Dr. Jenner shook his head. “We are grateful to you, my boy.” The medical man’s step faltered as Warrick urged them on. Warrick and Quintilla each took an arm to assist him.
Quintilla was exhausted, and wondered if her legs would carry her to Berkeley Square. All that ill will! What a horrible experience, made more frightening by her feeling of being utterly powerless to extricate them from it.
Continuing east, they crossed South Audley Street and entered Adams Mews. The roar of mob anger faded. No one raced past them as they crossed Charles Street below Grosvenor Square.
Quintilla thought each step she took might be her last, but somehow, her legs continued to function. “I did not know what to do,” she said, her voice husky from shouting.
“No one does,” Warrick assured her.
“If ever evidence was needed on the folly of being guided by irrational emotions, these past minutes have more than furnished proof.”
Warrick regarded Quintilla curiously. “I heartily agree, Miss Davenant. Beware the emotions.” He indicated a dark grey vehicle at the corner of Berkeley Square. “Ah, there is our carriage ahead.”
The grey upholstery of the roomy landau was exceedingly comfortable. Quintilla, sitting beside Dr. Jenner and feeling safe at last, began to shake uncontrollably. It was cooler now, in the dusk, and the sheer dress, donned for noon at Kew, was quite inadequate for the night breeze and her emotional shock. Tears streamed down her face. She tried to stifle the sobs, but was as little in control of herself as she had been of the mob. “I couldn’t make them listen to reason.”
Wordlessly, Warrick sat beside her. He put his arm around her and pulled her against his chest, where the fine lawn of his shirt absorbed her tears. The carriage rolled forward.
Gradually, Quintilla stopped shaking. The tears ceased. She was warm. With her head against Warrick’s chest, she could hear the steady thump of his heartbeat, steadfast and sure, and so soothing. The whir of the carriage wheels taking them to the security of Sloane Crescent was equally reassuring.
Quintilla tried to sit up, but Warrick’s arm held her firmly against his chest. Her mashed white satin hat would never be the same. Her lips moved close to his shirt. She wanted all accounts settled on this doomsday. “I did not know the ... actor was an actor, when I asked for your assistance yesterday.”
“I know ... I was angry that once again he had interfered with our friendship, as he had at our first meeting. Do you remember, when I insisted you leave?” Quintilla nodded, then forcibly pulled away from him. “It is not seemly to be seen like this in public,” she pronounced, sitting very erect between the two gentlemen.
“I thought you were exempt from observing society’s rules for proper behaviour.”
“I am, but I do not want to appear weak ... weaker than anyone else.”
“I see. Are you cold?”
“No.” Quintilla shuddered and sat even more erect. Warrick reached for his coat on the seat opposite, discarded earlier with his hat and cravat. He placed the well-tailored superfine garment around her shoulders.
“Yes,” Quintilla admitted. “Thank you.”
“Ah. She was cold. She is as imperfect as the rest of us.”
The shifting necessary to accomplish the disposition of Warrick’s apparel stirred Dr. Jenner. “I understand nature, and love its wonders as they are revealed to us, but I do not understand man’s resistance to these wonders,” said the naturalist, shaking his hatless head.
Warrick asked hesitantly, “What happened at Grosvenor House? The young fellow has not died? The crowd seemed to think he had.”
Dr. Jenner vigourously assured him. “No. No. The crisis was over and he survives. Vaccination protected the entire household. No one else came down with the disease.”
“Vindication, Dr. Jenner.”
“Yes, Mr. Dhever, but will it be enough to assist my legislation?”
Warrick spoke thoughtfully. “When emotions run high, Dr. Jenner, it is often difficult to bring sound logic to bear on differences of opinion. When the din of dissent fades, your bill will win the consideration it merits—if not this month, then next, or next year. Eventually.”
A sorrowful smile crossed Dr. Jenner’s face. “And I might well not live to see it. Nor my dear wife, Catherine.”
“Ah, but you and your supporters—and you gain new ones all the time—witness the benefits of the procedure.”
“I like your optimism, young man.” Dr. Jenner’s wistful smile broadened.
“Thank you, sir. Remember the cuckoo. Your life is not yet over.”
Dr. Jenner was quiet. A few minutes later, he began to recite a new verse. “I will not fret o’er smallpox ills,/Nor get into a fever,/Assured of passage of my bill,/By my friend Mr. Dhever.”
“Oh, Dr. Jenner,” Quintilla rasped, and patted his shoulder.
So it was a cheerful group for whom the Guthries’ butler opened the door at Number 7, Sloane Crescent.
“Rundle, we are home!” Quintilla proclaimed to the servant.
The door to the rose drawing room burst open, and a joyful reunion with its occupants took place in the entrance hall. “We have been so worried,” said Lady Guthrie. “You were late. Then we heard rumours of a riot.”
“Tell us all about it,” Kitty insisted.
Sir Ian led everyone into the calm serenity of the drawing room, and amongst its fragrant bouquets restored an order that allowed a lucid account of the afternoon’s events. Details of Warrick’s heroism and clever tactics generated accolades. Quintilla’s foolhardy attempt to change the direction of a mindless mob brought forth loving admonitions to temper her courage, in the future, with common sense. There was rejoicing over young Grosvenor’s recovery.
The riot survivors withdrew to repair their appearances, and on their returning to the rose room, a toast was drunk to the bill’s eventual victory. The continued good health of the Grosvenor clan also was saluted. Sir Ian prescribed a dollop of honey, to be added to Quintilla’s drink to ensure her improved throat by morning.
As Dr. Jenner repeated his newest rhyme, the drawing room doors opened to reveal Rundle the butler. “Mr. Chiswell Blumpton awaits—.”
Before the butler could indicate the location where Mr. Blumpton awaited, that gentleman slid around Rundle’s ample dimensions and stood with his hat in one hand, nondescript bouquet in the other. He sported a vague smile above his shapeless figure, looking more than ever like a generous serving of treacle pudding.
Lady Guthrie’s inclinations as hostess never served her better, and she arose promptly to welcome the uninvited and unexpected guest in a manner designed to bring further éclat to the House of Guthrie. She accepted his bouquet with great tact before handing it to Rundle.
“Ah, Mr. Blumpton. We have been delayed and are just preparing to dine. Will you join us?”
Mr. Blumpton bobbed his head, to everyone’s consternation, and handed his hat to Rundle. Warrick rose to make his farewells. He was persuaded to stay, in the face of Lady Guthrie’s insistence he needed to eat somewhere, and might as well do it at the Guthrie table.
“If you have engagements this evening, you may leave as soon as you have eaten,” Lady Guthrie urged him while directing a meaningful look at Chiswell Blumpton.
Cook had been forced so frequently to delay the meal, her beef roast had become a bit leathery, her artichoke tarts dry. The cold roast chicken, however, and the fricassee of eggs were still quite tasty. The blancmange with fresh strawberries left nothing to be desired.
Kitty reported on the water-colour show and the Delaneys’ son, who bore no resemblance whatsoever to a rabbit—more like a cheerful squirrel with nut-filled cheeks. Viscount Lyle’s heir had already asked her to save him two dances at the Dacre ball, three days hence. There was some planning for Dr. Jenner’s immediate return home, provided Quintilla would assume responsibility for checking the Ceylon report proofs from the printer.
Conversation lagged. It had been a tense day for all, includin
g Cook. Quintilla had difficulty in smothering her yawns. It was Chiswell Blumpton who temporarily took up the gauntlet for the social graces. Among his mumblings, Lady Guthrie understood the word berries. She hoped he praised their flavour. “Yes, delicious in season,” she agreed.
Mr. Blumpton’s next communication included the word Davenant. Did this mean he thought Miss Davenant as delicious as the strawberries? “Interesting, Mr. Blumpton,” Lady Guthrie replied.
Encouraged, the expert on Lord Clough’s twelfth-century family church coughed out something about a church. Lady Guthrie was uncertain what, so answered Mr. Blumpton with a smile. Either Chiswell Blumpton wanted Quintilla to eat berries in the church—or perhaps marry him in the church, which was quite another matter. If only he would speak up, he might be considered a quite presentable candidate for marriage. Get him to talk, and dress better, and he might just do.
13
“A young gentleman has been waiting some time to see you, Baron, in the study,” Bates greeted Warrick’s return to his rooms at the Albany.
Warrick’s quizzical look drew further explanation from his manservant. “A friend to your brother, William. Seems quite presentable.”
Immediately alert, Warrick strode across the black and white squares of the entry hall floor to the door of his study. He paused before casually opening the door to enter the room.
There sat Amos, erstwhile-impressed seaman, now looking for all the world as if his raiment resulted from the direct advice of Beau Brummell himself. The new and obviously ardent disciple of this famous arbiter of men’s fashion arose from Warrick’s leather chair and bowed. “Lord Eysley.”
Warrick stood carefully inspecting first the slight figure before him, then the few accessories in the room. “Amos.”
Grinning, the actor said in the cultivated pronunciation of Britain’s upper class, “No need to check. Nothing is missing, though I confess an admiration for the box inlaid with mother-of-pearl sitting on top of your desk.” Amos pointed to the item with his cane. “Actually, I see nothing appropriate here. I prefer to take small, insignificant-looking pieces rarely ever missed—a jewelled snuffbox, a silver letter opener. Avoids any hue and cry.”
Amos appeared to enjoy his role as aristocratic dandy, and played it as well as he had the earlier impersonation of homesick American.
Now he expressed his opinion on the room’s decorative design. “You’re a bit plain here, but these are nice quarters. I want a place like this someday—and I’ll have it.”
Warrick had closed the door and stood in front of it. “You are looking well.”
Amos chuckled and glanced down at his apparel. “Yes, I believe I am.” With his fingers he brushed away an imaginary wrinkle from his sleeve. “There were guineas among those coins you tossed at me yesterday.”
“I thought there were.”
Amos registered a brief surprise and moved to the room’s long windows with their view of the courtyard below.
“I do not like to stint—even with insults,” Warrick added. “Is your lookout still there?”
Amos shook his head. “No need for one. I work alone, which is why I have waited all this time to see you.”
“Will you sit down?”
Amos returned to the comfortable leather chair he had abandoned at Warrick’s arrival. Warrick sat in a Sheraton armchair at the side of the desk, and began racking his brain to remember the contents of its drawers. Silently, he waited for Amos’s next performance.
“I came to set the record straight,” said the actor, his words devoid of dramatics. “I don’t know what your quarrel is with that bit of elegance in the library with us yesterday, but don’t quarrel over me. You were wrong to connect us. She is no part of my act.”
Warrick nodded. “I know, I worked that out ... though not quickly enough. Thank you, for waiting to come to her aid. It was good of you.”
Amos’s face glowed with the compliment. “She—and the younger one—seemed to really care what happened to me. And that doesn’t happen very—anyway, there are not that many real ladies in the world. I would not wish to see her in trouble because of me. Too bad she’s lame.”
“Why?”
“She’ll be ignored, and she’s a prime one.”
“I will see that she is not overlooked.”
“A good idea.”
Amos veered to a topic of equal concern. “Was there a lot of ... money stolen from that room, the night we first met?”
“No.”
“I keep hearing rumours.”
“Do not believe them.”
“Well, if there had been, all that blunt—two thousand pounds, I heard—I wish it had been mine.” Amos heaved a sigh.
“I thought you took only what was never missed.”
“Yes, but two thousand pounds—”
“What would you have done with it?”
A look of rapture crossed the actor’s face. “Ah, enjoyed the counting of it, to start.” Abruptly, Amos enquired, “What do you hear from Will? That was a nice time with him, down there at—Wellands, was it? I’ve never had so much fresh food ... I might buy the place from you someday.”
“William is in the middle of the Atlantic right now. You should have tried that adventure.”
“No.” Amos shook his head vigourously, then hesitated. “Perhaps.”
“Will you have a glass of Madeira before you go?” Warrick was not succeeding well with his mental inventory of the desk’s contents, and could recall little of intrinsic value there. He did appreciate the risk the rogue took in coming to face the Baron’s potential anger in order to defend Quintilla.
“Oh, no. No. I can’t afford it. A man in my position needs to keep his wits about him at all times. I’ve seen what drink has done to Sheridan—what a sorry mess he has made of his fame—and to others in my profession. It’s not going to happen to me. When I reach the top, I plan to stay there.”
“I see. So you steal, but never get drunk. An odd set of principles, reversing what most follow.”
“When I am rich, and famous, society’s darling—how I got there will not matter to anyone, only how I behave ... like a gentleman,” Amos remarked caustically.
“When do you expect to be one of London’s leading lights?”
Amos slumped in the chair. “I know it will take longer than I want. I am a good actor, in spite of my less than commanding physique, my bland, undistinguished colouring.” He bounded from the chair and began to speak as a very believable Bottom from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
When he completed the scene, Warrick slowly clapped. “Success can be yours, regardless, Amos. I have seen an actor with your stature. No heroic figure, but magnificent when playing Iago. He tours the provinces, and I cannot remember his name.”
“Yes. I think you speak of Edmund Kean. A much better actor than I, but I have the edge, the staying power he won’t have. He’ll go the way of Sheridan. I aim to be grey-haired and respectable, the founder of a dynasty ... with someone like your friend in the library. She’d suit me. Would she bring money to a marriage?”
“Not enough to satisfy you.”
The actor raised his hands palms upward. “The pretty ones rarely have the money.” He reached for his hat and cane, forgotten when he had assumed Bottom’s character. “Well, I told you what I came to say. I’ll be going.”
Warrick stood. “When do you work again?”
“Oh. Soon. Thanks to you—to yesterday’s largess—I don’t need to rush. There’s a possibility I might replace someone at the Haymarket, in The Honey Moon.”
“Keep me informed of your progress to the top,” Warrick requested.
“You won’t need me to tell you, Lord Eysley. You can read about me in the newspaper.”
“I hope I do not read you were imprisoned, or transported, for theft.”
Amos pulled from his pocket one of the guineas Warrick had thrown at him yesterday and held it up between his thumb and forefinger. “This entitles you t
o a complimentary box on the opening night of my theatre.” Amos replaced the coin in his pocket and jauntily strolled towards the study door.
Warrick had moved to block the thespian’s graceful exit. Offhandedly, he said, “Before you leave, you will want to extract from your pocket the pieces you found in my desk drawers—the small ivory box worked in gold and holding a gold toothpick—my father’s, so it has some sentimental value in addition to the value of the emerald on its cover.”
Nonchalantly, Amos retrieved from an inside pocket the small object and placed it on the desk. He looked at Warrick’s inscrutable face before straightening his cravat and adjusting his waistcoat. “How did you know?”
“The same way I know you have something else to surrender before leaving this room.” Warrick allowed a few moments of silence before reminding Amos of his present duty. “Amos?”
Amos, resigned to the inevitable, withdrew a round silver box, about three inches in diameter, and ruefully handed it to Warrick, who put his arm around the younger man’s shoulders and escorted him to the exterior door of the apartment.
“Amos,” Warrick said fondly, “I fear for your future—especially if I ever see you again before the opening night of your theatre.”
“Until then, Lord Eysley.” Amos donned his hat at a dashing angle and saluted Warrick before leaving.
After he closed the door behind the implausible concentration of ambition, Warrick examined the silver object in his hand. He had been bluffing, on the assumption that Amos would take more than one bibelot. The box commemorated the French and Indian War, and contained disks illustrating major events in the conflict. Where did it come from? Warrick had never seen it before. Either Amos had dredged it up from a dark corner of the desk’s bottom drawer, or had stolen it from some other victim. Warrick laughed—stealing from Amos what Amos had stolen from God knows where. Warrick resolved to give it to the actor on opening night of his theatre.
In the meantime, it would sit on Warrick’s desk, a memento of these few intense days since he had danced with the unusual, the ... the very special Miss Quintilla Davenant. Intense days, but diverting. He had grown quite fond of her.
Waltz with a Stranger Page 15