Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [150]
“And the change of mind over the African money?”
Byam’s face was still white. “The brotherhood,” he said with stiff lips. “It is a favor for them. I cannot tell you why. It concerns many issues, international finance, risk, political situations I am not at liberty to discuss.” His words were a mockery of Drummond’s earlier ones, but there was no jeering in them, no triumph.
“They would ask that of you, knowing how you feel, your reputation in the matter, your conscience?” Drummond was horrified, although now he had no surprise left. “That is monstrous. What would happen to you if you refused them?”
There was no smile on Byam’s face, only bleak, humorless despair.
“I don’t know, and I am not in a position to put it to the test.”
“But your honor,” Drummond said involuntarily. “The agony of your own conscience. Do they imagine they have purchased your soul with some idiotic ritual oath? For God’s sake, man, tell them to go to the devil! Not a great journey, if they would press you to act against your conscience in such a manner.”
Byam looked away from him. “I cannot,” he said in a level, hopeless voice. “There is much that you do not understand. They explained to me other reasons. It is not as much against my conscience as you believe, simply against my past record of belief, and what people expect of me. There are other factors—things I did not know of before …”
But Drummond did not believe him. He was overwhelmed with pity, and revulsion—and a terrible, dark fear of the circle he had entered so blindly so many years ago. Pitt had thought it evil, and he had barely scraped the surface. Why did a gamekeeper’s son like Pitt have so infinitely more understanding of evil and its smiling, promising faces?
He felt cold throughout his body.
“I’m sorry,” he said futilely, not knowing what he meant, simply that he was filled with a dragging heaviness and a sense of tragedy to come, and guilt.
He walked to the hall door and opened it.
“Thank you for your candor.”
Byam looked up, his eyes black with pain, like a cornered creature. He said nothing.
Drummond went out and closed the door. In the hallway the butler handed him his cloak, hat and stick, then opened the door for him. He went out into the balmy air of the evening, oblivious to its sweetness.
10
IT WAS AT a garden party, lawns, flower beds and dappled shade, parlormaids and footmen carrying trays of chilled champagne, women with parasols, that Charlotte observed the next event connected with Jack’s pursuit of selection as candidate for Parliament. She had gone hoping to see something more of Lord Byam, but as it transpired neither he nor Lady Byam was present, although they had been expected. It was a glorious afternoon, if a trifle warm, and everyone was greatly involved in discussing the Eton and Harrow cricket match which was held annually between the two outstanding private schools for boys of excellent family.
The other great topic of conversation was the forthcoming regatta to be held at Henley, as usual. There was intense speculation as to who would win the cricket match, as many of the gentlemen had attended either one school or the other, and emotions were running high.
“My dear fellow,” one elegantly dressed man said, leaning a little on his cane and staring at his companion, his top hat an inch or two askew. “The fact that Eton won last year is nothing whatsoever to go by. Hackfield was the best bat they ever had, and he has left and gone up to Cambridge. The whole side will disintegrate without him, don’t you know.”
They were standing beside a bed of delphiniums.
“Balderdash.” His friend smiled indulgently, and stepped to one side to allow a lady in a large hat to pass by. The feather in its brim was touching his shoulder, but she was oblivious of it, being totally occupied gazing through her eyelashes at someone a few yards in the opposite direction. “Absolute tommyrot,” the man continued. “Hackfield