Traitors Gate - Anne Perry [89]
But Nobby Gunne was not twenty-five and paddling up the Congo River in a canoe; she was fifty-five, and here in London, far too vulnerable, and falling in love with a man about whom Vespasia knew very little, and feared too much.
“Bertie …”
“Yes, my dear?”
“You know everyone who has anything to do with Africa….”
“I used to. But there are so remarkably many people now.” He shrugged. “They appear out of nowhere, all kinds of people, a great many of them I would rather not know. Adventurers of the least attractive kind. Why? Have you someone in mind?”
She did not prevaricate. There was no time, and he would not expect it.
“Peter Kreisler.”
A middle-aged financial magnate drove past in a four-in-hand, his wife and daughters beside him. Neither Vespasia nor Bertie Canning took any notice. An ambitious young man on a bay horse doffed his hat and received a smile of encouragement.
A young man and woman rode by together.
“Engaged at last,” Bertie muttered.
Vespasia knew what he meant. The girl would not have ridden out with him were they not.
“Peter Kreisler?” she jogged his memory.
“Ah, yes. His mother was one of the Aberdeenshire Calders, I believe. Odd girl, very odd. Married a German, as I recall, and went to live there for a while. Came back eventually, I think. Then died, poor soul.”
Vespasia felt a jar of sudden coldness. In other circumstances to be half German would be irrelevant. The royal family was more than half German. But with the present concern over East Africa high on her mind, and acutely relevant to the issue, it was a different matter.
“I see. What did his father do?”
A popular actor rode by, handsome profile lifted high. Vespasia thought very briefly of Charlotte’s mother, Caroline, and her recent marriage to an actor seventeen years her junior. He was less handsome than this man, and a great deal more attractive. It was a scandalous thing to have done, and Vespasia heartily wished her happiness.
“No idea,” Bertie confessed. “But he was a personal friend of the old chancellor, I know that.”
“Bismarck?” Vespasia said with surprise and increasing unhappiness.
Bertie looked at her sideways. “Of course, Bismarck! Why are you concerned, Vespasia? You cannot know the fellow. He spends all his time in Africa. Although I suppose he could have come home. He’s quarreled with Cecil Rhodes—not hard to do—and with the missionaries, who tried to put trousers on everybody and make Christians out of them … much more difficult.”
“The trousers or the Christianity?”
“The quarrel.”
“I should find it very easy to quarrel with someone who wants to put trousers on people,” Vespasia replied. “Or make Christians out of them if they don’t want it.”
“Then you will undoubtedly like Kreisler.” Bertie pulled a face.
A radical member of Parliament passed them, in deep conversation with a successful author.
“Ass,” Bertie said contemptuously. “Fellow should stick to his last.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Politician who wants to write a book and a writer who wants to sit in Parliament,” Bertie replied.
“Have you read his book?” Vespasia asked.
Bertie’s eyebrows rose. “No. Why?”
“Terrible. And John Dacre would do less harm if he gave up his seat and wrote novels. Altogether I think it would be an excellent idea. Don’t discourage them.”
He stared at her with concern for a moment, then started to laugh.
“He quarreled with MacKinnon as well,” he said after a moment or two.
“Dacre?” she asked.
“No, no, your fellow Kreisler. MacKinnon the money fellow. Quarreled over East Africa, of course, and what should be done there. Hasn’t quarreled with Standish yet but that’s probably due to his relationship with Chancellor.’ Bertie