Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [151]
“Don’t you think that if you didn’t clutch them to your evil chest like Epaminondas and his javelin, your affairs might be less ruinous?”
“No.”
“I see,” said Christian. “Then either you don’t think much of my discretion, or you think I couldn’t stomach your conduct. Either way, it casts a certain shade over your continued visits, doesn’t it?” This was risky. Once, to accept his confidence was to lose him. She was secure now from that; but he might still rebuff her for asking.
When he did speak, however, it was with a shade of resignation in his voice. “So I’ve got to spin you some sort of tale, have I?”
“I should prefer you to measure me the truth.”
“—But it all depends on what kind of worm I am. I see. I’m not sure, you know. My kind of story would go down better with Agnes Herries.”
“Then pretend I’m Lady Herries,” said Christian.
“God forbid. The fact is, that like many another gentleman in trouble, I was misunderstood in my youth. A situation which I thought could be retrieved by one person. Unfortunately I didn’t know this fellow’s name; only his station, and this left the field open for three people—”
“Jonathan Crouch, Gideon Somerville and Samuel Harvey.”
“Yes. You see, it all fits in rather cunningly with what you know already. Crouch was ruled out; Somerville was ruled out; and that leaves Mr. Harvey.”
“And how,” she asked, “are you going to find Mr. Harvey?”
“I have found him. At least, through a distressingly commercial transaction which would only bore you, I hope to have him soon.”
She pursued: “This transaction: do you act directly with England? Or do you need an intermediary?”
“I have an intermediary ready-made. An embarrassingly eager one.”
“Of course. George Douglas,” said Christian lightheartedly. “You needn’t tell me. But it seems fairly inevitable, after your transaction with Crouch … Do you think Harvey can help you?”
“I have no idea,” he said. “He might. On the other hand, it’s always easy to undermine a statement—even a true statement—made under duress, and he mightn’t be believed. And even if he is believed—”
“Yes?” she demanded as he came to a stop. He laughed. “I don’t know. I have money. I may find I have the habit of lying on my face even when turned, like George Faustus.”
“I don’t think, if I were Agnes Herries, I should believe that,” said Christian.
“No. That was an off-stage observation. We end, in fact, with a long piece about the evils of absolute monarchy and unreliable women, with a graceful aside exculpating the fair audience. I should make a wonderful epopee, don’t you think?”
“You could make anything,” said Christian, “including a perfect farce of your epics; but I shan’t worry you. It was a magnificently economical performance.”
“I dislike being candid in public. Christian—this may or may not succeed. If it doesn’t, this will be our last meeting.”
“And if it does?”
“Then it would be rather pleasant. I should be all on the right side like a halibut, and someone may formally introduce us. But whatever happens, you have from these fossorial depths my unstinted gratitude and fondest applause. Whatever you touch will return warmth to you and whoever you share it with will be twelve feet tall like St. Christopher.” He hesitated. “You know that if you hadn’t been blind, these meetings would never have been possible?”
She nodded.
“I’m not being thick-skinned. But I want you to remember that—if you’ve been entertained, or diverted, or found some enjoyment in this adventure—it was one small thing brought you by your lack of sight.”
A bitter pill, that: for the long tolerance was over, and she had begun to live with her blindness in rage. But she managed a smile, and heard him approach and take her hand.
He kissed it, and then, unexpectedly, her cheek. “A woman,” he said, “with a familiar spirit. I won’t promise any grand transformations for your lame duck, but at least it will bear your crutches proudly. Goodbye, my dear girl.”
“Goodbye,” said Christian, and sat still as the door closed.
* * *
While she was away, Tom Erskine