Stormfire (32 page)

"Your mathematics have improved."

Terence grinned. "Wait until you see the crop of fillies here for the race, and I don't refer to the ones with fetlocks. What a swath we'll cut together."

"I'm presenting my stallion, not myself, as stud at this race. Besides, I always range alone, you know that."

"Damme if I don't. Perhaps if I'd gone with you to London that night, you'd have been back at classes next morning. Rumors were afloat about a British sergeant."

"You always were a good influence," teased the Irishman.

Their conversation was drowned out by rising voices at Terry's elbow. A gesticulating young man was in hot argument with the duke of Norfolk. The blustering, red-faced duke, although a fervent Whig, obviously wanted relief from his antagonist's Tory harangue. The duke's enthusiasm for racing had won him the nickname "Jockey" among his intimates, and this week he wished to talk horses rather than politics.

Terry glanced over his shoulder and murmured to Sean, "The little firebrand's George Canning. You've met the duke, I think," he added dryly, then turned to the men with an engaging laugh. "I say, George, let His Grace off. You cannot alter a man's convictions by sheer lung- power."

"I daresay I should, bow to Mr. Pitt; he has the most noted lungs in the House and seems to have excellent luck," was Canning's retort.

"Indeed, perhaps he might persuade you to curb your tongue, sir!" The duke stalked off.

"Why antagonize him, George?" queried Terry mildly. "He could so easily sympathize with your objectives. After all, you want the same things for England."

Canning snorted, looking about for a lackey with claret. "The old stag blunders about in the briar while the dogs of change snap at his heels. King George is no better. God save us from the rule of old men. Why, those Privy Council dotards have even dismissed George Fox."

"But whatever for?" asked Southwick in consternation. "I had not heard of this."

"He affirmed the right of Irish sovereignty to His Majesty," supplied Sean quietly. "Mr. Fox proposed the notion that a small country has as much right to its independence as a large power."

Canning gave him a sharp glance.

Terry flushed. "I am remiss, gentlemen. I plead I was distracted by your debate with the duke, George. May I present my friend, Robert Fitzhugh, nephew of the marquess of Menton. Robert: Mr. George Canning, delegate from Westminster and a member of our prime minister's Tory support."

Canning selected a cigar from a passing salver and Sean leaned forward slightly to offer a light from his own cheroot. "I take it by your surname that you're an Anglo-Irish Protestant, hardly sympathetic with the cause of Catholic emancipation."

"My uncle's parliamentary record of endeavor in behalf of the native majority in Ireland may speak for my inclinations."

Canning nodded. "I share your uncle's sentiments. Ireland's future lies in the law, not continual butchery."

"Unfortunately, sir, those sentiments are paradoxical. The governing law of Ireland is English. By English law, a Catholic Irishman is an enemy of the Crown, unprotected by any law save the rubble of the Gaelic codes."

Lightly, Canning toasted Sean.
"Touché,
sir. Perhaps legal barbarism is no less heinous than chaos, but civilization cannot survive in chaos. Man is obliged to live in order, if he will live at all."

Then his voice abruptly became biting again. "It appears we're all damned, for Chaos Incarnate approaches." The room fell into a hush as His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, entered with his closest confidant, George Brummell, in tow. The prince was floridly handsome and elegantly dressed, but his ribald pun of "Hi, ho, whores' men" reduced his audience to guffaws, nervous titters, and gossip. The crowd gave way before him as he greeted various individuals in fluent French, Italian, or German.

Terry turned to Canning. "Perhaps less Chaos than reprieve, sir. You importune Youth for England's guidance and there you see it."

"Better an inane king than insane one, sir?" quipped Canning. "If that were to become our party policy, we should endure in office until the Last Trump. Inanity is ever with us."

"I say," said Terry, eager to interrupt the argument, "there's John Enderly. Let's have him over. A charming fellow. Knows everybody and has the most famous parties." Sean's eyes narrowed, following Southwick as he disengaged from the group and went to speak to Enderly, who was in conversation with two men. After some discourse and a hasty bow from Terry to the pair, the four men joined the group by the crackling fire, which had been lit to dispel the growing afternoon chill. Somewhat nervously, Terry rattled through introductions that included John Enderly, viscount of Windemere; Charles Philippe de Bourbon, the powerful due d'Artois and brother of Louis XVIII, king of France in exile; and finally the due's twenty-three-year-old son, Louis Antoine, due d'Ahgouleme.

Artois's hooded eyes regarded them unwinkingly as Enderly suavely explained the Bourbons were in London from their residence in exile in Edinburgh for a conference with the Privy Council. As Enderly talked, his gray eyes surveyed the group, only to return coolly to Sean's green ones and linger. Sean looked back at him lazily and sipped at a glass of port.

As Enderly searched his mind for recollections of the old marquess's relations, talk turned to Napoleon's campaign in Egypt and speculations about the possibility of his attacking English colonies in the south. Terry disclaimed the notion. "Napoleon is simply attempting to lure us into war. If left to his own devices, he will roast in the sands of the Nile."

"If I may beg to disagree, sir," smoothly interposed the due d'Artois, "Napoleon has the appetite of a leviathan. Unless checked early, he will embark on more and more conquests. He is unlikely to mummify in Egypt. After all," he continued silkily, "war policy as administered by Mr. Pitt's pacifist cousin, Lord Grenville, has not proven overly successful."

"But Pitt feels Napoleon will fail because the Directorate is jealous of him," persevered Terry. "The longer he remains in Egypt, the more precarious his position. There's no need to involve English troops with enemies surrounding France. Napoleon cannot last."

"But I believe Mr. Pitt is deceived, sir, as he has been deceived in his support of the decrepit Ottoman Empire and his underestimation of the ambitions of Catherine of

Russia. Poland now lies dismembered. Will he linger while Napoleon gorges on the whole of Europe, and eventually England?"

Dark-eyed Angoulême said nothing. He was accustomed to his father's verbal battles, since Artois's one actual military engagement had ended in disastrous defeat by the Republican Army during the ill-fated Vendee expedition. Still a child when forced into exile, Louis had grown to manhood shadowed by constant conspiracies and political wrangling. His father's leadership of the Bourbon faction in England was the most viable position in the Royalist cause. The fat, conniving Louis XVIII, buried for all purposes in a Russian province by the erratic good graces of Tzar Paul I, endeavored to extend his tentacles throughout European governments to no avail. In Edinburgh, the young due had learned patience if little else.

Suddenly a voice cried, "Damn me if it's not Fitz!" A silk-clad arm thrust through the circle and its owner pumped vigorously at Sean's hand.

Sean smiled politely. "Your Highness . . . hello, Buck."

Brummell, who wore a captain's uniform of the prince's regiment, nodded as he appraised the Irishman's flawlessly cut dark blue clawhammer coat and fawn buckskin breeches, which molded cleanly to his long legs and fit without a ripple into darkly polished russet boots.

Enderly was startled by the prince's recognition of the man whose manner and intense green eyes so aptly fit his foresters' description of the chief saboteur of Holden Woods, but his bland expression gave no hint of it.

Prince George raffishly threw an arm about Sean's shoulders. "Gentlemen, whatever your various gilded titles and offices, prepare to salute the whoremaster of us all. My own lechery pales beside his black reputation. He got more than one bastard at Eton, one of them by my own mistress, Kitty Fells. A green-eyed brat she dropped, and had the cheek to say it was mine!"

Sean's handsome face was a smiling mask. "Your second equerry had green eyes, as I recall, Your Highness."

George's eyes widened. "By Jove, you're right. The devil! And she married Frank with my good wishes and two hundred pounds a year! Damn the baggage! She's a tub of a trollop today, so the rotter only got a side of pork with my blessing!" The prince threw back his head and laughed uproariously at his own joke.

"If you will excuse me, Your Highness, gentlemen," Sean cut in quickly, weary of the conversation, "I have some unpacking to do."

"You have no valet, Fitz?" sneered Brummell. "However do you dress properly?"

"The same way I relieve myself." As Brummell reddened and the prince roared, Sean bowed to the bemused dukes. "Pick me up for dinner, will you, Terry?" he said affably to his friend, who was preparing to make his own excuses. The hint to stay behind was not lost on the young lord.

Enderly's eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Sean stroll from the room. "I'm delighted to encounter a nephew of the marquess. It had been my understanding that he had no living relatives." He sipped his claret. "Still, I suppose his relationship to Menton is unquestionable."

The prince stared at him. "God's blood, man, I've known Fitz for years. He's a gentleman, whatever his bald remarks to Brummell here."

Growing pink, Southwick sided with the prince. "I had apartments next to Fitz at Eton. He and I visited his uncle one summer at Menton. The marquess called Fitz his nephew, and he ought to know."

Enderly apologized smoothly. "I offer no insult to your friend, my dear fellow. Clearly, my memory is mistaken. You must pardon my vanity for clinging to my first supposition, as my powers of recollection have served me excellently well in the past." He laughed ruefully, as if chagrined. "I must be getting old."

"Not you, milord," said Artois smoothly in his silken, accented English. "You will be a serpent's tooth in the heel of England's enemies for many years yet."

As Sean and Terry emerged from Sean's quarters to go to dinner, they encountered a stunning blonde in the hall. She turned with a whisper of silk and subtle wink of diamonds to watch the Irishman's tall form disappear around a corner.

Terry nudged Sean as they trotted down the long staircase. "What did I tell you? The place is rotten with beautiful women. That was Helena Sutton, marchioness of Landsbury. Isn't she gorgeous?"

"Gorgeous," agreed Sean, "and obviously married."

"Pshaw. Her husband's an old India nabob thirty years her senior."

"Duels with irate husbands can become monotonous."

Terry laughed. "You ought to know, I suppose. You've fought enough of
them . . ."
His head swiveled as they entered a crowded salon adjacent to the dining room. "There's Lady Anne Trury," he commented. "She's the delectable dark-eyed creature peeping over her father's shoulder. Worth a fortune but well guarded." He rocked forward on his toes and craned his neck ever so slightly. "Ah, I see a challenge for you. Lady Elizabeth Dunaway. Fabulous horsewoman. Unattached and fond of breaking engagements. Leveled the prince's regiment. Seems unable to find a man to satisfy her. There! She sees us; or rather, you. She's a great believer in variety, and you're exotic fare."

Southwick did not exaggerate. His friend's complexion, darkly contrasted by a cream silk shirt and stark black formal clothes, made his hard male beauty arresting, particularly so in a sophisticated gathering. As he roamed among the guests who circulated under the chandeliers, he looked like a predator among rich pickings. Women turned to stare at his lean, long, muscled body and rakehell face, forgetting to hide their interest in demure glances. Many a male noted his woman's absentminded lapse in conversation.

His dinner partner, a pretty blonde, giggled through innumerable tedious courses; he did not linger at her side when the over-rich menu was exhausted. Terry grinned at him as they met outside the dining room. "For shame, Fitz. You're so used to adoring women, you don't even bother to be polite. That little blonde wasn't half-bad, and God knows, she was willing."