by Jo Beverley
Women weren’t allowed in the Lyceum, but pretty wenches were plentiful in the Knave, along with good food and drink.
Normally when Perry arrived home without warning he went to the Knave for a beefsteak or chops. He’d often meet other Palace residents and catch up on the latest on-dits. He’d no mind for chattering company now, however, and a number of letters and invitations to deal with, so he sent his footman to bring food in.
His principal correspondents had known to send letters to the manor, so he wrote three quick letters to announce his return to Town and dispatched them by his lads. That done, he glanced through a pile of invitations, sorting them according to importance and promise of entertainment.
Lastly he looked through the letters. One was from his sister, Georgia, so when his food arrived he sat to read it as he ate.
Georgie’s style was lively, and her unlikely adventures as a country wife always amused. He laughed at her description of being chased by geese that seemed to think it their job to guard the orchard. She still seemed content with her rural life. He hoped her idyll lasted, but he had some doubts. Georgia had delighted in Town as much as he.
In fact she concluded the letter with a threat to flee back to Town, but he knew she wouldn’t unless her beloved Dracy came with her. As Genova had said, love was the very devil, and frequently drove people mad. Oddly, lovers seemed to revel in the insanity. Cyn could be idiotic about his Chastity. Even the haughty Lord Rothgar was besotted with his wife, and she with him.
He finished the letter and put it aside. Georgia had made her choice and must live with it, especially now that she was expecting a child.
He remembered that Athena Mallow had borne a child and then fled the marriage. Georgia was of a different stamp, thank God. She’d be a loving mother.
If she survived.
He pushed that aside. Most women survived the ordeal.
Even Giles’s wives had escaped death in childbed. Infants were less robust, but with good care . . .
Presumably Queen Anne’s offspring had had the best care, but only one had lived long enough to be hopeful, and he’d died, leaving her childless at death.
As antidote, he thought of the Earl of Royland. He had thirteen children and never one lost. The king and queen were also producing healthy children at a good rate, as was his brother’s shrewish wife.
Claris would do as well, and she had everything else she wanted for a happy life.
He rang for the food to be taken away and coffee brought, and then read the other letters.
Richard Protherby could be depended upon for amusing Oxford gossip. Jeanne de Lely chattered about Versailles. Silly stuff—nearly everything about Versailles was—but her delicious charm came through. Perhaps it was time for a visit to Versailles.
He was a married man now.
It was a practical marriage, but even so.
Mark Killmore’s pages from Ireland were mostly complaints about the weather. Cate Burgoyne’s from Yorkshire were too much about sheep rearing, though it was pleasant to see that he was still happy in his marriage—especially as his bride was as unlikely as Claris and also found in poverty. Prudence had risen to the challenge of becoming a countess, so Claris should be able to cope with a smaller transformation.
A rapping on the door brought him out of his thoughts. Who?
Then he recognized the voice. Devil take it. He’d hoped to escape a face-to-face discussion with his father for a while.
The Earl of Hernescroft stalked in, impeded in dignity by fat thighs, above which his belly swelled. His jowly face was red with anger, as it often was.
“What do you mean by it, sir? What do you mean?”
“Perriam Manor?” Perry said, hoping a calm manner would pour oil on stormy seas. “Won’t you be seated, Father? May I offer you wine, brandy, tea?”
“Tea?” his father bellowed, as Perry knew he would. “Women’s pap. Brandy, and I hope it’s good.”
Perry ignored that. No one had cause to doubt the quality of all he selected. He poured the brandy into a fine glass and took it to his father, who’d sat wide legged in the center of the settee with the demeanor of a monarch on a throne.
The earl sipped the brandy and nodded, but he still scowled. “Explain yourself, sir! Perriam Manor was to have come to me or to Pranksworth.”
His father probably expected him to stand like a naughty schoolboy, but Perry sat back at the table and crossed his legs, hoping to look at ease.
“Have you read the original pact, Father?”
“What?”
“From 1541.”
“Course not. Damned scribble.”
“I read the copy at the manor. Assuming it to be accurate, it was carelessly phrased, at least on our side. It doesn’t specify that the manor must pass to the head of our line, only to the line. Giles Perriam was within his rights to will it to me.”
“Was he, by gad? Underhanded, as anyone would expect. It can be amended, however. You now pass it on to me.”
“As I explained in my letter, sir, his will specifically forbids that.”
“The legal men will sort that out.” But then his father’s eyes narrowed. “Fancy it for yourself? Can’t see why, since you’ve always moaned about the countryside.”
“No, I don’t fancy it for myself, Father, but legal proceedings are expensive.”
His father grunted, but that would have hit home. The earldom was wealthy, but it was the wealth of land and possessions that couldn’t easily be sold. Ready money was scarce at the moment, in part because his father had indulged in some unwise lawsuits, and also because of Arthur’s gaming debts.
“There’s no need to go to that expense,” Perry said. “Nothing in Giles’s will bars me from leaving Perriam Manor to you.”
“I expected to see it in my lifetime.” Did his slit-eyed look anticipate Perry’s early death, or even wish that he’d take out a pistol and conveniently shoot himself? “It must be done immediately,” his father stated. “Knowing your feckless ways, I’ll take care of it. Babcock will bring your new will here tomorrow. Be sure you sign it!”
Perry hoped he kept his anger concealed, and his alarm.
Claris.
She expected the manor to be hers, and he’d promised her that. If he predeceased her, his father would be able to throw her out and was capable of doing so.
As if picking up on his thoughts, his father said, “So you married a nobody. In keeping, in keeping.”
“Am I to be chastised for that too? It was the only way.”
“Mallow. Mallow. Who’s heard of Mallows?”
“A respectable gentry family,” Perry said, and played a trump. “Her grandmother is a Littlehampton.”
His father did straighten at that. “Is she, begad?”
“Though estranged from her family.”
“Never say it’s Athena Littlehampton!”
“Bad as that?” Perry said, but with a deliberate smile to lighten the atmosphere. “I’d like to hear your account of her in her younger days. She’s a formidable presence now. She’s in residence at the manor, along with my wife.”
“I’ve a mind to visit the place.”
’Struth, had his father and Athena had a relationship in the past? That was only one of many reasons to prevent the visit.
“I’ll willingly take you there, Father, as soon as I’m able.”
“Why not now?”
“Have pity, sir. I’ve only just arrived and am much in demand.”
“Your wenching and gaming can wait.”
Perry bit back anger and played a trump. “I’m summoned to the king.” That wasn’t strictly true, but Perry expected it to be as soon as Rothgar heard he was back.
“Why?”
His father was not a stupid man, but he disliked using his brain. He chose to believe that Perry’s life was given to pleasure apart from the occasional matters he handled for the earldom. Perry riffled through possible explanations and chose one that had the virtue of being mostly true.
“Among my sinecures is a position in the Admiralty. There are some irregularities there and it’s thought I might have insight.”
“Never say you’re under suspicion!”
Perry sighed. “No, Father. In fact, I’m considered particularly trustworthy.”
Did every son feel a slight desire for parental approval, no matter how unlikely that might be?
“Odd,” his father said. “How trustworthy is your effort to block that canal, I ask you?”
“The canal is supported by men as powerful as you, Father. I can’t work miracles.”
“Can’t work at all; that’s the problem. Idle flibbertigibbet, and if you’ve a mind to keeping Perriam Manor for yourself . . .”
A tap on the door saved Perry from a sharp retort.
The footman entered with a letter.
Rothgar’s seal.
“If I may . . . ?” Perry said, and his father grunted permission.
Perry snapped the seal, unfolded the paper, and read. He was to report to Malloren House with all speed.
He refolded it, saying, “I must go out soon, Father. I have a copy of Giles’s will if you care to read it. He went to lengths to make our way difficult.”
“I’ll go odds he did! Do we have Perriam Manor now, I ask you? Beyond all question?”
“We do, sir. I’ve made the required marriage. The only other condition is that I spend thirty days and nights there a year. You see that Giles knew how much I would dislike that.”
“See you keep that condition or I’ll have you flayed.” The earl drained his glass and stood. “There would have been better ways to handle it, but what’s done is done. When you receive your new will tomorrow, sign it immediately. I don’t want to lose the manor through you falling in with ruffians on one of your adventures.”
Once he’d gone, Perry blew out a breath. Any interview with his father was an ordeal, but that had been the worst.
And what about Claris?
He could defy his father over the will, but that way lay ruin. His father couldn’t take away the money that had come to him at twenty-one, but that was a small part of the whole. The rest was at his father’s will, and he wouldn’t hesitate to stop the allowance if displeased. Even the sinecure positions had been arranged by his father and could be as easily disarranged.
It wasn’t only that. The need to restore Perriam Manor to the earldom ran in his blood. It should be so.
But Claris . . .
He shook his head. He’d find a way to untangle that Gordian knot, but later.
For now, he must make haste to Malloren House.
Chapter 26
He should have changed out of his traveling clothes as soon as he arrived. Now he weighed the delay of changing against the effect of presenting himself at Malloren House in country wear. Neither he nor Rothgar would consider his clothing significant as long as he wore some, but he might in truth be carried on to an audience with the king. It would not be a formal audience, but all the same, there were requirements.
“Auguste! The light blue with braid.”
He hurried to his bedchamber to strip and wash, and then dressed in clean linen and shirt. He added a neckcloth trimmed with particularly fine lace and fixed it in place with a sapphire-headed pin. Auguste, with his excellent instinct, had selected clocked stockings rather than plain, but simple black shoes with silver buckles.
The suit was made of fine wool rather than silk or velvet, and only trimmed with bronze braid, but the style was elegant and the waistcoat embroidered with bronze flowers finished it off perfectly.
Perry chose a lace-trimmed handkerchief and a braided three-cornered hat and approved the whole. He didn’t have only Rothgar and the king to consider. In his journey to Malloren House he could encounter any number of people and he had a reputation to uphold.
He left the Lyceum and walked briskly on his way. The midsummer heat was only a memory, so the stink of Town was lessened to a level a true Londoner scarcely noticed. Odd that he noticed it now. The perils of country living.
Countrymen deplored the crowds and noise, but the bustle and crowds lightened Perry’s step. He was frequently hailed by both men and women. Every encounter promised good company by day or night, but he exchanged only the briefest words, promising more later.
Much of fashionable London consisted of modern terraced houses, but Malloren House was a mansion from the previous century, set in a square built by one of Lord Rothgar’s ancestors. Malloren House stood apart from the terraces on either side and was in the old style. It had a front courtyard protected by high, spiked railings, and was entered through guarded gates, one for carriages, one for pedestrians and sedan chairs.
Old-fashioned, but such protection could have been useful in the summer riots when the mob had rampaged, particularly enjoying smashing the windows of noblemen they thought offensive. Some had even sought to invade the grand houses, and a few had succeeded.
He entered through the smaller gate and crossed the courtyard to the steps. The porter who sat in an alcove there alerted those inside, and the door opened to admit him.
He was taken to Rothgar’s private study, which lay in what Perry thought of as the business part of the house. Most of the work done here concerned the administration of the marquessate, but a considerable part involved matters of state.
The king of France had a secret ministry to do his bidding, which the official ministry did not. Perry didn’t think Rothgar’s work was on that scale, but he knew the king relied on him for independent information and advice.
The marquess was a tall, dark-haired man in his thirties. He could dress magnificently when necessary but today wore a plain dark blue suit, discreetly ornamented.
“Your country business went well?” It could be seen as courteous, but there was a mild reproach in it.
“Very well, and very essentially,” Perry said, taking the chair to which he was waved.
A twitch of the marquess’s lips acknowledged the correction.
“It involved marriage?”
“Which won’t interfere with my work.”
“I wish you well of that,” said Rothgar drily, “but if you are free, that is all to the good.”
“We still don’t know who’s responsible for the leaks?”
“No. I’ve had spurious information fed into both Horse Guards and the Admiralty. It emerged into French hands, but the channel remains unclear. Your position in the Admiralty should enable you to detect likely suspects there.”
“My position? I go there a few times a year. Won’t daily dabblings raise questions?”
“If the guilty parties are alarmed, they’ll make mistakes.”
“I’ll be cast out of the best clubs for actually applying myself to a sinecure.” Perry was only half joking.
“Perhaps you’ll set a mode. Too many live idly.”
“Are you turning leveler?”
Rothgar smiled. “I enjoy my eminence too much. If anyone questions your attention to duty, claim it to be a wager.”
Perry laughed. “Anything’s accepted on those terms. Even Casper Fanshaw spending a week playing hostler at the Swan with Two Necks.”
“At least that young idiot gained a taste of real work. Now we must go to the king. For some reason he’s taking an interest in our inquiries, and he’s particularly requested your complete application.”
“I’m honored,” Perry said, insincerely. That way lay a dense bramble thicket.
King George was behaving oddly these days, and with the heir a young child, monarchical derangement could be ruinous. In the spring, the drawing up of a Regency Act had led to the fall of a ministry and deep divisions. Thank heavens that wasn’t a problem anyone expected him to solve.
“You shouldn’t have been so proficient,” Rothgar said.
Perry spread his hands. “My failing.”
A few weeks ago the king had summoned him to a private audience and ordered him to find the person who was making screeching noises
in St. James’s Palace.
“Trying to rattle me,” he’d said, his rather bulbous eyes twitching. “Factions. I know what they’re about.”
He was right about the factions. A number of powerful men were secretly forming possible regency administrations, and it might suit some to drive the king mad. Unfortunately, the king had been the only one hearing the noises.
By sheer chance, Perry had presented an elaborate explanation of cats and mice just as the king ceased hearing the shrieks and whines. He’d been hailed as hero, and now, it seemed, was expected to achieve miracles at every turn.
“His majesty is in good health?” he asked delicately.
Rothgar was inscrutable. “The birth of a new son has greatly cheered him, but he’s rationally determined that France gain no advantage through espionage. Cyn will accompany us.”
Rothgar rang a bell. When a footman entered, he was sent to alert Cyn.
“I assume he’s having no more success at Horse Guards?”
“He has a list of suspects, but it’s too long.”
Cyn soon arrived, dressed in the full glory of his military uniform. He gave Perry a wry smile. “Are you sure you prefer Town life to rural simplicity?”
“I’m having my doubts.”
They traveled to St. James’s Palace in a coach. The king lived in the Queen’s House, which had once been Buckingham House, but he attended to state business elsewhere. He was oddly domestic, preferring a quiet life with his wife and children to fashionable revels.
That would be admirable in an ordinary man, but it was less so in a monarch. King Louis might have the better idea—keep the rich and powerful under close scrutiny in the magnificence of Versailles, and busy them with protocol and pleasure.
Perry certainly didn’t blame the king for not wanting to live in St. James’s Palace, which dated back as far as Perriam Manor but was even more of a dusty warren. The king received them in a paneled room that managed to be chilly despite being small and having a fire in the hearth.
“Married, eh?” the king asked Perry, clearly attempting to be jovial.
Perry bowed again. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Excellent, excellent. We would wish all our young men safely within domestic life.”