The Saint (25 page)

It appeared that might not be enough.

chapter
17

T
he cool garden outside Daniel St. John's London house beckoned Vergil. So did Adrian Burchard.

He had been avoiding Adrian, but could no longer. Nor did he want to anymore. He needed to speak with someone about the things occupying his mind.

Not all the things. Not Bianca. If he ever confided to another man about that, it would not be Burchard. Daniel St. John, maybe. St. John's marriage had been preceded by an affair, Vergil was almost sure.

Vergil remembered how disapproving he had been when he suspected that. He had considered ending his friendship with St. John over the matter. It had seemed unforgivable for a man to seduce a young cousin who lived in his house and for whom he was responsible. That he now knew Diane was not really St. John's cousin did not change matters.

That the two of them were deliriously happy in marriage did, however. So did the fact that the Viscount Laclere had behaved just as unforgivably himself, and heartily wished that he could continue doing so.

The weeks since leaving Lancashire had been slow torture where Bianca was concerned. He had gone to Laclere Park to find Thomas's letters and make some inquiries, and she had filled his head the whole time, creating a distraction he could not shake.

The days since his return had been much worse, however. Seeing her in Pen's house, watching her accept callers, listening to her train with her voice tutor in the drawing room—he kept hoping for evidence that she was miserable. Instead he saw a rising star of the artistic circles reveling in her independence.

He followed Adrian out the doors at the end of the dining room, leaving the rest of the Dueling Society to their port and cigars. St. John had invited them all to dinner, and it had been a joyful and raucous meal shared by men who had known one another for years and trusted one another completely.

“Have you discovered anything of interest?” Adrian asked.

“I have evidence that Milton had a relationship that would have been very damaging if others knew of it. A group of letters were found in Adam Kenwood's papers. They were letters to Milton from this other individual, and their contents would have caused trouble.”

“How would Kenwood come by them?”

“Kenwood found my brother after his death. He came for a meeting, and entered the study looking for him. He was there first. I think that he quickly looked for anything that might have caused the suicide, found the letters, and took them, to protect Milton's name.”

“But he never gave them to you.”

“Most likely he wanted to protect my brother from my scorn as well. In any case, if such letters existed, and I now know that they did, someone could have obtained one and used it to blackmail my brother.”

“The contents would be enough to do that?”

“Yes.”

They stopped in the moonlight. In an upper window the form of a woman passed behind the curtain. It was St. John's wife, Diane, and she carried one of her children as she strolled back and forth.

The graceful, feminine image captivated Vergil. He watched, distracted, envying St. John his domestic contentment.

“Why didn't Kenwood destroy them?” Adrian asked, calling him back.

Vergil turned away from the window and continued their stroll. “I don't know. I believe, however, that he also saw a pattern of extortion and may have been looking into it. In his desk, along with the letters, was a paper with my brother's name and some others. Castlereagh's, for one. Also those of two other men who have sold large amounts of property in the last year.”

“A pattern, or a list of his victims. That is what this discovery implies, isn't it?”

“I considered that Kenwood could have been the blackmailer, but I don't think he was. Lord Fairhall died after Kenwood, for one thing, and the Earl of Glasbury could not be his victim now, either.”

They paced back up the garden, then turned and paced down again. Fallen leaves blew around their legs and the breeze moved ghostly clouds across the moon.

“I think that we are reaching the same conclusions, Laclere,” Adrian said. “That episode with Glasbury in Hampstead was telling.”

“I agree. I am just not sure what it told.”

“It indicated that two of the people who have been blackmailed have connections to your family. That can't be ignored. It also suggested that the blackmailer is probably not from the north, nor from the known and predictable radicals.”

“Someone closer to home, then,” Vergil said, repeating the observation that Bianca, in her clear-sighted way, had made that night by the fire.

That one sentence had thrown light into the shadows of his search. Had he avoided seeing that conclusion? Had he ignored the evidence that said he had wasted his time looking for a radical such as those who had conspired to kill government officials in the past?

Had he secretly hoped that Milton's secret would be treason, rather than what it had been?

“It could be a coincidence that two of the victims are related to the Duclaircs, but let us assume not for now,” Vergil said. “That means someone in our circles.”

“Or someone who knows someone in your circles. Or we may be seeing a pattern where none exists. After all, if Hampton could discover the Earl of Glasbury's secrets, anyone could.”

Julian Hampton had already discovered those secrets, however. Also, Hampton had known Milton well, had been his solicitor, and could have easily examined more than ledgers while in Milton's study either in London or at Laclere Park.

The profile of the man in question could be seen through the door. Vergil disliked the sense of betrayal he experienced in calculating his friend's connection to the blackmailer's victims.

“Hampton knew Castlereagh as well. And Lord Fairhall.” Adrian spoke offhandedly, but with an edge of determination, as if the subject could not be avoided.

“You also move in the right circles, Burchard. His ability to learn things is surpassed by yours. I know this man. I have since I was a boy. Furthermore, he would have no political motive, and in Milton's case, he knew there was no money.”

“If you say he has no political motive, I believe you. I myself have no notion of where his beliefs are, or if he even has any.”

Adrian made a good point. Hampton was a cipher in many ways, and Vergil's knowledge of him was more instinctive than based on any explicit discussions.

“I prefer Nigel Kenwood,” Vergil said. “I have been asking about him in Sussex. He did not stay in France all those years. He visited Woodleigh at least a few times a year, and even accompanied Adam on visits to Laclere Park several times.”

“It is far-fetched. He has no connection to Castlereagh, for example.”

“We do not know that. Furthermore, there is something else.” Vergil hesitated revealing this part. It could so easily be misunderstood. “I think that if Castlereagh was blackmailed, the information used to do so is also connected to my family. I think it came from Milton.”

Adrian stopped walking. He just stood there, looking down the garden path, waiting.

“My brother and the Foreign Minister had a closer friendship than I realized. They had a rich correspondence,” Vergil said. “I lied about this when I met with you and Wellington, because the letters I saw were political arguments, mostly. I have reread them, however, and if one was of a mind to, and if one had other evidence about my brother that encouraged a certain type of interpretation—it is possible that a letter existed that could be used badly.”

“How badly?”

“On its own, I doubt it would have any special meaning. If Milton had already been disgraced, it might be enough to bring down another man.”

Adrian did not move. Castlereagh had given him employment when Adrian was a young man whose father had cut him off without a pound. His loyalty to the late Foreign Minister was understandable and his stillness conveyed an icy anger.

“Let us speak frankly, Laclere. We are not talking about political embarrassments now, are we?”

“No.”

“The letters to Milton that you found in Adam Kenwood's things were not from a radical, and do not indicate that Milton had gotten deeper into such things than we thought. The blackmail concerned private matters.”

“Yes.”

“And you are now suggesting that there may have been other letters, from Castlereagh to your brother, of a similar nature.”

“No. I am saying that an expression of friendship between men that would mean nothing in most cases could be used to threaten a man in other cases. I am saying that the perception of something more could be read into some of these letters if one had reason to do so. It would be enough to make Castlereagh very worried if he was unstable to begin with.”

Adrian crossed his arms and stared at the ground. “Damn.”

“I am telling you this in privacy, of course.”

“Hell, yes, you are. Do you have any idea whom we are looking for?”

“It may not be only one person doing this. I know now that a woman is involved.”

He felt Adrian staring at him through the night. “That certainly makes young Kenwood a better possibility, if he has had help. Who is she?”

“I don't know yet, but I may have a way to find out.” He had been avoiding that discovery for weeks now. He had tried to convince himself he need not pursue this evidence, that all could be resolved without learning this one piece of the puzzle. That appeared unlikely, however, and his gut twisted at the prospect of facing this part of the truth.

“Laclere, if what you suspect is true—if someone can damage the last Foreign Minister's name in this way, it must never come out, and not only for the sake of his memory and his family.”

“That sounds like Wellington speaking.”

“It
is
Wellington speaking. Castlereagh represented this country after Napoleon's defeat, and his reputation is tied to that of Britain in the capitals of Europe. Even his death does not sever that connection.”

“Is that your mission, Adrian? To protect his name from this particular taint? If so, Wellington must have suspected how this might unravel.”

Adrian hesitated, then spoke lowly. “When Castlereagh spoke with him before his death, he mentioned someone claiming to have a letter that could ruin him. He alluded to one such as you describe, one that could be misunderstood.”

“We should not have avoided honest talk that day at Laclere Park. It would have saved us some time.”

“No one can blame us for avoiding talk of it. Even now we do so, don't we?”

They aimed back to the house. Through the open door they heard St. John say something and Hampton respond. The whole table broke into laughter.

“What will we do when this blackmailer is discovered?” Vergil asked.

“I turn it back to you. What did you plan to do when you discovered his identity? Swear evidence against him?”

Vergil had faced that question long ago. Before Wellington had shown interest, and before he met Bianca. Whether the reasons for Milton's death were political or personal, he had decided there would be no trial of the blackmailer.

Milton's secrets would be buried in the sepulchre at Laclere Park, and the man who had all but killed him would be silenced.

chapter
18

I
f the St. Johns visit our box, can I tell them?” Charlotte popped the question while Penelope inspected Bianca's hair. Jane crimped some more curls.

“Absolutely not.” Pen reached over and tweaked a strand into place. “Not one word to anyone, Charlotte.”

Charlotte slouched with a pout. “Being part of a big secret is a lot less fun if you cannot tell anyone. Usually you tell at least one other person, and this secret is the best one I've ever had. That my friend is going to perform onstage, in an opera … It is so deliciously daring.”

“
You
only know about it because there was no way to keep you in the dark.”

Bianca pursed her lips. Pen was not making any effort to pretend that tonight did not carry risks for their reputations.

“Go and finish dressing, Charlotte,” Pen instructed. “Signore Bardi will be here soon, to escort us to the theater. Bianca must arrive early.”

Bianca waited for Charlotte to leave and then dismissed Jane as well. There were some secrets too big for an innocent ingenue or a maid who might one day report to great Aunt Edith.

“Is he here?” Bianca asked.

“Signore Bardi? Not yet.”

“I am not speaking about my music master and you know it. Is Laclere here?”

“My brother is in London, but I would be surprised if he shows tonight, Bianca. You know that he does not approve.”

No, he did not approve. Signore Bardi, the
bel canto
tutor recommended by Catalani, had been impressed enough with her training to think that she was ready for some minor stage exposure. He had arranged her inclusion in the chorus of several performances. Vergil had reluctantly permitted it, but demanded that the exercise remain a secret.

She prayed that he would come anyway. She wished that he could take some joy in this night with her. It was the first time that she had ever sung in a real theater. It was an important night for her, even if she was only an anonymous member of the chorus in a minor comic opera.

“You repudiate his affection with this decision,” Pen said. “He only permitted it because he is weak with you.”

“I repudiate nothing, and it would appear that he is not very weak at all, since he has no trouble staying away from me.”

“Should he sit on my doorstep and pine? The two of you have gone too far for that, and displaying his interest would only raise dangerous speculations. But I saw how he kissed you when we left the manor, and I see how he looks at you now, and I tell you, Bianca, that nothing has changed.”

It seemed to Bianca that in the last few weeks everything had changed. She saw Vergil when he was in London, but not often. He would visit Pen and Charl and sometimes join them at entertainments. In front of everyone, even his sisters, his behavior was so reserved toward her that no one would ever suspect that they had been lovers. Certainly the other young men who visited Pen's house never guessed. Even Charlotte and Nigel thought the two of them still at odds.

Only when they had brief moments alone did he let her see his feelings. The pending question burned in his eyes, and unfulfilled passion electrified his discreet touch. Whenever they parted he kissed her hand as gently as he had once kissed her breast. That brief contact had the same effect on her that his more intimate kisses once had, leaving her breathless and frustrated.

To make matters worse, she could not cry on the shoulder of the only person to whom she could confide. Pen continued to be a friend, but she had only supported this debut in the hopes that a few nights onstage would satisfy Bianca forever.

Would it? She almost hoped so. She had grown miserable with how things stood. She missed Vergil terribly. A part of her spent their long periods apart merely waiting. It did not help her anguish that one word from her could end the waiting forever.

A footman announced Signore Bardi's arrival and Pen called for the coach. Bianca dawdled in finding her wrap, hoping that another announcement of another man would be made. It never came. Wobbly with excitement, she joined Pen and Charlotte and gray-haired Signore Bardi for the ride to the English Opera House.

They separated at the door of the opulent theater. Signore Bardi directed her toward the costume room so that she could be transformed into the village woman whom she would portray.

A half hour later she snuck onto the side of the stage and peered out at the gathering crowd. A curving wall of boxes towered to the ceiling, surrounding the orchestra and pit. The din of revelry echoed around her. The eerie glow of the gas lamps tinted the audience an unnatural hue. She squinted, trying to make out the faces in Penelope's box.

Her heart sank. Vergil still was not there.

She returned to the chorus room. Finding a corner for herself, she joined her voice to the others being tuned and warmed. She followed the exercises instinctively. Her enthusiasm felt dull and forced, as if she watched someone else prepare for this debut.

If only he had come to watch, maybe … maybe what? Maybe it would be a sign that they could have some kind of life together? A life that need not sever her soul in two and then make her throw away one of the halves.

The bodies around her began rearranging. She joined the chorus filtering onto the stage and assumed her position in the rear. With the abstracting light and her costume and the crowd, it was unlikely that she would even be seen, let alone recognized.

Her melancholy thoughts instantly disappeared when the chorus joined in song. Thundering, joyful, exuberant voices surrounded and matched her own. Her spirit leapt with startled delight. Leapt and then soared.

She had never experienced such sound. It inundated her with a huge wave of sensibility. The curves of the stage and theater seemed to imbue the music with a complex resonance. She glanced around at her fellow singers and realized that they felt what she felt and that the density of their voices compounded the euphoria she had only known privately before. A few caught her eye and smiled at her awe.

Her blood pounded. The song took over. She had not felt this alive since … She looked to Pen's box.
Be there, please be there. Share it with me.
Nigel stood in the rear, speaking with Cornell Witherby. A tall dark figure hung in the shadows and her heart skipped. It moved into view and her disappointment was so intense that her voice faltered. It was not Vergil, but instead that Mr. Siddel who had insinuated himself into Pen's circle the last month.

The performance seemed to go on and on but still ended too soon. She loved everything about it. The singing, the waiting offstage, the comaraderie with the others, the glow of the gaslights, and the damp of the back rooms. The theater became a separate place, where life and emotions intensified, much like the manor had been during those days of intimacy. She savored every detail and ignored the cutting disappointment that Vergil had forsaken her tonight.

Finally, after the last curtain, she found herself crushed into one of the chorus rooms with the other women, changing into her own garments. Excitement turned everyone's exhaustion into giddiness, and most of the giggles had to do with the rumble of male voices out in the corridor.

“The boys are waiting and restless,” a sloe-eyed soprano beside her said. “You are new, aren't you? A mother or sister waiting for you?”

“My tutor will be waiting.”

“Just as well. Pretty thing like you … they don't know the difference, do they? Think we're all of a piece. Forget their manners sometimes.”

She doubted that anyone would forget their manners with Signore Bardi around. His black eyes became satanic when he got angry.

Unfortunately, Signore Bardi was not outside the chamber when she emerged. At least twenty young men were, however. Students, clerks, and young solicitors milled in the corridor, waiting for their favorite songbirds to try and fly. Flowers, endearments, and blunt advances were pressed on her. They surrounded her two deep.

“You will allow the young lady to pass, gentlemen,” a cool voice commanded from the periphery.

She looked through the confusion to see blue eyes regarding her. He had come after all. She would have flown into his arms, but his expression pulled her up short.
See?
his eyes said.
This is what you will subject yourself to.

Mumbles passed. “Laclere … viscount …” Some of the young men drifted away.

Disappointment stabbed her. His intention in permitting this performance had been to show her the indignities, not the joy. That saddened her so much that she succumbed to an impulse to strike back and deny him satisfaction.

She ignored Vergil's proffered hand and turned to a short red-haired student on her right. He held two yellow roses toward her. She decided that she might be flattered that, of all the female singers, he chose to give her this precious gift.

She took the roses with thanks. Encouraged, and shooting cautious glances back to where Vergil still hovered and watched, two other young men advanced to compliment her singing.

An older man inserted himself into the group. He pierced her with a demanding look and then cast Vergil a scathing glance. For all of his love of music, cousin Nigel was not amused to find her here.

“I thought that it was you, but could not believe it,” he said, shouldering an anxious young admirer aside. “Really, Laclere, you must remove her.”

“I am prepared to escort my ward home, but it would hardly do to pick her up and carry her away.”

“I would not have expected you to react so strictly,” she teased Nigel. “You of all people know the importance of performing.”

“Performing is one thing, doing so here is another. What were you thinking, Laclere? I trust that tonight will be the end of it.”

His scold was interrupted by another man oozing forward. It was Mr. Siddel. He was of Vergil's age and similar in build and coloring. Perhaps he was even more handsome. He had made his interest in her known during the last month while he drifted around the edges of Pen's circle. Pen's warnings that he was dangerous had been unnecessary. He possessed a talent for making even subtle attentions invasive.

“I thought that I recognized you, Miss Kenwood.” He took a position in front of her that left no room for anyone else. “I knew that you studied with Signore Bardi, but I had never heard that you performed.” His tone conveyed speculative delight in the discovery.

Four steps away, Vergil's profile grew stern.

“See here, Siddel,” Nigel blustered.

“It is an experiment, so that I can see how it feels to sing with a large chorus.”

“Certainly. Why take lessons with Bardi unless one is very serious? Perhaps one day we will see you be the supreme performer in one of London's great houses.”

He said nothing improper. Even his tone could not be faulted. But she heard a difference in the way he addressed her, and did not miss the insulting double entendre.

Suddenly Vergil was eye-to-eye with Mr. Siddel. “You will have to excuse us. My sister is expecting Miss Kenwood.”

“Of course, Laclere. I wondered, at first, whom you came back here to see. Not your style anymore, is it? I should have realized that only duty would be cause to make a saint's protection public.”

He played with the words like he engaged in a game of wit, but almost every one held a double meaning. Vergil assumed a cool hauteur, to match Siddel's own.

“You go too far, Siddel,” Nigel said, scrutinizing her with a sidelong, suspicious glance. “You come close to unpardonable insult, and if Laclere will not call you on it, I will.”

“Siddel means no insult. His tongue merely runs more quickly than his brain. It has been the bane of his life since he was a boy, but the brain usually catches up in time to avoid a challenge.” Vergil's lids lowered. “I am sure that his lack of judgment tonight can be attributed to imbibing too much port. Aren't I right, Siddel?”

“Undoubtedly. My apologies, Miss Kenwood. I would be wounded to learn that my poor attempt at humor in any way offended you, or alienated your affection.” He bowed with a wry smile and sauntered away.

Nigel hustled after him. “… inexcusably rude …” she heard Nigel say.

“Open your eyes,” Siddel replied with a laugh.

Vergil held out his hand again. “Are you quite done here?”

“Yes, I think that I am now.”

He deftly extricated her from the crowd. His coach waited.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asked after he had handed her in. It disappointed her that he sat across from her. In the dark he became an insubstantial shadow barely articulated by the dim light that occasionally swept through the window while they rode.

“At first I was not nearly as excited as I expected, but once we were onstage, it was so thrilling I thought that I would burst.”

“I was not speaking of the performance, Bianca.”