“Thank you, Mr. Langlade,” Treviscoe replied, his wits returning all at once. “The baroness is my guest, in conformity with my right as a subscriber to entertain any person I choose.”
“Baroness?” Langlade blanched. “Baroness?”
“Fellow citizens,” — not by any stretch of punctilio could the commercial men of Lloyd’s be considered gentlemen — “allow me the honour of presenting Baroness Fitzdenys,” Treviscoe trumpeted. “Lady Fitzdenys, may I introduce Mr. Pierre Langlade and the underwriters of Lloyd’s.”
As one, the men bowed to her, most rather awkwardly. Lady Fitzdenys, an enigmatic smile on her lovely mouth, inclined her head as gently as a full-blown rose swaying in a light breeze, the broad brim of her hat amplifying the gesture. She then fixed her gaze on Treviscoe. He waited until the underwriters returned to their own business, or rather pretended to return to their own business, before acknowledging her glance and casting an inquiring eye at the young officer.
“Mr. Treviscoe, allow me to introduce Lieutenant-Fireworker the Honourable Walter Nightingale, of His Majesty’s Royal Artillery. Walter, Mr. Treviscoe.”
Nightingale offered his hand. His grip was strong and his hand calloused; he was obviously one of that breed of gentlemen who did not disdain labour.
Hero interrupted: “An it please you, my lady, the proper form of address is Sir Alan Treviscoe, baronet.”
Treviscoe blushed. Hero, a former slave and self-made man who regarded no man on account of gentle birth, and especially not Treviscoe, must have been extremely piqued to have betrayed Treviscoe’s new title. It had been less than a year since his brother Rupert, the previous holder, had died in Florence. But Hero had not forgotten the adventure in the Forest of Dean, nor Lady Fitzdenys’s part in it.
“Sir Alan, is it?” Lady Fitzdenys asked, laughing musically. “La, then you are a gentleman after all. The world upside-down.”
Treviscoe pulled the tails of his coat forward around his thighs and resumed his seat. Following his example, Hero did the same. Nightingale alone remained standing and took station behind Lady Fitzdenys, clasping his hands behind his back.
“I do not, as a general matter, avail myself of that style,” he said in a low voice, “and I do not believe that it has any relevance to this entirely unexpected visit.”
The light went out of her face like the flame of a lantern being shuttered against the wind. “There you are correct, sir. It were entirely different qualities of yours which recommended my present course of action. Sirrah — you cannot but be mindful of what you owe me.”
Treviscoe shut his eyes and briefly held his breath. When he spoke, it was with gentle deliberation. “Madam, I never sought to harm you. It was never your fault that your father was a traitor, as it was never mine that my own grandfather plotted against his lawful sovereign — you knew that not, I perceive, from your surprise — which may, in small part at least, explain to you why I do not flaunt a manner of address which was inherited from him. But as to any transgressions against your family, you must be aware I was under obligation to discover the source of the crimes of which your father was the author, not only for my own emolument under a contract to which I was bound in law and by personal honour, but for the common weal of our entire nation. Those events are, in any case, beyond recall. For the present, if now you seek my aid, for whatever purpose, I will not stint in providing it, so long as it be lawful.”
“ ’Tis justice, then, Mr. Treviscoe, that those same talents that occasioned my ruin, should be now bent toward relieving my instant disquietude. I can assure you that my purpose is within the law.”
“Then command me.”
“Very well. This is the charge I deliver unto you: Prove to the entire world that the man to whom I was betrothed did not die upon Stonehenge in thrall to the Devil, that he was in no wise a worshipper of Satan, and so might be properly, if posthumously, shriven and given a Christian burial.”
Devil worship?
“Madam — madam, I can only describe myself as — flabbergasted.”
But Hero’s face exhibited not so much astonishment as sudden comprehension. “You were engaged to wed the unfortunate Mr. Francis Paskett,” he exclaimed, belatedly adding, “m’lady.”
Treviscoe looked at Hero with something akin to wonder. He was more acquainted with the announcement of revelatory truths coming from his own mouth, and to Hero’s evident amusement, found the contrary experience unsettling. For the moment, Treviscoe had no more knowledge of Mr. Francis Paskett than he had of the Emperor of China.
“There is an account of his strange demise in The Gazette, sir,” Hero explained, his handsome face instantly inscrutable. He offered the broadsheet to Treviscoe.
“Do not trouble yourself with that vile scribbling, sir,” said Lieutenant Nightingale, “not when the truth is available from the lips of Lady Fitzdenys, and my own. Mr. Paskett was my second cousin and boon companion.”
He placed his hand solicitously on the baroness’s right shoulder. She reached across her pale full bosom with her left hand and lightly stroked his fingers, as if he were a pet songbird alighting there.
“Then I beg you to acquaint me with the horrid details,” said Treviscoe.
Nightingale paused, gathering his thoughts, then stood full erect, his hands behind him as if he were posing for the benefit of his soldiers. “Cousin Francis was suspected of being a devil-worshipper because he had named a fellowship of natural philosophers, of which he was the most prominent member, after the morning star.”
“That would not be the first blasphemous brotherhood in England dedicated to the adoration of Venus,” Hero said in a low voice.
“It was not that kind of a society,” Nightingale said, flushing.
“Not Venus, Mr. Hero, but Lucifer,” Lady Fitzdenys said.
“She’s correct, Hero,” Treviscoe confirmed. “So the Romans called the morning star. It’s in the Bible somewhere... I remember now. ‘Lucifer oriatur in cordibus vestries’: ‘And the day star’ — that’s ‘lucifer’ in Latin, don’t ye see — ‘arise in your hearts.’ The passage is to be found in second Saint Peter.”
The baroness narrowed her eyes. “How convenient it is, that you should have committed to memory that peculiar passage, Mr. Treviscoe.”
“I did so as a youth, in order that I might irritate my tutor,” said Treviscoe, a little sheepishly. In fact his knowledge of the Vetus Latina was as extensive and precise as any clergyman’s, but he didn’t want to give the impression he was boasting. “Teasing him was my only revenge. He was a Jesuit, and very strict.”
“Jesuit? Do you mean to say that you are a Catholic?” Nightingale asked.
“Continue with your account, dear Walter,” said Lady Fitzdenys.
“But His Grace Bishop Barrington is the most Protestant of clergymen,” objected Nightingale. “He is as likely to hearken to the entreaties of a Papist to permit my cousin a Christian burial, as he might to a black heathen.”
Hero sat up straighter, and Nightingale hastily added, “No offense, sir. I am sure you are no heathen.”
But his outburst had also vexed the lady. “Are you questioning my judgement, Walter?”
“No, m’lady—”
“Then do as I bid you.”
Nightingale grimaced in anger, but quickly overcame his temper. “As you wish.”
He pouted for an instant and then resumed his narrative. “Mr. Treviscoe, as I have mentioned, Francis Paskett was a member of the so-called Luciferian Society. The name was thus chosen, as the planet represents the new day and heralds the arrival of the sun’s light, shining down on all humanity and banishing the darkness of ignorance. But the society’s agnomen was willfully misunderstood by his enemies, who called it instead the Satan League, and claimed he and his companions had no less an aim in view than the overthrow of the Christian religion — and I must admit, that in his zeal to eradicate superstition, my cousin had been known to mock what he considered the more unenlightened tenets of our faith, scoffing at miracles and legends, without a care in the world as to who might be offended thereby. He did not, in any case, have much regard for the society of any men, except such as he considered his equals.