by Mary Nichols
Unaware of her tumbled musing, he was still smiling. ‘Shall we go through those invitations while we have time?’ he suggested.
The Royal wedding took place at the Chapel Royal in St James’s Palace the following day. Few of the public witnessed it, but those privileged to do so said the twenty-three-year-old groom was tall and dignified and the seventeen-year-old bride was tiny beside him. The crowd who waited outside were disposed to wish them well. After all, George, unlike his father and grandfather, had been born in England and English was his native tongue.
‘I feel sorry for her,’ Francis said, when he called at Portman House later that afternoon. ‘She was far outdone by Lady Sarah Lennox, who looked magnificent; the old Earl of Westmoreland had to be restrained from mistakenly doing homage to her instead of the Queen.’
‘I did not know you had been one of the congregation, Frank,’ Harry said in his lazy drawl, knowing perfectly well the young man had not been invited, though to look at his clothes one might think he had. He was dressed in a full-skirted lilac coat faced with silver, white small clothes and stockings and a purple waistcoat covered in pink-and-green embroidery. His cravat was a huge lace bow, fastened with a diamond pin. His hat was a large tricorne, which would not have disgraced an admiral. Harry did not doubt he had been the one to pay for it and while the debts for which Francis had importuned him remained unpaid.
‘No, I wasn’t, but it’s the latest on dit. I wonder Sarah Lennox had the face to go at all, let alone be a bridesmaid. ‘Tis common knowledge she had set her heart on becoming George’s queen.’
‘Well, I hope the King and Queen will be happy together,’ Rosamund said. ‘And I am looking forward to the coronation.’
‘You mean you have been invited?’ Francis queried in disbelief. ‘How did that come about? Harry ain’t no more than a baron.’
‘I must have done something right,’ Harry said wryly.
‘I can’t think what it could be,’ Francis went on. ‘You don’t do anything and you ain’t sat in the Lords above twice this year.’
‘Harry works very hard behind the scenes,’ Rosamund said.
Harry looked sharply at her, wondering what she knew. He had never hinted at what he did when he was doing business in London and she could not have guessed, surely? Could anyone have told her? But the only people who could have said anything were the Piccadilly Gentlemen and he could not believe they would do so. She was simply being supportive. ‘Thank you, my dear.’
‘How cosy you are,’ Francis said. ‘Are we to expect a happy event shortly?’
‘Mind your own business,’ Harry snapped. ‘Are you staying to dine? I must tell you we are going to Viscount Leinster’s soirée this evening, so we dine very early.’
As an invitation, it was grudging and Francis knew it. ‘No, thank you, coz, I am off to a cock fight at the Nag’s Head, but if Lady Portman would like someone to escort her when you are busy with your affairs, I will gladly offer myself.’
Rosamund sensed the tension between the two men and decided to intervene. ‘Thank you, Francis, I will bear that in mind.’ She rose as she spoke. It was a gesture of dismissal and he bowed and took his leave.
‘He is going to the Nag’s Head,’ she said to Harry when he had gone. ‘Do you think he knows Mr O’Keefe?’
‘I doubt it,’ he said, though he was wondering the same thing himself. It was a little worrying. ‘I doubt O’Keefe returned there after he had ruined Sir Joshua. He would not risk being traced and made to pay up, would he?’
‘Have you made enquiries?’
‘One or two, but so far I have learned nothing. I will keep trying.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘But please do not put yourself at risk over it. I would as lief forget the whole affair than have you hurt.’
‘Why, my dear,’ he said in delighted surprise. ‘I do believe you care.’
‘Of course I care. You are my husband and Annabelle’s papa. We would both be lost without you.’
‘I am flattered, but if anything should happen to me…’
‘Harry, you are frightening me. Do you expect something bad to happen to you?’
‘No, no, I only meant if something should happen, I have made ample provision for you and the child—’
‘Children,’ she corrected him. ‘Had you forgot our agreement?’
‘No, how could I forget that? It is etched indelibly in my memory. But there is no hurry, is there? I want you to enjoy being my wife first.’
‘That is kind of you, my lord—Harry—but I cannot help wondering if something is holding you back. Am I not what you expected and hoped for?’
‘No, you are not,’ he said, suddenly sounding angry. ‘Nothing like.’
‘You are being unfair,’ she retorted, realising, with a sinking heart, that her words had not encouraged him to confide in her. ‘I did nothing to deceive you. You knew exactly who I was and what I was.’
‘Did I?’ He looked at the woman he had married, longed to take her in his arms and tell her the truth, but a raucous voice, full of pain and yelling hatred at him, echoed in his brain. Would Rosamund be the same when giving birth? Would he kill her as he had killed Beth? He could not bear it if it happened again.
‘If you have disappointed me it is only that you have turned out to be altogether more lovely, both in appearance and nature, than I deserve. There are things about me you do not know, would never understand…’
‘You could try telling me.’
‘One day perhaps I will.’ He stood up and held out his hand to bring her to her feet. ‘Go and change for dinner. We must not be late at Chaston Hall or Louise will ring a peal over us.’ It was said light-heartedly, Lady Leinster was the most easy-going of hostesses, but Rosamund knew the question of having children was not to be broached again. His first wife was like a ghost hovering over them and she did not know how to banish her.
She found herself wondering about the gaming club her aunt had spoken of and what he had called the rigs they got up to. And something Francis had said echoed in her head and would not go away. He had offered to escort her when Harry was busy with his affairs. It had been said with heavy emphasis as if he were goading Harry about amorous affairs in front of her. The little green god of jealousy fluttered in her stomach. If Harry had a mistress, and she supposed many men did and he was no different, then he had no problem making love to her.
In the two weeks between the Royal wedding and the coronation, Harry and Rosamund were rarely at home. If they were not attending entertainments, Harry was at the meetings of the Piccadilly Gentlemen, more frequent now than they had been, or Rosamund was shopping for gowns and fripperies because to appear twice in the same gown was not to be considered. And on the few occasions when they were both at home, they were busy with the arrangements for their own ball. Invitations, food, music, flowers and costumes, all involved endless discussion before decisions were made. There was no time at all to continue their conversation about fulfilling the terms of their marriage contract. Rosamund suspected it was deliberate on Harry’s part.
She had no intention of taking Francis up on his offer, but he was frequently at the same occasions they attended and he did his best to ingratiate himself with her, which puzzled her considering the gossip he had been spreading about her and her husband. Her nervousness of him was increased one evening at a concert given at Vauxhall Gardens in honour of the Royal couple. He minced up to them, hailing them and kissing Rosamund’s hand, as if it were a foregone conclusion he would be invited to join them. ‘You are in looks tonight, Cousin Rosamund,’ he said. ‘I felicitate you on that gown; blue is certainly your colour.’
She thanked him and he positioned himself between her and Harry as they promenaded, listening to the music. Harry, knowing how resentful his cousin was of his wife, wondered what he was up to.
‘Do you know,’ Francis murmured after a while, ‘I was given a milled guinea at White’s the other evening.’
Rosamund
gave a stifled gasp, which Harry noted with puzzlement. ‘Were you now?’ he said nonchalantly. ‘I believe there are a lot of them about.’
‘Yes, but at a place like White’s…’
‘Do you know who passed it to you?’
‘Oh, yes, it was Chalmers.’
Rosamund gasped and held her breath, something not lost on Harry, though he pretended not to notice. ‘You mean Sir Maximilian?’ he asked Francis.
‘Yes. What other Chalmers is there? Of course I challenged him, but he said he had not noticed it was counterfeit and someone must have passed it to him.’
‘That is more than possible,’ Harry said evenly. ‘I don’t know why you had to bring the subject up.’
‘Thought you might be interested.’
‘Struth! Why should I be interested?’ Harry asked, using the exaggerated drawl of the macaroni while dusting imaginary fluff from the deep cuffs of his coat sleeve.
‘You are married to the fellow’s sister.’
‘What is that to the point?’
‘Can’t have the family name blackened, can we?’
‘Take care, Frank,’ Harry said, dropping the accent. ‘You are as like to blacken it as Chalmers. And I beg to remind you Lady Portman is present.’
‘I beg my lady’s pardon,’ Francis said, turning to her and executing a flourishing bow. ‘But it don’t look good, it don’t look good at all.’
‘I am sure my brother did not know it was a counterfeit coin,’ Rosamund said, wondering if Harry had heard the gossip his cousin had been spreading about their marriage and whether it bothered him. ‘I understand that it is easy to mistake the genuine from the counterfeit.’
The concert was then beginning and they strolled towards the orchestra and took their places, but Harry could not concentrate on the music. He found himself wondering how Rosamund knew so much about counterfeit coins, unless she knew Max was passing them and had seen and handled some of them. That would make her an accessory and put a whole new complexion on his dealings with the coiners and with his wife. He did not want to believe it, but Max Chalmers was present when he found the first coin at White’s and there had been others since.
He was impatient to return home and study the lists Mr Mackreth had given him. And if it transpired that Max’s name appeared on each list, what would he do? He had spent a year tracking down the coiners and one of the biggest operations was within his grasp. O’Keefe. Rosamund had mentioned the man’s name. True, it was in a different context, but how much did she know?
It was on the way home in the darkness of the carriage, he introduced the subject. ‘Rosamund, I have not made any headway in tracing the Barnstaple Mining Company. Are you sure there is nothing else you can tell me about it? Any little thing…’
‘No, I have teased my brain over it, but that is all Mr Tetley was able to tell me.’
‘Perhaps I should ask him,’ he said to test her. If she had something to hide, she would not want him quizzing the lawyer.
‘My lord…’ she began.
‘Harry,’ he corrected her. She was definitely ill at ease; he could feel the tension in her body as she sat beside him and, dark as it was in the carriage, he felt, rather than saw, that she was twisting the cord of her reticule in her lap.
‘Harry, I know I said I wanted that man O’Keefe brought to book, but on reflection, I can see that nothing can be gained by it and Mr Tetley’s advice was sound. He said men like that are dangerous and I should leave well alone. I do not want you to be hurt. I would as lief forget the whole thing.’
‘As you wish, my dear.’ He put his hand over hers and felt her muscles slowly relax, which only served to confirm his suspicions. Could the business of the shares be connected with the counterfeit coins? The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was. And his wife, whom he had married in haste without affection and who had since become the pivot of his life, might be implicated. He prayed she was not. Never before had his duty been in conflict with his personal feelings and it was tying his gut into knots.
As soon as he arrived home, he said goodnight to Rosamund and shut himself in the library to study Mackreth’s lists. Sure enough, Max Chalmers had been in the club on each occasion when fake coins had been passed. It was not proof, of course. There were others whose names appeared more than once on the list, but it was enough to set him thinking. Chalmers could have bought wine at the vintners where he had picked up the first one. He had certainly provided an ample quantity of drink at the wedding and the second guinea was found at the same wine merchants soon after that. The proprietor of Ranelagh Gardens had given one to the Excise the day after he had met Rosamund and her brother there. He fetched out all the coins he had collected and studied them carefully. Each one, including the one Francis had given him, had been clipped in exactly the same way, done by the same craftsman. It was beginning to look damning, damning enough for him to sit with his head in his hands and groan aloud.
Rosamund lay awake with tears trickling unheeded down her cheeks. Francis and Max between them had ruined any chance she might have of becoming closer to Harry. Why, oh, why did Max have to pass those coins instead of handing them over to the Excise men as he had been advised? Mr Tetley knew about them and he knew she knew. Why had she been so foolish as to tell Harry about Mr O’Keefe and the Barnstaple Mining Company? If he went to see Mr Tetley, the whole dreadful truth would come out and though she had always wanted to know what had happened in the days before her father died, now she wished with all her heart that it could be buried and forgotten. Once Harry found out about the counterfeit coins, she would be banished and the marriage annulled. He would not risk his good name being tarnished; that was what Francis had said and he had been right. Where could she go if that happened? How could she live without the man she loved? The future looked very bleak.
She fell asleep at last, but was suddenly awake again. There was someone outside her room. She waited a moment and then heard the sound again. Whoever it was had passed and was going downstairs. She left her bed and went to open the door a crack to peer out. A man was creeping down the stairs in the dark, his shoes in his hand. There was a lamp glowing in the hall as there always was and as he reached the bottom stair it revealed her husband in a brown stuff coat, thick breeches and a brown scratch wig. He tiptoed to the front door, slipped into his shoes and quietly let himself out. She went back to bed to lie awake, trying to make sense of what she had seen. He would hardly go to a mistress dressed like that. What could he be up to?
She had been sure it was Harry, but now doubts began to surface. Perhaps it had not been Harry, but an intruder. He had looked uncommonly like that highwayman who had held up Harry’s carriage. Ought she to raise the alarm? It was too late now, he had gone. She left her bed, slipped into a dressing gown and went to Harry’s room, smiling to herself as she did so. Was this the opportunity she had been waiting for? A frightened wife needing comfort? She knocked and entered. Harry was not there. He had not been to bed.
Chapter Nine
It was becoming more and more difficult to leave the house as Gus Housman and Harry was afraid he had missed O’Keefe at the Nag’s Head. If only he knew where that farm was, he could set others to watch it. He had employed trustworthy men to follow O’Keefe from the tavern but the man seemed to have a sixth sense when anyone was on his tail and soon threw them off. For the first time since he had joined them, Harry was half-regretting his membership of the Piccadilly Gentlemen. He hated deceiving Rosamund, especially since that acquisitive cousin of his had hinted of affairs. It was not hard to see that he wanted to undermine their marriage. And why.
Late as it was, the Nag’s Head was noisome and noisy, but for once O’Keefe was there. But so was Francis. He was in a crowd of drunken companions who evidently thought it great fun to visit taverns and mix with the low life. Harry hurried past him, his face averted, and slipped into a seat opposite O’Keefe with his back to the room. ‘It’s too crowded in here,’ he complained. ‘C
an we go elsewhere?’
‘They won’t bother us,’ O’Keefe said. ‘Too drunk. And they are off to a dog fight soon. I need more genuine coins. What have you brought me?’
‘Naught. I’ve a mind to see ’ow they’re worked on. What say I bring ’em to your ken?’
‘You ain’t proved ye’self yet.’
‘I reckon I ’ave.’ Harry said, using the rough tones of the uneducated. ‘Didn’ I ‘old up tha’ there carriage and bring you a purse full of good yeller boys? Seems to me I’m takin’ the risks and I ain’t gettin’ a fair return. Le’ me in, a fair share same as the others.’
‘Not my decision.’
‘Then whose is it?’
‘That would be tellin’. I’ll give you a few milled megs to pass on. See how much you can get in real change. Meet me two days from now at noon. Bring me more genuine yeller boys and I’ll see what I can do.’ He put his hand in his pocket and produced a purse that jingled as he passed it across. ‘There’s ten ’ere, an’ fer Gawd’s sake don’ confuse good with bad.’
‘D’yer wan’ to see what I’ve bought with ’em?’
‘No. Just make sure what you buy don’ cost much. The more change the better.’
Harry put the purse in his pocket and stood up. The noisy party, which included Francis, had left looking for new entertainment. Much relieved, he set off for home, musing as he went. He would hide the coins with the others in his safe and use his own money again for the change. His life was becoming very complicated, made more so by having Rosamund in town with him and having to escort her to functions. But he did not regret that. He enjoyed having her with him. But that was more than half the problem. He liked her and admired her and felt horribly guilty about the way he had persuaded her to marry him. He ought to set her free. And yet the thought of that depressed him more than he would ever have believed possible at the outset. She had become an important part of his life.