2

COLD HONEY AND SARDINES

London, May 1744

Argus House, Residence of the Duke of Pardloe

THE ROOM SMELLED OF dead flowers. It was raining heavily, but Hal seized the window sash and shoved, regardless. The action was regardless; the wood had swelled with the damp and the window remained shut. He tried twice more, then stood breathing heavily.

The chiming of the little carriage clock on the mantelpiece brought him to an awareness that he’d been standing in front of the closed window with his mouth half open, watching rain run down the glass, for a quarter of an hour, unable to make up his mind whether to call a footman to open the damn thing or just put his fist through it.

He turned away and, chilled, made his way by instinct toward the fire. He’d felt as though he were moving through cold honey ever since he’d forced himself out of bed, and now he collapsed joint by joint into his father’s chair.

His father’s chair. Blast. He closed his eyes, trying to summon the will to stand up and move. The leather was cold and stiff under his fingers, under his legs, hard against his back. He could feel the fire, a few feet away in its hearth, but the heat didn’t reach him.

“I’ve brought your coffee, my lord.” Nasonby’s voice cut through the cold honey, as did the smell of the coffee. Hal opened his eyes. The footman had already put the tray down on the little marquetry table and was setting out the spoons, unlidding the sugar bowl, placing the tongs just so, tenderly removing the napkin folded about the jug of warm milk—the cream was in its twin jug at the other side, keeping cold. He found the symmetry and Nasonby’s quiet, deft movements soothing.

“Thank you,” he managed to say, and made a small gesture indicating that Nasonby should see to the details. This Nasonby did, and the cup was placed in his limp, waiting hands. He took a mouthful—it was perfect, very hot but not so much as to burn his mouth, sweet and milky—and nodded. Nasonby vanished.

For a little while, he could just drink coffee. He didn’t have to think. Halfway through the cup, he briefly considered getting up and sitting in another chair, but by then the leather had warmed and molded to his body. He could almost imagine his father’s touch on his shoulder, the brief squeeze the duke had always used to express affection for his sons. Damn you. His throat closed suddenly, and he set the cup down.

How was John managing? he wondered. He’d be safe enough in Aberdeen, surely. Still, he ought to write to his brother. Cousin Kenneth and Cousin Eloise were incredible bores, so rigidly Presbyterian that they didn’t even countenance card-playing and disapproved of any activity on the Sabbath other than reading the Bible.

On the one occasion he and Esmé had stayed with them, Eloise had politely asked Esmé to read to them after the stodgy Sunday dinner of roast mutton and bashed neeps. Ignoring the text for the day, bookmarked with a handmade lace strip, Em had blithely thumbed through the book and settled on the story of Jephthah, who had sworn that if the Lord would grant him victory in battle against the sons of Ammon, then Jephthah would sacrifice to the Lord the first thing to greet him when he returned home.

“Really,” said Esmé, swallowing the “R” in a particularly fetching French way. She looked up, frowning. “What if it should have been his dog? What do you say, Mercy,” she said, addressing Hal’s twelve-year-old cousin, Mercy. “If your papa should come home one day and announce that he was going to kill Jasper there”—the spaniel looked up from his rug, hearing his name—“just because he’d told God he would, what would you do?”

Mercy’s eyes went round with horror and her lip quivered as she looked at the dog.

“But—but—he wouldn’t,” she said. But then she glanced at her father, doubt in her eyes. “You wouldn’t, would you, Papa?”

“But if you had promised God?” Esmé put in helpfully, looking up at Kenneth with her large blue eyes. Hal was enjoying the look on Kenneth’s face, but Eloise was going a bit red round the jowls, so he coughed—and with a distinct, exhilarating sense that he was driving a carriage over a cliff said, “But Jephthah didn’t meet his dog, did he? What did happen? Do remind me—been some time since I’ve read the Old Testament.” In fact, he’d never read it, but Esmé loved to read it and tell him the stories—with her own inimitable commentary.

Esmé had carefully not looked at him but turned the page with delicate fingers and cleared her throat.

“And Jephthah came to Mizpeh unto his house, and, behold, his daughter came out to meet him with timbrels and with dances: and she was his only child; beside her he had neither son nor daughter.

“And it came to pass, when he saw her, that he rent his clothes, and said, Alas, my daughter! thou hast brought me very low, and thou art one of them that trouble me: for I have opened my mouth unto the Lord, and I cannot go back.

“And she said unto him, My father, if thou hast opened thy mouth unto the Lord, do to me according to that which hath proceeded out of thy mouth; forasmuch as the Lord hath taken vengeance for thee of thine enemies, even of the children of Ammon.

“And she said unto her father, Let this thing be done for me: let me alone two months, that I may go up and down upon the mountains, and bewail my virginity, I and my fellows.

“And he said, Go. And he sent her away for two months: and she went with her companions, and bewailed her virginity upon the mountains.

“And it came to pass at the end of two months, that she returned unto her father, who did with her according to his vow which he had vowed: and she knew no man. And it was a custom in Israel that the daughters of Israel went yearly to lament the daughter of Jephthah the Gileadite four days in a year.”

Then she’d laughed, closing the book.

“I don’t think I would have bewailed my virginity for long, me. I would have come home without it”—then she’d met his eyes, with a spark that had ignited his vitals—“and see whether my dear papa still considered me a suitable sacrifice.”

His eyes were closed; he was breathing hard and dimly aware that tears were leaking out between his lids.

“You bitch,” he whispered. “Em, you bitch!”

He breathed until the memory passed and the echo of her voice faded from his ear. When he opened his eyes, he found that his chin was resting in his hands, elbows on his knees, and that he was staring at the hearth rug. An expensive bit of carpet for such a use. Soft white wool, tufted, with the Grey family coat of arms in the center and an extravagantly worked “H” and “E” in black silk on either side. She’d had it made for him—a wedding present.

He’d given her a diamond pendant. And buried it with her and her child, a month ago.

He closed his eyes again. And breathed.

AFTER A TIME, he got up and wandered down the hall to the nook he’d taken over as his study. It was cramped as an eggshell, but he didn’t need much space—and the close confines seemed to help him think better, shutting out some of the outside world.

He plucked a quill from the jar and bit it absently, tasting the bitter tang of dried ink. He should cut a new one but couldn’t summon up the energy to find his penknife, and after all, what did it matter? John wouldn’t mind a few blots.

Paper…There was a half quire of the parchment sheets he’d used to reply to the expressions of sympathy about Esmé. They’d come in by the bushelful—unlike the spatter of embarrassed notes that had followed his father’s suicide three years before. He’d written the replies himself, in spite of his mother’s offer to help. He’d been filled with something like the electric fluid natural philosophers talked about, something that numbed him to any natural need like food or sleep, that filled his brain and body with a manic need to move, to do something—though God knew there was nothing more he could have done after killing Nathaniel Twelvetrees. Not that he hadn’t tried…

The paper felt gritty with dust; he didn’t let anyone touch his desk. He held up a sheet and blew at it, shook it a bit, and set it down, then dipped his quill.

J— he wrote, and stopped dead. What was there to say? I hope to God you’re not dead? Have you seen anyone strange asking questions? How are you finding Aberdeen? Other than cold, wet, dreary, and gray…

After twiddling the quill for a while, he gave up, wrote, Luck. –H, sanded the sheet, folded it, and, taking up the candle, dribbled smoke-stained wax onto the paper and stamped it firmly with his signet. A swan, flying, neck outstretched, across a full moon.

He was still sitting at his desk an hour later. There was progress: John’s letter sat there, squared to the corner of the desk, sealed and with the Armstrongs’ direction in Aberdeen neatly written—with a freshly cut pen. The quire of parchment had been shaken free of dust, tapped into alignment, and put away in a drawer. And he’d found the source of the dead-flower smell: a bunch of rotting carnations left in a pottery mug on the windowsill. He’d managed to open that window and throw them out and then had summoned a footman to take the mug away to be washed. He was exhausted.

He became aware of noises in the distance: the sound of the front door opening, voices. That was all right; Sylvester would take care of whoever it was.

To his surprise, the butler seemed to have been overcome by the intruder; there were raised voices and a determined step coming rapidly toward his sanctum.

“What the devil are you doing, Melton?” The door was flung open and Harry Quarry’s broad face glowered in at him.

“Writing letters,” Hal said, with what dignity he could summon. “What does it look like?”

Harry strode into the room, lit a taper from the fire, and touched it to the candlestick on the desk. Hal hadn’t noticed it growing dark, but it must be teatime, at least. His friend lifted the candlestick and examined him critically by its light.

“You don’t want to know what you look like,” said Harry, shaking his head. He put down the candle. “You didn’t recall that you were meant to be meeting with Washburn this afternoon, I take it.”

“Wash—oh, Jesus.” He’d risen halfway out of his chair at the name and now sank back, feeling hollow at mention of his solicitor.

“I’ve spent the last hour with him, after meeting with Anstruther and Josper—you remember, the adjutant from the Fourteenth?” He spoke with a strong note of sarcasm.

“I do,” Hal said shortly, and rubbed a hand hard over his face, trying to rouse his wits.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” he said, and shook his head. He rose, pulling his banyan round him. “Call Nasonby, will you? Have him bring us tea in the library. I have to change and wash.”

Washed, dressed, brushed, and feeling some semblance of ability, he came into the library a quarter hour later to find the tea trolley already in place; a wisp of aromatic steam rose from the teapot’s spout to mingle with the spicy scents of ham and sardines and the unctuous sweetness of a currant sponge, oozing cream and butter.

“When’s the last time you ate anything?” Harry demanded, watching Hal consume sardines on toast with the single-mindedness of a starving cat.

“Yesterday. Maybe. I forget.” He reached for his cup and washed the sardines down far enough to make cake feasible as the next step. “Tell me what Washburn said.”

Harry disposed of his own cake, swallowed, and replied.

“Well, you can’t actually be tried in open court. Whatever you think about your damned title—no, don’t tell me, I’ve heard it.” He held out the palm of his hand in prevention, picking up a gherkin with the other.

“Whether you choose to call yourself the Duke of Pardloe, the Earl of Melton, or plain Harold Grey, you’re still a peer. You can’t be tried by anything save a jury of your peers—to wit, the House of Lords. And I didn’t really require Washburn to tell me that the odds of a hundred noblemen agreeing that you should be either imprisoned or hanged for challenging the man who seduced your wife to a duel, and killing him as a result, is roughly a thousand to one—but he did tell me so.”

“Oh.” Hal hadn’t given the matter a moment’s thought but if he had would likely have reached a similar conclusion. Still, he felt some relief at hearing that the Honorable Lawrence Washburn, KC, shared it.

“Mind you—are you going to eat that last slice of ham?”

“Yes.” Hal took it and reached for the mustard pot. Harry took an egg sandwich instead.

“Mind you,” he repeated, mouth half full of deviled egg and thin white bread, “that doesn’t mean you aren’t in trouble.”

“You mean with Reginald Twelvetrees, I suppose.” Hal kept his eyes on his plate, carefully cutting the ham into pieces. “That isn’t news to me, Harry.”

“I shouldn’t have thought so, no,” Harry agreed. “I meant with the king.”

Hal set down his fork and stared at Harry.

“The king?”

“Or, to be more exact, the army.” Harry delicately plucked an almond biscuit from the wreckage of the tea trolley. “Reginald Twelvetrees has sent a petition to the secretary at war, asking that you be brought to a court-martial for the unlawful killing of his brother and, further, that you be removed as colonel of the Forty-sixth and the regiment refused permanent re-commission, on grounds that your behavior is so deranged as to constitute a danger to the readiness and ability of said regiment. That being where His Majesty comes in.”

“Balderdash,” Hal said shortly. But his hand trembled slightly as he lifted the teapot, and the lid rattled. He saw Harry notice, and he set it down carefully.

What the king giveth, the king also taketh away. It had taken months of painstaking work to have his father’s regiment provisionally re-commissioned and more—much more—to find decent officers willing to join it.

“The scribblers—” Harry began, but Hal made a quick, violent gesture, cutting him off.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t—”

“I do! Don’t bloody talk about it.”

Harry made a soft growling noise but subsided. He picked up the pot and filled both cups, pushing Hal’s toward him.

“Sugar?”

“Please.”

The regiment—in its resurrected form—had not yet seen service anywhere; it had barely half its complement of men, and most of those didn’t know one end of a musket from the other. He had only a skeleton staff, and while most of his officers were good, solid men, only a handful, like Harry Quarry, had any personal allegiance to him. Any pressure, any hint of scandal—well, any more scandal—and the whole structure could collapse. The remnants to be greedily scooped up or trampled on by Reginald Twelvetrees, Hal’s father’s blackened memory left forever dishonored as a traitor, and his own name dragged further through the mud—painted by the scribblers of the press not only as a cuckold but a murderer and lunatic.

The handle of his porcelain teacup broke off suddenly and shot across the table, striking the pot with a tink! The cup itself had cracked right through, and tea ran down his arm, soaking his cuff.

He carefully put down the two pieces of the cup and shook tea off his hand. Harry said nothing but raised one bushy black brow at him.

Hal closed his eyes and breathed through his nose for several moments.

“All right,” he said, and opened his eyes. “One—Twelvetrees’s petition. It hasn’t been granted yet?”

“It has not.” Harry was beginning to relax a little, which gave Hal a bit more confidence in his own assumption of composure.

“Well, then. That’s the first thing—stop that petition. Do you know the secretary personally?”

Harry shook his head. “You?”

“I’ve met him once, at Ascot. Friendly wager. I won, though.”

“Ah. Too bad.” Harry drummed his fingers on the cloth for a moment, then darted a glance at Hal. “Ask your mother?”

“Absolutely not. She’s in France, anyway, and she’s not coming back.”

Harry knew why the Dowager Countess of Melton was in France—and why John was in Aberdeen—and nodded reluctantly. Benedicta Grey knew a great many people, but the suicide of her husband on the eve of his being arrested as a Jacobite traitor had barred her from the sort of circles where Hal might otherwise have found influence.

There was a long silence, unbroken by Nasonby’s appearance with a new teacup. He filled this, took up the shattered bits of the old one, and vanished as he’d come, soft-footed as a cat.

“What does this petition say, exactly?” Hal asked finally.

Harry grimaced but settled himself to answer.

“That you killed Nathaniel Twelvetrees because you had conceived the unfounded notion that he had been, er…dallying with your wife. In the grip of this delusion, you then assassinated him. And thus you are plainly mentally unfit to hold command over—”

“Unfounded?” Hal said blankly. “Assassinated?”

Harry reached out quickly and took the cup from his hand.

“You know as well as I do, Melton—it’s not what’s true; it’s what you can make people believe.” He set the full cup gingerly on its saucer. “The hound was damned discreet about it, and apparently so was Esmé. There wasn’t a breath of gossip until the news that you’d shot him on his own croquet lawn.”

“He chose the ground! And the weapons!”

“I know that,” Harry said patiently. “I was there, remember?”

“What do you think I am?” Hal snapped. “An idiot?”

Harry ignored that.

“I’ll say what I know, of course—that it was a legitimate challenge and that Nathaniel Twelvetrees accepted it. But his second—that chap Buxton—was killed last month in a carriage accident near Smithfield. And no one else was on that croquet lawn. That’s doubtless what gave Reginald the notion of trying to nobble you this way—no independent witnesses.”

“Oh…hell.” The sardines were stirring in his guts.

Harry took a breath that strained the seams of his uniform and looked down at the table.

“I—forgive me. But…is there any proof?”

Hal managed a laugh, dry as sawdust.

“Of the affair? Do you think I’d have killed him if I hadn’t been sure?”

“No, of course not. I only mean—well…bloody hell…did she just…tell you? Or perhaps you…er…saw…”

“No.” Hal was feeling dizzy. He shook his head, closed his eyes, and tried a deep breath of his own. “No, I never caught them together. And she didn’t—didn’t quite tell me. There were—there were letters.”

She’d left them where she knew he’d find them. But why? That was one of the things that killed him, over and over again. She’d never told him why. Was it simple guilt? Had she grown tired of the affair but lacked the courage to end it herself? Worse—had she wanted him to kill Nathaniel?

No. Her face when he’d come back that day, when he told her what he’d done…

His face was resting on the white cloth and there were black and white spots swarming before his eyes. He could smell starch and spilled tea, sardines with their tang of the sea. Of Esmé’s birth waters. And her blood. Oh, God, don’t let me vomit….