting your time on such nattering. Have you come for another game of chess? I shall happily oblige you.”
“I relish a good game of chess,” the Viscount confessed. “But there are times when the chess pieces are human and one must play very sagely. I fear that we are presently engaged upon such a time, and we must proceed with the right mix of caution and haste. In order to be successful, I feel that I must prevail upon you both. At the risk of sounding like a scene from a play, human lives are weighed in the balance.”
Phoebe stared at the Viscount. Who was this man who had suddenly and with no warning been transformed from a model of the gentlemen of the ton whose character consisted of idleness and vice into an enigma who spoke with such authority?
“You look in
credulous, Miss Stanford, which is a great comfort to me, as it assures me that my ruse has been a successful one.”
“Your ruse?”
“Yes. Lord Glastonburg, you must forgive me for failing to inform you of the circumstances which have transpired?”
“What circumstances? May I offer some refreshment? I have a feeling that we may need nourishment. This tale of yours is reminiscent of what our forebears eagerly listened to when a bard came to the hall and those occasions were fortified by mead and meat.”
The Viscount smiled. “There isn’t time, although I will not refuse a glass of your excellent wine. I trust I may rely upon both your discretion?” he asked as a glass was handed to him.
“It would help if I knew why discretion was incumbent upon us,” Phoebe said tartly, “but I assure you, I am not in the habit of prattling and tattling.”
“Your uncle has verified your sense Miss Stanford and that is sufficient for me. But we are engaged in a serious matter and I require your assistance. You plan to attend the theatre tomorrow night?”
“Should we not?”
“On the contrary, it’s of the utmost importance that you do so. I need you to impart information. The Earl will not suspect you of any motive because he, like most gentlemen, does not believe that a woman is capable of the kind of subterfuge which may be required if the English government is to be rescued.”
Phoebe gasped. “Sir, your words are alarming! Why are you telling us this?”
“Because until today, I was also obliged to consider whether your uncle, my good friend, was part of a conspiracy to overthrow the government by taking part in a planned assassination of the Cabinet.”
“Me?” her uncle echoed, too astounded at the suggestion to be insulted. “Why ever would I involve myself with a plot to kill anyone?”
“That’s precisely what I told my superiors, but your views on the suffering of the poor are well known and in today’s political climate, that makes you someone of radical sympathies.”
“Radical—is it radical to believe that a man’s wages should provide him with the means to feed his family, or that children should not go unshod and uneducated, or that women ought—”