Poetic Justice, a Traditional Regency Romance (Regency Escapades)

by Alicia Rasley

  He looked back to see the prince caressing the tattered ribbon that marked the reader's place. John sighed inwardly and crossed a figure off his mental invoice sheet. "A balance owing? I think not, sir. Perhaps a trifle, but anything more than that I would remember."

  The prince blinked, hesitated, then gracefully surrendered. "If you say so, it must be true. I've never known you to mistake the slightest detail. It is what has made you so valuable to the nation, in your different ways. Do you know," he added, as if struck by the thought, "the King's birthday is very soon."

  "Next week." The King had been hopelessly mad for years, but there were still ceremonies to mark his anniversary, the traditional end to the London season.

  "You wait until then, and I will prove my gratitude. For the Jerusalem, I mean, of course."

  Only a week till he received payment? John thanked him, but decided not to spend the 400 pounds yet. He would probably end up whistling that down the wind, right after the 1000 pounds he had just forgiven.

  He bowed, about to take his leave, then stopped. Perhaps there was some profit to be made out of this visit after all. The prince had a magpie's mind, full of trivial facts and irrelevant memories, especially of the halcyon days of his youth. "Do you know aught of a Frenchman, a collector of antiquities, named St. Germaine? He was of Chantonnay, in the Vendee."

  "St. Germaine?" The prince leaned back in his chair, his eyes closing as he considered this. "There was a pretty girl named St. Germaine, years ago. Golden hair. But not in France."

  John shook his head and resigned himself to a tale of one of the prince's many flirtations. It wouldn't even be salacious, most likely, for the prince's amorous emotions, it was rumored, had always been reserved for older women.

  "No, not in France. It was during that bloody Terror. She came here with the other émigrés." The prince opened his eyes and frowned. "I don't know any collector by that name. But you know," he added ruminatively, "she married a collector, this Mlle. St. Germaine, I think."

  John had been busy assembling a politely attentive expression, but this arrested him. "She married a collector? Here in England?"

  "Yes, I'm almost certain. Not a well-known one, or I'd have the name right to hand."

  "But he was a collector, her husband?"

  "Must have been. I recall I sent them a Bacon letter for a nuptials present, and I should never have done so if he weren't a collector." The prince chuckled, his stomach rising and falling under the pristine satin waistcoat. "Usually I send spoons."

  "You don't mean Parham, do you? He's supposed to have quite a Bacon selection."

  "That's the one!" The prince beamed at him. "Sir Francis Bacon—that was the center of the collection. Not that anyone's ever seen it to judge its merits. Those Parhams have always been devilish close with that collection of theirs. Criminal, I often thought."

  "Criminal indeed," John murmured. The Parham Collection was reputed to be a fine little library, but no one knew for sure, for the barons had always been chary of visitors. The collection had been closed entirely for a dozen years now, its contents the subject of speculation in the hallowed halls of the Royal Society. "So Mademoiselle St. Germaine became Lady Parham, did she?"

  "Not the current Lady Parham. That's the brother's wife, I believe. Saw her at—at m'daughter's funeral. Not French at all. The French one must have died. He too, or his brother wouldn't be baron."

  John thanked him and took his leave, stopping at the door for a last glance at the Jerusalem. But as he left Carlton House, his mind shifted to assimilate this last information. Rumor was all he knew of the Parham Collection, since the library had neither been acquiring nor selling as long as he had been in the business. But if the daughter of the French collector had truly survived the Terror, perhaps—

  It was too soon to hope. On a hunch, he rode to the Hall of Records in the ecclesiastical courts near St. Paul's. He was no stranger to the dusty stacks of ledger books here, having conducted occasional searches for famous names, hoping to unearth a prize like the Shakespeare will. Today his search was an expeditious one; he had a name and could narrow the death date down to the last couple decades. Within an hour, he was sitting crosslegged on the floor, taking notes on the terms of the last will and testament of Godfrey, Fifth Baron Parham of Linwood, filed in May 1812.

  Entailed property to brother Emory. The brother inherited—there was no son then. John went carefully through the list of estates and houses and Chelsea lots, looking for anything that might be a collection of rare books. Minor bequests to servants and relatives. No bequest to a wife; she must have predeceased him. The residual—the residual to his daughter Jessica, under conditions outlined in trust agreement.

  No trust agreement was attached. It would be in some solicitor's office, no doubt, signed and administered separate from the will. What the conditions were, what the residual was, the will did not disclose.

  Forcing his disappointment away, he turned back a page. The brother was also named guardian to the minor child Jessica Seton, and trustee of her legacy, whatever that was.

  He rose and replaced the document in its box, and trailing his hand along the dusty shelves, he moved back a year or so. Women might file wills too, if they had property separate from the marital estate. Lady Parham, it turned out, indeed had a will. She left everything to her husband, everything being a very short list—her interest in any property in France eventually restored to her family, and "the St. G trunk."

  Absently, John brushed the dust off his breeches as he left the Hall of Records. Parham House, he had learned from the list of entailed property, was off Berkeley Square. He checked his watch. Three o'clock. A bit late for a morning call, but perhaps the Parhams were late risers.

  The Parham Collection did indeed prove closed to the public, inaccessible even by appointment. And the Parhams were not at home to hear his appeal. A sovereign, disappearing into the butler's white glove, elicited the information that the baron and baroness were in Surrey for the fortnight. "And Miss Seton?" John asked, holding his hand out, palm up, as if in inquiry.

  Quick as a bee, the second sovereign vanished from between his fingers. "Visiting friends, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Rush. In Bincombe. Dorset, I believe that is."

  "It is indeed." John gazed longingly at the west face of the mansion, an angled wing where he thought the collection might be housed. But there would be time for that later. He might find his Dorset home a more fruitful field right now.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Why then the world's mine oyster,

  Which I with sword will open.

  The Merry Wives of Windsor II, 2

  As John emerged from the dimness of the Devlyn Keep library, the glare of the sun off the water was blinding. Until his vision cleared, he paused in the doorway to the balcony that hung improbably over the bay. Devlyn didn't notice him; he was reading the Times with the silent concentration necessary in a house full of children and servants and princesses. The wind was up from the east, but he had tamed the newspaper by folding it into neat eighths and turning his back to the breeze.

  All their lives John had seen his four-month-senior friend as a preview of his own future, and since they turned thirty he lived in dread that one day he'd visit the Keep and find that Devlyn had gone gray or bald or fat. But he looked as he always did, calm and cool, frowning slightly as he contemplated the events of the world. It was a testament to Devlyn's inner serenity, John supposed, that even life with Princess Tatiana had not worn him to a thread or driven him to dissipation.

  John had sent a note round earlier warning of his visit, and now he could see he was expected. On the table next to Devlyn's chair were two glasses and an untouched bottle of brandy. John smiled at the excise stamp on the seal. "I see you've run out of the good stuff. I've probably still got a case or two you can have. Unmarked by English hands."

  Unstartled, Devlyn looked up, as if he had known all along that he was not alone. He rose and held out his hand, ignoring the reference to
one of John's more nefarious former professions. But he didn't refuse the offer either. It was a good thing for the princess, John thought, that the Archangel Michael always proved so corruptible. He'd be unbearable otherwise.

  The legal brandy wasn't as bad as John had expected, and he sat down on the stone wall, letting the tension of the last few weeks fade in the warmth of the sun. The breeze was cool and the air sweet and salty. Far below him the sea was chopped into little white waves. Across the cove near the village, he could see his pretty Coronale bobbing. This was a perfect Dorset afternoon, and were they still boys, they'd likely be out on the bay risking their lives in a homemade sailboat.

  But they were both grown, and their converse was more formal now. With his glass, Devlyn gestured at the newspaper. "I see congratulations are in order."

  John wished for once the Regent would have shown a bit of restraint and left Parliament in ignorance of his latest acquisition. At the very least, he hoped, the Regent had been discreet about how little he had paid for the Jerusalem, or John's other clients would start expecting the same kind of deal. "Prinny made a public announcement again?"

  "Well, he always does, doesn't he? Every year, on the King's birthday. It's a law." When John only shrugged his incomprehension, Devlyn picked up the paper to study it again. "Perhaps I'm wrong to extend congratulations? I presumed it wouldn't have happened if you didn't want the honor."

  "Devlyn, give me the paper." John made a grab across the table and got a hold of it. "What on earth are you talking about?"

  Devlyn laughed and released his grip on the Times. "You mean you don't know?"

  "I brought the Coronale round from Chatham. I haven't been on land for four days." There was nothing on the front page about the Jerusalem Manuscript or anything else to do with John. He let the wind tug it open and scanned the notices.

  "Next page." In afterthought, Devlyn added, "Sir John."

  "Gemini." John drew a deep breath as he turned the page. "He didn't really knight me."

  "Worse than that."

  "Worse? What could be worse?" He located the column with the twice-annual announcement of royal honors and orders and ran his finger down the list. His own name—the one he had taken two decades ago, anyway—leapt out at him. "Baronet. Baronet? What in God's name is he thinking?"

  "I don't imagine God had much to do with it. This can't possibly be a case of divine revelation."

  It was too much to take in. John started laughing, remembering the Regent's promise to reward him. Presumably creating a baronet was easier than paying bills on time. "It would never have occurred to me to pray for this, I assure you. And I don't know how he came up with such an idea. Parliament will declare him mad as the King!"

  "I'd love to see Wellesley's face when he reads this. He's going to think it's because you've told Prinny about all those illicit operations you conducted for him when he was foreign secretary."

  "Such as conveying your princess to these unsuspecting and unprepared shores? Yes, I deserve a medal for that little bit of smuggling. But a baronetcy?"

  "Really, Johnny, how did you accomplish this? Blackmail?"

  Devlyn cherished few illusions, but that was one of them—that John was capable of nearly any mildly wicked act. John might resent that, except that Devlyn, once upon a time, would have been right. Enough of the outlaw still lurked within the art dealer to make John doubt himself at times. But not in this instance. "I beg your pardon. This honor was earned the traditional way, I'll have you know. I forgave a debt. 1000 pounds."

  Devlyn whistled through his teeth. "1000? I'd've expected a peership at least for that."

  "There's been a great deal of inflation since your ancestor was named viscount, Devlyn. Even a barony would go for 5000 pounds these days." He gazed back at his name, unmindful of the wind whipping at the pages. "With any luck, everyone will think he's honoring my namesake poet posthumously."

  Devlyn gave him a curious look. "You're not pleased with this honor, are you?"

  For a moment, John couldn't answer. He smoothed the newspaper he'd crumpled and handed it back to Devlyn. "Oh, it's a generous act, you know. He didn't have to do this, and it might cause him all sorts of havoc. He knows Wellesley and Castlereagh and the rest will suspect the worst. I worked for the Foreign Office too long, you know. Learned too many secrets. But I'm out of it. They can't do anything to me now."

  "Certainly it will be good for your business."

  John shrugged. "Perhaps. Most collectors don't care about my position, you know, as long as I deliver the goods. But there might be one or two who will commission me first now. I don't know that I want that sort of client, of course."

  Devlyn considered this while he filled John's empty glass with more brandy. "Is it an inverse form of snobbery you are exhibiting? You were never so proud before you became a baronet."

  Baronet. The word sounded nonsensical, when applied to John Dryden. Sir John Dryden, Bart. He rubbed his temple with knuckles, wishing the Regent had just paid for the Jerusalem and had done with it. "It is rather amusing, isn't it? I have always fancied myself something of a democrat, and scorned such trappings. A man should rise by his own merits, not by his birth."

  "Well, you've risen, that's for certain. Was it truly only a forgiven debt that motivated Prinny?"

  "That and his gratitude for bringing the fair princess to our shores so long ago," John said ironically.

  Devlyn smiled. "No, had he thought of Tatiana, he would have made you an earl."

  John saw no profit in quibbling with this sentiment. He was fond of the princess, as a rule, but had never quite understood how his sensible friend chose to entangle himself with one of the world's more troublesome women. Diplomatically he changed the subject. "And I've just brought him a manuscript he'd been hoping for. The Jerusalem."

  "Is that where you've been all spring? Jerusalem?"

  "No. The manuscript is called the Jerusalem. But it's never been there, as far as I know. It was scribed in Alexandria more than eight hundred years ago. I found it in Greece, in a convent."

  "Eight hundred years ago? And the nuns still had it?"

  John said wryly, "They hadn't any sense of what it was. Used it for a doorstop. And they were all too eager to let it go for a pittance. Had to argue them into accepting the equivalent of ninety pounds."

  "Well, ninety pounds is quite a price for an old book," Devlyn commented.

  Annoyed by this dismissal of his great prize, John retorted, "Not at all. As I was leaving the convent, Franco Alavieri from the Vatican arrived. He told me he would have paid fifteen hundred pounds for it."

  Devlyn drew in his breath at this new figure. Then, thoughtfully, he folded up the newspaper and secured it on the table with the brandy bottle. "You might have given him the manuscript, pocketed the fifteen hundred, and told the Regent you got there too late."

  John regarded his old friend with dawning approval. "There's hope for you yet, Michael." But he could tell Devlyn was already regretting the suggestion. "Oh, I see. You meant that I might have done it, not that you would ever do such a thing. You know, you should appreciate me better. You might have to commit your own sins, were you not able to participate vicariously in mine."

  "You have plenty to spare, I think," Devlyn replied. "So why didn't you sell it to the Vatican? Surely if the thought occurred to me, it occurred to you."

  John almost said something foolish and sentimental, that the money didn't matter, that he wanted the Jerusalem to himself at least for the length of his voyage. But no one would believe that of the hard-headed businessman John Dryden. "Oh, I've my reputation to consider. And it is such a fine book. The Vatican would have buried it, you see. Not destroyed it—Alavieri would never have allowed that—but hidden it away in some corner of the library. They couldn't acknowledge its existence, you see, or they'd be acknowledging its authors. And the Coptics have been considered heretics since the fifth century. They practice monophysitism, you know."

  Devlyn nodded
gravely, then had to ask, "Some shocking ritual, I suppose?"

  John laughed. "No. Oh, it's shocking enough to the pope, I suppose, but the rest of us wouldn't understand the fuss. Something about Christ having only one nature, not two, human and divine."

  Devlyn agreed that this must be condemned in the strongest terms, perhaps forgetting that his own Anglicanism had long been considered heretical by the pope. "Prinny apparently hasn't any difficulty with the heresy?"

  "Oh, no. He's looking to build a rare-book library, and, if I know him, he will probably have a special display for heretics. It's a beautiful book, hardly aged at all. The binding is camel skin. Most Copts were Egyptian, you know." Absently, he trailed his fingers on the stone wall, feeling instead the velvety texture of the book. "And gold leaf as fine as a hummingbird feather, vines all over the front, worth every bit of trouble."

  He broke off, embarrassed, knowing Devlyn could only wonder at his enthusiasm. But he tried to explain in a way Devlyn, a former soldier, might understand. "It's always an adventure, you see, because manuscripts are an odd trade. The buyers are few but intense, and intensely jealous. Alavieri was generous enough in defeat, or so I thought. But he had a trio of banditti waiting for me at the dock."

  "What happened?"

  "Oh, I was half-expecting it. My mare got away, and alerted my crew, and we made short work of them."

  Devlyn was laughing, forgetting their adult reserve enough to lapse into a long-abandoned nickname. "Jack, you never fail to get into scrapes. Only you could turn some dusty old book into an occasion for pillage and derring-do."