There was a small stir at the door. Richard looked up, feeling his chest tighten with anticipation, and saw not Lord Maltravers but his own brother.
Philip lifted a hand from across the room and made his way over, pausing to greet Lord Alvanley as he passed. The corpulent peer was an intimate of the king and a well-respected man. “Ah, Richard. I had hoped to find you at home,” Philip informed him. “Could you spare me an hour of your time?”
Richard was supposed to be in White’s; it was no use to have Maltravers find him anywhere else. And he did not want Philip to witness whatever might happen.
“Now?” Richard asked. “Is this business or family?”
“Some business, but I hoped to speak to you. I was concerned to know you’re well. Will you walk with me? Unless you’re too busy,” Philip added, looking at the newspaper and the coffee cup by Richard’s solitary chair.
“No, not busy, but I am awaiting, uh, Dominic. Perhaps I could visit you tomorrow? I should like to see the children.”
“Please do.” Philip did not have an expressive face, but Richard knew him like none other. His brother was hurt, and it was not even as though he could mix with the other men there. Everyone in the room knew and respected Cirencester, but it would not occur to him to talk to any of them for pleasure. He was comfortable with Richard. “Would you prefer me to leave you alone?”
Good God, yes, go away. “Not at all.” He could not send his brother off like this even with the awful possibility of confrontation looming. David would tell him he was not thinking of the outcome, he knew; he still could not do it. “Sit down. Tell me what you have been doing.”
“You tell me the same, brother. You seem to have been occupied these last weeks. What have you been up to? I did not ask you when we last spoke: How was Tarlton March?”
“Interesting,” Richard said thankfully, and plunged into the account of the sheep-farming dispute he’d heard about from David’s stepfather. Philip listened with close attention, putting in some questions Richard had not considered, and Richard found himself so engrossed in the conversation that he barely noticed the noise from the doorway until Lord Maltravers bellowed his name.
“Vane! You there, Vane!”
Conversations around the room faltered. Richard looked up. Beside him, Philip stiffened.
“Good afternoon to you, my lord,” Richard said. “Are you addressing me or Cirencester in that manner?”
“You, as you well know.”
“Lord Maltravers, you are very blunt,” Philip said.
“You may not hide behind your brother’s title, sir,” Maltravers told Richard with immense satisfaction. “You owe me an apology. A public apology.”
“For what?” Philip demanded.
“Has Vane taken up writing?” asked Sir James Cairn, a noted gossip and literary patron. There was a splutter of laughter from around the room. Richard didn’t understand why, but he would have wagered his fortune it was David’s handiwork somehow.
He gave Cairn a suitably blank look. “I called Lord Maltravers a liar.” That dragged all the attention back to himself, and Richard had to pitch his voice loud to go on over the stir it caused. “And I shall be glad to retract my words at such time as I see proof that he is not one. I await that proof with interest, my lord.”
The room was completely silent now. Maltravers paced forward. Behind him and through the other door, more men were coming in, attracted by the raised voices.
“Richard.” There was a clear warning in Philip’s tone. “It is not like you to make accusations.”
“No, it is not, but then, I don’t often mix with liars,” Richard said. “I beg your pardon, Cirencester, but Lord Maltravers has made allegations against my friends that must be substantiated or withdrawn.”
“This is not your quarrel, then,” Philip said with a frown.
“Lord Maltravers has made it my quarrel.” Richard rose. “He knows how. And I say again, sir, that you must prove your words or withdraw them.”
“No, Lord Richard,” Maltravers said. “You will withdraw your words, or I shall make you eat them here and now. Won’t I, Gabriel?”
“What?” Ash, in the corner of the room, blenched.
“Do you wish me to prove my words to your friend here?” Maltravers shot a malevolent look at Francis. “Do you, Spinning Jenny?”
That was one of the schoolboy taunts Maltravers had long used on Francis, who returned a look of withering contempt. “If you have something intelligent to say, I’m sure we’d all be astonished to hear it.”
“No, please don’t,” Ash said. “Please, Mal. Richard, I must ask you to take this elsewhere. This is—private business.” He glanced around the crowded room, visibly unhappy.
“No, I don’t think so,” Maltravers said. “Vane has called me a liar, in public, and I will have my apology. I told you, sirrah, that your dear friend Francis Webster was a sodomite.” There were audible gasps from around the room. “And I repeat that, and here, sir, is my proof of it.”
He pulled out a sealed letter from his breast pocket and waved it.
There was an endless moment’s total silence. Richard didn’t dare look at the others. He set his jaw, unsure he could control his features.
Finally Francis managed, “What did you say?” His voice had a strangled sound.
“Oh God, please.” Ash put his face in his hands, a picture of shame. “Mal, don’t.”
“Give that to me.” Richard took a pace forward, holding out his hand in command. “Let me see that at once.”
Maltravers snatched the letter back. “I think not. I do not trust it to your hands, sir.” He glanced around, spoke more loudly. “This is from my misguided wretch of a brother to that weaver’s brat—”
Francis lunged. Julius grabbed him, hissing, “Steady, now. Steady.”
“It is a full confession to the vilest crimes, and I shall be acting on it once I have your apology, Lord Richard.” Maltravers shot a malevolent look at Ash. “You have only yourself to blame.”
Richard set his shoulders. “Let me see it, my lord. When I see that it says what you claim, I shall retract my words at once. For God’s sake, let me read it.”
Ash made a stifled noise. Maltravers glanced at Richard and then thrust the letter in Philip’s direction. “You may read it, Cirencester. I should not wish my evidence to be harmed.”
Philip looked at Maltravers with glacial disdain. “It is not my habit to read other men’s letters, Lord Maltravers. I am surprised to learn that it is the habit of any man in this room.”
“Well said,” someone mumbled, and there was a general murmur of support. Richard doubted its sincerity. If Philip had offered to read the thing out loud, nobody would have moved from the spot.
“I should very much wish it to be read.” Francis had his voice back under control. “I want to read it.”
“Ash, may I have your permission?” Richard asked gently. Ash nodded, staring at the floor. Richard held out his hand for the letter once more. “I will not throw it in the fire or tear it up, if that is what you fear, Lord Maltravers. You have my word. But I must know if what you say is true.”
Lord Maltravers glanced around. “Every man here has heard you say that. Very well.” He handed over the letter.
Richard broke the seal, unfolded the sheets, and scanned them. He took his time, reading the letter carefully, turning the closely written pages, letting nothing show on his face. The silence built. He came to the end, shuffled the pages together, and turned the sheaf face up.
“Well?” Francis demanded. “What the devil is this?”
“I think I must withdraw my claim that Lord Maltravers is a liar.” Richard could hear himself with odd clarity, sounding deep and grave in the silent room. “It is quite evident that he is insane.”
“What!” Maltravers shouted over the babble that erupted. “You just read—”
“I did read it.” Richard had a very loud voice when he chose, and he made it loud now. “I
have read four pages of chatter and gossip in Ash’s inimitably bad handwriting and saw not one single word that any man could interpret as criminal. What is wrong with you?”
“It is four pages of perversion!” Maltravers shouted, eyes bulging. “What the— Someone else read it!”
“An excellent idea.” Richard passed the letter to Alvanley. “With your permission, Ash, of course.”
“I suppose you must,” Ash said. “It’s only fair on Webster. I am awfully sorry about this.”
“What the devil was in that letter?” demanded Francis.
“Nothing at all. It was addressed to you and dated from Christmas,” Richard said. “The man is quite mad.”
“That is one explanation,” Alvanley said, as Richard went to ring the bell and murmured an order to a wooden-looking footman. “There is nothing blameworthy in this letter except, as Lord Richard observes, the penmanship. Lord Maltravers, what on earth are you about?”
“Give that to me!” Maltravers snatched the letter from Lord Alvanley’s hand, ignoring the peer’s offended look. Maltravers’s eyes bulged as he scanned the pages. “But this is not the right letter. This is the wrong one. It is nothing but a foolish mistake. I shall send for the correct one—”
“I spoke to Lord Maltravers this morning about another matter,” Richard said. “He mentioned this supposed letter then but was unable to produce it, for unexplained reasons. He has had the afternoon to retrieve it and brings the ‘wrong one.’ I dare say that if he goes to find it again we will hear another excuse.”
“It was in my man’s keeping,” Maltravers said. “He must have given me the wrong one, that’s all. There has been a mistake.”
“I beg your pardon?” Richard gave Maltravers an incredulous look. “You say you had a letter written by your brother, containing an admission of a capital crime, and you handed it to a servant?”
“For this confusion to arise, the servant must have at least two of Lord Gabriel’s letters in his possession,” Philip said. One consequence of his illiteracy was that he listened to detail very carefully indeed. “How is it that you have so many of your brother’s private communications, my lord?”
“He stole three at Christmas,” Ash said, a picture of reluctant admission, as Maltravers groped for an answer. “Or, at least, I put out several to post at Warminster Hall, and only one ever arrived. This has been coming for a while, I’m afraid. It happened to our Great-Aunt Lucinda too. You couldn’t trust her with the spoons.”
“You damned little bastard!” Maltravers bellowed. “You lying swine!”
“I hardly think that is an accusation you can make, my lord.” Venom dripped from Francis’s words. “And you owe me an apology.”
“He does, but I claim precedence.” Richard glanced at the open door of the room. “Lord Maltravers has an apology to make to me first. Ah, Cyprian. Please come in.”
There was a soft cough, and David stepped around Lord Maltravers, giving him a markedly wide berth.
“I beg your pardon, gentlemen, Cirencester, Alvanley,” Richard said. “This is Cyprian, formerly my valet. I sent for him just now for reasons which I trust will become clear.”
David stood in the middle of the room, under dozens of eyes, face blank. The ugly bruise was a spectacular shade of dark purple now, its swelling marring the line of his cheek. Otherwise, he was soberly clad, expressionless, a picture of the perfect servant except for his vibrant hair. Richard rubbed his fingertips together at the memory of how that hair felt.
Just a few hours ago he’d fucked this imperturbable, unreadable man till he begged and babbled. They had kissed and conspired and climaxed together, and just as David had said, nobody in the room would ever know. Richard had to bite back a sudden wild urge to laugh.
They were going to win this, because he had David on his side and that meant he could not lose.
“Good heavens,” Julius was saying. “What on earth happened to him? Footpads?”
“No,” Richard said. “Lord Maltravers attacked him.”
There was a flurry of shock. A man might well throw a boot at an ordinary valet, but this was the great Cyprian.
“He is my valet. I may chastise my own servant,” Maltravers snapped.
“I dare say, my lord,” Philip said. “In my household, chastisement is done with a word of rebuke, not a blow to the face.”
“The doctor suspected a cracked rib from a kick,” Richard went on. “Fortunately, he fled Ashleigh House before Lord Maltravers could continue his assault with a club.”
“It was a stick!” Maltravers protested.
“A stick, then. You don’t deny you used a weapon.” David had suggested that trap; Richard felt a deep satisfaction in springing it.
“Good God, sir,” Lord Alvanley said. “What did the fellow do?”
“I don’t care. He is an artist, and you, Lord Maltravers, are a barbarian,” Julius said. “A Vandal.”
“This is a—a—a misrepresentation!” Maltravers was scarlet now. “The man was insolent and deceitful. I had every right—”
“Cyprian, why don’t you tell us why Lord Maltravers hit you?” Richard asked. David had sown the seed; he should be the one to wield the scythe now.
“Excuse me?” Francis snapped. “Richard, I have been insulted. I will not stand and wait on the chatter of your valet while my name is besmeared by this overstuffed brawn!”
“Kindly do,” Richard said. “You will find it relevant, I promise you.”
“This is not about a damned valet!” Maltravers put in at some volume. “You are attempting to distract attention from a monstrous crime against nature!”
“We will hear the valet,” Philip said. “No, Lord Maltravers, you may not expect to go unchallenged. Richard says this is relevant. If so”—he nodded at David—“proceed.”
David bowed, wincing with the movement. “I applied for a post with Lord Maltravers, my lord. He seemed urgent to employ me. He wrote several letters to demand my presence, and when I arrived, he dismissed his valet for no fault and drew up a contract on the spot, more than doubling the salary he had originally offered me—”
“Be quiet,” several men said over Maltravers’s outraged bellow.
“But this is not what happened!” Maltravers exclaimed.
David’s mouth tightened. “I have the contract his lordship signed and the letters he sent me. The valet can confirm my account, as can his lordship’s man of business. I am not a liar, my lord.”
“These are all easily tested claims,” Richard observed. “Do you deny them?”
“No, of course not, but—he told me to do all that!” Maltravers protested, and there was a roar of scornful laughter from the gentlemen around them. “I mean—”
“Be quiet,” Philip ordered the entire room. “Silence. This is no matter for jesting. You admit the valet tells the truth, Lord Maltravers?”
“The facts are true, but he wished me to employ him!”
“As servants do. I cannot understand your objection. Continue, Cyprian, and you must know that any deviation from the truth will be harshly treated.”
“There is no need to tell me that, Lord Cirencester.” David spoke with perfect, quiet dignity. Philip inclined his head; David went on. “Lord Maltravers began pressing questions on me. He asked me about Lord Gabriel and Mr. Webster, if I had seen signs of—uh—improper affection. I said, again and again, I had not. Then—” He glanced at Richard. “My lord, I don’t wish to say this.”
“Go on,” Alvanley and Philip said together.
“He began to make implications about Lord Richard. Fantasies, my lord, lurid imaginings, leading questions. He wanted me to—to invent a reason why I left his service, which— It was not true. It is not true.” David’s dignified manner was cracking now, showing distress. The crowd was deathly silent. Maltravers’s mouth worked soundlessly.
“I would not say it,” David went on, his voice thin and tense. “I refused. He shouted, he said that was why he had taken m
e on, and he hit me then, in the face, in the ribs. I was terrified, my lord. He went to get a weapon, uttering threats, and I fled the house. And I returned to beg shelter of Lord Richard because…” The men around him strained forward to hear as his words dropped to a whisper. “Because I was afraid for my life.”
The silence hung heavy. Richard took two steps forward and put his hand on David’s shoulder. “You did right. There; that is all that is required of you. Thank you.”
“Lord Maltravers,” Lord Alvanley said, voice very cold and clear. “Is this true?”
Maltravers was crimson and sweating. “It is misspoken. Twisted.”
“Did you employ this man on the terms he described?”
“Yes, but—”
“Did you ask him questions implying a criminal relationship between Lord Gabriel and Mr. Webster?”
“Yes, because—”
“Did you encourage a servant to invent slander about my brother?” Philip put in, with barely contained anger. “Did you?”
“He led me to believe he could tell me those things!”
“You hired a valet in the hope of scurrilous gossip, and when he failed to deliver it, you beat him bloody. Is that the case, my lord?” Philip was a thin man of nothing like Richard’s impressive height and build, but he did not need them. He stood in the full majesty of fifteen years as Cirencester, two steps below the king himself, as unchallengeable and authoritative as ever their father had been. “Your acts are incomprehensible. Explain yourself.”
“He was working for Lord Richard,” Maltravers panted. “He must have been. All the time. It was a plot.”
“I asked for an explanation, not for accusations and excuses,” Philip said. “Have the goodness to confine yourself to fact.”
Maltravers was looking around frantically. “I tell you, this is a plot. Gabriel wrote a letter of filthy postures and obscenities to the man Webster. I had the letter, it has merely been misplaced. Lord Richard must have known about it and sent his valet to—to search my house for it—”
“He’s a valet, not a Bow Street Runner,” Richard said. “And I knew nothing of this fantasy but what you told me this very morning. If I had known earlier, I should have spoken to you earlier.”
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