Sea Change (21 page)

'So have I.'

'As for what awaits you in Rome…' Blain smiled. 'The Pretender's so-called court is a warren of squabbling Scots. We have one of them in our pay, of course. More than one, I dare say. Our masters in Whitehall don't trust me with all their secrets. Colonel Lachlan Drummond is a name I can give you, though. I shouldn't rely on him overmuch. But he's there to be used. As for—' Blain broke off at the sight of his wife hurrying out to them from the deep shade beneath the loggia at the rear of the palazzo. 'What is it, my dear?'

'A message from Chancellor Lorenzini.' She handed him a note and smiled across at Cloisterman. 'I thought you'd wish to see it at once, in case it had some bearing on your discussions.'

'Let's hope he hasn't had second thoughts about granting your request,' said Cloisterman.

'Surely not.' Blain tore the note open and looked at it, then frowned. 'Well, I say…'

'What is it?'

'The Pope is dead.' He passed the note to Cloisterman for him to read. 'It seems you'll find Rome in the fickle grasp of an interregnum. I was just about to tell you that His Holiness keeps the Pretender on a tight rein. But now, it seems…' Blain shrugged. 'The reins are off.'

If Cloisterman had known that Estelle de Vries was at that moment not in Rome, more than a hundred miles to the south, but in Genoa, more than a hundred miles to the north, he would no doubt have remained in Florence, contentedly waiting for the Tuscan authorities to seize his prey for him. But he did not know. And ignorance can sometimes be a useful ally.

The journey from Turin to Genoa along mud-clogged roads had been neither fast nor agreeable. Along the way, an idea had formed in Spandrel's mind, an idea that had taken him down to Genoa's bustling harbour on the very afternoon of the party's arrival in the city. There he had chanced upon the British merchantman Wyvern, bound for Palermo by way of Orbitello and Naples. It was a two-day voyage to Orbitello, the master's mate told him, and a day by coach from there to Rome, a much quicker route to his destination than overland all the way; and paying passengers could be readily accommodated. A deal was thereupon struck.

It was a more fortuitous deal than Spandrel knew, for Orbitello lay in the tiny Austrian enclave of the Presidio, sandwiched between Tuscany and the Papal States. By this route, he and Estelle would never set foot on Tuscan territory; Cloisterman's trap would never be sprung.

Spandrel would no doubt have rubbed his hands in satisfaction had he been aware of this happy consequence of his negotiation of a swift coastal passage south. But he was not aware. And yet rub them he nonetheless did, as he left the Wyvern and hurried back towards the albergo where he and his companions had taken lodgings. Silverwood had complained of sea-sickness on the placid waters of Lake Geneva. The Mediterranean would surely be too much for him to contemplate. Besides, Orbitello was closer to Rome than Florence. And it was Florence that Silverwood and Buckthorn had proclaimed as their destination from the start. No, no. Only two passengers would be leaving aboard the Wyvern in the morning. Estelle had promised him he would soon have her all to himself. And now he would — even sooner than she had expected.

But Spandrel's reckoning was awry. Giles Buckthorn had no intention of allowing his friend's sea-sickness to separate them from Estelle.

'The arrangement is an excellent one, Mr Spandrel. So excellent that we will come with you. I'm sure the Wyvern can accommodate two more passengers.'

'Oh, I don't—'

'Leave it to me. I'll cut down there now and hire a berth for us.'

'But Mr Silverwood's clearly no sailor.'

'Nonsense. It was because Lake Geneva was a millpond that he felt it. The ocean wave is just what he needs.'

'And this will keep you from Florence.'

'No matter. We will simply turn our itinerary about and take Florence after Rome. Ah, la cittd eterna. With a veritable Venus for company. What could be better?' Buckthorn struck a classical pose, arm outstretched, and gave Spandrel a fruity-lipped grin. 'Nothing, I rather think.'

The trial by the House of Commons of the First Lord of the Treasury, Charles Spencer, third Earl of Sunderland, was fixed, by fateful chance, for the Ides of March. Legally, the event was without precedent, a peer of the realm being traditionally answerable only to the House of Lords. The fact that the trial was to be held in the absence of the accused, Sunderland not even deigning to watch from the gallery, added piquancy to the uniqueness of the occasion, while rumours that Walpole had been making free with bribes to save his old enemy's neck rumbled darkly in the background.

The debate, when it came, was fast and furious. The accusation that Sunderland had received £50,000 worth of South Sea stock without paying a penny for it was stark, but by no means simple, with neither chief cashier Knight nor his infamous account book on hand to settle the issue. That rested instead on votes, some freely given, some expensively bought. In the end, as many had predicted, Sunderland was acquitted.

The public were outraged, but unsurprised. And, as the dust settled, the delicacy of Walpole's judgement became apparent. Sunderland had survived, but the margin of votes by which he had done so — 233 to 172 — was too narrow for him to claim exoneration. He had escaped the Tower. But he could not remain at the Treasury. His days were numbered. His era was over. While that of Walpole was about to begin.

Unless, of course, there was something even Walpole had failed to foresee.

The following morning saw a solitary and travel-weary Englishman present himself at the Porta del Popolo, northernmost of the gates set in the ancient wall surrounding Rome. It was a hot, glaringly bright spring day that would have been considered a fine adornment to high summer in Amsterdam, let alone London. Harassed by the customs officer into administering a bribe, Nicholas Cloisterman was at length allowed to pass through into the piazza on the other side, where he paused to admire, despite his fatigue, the Egyptian obelisk standing at its centre. Beyond this haughty finger of Imperial plunder from times long gone by, three streets led off into the city like the prongs of a trident. Cloisterman was bound for the right-hand prong, the Via di Ripetta, and, some way along it, the Casa Rossa, an albergo recommended to him by Percy Blain. Anglo-Papal relations being as cool as they were, the British Government had no consular representation in the city. Cloisterman was on his own. But he did not expect that to prove a problem. Early communication with the Government's spy at the Pretender's court, Colonel Drummond, would establish whether or not Estelle de Vries had already reached Rome. If not, Cloisterman could safely return to Florence and let Blain and the Tuscan authorities do what needed to be done. If she had, on the other hand … But Cloisterman was too tired to confront that issue unless and until he needed to. Succumbing to the importunate blandishments of one of the many servitori di piazza, he engaged a fly and bade the driver take him directly to the Casa Rossa.

If Cloisterman had lingered in the Piazza del Popolo until late afternoon, he would have been taken aback to witness the arrival in Rome not just of Estelle de Vries, but also of William Spandrel, in the company of two Englishmen, one shaped like a bean-pole, the other like a water-butt — Giles Buckthorn and Naseby Silverwood. The latter pair administered as many loud complaints as lavish bribes before progressing beyond the customs-house, while Mrs de Vries and her supposed cousin attracted little attention. Buckthorn and Silverwood had it on good authority, so they declared, that the best accommodation was to be found in or near the Piazza di Spagna. By strange chance it was the very same fox-faced servitor who had earlier obliged Cloisterman who now earned another fee by leaping aboard their carriage and directing its driver to their destination.

The light was fading fast as they drove along the Via del Babuino, the sky turning a gilded pink. Spandrel saw the alternately grand and dilapidated buildings to either side as purple-grey monuments to a world he had never expected to experience — ancient, exotic and mysterious. He should have felt exhilarated. Instead, the bile of regret and resentment lapped at his thoughts — regret for the promise he had given Mcllwraith and was now busily breaking; resentment of Buckthorn and Silverwood for forcing Estelle to maintain a seemly distance from him. His only consolation was that they had finally arrived where their bold project of enrichment could be enacted. Once the book presently nestling in Estelle's travelling-case was sold, Buckthorn and Silverwood could be forgotten, along with everything else comprising their past. Only the future would matter then. And it was the future that seemed to glitter in Estelle's eyes as she glanced across at him. Nothing would be denied him then.

The Palazzo Muti, Roman residence of the self-styled King James III of England and VIII of Scotland, was a handsomely columned and pedimented gold-stuccoed building at the northern end of the Piazza dei Santi Apostoli, close to the heart of the old city. The Pretender had spent all but the first six months of his life exiled from the country he claimed the right to rule. The failure of the Fifteen had led to a still more humiliating exile from France and the past four years had found him sheltering in Rome, further than ever, both metaphorically and geographically, from where he wanted to be. Yet those four years had also seen his marriage, to the beautiful Polish princess, Clementina Sobieski, and her obliging production of a bonny baby boy. With the British Government mired in unpopularity, half its ministers on trial and the other half scrabbling for position, the Pretender's prospects did not currently seem as negligible as they often had.

Surveying the Palazzo Muti from the trottoir on the other side of the piazza, the lanterns flanking its entrance newly lit against the encroaching dusk, Cloisterman reflected that, grand though it was, it was far from grand enough for a king. Nor were its surroundings — narrow, rubbish-strewn streets rank with mud and merda — in any way flattering to James Edward Stuart's dignified view of himself. All in all, the Pretender's home-from-home looked what it was: a tribute to his past failures. But they would not matter if he could achieve one crowning success. And for that, Cloisterman suspected, the Green Book might be enough.

He moved away then, walking smartly towards the other end of the piazza. Before reaching it, he turned right, back towards the Corso, middle and longest of the three streets leading south from the Piazza del Popolo. He crossed the Corso, headed up it a little way, then turned off along a narrow street consumed by the shadows of unlit buildings, before stepping through a low arch into a dank courtyard, where he felt his way to a doorway and rang three times at the bell.

A minute or so passed, then the sound of shuffling feet and the glimmer of a candle seeped around the door. It creaked open and a small old woman with no more flesh on her than a sparrow squinted out at him. 'Si?'

'For Colonel Drummond,' said Cloisterman, thrusting a letter into her ice-cold hand. 'You understand?'

'Colonel Drummond,' she repeated, comprehendingly enough. 'Si, si.'

'It's important.' He raised his voice. 'Importante.'

The candlelight made a shadowy chasm of her toothless grin. There was the rattle of something that might have been a laugh. 'Si, si. Sempre importante.' Then she closed the door in his face.

Circumstances had meanwhile conspired to smile on the wishes and desires of William Spandrel. The Piazza di Spagna was a broad concourse, centred on a fountain fashioned in the likeness of a leaking boat, separating the Spanish Embassy from a muddy, cart-tracked slope, at the top of which stood the twin bell towers of the church of Trinita dei Monti. The servitor who had accompanied them from Piazza del Popolo persuaded Buckthorn and Silverwood that the most charming lodgings in the area were to be found in the Palazzetto Raguzzi, at the northern end of the piazza. Buckthorn and Silverwood were indeed charmed by the two first-floor rooms that were available, though chagrined to discover that the whole party could not be accommodated under the same roof. After much courteous proposing and chivalrous disposing, it was agreed that Estelle had to be given the benefit of one of the rooms and Spandrel that of the other, while Buckthorn and Silverwood contented themselves with rooms at the Albergo Luna in Via Condotti, just off the piazza.

The Palazzetto Raguzzi was well named so far as Spandrel was concerned. His room, like Estelle's, was palatially proportioned, with high windows overlooking the piazza, and was richly furnished. Such odd stains and frays as there were did not prevent it being just about the grandest lodgings he had ever secured. But grandeur was something he was already looking forward to becoming accustomed to. And meanwhile there was a priceless pleasure to be enjoyed.

After dinner with Buckthorn and Silverwood at the Albergo Luna, they retired early to the Palazzetto on grounds of fatigue following the long day's journey. Fatigued they certainly were. But for Spandrel that counted for nothing compared with his four days' worth of pent-up longing for Estelle. She seemed as delighted as he was to end their self-denial. An evening of irksome attendance on Buckthorn and Silverwood's by now all too familiar vapidities gave way to a night of physical release in which the joy Spandrel had felt in Geneva bloomed anew. It was a joy he knew at the back of his mind he should not make the mistake of supposing that Estelle shared. But by morning, suppose it he nonetheless did.

By morning also their thoughts had turned to the purpose for which they had come to Rome. 'We must deposit the book at a bank this morning,' said Estelle, as they lay in bed together at dawn. 'Mr Buckthorn and Mr Silverwood will be eager to show me some of the antiquities I have assured them I am equally eager to see. I propose you complain of some minor illness and absent yourself. They will not question your absence.'

'I reckon not.'

'In fact,' said Estelle with a smile, 'they will be rather pleased by it.'

'And won't hide their pleasure well.'

'Exactly. At all events, while I am yawning my way round some ruin or other, you will go to the Palazzo Muti and seek an audience with the Pretender's secretary.'

'What if he won't see me?'

'If you are persistent, he will. It may take a little while. We must be patient. When you tell him what we have to sell, he will understand its significance. And he will pay what we ask to gain possession of the book. For the Pretender, it will promise an end to exile.'

'Is that truly what the Green Book means, Estelle? Revolution in our homeland? A Stuart king back on the throne?'

'Who knows? And who cares?' Estelle inclined her head to look at Spandrel. Her eyes were deeper shadows amidst the shadows of the room. The scent of her flesh was all about him, the cunning and the daring of their scheme wreathing itself around his intoxicating memories of the night before. 'This is for us, William. Us and no-one else.'

'I wish you could come with me.'

'So do I. But such negotiations are best conducted by a man. It is the way of the world.'

'Who'd have conducted them for you if we hadn't met in Vevey? Buckthorn? Or Silverwood?'

'Neither.'

'But you just said—'

'Enough.' She silenced him with a kiss. 'We met. We made our pact.' She stretched out her hand to touch him beneath the sheets. 'Now we look forward. Not back. Ever again.'