“Indeed!” Carlyon raised his brows. “I collect that the notion of persuading De Castres, by what false message I know not, to present himself in Lincoln’s Inn Fields so that he might there be murdered, awoke no revulsion in your breast?”
Francis looked a little pained. “My dear Edward, you misjudge me! Nothing could have exceeded my revulsion! Of all things in this world, I shrink most from bloodshed, or, indeed, from any form of violence. Poor dear Louis! Quite one of my oldest friends, you know! So very distressing that he should have taken such an ill-judged step! A man of his birth becoming a spy, and for Bonaparte, of all vulgar persons! One can only wonder at it. I had believed his ton to have been almost as unimpeachable as my own. I confess, it has been a dreadful shock to me. Are you acquainted with his father, the Marquis? A truly estimable creature. It must be an object with his friends to keep the sad truth from him. But as for sending false messages to poor Louis—really, I am overcome whenever I think of him!—I had no need to do anything so repugnant to one’s feelings as a gentleman. He lodged near the Strand; I had an engagement in Holborn; nothing could have been more natural than for him to give me his company. We walked together in perfect amity. It is the greatest comfort to me to reflect that he can never have known what happened to him. Oh, yes! He died almost instantly: it would have been a shocking thing in me to have bungled. I could not have supported the thought that he had suffered. Friendship carries with it the gravest obligations: I have always been sensible of that. I do feel that I performed the last possible office for him. Only fancy if he had been shot as a common spy! I must not allow my mind to dwell on such a horrid thing: it affects me profoundly.”
Carlyon drew a breath. “You should be felicitated on your resolution!” he said.
“Thank you, Carlyon, thank you a thousand times! It is always such a mistake to allow sentiment to outweigh judgment, is it not? I knew you must feel it so.”
“Don’t credit me with a similar resolution, I beg! I must forever fall short!”
“You disappoint me,” Francis said mournfully. “I had thought you must have entered into my feelings upon this event. You have such amazing good sense! Where must sentiment have led me and, I must point out to you, both our families and poor Louis too? I cannot think that you would have had me shut my eyes to treasonable activities! No, no, sentiment must have led Louis to an ignominious death, plunged my family into eclipse, embarrassed yours, and quite shattered the poor Marquis and his charming wife! We shall now brush through the affair quite silently.”
“I do not know that. But pray continue!”
“We have had such a digression that I forget which point I had reached. Ah, yes! Poor Louis’ failure to ransack Highnoons, was it not? His subsequent loss of decision encourages me to hope that he had not been for long engaged on that work. No better course suggested itself to him than to post to London to divulge the whole to my father. Yes, the discovery that his complicity was perfectly well-known to Louis quite overcame his lordship. As you are aware, he at once came into Sussex, but with what purpose in mind I know not. He had not the least idea where he should search for that memorandum. It is a source of constant wonder to me how I came to have such a cork-brained parent. However, I have not the slightest reason to believe that my poor mother played him false. It must remain an enigma. The turmoil his brain was got into by the time he again reached Brook Street was such that I flatter myself he greeted my arrival on his door step with relief. It needed only a trifle of persuasion—I am very persuasive, you know—to induce him to admit me at last into his confidence. I have seldom found him more ready to listen to my advice. It was most gratifying. I was obliged to point out to him that the state of his health demands that he should retire from public life. I really could not answer for his life if he were to continue in office. Thank God, I was able to bring him to acknowledge the justice of my arguments! He had not been aware of the danger in which he stood. How often a man will go on in his harness long after his friends have perceived that the time has come for his retirement!”
This was said in the gentlest tone, but had the effect of sending a cold shiver down Carlyon’s spine. His face remained impassive; he merely said, “I understand you, I believe.”
“Yes, I thought you would,” smiled Francis, carefully removing a speck of dust from his sleeve.
Carlyon stood silent for a moment, frowning down into the fire. His guest had sunk into a chair and now crossed one slim leg over the other and fell into admiration of the silver tassels on his Hessians. Carlyon looked up, saying abruptly, “How came you to know where the memorandum was hid?”
“My dear Edward, nothing could have been more obvious to me! Eustace assured my father that he had a hiding place which no one would ever think to suspect. You must know that the poor fellow cherished a touching regard for me. Yes, indeed. He had been trying for years to achieve my way with a cravat, with such distressing results, too! I must confess that his frequent invitations to me to visit him at Highnoons have done much to embitter my life. I have often wished I were not such a good-natured creature. I have felt myself several times obliged to gratify his desire to entertain me in Sussex. And I have no real taste for cognac, you know! But I well remember his placing a valuable snuffbox—I never discovered to whom it belonged—in that clock, and informing me with all the mystery engendered by a somewhat maudlin state of mind that whenever he had anything which he wanted no one to see he put it in this cunning place. He recounted with glee his having once coveted and obtained from your brother Harry some trinket or other which he allowed Harry to search for all over the house, secure in the knowledge that even so suspicious a person as Harry would not think to look in the clock. Fortunately, as it has chanced, he retained no recollection on the following morning of having taken me into his confidence. When I learned that all his papers were in your hands and that the memorandum was plainly not among them, it seemed to me more than probable that the clock had once more been put to a strangely improper use.”
“Good God, Cheviot, why could you not have come to me like an honest man and told me the whole?” Carlyon demanded.
“Really, my dear Edward, this is not worthy of you!” Francis protested. “Can you possibly suppose that anything other than the direst necessity has led me to confide in you today? Do, pray, consider! To be obliged to sit here, recounting to you the peculiar exploits of my father is an experience I shall not easily recover from. Your reserve made it impossible for me to discover the precise extent of your knowledge; my pre-eminent desire was to recover the memorandum while your suspicions remained unsubstantiated. Had Nicholas not entered the house at a most unnecessary moment, I must have succeeded. Poor boy! I dare say he would be quite sorry to think he had embarrassed me!”
“You are, I’m aware, a reckless gamester, but I would not advise your hazarding any considerable sum on that chance!” replied Carlyon caustically.
Francis smiled but said nothing. Carlyon bent and set another log on the fire and watched the flames curl round it. “Well, and now?”
Francis sighed. “I am quite in your hands, my dear Carlyon.”
Carlyon directed a frowning look at him. “Do you expect me to give that memorandum up to you?”
“You would be very wise to do so.” He saw the ironic gleam in Carlyon’s cool gray eyes and flung up a hand. “Oh, pray do not misunderstand me! Nothing could be further from my mind than offering you the least violence! No, no, I meant only to suggest that I can more readily restore that paper than can you. But as long as it is restored, and without scandal, I shall be excessively glad to be rid of it.”