some letters, overheard by yourself in the Pump Room; Lord Kinsfell’s argument with Portal, and his assertion that the man was a blackguard; his own reluctance to speak fully of events that evening; and now, the curious portrait, returned like a bad penny to Portal’s breast. Blackmail, Miss Austen—as plainly as such dark arts may be seen!”
“I confess I had not an idea of it,” I said.
“You must understand that the practice is familiar to me through long association. I have employed it myself,” Lord Harold said equably, “when no other tool would serve; and have been in turn the object of necessitous importuning—a mad decision on the blackmailer’s part, for never was there a fellow with so little regard for public opinion, or so great a contempt for its deserts, as Harold Trowbridge.”
“A more hardened object I cannot conceive.” I was amused despite the gravity of his words.
“But tempting, regardless.” He jumped up and began to turn restlessly before the fire. “I have, in the past, acted in ways that may be judged reprehensible. I have sacrificed the reputations of my confederates, my mistresses, my dearest friends, in pursuit of those ends thathave,
to my mind alone
, required such sacrifice. I have cared nothing, in short, for how my character is judged—except as regards one particular: That I am held in trust and esteem by certain men in high Government circles. It is as lifeblood to me, in ensuring the continuance of that activity which—alone among the pursuits of my life—is capable of stirring my interest, and of relieving the unutterable tedium of my existence.” At this, something of animation enlivened Lord Harold’s tone; but it was the animation of coldest anger. “Should any man attempt to queer my relations with the Crown, or with the very small number of men who direct its concerns, I should be entirely at his mercy. That, to date, has never occurred; and I pray God it never shall. I could not answer for myself in the eventuality.”
One glimpse of his set features was enough, and I averted my gaze. Lord Harold overset—Lord Harold denied his life’s blood of peril and intrigue—was Lord Harold divided from his very soul. I should not like to be within twenty paces of any man who attempted it.
“But my familiarity with the blackmailer’s art has at least taught me this,” he continued. “Among those who can profess no stern disregard for public views or public morals, it is the aptest means of persuasion. More lives have been ruined—more spirits broken—from a fear of idle gossip and report, than are numbered on Napoleon’s battlefields, Miss Austen. Portal’s death may be the result of a similar campaign.”
And if it were, I thought, the tide of scandal should reach even so far as a ducal household. “I comprehend your meaning, my lord. I shall be happy to assist you by whatever means are within my power.”
He reached for his hat, and smoothed its fine wool brim. “Will you do me the very great honour of attending the theatre tomorrow evening, Miss Austen, in the Wilborough box?”
“With pleasure,” I replied.
“It will require—forgive me—a certain subterfuge on your part.”
“I am at your service, my lord.”
“You will understand that any in the Trowbridge family must be known among the company. Even had Simon
not
been taken up in Portal’s death, our intimacy with the Conynghams—our attention to the Theatre Royal—must make us too familiar; and at present a tide of ill-feeling is directed against us all. But as for yourself—”
“Of course. What would you have me do?”
“I intend a visit to the wings upon the play’s conclusion. It is my hope that you might then create a small diversion—a faint, a mishap, something along the female line—that should draw the attention of the principal parties.”
“And in the flurry, you shall investigate the manager’s rooms?”
“Exactly.”
I bowed my head to disguise a tide
“I confess I had not an idea of it,” I said.
“You must understand that the practice is familiar to me through long association. I have employed it myself,” Lord Harold said equably, “when no other tool would serve; and have been in turn the object of necessitous importuning—a mad decision on the blackmailer’s part, for never was there a fellow with so little regard for public opinion, or so great a contempt for its deserts, as Harold Trowbridge.”
“A more hardened object I cannot conceive.” I was amused despite the gravity of his words.
“But tempting, regardless.” He jumped up and began to turn restlessly before the fire. “I have, in the past, acted in ways that may be judged reprehensible. I have sacrificed the reputations of my confederates, my mistresses, my dearest friends, in pursuit of those ends thathave,
to my mind alone
, required such sacrifice. I have cared nothing, in short, for how my character is judged—except as regards one particular: That I am held in trust and esteem by certain men in high Government circles. It is as lifeblood to me, in ensuring the continuance of that activity which—alone among the pursuits of my life—is capable of stirring my interest, and of relieving the unutterable tedium of my existence.” At this, something of animation enlivened Lord Harold’s tone; but it was the animation of coldest anger. “Should any man attempt to queer my relations with the Crown, or with the very small number of men who direct its concerns, I should be entirely at his mercy. That, to date, has never occurred; and I pray God it never shall. I could not answer for myself in the eventuality.”
One glimpse of his set features was enough, and I averted my gaze. Lord Harold overset—Lord Harold denied his life’s blood of peril and intrigue—was Lord Harold divided from his very soul. I should not like to be within twenty paces of any man who attempted it.
“But my familiarity with the blackmailer’s art has at least taught me this,” he continued. “Among those who can profess no stern disregard for public views or public morals, it is the aptest means of persuasion. More lives have been ruined—more spirits broken—from a fear of idle gossip and report, than are numbered on Napoleon’s battlefields, Miss Austen. Portal’s death may be the result of a similar campaign.”
And if it were, I thought, the tide of scandal should reach even so far as a ducal household. “I comprehend your meaning, my lord. I shall be happy to assist you by whatever means are within my power.”
He reached for his hat, and smoothed its fine wool brim. “Will you do me the very great honour of attending the theatre tomorrow evening, Miss Austen, in the Wilborough box?”
“With pleasure,” I replied.
“It will require—forgive me—a certain subterfuge on your part.”
“I am at your service, my lord.”
“You will understand that any in the Trowbridge family must be known among the company. Even had Simon
not
been taken up in Portal’s death, our intimacy with the Conynghams—our attention to the Theatre Royal—must make us too familiar; and at present a tide of ill-feeling is directed against us all. But as for yourself—”
“Of course. What would you have me do?”
“I intend a visit to the wings upon the play’s conclusion. It is my hope that you might then create a small diversion—a faint, a mishap, something along the female line—that should draw the attention of the principal parties.”
“And in the flurry, you shall investigate the manager’s rooms?”
“Exactly.”
I bowed my head to disguise a tide
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