Mary Blayney - [Pennistan 03] (17 page)

Lord Gilbert stood to speak for the Tories. His usually rambling style was noticeably absent, though he repeated various aspects of his point at least seven times. Meryon listened the first time and the second time watched the response of his peers.

“England’s greatness is built on the yeoman stock, on the families that nurture our youth, from the downs of Sussex to the heights of Northumberland. It will be so forever. The land provides what the family needs and the city destroys it. Our wealth is in the land and what it nurtures. It is like a mother whose milk nurses her child.”

Children. Elena Verano never mentioned any—though miscarriage or childhood death were hardly the subject of social conversation.

A group of Tories cheered something the man said and he made himself pay attention again.

“It is the country we must protect in order to protect the family.”

More approval. Meryon counted heads. Not a one was in favor of change. They did not seem to appreciate what he had learned from David and Garrett, that change was coming whether they were in favor of it or not. Did it mean something that not a one of Gilbert’s supporters was under fifty?

“The city is a lair of hatred and discord and temptation. Without the calming mien of their wives and families, men are given to drink, debauchery, and conduct that threatens all, even the law-abiding, the innocent.”

He would wager that London did not compare to the drink and debauchery in Rome or Milan or, God help them, Venice. He’d always assumed that the Veranos had
lived in Rome. Or had she told him? Rome, he was sure of it.

“Family is the foundation of our greatness.”

When Meryon looked up to measure Kyle’s reaction, he found his passionate Whig friend with his arms crossed and disgust written all over his face.

He had counted Kyle a friend since Oxford. You would think he would understand an impassioned personality, but he could hardly challenge Signora Verano to a fencing match or a round at Jackson’s, which always seemed the most practical way to even out Kyle’s temper.

He endured the rest of the speech by thinking of a way to “even out” Signora Verano’s, most of which involved a bed. He dearly hoped he would be lucky enough to see her at some social event in between now and next week. He could have Roland check the invitations and see which she would most likely attend.

He found Kyle waiting outside the building. The rain had let up some but Kyle ignored it and the umbrella that Meryon’s groom met him with.

“What are you going to do?” Kyle demanded as though he himself were the duke.

Meryon remembered how frustrated he had been when he was confined to the gallery and his father had not spoken forcefully enough on an issue or had allowed himself to be swayed from a chosen position.

“Damn it, Meryon, you see what they’re trying to do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said calmly. “It suits me perfectly.” Kyle always rose to the bait.

“It suits you!” Kyle’s temper was closer to bursting.

“Yes, the idea that family is the heart and soul of England runs parallel to the idea that we must take care of those families who have lost their wage earner. Just as we take care of our mad king and his unmarried daughters.”

“Yes, yes, but what are you going to do?”

“I think I will make up a party to attend Georges’s play. Garrett met him and I should like to see what all the fuss is about.”

Kyle punched him in the arm.

“Kyle.” Meryon stepped out of the range of his fist, brushing his arm as though Kyle’s swipe had left dirt. “I will meet you at Angelo’s at noon tomorrow so you can vent your anger with a sword. As for Parliament, I will bide my time, and speak when I think it will do the most good.”

“My apologies for assaulting you, Meryon.” Kyle put his hands on his waist and blew out a breath that was filled with frustration. “I plan to find a hell and lose as much money as possible.”

Meryon waited for the coachman to lower the steps. “Tomorrow at noon at Angelo’s.”

Kyle raised a hand in agreement.

“And remember, Kyle,” Meryon called to him, “a night of debauchery is no excuse to absent yourself!”

Alan Wilson waited for him by the carriage, opened the door, and at Meryon’s invitation climbed in, bringing a dose of wet with him.

“My mother thanks you for taking such good care of me.”

“Does she. I think you lie, Mr. Wilson. I think she ranted and raged over who would take care of her while you waited on the quality. But she let you come because you gave her the coin and promised there would be more.”

The boy straightened, looking more afraid than impressed.

“Your mother is not the only one who can tell lie from truth,” Meryon explained. In fact he knew more than one petty tyrant and their methods were always the same. “Tell me what you learned among the crowd.”

“Nothing much.” Wilson cleared his throat and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “At the front they talked about how we need change. They could not agree on what kind. Finally one shouted that the way they were talking nothing would ever be done.”

Not unlike Parliament, Meryon thought, but with a different kind of power, the power to riot at the least, to lead rebellion at the worst.

“The middle crowd was all spread out. Men and women, some with children. I guess they were out of work and looking for some fun.”

“A good observation, Mr. Wilson.”

“The last of them, like the ones that threw the firecracker, they were looking for trouble or a quick bit of cash, pickpockets and the like.”

“I imagine there were some familiar faces there.” Meryon tried for a conversational tone.

“One or two. They wanted me to come along but I told them that I have a regular job working with horses.
I didn’t tell them who I worked for, sir, Your Grace. I never will.”

Time would tell on that score, Meryon thought. He could not doubt the boy’s sincerity at the moment. He hoped that well-fed and warm would make up for the long days Wilson spent at someone else’s beck and call.

It could be the crowd—hardly a mob, despite Wilson’s expertise—had moved into the Bloomsbury neighborhood or lived in service there.

As for what Wilson had reported, it sounded innocent enough. No threat to Elena Verano or her household for now.

Next time, for surely there would be a next time, he would find out what interests led the group. Talking to them personally might make a difference, though there was the distinct possibility that the difference would make things worse instead of better.

He could send the Signora a note suggesting caution but thought a word to Lord William might be more wise. He called often enough and, as much as Meryon hated to admit it, Elena would listen to Lord William and only argue with a duke. Her safety mattered more to him than his vanity.

W
ITH THE PROMISE
of the owner’s box at the theater, Meryon ate a hurried dinner while reading through letters from his man of business and his brother detailing the efforts to unearth information on some of the more scurrilous stories involving the Duke of Bendas. There proved
to be no truth to the rumor that he had attempted to trade his grandson for a healthier child. Lord William’s parents had been fiercely protective of their son.

Yes, he had dismissed a housemaid when she had made too much noise coming into his room one morning, but there must be a dozen other members of the ton who would sympathize with that. There was no truth to the story that he had beaten a stable boy to death when he had taken too long bringing his horse around, but it was true that he had ordered his carriage to go on when it had struck a man who had stepped into its path.

The most damning of all was Bendas’s general lack of concern for anyone beneath him. The idea that the world lived to satisfy his wants and needs. Another cartoon would tarnish his image a little more, but Meryon knew he had to find something that would set the seal on Bendas so justice would be served.

Meryon found Blix in the dressing room fussing over a waistcoat. Waving approval at the dark green, Meryon thought about his week thus far. There was the usual: time in the House of Lords, reading the mail. And the unusual: hiring a servant himself, spying on a crowd.

Signora Verano fell into a class all by herself. As a matter of fact she had made herself very comfortable in a sizeable portion of his mind, so that she would pop into his head in regard to almost any subject he considered.

She was unique in her aggravating conversation today and every other day, so that it seemed as though she was the one in charge.

Except on the dance floor. He would have to meet her
there more often. He had walked out of her house feeling mightily uncomfortable at her insistence that everything run her way. His imagination played with who would have control in bed. He did not know the answer, but Meryon did know that it would be a pleasure to find out.

E
VERY BOX WAS FILLED
to capacity and the pit was as crowded. Meryon made his way to the owner’s box and wondered how Garrett had managed such a coup. They arrived only a few moments before the curtain and Meryon scanned the boxes for familiar faces. He found, to his pleased surprise, Signora Verano with her ward and Lord William. He bowed his head when Lord William saw him and Elena nodded back, with a quiet smile.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”

Georges was a good-looking man despite the way life had marked him. Not with scars, but with lines of worry that were carved in deep creases on his face. He was not worried now. He bowed to the owner’s box, his eyes on his ducal guest, before he continued his introduction.

“This evening I will present to you, as usual, three vignettes on one theme. Tonight’s theme is greed and pride.
All of these vignettes are fiction and every one of them is the truth.”

The crowd settled, unusually quiet. The first piece took the audience to France during the Revolution. A duplicitous maid was eager to condemn her mistress, a comtesse, so that she could claim her employer’s clothes and jewels. The former maid suffers the guillotine when her pride kept her from admitting her humble origins until it was too late.

The audience applauded with gusto, sure that her downfall was her greed as well as her pride.

Meryon watched Elena watch the play. She seemed to lose herself completely in the story, going so far as to cover her eyes when the blade of the guillotine dropped. He wished he were next to her to give her comfort, instead of teasing her as Lord William appeared to be.

The second vignette concerned a prideful man with a beautiful wife. At first the woman was pleased as could be to make such a fine match and flounced out of her house when her widowed mother protested the match.

The man was enchanted with his bride and showed her to all his friends, who were jealous and lustful by turns.

In time he enslaved his wife with his kisses. More often than not, there was a look of desperation in her eyes, beneath a false smile.

Elena watched this piece with her hands over her mouth.

Trapped in a nightmare marriage, the heroine of the piece decided to run away, going back home to find that her mother had died. Her husband found her there and
she pleaded with him to take her back. He did, but the final scene left little doubt that her life would be even worse now.

The intermission was called and the audience buzzed with excitement. The sexual overtones of the second piece were shocking. And exciting. Meryon had no doubt there were any number of women of the ton who would trade pride for pleasure.

Like the rest of the ton, Meryon and Garrett left their box and mixed with their acquaintances in the passage. They came upon Lord William’s group as Miss Castellano was asking if anyone knew Georges.

Garrett launched into a story of his connection with the new playwright. Within a minute it was clear that his story was as much a piece of comic fiction as anything on the stage.

Meryon offered Elena his arm. She accepted his escort with alacrity and they proceeded from group to group of acquaintances exchanging comments about the show. He did not think they had ever been so comfortable with each other before. Her hand lay in the crook of his arm and he could not feel one bit of tension but rather a connection.

When one of the women began to speculate on which actress was Georges’s current mistress, Elena did not have to say a word for him to know that she would prefer to move on, until they found a spot that was relatively private.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her breath teasing his ear. “There is so much worth talking about, and they can only discuss which actress is the prettiest.”

He patted her hand. “When the truth is that not one of them can hold a candle to you.”

“Nonsense. They all have youth on their side.”

This time he kissed her gloved wrist and felt her fingers curl around his for a moment. “You make youth sound desirable, signora. Tell me you would prefer to be eighteen again and I will not believe it.”

“Would you?”

“Never,” he said fervently. “I was in constant fear that I would put a foot wrong, make some girl think I was interested when marriage did not appeal to me at all. My father cancelled my Grand Tour because of the unrest in Europe and I did not think I would ever be able to discuss art or music with confidence.” He shuddered. “Not eighteen. No.”