“If you’ve invested in the South Sea Company, best to listen to your son-in-law,” Walpole advised. “The man has his thumb on the pulse of the stock market in London. No one knows more than Adam.”
His interested gaze on some distant object, Lord Gaynor nodded.
Satisfied, Walpole asked, “How long do you give the company before it goes down, Adam?”
“I’m watching it.”
“Adam….” Walpole laughed. “Cautious man. I say November.”
Adam shook his head in negation.
“Longer?”
“No.”
“Oh, come, Blunt will keep it together until the cold weather, at least.”
“If you say so, Robert.” Adam stood, wincing. “Shall we join the ladies?”
Knowing he’d not pry any other commitment from Adam, Walpole stood and jostled Lord Gaynor’s shoulder. “Come on, man. Must join the ladies. Leg bothering you, Adam?”
“A bit.” Adam straightened and reached for his malacca cane.
“That’s what you get for catching a Spanish cannonball.”
“Nothing so dramatic,” Adam said. “Only the bits of deck where it hit.”
“Damned Spaniards.”
“Not at all.” After leading them to the drawing room, he stood aside to let them precede him. “The wealth carried on that one Spanish ship was the hen that laid my golden egg.”
Walpole slapped Adam’s back as he passed. “Yes, and you’ve been squeezing the poor chicken ever since. I can hear it squawking clear down at my country home.”
“Norfolk’s so dull, a little squawking would…” Adam’s voice trailed off as he surveyed the placid occupants of the drawing room. “Where’s my mother?”
Walpole lifted his hands in wonderment.
Alarm shot through Adam. “My God, where’s Bronwyn?” Not that he cared for the silly twit, but his genteel mother disapproved of his cold method of choosing a bride. He’d seen her strip Walpole of all dignity and courage, and he feared it would be a poor start to a marriage should she do so to Bronwyn.
Olivia lifted her frightened gaze from her hands, and Lady Nora demanded, “Why?” Ignoring them both, Adam wheeled around, the nagging pain in his thigh forgotten, and headed for Mab’s study. The sight that greeted him there brought him to an abrupt halt.
The two women sat in the light of the candles, sewing. Low and sweet, their voices spoke in harmony. No impatience turned Mab’s mouth down. No fear made Bronwyn’s hand tremble.
He couldn’t believe it, and his eyes narrowed as he considered the domestic scene.
His mother saw him first. “Abel! Come and visit with us.”
Cautious, suspecting a trick, he limped into the room and sat down on the far side of Bronwyn’s settee. “It’s Adam,” he corrected pleasantly.
“So it is.” His mother chuckled like the traitor she had proved to be. “So it is. We’re just working on the clothing for the Boulton boy. His parents died of the typhus last year, if you’ll recall, and I’ve arranged to have him apprenticed to a candlemaker.”
“Is he old enough?” Adam asked, his hands placed precisely on the amber knob of his cane.
“He’s ten, and the people who have taken him are kind.” She placed a stitch with precision. “I make sure of that. Did you need something?”
“No, I…missed Bronwyn in the drawing room and feared she might have lost herself in the corridors.”
“Not at all,” Bronwyn said. “Mab invited me to visit her, and I was honored to comply.”
Incredulous, Adam said, “You call her Mab?”
Bronwyn glanced at him, at her hostess. “Isn’t that right?”
Adam’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, but she only allows—”
“My beloved relatives to call me ‘Mab,’” his mother interrupted. “And as my daughter-in-law, you’re welcome.” Her rebuke stripped him of his indignation. “That’s why I requested that you call me by my first name.”
She invested the phrase with significance, she spaced each word individually, and he registered her meaning. For some reason Mab had decided to extend her protection to his intended. He would seek her reasons later; for now he must play host to his guests. He stood and bowed. “If you’re ensconced so cozily, then, I will leave you and attend to my business.”
Mab waved a hand in dismissal. “A sound idea, son. After all, you’ll be starting a family soon. You’ll need to be on sound financial footing.”
Adam glanced at the girl who would be his bride and shuddered. It did his vanity no good that she looked at him with equal horror.
Bronwyn still stared at the doorway after Adam had vanished.
He had his mother’s eyes. But while his mother’s gave comfort with their warmth, the man’s eyes were anything but comforting. Disturbing, yes, and intense—vividly gray, with long, black, curly lashes that emphasized the lazy droop of his lids.
“You don’t like him,” his mother observed.
“Not a bit,” she answered absently, then swung her appalled gaze on Mab.
Mab didn’t appear perturbed. She sat on the mammoth chair designed for her contours and sewed a pair of boy’s pants. She seemed so placid, so peaceful, a large, amiable queen in her home. Only her hands betrayed the lie. They wielded the needle faster than Bronwyn’s eye could follow.
Wishing she could swallow her words, Bronwyn stammered, “That is, Lord Adam is an unknown quantity to me, and I’m unable to declare whether I like him or not. He’s a kind man, I’m sure.”
Mab’s gaze stabbed her. “Kind? He’s the kind of man who can make a woman feel stupid and ugly.”
Bronwyn gaped at her, then decided, In for a penny, in for a pound. “And unwanted,” she said defiantly.
“Surely unwanted. However, if you continue to keep silent, keep house, keep out of the way, he’ll soon learn to tolerate you.”
Picking up the shirt Mab had given her, Bronwyn nodded and stabbed the material with her needle. “That’s the best I can expect from marriage.”
Quiet reigned, but Bronwyn realized she had distressed the big lady with the sweet face.
“You hold yourself so cheaply?”
“Not myself. But men want beauty, wit, a gracious way with the harp. Nothing more.”
Mab sighed. “You’re a parrot, repeating your lessons.”
“Mab”—odd how Bronwyn felt so at home with the name—“your son offered for me because he believed I was like my sisters.”
“And how are they?”
“Beautiful and empty-headed.” Bronwyn nibbled her thumbnail. “To marry into the Edana family guarantees a man will have a wife who’ll pull him to the top of the social heap. My sisters are, without a doubt, the best hostesses in London. An invitation to one of their parties is a privilege much sought after.”
“Then you’ll be giving parties like that?”
“No doubt.”
“And the ton will fight for your invitations, as they fight for your sisters?”
“I’d better pull it off, or Lord Rawson will be disappointed again.” With a shrug of sorrow for her ragged nails, Bronwyn demolished her manicure.
“How else is Adam disappointed?”
“I’m not witty. I don’t play the harp.” Sweeping her hand along her length, Bronwyn explained, “I’m certainly not beautiful.”
“Ah.” Mab’s head went down, and she hid the expression in her eyes while she stitched. “Of course, your sisters’ beauty has made their lives perfect.”
“Well, no.” In her mind, Bronwyn drifted out of the room. Mab’s constant probes made her remember the dream she’d had as a child. The dream of a man who’d laugh with her, talk with her, love her for herself. But the picture of Adam, scowling, sarcastic, intruded into her imagination, and she sighed. “Actually, their husbands keep mistresses, and some of my sisters have their lovers, too.”
Satisfied, Mab said, “Their beauty hasn’t kept their husbands by their sides. But there is another way.”
/> On Adam’s return to the drawing room, he found Walpole taking his leave. “Must you go, Robert? This is going to be a deadly bore without you.”
“Love to help you out”—Walpole’s grin denied his concern—“but indeed I must leave. The actress who is my trollop has made a small fortune on Change Alley and is retiring. Tonight, she insists, is her farewell performance. You don’t expect me to miss it, do you?”
Adam walked with him toward the door. “What was her name again?”
“Mrs. Ash,” Walpole said.
“Mrs. Ash is such an exhibitionist, she’ll return to the stage regardless of her wealth.”
“Oh, it’s not her farewell performance on the stage,” Walpole corrected.
Adam digested that. “Then you must not be late. How would she perform without you?”
“My thought exactly. But I did want to speak to you.” Walpole glanced about him. “Where can we be alone?”
Adam led the way into his study, and Walpole shut the door behind them.
With lifted brow, Adam studied him. “If you’re going to tell me a state secret, I don’t want to know.”
“The only state secret I know is that the Prince of Wales hates his father,” Walpole said absently.
Adam snorted. “Quite a secret.”
“It’s quite a state.” Walpole took a turn about the room while Adam leaned against the edge of his desk. “It’s this South Sea Company business,” Walpole burst out. “There’s something wrong with it.”
“Indeed there is,” Adam agreed, “but I thought we’d covered that.”
“There’s something more.” The normally placid man tapped his fingers against the elaborate marble fireplace mantel. “My spies are bringing me some damnable rumors, and I don’t like them. I can’t confirm them, but I don’t like them.”
“Such as?”
“There’s more here than a simple swindle. The directors are too smart for their own good, and I believe they have plans for the government.”
“The government?”
“You know I used to be first lord of the Treasury and chancellor of the Exchequer.” Walpole rolled the title off his tongue, and Adam grinned.
“A very able chancellor, too.”
Settling his shoulder against the mantel, Walpole shrugged without modesty. “I tend to agree. Now I’m merely a lowly Member of Parliament.”
“Hardly lowly,” Adam observed. “You may pretend to be a country squire, you may be the lewdest man I’ve ever met—”
Walpole beamed, not at all offended.
“—but there’s none more competent than you when it comes to steering the government. Someday, God willing, you’ll direct this country to its proper glory.”
Scratching the stubble on his chin, Walpole said, “I’ll not argue with you. England just needs a good, long peace and she’ll be the greatest nation this world has ever known. I tell you the truth, Adam, I’m planning to direct her.” His shrewd gaze met Adam’s. “Nothing will stop me.”
Such a clear declaration didn’t shock Adam, but he wondered, “To how many other men have you confided your ambitions?”
“No one.”
“Not even when you’d spliced the main brace and were so drunk you couldn’t see straight?”
“Perhaps once,” Walpole admitted.
“In your usual shy, retiring manner, you told an entire dinner party you planned to run the government, is that correct?”
“I detect sarcasm in your voice.”
Adam placed his fingers on his chest and pulled a long face. “I? Sarcastic? Good God, Robert, you’re lucky no one has shot you.”
“I told you, I’m nobody.”
“Who’s clever enough to be somebody.” Adam shook his head. “Robert, Robert, Robert. What will I do with you?”
Fingering the design of the marble, Walpole demanded, “Spy for me.”
“What?”
“You heard me. There’s some plot afoot, and I want to know what it is.” Earnest and inquisitive, he peered at Adam. “There’s a buzzing that fades whenever one of my informants gets close.”
Adam covered his sense of savage frustration. “And you thought perhaps I would be well suited for the nasty business of spying?”
Swept away by enthusiasm, Walpole paid no attention to the warning signs. “Particularly well suited. You know the coffeehouses on Change Alley as well as any man on earth. If there’s a way to discover this intent—or even the source of the intent—you can do it.”
“What makes you think I can do you any good? Everyone knows you’re my friend.”
“Perhaps you can’t, but it’s worth an effort. Spying pays well,” Walpole hinted. “Court appointments, favors, even cash.”
Adam’s fury abruptly sprang out of control. He leaned forward, his breath rushing between his teeth as he fought to keep his hands from around Walpole’s neck. “If that’s what you think of me, get out of this house and never come back. My father stooped to every dishonest endeavor that came his way and was damned proficient, but to you, at least, I thought I’d proved—”
“Damn it to hell!” A string of ever-stronger expletives, notable for their variety and description, clouded the air around Walpole. “Do you still fret that old scandal? No one remembers it—there’s nothing older than last year’s news, and that was years ago.”
“My father dishonored this family so thoroughly, the stain will never be wiped away. Do you honestly believe no one remembers?” Adam asked with a sneer. “The ladies titter behind their fans, while the men step back from me as if they will be contaminated by my presence.”
“Maybe, just maybe, that’s because you stalk around like the devil seeking new souls.” Walpole strode toward Adam, poking his finger into the air like a schoolmaster about to cane a boy. “Social gatherings are frivolous conversation, flirtations, deep drinking, revelry. Then you come in and glower at the assemblage—just as you’re glowering now—”
Adam tried to lighten his expression, and Walpole shook his head. “Better to cover your eyes, Adam. You go to a party and the hostess sighs. She knows if you join a casual game of cards with the gentlemen, they’ll all find excuses to leave. Not because you’ll contaminate them, but because they know they’ll be solving the world’s problems before the first hand is done. Can’t discuss their fancy women, can’t talk horses, can’t talk about their newest shipment of smuggled brandy, just have to be somber. Talk finance, or farming methods, or some other deadly dull subject.”
“Come, I’m not that bad,” Adam objected.
“Put a damper wherever you go,” Walpole insisted. “And with the ladies, it’s worse. You subject those fragile flowers of the ton to that stare of yours, and they either want to get in your breeches or faint. Or both. The fire of your gaze, the ice of your personality, fascinates them. No wonder you had to seize on a fiancée who hadn’t met you. I don’t understand why that young woman hasn’t run from the house screaming.”
Adam snorted, but his temper began to fade, and Walpole flung his arm about Adam’s shoulders. “I meant nothing by offering you a bribe. How the hell do you think the nation runs? Corruption’s the backbone of the English system, and it’s the best in the world. Why cavil at success?”
Steady as a rock, Adam answered, “I don’t give a damn if the whole world does it, it doesn’t make it right.”
“Self-righteous bastard!” Walpole glared right into Adam’s eyes. “If you think I’m going to work my arse off for a pittance, you’re mad! Why take a government appointment if you can’t feather your nest?”
“Mayhap you should do it for Mother England,” Adam suggested.
“Mayhap you should do it for Mother England,” Walpole repeated right back at him.
Understanding came quickly. “Spy, you mean?”
As Adam’s reason returned, Walpole grew bold. “For God’s sake, man, think. If I don’t take the reins of the government, who will? The king just wants to return to his beloved home in Hanover to
swive his dirt-ugly mistresses. The Tories are in total disarray. My Whigs have no well-defined leadership, and when this South Sea bubble bursts, every man and woman who bought stock will riot. You’ve been in London when the rabble riots. You know they’ll overturn the carriages of the rich and break every shop window between here and Islington.” Walpole’s earnest appeal lost nothing by being self-serving. He was right, and Adam knew it. “This rumor could be my key to the most influential post in England.”
“And it could be a chimera.”
“And it could be a chimera,” Walpole conceded. “In that case, you aren’t spying, are you?”
A disgusted smile curved Adam’s lips.
Encouraged, Walpole coaxed, “Say you’ll do it.”
Adam lowered his head. The role of spy tasted foul in his mouth, but what choice did he have? When he’d been sick unto death with the infection in his leg and the ship’s leech had threatened to amputate it, he’d thought he would never again see the green shores of England. He’d vowed to kiss the sweet earth if ever God allowed him to return. He would do anything to preserve this country, and he believed Walpole was the man to carry England to its greatest heights. Fixing Walpole with the intense stare he was still unaware of, Adam said, “I’ll do it.”
Chapter 4
“Da, let me go.” Desperate to escape, Bronwyn tugged at her hand, her ruffled silk apron fluttering about her waist.
Lord Gaynor paid no attention as he dragged her along the tended paths toward the study where Adam worked. “Ye’ll have to talk with him sooner or later, me darlin’,” he advised. “Saying ‘How de do?’ on your wedding night’s not decorous at all.”
“Maman doesn’t care,” Bronwyn protested.
“Your mother’s an excellent woman, but she’s a bit of a cold fish when it comes to matters of the heart. A little practical, if ye follow me meaning.” He stopped on the wide terrace and patted her hand. “Just leave this to your ol’ da. I’ll have Lord Rawson supping from your plate before the day is over.”