The Courtship - Catherine Coulter [64]
“Yes, I propose that we be partners, my lord,” he continued. “I can assist you in ways you never dreamed possible. We will explore all those possibilities together. Now, do tell me all about it.”
The man talked in his damned sleep. Lord Beecham wanted to laugh at the vagaries of fate, but his uppermost reaction was vast relief that Reverend Mathers had not intentionally betrayed him. And apparently he had not said all that much specific in his sleep, thank God, which was why Reverend Older was here, now, trying to whisper in his ear. He smiled down at Reverend Older and said pleasantly, “No. There is nothing to tell. This is all a fabrication by Old Clothhead. You should not encourage him to drink so much brandy.”
Lord Beecham had seldom if ever seen a frown on Reverend Older’s face. There was one now, deepening the lines alongside his mouth. “Come, my boy, you don’t wish to be the coy one here.”
Yes, now he could hear the frustration, the burgeoning anger.
“I can help you. I can do incredible things for you. Now, where did you come across the scroll? Have you managed to translate all of it yet? Does it give exact details about any sorts of magical instruments or objects?”
Thank God Reverend Older didn’t really know anything, just about the scroll, but no specifics. But he knew about magic, and so it was greed that was pushing him. It was a disappointment, but Lord Beecham wasn’t unduly surprised. His fellow man rarely showed honesty, much less honor, be he churchman or not.
“Ah,” said Lord Beecham, shading his eyes from a barely existent sun’s rays, “I believe I see Lady Northcliffe, just over there on the walkway, speaking to her husband. Excuse me, Reverend Older.”
“Wait! You must deal with me, my lord!”
Lord Beecham turned slowly back to the man he had always liked, had always admired, a man who frankly amused him. “There is nothing to tell you. There is no strange scroll, no ridiculous magical anything. Old Clothhead is spinning yarns. You have approached the wrong person. None of this has anything to do with me.”
“But Old Clothhead told me he followed his brother because he was acting so mysteriously. He said his brother met with you at the British Museum, in one of the small back rooms. He knows who you are, my lord. Come now, don’t cut me out. I need to be in this, I surely do.”
“Good day, Reverend Older.” Lord Beecham dodged an earl’s carriage, a dray filled with ale kegs, and three young bucks riding horseback, and made it intact across the street. He wondered cynically if Reverend Older had made an unwise wager at a horse race. He bowed to Alexandra Sherbrooke and turned to her formidable husband.
“Good day to you, Douglas. You are well?”
“I passed my thirty-fifth birthday in the warm bosom of my family. Of course I am well. Do you now believe I am too old to be well? What do you want, Heatherington? Stop staring at my wife or I’ll bash your pretty face and knock you into the next street.”
Alexandra Sherbrooke, roughly half the size of her husband, nudged him aside and took Lord Beecham’s hand. “How are you, Spenser? Ignore poor Douglas here. He fancies that he found a gray hair this morning and is trying to blame me for it, all because I enraged him last night by taking Ryder’s side in an argument.”
“My brother was wrong about that ridiculous notion of his, Alexandra. Imagine, letting children decide whether or not they wish to work in the factories, whether or not they wish to be assigned to be apprentices, or to be given schooling. It is the parents’ choice; it must be, else there would be chaos and havoc. Can you imagine our boys being allowed to make any kind of decision? It is utter nonsense. You will retract your support when you see him next.”
Alexandra Sherbrooke just laughed and leaned closer to Lord Beecham. “Now, about this gray hair of Douglas’s. Perhaps now, if you continue to bait