The Seduction of the Crimson Rose

Chapter Seven

The word shivered in the air among them.

Lord Vaughn hefted his cane as though testing its weight. "Invasion," he repeated, rolling the word on his tongue as Mr. Farnham wrung his hands and Rathbone's eyes continued to narrow until they were all but swallowed up. "A French invasion to bring about the glorious benefits of the revolution to those of us here at home. Mr. Paine has generously offered himself and his expertise to Bonaparte as guide in helping us create a new form of representative government in our degenerate state. A bold prospect for a new age."

"Indeed," squeaked Mr. Farnham, clasping his hands together and peering over his shoulder. "But to speak of it…easy enough for Mr. Paine to write from the safety of America, but to talk of such a thing, here…"

"Come, man," said Vaughn jovially, his diamonds winking incongruously as he dealt the other man a hearty clap on the back. "We are all friends here, are we not, Rathbone?"

"So we have been given to believe," replied Rathbone tightly. "And you, Miss…"

"Alsworthy," supplied Mary, with a modest droop of her bonneted head.

"And you, Miss Alsworthy? What do you think of our prospects for a French style of government?"

"I think," said Mary demurely, "that if it comes with a French form of fashion, I shall like it very well indeed."

Lord Vaughn took refuge behind his handkerchief.

"The dust, you understand," he explained innocently, flapping the lace-edged linen in illustration. "Damnable to the delicate nose."

Mr. Rathbone was unconcerned by the state of Vaughn's sinuses. "A very light response, Miss Alsworthy, to such weighty events. Am I to understand that you view the fate of nations as nothing more than a diversion? A parlor game, perhaps?"

"It was certainly not my intention to give you that impression," hedged Mary, even if it did fall close to the truth. Did this scarecrow of a man truly believe he could command the destiny of empires? It would have been laughable if he hadn't been quite so serious about it. He would, reflected Mary, have made a brilliant Grand Inquisitor, if only he had had a Spanish accent and a small goatee.

Even without those props, he managed to radiate disapproval, all of it in Mary's direction. "We prefer our members to demonstrate a certain seriousness of purpose."

Mary struck her Joan of Arc pose, one hand clasped to the bosom and the head tilted slightly back towards the heavens. Or where the heavens ought to be if there weren't a ceiling in the way.

"I pray you, sir, do not judge me by my mere faзade. Beneath these meaningless rags beats a heart that burns with the injustices perpetrated by an unequal society" — it was, in fact, entirely unfair that some girls should get husbands while other, prettier girls did not — "and I have pledged myself in whatever humble way I may to doing my own small part to remedy those iniquitous inequities."

Mary was quite proud of the alliteration at the end. All those tedious years of playing poetic muse did have their benefits. She could also do an excellent epic simile if the occasion called for it, but she thought that might be a bit much, even for a revolutionary society.

Rathbone shifted so that they stood a little apart from the others. "Perhaps your part, Miss Alsworthy, may be larger than you think."

"I would be honored to think that might be the case," replied Mary carefully, trying not to notice the way his dark frame walled her away from the rest of the room. The expanse of black broadcloth barring her path emitted an unpleasant smell, musty wool with an acrid overtone of wood ash, like a damp fire. Mary darted a glance past him at Lord Vaughn, but Vaughn was arm in arm with Farnham, bending over the man with exaggerated solicitude. She hadn't really expected him to ride to the rescue, had she? That hadn't been in their arrangement — and saving embattled maidens wasn't much in Vaughn's line.

She was, after all, here for a specific purpose: to roust out French spies. It wasn't as though Vaughn were squiring her about for the pleasure of her company. She would do well to remember that.

With that in mind, she asked, "What do you think, Mr. Rathbone, of this talk of invasion?"

"I?" There was something cruel about the curve of Rathbone's lips, a secret knowledge that made Mary, for the first time, wonder at the wisdom of toying with world affairs. But it was too late now. She was committed. And she was damned if she would cry coward before Lord Vaughn. "I think that more subtle methods might be employed to achieve the same ends."

"I, too, am a great believer in subtlety, Mr. Rathbone." Steeling herself to rest a hand lightly on his arm, she added pensively, "It has long been a sorrow to me that the disposition of society prevents my playing a larger role in events of so much moment to us all."

"If the spirit is willing, the opportunity will present itself."

"I do so hope so." Mary looked up at him through her lashes. "But how will one know opportunity when it comes to call?"

His too-bright eyes raked her face, probing at the levels of pretense. Mary returned his scrutiny without faltering. Some people thought they could read another's thoughts from their eyes. Mary knew that to be sheer bunk. She could lie with her eyes just as effectively as her lips.

Whatever Rathbone saw, it seemed to satisfy him. Enough so that his thin lips relaxed, opening to say…

"Hallo!"

Mary started as a cheerful voice shattered the silence, interrupting whatever it was that Mr. Rathbone had been about to confide. The breath Mary hadn't realized she was holding went out in a rush, leaving her vaguely light-headed as her gloved hand dropped from Rathbone's arm.

Straightening, Rathbone nodded coldly to the newcomer. It wasn't Lord Vaughn, come to intervene, but the gentleman she had noticed from across the room, the one in the red patterned waistcoat with the exuberant golden brown hair. Up close, he was older than he had appeared, with white lines scarring the tanned skin around his eyes. Unlike Lord Vaughn, this man's wrinkles were the sort that came of squinting at the sun, rather than too many late nights in too many ladies' bedchambers.

Strolling up beside Rathbone, he clapped the other man on the back, beaming genially from Rathbone to Mary and back again. "Rathbone, won't you do me the great honor of an introduction?"

"Miss Alsworthy, Mr. St. George." The vice-chairman looked more than ever like a Grand Inquisitor as he looked down his nose at St. George. "I would remind you both that the meeting will be called to order in precisely two minutes."

"No need for reminders, Rathbone, old chap. We shall attend faithfully, I promise you."

For a moment, the vice-chairman looked as though he might like to object, but the other man's smiling regard was too much for him. With a stiff "See that you do," he stalked off in the direction of Paine's painting, collaring Farnham as he went. Mary watched him go, not sure whether to be relieved or annoyed by the interruption.

Either way, there was nothing to be done now but accept the setback gracefully.

"How do you do," said Mary, putting out a hand.

"Incredibly relieved," said Mr. St. George, bowing over it with evident relish. "I don't know if I could bear another evening with only the faithful for company. You're not, are you? If so, I'm most terribly sorry — for multiple reasons."

"Not so bad as that, at any rate," said Mary laughingly, nodding towards Mr. Rathbone's stiff back. "This is only my first meeting."

"I've been to at least twenty," confessed Mr. St. George glumly. "It's m'sister. Never been quite the same since her husband stuck his spoon in the wall. She's taken to causes."

So that explained the woman in the black bonnet. Tilting her head in sympathetic understanding, Mary's tone warmed considerably. "And you are forced to escort her?"

St. George squared his shoulders. "Someone has to."

They both jumped as the gavel resounded against the wooden table, calling the meeting to order.

"Gentlemen!" called Farnham breathlessly from his perch next to the framed engraving of Paine. "Ladies! I hereby call this meeting of the Common Sense Society to order. If the secretary would rise and read the minutes from last week's meeting?"

A shabbily dressed man shuffled to his feet next to the table, pieces of paper drifting to the floor as he rose. "Th-thank you, Mr. Chairman…," he began.

St. George lowered his voice to a whisper as he and Mary, in silent accord, melted back towards the far wall, as far away from the gavel as they could get. "At least this lot is better than my sister's last go. All August it was homes for aged governesses."

Mary cast a doubtful glance at the stuttering secretary, who was being harangued by hecklers who disagreed with his rendition of their speeches from the previous week. "Somewhat more decorous than this lot, surely?"

Propping a shoulder against the wall, Sr. George said darkly, "You don't know what true horror is until an aging harridan tells you you're not to have any sticky toffee pudding until you recite all your multiplication tables. Brought me out in hives. I couldn't remember a thing after the sevens. And before that it was the Society for the Protection of Turtles."

"Turtles?"

"Saving them being put into soup, that sort of thing." Mr. St. George looked like a man who knew all too much about that sort of thing for his own liking. "I'll tell you one thing I've learned: French chefs have a deuced annoying habit of carrying very large knives. It's not sporting."

"I'm sure you've earned your place in heaven — with the path all paved with turtle shells."

"It's felt more like that other location, especially when one chap dumped boiling broth on me. I tell you, in that moment, I felt myself in genuine sympathy with the turtle."

"Enough to give up turtle soup?" inquired Mary archly.

"There's no need to be extreme," St. George hastily assured her. "I just close my eyes and think of the governesses."

"Have you any notion what your sister will choose next?"

"She seems to be pretty well stuck into this at the moment. Can't move half a foot without tripping over a pile of prosy treatises."

"Don't you mean informative pamphlets?"

St. George grinned at her. "Just so."

Behind them, the gavel clattered down. "If those in the back would care to pay attention…," squawked Mr. Farnham. Mary and St. George exchanged guilty smirks, united in delinquency.

Even as she smiled, Mary was figuring sums of her own. His clothes weren't at the height of fashion, but they were of good fabric and decently made. The cameo stickpin in his cravat was Italian, unless she missed her guess, and worth a pretty penny. That sort of complexion generally betokened time spent outdoors, and time spent outdoors generally happened on an estate. From the outward indicia, she would reckon his income at about five thousand pounds a year, perhaps slightly more. A widowed sister might be a liability, but not if, as it seemed, she had her own income. He was not unattractive, appeared good-natured, and was most definitely flirting. Given her current lack of prospects, she could do much worse.

A life spent watching Letty and Geoffrey holding hands beneath the breakfast table, for example.

After all, Lord Vaughn had advised her to set her cap at a gentleman of a reforming nature. From far away she could hear Vaughn's voice echoing in mocking memory. You and I? No, no, and no again.

He needn't have bothered with three nos. One would have been enough to get the point across.

In that case, he could have no objections to her cultivating the interest of Mr. St. George. As long as it didn't interfere with their business arrangement.

Mary's lips curved in the beatific smile that made her admirers weak at the knees and her family distinctly nervous.

"…a special treat," Farnham was saying in his high-pitched voice. "A letter all the way from Pennsylvania from our revered brother in exile, Dr. Priestley." The announcement was greeted with applause from some and loud hisses from others.

"Who?" whispered Mary to St. George.

"One of the founders of the old Constitution Society," St. George whispered back. His breath smelled of cloves, like a country kitchen at Christmastime. Pleasant enough, if one liked that sort of thing. Which, Mary assured herself, she most definitely could. It was simply a matter of acquiring a taste. Like brandy or olives. "That was before my time. At least, before my sister's time, which amounts to the same thing."

As Mary watched, Mr. Rathbone stalked up to the podium, a rolled piece of paper tucked beneath one arm.

St. George groaned. "That's torn it. If Rathbone's going to read one of old Gunpowder Priestley's letters, we could be here till next week."

"Gunpowder?" Mary asked, diverted. "I assume his parents didn't christen him that."

"No. It's something dull and biblical. Joseph or Joshua…The gunpowder bit was entirely his own doing, from what I understand. You know about the Gunpowder Plot, don't you? Guy Fawkes crouching under the House of Lords and all that?"

Tilting her head, Mary quoted the old nursery rhyme, "'Remember remember the fifth of November; Gunpowder, treason and plot…'"

Adding his voice to hers, St. George finished with relish, "'I see no reason why gunpowder, treason should ever be forgot'! Brilliant rhyme, that. Sticks in one's head, you know."

Mary wasn't particularly interested in treason two centuries old. That had been a different world, a world of religious wars and dynastic squabbles. It was hard to believe that only half a century before, men had fought and died to try to restore a Stuart king to the throne in place of a Hanoverian one. Compared with the tumult of revolution across the Channel, the quibbles over which royal brow should bear the Crown seemed rather quaint and entirely irrelevant.

Tilting her head up at St. George, she firmly steered the conversation back to the present. "But the Gunpowder Plot was two hundred years ago. Surely, your Dr. Priestley can't be quite that old."

"Well," continued St. George, visibly expanding under her attention, "in one of his political rants, old Priestley started thundering on about blowing up 'the old building of error and superstition.' Some chaps got the notion that Priestley was referring to a literal building. Like the Gunpowder Plot, do you see? The poor old duffer had no idea — he was just speaking metaphorically — but it got about, and the man was pretty much run out of the country. Before he could light the match, as it were."

"Metaphorically or literally?"

"I doubt the rioters stopped to inquire. It didn't help that he dabbled in natural philosophy. It was something to do with air and fire — the sorts of things that go bang in the laboratory. So he might have been coming up with infernal machines, for all his neighbors knew." St. George waggled his eyebrows. "It was a combustible combination."

Mary cast him a chiding glance. "That was too bad of you, Mr. St. George."

"You can't fault a chap for trying."

"It's the results I object to," replied Mary, with an arch glance that took the sting out of the words. Before they could wander further off the topic, she donned her best expression of melting confusion, the one designed to make men feel big and strong and completely miss the fact that they were being led about by the nose. "But what of Mr. Rathbone? What does he have to do with this gunpowder fellow? I fear I've lost the thread of the story."

Lord Vaughn would undeniably have said something cutting, but St. George hastened to explain, "Rathbone was one of Gunpowder Priestley's disciples back in the old days. Assisted in his laboratory, sharpened his quills, beat off the maddened hordes, that sort of thing. The old boy was quite cheesed off when Priestley had to scurry off to Pennsylvania just ahead of the authorities. It was quite some time ago, too," St. George added reflectively. "You'd think Rathbone would be over it by now."

"How long ago was it?" asked Mary.

"Thirty years, give or take." St. George laughed at Mary's horrified expression. "I know! The man is in want of a wife. Only not," he added hastily, "my sister, please God."

"I couldn't imagine having to face that across the breakfast table every morning," commented Mary, salting away the information about Rathbone for future consideration. Philosophical convictions and chemical knowledge could, in her companion's flippant phrase, make for a combustible combination. Vaughn had mentioned something earlier in the week, about the Black Tulip's use of explosive materials in a recent rebellion in Ireland…. "I believe your sister ought to be safe."

"I'm afraid old Agatha isn't as discriminating as you. You should have seen the first husband."

"Not exactly the beau ideal?" she asked, although her focus was elsewhere. Where was Vaughn? Mary spotted Aunt Imogen holding forth to an entirely unappreciative audience about her latest theatrical production, but there was no sign of her escort.

St. George leaned forward confidingly. "He looked just like a turtle!"

"At least that explains the soup," teased Mary mechanically. Had Vaughn just gone off and left her in a room of fanatics with incendiary tendencies?

Turning slightly to scan the room for her erstwhile escort, the strap of her reticule caught on something that abruptly gave. Mary caught the gleam of gold as it tumbled to the ground with a small, reproachful ping, spinning several times before toppling over onto one side.

"Oh dear!" Mary hastily stooped to retrieve it, nearly bumping heads with Mr. St. George, who had dived forward at the same time. Straightening, Mary held out the golden disc in one palm.

"I'm afraid I've broken off your watch fob," she said remorsefully. "I'm sorry."

St. George waved away her apologies. "Don't even think of it. The chain wanted repairing."

It wasn't a coin, but a medal, engraved on both sides, the glitter of the gold dulled with time and frequent handling. The surface of the disc was so worn that Mary could barely make out the picture that had been incised on the front. Beneath a film of grime, she could just distinguish the form of a man — at least, she thought it was a man, since it appeared to be wearing armor. A spear held jauntily in one hand jutted diagonally across the coin. One foot was slightly elevated, poised atop an oblong lump that might have been any number of things. Around the sides, capital letters spelled out an unfamiliar Latin phrase.

"Spes tamen est una?" Mary relinquished the medal into St. George's outstretched palm. "I'm afraid I have no Latin." Her father's scholarly inclinations hadn't extended to engaging a proper governess for his daughters.

"'There is still one hope,'" translated St. George. He traced the letters that ran around the circumference of the disc. "A father's admonition to his son. He gave me the medal on my tenth birthday. The figure in the middle is a play on our name. St. George, you know," he explained unnecessarily.

That explained the lump, at least: a recently slain dragon acting as footstool. Mary watched as St. George tucked the medal into his waistcoat pocket. "What does your father think of your sister's causes?"

She knew the answer almost as soon as she had spoken, for a shadow darkened his face.

"Oh," said Mary. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean — "

"No, no." Unconsciously, St. George's hand closed over the small lump in his waistcoat pocket. "Quite all right. It was some time ago."

"You must have been very fond of him."

"He was a king among men," St. George said simply.

In the face of such uncompromising devotion, Mary's wiles and platitudes failed her. She quite simply did not know what to say.

Nobility just didn't come into her own family. Her father needled her mother; her mother scolded her sister; her sister badgered her brother; and so on, all around the twisted circle of familial relations. She wondered what it must be like to feel that sort of uncomplicated affection, without stings and barbs and hidden meanings to complicate matters.

Uncomfortable in the face of emotion, Mary retreated to commonplaces, "Do tell me about the rest of your family. Do you have only the one sister?"

She had asked such questions a dozen times before, delicately probing into a gentleman's means and circumstances. With very little effort, she rapidly ascertained that Mr. St. George had a respectable estate in Wiltshire, an aging mother in Bath, and only the one sister.

"For which I thank God on my knees fasting," he finished, with a feeling glance at the black-bonneted figure in conversation with Mr. Rathbone.

For lack of a fan, Mary fluttered her lashes coyly instead. "Surely sisters can't be all that bad."

"It wouldn't be if any of them were anything like you," averred Mr. St. George engagingly.

"My little brother wouldn't agree with you."

"How old is he?"

It took Mary some time to remember. "Eight."

"Too young to know a good thing when he sees it."

"Or just old enough to be wise," drawled a new voice, just behind Mary's ear.