Harriet looked down at the small glass of champagne a servant had placed between her fingers.
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
The earl harrumphed into his cravat. “Very good. No. Sorry, I know no more of him than that. Well, murder and whatever scandal you discover aside, Harwood has a spectacular success on his hands. Mademoiselle Marin and Manzerotti are both here to sing this evening, you know-the only reason a nasty little man like Carmichael has such a crowd in here. Beautiful girl, that Marin. Odd sort of mood this evening, though.”
“Indeed? I had hoped to see her in good spirits tonight.”
Sandwich pulled his waistcoat straight. “They are funny sorts, these singers. Particularly the women. She has been very prettily behaved toward me since she came to London, but tonight she can hardly look at anyone. Say whatever you like to her, it is clear her attention is elsewhere.”
“And what do you think of Manzerotti, my lord?”
“Marvel of a voice. Beyond that I have nothing to say on him. But tell me, my dear, how is the captain? Such a tragedy. He is sorely missed in our current trials.”
As Harriet looked at the bubbles glinting in her drink, the pink and white noise of conversation seemed to rattle and echo in the glass. “He is not well at all still, sir. Dr. Trevelyan doubts he will ever be the man he was.” When Sandwich patted her knee like an uncle unused to dealing with small children in distress, Harriet straightened her back and looked him in the eye with a determined smile. “But I live in hopes of continued improvement. Shreds of his memory are beginning to return. He is recovering something of himself, I hope, though his mind runs a great deal on spies and espionage at the current time.”
“Seeking enemies everywhere? Such things occur, when people’s wits are disordered. When my wife was in her decline she thought the coal scuttle was a devil from hell come to claim her, and myself a monster come to torment her.”
Again Harriet was forced to remember that there were people other than herself who had suffered, and did it with a better grace than she often managed. Lord Sandwich had seen his wife descend into madness, and his lover Martha shot by a jealous rival, and had still done his duty as First Lord well enough to be regarded by those active in the service as “a good sort.” This was the highest praise possible for any man not currently under sail.
At that moment, Lord Sandwich looked up over her shoulder, and Harriet turned to find that Isabella Marin and Manzerotti were close behind her. Isabella did not look entirely well, and Harriet had to fight the temptation to place a hand on her forehead to check for fever.
“Dear Mrs. Westerman!” the young woman said. “Manzerotti tells me we are to sing very soon, then I think I must. . but I wished to say thank you. I have seen him.” Harriet made to stand. “No, do not disturb yourself, please. But thank you.” Isabella turned on her heel and swept out toward the farther room again in a blossoming of pink silk. Harriet felt Manzerotti’s black eyes travel over her for a moment, as dark and drawing as ever before he bowed to them both and followed her.
“See? Told you. Funny bird,” said Sandwich, with a shake of his large head. “But no matter. We should go and hear the music, madam.”
Harriet put an arm on his sleeve. “Will you do me a kindness, sir? I have not seen Lord Carmichael yet. Whatever his motives, I should thank him for his hospitality. Do you know where he might be?”
The twist of her mouth drew a throaty chuckle from the peer.
“Nothing easier. He is on the other side of this room talking to Mr. Crowther.”
Harriet glanced up to see the gentlemen exchange bows and separate. Catching her eye, Carmichael bowed, Harriet nodded in response and the gentleman moved on. He was dressed again with great elegance. Harriet took in the tableau around him, the gilded furnishings, the marble fireplace behind him-even the smart goblet held between his fingertips. It shall all outlast him, she thought. His lips were rather red and he was looking after Crowther with a slight sneer. She could see no sign of his stepson in the crowd. Harriet continued to watch him as she addressed Lord Sandwich.
“Why do you come here, sir, when you do not like your host?”
Sandwich gestured toward the company. “There is as much government business done at events such as these as in Parliament, dear lady. The Season is just beginning, and there are, as yet, not too many of these parties. There were people I had to meet tonight. Some of my most successful alliances have been forged over champagne. And here the women may guide us about and whisper in our ear. We think we are statesmen. They remind us we are politicians.”
Harriet began to feel guilty. “Then I have been keeping you from your duty, my lord. And you may have to treat for peace with Lady Sybil.”
He patted her knee. “No matter, my dear, this do will rattle on a while yet. And Lady Sybil and I are old enemies and get great satisfaction from our battles. Now-the music. And give my regards to your husband, if he might have any use for them.”
Harriet thought of James in his room in Highgate, then of him in shirtsleeves in his cabin, looking up at her with a quick smile from his charts and logs. She had had some hopes that when the war with America was concluded he might be persuaded to take up the life of a country gentleman. They had been much separated since Stephen’s birth and she had wished to know her husband better-another ambition that put her apart from much of the company in the room. She thought of the open fields surrounding Caveley, the orchard there. She had been told the harvest had been splendid this year. Usually, she and Stephen would walk among the pickers and help serve their midday meal in the yard. This year, she had been in London.
Harriet recalled Justice Pither’s low outhouse and Fitzraven’s body lying under the oil lamp. The taste of champagne began to turn a little bitter in her mouth. She remembered seeing the girl selling milk from the pail in Berkeley Square and wondered where she was laying her head tonight; thought of the abandoned children who did not find their way to the Foundling Hospital. A man to her right, his chin receding into the lace of his cravat, gave a braying laugh. She turned to watch him wave his soft white hands in the air. His audience, two young women, their high color painted on and in nooses of emeralds and silks, laughed back up to him, fluttering their eyes and flirting with their fans. When she noticed her hands again she realized her fingers were white around the glass. That little thrill of sitting in the Royal Box at His Majesty’s, the pleasure of taking Sandwich’s arm that she had felt, now disgusted her. “Vanitas vanitatum, omnis vanitas,” she murmured, then stood and allowed the earl to guide her forward.
Jocasta reached the top of the stairs and paused a moment to get her breath back. Boyo whined and a voice shouted out from behind the closed door, “Who’s there? One of you vermin brings a dog in here, I’ll kill it and eat it in front of you.”
The door was pulled open so hard it rattled against the wall behind, and Jocasta could have sworn she felt the whole house shake. A woman peered out, sniffing the air of the corridor as if there was blood in it. She was a vast mound of a female, a tower and ball of flesh squeezed into the shape of a woman with stays and skirt. Her skin was slick and shiny with grease and her thin and scrappy hair was glued down to it in black wisps; her fingers clutching at the doorframe while she peered around at them on the landing were fat as sausages, the skin pulled tight over them as if they were about to burst.