"Penniforth was a cabbie, not a soldier!" objected Burton.
"He was the king's servant, as are we all."
"And are all who fall while in his service to be dumped unceremoniously into the river like discarded slops?"
Palmerston pulled a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and wrote upon it. He slid it across to Burton.
"Wherever possible in such circumstances, get a message to this address. My team will come and clean up the mess. The fallen will be treated with respect. Funerals will be arranged and paid for. Widows will be granted a state pension."
The king's agent looked at the names written above the address.
"Burke and Hare!" he exclaimed. "Code names?"
"Actually, no-coincidence! The resurrectionist Burke was hanged in '29 and his partner, Hare, died a blind beggar ten years ago. My two agents, Damien Burke and Gregory Hare, are cut from entirely different cloth. Good men, if a little gloomy in outlook."
"Montague Penniforth had a wife named Daisy and lived in Cheapside. That's all I know about him."
"I'll put Burke and Hare onto it. They'll soon find the woman and I'll see to it that she's provided for. I have a lot to do, Captain Burton. Are we finished?"
Burton stood. "Yes, sir."
"Then let us both get back to work."
Palmerston returned to his scribbling and Burton turned to leave. As he reached the door, the prime minister spoke again.
"You might consider taking an assistant."
Burton looked back but Lord Palmerston was bent over his document, writing furiously.
Propriety demands that young women do not visit the homes of bachelors without a chaperone but Isabel Arundell didn't give two hoots for propriety. She was well aware that Society was already looking down its ever-so-haughty nose at her because she'd accompanied her fiance to Bath and stayed in the same hotel as him, though, heaven forbid, not in the same room. Now she was willfully breaking another taboo by visiting him at his home independently-and not for the first time.
Her willful destruction of her own reputation bothered her not a bit, for she knew that when she and Richard were married they'd leave the country to live abroad. He would work as a government consul and she would gather around herself a new group of friends, preferably non-English, among whom she'd be considered an exotic bloom; a delicate rose among the darker and, she imagined, rather less sophisticated blossoms of Damascus or, perhaps, South America.
She had it all worked out, and, generally, what Isabel Arundell wanted, Isabel Arundell got.
When she arrived at 14 Montagu Place that afternoon, she was reluctantly allowed into the house by Mrs. Angell, who had the brazen effrontery, in Isabel's opinion, to ask whether the "young miss" was sure this visit was entirely wise. The kindly old dame then suggested that if Isabel was determined to go through with it, then perhaps she-Mrs. Angell-should remain at her side throughout, to satisfy social mores.
Isabel impatiently dismissed the well-meant offer and, without further ado, she marched up the stairs and entered the study.
Burton was slumped in his saddlebag armchair by the fire, wrapped in his jubbah, smoking one of his disreputable cheroots and staring into the room's thick blue haze of tobacco smoke. He'd been there since his return from Downing Street an hour ago and had barely moved a muscle. His mind was far away and he was completely unaware that Isabel had entered.
"For goodness' sake, Dick," she chided, "I've stepped out of one fog and into another! If you must be-"
She stopped, gasped, and raised her gloved hands to her mouth, for she'd noticed that a yellowing bruise curved around one of his eyes, a livid and much darker one marked his left temple, there were scratches and grazes all over his face, and he looked somewhat as if the Charge of the Light Brigade had galloped over him.
"What-what-what-?" she stuttered.
His eyes turned slowly toward her and she saw his pupils shrink into focus.
"Ah," he said, and stood. "Isabel, my apologies-I forgot you were coming."
"Your face, Dick!" she exclaimed, and she suddenly flung herself into his arms. "Your face! What on earth has happened!"
He kissed her forehead and stepped back, holding her at arm's length.
"Everything, Isabel. Everything has happened. My life seems to have changed in an instant! I have been commissioned by the king himselfl"
"The king? Commissioned? Dick, I don't understand. And why are you bruised and cut so?"
"Sit down. I'll endeavour to explain. But, Isabel, you must prepare yourself. Remember the Arabic proverb I taught you: In lam yakhun ma tureed, fa'ariid ma yakhoon. "
She translated: "`When what you want doesn't happen, learn to want what does."'
She sat and frowned and waited while he went to the bureau and poured her a tonic. He returned and handed her the glass but remained standing. His expression was unreadable.
"The Foreign Office was going to offer me a consulship in Fernando Po-" he began.
She interrupted, "Yes, I have sent many a letter to Lord Russell recommending you for just such a post. Though I requested Damascus."
"You did what?" he muttered in surprise. "You thought it acceptable to write to Lord Russell on my behalf without first consulting with me?"
"Don't be bullish, Dick. We've spoken about a consulship often. But, pray, tell me what happened to you!"
"In due course. And I should say there is a great difference between a conversation shared between us and a begging letter sent to a government minister."
"It was hardly that!" she cried.
"Be that as it may, you should neither speak nor write on my behalf unless expressly asked by me to do so."
"I was trying to help you!"
"And in doing so made it appear that I lacked the wherewithal to forward my own career. By myself perhaps I could have secured Damascus. As it is, your intervention earned me an invitation to Fernando Po. They offered me a governmental crumb when I wanted a governmental loaf. Do you know where Fernando Po is?"
"No," she whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek. This visit wasn't going at all as she had planned.
"It's a Spanish island off the west coast of Africa; an insignificant, diseaseridden fleapit, widely regarded as `the white man's graveyard.' A man who is made consul of Fernando Po is a man the Foreign Office wants out of the way. The fact that Lord Russell suggested it for me means only one thing: I have irritated him. Except, of course, I haven't. In fact, I've had no contact with him at all."
"It was me! It's my fault! Oh, I'm so sorry, Dick-I wanted only the best for you!"
"And achieved the worst," he noted, ruthlessly.
Isabel hid her face in her hands and wept.
"Isabel," said Burton softly, "when the king honoured me with a knighthood, I thought my future was secured-our future. Then came John's betrayal. Why he did it, I know not. He'd been a younger brother to me, but he was weak and allowed himself to be manipulated by a malignant force. I'd striven like no man to make a name for myself: in India, I had to overcome disappointments and the jealous opposition of officers; in Arabia, I risked execution by taking the pilgrimage to Mecca; in Berbera, I was nearly killed by natives; and in central Africa, I almost died from illness and exhaustion. It all became worthless when he turned against me and tarnished my reputation. The things he suggested! By God! I should have horsewhipped him! But sentiment caused me to stay my hand and in that pause, the harm was done. When he shot himself, it might have been my head he levelled the gun at for all the damage it did me; for now, on top of all the malicious lies he'd told, I am blamed for his attempted suicide. On Monday, when I learned what he'd done, the Richard Burton you met in Boulogne ten years ago-the Burton you fell in love with-that man ceased to exist."