A Dangerous Fortune - Ken Follett [144]
“None known.”
She looked at the young man and saw that he was sulking. She had spoken too harshly to him. She sat down beside him and took one of his big hands in both her own. “Your political instincts are remarkable, in fact that’s what first made me notice you. Tell me what your guess would be.”
Fortescue melted immediately, as men generally did when she took the trouble to be nice to them. “If pressed he would probably be Liberal. Most businessmen are Liberal, and so are most Jews. But as he has never expressed any opinion publicly, it will be hard to make him out to be an enemy of the Conservative government—”
“He’s a Jew,” Augusta said. “That’s the key.”
Fortescue looked dubious. “The prime minister himself is a Jew by birth, and he has now been made Lord Beaconsfield.”
“I know, but he’s a practicing Christian. Besides …”
Fortescue raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“I have instincts too,” Augusta said. “Mine tell me that Ben Greenbourne’s Jewishness is the key to it all.”
“If there is anything I can do …”
“You’ve been wonderful. There’s nothing for the moment. But when the prime minister begins to have doubts about Ben Greenbourne, just remind him that there is a safe alternative in Joseph Pilaster.”
“Rely on me, Mrs. Pilaster.”
Lady Morte lived in a house in Curzon Street which her husband could not afford. The door was opened by a liveried footman in a powdered wig. Augusta was shown into a morning room crowded with costly knickknacks from Bond Street shops: gold candelabra, silver picture-frames, porcelain ornaments, crystal vases, and an exquisite antique jeweled inkstand that must have cost as much as a young racehorse. Augusta despised Harriet Morte for her weakness in spending money she did not have; but at the same time she was reassured by these signs that the woman was as extravagant as ever.
She paced up and down the room as she waited. A feeling of panic grew over her every time she faced the prospect that Ben Greenbourne would get the honor instead of Joseph. She did not think she could mount a campaign like this a second time. And it made her squirm to think that the result of all her efforts might be that the title of countess would eventually go to that little sewer rat Maisie Greenbourne….
Lady Morte came in, saying distantly: “What a lovely surprise to see you at this time of day!” It was a reproof to Augusta for calling before lunch. Lady Morte’s iron-gray hair looked hastily combed, and Augusta guessed she had not been fully dressed.
But you had to receive me, didn’t you? thought Augusta. You were afraid I might be calling about your bank account, so you had no choice.
However, she spoke in a subservient tone that would flatter the woman. “I’ve come to ask your advice over something urgent.”
“Anything I can do …”
“The prime minister has agreed to give a peerage to a banker.”
“Splendid! I mentioned it to Her Majesty, as you know. Doubtless that had its effect.”
“Unfortunately, he wants to give it to Ben Greenbourne.”
“Oh, dear. That is unfortunate.”
Augusta could tell that Harriet Morte was secretly pleased by this news. She hated Augusta. “It’s more than unfortunate,” Augusta said. “I’ve expended a good deal of effort over this and now its seems the benefits will go to my husband’s greatest rival!”
“I do see that.”
“I wish we could prevent it happening.”
“I’m not sure what we can do.”
Augusta pretended to be thinking aloud. “Peerages have to be approved by the queen, don’t they?”
“Yes, indeed. Technically it is she who grants them.”
“Then she could do something, if you asked her.”
Lady Morte gave a little laugh. “My dear Mrs. Pilaster, you overestimate my power.” Augusta held her tongue and ignored the condescending tone. Lady Morte went on: “Her Majesty is not likely to take my advice over that of the prime minister. Besides, what would be my grounds of objection?”
“Greenbourne