“Mr. Canning and Lord Castlereagh being the cattle in question?”

“Naturally. George Canning — who held the Foreign Office — was devilish jealous of the conduct of war in Spain, which ought to have been Castlereagh’s province as Minister of War. The two were forever despatching conflicting orders. They had each their own sources of intelligence, and would not admit the other’s to be worthy of consideration. They favoured different generals, and sent them on private errands all over the globe. At last Canning encouraged Portland and his fellow Cabinet members to support Castlereagh’s misguided campaign in the Baltic — in the hope it would occupy the War Minister, if not explode in his face. As, indeed, it did. There is a good deal of petty cunning in Cabinet intrigue, Miss Austen — and a good deal of personal vengeance exacted in the name of national cause.”

“I thought, from Lord Harold’s words, that something more lay behind the jealousy and disputes,” I said. “A deliberate intent to confuse events and destroy the nation’s chances — from an ardent desire to see Buonaparte win … ”

Lord Moira’s hands clenched on the reins, and his chestnuts jibbed at the cut of the bit.

“But what you would suggest, Miss Austen … is that someone in government is guilty of treason!”

“Exactly,” I replied.

WE WERE ARRIVED IN SLOANE STREET WELL BEFORE I succeeded in convincing my gallant Earl that such perfidy as deliberate sabotage was possible among honourable men. Indeed, I do not think I convinced him of it. Lord Moira was inclined to regret his confidences — his freedom with both speech and memory — and to regard me as an interfering woman. It was only as he helped me to step down from the curricle — and I declared my ankle already mended as a result of his solicitude — that he said, with a visible air of trouble, “I should not regard our conversation, Miss Austen, as of the slightest consequence — the merest exchange of trifling incident between mutual acquaintances of a very singular gentleman. How I wish we still had Harry among us! But alas—”

“Indeed,” I returned equably. “But allow me to confess, Lord Moira, that his lordship knew me for a close-mouthed creature of no mean understanding; else he should never have entrusted me with such a legacy, on the very point of death. I spoke to you, my lord, in the same spirit of trust I should have adopted in speaking to Lord Harold. The treason I intimated—”

I broke off, as the Earl glanced about us apprehensively, lest the child-strewn streets of Hans Town inform against him—“the treason I intimated, has in all probability continued unabated. Reflect that it has, in large measure, proved successful.”

“What? Tush! The case is entirely altered with the Regent come into power—”

“Lord Castlereagh’s desperate campaign in the north was foiled by lack of confidence,” I continued implacably, “yet it drew off men and arms that might better have combated the French in the Peninsula— thereby achieving a double blow against England’s hopes. But a few months later, two great minds— Castlereagh’s and Canning’s — were forced from governance and allowed to prey upon each other as the objects of frustrated ambition and policy. The Kingdom was the true victim of that duelling ground, when the two ministers met to defend their honour in the autumn of 1809. Neither has been returned to high office since, and policy has floundered. And now, as the Regent would take up his chance, and consider of appointing these two gentlemen once more — Lord Castlereagh’s reputation is besmirched by rumour and murder.”

“Princess Tscholikova.” Moira said it heavily, as tho’ the name were a curse. “But the coroner has declared that she killed herself!”

“Pish! I no more credit the notion than you do. It was here in Sloane Street, I think, that you remarked upon the singularity of her death — and how it must delight Lord Castlereagh’s enemies. You are a Whig, sir — one of the most highly-placed in the land — and can have no love for Lord Castlereagh’s politics. But you have served in government, and comprehend the intrigues of those who place power above all else — even country. Surely you might compose a list of Lord Castlereagh’s enemies?”

The Earl hesitated, his gaze focused on something beyond my visage; I believe he saw in memory a pantomime of the past, replete with images whose significance he only now apprehended. Then he bowed low, and said hurriedly, “You have given me to think, my dear. May I call upon you — send round a missive — hope to converse again of all we have discussed?”

“Certainly,” I answered, and curtseyed. “I should be honoured.”

It was enough to hope the Earl did not file my existence away, among his notes of hand and tradesmen’s duns.

Chapter 17

The Long Arm of the Tsar

Saturday, 27 April 1811

I WAS AWAKENED FROM MY SLUMBERS THIS MORNING by a gentle scratching at the bedchamber door, and having donned my dressing gown and hurried my feet into slippers, discovered Manon in the upper hall. She was neatly arrayed in her customary charcoal gown, but she wore a cloak of blue wool and a straw bonnet trimmed with a bunch of cherries. When I would have spoken, she held a gloved finger to her lips and glanced down the hall towards my brother’s room.

I motioned her within the bedchamber and closed the door.

“Druschka,” she whispered. “She walks in Cadogan Place. I observed her from the scullery window, all hunched and miserable, and saw that she glanced continually at this house. She wishes to share a confidence — I feel it! Will you accompany me?”

“Allow me five minutes,” I returned, “and I shall join you on the flagway.”

The maid nodded, and slipped like a shadow back into the hall. I splashed water from the ewer onto my face, donned a simple walking gown of sarcenet, brushed my chestnut hair into a knot, and chose a pair of stout half-boots of bottle-green jean. I lost precious time in the fastening of these, and was forced to snatch at the serviceable but sober bonnet that served my country walks in Chawton. I hastened below with a minimum of noise, and found Manon awaiting me in the front hall.

“I did not like to tarry on the flagway, lest Druschka espy me and wonder at my failure to join her,” she explained. “It is best, I think, if I approach her first; do you wait a few moments, mademoiselle, and then happen upon me as tho’ the meeting were a matter of chance.”

“Very well,” I said, and wished I had time enough for the brewing of tea in the interval.

Manon quitted the house, as was proper, by the servants’ entrance at the rear; and in a few moments I glimpsed her striding confidently towards the green. The clock on Eliza’s mantel chimed seven; the Russian woman had escaped from her quarters on Hans Place at an early hour. For an instant I considered of her present existence: surrounded by powerful men — Prince Pirov and his followers — who kept their own servants and undoubtedly regarded

Druschka as a pitiful old retainer, not worth the slightest consideration. Even her grief should be read as an offence — the Druschkas of the world were not allowed to feel. It was hardly wonderful that she sought comfort in solitary rambles.

Manon’s mother, Madame Bigeon, was audibly moving about the kitchen; I ventured towards that region of the house and saw to my relief that tea was already in the pot. Madame Bigeon poured me out a cup, and offered me bread and jam, which I gratefully accepted.

“I am going out for a walk,” I said brightly. “The weather is so very fine!” The old woman gave a brief nod of the head, and returned to preparing Eliza’s breakfast tray. Several fowls lay upon a scrubbed oak table, ready for the plucking, and the sight of their limp necks instantly recalled to mind the Princess Tscholikova. I averted my gaze, the bread and jam lodging uncomfortably in my throat, and made my way to the servants’ door.