“Four years! And the child?”

“She fell dead of a fever not long after Maria’s return — in ‘96, or thereabouts.” My poor Eliza’s voice must tighten; for she knew what it was to lose an only child.

“I have always observed, Eliza, that those who seem to possess a life graced with distinction, and every comfort or happy mark of Fortune, may conceal in fact the deepest sorrows,” I reflected. “How unhappy for the entire family!”

“Yes — but as Cosway can never survive a tragedy without turning it to account, he painted a portrait of the child on her deathbed, poignant in the extreme; and had Maria not forbidden it, he should have sold the engravings in the very streets! The man is the soul of self-promotion, Jane — has sunk art in the mire of commerce — and yet can protest that he is all selflessness and sacrifice! Were I shockingly ill-bred, I should laugh aloud! But it is of no consequence. Now his wife has deserted him, all his fashionable friends have quite thrown him over, I believe.”

“And yet the Prince appears to support him still.”

“The Prince! Yes, I believe he does. Whatever else Mr. Cosway may be — doomsayer, apocalypst, and practitioner of every kind of superstition — he is nonetheless possessed of the most exquisite taste in the arrangement of interiors, and is a connoisseur of the first rank. The Prince, they say, would be utterly lost without him, and should spend far more money to far less purpose than he already does.”

“Indeed,” I replied. “And how comes a mere painter to so elevated a place?”

Eliza did not scruple to abuse my stupidity. “Richard Cosway! A mere painter! Would you speak, my dear, of the great Cosway, who captured the likeness of Mrs. Fitzherbert, so that the Prince might wear it about his neck? The cunning miniaturist whose tokens in ivory are all the rage! Pray do not tell me you are ignorant of this, as of so much else in the fashionable world!”[25]

We had commenced to pace about the room in company with all of Bath, and I gave barely a moment to Eliza’s abuse, so intent was I upon glimpsing the Earl of Swithin.

“Jane! Are you attending?”

“I confess I care so little for the Prince and all his set, that I have never endeavoured to follow his example in anything, Eliza. This cannot seem so very wonderful, even to you.”

“But Cosway’s taste has set the mode of the age!” she protested. “He may look like a monkey, my dearest girl, but he is a cunning fellow, even brilliant in his way. Cosway would have it that every objet d’art, every fold of drapery, every touch of gilt in Carlton House is placed at his direction.[26] There can be few, I suppose, with so just a claim to having influenced fashion. In past years, of course, this was recognised — and barely a great name throughout the world failed to pay him homage, and seek his advice. But hardly anyone calls in Stratford Place, now that Maria has run away.”

“And yet he is such a figure! — Better suited to ride bareback at Astley’s, I should think, than to promenade in Bath!”[27]

“Indeed he does pay too much attention to matters of dress,” Eliza conceded. She was vulnerable on the point, in having made her attire the primary occupation of her life these twenty years at least. “I learned only last month that he possesses no less than forty waistcoats.”

“It is fortunate, then, that he is much at Carlton House — where such profligacy may go unremarked.”

“But you must own, Jane, that the notion of capturing the likeness of an eye in oils is utterly singular. In this, at least, you must confess Cosway’s peculiar brilliance. For it was entirely his own invention, I believe.”

“The likeness of an eye? This has become his particular art?”

“Of course! He began it with Maria Fitzherbert. The Prince conceals the image of her eye in a golden locket, that he is said to wear next to his heart. Even you must be aware that such intimate likenesses of a chère-amie, when worn about the person, are the last word in fashion. Observe.” She unbuttoned her dark grey pelisse and drew forth a pendant chain. “I myself have taken to wearing an eye.”

“Eliza! You would not!”

The Comtesse shrugged with infinite grace. “It is no more than any lady of good society would undertake, I assure you. And isn’t it fetching? Though Richard Cos-way is much above my touch, I fancy that Engleheart is equally presentable.[28] I particularly admire the set of the brow. Quite a rogue, he must have been.”

“Who, pray?”

“The gentleman who sat for the miniature, of course!”

“Then you are wholly unacquainted with him?”

“Naturally!” she rejoined blithely. “Would you suspect me of an intrigue against your dearest brother?”

“But, Eliza — to wear such a token, is to suggest to the world that you carry a tendre for a lover! I wonder Henry can bear it!”

“It was Henry who made a present of it to me,” Eliza retorted equably. “And he thinks the notion very good fun, I do assure you.” Her expression of amusement faded, and I saw that her interest was already claimed by another. She seized my arm in pleasurable agitation. “There, Jane! By the Visitors’ Book! It is the Earl! But to whom does he speak with such urgency?”

I followed the direction of her eyes. “To Mr. Hugh Conyngham, Eliza — the principal actor of the Theatre Royal.”

Chapter 4

The Eye in Question

12 December 1804, cont.

THE EARL OF SWITHIN, IN CONVERSE WITH MR. HUGH Conyngham! Were they, then, acquainted? And was it the actor alone who had drawn Lord Swithin in such haste to the Pump Room?

I stood as though rooted to the broad plank floor, transfixed by a shaft of wintry light. It fell directly upon the Earl’s fair head, as though in benediction, and revealed him as a gentleman not above the middle height, but powerful in his frame and general air of address — a commanding figure, much hardened by sport and exercise, and tailored to within an inch of its life. Lord Swithin’s countenance might be said to be handsome, for there was not an ill-made feature in it, but for the coldness that lurked in his bright blue gaze and the suggestion of bitterness about the mouth. This was not a man to be lightly crossed — and I could not wonder that Lady Desdemona had fled to Bath, rather than brook the tide of rage occasioned by her refusal.

“Jane!” Eliza hissed. “Pray turn your eyes away from his lordship, or we shall both be detected in the grossest vulgarity!”

But I was insensible of Eliza’s anxious looks, so compelling were the Earl and his interlocutor. With heads drawn close together and a flow of speech that suggested some urgency of matter, the two men must be canvassing the murder in Laura Place.

“Eliza,” I murmured, “is the Earl likely to recollect your acquaintance, so many years since in Bengal?”

“I should think not,” she replied stoutly. “It was his mother, you know, who called upon mine. I do not think he was even born before we quitted India entirely.”

“That is very well. Let us stroll about the room with as unconscious an air as possible.”

“We may attempt the stroll, Jane, but should abandon the unconscious air at the outset. You are not equal to it, darling girl. You have not the necessary schooling in deception.”

“Fiddlesticks,” I whispered viciously. “Speak to me of something diverting.”

“I have heard,” Eliza attempted immediately, “that though the Earl of Swithin’s title is of ancient pedigree, his considerable fortune has been amassed through trade.”