“There is old d’Entraigues,” Henry observed as we submitted to the crush surging about the door. “What interest can bring him here?”
“A secret he refuses to tell, no doubt.” I glanced at my brother. “You are very sly, Henry. You have been labouring under strong emotion ever since Tuesday morning, and have sought no one’s comfort. I shall never call your soul transparent again!”
“I am relieved to be done with the business,” he admitted. “Guilt is an ugly master, Jane.”
“But who now suffers under its whip, Henry?”
He frowned at me, the turbulent room suddenly receding. “What do you mean?”
“The business is hardly concluded — no matter what Mr. Whitpeace says. Where was Castlereagh that night, and why does he refuse to be explicit?”
“Because he is a gentleman,” Henry said reasonably, “and can have no cause to satisfy the curiosity of the vulgar.”
“The same compunction may be said to seal the lips of Mr. Charles Malverley — whom I cannot credit with answering correspondence at the dead of night, in evening dress! There is a want of openness there that must perplex the interested observer.”
“Only when the observer believes the very worst of all mankind,” my brother retorted. “Malverley seemed a frank and pleasant enough young fellow to me.”
“Who owned the carriage pulled up in the mews of No. 43, Berkeley Square — and did the pair within, or their coachman, observe any violence in the street beyond?”
“You shall never learn the answer to that, my dear. From the description of the watchman, that pair were in no case to observe anything — and should never admit to their presence in such a circumstance, at any hour!”
“Where was Princess Tscholikova between the hours of midnight — when she left her card with Castlereagh’s porter — and five o’clock in the morning, when her body was discovered at his door?”
“Wandering the streets of London alone, steeling herself to it.” Henry’s tone bordered on contempt.
“Did she then dismiss her equipage at quitting Castlereagh’s house, and proceed on foot? She certainly did not return to Hans Place — or Druschka would have informed the panel.”
“That is singular,” Henry agreed, his brows knit, “for she was discovered in evening dress. It seems a most unusual costume for a lady to employ in walking.”
“And most singular of alclass="underline" Why did the Princess carry the lid of a porcelain box about for some five hours prior to her death?”
“So that she might cut her throat with the fragments, Jane!” my brother retorted impatiently.
“Good God! She might as well have employed a knife! Are you so blind, Henry?”
“I simply chuse to be satisfied with what all the world accepts,” he said. “You cannot seriously mean to question Bow Street — magistrate, coroner, and all.”
The faces of Bill Skroggs and Clem Black leered at me in memory. It was possible that a verdict of self-murder should satisfy Lord Castlereagh — and that he would call off his hired dogs; but a something in his lordship’s aspect taught me otherwise. He would regard himself as slandered, and Castlereagh was not the sort of man to rest under such an indignity.
But I said nothing of all this to Henry. I, too, may play the dark horse when I chuse.
Chapter 14
A Drawing-Room Cabal
Friday, 26 April 1811, cont.
THO’ ALL THE WORLD HAD BEEN PRESENT AT THE Princess’s inquest, Lord Moira was not — and the gentleman’s failure to appear was felt to be a vexation.
“I cannot be certain the Earl has breakfasted,” Henry said diffidently as we quitted the Bear, “and should hesitate to call in Brook Street at such an hour.”
“But it is nearly noon!”
Henry glanced at me pityingly. “You do not know the habits of the Carlton House Set. Besides, Jane — I am the man’s banker, not his intimate. I am in the habit of meeting him here in Henrietta Street — not in his drawing-room, of a spring morning.”
“It is essential I should speak with him, Henry.”
“Indeed?” There was mockery in his tone; he thought me a vulgar dabbler in Princess Tscholikova’s misery.
“And not only under the impulse of curiosity,” I persisted. “Recollect that Lord Harold’s bequest charged me with drawing up his memoirs! Lord Moira was his lordship’s friend — admitted to his confidence — cognizant of the intrigues of Whiggish life. It must be expected that I should wish to canvass the past with one who apprehended so much of Lord Harold’s world.”
“I suppose we might send the Earl a line.” Henry’s very stride suggested doubt. “But I cannot entirely depend upon him answering such a note — or indeed, failing to mislay it! It is Moira’s custom to forget much of what he ought to remember, I dare swear.”
“—Such as his obligations, in the matter of debt?”
“He should never fail to pay a debt of honour — one contracted in deep play. Such sums are the first to be satisfied among men of the Earl’s cut. It is their tailors and tradesmen who are obliged to wait.”
“And their bankers? I will not require you to disclose the exact figure, Henry — but how deeply is his lordship beholden to Austen, Maunde and Tilson?”
My brother attempted an air of amusement. “A very trifling amount, I assure you. But this is unbecoming, Jane, to nose so deep into a gentleman’s pocket! Or do you hope to gain the upper hand by such knowledge, and have the Earl entirely in your power?”
“The Earl may ride deep into Dun Territory for all
I care — but you may not,” I returned.[14] “James Tilson is anxious, Henry. He has many burdens to consider — and less affection for the Great than you or Eliza.”
“I should never fail Tilson — tho’ his circumspection does grow tiresome. You must believe me, Jane, when I say that all such anxiety is misplaced! To speak only of Lord Moira — his credit is unimpeachable. His lordship has the ear of the Prince Regent. He was a member of the Ministry of All Talents, and has twice since refused posts in Cabinet.[15] If His Royal Highness holds the Earl in trust, why should not I? What greater surety can a banker demand, than the friendship and esteem of the highest Influence in the Kingdom?”
If I considered privately of the staggering nature of the Regent’s debts — how he had been pressed to appeal to Parliament for the satisfaction of them, upon the occasion of his marriage — how the pub-lick cost of so expensive an Influence had surpassed some six hundred thousand pounds to date, over and above an annuity of sixty thousand pounds he had been granted as Prince of Wales, and the still larger income for which he hinted continuously, now that he was made Regent — I said nothing of my doubts to Henry. It is not for Jane, who must scrape and contrive on a mere fifty pounds per annum, to question a banker’s calculation of the odds.[16]
“I must believe that the best and simplest manner of forming an acquaintance with Lord Moira would be to throw myself in his way,” I mused. “What a pity I did not force the introduction at Eliza’s party! But he was surrounded by gentlemen — appeared generally to be holding court — and I did not like to put myself forward. What are his lordship’s habits, pray?”
Henry grimaced. “He prefers cards above everything — pound points at whist, naturally — tho’ his luck has been devilish out of late. And he may always be found tooling his curricle in the Park — likes to be seen to exercise his blood chestnuts, and thinks himself an excellent whip. He is nothing, mind, to your late lamented Lord Harold. Now there was a horseman!”
14
15
The Ministry of All Talents united notable Tory and Whig political figures under the leadership of Thomas Grenville and Charles James Fox in 1806. —
16
The present-day equivalent of 1810 British pounds may be calculated roughly by a factor of sixty; the value in present-day dollars, by a factor of one hundred. Thus, Jane scraped by on an income roughly equivalent to three thousand present-day British pounds per annum, while the Prince’s debts discharged by Parliament were roughly equivalent to thirty-six million present-day pounds. His annual income was in the neighborhood of 3.6 million. —