“What has that to say to your presence?”

“Do not play propriety with me, Henry,” I told him warningly. “I am no more broken to saddle than Eliza. If you do not agree to escort me to Bow Street, I shall walk the whole way by myself.”

Henry stopped still in the middle of the gallery, the stream of visitors flowing around us like rainwater round a pebble. “Jane, I cannot think you a victim of vulgar curiosity. Why does the lady’s self-murder trouble you so?”

“I cannot credit it.”

“—Tho’ she was a stranger to you? Tho’ you are entirely unacquainted with her history, her morals, her character?”

“I might learn more of all three from the coroner’s inquest,” I observed.

Henry lifted his hands in amazement. “A formality, merely! The whole business cannot demand above an hour — and will conclude as it began, with the judgement of suicide!”

“You do not credit Lord Moira’s opinion? — That the lady was killed by another, and Castlereagh must certainly fall under suspicion?”

“I do not. The Earl is a Whig, Jane, and should wish calamity upon all Tories even had the Princess never been born.”

I strolled towards a depiction of Attic ruins. “Tell me about Lord Castlereagh. What sort of man is he?”

“Respected by many, but loved by few. A cold fellow of decision and despatch, but pig-headed by all accounts and incapable of compromise. Lord Castlereagh must and shall be judged correct, in all his dealings, and will brook no criticism. Such a man may command well enough in the field — but may swiftly bring disaster on his government colleagues at home.”

“You describe the arbiter of policy, Henry. I would learn more of Robert Stewart, the man. What are his passions? His attachments? His loyalties?”

My brother hesitated. “I cannot rightly say. I am hardly intimate with his lordship; I know only what I read of him in the papers, and what Eliza may tell me. She is a little acquainted with Lady Castlereagh, who is forever throwing open the house on Berkeley Square to all the world.”

“Has he any children?”

“None.”

“Perhaps there is no love between the lord and his lady.”

“I cannot undertake to say. The marriage has endured for many years, and no breath of scandal has attached itself to the principals — until the Morning Post chose to publish the Princess Tscholikova’s private correspondence. Indeed, had she written to anyone other than his lordship — George Canning, perhaps, or another Tory member — I might have been less surprised. It is a part of Castlereagh’s coldness to find little of beauty in any woman. He prefers the society of gentlemen.”

“What! He does not frequent the Muslin Company?”

“Jane!” Henry replied, with an expression of distaste. “What has Eliza been teaching you?”

“Nothing I did not already know.”

“To my knowledge, Castlereagh is singularly disinterested in women of that order.”

“—And our Henry is all astonishment! Is a Barque of Frailty so necessary to a gentleman’s comfort?”

“In one way, at least: the company such a woman attracts is vital to any man of policy. You can have no notion, Jane, of the gentlemen who assemble in Harriette Wilson’s salon each evening — both Whigs and Tories may be found there. Lady Cowper’s drawing-rooms — or Lady Castlereagh’s — are as nothing to it. Some of the most powerful movers in the Kingdom meet at Harriette Wilson’s feet; and I do not scruple to say that more decisions of moment are taken in her company than in the House of Lords. One is neither Whig nor Tory in Miss Wilson’s circle; one merely worships at the altar of the divine Harriette.”

“I have it on excellent authority that her star is on the wane,” I said. “Julia Radcliffe has supplanted her.”

“Now you would speak of Canning’s latest flirt,” Henry said.

“Mr. Canning should never be adjudged cold, then, by his fellows?”

“Far from it. No less exalted a personage than Princess Caroline was once the object of Canning’s gallantry, if you will believe; and tho’ he is spoken of as a devoted husband and father, his family does not reside in London.[8] The eldest son is sickly, and must be often in the care of a particular physician; Mrs. Canning is quite a slave to her child, and neglects her husband. Canning was used to be met with often at Harriette Wilson’s — and I understand it was she who introduced Julia Radcliffe to his society.”

“Eliza would have it that Radcliffe is beloved of the Comte d’Entraigues.”

“Indeed?” Henry stared at me in some amusement. “Canning and d’Entraigues were once great friends — tho’ I do not see them go about together so often now that Canning is out of government. Perhaps the Barque of Frailty has come between them.”

“Princess Tscholikova was also acquainted with d’Entraigues,” I mused, “for his wife told us as much; but I cannot see how that is to the point.”

“None of this highly diverting gossip will have anything to say to the murder — self-achieved or otherwise — of the Princess,” Henry observed. “You had better seek for your information in Bow Street, Jane.”

“And yet — the rumour surrounding a man may reveal so much of his character,” I returned. “I am endeavouring to make Castlereagh’s out. He is, after all, at the centre of this business. If all you say of his lordship’s probity and coldness is correct — then the idea of his entanglement with the Princess is absurd. But there on his doorstep she was found! Can this be Canning’s revenge, perhaps? Having been worsted in a duel, did he think to ruin Lord Castlereagh with scandal — and sacrifice the Princess to his ends?”

Henry snorted. “George Canning’s ambitions are everywhere known, Jane — but not even Canning would risk hanging in the service of such a cause. You indulge the worst sort of lady’s fancy, and make of a gentleman an ogre.”

“I wish it were more the fashion for ladies to study politics, Henry,” I said despondently. “I am persuaded the answer to the Princess’s death lies there— with the powerful men surrounding her — and yet the web of faction is so tangled, I cannot see how.”

“You are missing Lord Harold, Jane.” My brother slipped my hand through his arm, and led me further into the gallery. “What do you think of that portrait? I cannot admire a likeness taken in watercolour; I am all for Mr. Lawrence, and his oils.”

Chapter 8

The Lumber-Room of Memory

Thursday, 25 April 1811, cont.

HENRY HAD SPARED MORE THAN AN HOUR FROM his banking concern to guide me through the exhibition, which being newly mounted, was the object of the Polite World’s interest for a fleeting time; so numerous were the patrons, that I confess I was nearly crushed in navigating the narrower passages. Picturesque landscapes, and vignettes of the sea; portraits of beauty and youth — they each had something to recommend them; but in truth my attention was equally held by the personages I saw everywhere around me. In a Hampshire village as intimate as Chawton, the society is unvarying; its delights are to be found in the small but telling transformations of personal character over time. In London, however, the richness and variety of the spectacle — in dress, equipages, retinues, and remarks — is an endless enticement to the ear and eye. I could not divide my time equally between the gallery walls and the opulent crowd milling about me; and so at length professed myself exhausted, and ready to quit the place.

Henry saw me safely into a hackney cab, being intent upon his offices in Henrietta Street; and tho’ the day was advancing, and I was a little tired, and considering of the last few pages of my book yet to be proofed, I let down the window of the coach and directed the driver in an entirely opposite direction to Hans Town.