The Man who Killed the King

by Dennis Wheatley

  “Lud, Roger, ‘the scene of her adultery’ indeed! How pompous you are become. Had you and I a diamond apiece for the times we’ve committed the act, we’d be rich as nabobs. And you were not wont to use so ugly a word when you took your pleasure in my first husband’s bed.”

  “Oh come; that was very different! We observed all possible discretion, whereas Amanda has done the exact opposite. It is my father’s wish that she should go down to Grove once in a while to see that all is well there; but it is the very last place to which she should have taken a lover.”

  “Since he left her at dawn, he cannot be living there.”

  “No, not in the house; but he must have a lodging near by, and no doubt dances attendance on her in the daytime. I am convinced that her intent was to make me the laughing-stock of the neighbourhood.”

  “Well, what mean you to do?”

  “I shall send de Batz a challenge to meet me on the Continent, and divorce Amanda on his account.”

  For a moment Georgina did not reply. Her first loyalty was to Roger; but Amanda was also her friend, and she was greatly distressed that their marriage was in imminent danger of breaking up. No one knew better than herself how easily passion could temporarily blind one’s judgment, and she was convinced that they were at bottom deeply attached to one another; so she was determined to do all she could to heal the breach. But she saw that with Roger in his present mood it would be worse than useless to take up the cudgels on Amanda’s behalf; she would be able to do that far more effectively when she had heard from Amanda her version of this unhappy story. So she said:

  “I well understand, m’dear, how incensed you must feel at the possibility of all your friends in South Hampshire being privy to Amanda’s affair with the Baron; although ’tis not yet known that they are. Still, she certainly behaved like a fool in running away from you; and I cannot help but admire the audacity of this French woman. She must be mightily smitten with you to go to such lengths to take you from your wife, and ’tis a true enough old saying that all’s fair in love and war. From all I recall of what you told me of her when you returned from France in ’87, she seems greatly changed, though; I formed the impression that she was a beautiful but quite brainless little baggage.”

  He nodded. “Yes, apart from her looks, she has changed almost beyond recognition. Tragedy has given her great character and courage. She has developed into an extraordinarily fine and fascinating woman.”

  “After your divorce, do you intend to marry her?”

  “No. It was the fact that neither of us could bring ourselves to change our religions that prevented us running away together seven years ago. That insurmountable barrier still makes marriage impossible.”

  “Then I pray you, Roger, take no steps to divorce Amanda for the moment. Matters may not be as bad as you think. You have both erred, and despite popular prejudice I believe you are just enough not to count that a greater crime in a woman than in a man. If she has indeed deliberately sullied your name, you would be right to put her from you, but should it prove otherwise you are so well suited to one another that you might later regret it if you took any hasty action now.”

  Without waiting for him to reply, she pointed to a bottle of champagne that was standing in an ice-bucket on a table against the wall, and added, “Now, m’dear, let’s take a glass of wine, and talk of happier things.”

  Roger opened the bottle, and he was soon smiling again as they revived old memories. An hour went quickly by while they discussed their friends and the doings of the wicked world; then Georgina stretched and asked casually:

  “Will you shortly be rejoining Athénaïs in France?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet awhile. In view of Amanda’s behaviour I’ll bring Athénaïs to London and flaunt her openly if she wishes; but that must wait. This business has upset me greatly; besides, I’m devilish tired and not yet fully recovered from my wound, so should make but a poor lover. I need a little time to regain my serenity of mind and the sort of gaiety without which a love affair can so easily become only a sordid intrigue.”

  “My poor Roger.” She took his hand and leaned a little towards him. “How badly you need comforting.”

  Without her saying more he knew that she was offering to let him sleep with her, and he would have given a lot to find solace in her generous arms; but after a moment he replied with an apparently casual question:

  “How fares your marriage with the good Charles?”

  She pouted. “Well enough; I still dote on him and have so far remained a faithful wife, if that is what you mean. But do not let that concern you. For me you have always been a man apart, and long ago I told you that you would never lack a bed wherever I might be.”

  His heart began to thump as he put an arm round her shoulders and whispered, “My sweet, I know it; and count it the greatest blessing God ever bestowed on me,”

  “To be truthful,” she murmured, “I think it about time that I trompéd Charles; and although I would not normally regard spending a night with you as having taken a lover, ’twill serve most admirably to restore my amour-propre.”

  “Why so? Is he being flagrantly unfaithful to you?”

  “I have no proof of it, and not even a suspicion who the woman may be; but I am convinced that he is having a serious affaire with someone.”

  “Has his ardour for you, then, cooled so greatly?”

  “Nay; he is as attentive as any wife could wish, and a lusty enough bedfellow when we are together; but for near a year now he has taken to leaving me every few weeks, for sometimes as long as ten days at a stretch, on all sorts of trumped-up excuses that I know to be lies. What other explanation can there be, but that he is mad about some chit whom he is keeping somewhere in secret?”

  Roger withdrew his arm, and smiled. “My sweet Georgina, I believe that you are thinking ill of Charles without the least warrant. Has he told you nothing of his work in France?”

  Georgina’s big eyes opened to their widest extent, as she exclaimed, “In France? I had not a notion that he’d been there since we were in Paris together three summers ago.”

  “Well, he has; I saw him myself in Brittany last June. He is one of a league of gallant Englishmen who go there in disguise to rescue some of these unhappy French Royalists from the guillotine. Naturally, such work is highly secret; but, no doubt, his reason for not telling you of it is because he does not wish you to worry, whenever he is away, over his having gone into danger.”

  “Oh, Roger, how truly marvellous! And how wicked of me to think the worst of him.”

  Roger leant forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Now that you do know, I trust that you’ll continue faithful to him.”

  “Indeed I will; but. . .” she turned her lovely face up to his, “but this makes no difference between us two. I am still yours if you need me.”

  He smiled down at her. “I never needed you more. That is the truth, and you know that I have never lied to you. But as long as things remain as they are between you and Charles, I’ll not take advantage of your generosity.”

  They came to their feet together, and she put her arms round his neck. “Dear Roger! Dear, dear Roger! I would have let you love me gladly; but I value more this perfect expression of your tender regard for me. You are indeed the only man who I shall ever love with all my mind as well as all my heart.”

  “You speak for both of us, my sweet.” He gave her a long kiss on the mouth. As they drew apart both of them were trembling, but with a smile they wished each other good night.

  Although Roger remained on at White Knights Park, he did not again visit Georgina at night in her boudoir; and quite naturally they resumed their relations of the past three years as dear friends. On the fourth day of his stay, Charles returned, and it delighted Roger to see the warmth of affection between his host and hostess. He had a private word with Charles and persuaded him to tell Georgina the reason for his absences; after which, when Aunt Sarah was not about, all three of them frequen
tly talked of the work of the League. Little more was said regarding Amanda; but Georgina had written to her, inviting her to come up and stay for a while towards the end of the month, and it became tacitly understood that Roger should not start divorce proceedings until Georgina had heard what Amanda had to say.

  After ten days in such congenial company, surrounded by the comfort, elegance and happiness of which he had been deprived for so long, Roger felt a different man. He was still young enough to be swiftly resilient to ill health and misfortune, and Georgina’s coddling of him seemed to have worked a miracle by the time he decided that he ought to attend to his affairs in London. Having settled on the 23rd of February for his departure, he asked Georgina on his last afternoon at White Knights to tell his fortune.

  Recalling the gallows that she had once seen for both of them in the glass, she was loath to do so; but after some persuading she agreed, and they sat down at a small table holding hands, with a crystal goblet full of water between them. On this occasion her gipsy’s mystic art seemed almost to have forsaken her. For a long time she could see nothing, then only choppy wavelets; but after a while she said:

  “I see you in a boat . . . in a rowing-boat. There is a child with you . . . a boy, I think, but I cannot be certain. A woman, too, is in the scene. How prodigious strange! She seems to walk upon the water. The picture fades; ’tis gone.” In vain they sat there for a further twenty minutes; the picture would not come again, nor would any other.

  On arriving in London, he went straight to Arlington House; but to his annoyance he found that Droopy was out of town. However, he was expected back in two days’ time; so Roger, not wishing to go out to Richmond in case Amanda was there, took up the old bachelor quarters which were always kept available for him in his friend’s suite.

  He spent the evening at his Club. There was always good company to be found at White’s, and it was another pleasant link with a happier past to become really merry once again with a few men friends who believed, as he did himself, in God, the King and England.

  Next day he got up late, then went out to do some shopping. That was another joy after the dreary or bankrupt shops of Paris. Swinging his tall Malacca cane in one hand, and toying with his quizzing-glass in the other, he sauntered down Bond Street, delighting in the wealth of fine fabrics, porcelains, silverware, weapons and furs displayed to tempt the rich from all parts of the Island Kingdom. For the past twenty months he had had little time to devote to art; but his interest in it had not lessened, and he was examining a Fragonard in a picture dealers’ when a soft voice addressed him in French:

  “Is it not Monsieur le Chevalier de Breuc?”

  Turning, he found himself looking into the lovely face of the Comtesse de Flahaut.

  “Indeed, Madame,” he smiled, sweeping off his sickle-shaped hat and flattening it over his heart, “and what a pleasure it is to see you in London.”

  “It is thanks to you, Monsieur, that I am here,” she said seriously. “Had it not been for those passports which you obtained for Monsieur de Talleyrand and myself, both our heads would have fallen beneath the guillotine ere this.”

  He made an airy gesture. “Believe me, it was a happiness to render that small service. What of the dear Bishop; he is well, I trust?”

  She made a pretty grimance. “Poor man, he is on his way to those barbarous United States. Your Government recently made a new law for the expulsion of undesirable aliens, as they are called; and, alas, it dubbed him one. So he had no alternative but to depart; and, I confess, for a time I was left quite desolate.”

  Her big blue eyes held Roger’s, and after a moment she went on, “All we unfortunate French are now living in most straitened circumstances; but I have a tiny house in Chelsea. Should you care to visit me there, it would be a most pleasant relief to my loneliness.”

  Roger at once expressed himself as charmed, and suggested that he should wait upon her that very afternoon. Smilingly she agreed and gave him her card, then bobbed him a curtsy and turned away. Lifting his quizzing-glass in the manner of the exquisite he had once more become, he watched her with admiration as she walked down the street towards Piccadilly. Her tiny hat perched on a mass of golden curls was typically French, and the sway of her hips beneath her full skirts he found quite entrancing.

  At four o’clock he presented himself at the little house in Chelsea, carrying a box of fondants as big as a tea-tray. Adèle de Flahaut received him most graciously, and again asserted that she owed her life to him. He enquired after her son, Charles, and learned that a generous nobleman had secured the boy a foundation at a good school in the country; then they settled down to talk.

  About her own set of refugees she was most amusing. As they were all Liberals and had contributed to the Revolution of ’89, they found themselves more detested by the Royalists, who had escaped to England before them, than if they had been sansculottes; but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in wit. On innumerable occasions de Talleyrand and his brilliant circle had made the stiff-necked diehards of the ancien régime look a set of fools. They were all desperately hard up for money, but pooled what they had, and in the previous spring a number of them had shared a house called Juniper Hall, down in Surrey; Madame de Staël, Mathieu de Montmorency, Louis de Narbonne, Madame de la Châtre, Jaucourt, Lally-Tollendal and the Princess d’Henin had all been of the party. Fending for themselves had been a new experience, but they had all thoroughly enjoyed it, and their English neighbours had proved kindness personified.

  There had, however, been one unfortunate contretemps. Near-by, there lived a Mrs. Phillips and her sister, Miss Fanny Burney. Attracted by the irrepressible gaiety of this little French colony, Miss Burney had become a daily visitor there; but one sad day some fool had opened her eyes to the fact that all the ladies at Juniper Hall were living in sin with the men, and so shocked had poor Miss Burney been that she could never bring herself to call there again.

  At six o’clock, Roger declared that he was enjoying himself so much that he could not bear to leave, and tactfully begged permission to go round to a local hostelry to order some supper to be sent in. To this suggestion Adèle made no objection whatever; so an hour later they were disposing of four dozen oysters washed down by champagne, with a fine game pie and salad to follow.

  By the time they were half-way through the second bottle they were laughing about his having first met her in her bath, and the ruthless way in which she had converted him into a sansculotte. He had long since ceased to wonder how sufficient wit, charm and beauty to hold simultaneously two such brilliant men as de Talleyrand and Gouverneur Morris could be combined in one woman; and soon afterwards it became plain to him that she had a highly honourable desire to make him some recompense for having saved her life.

  As she could afford only a daily woman to come in and do the rough work of the house, they were now alone there, and had no need to resort to any subterfuge. When she had duly rebuked him several times for kissing her, while provocatively opening her mouth for more, he told her that he would do something to her that neither of her lame lovers could do. Then, with a gay laugh, he picked her up, swung her, kicking and gurgling with mirth, over his shoulder, and carried her upstairs. In her bedroom a glowing fire was burning, and its warm light was just sufficient for him to appreciate the beauty of her figure when he had unlaced her corset and teased her with a hundred kisses into undressing before him.

  When he let himself out of the house at six o’clock next morning, and set off westward with a jaunty step, he had had ample proof that his good friend, the wicked Bishop of Autun, was a veritable master of the art of love, for none other than a great master could have produced so apt a pupil as the fair Adèle.

  On waking in his bed at Arlington House soon after midday, he took stock of his situation. In the past twenty months he had lived through hell. The only real relief he had known from dirt, squalor, horror, anxiety and fear had been during his two brief visits to England, and those halcyon weeks
spent with Athénaïs at the Red Lobster. Georgina’s stately home, with its ease, comfort and perfect service in beautifully furnished, lofty, well-proportioned rooms; the free talk with men of his own kidney over good wine at White’s; the display of all the gracious amenities of life in the shops of Bond Street and Piccadilly; a night of sophisticated, carefree love-making with the charming Adèle—all these brought crowding in upon him a world the existence of which he had almost forgotten.

  Why, he asked himself, should he go back to France at all? He was still drawn to Athénaïs; but it was now nearly seven months since he had lived with her, and in the interim he had seen her only three times during brief, unhappy interviews; so the memory of their joy together had become a little blurred. There was, too, the possibility that as he had tried her patience for so long she might refuse to take him back; far grimmer thought, she might have been caught at her dangerous work and by now be dead.

  There remained the little King. Upon his rescue there still hung a fortune. It seemed madness to throw away the chance to earn enough to make one rich and secure for life. Yet real security lay here in London; not over there in Paris, constantly rubbing shoulders with a gang of ruthless cut-throats. Any day something might click in Fouché’s memory, or Michonis, brought face to face with death, might talk. To return was to sit again upon a powder barrel with two lighted fuses of unknown length, either of which, at any time, might blow him sky-high.

  One thought continued to worry him. He had given his solemn oath to Marie Antoinette that he would restore her son to her. The vow had been made in circumstances which had led him to suppose that he would be able to fulfil it, and the fact that she had since died had rendered fulfilment impossible. Yet he could not escape a feeling that the spirit, rather than the wording, of the oath still placed him under a moral obligation to do his utmost to rescue the boy. For some time he considered the matter as dispassionately as he could, and at length decided that such a view was stretching too long a bow; for even if he did succeed in freeing the little prisoner, it could now mean nothing to the poor Queen.