by Jo Goodman
He made them as easy as he could, escorting them to the door himself so they would not be waylaid by his other guests. When he returned to the drawing room, he saw immediately that South had disappeared. It did not require any special talent to know where he'd gone. West could see that the door to his study was closed and understood that South would have made his way there to speak to the colonel. Northam and his countess had been in conversation with Blackwood earlier, and when West glanced over at Eastlyn, it seemed to him the marquess was looking as if he meant to have a turn with the colonel as well.
That was all right, then. West knew he could afford to give his friends first crack at Blackwood. Perhaps it was even better that the others saw him first. The colonel might be moved to take his leave when West was finished serving him a few home truths.
* * *
John Blackwood, that adviser in the foreign office who directed the activities of the Compass Club, tucked a rug about his thin legs, then pushed his wheeled chair closer to the fire. He had allowed himself to be persuaded not to attend the services for the duke this morning, but neither his doctor nor his valet could keep him from West's home tonight.
Now he wondered if he shouldn't have listened to them, not because they were right that the evening away from home would fatigue him almost beyond bearing, but because so little good had come of his presence. His dear Elizabeth, not to put too fine a point on it, had abducted him from the drawing room and wheeled him into West's study. Short of making a scene, he could not have stopped her and wasn't certain that he wanted to.
She had argued with him, pleaded even, to turn her husband away from the assignment he'd been given to find the Gentleman Thief. He, who thought there was nothing he would not do for her, could not grant her this boon, nor could he tell her anything that would ease her mind on the matter. The thief must be caught and it must be done soon. North was in every way the man for the task. To place that considerable responsibility in someone else's hands would set them back months, and so he had refused her.
He was very much afraid she would not speak to him again.
On the heels of that encounter, South had begged a moment of his time. The colonel smiled a little grimly as he poked at the fire. Demanded, not begged, was the proper word for it. South had demanded his time and called him a bloody bastard, a term usually reserved for the late duke. The viscount had been witness to the unhappy tension between Elizabeth and Northam and wanted absolution for having played even a small part in bringing about their union. The colonel was slightly more optimistic than South that all would be made right in the end, but he absolved South of responsibility anyway, just as if he were a priest, and took it upon his own less-than-robust shoulders.
The interview had not ended there, for there was still South's assignment to be managed. What South had managed to do was set all of London talking about the disappearance of Miss India Parr. The most beloved actress at the Drury Lane had missed two performances, and her devoted audience, largely male, had almost not been prevented from burning the place down. If it became known that Southerton was responsible for Miss Parr's absence, he would be run to ground, then drawn and quartered. There were moments during his discussion with South that he had contemplated leading that charge.
He had only just dismissed South when Eastlyn arrived to take up the empty chair. The marquess had himself in the very devil of a coil, compliments of a spurned mistress, and had no simple way to extricate himself. The rumors of his engagement to Lady Sophia Colley would not be silenced and presented yet another obstacle to the completion of his assignment. There was nothing for it but that he be taken to task.
The colonel jabbed hard at the fire again, his knobby knuckles perfectly white with the strength of his grip on the poker. He had not tread lightly with East, but forced the younger man to examine his situation carefully and come to a decision of how he meant to go on. Matters related to his task of martialing support for the East India Company could not be accomplished without East putting his own house in order. Indeed, it seemed that success demanded that East place one before the other. Blackwood sympathized but did not relent.
The colonel had just replaced the poker when the door opened. He did not look up. "I've been expecting you."
"I thought you might be," West said. "The others have had their audience. It seems only fair that I have a turn myself."
Blackwood did not think he was imagining the chill edging West's tone. His dark eyes narrowed faintly as he wheeled around and took measure of the man stepping into the room. No line of West's trim frame conveyed that he was in any way easy with himself. The rigid set of his shoulders made his carriage stiff, and his long-legged stride had none of the casual grace he might otherwise have affected. There was a tautness to his mouth, and the gravity of his thoughts had drawn the skin of his face tightly over the bones. He looked gaunt. It would not be hyperbole to say he looked vaguely haunted.
The colonel pushed his chair to the drinks cabinet. "Will you have a whiskey?"
"No." West saw the empty tumblers left by his friends. It seemed Blackwood had been successful in plying them all with alcohol, no doubt enjoying the opportunity to imbibe freely himself. His doctor and his valet restricted him as much as was possible in his own home. "But you must help yourself," he said.
Blackwood shook his head. "I've already done that. I am quite aware of my tolerance and find that I have reached it."
West sat down as the colonel pushed his chair closer. Blackwood was still a handsome man; the wasting disease that had laid siege to his legs had not robbed him of his fine looks nor dulled his mind. His reflexes were slower now and a tremor could sometimes be spied in his hands, but he held his own, fixing his quarry with a dark glance that was at once an appraisal and a challenge. Though no longer muscular, he was still fastidious about his appearance and took some pains to make certain his stock was folded in the latest fashion.
West knew the colonel's legs were weaker than they had been, even this summer past. Then Blackwood had been able to travel to the Battenburn estate for North and Elizabeth's wedding and make his way down the center aisle, aided by two sticks and the wiry strength of his own arms. Only five months later, West doubted that such a thing would be possible, though he would not underestimate the colonel's tenacity. There was evidence enough of that in the pronounced creases at the corners of his eyes, the faint frown that was present even in his relaxed state. Except for a light thinning at the crown and a few seeds of gray, the colonel's shock of black hair was not conceding either to his illness or his advancing years.
Blackwood lowered his gold-rimmed spectacles over the bridge of his hawk-like nose and regarded West with a surprisingly gentle smile and an invitation to proceed.
"Everyone is gone?" he asked.
West nodded. "I have just now come from bidding farewell to South's parents and North's mother. Lady Winslow and Sir James left only moments before."
The colonel was not surprised that East's family had also lingered. It had been like that since West's own mother died when he was yet at Cambridge. Long before then, a connection had been made to each of the other families, perhaps, Blackwood thought, because West was, for all intents and purposes, fatherless. No less a personage than the dowager Countess of Northam had been moved to call the duke a bloody bastard, championing West even though she still took umbrage with him for breaking the nose of her son when they were but boys at Hambrick.
The corners of Blackwood's mouth were lifted as he considered the temper and aggressive posture that had put West in conflict with every one of his schoolmates. He wondered what he would have made of young Evan Marchman if he had known him in those days. Would he have been as rigidly uncompromising as the Hambrick house masters, or would he have seen past the boy's fiercely held fists to the pain and confusion that made him so belligerent?
West did not recline in his chair. Instead, he sat forward slightly and rested his forearms on his knees. His fingers were loosely intertwin
ed, and as was often his habit, he lightly tapped the pads of his thumbs together. He did not engage in pleasantries, but came immediately to the point.
"Why did you never tell me you visited him?"
Although the colonel had no difficulty divining West's meaning, the question still surprised. "I have never thought it necessary to apprise you of the names of even a quarter of the people I visit. Why should this have been different?"
"Do not pose a question to me that you can answer yourself."
Blackwood gave West a sharp look over the rim of his spectacles. "Actually, I am not certain I can answer it. Being Westphal's son did not entitle you to know every occasion I had to visit him. Indeed, given the estrangement between you, it seemed to me that you would be uninterested in my dealings with him."
"It is a different matter when you used those occasions to discuss me."
"I have never thought of you as someone prone to exaggerating his own importance. We also discussed things wholly unrelated to you."
West would not relent. "But you did share my activities with him."
It was rare that Blackwood hesitated, but he did so now. "Sometimes," he said finally. "Yes."
West straightened a little then and sat back. He did not know there was more hurt in his glance than there was accusation. "Why?" he asked softly. "Why tell him anything at all about me? Have you been as forthcoming to Lord Redding about South's activities over the years? I cannot imagine that you have ever informed North's mother about the things he has done, and continues to do, for you. And East? I am quite sure he would not thank you for apprising his—"
"I take your point," the colonel said. "And you are right. I have made it a point to say very little to others."
"Then why? Why would you—"
"They have never wanted to know. Lord and Lady Redding. Sir James and Lady Winslow. The dowager countess. All of them are more at their ease not knowing the particulars, and they will tell you as much if you press them. The duke wanted to know, and to the extent that he could be informed, I informed him. Your father was highly placed in the government, West. He came within a hairsbreadth of being made prime minister after Perceval was assassinated, and he had many supporters this last time around. Do you imagine he could not have found out whatever he liked? I should think you would prefer that he received his information from me. You can depend on the accuracy of my accounts."
"What I depended upon," West said without inflection, "was your silence."
Uncharacteristically at a loss for words, Blackwood offered silence now.
West eyed the whiskey decanter on the drinks cabinet and realized he had not the wherewithal to go there. He could not recall a time when he had been so lacking in energy, so boneless as he was now. The events of these last three days had conspired to tap both his strength and the soundness of his judgments. "He had not earned the right to know what I was about." In spite of surging emotions, his voice remained remarkably steady. "I thought that had always been understood between us. It was not for you to say, but rather for me. The duke should have addressed his questions to me."
There was no point, the colonel decided, in stating what they both knew to be true: West would not have responded to any question put to him by his father. Blackwood remained silent, offering no defense for his actions.
"You have nothing at all to say?" West asked.
"Save for an apology, I can think of nothing that you will wish to hear on the matter."
West waited, but the colonel's apology was not forthcoming. "Then you do not regret it?"
"I regret that I did not listen to my own counsel and inform you that your father was making inquiries."
West's eyes narrowed faintly as he regarded his mentor. "Why not?" he asked. "Why not trust your own judgment? Isn't that what you demand of us?"
"It is." His smile was rueful. "I can do the wrong thing for the right reason as often as any man. It is only in hindsight that any of us can know how wrong it truly was."
"And what of speaking to the duke about me? I have not heard you offer any regret for that."
By saying nothing, Blackwood said everything.
"I see," said West. He slumped more deeply in the chair so that he was almost reclining now and stretched his long legs before him. "Did you never wonder at the consequences?"
"Of course I wondered what you would make of it. I had hoped you would endeavor to understand."
"Understand? What I understand, Colonel, is that he's made me his bloody heir. He wouldn't have done that if he thought I was only a clerk in the foreign office. That's what I understand. You filled him with nonsense about some instrumental task I performed in Wellington's camp and—"
"Nonsense?" Blackwood bristled at the idea he ever spouted such. "I spoke nothing save the truth. I did not tell him one-half of what you were able to accomplish for Wellington at Fuentes de Onoro and Aluera. A year later you were in Madrid ahead of the army, taking considerable risk out of uniform."
West turned one hand over in a gesture that communicated both modesty and indifference. "I moved documents. Wellington moved an army. My contribution was—"
"Essential," the colonel said.
"I was not fishing."
"And I am not flattering. I am speaking the truth."
West wanted no more of this conversation. He knew what he had done was important work and he was proud of it, but he did not consider it more or less singular than the contribution made by others. He roused himself enough to come to his feet. Ignoring the decanters of whiskey and brandy, West walked to the window instead and drew back the heavy velvet curtains. The rain had finally turned entirely to sleet and the tattoo against the window was sharp and steady. He wondered about the road to Gillhollow, how difficult the travel might be for a coach and four. He wondered if Ria had gone on alone or taken her place with Tenley and his family. He wondered...
West allowed the drapes to fall back and turned away. Belatedly, he was aware that the colonel had wheeled his chair around and was watching him closely, seeing something more than he had ever meant to reveal. West plowed his fingers through his hair, discomfited by the scrutiny, out of patience with himself for lowering his guard. "You were saying?"
"Indeed," Blackwood said dryly. In truth, he had been silent, but he was not about to allow West's prompt to go begging. "I was hoping that you would humor me, and tell me the source of your information. I can think of no one save your father who was aware of my visits."
"The servants."
The colonel shook his head. "I did not forget to take them into account, but it is not possible that they spoke to you. They would not speak of it to anyone."
West could not entirely temper his smile. He shrugged to draw attention away from it. Blackwood had forgotten, however briefly, that he was now in the company of the Duke of Westphal. Those servants who had been loyal to his father were, for the time being, in his employ. They might have reservations about relating certain events to him, but they would not hold their tongues if he pressed.
"You will not explain it to me?" asked the colonel.
It seemed to West that he was being small by not telling Blackwood what he wanted to know. Getting a little of his own back was not a particularly pleasant feeling. "Miss Ashby," he said finally, watching the colonel's reaction closely. "I will not ask if you know who she is. I can see that you do."
Blackwood struck a thoughtful pose, cocking his head and tapping the right side of his nose with his forefinger. "She was at the Abbey today for the service?"
West nodded slowly. "In addition to the title and considerable fortune the duke has left me, I have also inherited a ward. What do you make of that, Colonel? It seems he was possessed of a sense of humor after all."
"I had not thought of it in that light."
"What else can I do but find the bloody humor of it?" asked West. "He is already dead, so however much I wish to do so, I cannot kill him."
The colonel thought it was a good sign that West's o
wn sense of humor had finally surfaced, no matter how black it was. "I cannot conceive that Miss Ashby will upset the equilibrium of your existence. She can be the very least of the responsibilities you have inherited."
Both of West's eyebrows lifted. "She is a person. She is female. Female persons are always more difficult to manage than land and money. You smile, but you know it is true. You cannot help but have noticed that North is deuced unhappy with Elizabeth. And East? He has got himself between Mrs. Sawyer and Lady Sophia and would welcome a cup of hemlock at this juncture. Even South, who can be bloody brilliant on occasion, has been acting most peculiar. Mark me, there is a woman involved for he pressed me to loan him my cottage near Ambermede for a trysting place."
West saw that the colonel did not blink an eye at this last bit of intelligence. "Hah! You know about that, do you? I thought I detected your fine hand in the thing. Then it is not a tryst at all—or not only a tryst—but an assignment from you." He held up a hand. "No, I do not want you to confirm it."
"And I will not. The very last thing I need is the four of you tripping over one another. It seems to happen in spite of my desire that it be otherwise."
"It is rather remarkable that East has not shot one of us by now."
Blackwood's dark eyes dropped to West's boot. "More remarkable that you have not stabbed one of them."