Death at Dawn - Caro Peacock [87]
‘A fair-haired country squire kind of man?’
‘Yes, the very same oaf who tried to carry you off. Anyway, he seemed to realise that his friend was making an ass of himself and took him into a side room, where I assume they continued to play. By then the evening had been spoiled for us, so we finished our hand and left.’
‘And nothing was said about a duel?’
‘Good heavens, no. It had been an unpleasant few minutes, that’s all. Nobody thought of duelling. We went to supper and stayed up late over our pipes and our punch talking of this and that. And there it might have ended if we hadn’t been joined by some Frenchmen your father knew. My French is nowhere near as good as his and they were talking away nineteen to the dozen. Something they said seemed to amuse your father mightily so we asked him to translate so that we could all share the joke …’
He hesitated. A barn owl flew over the garden, just a few feet higher than the walls. From further off, a fox barked.
‘I can remember all of it,’ Daniel said. ‘All of the words, that is. Only the tune of it will be wrong, if you understand me. It was still a joke to us then, you see.’
‘Please, every word.’
‘Your father turned to me, pulling a long face. “Daniel,” he said, “you are in very serious trouble. In fact, you will be lucky to escape with your head. Have you any notion of the identity of our spluttering young friend whom you so grossly insulted?” Well, by then we were near the bottom of the punch bowl and we all began imitating the young ass’s bray, “Do you know who you’re speaking to, sir?” Your father sat watching us, grinning over his pipe, until we became tired of it and silence fell. “Well, Daniel,” he said, “my Parisian friends here tell me it is an open secret. He goes by the nom de guerre of Mr Brighton, but his identity is well known to every pawn shop and gambling hell in this fair city. Young Mr Brighton is none other than …” Then he couldn’t go on for laughing. I played the farce out, pretending to tremble, knees knocking. “Don’t keep me in suspense, old friend,” I said. “Who is this gentleman to whom my humble head is forfeit?” And your father, just managing to get the words out between gusts of laughter, replied: “Only the rightful heir to the throne of England, that’s all.”’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘You’d guessed, hadn’t you?’ Daniel said. ‘Only I’ve no notion how you did.’ His voice was sad at all that laughter gone sour.
‘Sir Herbert’s desperate to marry him into the family,’ I said. ‘His daughter’s too young, so his stepdaughter has to do, poor thing. She came very near to telling me. Then there was the portrait. As soon as I saw Brighton, he reminded me of somebody. But why should it be poor Princess Charlotte?’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. Do you remember when the princess died?’
‘Of course not. I was only two years old.’
He sighed. ‘I’d forgotten how young you are, or perhaps how old I am. I do remember. I was in my last year at school.’ Another sigh.
‘You were sorry?’
‘I had no more strong feelings about the deaths of princesses than I have now. But she’d been popular and people mourned her. Then later there were some ugly rumours going round, so ugly that I’m sorry to have to repeat them. You’re cold?’
I must have shivered.
‘The child Henrietta said she was poisoned.’
He took his jacket off and draped it round my shoulders, in spite of my protests. It smelled comfortingly of violin resin and candlewax.
‘Yes, that was part of it. Charlotte was a healthy young woman, you see, with the very best of