Improbable Eden (17 page)

“
Damn,” cursed Max, leaning out the open door, “we'll have to take a chance that they're heading for the obvious route, toward the Strand.” Up ahead, Rudolf had been stalled by a calèche with a broken wheel. When the Count's vehicle finally turned, it headed east, into Cheapside.

“
Why is this Fenwick with your cousin?” Eden asked breathlessly as they clattered past the Guildhall.

“
Who knows? Rudolf loves his little intrigues, but the company he keeps is dangerous. I presume that ugly wig was meant to disguise Fenwick.”

“
It would have,” Eden admitted, “if he hadn't blown those smoke rings. I remembered more the manner than the man.”

“
And a good thing,” Max said, giving her a little nod of approval. “Assuming, of course, that it
is
Fenwick. I've only seen him once, and that was in a sweating house where the steam obscured my vision. Ah! They've stopped!” Max pounded on the coach, ordering the driver to follow suit. “They've gone into the Exchange.” He looked thoughtful and rubbed his long chin. “Harmless in itself, probably.”

Eden barely heard Max. She was too caught up in the bustle of English commerce. Everywhere she looked there were knots of people. Dour Scots vainly tried to wring investment tidbits from each other. Spaniards with drooping mustaches and unfashionable short cloaks mingled with Dutchmen wearing thrum caps and earnest expressions. There were Jews with ringlets longer than a woman's, and Irishmen loud with drink and bluster. Serving girls, some fresh from the country and wide-eyed with wonder, scanned advertisements tacked to a pillar, while energetic hawkers peddled all manner of wares, from mandrake and balsam to cordials and tobacco.

Eden's dazzled concentration was broken by Max's sudden descent from the coach. “Wait here,” he called. “I see Joost.”

Eden saw him, too, a riveting figure in a crimson cape over a gold brocade coat, black shoes with red heels and a gray beaver hat adorned with an ostrich feather. He held a tall walking stick festooned with crimson ribbons and was accompanied by a trio of young men who were only slightly less ostentatious. As Max joined them, she thought he looked like a hawk among peacocks and couldn't help but smile.

The smile faded as Rudolf and his companion emerged from the courtyard of the Exchange. Max prodded Keppel, who turned to stare at the Count and the alleged Fenwick. Leaning from the coach's little window, Eden strained to hear, but she could pick up only a few fragments, mainly from Max.

“
That wig … Fenwick … have him arrested!”

Keppel craned his neck, but Rudolf laughed and waved a hand, obviously repudiating Max's charge. As the Count moved into the little circle, speaking in low, confidential tones, Fenwick began inching away, attempting to melt into the crowd that milled around the Exchange.

“
Max!” Eden cried, flinging open the coach door. “Fenwick! He's escaping!”

Dodging past Keppel, Max started to give chase, but Rudolf hurled himself at his cousin. “Fool! That's no more Fenwick than I am!” he yelled.

Max pushed at Rudolf, but the two men were so evenly matched in size and strength that neither gave ground. Keppel, meanwhile, had taken action, calling for the guards, who were already pursuing Fenwick. Mindful of their fine attire, Keppel and his companions backed off from the brewing storm between Max and Rudolf.

“
We'll tell the King what's happened,” Keppel shouted, making for a set of sedan chairs. “I've no doubt those men will capture Fenwick.”

If Max was less sanguine, he had no opportunity to say so, for Rudolf had drawn his sword. “You dare meddle, Max?” he sneered as a crowd began to gather. “For all you know, Fenwick's dead!”

Max's reply was a thrust of his own weapon, which just missed Rudolf's upper arm. Horrified, Eden tried to push through the pack of spectators, but she was hemmed in. She could see only Max's and Rudolf's heads, bobbing and weaving as the sound of steel on steel rang out. Irish voices called boisterous encouragement, Spaniards exclaimed in excited foreign accents, Englishmen cheered lustily, and the Dutch kept silent. Just as Eden was about to surrender to the crush and din, a buxom orange seller came to her aid.

“
H'ain't nobody stops Bruisin' Babby,” the woman declared, juggling her crate of oranges and knocking over a spindly Italian. “Blimey, look at 'em, a reg'lar pair o' Vikings! Who's yer money on, luv?”

Breathless from her battle through the crowd, Eden put a hand to her breast. “I have no money,” she replied, dismayed at the sight of Max and Rudolf engaged in what looked like mortal combat. Rudolf was armed with a lethal four-foot blade of tempered steel; Max had only his ceremonial sword. The contest was clearly a mismatch.

At their feet a pair of mongrels yapped loudly while the crowd's cheers and jeers grew increasingly shrill. Rudolf kicked at one of the dogs, momentarily breaking concentration. Max lunged, his blade tearing his adversary's shirt sleeve. Incensed, Rudolf aimed a flurry of thrusts in Max's direction, nicking his right shoulder. Eden cringed, but her companion called for more blood.

“
Carve 'im up, Curly!” she shouted, eliciting a protesting cry from Eden. Bruisin' Babby shrugged her wide shoulders. “Aw right then, kill Curly, 'Andsome! Wot do I care,” she remarked in a conversational tone, “they both be furriners, if ye arsk me.”

Trying to ignore the orange seller, Eden winced as Rudolf caught Max off balance and tried to disarm him. Max's grip was firm, but Rudolf pressed his advantage with a series of vicious stabs, two of which grazed Max's other arm. Max was backed up against a pillar, and the crowd behind him refused to budge.

Eden could endure no more of the unfair battle. Grabbing two oranges from Bruisin' Babby's basket, she hurled them at Rudolf with all her might. One missed entirely, but the other glanced off his hip, causing just enough of a distraction to allow Max to escape from the pillar. Eden snatched up more oranges, and Babby, titillated by the idea of joining in the fray, began flinging her wares with deadly accuracy. At least four oranges bounced off Rudolf, whose face was turning crimson with fury. The spectators were cheering even more lustily, guffawing and shrieking as if they were in the stalls at Drury Lane. The superiority of Rudolf's weapon was markedly diminished by the thudding oranges, which were joined by apples, pears, plums and even a shower of mackerel.

The missiles were being thrown indiscriminately, however, and Max was being pelted as well. But the smashed pulp of a pomegranate proved Rudolf's undoing. His foot slipped, and though he didn't go down, his sudden loss of balance gave Max the opportunity to send his blade cleanly through his opponent's right shoulder. A howl of pain escaped Rudolf's lips as his sword clattered onto the debris-strewn cobbles.

“
Pick it up,” Max ordered, kicking some of the garbage out of the way. “We're not finished yet!”

The crowd was pressing forward, and Eden had to stand on tiptoe to see Rudolf clumsily reach for his sword, only to jam it in its scabbard.

“
Better you should hang from the ramparts at Vranes than die by my sword!” an enraged Rudolf shouted. “You don't have the courage to kill me!”

With the court sword still in his hand and a red stain spreading across his shirt, Max shook his head. “Whatever else you are, Rudi,” he said in a level voice, “you're still my wife's brother. Sophie Dorothea's soul wouldn't rest if I killed you. You know how she hated cruelty.”

Rudolf made a disparaging gesture, then fumbled with a kerchief to stanch the blood at his shoulder. “It would have been better for her if she'd hated you,” he muttered.

But before either of them could speak again they were interrupted by the arrival of a slightly flabby middle-aged man to whom the crowd showed a certain amount of deference. “I say,” the newcomer offered in a tentative voice, “this won't do. You're disturbing Sir Isaac Newton. He's trying to count all the old money before he takes it off to the mint.”

With a scathing look, Rudolf whirled and shoved his way toward Threadneedle Street. Max wore a stormy expression, but he spoke to the man with a trace of apology. “Forgive me, sir,” he said, sheathing his sword and wiping his forehead with his sleeve, “but I think my cousin, Count Rudolf, has been sheltering Sir John Fenwick.” The newcomer's heavy dark brows shot up. “You don't say! Now why would he do a thing like that?”

For once Max threw caution to the wind. “Because he's a thieving traitor, that's why! He's been kissing King Louis's arse, and James Stuart's, as well! Make no mistake,” he went on heatedly, waving a fist in the general direction of Rudolf's departure, “that villainous cousin of mine is up to his ugly nose in this Jacobite business!”

Eden, who had edged closer and was trying to inspect the blood stain on Max's shirt, was surprised at his invective. So, it seemed, were the remaining onlookers, who began to chatter and argue among themselves. At last Max noticed Eden's presence. “By St. Hubert,” he growled, “I would have thought you'd have had sense enough to leave!”

“
How could I leave you?” Eden asked in hurt surprise. “You might have been killed.” Just uttering the words made her blanch. Though the melee had lasted no more than five minutes, Eden felt as if she had lived a lifetime on the brink of despair. Nothing, she had realized, would be worse than having Max die. As she looked at his scowling face, Eden knew that she not only needed and wanted Max, she loved him. The insight made her feel weak at the knees and slightly dizzy.

Their companion recognized her anguish as well as Max's distress. “Come, let us find a table at the tavern in the courtyard and partake of some drink. You two have had a most disturbing afternoon.” His smile was for Eden, but the question in his voice was for Max. “I don't believe I've been ….”

Max had already started to turn away, but stopped to make belated introductions. “Eden, this is Lord Sidney Godolphin, a very dear friend of Milord Marlborough.” He looked faintly chagrined as he presented Eden. “Mistress Berenger is kin to Jack Churchill. Perhaps he's mentioned her?”

To Eden's gratification, it was clear that Marlborough had. Godolphin beamed, his round face lighting up in a most endearing fashion. “Of course! I'm delighted! Jack has praised you most highly, and now I see why! Oh, my dear,” he went on, taking her hands in his, “Jack is such a fine fellow. I only wish I weren't so powerless to help him. Let us pray that this Fenwick is brought to justice and tells the truth about the conspiracy.”

“
Surely he will,” Eden replied, studying Sidney Godolphin. His dark wig set off an unremarkable face and his brown button eyes seemed to wear a look of perpetual surprise. There was nothing about his unprepossessing appearance to suggest financial acumen or political prowess. If Marlborough was understated, Godolphin was positively bland.

“
We were on our way to visit Jack when—” Eden made a sweeping gesture at the filthy cobbles “—this happened. Come, Max, we must tend to that wound. It worries me.”

“
Nonsense, it's only a scratch,” Max scoffed, but he moved swiftly enough toward the tavern, where tables and chairs were set out at the edge of the courtyard under the arches.

“
I tried to see Jack last week,” Godolphin remarked as several pairs of curious eyes followed the trio. “Alas, I was refused admission. Not only is he more closely guarded, but my alleged disloyalties of the past have tainted my reputation as far as William and Bentinck are concerned. It's a wonder I still have my post with the Treasury!”

“
I may not be an Englishman,” Max said, dropping into a rail-back chair, “but my betrothed's uncle does a disservice to everyone by excluding you English from real power. I' truth, I blame Bentinck more than William. The King does his best, I think, with two countries to rule and Louis forever at his heels.”

“
Sage words,” remarked Godolphin, as Eden carefully folded a napkin into a bandage for Max's arm. “And you, Mistress, have you met His Majesty?”

“
I?” Eden flushed, then busied herself with rolling up Max's torn shirt sleeve and cleansing the wound with a cloth dampened in ale. At least Max wasn't trying to resist her ministrations. “In a way, yes,” she answered vaguely, noting with relief that Rudolf's sword had not gone as deep as she'd feared. Swigging ale and accepting an eel pie from a freckled serving wench, Max didn't even glance at her handiwork.

Noting Godolphin's puzzled expression, Eden quickly changed the subject. “I'm told,” she said rather breathlessly, “that you own magnificent racehorses, sir.”

Godolphin's face went through a startling transformation. “Indeed, I have brought to this country a most superb animal, the Arabian breed, known for its speed and agility,” he said enthusiastically. “Other horses pale by comparison. 'Pon my word, there is nothing as breathtaking as this fabulous equine specimen. Lord Challenger, foaled this first day of February, promises to be a great champion. He is already strong, determined and incredibly fleet. Jack was with me at Newmarket when this excellent animal was born, and he predicted a great future even then.” Godolphin paused, his face sagging a bit. “Would that Jack were here to enjoy the upcoming season ….”