The Prince of Eden (4 page)

"Very good, sir, thank you, sir." Again the young man bobbed his head and left the room.

In a surge of petty annoyance Sir Claudius stood and walked to the mantel mirror for a self-consolatory moment of preening. At fifty-six, he still was a pleasing figure of a man, perhaps too short of stature to be called elegant. But his hair, gray and wavy, was still good, his elevated forehead perhaps his best feature, his wide-set eyes, deep blue, his second best. The patrician nose was marred by a slight crook, but a man could live with that.

The self-assessment over, he abandoned the mirror, his eye falling again on the clock. A quarter to eight. Now he paced restlessly, stopping by the broad windows which gave a view into the courtyard below. It was a May morning, sparkling and green after the pre-dawn rain. He planned to ride in Hyde Park this afternoon, a pleasant and well-earned diversion, contemplating the horsemen and horsewomen cantering along the spongy road of Rotten Row. He always enjoyed particularly the ladies, whose looks beamed forth with conscious pride at their superlative grooming. With a keen bachelor's eye, Sir Claudius loved to watch them fly or float past in their ravishing riding habits and intoxicatingly delightful hats.

He stared fixedly down into the courtyard, momentarily rendered breathless by his visions of joy to come. It had been under such circumstances, right here in London, on Rotten Row, that he'd first seen the Countless Dowager of Eden Point, the dazzlingly beautiful Marianne. Of course she'd been inconveniently wed at the time to Lord Thomas Eden, certainly well beyond any man's reach, including Sir Claudius's. Still, it had done no harm to look, and admire, and dream.

From that moment on he had courted Lord Eden as a client, secure in the knowledge that a professional relationship would bring him in close and constant contact with the beautiful woman who, many years earlier, had left the entire nation gasping at her daring.

On that note of resolve, he was in the process of turning away from the window when he saw the man himself, walking quite leisurely down the path which led in from the street. Sir Claudius blinked and looked again, believing for a moment that the dead do rise. With the exception of the fair hair, a gift from Marianne, it could have been

Lord Thomas Eden himself, back from the grave. The figure was the same, tall and erect, the way a man ought to look, an easy, confident stride. Sir Claudius peered closer. There was someone with him. A child? It was, female, soiled beyond definition, walking close beside Edward as though for protection. Great God! This was something new. He'd never brought his scum here before.

As the two disappeared beneath the eaves. Sir Claudius turned rapidly to the door, as though the threat were already before him. He considered hastily the proper position, seated or standing?

Seated. No, a position of weakness. Standing? His paunch would be clearly visible. In a surge of self-contempt, he scolded himself. He was Sir Claudius Potter, past Lord Mayor of London, now acting locum tenens, one of the most respected barristers in the empire. What difference did it make whether he sat or stood in the presence of Lord Thomas Eden's bastard?

Then Johnson reappeared, his normally harassed face appearing even more harassed. "He's—here, sir," he whispered, "in the company of a—"

"I know, I know," snapped Sir Claudius. "Show him in. But keep the baggage out there. I don't intend to—"

But Edward was already there, standing in the doorway. Johnson retreated, his hand over his nose, the female child standing between them, eyes wide. At that moment. Sir Claudius caught sight of her mutilated hand, withered, fingers missing. God forbid!

He felt the hastily consumed croissant rise in his stomach. Endure! One had to endure! He managed a weak smile. "Edward, may I suggest that your—friend wait outside. Obviously we have business to discuss, and I'm sure you will agree—"

But apparently Edward did not agree. Instead he whispered something to Johnson, then gently put his arm around the girl and guided her to a far chair near the wall of law volumes. Over his shoulder, he said to no one in particular, "Her name is Elizabeth and she's very tired. I think she'll be quite comfortable here."

As the two had passed by Sir Claudius, he'd caught the odor, a sickening smell of urine and defecation, of soiled linen and— Again the croissant turned queasily in his stomach. He withrew his handkerchief and pressed it lightly against his nostrils. Such an odor spoke of pestilence and disease. He would have to have the chambers aired.

A few moments later, Johnson reappeared, bearing the silver coffee tray and the remains of Sir Claudius's breakfast, three croissants and the very cup that Sir Claudius had used. Speechless, he watched as Edward filled the cup, added large portions of sugar and cream, and handed it to the female.

The girl seemed beside herself with fear, her one good hand trembling visibly, her face like chalk, the ruined hand now blessedly out of sight beneath the rags which served as her dress.

Edward appeared to soothe her and again forced the cup into her good hand. Sir Claudius watched appalled as she drank greedily from his cup. The three croissants disappeared in less than five gulps, and when at last she had consumed everything in sight, Edward arranged her tenderly in the chair, her filthy head resting on the brocade arm cushion, her skeletal body at last relaxing into an attitude of sleep.

Throughout the entire ordeal Sir Claudius watched, transfixed with horror. The odor was increasing. In some surprise, he now stirred himself out of his trance and saw Edward standing before his desk, a smile on his face, his own clothes as soiled as the girl's, the odor now emanating from him.

Weakly Sir Claudius waved the handkerchief before his nose. "My God," he gasped, "in what stable did you pass the night?"

Edward laughed outright. "No stable. Sir Claudius. I passed the night in Lord Shaftesbury's pride and joy, the Common Cell of Newgate."

Sir Claudius sat weakly in his chair behind the desk. He noticed now bits of straw clinging to Edward's coat and trousers. He gestured toward the young girl sleeping in the chair. "Are they passing out mementos of a night's stay in the Common Cell now?" he commented wryly.

Edward explained simply. "She befriended me and had no place to

go-

"And now you intend to add her to your zoo on Oxford Street?" Again Sir Claudius shook his head. The odor could not be endured. Quickly he left his chair and threw open one of the casement windows behind him. In the interim he noticed that Edward had fallen half-slumped into one of the broad-wing chairs before the fireplace, his head resting heavily against the cushions, his long legs extended, eyes closed, as though exhausted.

The devil assumes a pleasing form. Sir Claudius thought, watching him. For all his open disapproval of the man and his habits, he did resemble a man. For all his dangerous association with cutthroats and a life of constant dissipation, he somehow had miraculously stopped the clock. Forty if he was a day, Sir Claudius knew for a fact, yet the smooth forehead and firm neck muscles belonged to a man with a decade less pressing against him.

When after several moments Edward had not moved from his reclining position. Sir Claudius harrumphed. "If you've come to sleep,

Edward, please have the courtesy of releasing me so that I may retire to my chambers and do likewise."

Abruptly the man sat up, apologetic. "I'm sorry, Sir Claudius. The chair was soft and I'm tired—"

"So are we all," snapped Sir Claudius. He sat down again behind his desk, eager to conclude the distasteful meeting. He tried very hard to replace the image of the man across from him with the image of the boy as he'd first known him, a laughing adolescent. Sir Claudius leaned forward, feeling almost paternal. "And what did you hope to accomplish by going to Newgate last evening?" he asked.

Edward seemed to be focusing downward on his spread legs. "I didn't want her to be alone."

"Whether she's alone or not is no concern of yours."

Quickly Edward looked up. "I am the cause—"

Amazed, Sir Claudius looked back. "Do you really think that's important? Do you really think that truth was what the prosecution was after?"

Edward shook his head, clearly imdone by the scandal and his involvement in it. "It seemed to be the advocate's predominant question."

Sir Claudius nodded. "A question to which he knew he would receive no answer, indeed a question to which he wanted no answer."

Edward looked up, bewilderment blending with fatigue on his face. "Then what in the name of God was the point?" he implored.

Sir Claudius's reply was quick and ready. "Humiliation," he stated bluntly. "The young lady was brazenly playing the game of the aristocracy. No Tory in his right mind could permit it." He saw something which resembled anger on Edward's tired face and moved to check it. "The middle classes will rise, Edward," he comforted. "The peers have no objection to that. In fact most good Tories are only too willing to make room for them." He leaned still farther over his desk. "Make room," he repeated pointedly. "The aristocracy will make room. They will not absorb them. The difference is subtle and very important."

The man appeared to be listening, but Sir Claudius couldn't be certain. He looked as troubled as ever, the damnable compulsion to confess still raging within him. "I beg you listen, Edward," Sir Claudius now pleaded. "Tell me, what would have been accomplished if I had permitted you to speak in open court?"

Edward again closed his eyes. "She would have been spared."

To that bit of nonsense. Sir Claudius could only laugh. "Spared?" he repeated. "Do you really believe that? The journalists would have had

a field day, the scandal mongers would have turned a pretty penny's profit for Fleet Street, the magistrate would probably have banished you from court, and Charlotte Longford would have received exactly the same sentence."

Edward glared up at him. He sat up suddenly and drove his fingers through his hair as, apparently, his despair overtook him.

Before such a pitiable countenence, Sir Claudius felt another wave of pity. "Edward, listen, I beg you," he said softly. "The walls are breached on occasion. Your dear mother breached them and quite successfully, but make no mistake, there's a large portion of influential England that has never forgiven her. Oh, the scandal is dead to be sure, but consider for a moment, if you will, what the public would do if your involvement in this sordid little affair were common knowledge? Do you think they would punish you?" he asked lightly, from the window. It was a rhetorical question, requiring no reply, and he received none. "Of course not." Sir Claudius smiled pleasurably. "You bear the onus of bastard, sufficient punishment in any man's eyes, particularly Tory eyes. No, they would turn their attention back to your dear mother. The Countess Dowager would again find herself confronting the fisherman's daughter, all her good works and exemplary life come to nothing."

He paused for effect. Edward's face was a network of pain. Sir Claudius went on, exploiting the silent agony. "She still is like a beautiful child, warm and affectionate, and doubly .vulnerable now without the protection of Lord Eden. I counseled you silence then and now on her behalf." He paused again for effect, rather pleased with his impromptu speech. "There are worlds which separate us, Edward," he concluded quietly. "But on one point we stand as brothers, our mutual love for your dear mother and our desire that she should pass her remaining days in peace."

Yes, it had a nice ring. Even the expression on Edward's face was rewarding, the pathetic downward angle of defeat. Perhaps once and for all he might rid himself of this foolish need for confession.

He saw Edward lift his eyes slowly, hollow-circled from his sleepless night. "And what of Charlotte?" he asked quietly.

Annoyed, Sir Claudius returned to his desk. "What of her? She'll survive. To be sure, it's barbaric punishment," he muttered, disconcerted. "But in a way she should be grateful. A burned hand is nothing compared to the public flogging which would have been her sentence a scant fifty years ago. She should be grateful to be living in such progressive times."

Quite suddenly and without any warning whatsoever, Edward began

to laugh. Sir Claudius stared at him, perplexed. Then equally abrupt, the laugh died. His face was completely changed, mocking, hard, clearly angry. Now Sir Claudius saw him leave the chair where he had sat slumped for most of the interview and lean sharply across the desk, "I wish to sell more land," he announced. "As soon as possible, as much as necessary. I have immediate need of five thousand pounds."

Sir Claudius could only gape. So! This was the true purpose of the early morning meeting. "I must protest," he began, but that was as far as he got.

"Your protestations mean nothing," Edward snapped. "I instruct you to sell, as much as necessary. You know my demands."

Sir Claudius's voice became rasping under the duress of the moment. "You sold property only a month ago—"

"And I intend to sell again, as often as I wish."

"Your brother-"

"My brother has nothing to do with it."

"Your mother has suggested that—"

"Nor has my mother anything to do with it. The property is mine. Legally, I have the right to do with it as I please."

His voice and manner were firm, without margin. Sir Claudius retreated before such resolution. It was his quiet prediction that before the century had reached its halfway mark, the Eden family would tear itself apart, due to the foolishness of old Thomas Eden, who had left his estates to his bastard, his titles to the second, legitimate son, then conveniently had died.

Now in the face of this latest madness, and as the Eden solicitor. Sir Claudius knew he should counsel prudence. To this end, he ventured, "You've sold a great deal within the last few years, Edward. The property is exhaustible."

"Then I shall exhaust it," Edward countered bluntly.

"You have responsibilities—"

Edward smiled. "The point of the sale."

"—other responsibilities to your mother and brother, the entire community now living in Eden Castle."