London - Edward Rutherfurd [474]
As he thought about what he must do that night, Jack Meredith kept a cool head. So far everything had been straightforward. Officially, he was still in the Clink; but for a fee, Silversleeves was always happy to allow his gentlemen a brief exeat, as long as they promised to return, and Lady St James had given him five guineas. As for the morality of the business, Meredith had few scruples. He despised St James. Besides, he was going to play by the rules, cruel though they were.
Soon, beyond Lambeth Palace on the southern bank he saw, like a string of pearls glimmering along the waterfront, the lights of his destination. Five minutes later he was stepping out at the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall.
Since the old, medieval days when it was Vaux’s Hall, the little estate had undergone several transformations; but nothing to compare with the most recent. An entrepreneur named Tyers, with help from his friend, the painter Hogarth, had laid out a spectacular garden for entertainments and social rendezvous. Like their rivals at Ranelagh across the river, the Spring Gardens at Vauxhall, as they were called, were a huge success. The Prince of Wales was a regular patron, and entrance, except when the place was taken for a private party, was a shilling or two. Perhaps the place’s greatest triumph, so far, had been the previous spring, when the first public rehearsal of Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks drew a crowd of twelve thousand.
Meredith went in. The entrance to the gardens was through the doorway of a large Georgian building; but immediately afterwards he was gazing down a long, tree-lined walk, illuminated by hundreds of lamps. To the right of this avenue he could see the outlines of the bandstand; to his left was a splendid, sixteen-sided rotunda building in whose lavish interior dances and assemblies were held. Nearby were the boxes where patrons could listen to concerts. Decorated with charming painted panels by Hogarth, young Gainsborough and others, these boxes were Meredith’s favourite spot. He did not pause by them this evening, however, but went in search of his quarry.
It was an evening of masquerade. Some wore only a black half-mask that covered the upper half of the face. One or two women had chosen to dress in veils. Usually, of course, people in society recognized each other, but not always: Meredith had enjoyed some delicious surprises. He glanced in at the rotunda, but did not see him there. He went down the long avenue where numerous couples were strolling. Off to the side were darker, tree-lined alleys where meetings of a more clandestine kind sometimes took place. When finally he saw him, it was in a group of gentlemen talking and laughing in a semi-circular arbour, enclosed by a little arcade of classical columns.
It was simple enough to attach himself to the group. Lord St James had been easy to spot, but Meredith pretended not to recognize him behind his mask. Two or three of the gentlemen there he really did not know. The talk was of politics, and he took no part. But after a time they moved on to gossip; and then, at a moment that seemed natural, he added his own voice.
“They say that the latest scandal concerns Lord St James.”
There was a hush. He saw one of the gentlemen glance towards the earl enquiringly, before quietly asking: “And pray, sir, what is that?”
“Why,” he continued to sound like a foolish fop, “they say, gentlemen, that the earl has taken to beating his wife.” He paused for effect. “The joke is that he does not know why. For in truth, he has more to complain of than he understands.” Here he let out an insolent, braying laugh. “As those, like myself, who have enjoyed her favours should know!”
It was done; and nicely done, he thought. The earl, if he was