Chapter Twenty-One
Brentworth noticed Adam’s distraction. “I can see I am boring you.”
“I am hearing every word. You just confided that you have a new mistress. I am waiting to learn her name but wondering if you plan to share it.”
“I think not now. What the hell are you staring at? You look like a tiger eyeing his prey.” He turned his head to search the crowd in the ballroom. “Bad enough you talked me into attending. You know I dislike crushes like this, and Lady Prideux knows no restraint in her invitations. You could at least occupy me with conversation.”
“I needed you here. He may cut me, but he will never cut you.”
“Who is he?”
“Hollsworth. Come with me.”
Adam took three steps before realizing Brentworth had not followed. He looked back to see Brentworth’s severe face at its most ducal.
“I am going nowhere,” Brentworth said. “Not unless you are forthright about why I am going wherever there is. And before you say a word, let me make as clear as a bell’s toll that I will not agree to be your second if you challenge Hollsworth. He is an old man, and a duel would be the same as cold-blooded murder.”
“Do you think I am capable of that?”
Brentworth sighed. “Of course not. It is just—” He sighed again. “Lead the way. Try not to force me to lose an old friend tonight. My father knew Hollsworth for decades.”
“I do not think you will lose his friendship tonight.”
“I was not referring to that particular friendship, Stratton.”
Adam led the way through the crowd to the terrace doors. “It is damp tonight. Heavy fog. I do not think we will have much company.”
That fog hung low enough that Hollsworth’s lone form barely showed near the stone balustrade.
“What is he doing out here? Ah, he has a cigar,” Brentworth whispered. “He is having the devil of a time lighting it, though. He won’t stay long.”
“Invite him to join us.” Adam removed two cigars from his coat.
“You will never get those lit in this weather.”
“Invite him. I will get them lit.”
Brentworth made a display of peering through the mist. “Hollsworth, is that you there? Join us. You and I can share a wager on whether my companion can raise a flame.”
Hollsworth peered in turn. “Brentworth. I did not see you there. If you can provide a flame, you are better than I. Damnable fog.”
He sidled over. Only when he reached Brentworth’s side did he see Adam. Resigned dismay showed behind the thick spectacles.
Adam used his match on the underside of the terrace’s balustrade and lifted the flame. Hollsworth made use of it quickly, then Brentworth. It went out before Adam even attempted to light his own cigar.
“This is much better than that crush in there,” Brentworth said.
“I hate it myself,” Hollsworth said. “My wife always wants to attend, but I plead off when I can. At my age, balls hold no interest. They are for the young, like you two. A chance to eye all those young girls.”
“Normally we would be doing just that, but the terrace drew Stratton here instead.”
“Well, there is nothing like a good smoke, I agree.”
“It was not the chance to smoke that drew him. It was you.”
Hollsworth calmly puffed. He did not look pleased. Then again, he did not move away.
“He does need to know,” Brentworth said. “I am sure you agree.”
“If he is looking to fight someone, I do not have a name for him.”
“I only want to know the accusation against my father,” Adam said. “It cannot have only been a vague rumor.”
Hollsworth looked down at the glowing end of his cigar. He looked over at Brentworth. Brentworth strolled away, to the other end of the terrace.
“One hears things,” Hollsworth said.
Adam was sure Hollsworth heard more than most. He was the kind of man everyone treated as a friend because he never spoke enough to make enemies. Had he been at the race in Brentworth’s stand, and sat to play cards, within fifteen minutes most of them would become unaware of his presence.
“I learned some jewels might have been involved.”
Hollsworth nodded. “Rich ones, belonging to your family. Valued in the thousands, by some accounts. Well, people talk. Who is to say the value? They found their way into the wrong hands while the Corsican was on Elba. French hands. They were used to help finance the new army.”
“How is this known or claimed?”
“After the war, questions were put to those involved. The usual methods. Not by us, of course. We are more civilized.”
“Of course.”
“Two officers in the know spoke of this.”
Adam’s mind rebelled at absorbing this. The rumors had not been baseless. “Who received them? To whom were they sent?”
“Marshal Ney.” Hollsworth puffed deeply, and a cloud of smoke swirled into the fog. “He was a friend of your mother’s father.”
Hell. Damn. Ney was the highest-ranking officer to join Napoleon’s Hundred Day campaign, and the only one to die for it.
What had his father said when presented with this story? How had he explained sending anything at all to Ney? And if he did it—he could not believe he allowed that thought into his head—why? Because his mother asked him to help an old family friend?
The questions kept coming, a chaos of them, filling his head and emptying his soul.
“Did Ney corroborate any of this before his execution?”
“Not a bit of it. That proved inconvenient. We were very interested in where the money came from, as you can imagine. It took more than those jewels to raise that army, unless a bushel of French jewels joined them. The investigation continued for several years in France. And here.”
Adam had known how it ended but not when it began. Early, it seemed. Long before the questions and suspicions took enough effect to be visible in his father’s mood and distraction.
“You can understand why the government had to take a look at all of it,” Hollsworth said softly. “It was to be very quiet. Very secretive. Well, that never happens, although very few learned much of the details. It would die down for a while, then voices that mattered would insist it be pursued and . . . well . . .”
“Which voices?”
“I’ll not give you names, I said.”
“I think I know anyway.”
Hollsworth’s cigar, half-smoked, gave up then. Its glow dimmed, then died. “Every man has enemies. Even a man like your father.”
“You don’t.”
Hollsworth chuckled. “There is something to be said for being forgettable.” He threw the cigar into the garden. “Your father did what he thought he should do. Perhaps you should leave it at that.” He walked toward the terrace doors.
Brentworth came out of the fog. “Did you learn anything?”
“Nothing good.” The notion of going into that ballroom sat poorly on him. All that bright gaiety . . . The damp fog suited him better.
All the same, he joined Brentworth in walking across the terrace.
“I think I did you no favor, if it was nothing good.”
“You did me a great favor. Thank you. You were right when you told him I needed to know.” He opened the French window. “Now tell me about this woman who seduced you. Don’t look at me like that. You are not so green as to believe it was all your idea.”
* * *
Clara sat on the divan in her sitting room, with Althea beside her. A portable desk, such as travelers used, rested on the cushion between them. Althea had it facing her, with a pen in the inkwell. Lady Farnsworth, Lady Grace, Mrs. Clark, and Mrs. Dalton sat with them. Lady Farnsworth had called for the sherry again, and even instructed Mrs. Finley where to find it.
If she ever had her women’s club here, Clara expected afternoons in it to be much like the one they all shared right now.
“The goal,” she said, “is to plan the next two issues of Parnassus. We have here a list of subjects and lengths. We need to determine the manner in which the areas will be addressed and which contributor will do it.”
“Will there be poetry?” Mrs. Clark posed the question in her usual tentative voice. She rarely accepted Clara’s invitations to join in these meetings. Although Mrs. Clark always had the good excuse of her millinery business, Clara thought the real reason was that the woman did not feel comfortable sitting like this with others born so high above her.
Today, however, Mrs. Dalton attended as well. A gentry matron of considerable girth and a cloud of pale hair, Mrs. Dalton provided expertly researched history essays that she signed Boudica’s Daughter. She had befriended Mrs. Clark and had taken to having all her bonnets and hats made in Mrs. Clark’s shop.
“Of course there will be poetry,” Mrs. Dalton said. “What a question.”
“There will be indeed. I am already receiving examples left for the journal at a few of the bookshops. Perhaps you will take them and choose our next ones, Mrs. Clark?” Clara opened the little desk and retrieved a sheaf of papers.
“How do we know they are not written by men?” Lady Farnsworth asked.
“You have only to see the handwriting to know,” Althea said. “I suppose some man might be dictating to a woman in order to hoodwink us. However, the sentiments in most of them do not appear to be male.”
Mrs. Clark appeared both pleased and flustered that she had been asked to choose the next poems. She peered at the top one with interest.
“Now, as to the travel essay,” Clara said.
Lady Grace cleared her throat. “If we are willing to take on a new contributor, we could have an essay that would probably cause us to triple the printing.”
“What sort of travel essay would that be?” Althea asked.
“A lady’s journey through the Continent with a person of the highest position. We could allow it to be written as a confidence shared with the author if she did not want to use her own name.”
“Am I correct in assuming the person would be the late Princess Caroline?” Lady Farnsworth asked sharply. “I thought so. That means your contributor would be Lady Anne Hamilton. Since Anne has already written indiscreetly once about Caroline’s situation even while the poor dear was alive, I do not doubt she will agree to do so again, now that she is dead. As for whether it would be wise for Parnassus to publish it, I leave that to others to decide.”
Her tone made it very clear her opinion of such a rash move.
“If you prefer I not ask her, I will not, of course,” Lady Grace said.
“I want to think about this,” Clara said. “Mrs. Dalton, do you have the subject of your next history essay?”
“I think it will be on a Roman woman of nobility. Everyone likes reading about the Romans.”
“They like reading about the orgies, you mean,” Lady Farnsworth said. “Find a way to include that, and we will triple our printing without resorting to Anne’s betrayal of poor Caroline’s memory.”
Mrs. Dalton’s expression fell. “I am not sure I know enough about Roman orgies.”
Clara laughed. “No orgies are necessary, Mrs. Dalton. You should not say such things, Lady Farnsworth. She thinks you are serious.”
“And you think I am not?” Lady Farnsworth smiled mysteriously.
Clara was about to move to the next item when Mrs. Finley entered the chamber and hurried to her side. She bent to her ear. “A carriage is drawing up outside. Your brother’s carriage.”
Althea overheard. She stood and looked out the window. “Here she comes.”
Clara knew who she was.
“Ladies, we are about to have a visitor,” Clara announced. “Please chat about something else until she leaves. Anything else.” She reached over, snatched the poems from Mrs. Clark’s hands, and returned them to the desk. Althea picked up the desk and placed it on a shelf.
“She is in here?” the dowager’s voice could be heard saying. “You say she has callers? Then I will join them.”
The dowager appeared in the doorway. She paused, surprised by the group of women who had all unaccountably called on the same day. Using her parasol like a walking stick, she paced over and took them all in. “Cakes, I see. You are a generous hostess, Clara.” Her gaze lit on the decanter. “Are those spirits?”
“Sherry,” Clara said. “Would you like some?”
“I should say not.”
“Perhaps you should, but is that in fact what you are saying, Hannah?” Lady Farnsworth drawled.
That brought the dowager’s attention on her. “Dorothy. How odd to find you here.”
“I daresay Clara welcomed my call at least as much as she welcomes yours, Hannah.”
Her grandmother did not miss the insinuation. “Well, what a nice little party.” Face pursing, she looked around for a seat.
“Please, ma’am.” Mrs. Clark shot up and offered her chair.
Her grandmother accepted, only to turn once she sat to give Mrs. Clark a long, hard inspection.
“Please join us over here, Mrs. Clark,” Clara said, indicating the spot where the portable desk had recently been.
Clara made introductions. She only gave her visitors’ names and hoped that her grandmother did not take to quizzing them on their histories. Lady Grace of course already knew the dowager, as did Lady Farnsworth.
“Do not let me interrupt,” Grandmamma said. “Continue on.”
“We were discussing the sad history of the late Princess Caroline,” Lady Farnsworth said. “I am sure you have views on that, Hannah.”
Indeed she did. Given the stage, she produced a soliloquy. From the way Lady Farnsworth’s smile tightened, Clara guessed that Dorothy disagreed with every word Hannah said.
“You are most severe, Hannah. Yet you befriended her at first, only to turn against her when her profligate husband did.” Lady Farnsworth sipped her sherry. “I suppose you did not want to risk losing invitations to his obscenely excessive parties by standing up for a friend.”
The dowager momentarily appeared dismayed at the direct attack. She recovered quickly. “I was never her friend, Dorothy. Your memory fails you. Perhaps it is all that sherry.”
“My memory is excellent, Hannah. In fact, I was present when you tried to arrange being one of her ladies-in-waiting. Would that she had agreed. It would have given you something to do besides terrorizing everyone.”
The dowager’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “By something to do, I suppose you mean writing naïve essays on politics that are published in journals of suspicious origins, like you do these days.”
“If you knew anything about politics, you would know the essays are far from naïve, and the journal is above reproach. But, yes, I mean something like that.”
Clara and Althea exchanged desperate glances. Mrs. Clark saw it, sitting as she did between them. She leaned forward and picked up the plate of cakes. “Would anyone like another one? They are delicious.”
“I would.” Lady Grace took one. “Say, did anyone hear any details about that little drama in Brentworth’s stand at the race? It is said that Rothborne insulted Stratton and only one of the royal dukes prevented a challenge then and there.”
The dowager’s attention swung to Lady Grace. She looked as shocked as if someone had slapped her.
“This is news to you, it seems, Hannah,” Lady Farnsworth purred. “I do not know why. Eventually someone would start talking, and Stratton would start dueling. One does wonder what Rothborne said. I trust he did not name names. Goodness, what a problem that would be for some people.”
Lady Grace looked from one woman to the other. “I do not think names were named.” She took a big bite out of her cake.
Lady Farnsworth gathered herself and stood. “Well, it is only a matter of time before someone does. I must go, Clara. I have dallied too long over your hospitality, and I have something to do.” She almost shouted the last words right in the dowager’s ear as she passed.
Clara saw Lady Farnsworth to the door.
“I am sorry our meeting was interrupted.”
“I’m not. I would not have missed it for anything. I will write to you with some ideas for my next essay.”
Lady Farnsworth’s departure gave the others a good chance to take their leaves too. One by one they escaped, until only Clara remained in the sitting room. Not alone, unfortunately. Her grandmother had chosen to remain.
“What a dreadful woman Dorothy is. Beyond the pale.” Her grandmother had retreated into rigid hauteur. “I can’t understand why you received her. She has no notion of propriety. She is loud and overbearing and voices opinions as if speaking for God Himself. It is a wonder anyone can bear her company.”
Clara barely kept a grin off her face. “Well, she is gone now. How nice that you stayed.”
“I had to stay. I came for a reason. I heard you attended the Derby. With a friend. Not Dorothy, I hope.”
“No. With Mrs. Galbreath.” She pointed to Althea’s spot on the divan. “She is a widow. Her late husband was in the army and died at Waterloo.”
“It would be better if you did not spend too much time with her if she is a widow. You do not want Stratton thinking that you have been privy to an experienced woman’s confidences.”
Clara just looked at her. Her grandmother actually appeared chagrined.
“Yes, well, speaking of Stratton, I was told that you visited Brentworth’s stand, and Stratton was there.”
“I did, and he was.”
“You have seen quite a lot of him.”
“Not a lot at all.”
“Enough that there is talk. The best kind of talk. The world is waiting, so to speak. If he does not declare himself soon, it may reflect badly on us.”
Clara liked that “us.”
Her grandmother clasped the hilt of her parasol beneath both hands. She leaned forward, using the parasol for a support. “Here is what I think we must do. I believe that your brother should call on Stratton and put the question to him.”
“What question would that be?”
“Inquire as to his intentions, of course. As the male relative responsible for you, it would be appropriate for Theo to seek confirmation of honorable intentions. It may be just the nudge Stratton needs.”
Clara pictured that meeting. She saw Theo puffed up like some paterfamilias, putting the question to Stratton. Then she heard Stratton telling Theo not to worry, since a proposal had been made weeks ago.
He had promised not to reveal that, hadn’t he? She surely had remembered to extract that reassurance from him, right?
“Grandmamma, I must insist that you not encourage Theo to quiz Stratton in any way. Such a conversation suggests that Theo does not trust Stratton, and in turn implies that he questions the duke’s honor. After all of your efforts to become friends with him, it would be unfortunate if things only became worse instead.”
Her grandmother chewed over that, frowning. “Normally I would disagree. Two gentlemen having such a conversation is very commonplace. However, after what Grace said about there almost being a challenge—” She speared Clara with a sharp look. “Were you there? Did you see this?”
“I was well gone by then.”
“That is unfortunate. I would so like to learn exactly what happened.”
“You could ask Stratton.”
“Ask the duke? I think not!” She stood. “What a reckless notion. Really, Clara, sometimes I do not understand my son’s insistence that you were as clever as I am. Now, I will go.” She aimed for the door, where Mrs. Finley waited to escort her. “Ask Stratton, indeed.”