“I cannot think whom you mean, sir.” And, indeed, Mr. Emilious and I could never be described as moving in a similar set, excepting those rare occasions when the claims of duty bring us both into Kent. He spends the better part of his days in Town, apparently content to lead a fashionable and sporting life; a widower these five-and-twenty years, he may escort any number of ladies about the routs of the ton, without the slightest betrayal of susceptibility. A suspicion of his having met with my cunning sister Eliza, the little comtesse, animated me briefly — but Henry would be the most suitable person to receive that intelligence, not myself.

“I had understood that you were a little acquainted with my intimate friend, Lord Harold Trowbridge,” Mr. Emilious persisted.

I set down my wineglass with an attempt at ease, but the quickness of the blood in my cheek surely betrayed a deeper sensibility. “And hashord Harold, then, an intimate friend? Such a singular intelligence must certainly astonish!” I had not received a word from my Dark Angel in fully eight months, beyond a brief message of condolence at the death of my father this January last. A gentleman never writes to a lady of his acquaintance, of course, unless there is an understanding — an open or a secret engagement of marriage — and despite Lord Harold's perpetual disregard for convention, he should be unlikely to expose me to censure through a careless impropriety. But he might have paid a call while yet we remained in Bath — he might even have sought me out in Kent, had his regard or his necessity warranted such attention. His evident disinclination, tho' only to be expected from a gentleman of his solitary habits and elusive purpose, had fallen like a shower of coldest rain upon an unguarded head.

I will confess here in the privacy of my little book that I have missed our conversations — the intimacy of shared thought, and the ready understanding, so rare between a man and a woman. Lord Harold has never taught me to entertain expectations of a deeper interest on his side— our manner of living is so different, and the disparity of birth too great—:but I had come to depend upon the notion of his friendship. This was foolish, perhaps, in respect of a man whose heart and mind are opened to no one; Trowbridge is the sort to profit by an acquaintance, as occasion dictates, and move on without a backwards glance. I had been thrown off, in short, when my utility to His Lordship was done; and I resented the change.

Mr. Emilious, I found, was studying me narrowly as I turned the stem of my wineglass between my fingers; and so I strove for the appearance of composure. “I knew His Lordship a litde in Bath last winter. His niece, Lady Desdemona Trowbridge — the Countess of Swithin, rather — and I were thrown much together.”

“On account of that dreadful business with the Theatre Royal,” Mr. Emilious returned. “You rendered the entire Wilborough clan an inexpressible service, Miss Austen. Trowbridge himself could not say enough of your understanding — and from such a quarter, that must be the highest praise, indeed.”

What exactly Mr. Emilious had heard of my adventures in Bath the previous Christmas — which had come nearer to compromising my reputation than any of my impetuous forays to date — was left in doubt.[43] I surveyed his countenance for the slightest hint of excessive familiarity — for an odious approach to the indelicate — and could discern nothing but respectful admiration. I drew breath, accordingly, and enquired, “His Lordship is well?”

“My intelligence of Lord Harold is no more recent than March,” my companion replied. “We dined together but two days before his departure for the Russian court — and he then appeared much as he always does: a trifle weary of the world and his place in it, but whether due to excessive application, or excessive boredom, who can say? I saw him into the Portsmouth coach the following morning. He was to embark on a Navy frigate, since travel across the Continent is made so perilous for an Englishman. But I am forgetting — no doubt you are well-acquainted with His Lordship's route.”

“Well-acquainted? Astonishment very nearly deprived me of speech. “But I have not met with Lord Harold these eight months at least.”

“I am excessively surprised,” Mr. Emilious cried. “I had understood from his latest communication that you were completely in his confidence; that he regarded you, indeed, as one of the few among his friends who might wholly be trusted.”

I flushed. “Trust, Mr. Emilious, is a suspect quality in Lord Harold's hands.”

“So I comprehend.” He was silent an instant, his gaze fixed absently on Lady Elizabeth's hideous candelabra. A faint breeze — or the current of conversation in the room, perhaps — stirred its flames fitfully.

“Are you at liberty to disclose the nature of His Lordship's errand to Russia?” I enquired delicately. “Or does discretion forbid the particulars?”

Mr. Emilious regarded me with calculation, a fine line between his brows; his easy manner was entirely fled. “I am told it is impolite to mention politics before a lady,” he said slowly, “but I intend no disrespect to yourself, Miss Austen, in declaring that you have never been accorded that fragile status by Lord Harold. He assures me that you possess the keenest understanding in the world, and are conversant in everything that one must, from convention, reserve solely to the affairs of men.”

“I cannot admit to having bagged a grouse, Mr. Finch-Hatton, nor to having sported a pipe of Virginia tobacco; but I may confess to a glancing acquaintance with the London papers.”

“You have heard, then, of the Anglo-Russian accord?”

I stared at him indifferently. “Is there anyone who has not? It was ratified, I believe, but a few weeks ago.”

Mr. Emilious had the frankness to smile; he glanced involuntarily at his niece, Miss Louisa, and said: “Few ladies, Miss Austen, have the strength to tear their gazes from the fashion plates of La Belle Assemblee, in support of news from abroad. I doubt that one in an hundred could tell me what you clearly apprehend— that the Tsar of all the Russias, Alexander the First, has at long last admitted to a distrust of Napoleon, and pledged to stand with England against the French.”

“I shall value His Imperial Majesty's pledges the more when once they are put to the test,” I observed. “My naval brothers assure me that we must benefit from the exchange, in gaining freedom for our ships in northern waters; Mr. Pitt has long since struck a bargain with Gustavus of Sweden towards this very end — but what good can England hope to return, to the Tsar of all the Russias? Did the French purpose to acquire his snowy steppes, we should hardly intervene.”

“But we may serve to further Alexander's dearest interest,” Mr. Emilious countered. “The Tsar has long desired the conquest of Ottoman lands to the south of his present borders; and in this, he rivals the French. A year ago he recalled his ambassador from Paris; as recently as May, he was made distinctly uneasy by Buonaparte's seizure of the Italian crown. The fall of the Lig-urian Republic this summer has further excited his anxiety. But he bears us no love, for all that; in clasping the hand of the English, Alexander has chosen the lesser of the evils available to him.”

“I must believe that the Russian mind is forever closed to the open heart of an Englishman.”

“—unless that Englishman be Lord Harold Trow-bridge.”

I smiled involuntarily. Mr. Emilious was correct; in the Gentleman Rogue, Tsar Alexander's ministers would meet the most inscrutable of adversaries. “His Lordship was instrumental in the accord's completion, I collect?”

“He was — tho' the credit shall go publicly to another. That is only as he would wish; he has quitted the Russian court already some weeks, and at present exerts his delicate influence with the Hapsburg Emperor. For an alliance to stand firm against the French, Mr. Pitt must secure the Austrians at any cost.”[44]