Chapter 12: LIP SERVICE
Talleyrand’s habitual rising at midday threatened to drive Sir Percy Blakeney mad. There were things to do and plans to make but his second-in-command (so he deluded himself) never appeared till the day was nigh done! As if managing all England’s Intelligence Services could be a part-time post!
But because the man (or devil) had his uses, Sir Percy tried delaying his arrival as long as he could bear: meeting the Prince half way, so to speak. However, that compromise involved agony. As a lifetime early riser, and increasingly aware his best moments were now confined to morning, the lost hours scraped Sir Percy’s soul as they slipped by. Therefore there was many the time that he stomped Loseley’s formal gardens in murderous impatience, not seeing God’s glorious creation but an ever darkening red mist instead.
God’s Teeth and toes! What in the Almighty’s name did the Frenchman have to do in that damned bedroom anyway? Sir Percy was aware of Talleyrand’s ludicrous ritual of the cravat, and that he played cards till all hours, but the old fool was so advanced in years he stood in less need of sleep, surely. Blakeney got by on five hours a night or less, and it was a filthy lie to say his volcanic temper had anything to do with that! He’d sacked any number of clerks and servants who so much as hinted at it. Other people were entirely to blame. Like now.
And as for the thought that the Frog might still do the mattress dance, or even display interest in trying… At his age? Disgusting!
Today, after the fifth furious message, Talleyrand finally emerged as the clocks struck one. He looked poised and faultless. You could have sliced bread on the creases of his cravat.
Sir Percy had a mad moment of wanting to vomit over this vision of vanity, to spoil it with last night’s pheasant-and-dumplings, but fortunately the urge passed. The Prince’s limp evoked sympathy for one thing, his artfully concealed special shoe evident to the trained appraising eye. Blakeney had been brought up (with many a reinforcing clipped ear) that it was ‘wicked to mock the afflicted.’
Then Talleyrand punctured the burgeoning Christian compassion. He theatrically passed the back of one hand across his powdered brow.
‘Ohh,’ he sighed, ‘je suis très fatigué après mon travail aujourd’hui…’
Blakeney almost said something unforgivable, but swivelled on his heels and strode off towards the appointed reception room.’God’s teeth: speak English, man!’ he called back. ‘And get a move on, damn y’eyes!’
Sir Percy’s retreating shoulders clenched as he heard (and had to pretend not to) the Prince comment, sotto voce, on the surprising shapeliness of Blakeney’s behind.
In fact, a full three hours before Sir Percy fumed, Charles-Maurice Talleyrand was up and dressed and already in action.
A week had elapsed since the armed incursion and several days now separated him from his dream visit to Isle of Wight Armageddon. Normal Loseley life was restored.
Accordingly, a staff member, seconded from Loseley’s dairy, aroused his interest in the new day by paying the sweetest lip-service. Talleyrand awoke and knew it was she by feeling her locks all over his loins. Her brother had far shorter hair.
Then, after a Spartan breakfast of brandy-flambéed egg-white omelette, he was ready to face life’s rich tapestry. It would be, however, his own enhanced version of it, not Blakeney’s grey government-issue variety.
The world made its way to Talleyrand via visitors and communications. Journals, letters and informants supplied grist to a mill which ground exceedingly fine. Propped up in bed, the Prince welcomed them all with a gracious smile.
So, the Convention was planning to invade Mantua was it? The regime there (wanted: a term for rule by the indefensible: ‘Disgustocracy’?) would pay handsomely to be forewarned. And Lady Worsley of Appuldurcombe had embarked on her eighth affair of the season, had she? That much-loved lady was slowing down. What was failing: her lust for life or merely lust? Either way, both adulterer (a general) and cuckold (a peer) involved would now be extra… persuadable.
And a Swiss and a lady Lazaran were seeking illegal passage to France were they? And having trouble finding people—even poor sailors—as corrupt as they? In Lewes and Rye? Who would have thought it? To be rebuffed once was misfortune, but twice was sufficient to tug the strands of Talleyrand’s cobweb. A third refusal might even tweak Sir Percy’s more sluggish version…
Talleyrand sipped his morning chocolate and pondered. Yet outwardly he remained unreadable, a behemoth of bland, a mill pond on the stillest day ever. No observer would have suspected the subtleties now slithering about, like iguanas in a pit, beneath that skull. Unless, that is, they knew his reputation (which all Europe did).
Was his intended ‘nudge’ to History turning into a battering ram? Has he been wise to blend two such volatile chemicals? To mix the metaphors, were two dull chrysalides blossoming into alarmingly colourful butterflies? If so, should he swat them or supply more breeze to fill their wings?
It was yet another first division quandary, ranking right up there with the looming debate over whether to wear a white or a pearl waistcoat.
Talleyrand was in benevolent mood that morning. Looking through the very same window that Good Queen Bess had during her visits to Loseley, the green Downs struck him as… perfect. There were carriages travelling along the Hogs Back, off on all sorts of doubtless interesting errands. And he had kept an erection throughout the maid’s ministrations this morning: no mean feat for a man of his years.
So, the pendulum of Talleyrand’s thoughts swung towards ‘yes.’
Yes, he would be as kind as the world (falsely) seemed today. He would give the couple a helping hand. Just as the maid had he.
Talleyrand called his clerk of the day.
‘Xavier!’
‘Highness?’
‘Are you familiar with current case 323?’
‘Intimately, highness.’
‘They are about to commit themselves to the cruel sea. Make it less cruel.’
‘Immediately, highness’
‘And Lord Lovelace has written,’ said Blakeney.
‘Gracious me!’
It was Talleyrand’s standard one-size-fits-all response, and could be taken to mean anything—or nothing. Over the course of a working ‘day’ it became like Chinese water torture, with the additional potential to squirm under your skin.
After his long wait Sir Percy’s face was already dangerously dark, a collage of ominous reds and purples. Talleyrand really shouldn’t have…
‘Damn me, do you have to keep saying that?’ Blakeney exploded, hammering the table and making the coffee cups jump.
And not only the coffee cups. A Scottish soldier, pistol drawn, looked in to see that all was well.
The Prince drew back in exaggerated shock, throwing up his hands as protection.
‘Gracious me!’
Sir Percy wanted to bury his head (in hands) or bury his sword (in flesh) or, better still, go home to bed; but duty drove him on. He took deep breaths whilst waving the guard away.
‘I apologise for the outburst,’ said the spymaster, insincerely. ‘You must forgive my temper: I haven’t been feeling myself lately.’
Talleyrand almost embarked on a very unwise response, touching upon the guidance to his staff on that subject. Instead, he bit his lip.
It had been a long afternoon, what with the ‘gracious me’s and pile of pettifogging correspondence to work through. Lord Lovelace’s missive lay near the dregs of the in-tray, amidst material getting short shrift out of sheer weariness. After hours devoted to setting up English spy rings and wrapping up French ones, the marital difficulties of minor Lordlings seemed mere milk-and-water stuff, unworthy of important men’s attention.