Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (65 page)

“What’s he doing
here
?” came the
arrogant demand.

“It wasn’t my idea to invite him. I thought
that obvious, even to you,” Sir Charles answered cuttingly,
replacing the stopper to the porcelain snuff jar. He returned this
and its companion to the cabinet shelves. “And do, please, lower
your voice.”

“I’m not drunk, y’know,” said Lord George,
taking a pinch of snuff from the box offered him. “Thanks. The old
badger’s come to
stay
. Can you believe it? Father allowing
that dirty piece of filth to
stay
at St James’s Square? He’s
got his own room, for God’s sake!”

“Perhaps his grief—”

“Oh, come on, Charlie!” scoffed Lord George
and hiccupped again. “I miss Mamma just as much but it hasn’t
unhinged
me
. It’s been a twelvemonth and I call that long
enough to grieve. After all, it’s not as if mamma was a well woman.
She’d been confined to her rooms for the better part of a year
before her death. So don’t give me that rot about blind grief!”

“My lord, I—”

Lord George leaned a large arm on the
sideboard, his round face close up to Sir Charles. “Know what I
think, Charlie.”

“No, I don’t th—”

“He’s got something over him.”

“
What
?”

“Blackmail.”

“That’s absurd,” Sir Charles replied with a
hollow laugh. “What could that old vicar possibly have over—”

“You think because you were secretary to the
great man
for ten years you know everything there is to know
about him? Then tell me why Father gives that caterpillar the time
of day. Only yesterday, they were closeted in the library for three
hours.
Three hours
, Charlie.”

Sir Charles took Lord George by the elbow
and pulled him about so that his back was to the room. “Have you
thought that his Grace may merely be carrying out your mother’s
dying wish?”

Lord George belched. “Eh?”

Sir Charles smiled thinly. “If you recall,
my lord, it was the Duchess who requested to see Mr Blackwell. Just
before she went into her final decline she summonsed the cleric to
her bedside. It was he who administered the last rites.”

“
What?
That threadbare nobody
presided over Mamma’s deathbed?” It was news to Lord George and he
turned and looked down the room at the clergyman who was very much
at home with the noblemen about him, joining in the laughter at
their bon mots. “Why did she do that, I wonder?”

Sir Charles sighed. “We shall never know
now, and I suggest you not bother the Duke with it.” He pocketed
his snuffbox, closed the sideboard door, and turned the little
silver key in the lock. “If his Grace sees fit to rub shoulders
with a
threadbare nobody
it’s not for us to question.”

Lord George Stanton gave a snort and slapped
Weir’s back. “Ever the faithful secretary, Charlie!”

He sauntered off to join the others. Sir
Charles grimaced his displeasure and came up to Alec with a smile
full of resignation. “You mustn’t mind Lord George,” he apologized.
“He’s young and, lamentably, he can’t hold his bottle like the rest
of us. Makes him say things he doesn’t mean. Blackwell’s not so
bad.”

Alec’s non-committal reply and the fact he
immediately went over to introduce himself to the clergyman had Sir
Charles wondering. If he’d not been claimed to settle a dispute on
a point of law he would’ve followed to hear what his old school
friend had to say to a threadbare nobody.

“Mr. Blackwell,” said Alec, “I owe you an
apology.”

The Reverend Blackwell smiled and offered
Alec the vacant chair beside him. “Do you, my lord?”

“Yes. I feel rather foolish for not knowing
you at dinner, but we have met before; some months back, when on my
uncle’s invitation the board of governors of the Belsay Orphanage
met at my house in St. James’s Place.”

“Yes, that’s right. Forgive me for smiling,
but I do know who you are and I am well aware of our previous
meeting. I thought it best to allow you the opportunity to
acknowledge me or not, as you saw fit.”

Alec was surprised. “How could you think I
wouldn’t want to know you? I admit I’ve got out of the way of
socializing since—I don’t come to town often, preferring to spend
my time in Kent—yet I enjoyed that nuncheon immensely; all the more
because talk centered on the Belsay Orphanage.”

“My fellow board members and I are honored
to have been appointed, but it is your uncle who is grease to the
wheel, my lord.” The clergyman caught Alec’s frown and spread his
fat hands in a gesture of sympathy. “The past seven months have not
been easy for you. I am sorry for it. A lesser man couldn’t have
carried it off. Yet, I have every faith in you making the most of a
circumstance that was not of your making.”

Alec looked up from the heavy gold signet
ring on the pinkie of his left hand, harsh lines either side of his
mouth. “Thank you for your support, Blackwell.”

The vicar nodded and leaned across the table
to grab the nearest snuffbox. It was gold and identical in design
to the box carried by the Duke. “Pretty, isn’t it?” he said,
changing the subject. “A gift. I’d never truly enjoyed snuff until
given a good blend.” He snorted a generous pinch up one nostril.
“Always smoked a pipe. But this is more agreeable in company.” He
then snorted the rest up the other nostril and dusted his fingers
off on the sleeve of his frockcoat.

Alec politely waited, although he had so
much he wanted to ask the clergyman. Not least, how he came to be
taking snuff from a gold box in an elegant drawing room full of
high-ranking politicians when less than a year ago he had been
ministering to the wretched poor in the parish of St. Judes. He
glanced at the Duke surrounded by the party faithful, intrigued by
the possible connection between a nobleman of the highest rank and
that of a poor, ill-dressed cleric of no family. The Duke could not
be called benevolent. His disdain for those socially beneath him
was well known. He was the epitome of what Alec most despised about
his own order. Blackwell was a mild-mannered, honest man without
pretense and ambition; a person of little worth to a consummate
politician such as the Duke. Strange bedfellows indeed.

“My lord, oblige me by refilling my glass,”
the clergyman said in a thin hoarse whisper, tugging at his frayed
neckcloth as if for air.

Alec did as he was requested but one look at
Blackwell told him the man had taken ill. His face had changed
color and he looked suddenly uncomfortably hot. Sweat had begun to
bead on his forehead. Alec felt for the man’s pulse and was
surprised by the rapid, pulsating beat in his wrist. He loosened
the clergyman’s cravat, sitting him back in his chair as he did so.
This only seemed to aggravate the old man. Blackwell let his head
drop back as he sucked in air through a slackened mouth. Alec had
the neckcloth unraveled and the man’s waistcoat undone but still
Blackwell gasped, his wheezing so loud that the other guests were
alerted to his condition and conversation and laughter ceased.

Sir Charles rushed to Alec’s side, calling
for his butler to bring a pitcher of water. He turned to his old
school friend for guidance, not knowing what to do with the gasping
bulk now convulsing in his chair. “What’s to do?”

“Fetch a physician!” Alec commanded, his arm
feeling as if it was about to break under the cleric’s writhing
weight.

Just as he said this Blackwell pitched
forward and vomited. A great stinking mass of undigested food
splashed Alec’s stockinged leg and fell in lumps onto the carpet.
It was enough to send the onlookers staggering backwards. One
gentleman heaved, stuck his head in the chamber pot beneath the
table, and followed the cleric’s example. Alec held back his own
nausea and maneuvered the cleric to his knees where he vomited once
more. The great guttural shudders were the last straw for even the
most hardened stomach and the circle of gentlemen surrounding him
broke and scattered. Lord George Stanton made the mistake of
peering over Sir Charles’s shoulder. The stench hit him before the
sight and he reeled back, almost loosing his balance had not the
Duke caught his stepson by the elbow and thrust him onto the
nearest chair.

Alec was at a loss to know how to alleviate
the man’s suffering. Until a physician could be found, there was
not much anyone could do but shuffle about helpless and
uncomfortable. Sir Charles tried to put a tumbler of water to the
vicar’s parched lips but it was to no avail. Blackwell, his once
sallow complexion now bright pink, continued to gasp, unaware of
his surroundings and unable to ask for help.

Then, all at once, the convulsions ceased as
suddenly as they had begun. There came a collective sigh from
around the room. Blackwell was perfectly still, his baldhead now
minus its brown haired bobwig, bent forward as if in prayer. He
gave one last great shuddering breath and promptly collapsed, face
down, into the mess he had created.

He was dead.

“What a wretched end to the evening,”
complained Lord George Stanton, refilling his port glass.

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ABOUT LUCINDA BRANT

“
Quizzing glass and quill, into my sedan chair and
away—the 1700’s rock”

When not bumping about Georgian London in my
sedan chair or exchanging gossip with perfumed and patched
courtiers in the gilded drawing rooms of Versailles, I write
bestselling Georgian historical romances and crimances (crime with
lashings of romance). All are set in the 18th Century spanning 1740
to early 1780's Georgian England, with occasional crossings to the
France of Louis XV. I pull up the reins at the French Revolution
where I lost a previous life at the guillotine for my unpardonably
hedonistic lifestyle as a layabout aristo!

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