Salt Redux

by Lucinda Brant

  Sir Antony was in no mood for one of Diana’s lectures on his lack of political acumen, nor did he know where his sister’s thoughts were leading, but he humored her by glancing across the clavichord to just beyond the harp to the row of chairs set up for the recital. Mr. Dacre Wraxton was in deep conversation with a gentleman of middling years and upright posture, in full military uniform that was as bright as his expression was dour. He did not know the man personally, but he knew Sir Jeffrey Amherst had been stationed in the American Colonies for some years. Lady Reanay confided this over her teacup, and that Sir Jeffrey had recently married for the second time, a much younger woman, the daughter of a General, whose name Sir Antony had not bothered to remember.

  “That’s Amherst. Not even a nodding acquaintance, I’m not sorry to say. Military types don’t interest me. Aunt Alice tells me he recently married the daughter of a brother officer…”

  Diana gave a snort of dismissal.

  “Your reply illustrates my point! You remember what is unimportant, when others—Salt—would be able to tell you, as I can, all about Sir Jeffrey’s illustrious military career. We have been correspondents for years,” she informed him with a self-satisfied smile and pulled a face. “Of what importance is his remarriage, if you do not know Amherst’s bride is the daughter of General Cary; the only reason a man like Amherst would look at such an insipid creature twice! What you should know, and need to remember is, it is these military types who allow us to live civilized lives. Amherst fought in the French and Indian War and was instrumental in not only defeating those savages fighting for the French, but he managed to have such native brutes and their tribes wiped from the face of the earth.”

  “I beg your pardon, he did what?”

  Diana St. John misread her brother’s mood, mistaking his startled horror for appreciative amazement.

  “The colonists have always been plagued by savages; those on the frontiers even more so. What to do about them has been a constant headache for the colonial administration, and the government here at home. I cannot tell you if it was Amherst who had the clever idea or one of his subordinates. Whatever, that is unimportant. What is important is that it was dear Sir Jeffrey who approved the scheme.”

  “Scheme?”

  “He gave them the smallpox.”

  “He gave them what?”

  “Oh do listen, Antony! Smallpox. Not personally.” She sighed her annoyance with her brother’s total lack of comprehension, adding in a voice used with a small child, “When the savages came to parley, soldiers from our fort gave them blankets taken from the military smallpox hospital. The blankets were polluted with smallpox, and when the savages took them back to their camp, they infected not only themselves, but the tribe and anyone else they came into contact with.”

  Sir Antony felt queasy and he dared to ask, though he was certain he knew the answer,

  “Men, women and children?”

  Diana St. John could hardly contain her enthusiasm. “Of course, men, women and children. It wiped out their entire tribe; every last savage. You must admit,” she added gleefully, “Amherst is a genius. To rid oneself of an enemy without that enemy ever knowing what hit them, without the need to shed a drop of English blood, is worthy of a medal!”

  Sir Antony felt physically ill and wished himself a thousand miles from his sister. He stared at Sir Jeffrey Amherst with unconcealed loathing.

  “A man who can inflict such suffering on the defenseless, the helpless and the young is nothing less than a monster; his method, monstrous. I won’t listen to you sing his praises. In fact, I don’t want him in my drawing room!” Sir Antony growled, buttocks up off the music stool.

  Diana St. John pushed him down again, an elbow to his shoulder, and kept it there.

  “Remember we are not alone, little brother,” she cautioned him and made a display of rustling her petticoats, a sweeping glance with fixed smile at her guests, who were entertaining themselves taking wagers as to the possible date for Sir Antony and Lady Caroline’s nuptials. She returned her gaze to her brother, saying matter-of-factly, “You always did allow emotion to rule good sense. Amherst did what he had to do for the good of the kingdom. Nothing more. Nothing less. In war, all actions are justifiable.”

  “Any action can be justified but that doesn’t make it ethical or-or right. Murdering women and children is never justifiable, in war, or anywhere else! I won’t have it, Di!”

  “And I won’t have you interfering in my plans for Salt’s political rehabilitation.”

  Sir Antony blinked. Mention of the Earl of Salt Hendon knocked the sense back into him. He could have kicked his own stockinged shin for letting down his guard. What was the point in arguing with his sister? She was not a rational human being. She lacked empathy and had no conscience, her admiration for Amherst underscored that. Why had he stupidly thought he could make her see his point of view? Subdued, he asked her mildly,

  “What plans are they, Di?”

  “I have returned to London at the perfect time for Salt to re-enter the political fray,” she replied with a confident smile. “He is on his way to London, and due to arrive in town tomorrow for this very reason. The newssheets cannot waste enough ink on speculation as to Salt’s intentions. The government is in disarray. Not Grafton, Newcastle, nor Bute can agree on appropriate measures, and the House remains crippled by division. It is the perfect scenario for Salt to step up and take control, and I am here to see he finally achieves his political potential.”

  Sir Antony hesitated to respond. He did not doubt she truly believed what she was saying, which was further evidence of her unsound mind. He wondered how she knew the Earl’s movements, but then Aunt Alice could have told her, or perhaps Dacre Wraxton, as a Member of Parliament and one of Salt’s factional supporters, had dropped the news in his conversation. For the moment, he decided to play along with his sister’s delusions—it might be the only way of discovering exactly how she planned to help Salt achieve his political ambitions.

  With this in mind, he faced her and forced himself to take hold of her hand. He just prayed his voice remained as steady as his fingers.

  “I would hate to interfere with your plans for Salt, so perhaps it would be wise to let me know your intentions… I may be able to help…?”

  Diana smiled at her brother’s long fingers about her hand and then raised her gaze to his blue eyes, face devoid of her thoughts. Sir Antony hoped his features remained composed, though his heart thudded against his chest and he half-expected the demon within to break through his sister’s lovely form and take him by the throat. It did not, and she remained poised, though he detected a gleam in her eye when she said silkily,

  “Always good. Always honorable. But where has goodness and honor got you, Antony? Thirty years of age and still not an ambassador. Though… Mr. Wraxton did confide a piece of news about you which did surprise me, and gives me hope you will make something of yourself of which I can finally be proud. But I shan’t tell you. No! Don’t ask. Salt must be the one to tell you, not I,” she demanded when he went to speak, and put a finger to his parted lips. When he closed his mouth she removed her finger to tap his clean-shaven cheek annoyingly. “You were the only one to care; the only one to write; the only one I will spare… Come! We have neglected our guests long enough, and now we must not talk of politics, but play,” she insisted, coming to a sense of her surroundings and the noise of uncontrolled chatter from restless guests waiting for the performance to begin.

  She was up off the music stool, and would have gone over to the harp but Sir Antony grabbed her wrist. He knew his efforts would be in vain—How did one reason with a heartless serpent?—but he still had to try and reach within the recesses of his sister’s mind for that speck of humanity he prayed still functioned.

  “Di! Listen. I do care. I care very much. I want to help. I can help you, if you will let me.”

  “Help me?” she echoed, momentarily taken aback. “How can you help me?”

  �
�I know what it’s like to be so consumed by something or someone that nothing and no one else matters.”

  “I have no idea—”

  “You must. We are brother and sister. We share more than a bond. We have the same blood running through our veins. We also have the same demon—”

  “Demon?”

  Hopeful he had connected with her rational self, he nodded, “Yes. That’s right, Di. I fight the demon every day. You can, too. It’s an obsession, a-a compulsion we—”

  “Obsession? Compulsion? Really, Antony, I have no idea what you are driveling on about!”

  “Listen, Di. If you let the demon control you, it will kill you…”

  “Kill me? How?”

  “The only way to control the demon is to stay away from Salt. You must stay away from him and his countess.”

  At the mention of the Countess of Salt Hendon, Diana St. John wrenched her wrist free with a snarl, the veil of rationality, of caring older sister and of gracious hostess, slipping for the merest of moments before being quickly reinstated with a forced laugh and flutter of her fan. She tapped her brother playfully on the wrist and said loudly, so the others could hear,

  “Of course you are capable of playing the piece, Antony! No one will think less of you should your fingers trip up once or twice. For luck,” she added, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

  “No good will come of your return to London, Di,” Sir Antony whispered in a rush.

  She kissed his cheek and said at his ear, “I mean to spare you, dearest brother, but I insist that you stay out of my way.”

  “What of Ron and Merry? Shall they be spared, too?”

  “Ron and Merry?” Diana St. John blinked with incomprehension. “Why do you evoke their names?”

  “They are your children, Di. They—”

  “—will be returned to me, have no fear of that!” she spat. “She took them from me! She poisoned their minds against me. They’ve been bewitched by that she-devil to hate me but I shall soon have them good, obedient children again.”

  “Nonsense. Ron and Merry are still your children. They will always love you. You will always be their mother. Yet, you cannot want them going through life suffering ridicule and shame? That is precisely what will happen to them if you do not give up these schemes and plans while there is still time—”

  “Fool. My plans were well underway before I arrived in London!”

  Her smile was smug. As his eyes went wide with new knowledge, she leaned across him, as if to correct the sit of the sheets of music on the stand. In fact, what she did was slide a hand between the silk lining of his frock coat and the embroidered front of his waistcoat, to the place over his heart where he kept pinned the small gold brooch containing the miniature of Lady Caroline bordered by a tiny plait of her strawberry blonde hair.

  Sir Antony wondered what she was about when she pressed her palm to his chest, and reasoned if she wanted a true measure of his anxiety then it could be found in the hard elevated beat of his heart. What she did next startled him to immobility by its very viciousness. Her fingers found the catch to the brooch. She twisted it open and tore it free from his waistcoat. Brooch in her fist, she shoved her hand through the slit in the layers of her petticoats and dropped it into her concealed pocket. It all happened so quickly Sir Antony had no time to react to the theft.

  “I shall keep your devotional token for now, dear brother. Its loss will be a reminder not to interfere in my plans or you stand to lose what you cherish most.”

  ELEVEN

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Sir Antony spent more time than was necessary in his dressing room brooding over what to wear. In fact, it was not his clothes but his sister and her machinations that preoccupied his thoughts. With depressing certainty, he knew she’d had ample time since escaping her incarceration to set any number of plans in motion. What those plans were, he had no idea.

  To watch her play the harp at their impromptu recital the night before, and then act as hostess to a small dinner party was to marvel at her ability to maintain the appearance of the well-bred hostess without revealing the demon within. He felt compelled to keep an eye on her and wait for her to make a mistake or for something or someone—for she could not act alone—to give her game away. He hoped it was sooner rather than later, particularly with the Salt Hendons returned to London.

  Dinner had stretched to cards and charades in his book room until the early hours of the morning, and he had forced himself to remain until the last of the guests, Mr. Dacre Wraxton, took his leave. That gentleman had shaken his hand upon departure, congratulating him on his engagement to the lovely Lady Caroline, whom he called a rare and fascinating jewel. Sir Antony wasn’t sure what he disliked more—the sneering hint of laughter in the man’s tone, or his use of the word fascinating to describe Caroline, with all that word’s implied nuances. It made him uncomfortable and he was glad to see the back of him.

  Throughout dinner, he had marveled at the gentleman’s immense sangfroid in ignoring his cast-off mistress, not once looking her way, even when the poor wretch made every effort to catch his eye. But what brought the bile up into his throat was Diana’s callous indifference to Jenny Dalrymple’s feelings. She had offered the woman sanctuary in his house and yet, throughout dinner and later, while in the book room, his sister flirted outrageously with Jenny Dalrymple’s ex-lover under her friend’s tear-filled gaze.

  Diana’s cruel indifference did not surprise him, and as she never did anything without good reason, taking in Jenny Dalrymple must have served some purpose. He realized what that purpose was during dinner whilst engaging her in conversation as a distraction from her morbidity. The woman had stored away, in what he had always considered a rather pretty but vacant head, an infinite supply of social minutiae about people, places and events. During twelve courses she entertained him with a précis of the social happenings during his absence from London. Just as Diana had memorized the contents of the letters he had sent her from Russia, and then used it to her advantage by telling all and sundry she had visited him in St. Petersburg, he was certain she had taken all the social gossip Jenny Dalrymple could supply her with and used this in some way to further her plans.

  As he sipped his tea and watched her act out charades with her guests in her robe à la française, he took stock of her attire and accoutrements. His sister always had an exquisite dress sense, and a very expensive one. He noted the pearl and diamond choker about her slender throat, the matching three-strand pearl bracelet about her wrist, and a coiffure sparkling with gold pins and satin bows, and he wondered—not surprisingly—where she had come by such sumptuous gowns and jewelry. He was certain Salt had not provided her with enough pin money to purchase such magnificence in her confinement, nor would she need it locked up in a remote castle. He speculated how his sister had managed to finance her life since her escape, not only the clothes on her back, but a horse and carriage for travel, lodgings, the upkeep of her companion, not to mention such banal items as food, toiletries and servant hire. He did not need to sleep on the question because he was given the answer when, with the street door locked and bolted on a cold dark early morning, Diana led him back to the book room and to the leather top desk by the fireplace.

  She took the greatest delight in showing him four neat piles of accounts, each secured with a black riband. All were sorted, she told him with satisfaction, and all remained unpaid. She had no idea as to the exact amount when all the notes of credit, bills from tradesmen, dressmakers, milliners, shoemakers, and the like, were totaled together, but she was very sure it could be no less than two thousand pounds. He should be pleased that she had accumulated most of the bills in Birmingham, where goods, particularly the cost of fabric and dressmakers, were much cheaper to be had than they were in London. She advised, for the sake of his good name and the family’s reputation, he pay his debts swiftly—most accounts were thirty days or more outstanding. It was all very well for Salt to be tardy with paying his bills, if he ever was—their
first cousin was a nobleman and so exempt from debtors’ prison—but as a baronet, Sir Antony was not exempt. She was quite sure Salt would not sanction his sister’s engagement to an inmate of Fleet Street prison, or perhaps he would be conveyed to Birmingham’s debtor’s prison; best to settle his accounts at once. Oh, and there were more to come…

  Two thousand pounds.

  His sister had spent in two months more than he had in a year on the upkeep of an entire household: Servants, carriages and horses, wax and other general living expenses! The amount had thundered about in his head as he kept his thoughts and feelings well in check as Diana bid him a goodnight and airily told him not to expect her down to breakfast. She and Jenny Dalrymple were driving out to spend the day at Horace Walpole’s fanciful Gothic retreat Strawberry Hill, but would be home in time to dine. Sir Antony had no doubts she was telling him the truth, but having Mr. Thief-taker as her shadow gave him an odd sense of comfort, if not satisfaction. He could at least make his visit to the Salt Hendon household without worrying about her whereabouts.

  Two thousand pounds.

  The sum haunted his sleep and left him with the makings of a megrim when he awoke. It was still knocking about at the back of his eyelids as he sat at his dressing table with a copper silk banyan thrown over his shirt and smalls, while Semper and two attendants came and went with suitable outfits. Finally, two silk ensembles in a long line of exquisitely embroidered frock coats, waistcoats and pairs of breeches were mulled over and then rejected as unsatisfactory for the impending visit to Salt House in Grosvenor Square.

  Back Semper went to the closet, features devoid of his mounting frustration. He had not seen his master so preoccupied since dressing him for a private audience with the Russian Empress. He returned with a matching frock coat and waistcoat in contrasting striped silk in shades of lavender and plum with a soft drape to the skirts, the breeches of plain cream silk.