“Delightful,” Eliza murmured. “He looks so well against the scarlet hangings, don’t you agree, Jane? One should always have a decorative young man about the room, and well-bred if one may contrive it; it lends so much tone to the display. Show him in, Manon! And bring the decanters, if you please. I do not care if it is Sunday; I am sure the Good Lord was in spirits, too, on his day of rest.”
I said nothing of this deplorable want of respect, acquired no doubt among Bourbons and Nabobs, and rose to greet Mr. Chizzlewit.
While Manon remained in the room, he said everything that was indifferent and proper, in one paying a Sunday call; enquired after Eliza’s health; offered a pretty compliment on the style of my gown; and declared that there was nothing, after all, like April in England. When the door had closed behind the maid, however, he turned immediately to business. “I have seen Charles Malverley,” he said, “and must congratulate myself on having renewed those ties which a few years’ absence on his part, and hard work on mine, had very nearly extinguished!”
“Well done, Mr. Chizzlewit. And how did you find your old friend?”
“Much altered. He was used to be a carefree youth — more concerned with the niceties of dress and appearance than I should like, and an aspirant to Mr. Brummell’s mantle, among the Dandy Set— but now he is grown grave and troubled. There is a want of openness which I might have imputed to the difference in our stations, and a disinclination to renew the acquaintance, had he not gladly accepted my invitation to dine this evening, in my rooms; we are to play at picquet afterwards, and I expect my pockets shall be wholly to let by dawn.”
“Then you were unable, in your first meeting, to divine any particulars of the Princess’s business?” Eliza enquired.
“It was not the place to do so — we met at Jackson’s Saloon, where Malverley was sparring. I knew him to be in the habit of taking lessons from Gentleman Jackson, and contrived to visit the premises at a convenient hour. I may have expressed myself as being sensible of the cares lately placed upon him — and suggested that a bit of diversion among friends might prove beneficial — but beyond that, I could not go.”
“Naturally. He did not suspect you encountered him by design?” I asked.
“I should not think so. Charles is not the sort to suspicion an old acquaintance. I shall have more to report on the morrow, to be sure.”
“In the course of your dinner, Mr. Chizzlewit,” I said, “endeavour to learn whether Mr. Malverley prevaricated, when he claimed never to have seen a letter from Princess Tscholikova at Castlereagh’s house. It would be well to sound the fellow on his lordship’s habits, too — as both gentlemen are far too closed-mouthed regarding Castlereagh’s movements during the hours before the Princess’s murder.”
“I shall do my utmost,” the solicitor replied. “You persist in regarding Lord Castlereagh as the guilty party?”
“There is a simplicity to the notion I find appealing,” I agreed. “He possesses, after all, the motive for murder — the opportunity to effect it — and the stubborn persistence in denying all knowledge of the act! When a gentleman will not say where he has been, there is usually good cause for silence!”
“But that cause is rarely murder,” Mr. Chizzlewit returned.
“I keep an open mind,” I assured him, “and one replete with enough suspicion to tar most of London. I shall not hesitate to act, when the alternative is injustice.”
Beside me, Eliza shivered, and reached for her handkerchief.
“I trust you have interviewed your friend, Mrs. Austen?” the solicitor enquired. “The French Countess?”
“Indeed, Mr. Chizzlewit.” My sister revived in sudden animation. “And most affecting, I found it too! I am sure you will acquit Anne of any wrongdoing when you have heard the whole—”
Anticipating a recital as lengthy as yesterday’s, I said abruptly, “The Comtesse claims a member of the Muslin Company gave her the jewels — as recompense for having stolen her husband.”
“Indeed!” Sylvester Chizzlewit was hard put not to smile. “And the name of the bit of muslin in question?”
“Julia Radcliffe. Are you at all acquainted with her?”
“Miss Austen!” he cried. “Such a question! I do not know how to answer you!”
“She is a fixture in Harriette Wilson’s salon, I believe, or perhaps she rules over one of her own — my intelligence is imperfect on that score, I confess. I merely wondered, Mr. Chizzlewit, if you had found occasion to pay the salon a call.”
“Since you put it so unblushingly — then yes, Miss Austen, I have,” he returned.
Eliza clapped her hands. “Do tell us what it was like!”
He shifted slightly in his chair; the first sign of discomfort he had allowed himself to betray. “Very much of a piece with a gentleman’s club — save that the focus of admiration and interest were the ladies present, all of whom conducted themselves with a passable degree of propriety. You will know that those who collect around Harriette Wilson are many of them quite wellborn … tho’ fallen in their standing due to a variety of youthful indiscretions. Miss Radcliffe is one of these.”
“And what is your opinion of her?” I asked.
“She is ravishing — a diamond of the first water,” he replied. “The difference in her situation, from what it ought to be, must trouble anyone who knows her.”
“Except those, apparently, whose first duty it should be to protect her,” I observed. “Her family.”
“As I am ignorant of the particulars of her folly, I cannot undertake to judge.” Mr. Chizzlewit met my gaze squarely. “She is the object of general admiration; a shifting party of gentlemen — many of them among the highest in the land — collect around her, and tho’ most bestow expensive tributes, she has allowed no one to become her sole protector. I know for a fact that any number have offered Miss Radcliffe carte blanche — and she refuses to take it up.[22] There are conjectures as to her reasons, of course— some would have it she remains faithful in her heart to a dead lover, others that she is angling for a title willing to offer marriage — but her independence has only increased her desirability.” The solicitor frowned. “To figure as the receiver of stolen goods — if indeed she apprehended that they were stolen — and to convey them, with malicious intent, to an innocent victim of her toils — is a piece of villainy I should like to think impossible.”
“I agree. There is a dignity in her carriage — a sweetness of expression unmarred by her traffick with the world — that must impress the observer with a belief in her goodness. I cannot make it out at all. I believe I shall have to pay Miss Radcliffe a call.”
“Pay her a call!” Eliza cried, scandalised. “Jane, you would never venture to such a den of iniquity! Only think if you were found out! I should not be able to look your mother in the face — and only conceive how lowering to reflect that in this instance, she would be justified in her poor opinion of me!”
“You speak as tho’ you are already acquainted with Miss Radcliffe,” Mr. Chizzlewit said.
“We have chanced to meet some once or twice. She was first raised as an object of interest with the Comte d’Entraigues — it is Julia Radcliffe he is said to wish to marry, when once he obtains his divorce.”
Mr. Chizzlewit’s countenance changed colour. “That old roué! It does not bear thinking of! Why, the girl is young enough to be his daughter—”
He rose, and took an agitated turn about the room.
“I understand she is but seventeen. But recollect what the Comtesse has told us: Miss Radcliffe pressed the jewels upon her as recompense. It would appear that she has made her decision — and means to seek a respectable alliance, even at the price of d’Entraigues.”
“Impossible!” Mr. Chizzlewit spat.
I shrugged, as tho’ indifferent to his contempt. “Then perhaps she merely intends to use d’Entraigues to secure the interest of another. Miss Radcliffe’s name is frequently linked to Mr. George Canning’s. But my sister assures me t
hat Canning is unlikely to desert his wife and children — however much amusement he may find in salons of Harriette Wilson’s type.”
“Canning’s eldest son is lame,” the solicitor observed, “and Canning and his wife are both devoted to the boy. He would not so wound his family — and there are considerations of public office—”
“Then Miss Radcliffe deludes herself. Her affections, nonetheless, may be ardent and real — and thus could be used to villainous ends, when urged by an unscrupulous man. Mr. Canning has at times been described to me this way.”
“Unscrupulous?” Mr. Chizzlewit’s brow furrowed. “It is not a word I should apply. Bold in his ambitions, yes — implacable in his hatreds — but there is nothing in his career one may point to, as being less than honourable—”
“Even his efforts to unseat Lord Castlereagh, behind that gentleman’s back?”
Mr. Chizzlewit laughed. “Oh, well— If you would speak of politics!”
“Do not the laws of honour apply, in the House of Commons and Lords? I was assured that was why Lord Castlereagh felt no compunction in challenging his enemy to a duel — and humiliating him before the world. He did but defend his honour. It has been suggested to me that Mr. Canning, in fact, was so reduced in his public stature that he has an interest in revenge — and that in Princess Tscholikova he found his tool.”
The solicitor was standing near Eliza’s fireplace; he thrust his hands in his pockets, and turned his head to stare broodingly into the flames. I said nothing further, allowing him time for thought.
“You would have it that Canning deliberately created an aura of scandal around Castlereagh, through the publication of the Princess’s letters, and her subsequent appearance of suicide,” he said at length. “For that to be true, the Princess must have been in his power — or intimate to a degree we cannot have understood. How else can he have obtained what was private correspondence?”
“She refers to Canning at least once in her journal, which I have had occasion to read. She also mentions Julia Radcliffe — and is determined, but two days before her death, to warn the girl. I use the word because the Princess chose it.”
“Warn Miss Radcliffe? Against whom? I find the notion fantastic!” Mr. Chizzlewit cried. “Could Canning have both Tscholikova and Miss Radcliffe in keeping? And if the Princess was as deep in love with Castlereagh as her letters suggest — how should she have come to entertain Canning’s schemes? She must have known him for his lordship’s enemy.”
“You go too swiftly, Mr. Chizzlewit, in assuming that Mr. Canning is the sort to show his hand! What if he were to employ an intermediary — a gentleman long known to Princess Tscholikova, one she has reason to trust? A man known equally well to Julia Radcliffe … and a man Canning has often employed before?”
He looked up from his contemplation of the flames. “D’Entraigues?”
“I knew we should return to Emmanuel presently,” Eliza said comfortably. “For how else could we come to the jewels? Julia Radcliffe got them somehow!”
“But why should d’Entraigues steal them?” Mr. Chizzlewit argued. “It should be the height of folly to do so!”
“He needed something to lay as tribute on the Radcliffe altar,” Eliza suggested reasonably. “You told us yourself — the world entire is showering that girl with baubles and frivolities! And poor Emmanuel has not two guineas to rub together! But how diverting that his tribute should come directly back to his wife!”
The solicitor shook his head. “D’Entraigues is too old a man of the game to preserve so dangerous a piece of evidence as that treasure. If he stood behind the Princess’s death, he must certainly deny all knowledge of her. The jewels alone might hang him.”
“Then how came they to Julia Radcliffe?” Eliza demanded.
“Is it not obvious?” I looked from my sister to Mr. Chizzlewit. “Princess Tscholikova gave them to her.”
Chapter 23
Willoughby’s Shade
Monday, 29 April 1811
ELIZA’S FRIEND, MRS. LATOUCHE, IS A FAIR-HAIRED and plump little woman with protuberant blue eyes, who dearly loves to talk a good deal of nonsense about her health, her clothes, and her acquaintance among the ton. Born Mary Wilkes in Kingstown, Jamaica, she embarked at seventeen upon a storied career: marrying first Mr. Edward East, a widower with several children, to whom she dutifully presented two more, before his taking off with a fever peculiar to those island parts. In the handsome swell of her twenties, she bestowed her hand, her surviving child Miss Martha East, and her late husband’s considerable revenues from the production of sugar, upon Mr. John-James Digges-Latouche, also of Jamaica. Mr. Latouche eventually rose to such distinction as a Governor-Generalship of that island; when he died, his widow determined to sell her holdings and her slaves, and decamp for England — the better to puff off her daughter in a respectable marriage. But Miss East did not “take,” and the hopes that buoyed her first Season in the year 1798, have long since gone off. Like me, she is now firmly upon the shelf, and appears to find that it quite suits her — a spinster lady of some five-and-thirty years, established in all the style and comfort of Portman Square. As she may expect to inherit her mother’s fortune when that lady’s aches and nerves put a period to her existence, Martha East is hardly to be pitied.
She is decidedly unlike the round little Dresden doll that is Mrs. Latouche, being tall and angular, with what one must presume are her father’s sharp features. Moreover, Miss East is of a bookish disposition, quite formidable in her understanding — and has taken to wearing spectacles and a cap. In honour of Sunday dinner among friends, it was a lace cap; and Miss East looked very grand last night in her amber-coloured silk. She might almost have been headmistress of a school for girls, and her mother her incorrigible pupil.
I am chiefly useful to Eliza on such evenings in monopolising Miss East’s attention, so that my sister might have a comfortable coze with Mrs. Latouche — and canvass all the latest spring fashions. Miss East, I observed, was armed and ready with conversation from the moment of our arrival in Portman Square, for she held in her hands a volume of Mary Brunton’s Self-Controul.[23]
“What do you think of this novel, Miss Austen?” she cried as I advanced with words of greeting unspoken on my lips. “It is everywhere praised as a piece of perfection; and tho’ I would hope I am more exacting in my tastes than the common run of humanity, I will own there is much to admire in the heroine — for rather than self-control, the author would champion self-reliance; and thus in Laura every woman must find a salutary model, do not you agree?”
“I regret to say that I have not yet had the pleasure of reading Mrs. Brunton,” I said, “being unable to locate the set of volumes in my last expedition to Lackington’s. But how happy for the author that you find much to admire!”
“The author?” Miss East repeated, as one amazed; “I confess I never think of the author when reading a book — my mind is wholly given over to the conduct of the characters, to the representation of life as one finds it for better or worse portrayed; I am wholly given up to the situations presented. The author never enters my consciousness — except, of course, when I am reading Scott.”
“Indeed! I do not think Sir Walter Scott may be barred from anywoman’s consciousness,” I returned.
“Only consider what perils to mind and virtue Laura must withstand!” Miss East shook her volume with enthusiasm. “First made the object of a rake’s unwelcome attentions — escaping seduction by a hairs-breadth — refusing marriage from that same disreputable (tho’ very dashing) gentleman when he sees the error of his ways — she attempts, as so many of us must, to live upon her own resources — and yet finds not a single lover of art willing to sell her paintings in the entire Metropolis! I am only just come to the part where she must escape the savage horrors of America in a canoe; but the whole is of the deepest moral instruction, I assure you. I should not hesitate to press it upon any young girl of my acquaintance, as a warning against the bitterness of t
he world.”
I eyed the book somewhat dubiously, and wondered what best to say; but was happily forestalled by a bustle of arrival in the front passage.
“That will be the Count. How tedious the interruption! But we shall talk more of literature later, I hope.”
“The Count?”
“Young Julien. He was supposed to bring his mother — but in the event, she is lying down with a sick headache.” My companion made a moue of distaste. “These elderly women and their disorders! I refuse to countenance Mamma’s continual appeals for attention, on the score of some megrim or another; but naturally she was inclined to sympathise with the Comtesse d’Entraigues, and accepted her refusal — tho’ Watkins had already laid the places — with her usual grace.”
I glanced towards the door, and there he was: slim, elegant, dark-haired, and roguish of eye, with an exquisite air of fashion. He was bowed low over Eliza’s hand, his lips grazing it; then with a swift, laughing look he muttered something in French that caused her to giggle, and rap him with her furled fan.
“Naughty boy! And my poor husband not twelve hours absent from London!” she cried. “Jane — come and say hello to Julien!”
I approached the young Comte with a strange sensation of trepidation. Could this scion of a scheming roué and an opera singer be other than venal in his habits and intercourse? He was present only briefly in the drawing-room at Barnes when we descended upon Surrey a week ago, playing an air upon the pianoforte before quitting the house; Eliza had explained carelessly that a young man of nineteen could not be expected to spend his evenings with a parcel of dowds. I understood Comte Julien had set up his own establishment in the Albany, where any number of single gentlemen take rooms; but how he lived, when his parents’ pockets were entirely to let, must be cause for conjecture.
“Miss Austen,” he said with a bow. “I am honoured to renew the acquaintance of one whom la Comtesse de Feuillide must always speak of with esteem and affection.”
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