“And did the Archbishop condone her moral abandon?”

“That must remain a secret of Maria Fitzherbert’s heart. I have it on excellent authority that she continues to attend Mass — and must do so with a clear conscience. Nonetheless, dear Jane, the Carrolls and their powerful friends, at home and abroad, represent the very heart of the Recusant Ascendancy. If Mr. Ord is in the confidence of Sophia Challoner — as we know him to be — then the whole affair assumes an entirely different complexion.”

“—Because the crime of treason is then aligned with the cause of Catholic Emancipation?” I suggested. Lord Harold gripped the mantel and stared into the fire. “Exactly so. The interests of France, and the interests of a powerful body of the Opposition, must be united against the aims of the Crown — and, indeed, if our assumptions of Napoleon’s plans are valid — against the survival of the Kingdom itself. If it is true, and the truth is published — then the Whig Party is done for, Jane.”

Lord Harold’s agile mind, formed for politics, had leapt immediately in a direction I should never have taken alone. The Whig Party, and the Prince of Wales, had long espoused Catholic Emancipation, against the King’s firm support of the Church of England. The Whigs, therefore, must stand or die by the cause. If the Recusant Ascendancy — which included such powerful figures as the Duke of Norfolk, a member of the Carlton House set and crony to the Prince of Wales — were accused of treason, even by implication, then a kind of warfare should erupt on the streets of London that might make the Gordon Riots of 1780 look like child’s play. The Prince’s future must surely turn upon the outcome.

I thought of Mr. Ord — of the genial young man who had carried my volume of Marmion from East Street — and shook my head. “The construction is possible, my lord, but quite improbable. If deception were his aim, why should Mr. Ord impart only facts that must incriminate him? There was no guile, no stratagem in his looks; he was the soul of innocence. Indeed, he ever is. I cannot believe him so accomplished an actor — so hardened a criminal — as to utterly disguise the violence of his passions. Is it possible, my lord, that your fears turn upon a misapprehension?”

“That is certainly your preferred interpretation!”

he returned with acerbity. “You believe me guilty in general, Jane, of assuming what is false — I appear in your eyes as a doddering old fool, beguiled by emotions beyond the reach of reason. What spell has Sophia worked upon you, that you credit her lies more readily than the counsel of a confirmed friend? Do you doubt me — nay, do you doubt yourself, Jane — so much?”

This last was uttered in almost an undertone, with a conviction I had never remarked in Lord Harold’s accent before. I stared at him; the grey eyes were piercing, as though he would see into my soul. He had asked, Do you doubt yourself? —but he had meant: Do you doubt your power over me?

“Spell, indeed,” I said slowly. “Did you know that Mrs. Challoner is credited for a witch? I had the story of her serving girl, in the ruins yesterday.”

He scowled. “Young Flora? The mere child, with the wide blue eyes? What can she know of witchcraft?”

“She has seen strange lights bobbing on the Abbey ramparts in the middle of the night, and heard muttered conjurings in a tongue she cannot recognise. Perfumed smoke burns in the parlour at certain hours, and a man in a long black cloak — whom Mrs. Challoner calls mon seigneur—is admitted to the coven. Mr. Ord is a member, too.”

His gaze narrowed. “Perfumed smoke? Mutterings in a foreign tongue? Could the language be Latin, Jane?”

“—and the conjurings, nothing more than a

Catholic Mass? I suppose it is possible, my lord.”

“The man in the black cloak should then appear as a priest.”

“—who is addressed by his title of monsignor. Mrs. Challoner is certainly a Recusant; she informed me of the fact over shortbread and marzipan.”

“But is it solely a Mass the three would entertain?” Lord Harold muttered, “or are they so careless as to hatch French plots in the very Lodge itself?”

“We have no proof that plots are even under consideration!” I protested.

“You forget, Jane,” Lord Harold returned harshly. “A man in a dark cloak was seen racing from the burning seventy-four. Murder was done, and hopes ruined. This is an ugly business, and it shall turn more brutal still before it is quelled. You ignore that at your peril.”

I could make no immediate reply. I had forgot the murdered Mr. Dixon, and the testimony of Jeremiah the Lascar. I had wished to forget them — to clutch at the notion of a group of Catholics, worshiping in private, without political aim of any kind.

“Would they risk conspiracy before the servants?”

Lord Harold mused.

“Yesterday, certainly, when the staff were absent at divine service,” I replied.

“But why not continue to meet at the Abbey?”

“It is in general a lonely place — but on Sunday, must form a picture of sacred contemplation. Any number of pleasure-seekers might tour the ruins, of a Sunday in autumn when the weather is fine.”

“That is true,” he said thoughtfully. “And so we have them, the members of the coven: Sophia, Ord, and a man in a black cloak whom she calls mon seigneur, or monsignor. Who can he be, I wonder?”

I hesitated. “I suppose it is possible — although I have no proof—”

“When has proof ever stood in your way?” Lord Harold enquired ironically.

“The man might be a Portuguese, conversant in French, who goes by the name of Silva,” I replied.

“He was taken off the Peninsula by my brother’s ship, in the first week of September, and disembarked at Portsmouth. Frank declares that he intended, so he said, to find out no less a personage than Mrs. Fitzherbert, at her home in Brighton. He bore a letter of introduction to her.”

Lord Harold’s looks were shuttered. “And do you know who is to come to Netley Lodge this very morning? Shall I tell you whom Sophia Challoner entertains — and shall present to us both on Wednesday evening?”

“Do not say that it is Mrs. Fitzherbert!”

He turned in some agitation before the fire.

“Naturally. The first Catholic lady in the land. The friend of Mr. Ord’s patrons, and, it would seem, of Sophia Challoner as well. The affair wanted only to implicate the heir to the throne, to augur total success! With Mrs. Fitzherbert thrown into the brew, we risk a scandal that defies description! Would that I knew what to do!” he said savagely.

“But, my lord — it cannot be possible that Mrs. Fitzherbert should willingly endanger the career of the Prince of Wales! Whatever she may be — however ridiculed her morals — she remains entirely dedicated to his interests.”

“But if she were deceived? — If she believed she acted for his good ? Oh, that I knew how it was!”

I could offer no aid that might ease his mind; I maintained a troubled silence.

His lordship took up his hat with an abstracted expression.

“I will bid you good day,” he said. “I require further particulars, and it is possible I shall post to London tonight.”

“What of Orlando, my lord?”

“Orlando must fend for himself.” He settled his black stovepipe upon his head; the broad brim curving over his brow gave him a rakish air the London papers were determined to celebrate. “I shall attempt to consult Devonshire — his powers are fading, but still he will know what is best to do.”[21]

“Shall I see you at Mrs. Challoner’s reception, my lord?”

“I shamed her into extending me an invitation,” he replied with a curling lip, “and I shall move Heaven and Earth to be there. Grant me this favour, Jane!”

“If it is in my power.”

“Wear the gold crucifix you discovered in the passage about your neck on Wednesday night.” His eyes glinted. “I should like to see it claimed.”