“You shall not horrify me, my dear. I am no respecter of snobbish distinction. He retains the claims of a gentleman.”

“But perhaps the nature of his trading may surprise you. The Earl is given to running opium, no less, out of Bengal to China, and using private ships to do it. He learned the habit of his father, and since that gentleman’s demise has greatly increased the activity. Henry heard the tale only last week, while lunching at Boodle’s.”[29]

“The Earl? An opium trader? I may hardly credit it!”

Eliza’s dark eyes glinted deliciously. “Do not sound so astonished, my dearest Jane. You must know that the Honourable Company has long employed opium as an antidote to tea.[30] We import so very much of that leaf, and can sell little to advantage in China; our debt in trade — or its imbalance, as Henry might put it — for many years bid fair to sink us; the kingdom bled bullion as from an open wound; but matters of late have righted themselves, and all on account of the Chinese taste for opium. Such men as the Earl must receive our thanks, however much the Government officially abhors their activity. And so the world turns round—we import tea from China; China imports opium from India; and India imports woolens from Manchester! Admirable, is it not, how the yearnings and vices of the multitude provide Lord Swithin with a dashing carriage and four?”

“Admirable or otherwise, it cannot be very agreeable to claim the opium trade as occupation,” I observed. “I wonder whether His Grace the Duke of Wilborough is cognizant of the Earl’s activity?”

We had progressed very nearly to a position opposite the Visitors’ Book, where the Earl and the actor were as yet engrossed. I halted in our promenade, and turned my back upon the pair. Their voices drifted very faintly to my ears — a word or two only. “Continue conversing, Eliza, I beg — but speak of lace, or the price of muslin, in as audible a tone as you may manage.”

Of all things required, my sister was equal to this; and she prated on happily about the number of flounces so necessary to a fashionable gown for evening, and the appearance of epaulettes, in deference to the heightened military style inevitable in such a climate, while I endeavoured to overlisten our neighbours’ conversation. It was the Earl’s voice, acute and low, I first discerned.

“… must have the letters.”

“I tell you they are not …” (indistinguishable words) “… and … is most disagreeable at present. I cannot assure your lordship … influence with her.”

“Then I must see her myself.”

“That would … unwise. I cannot answer …”

“… is due to me! I have wasted … a hands-breadth to the gallows!”

“… time.”

“I have had enough of your time! Time has brought me only grief and vexation, sir!” This last was very nearly shouted, so that the enraged Earl was rewarded with the shocked glance of several in the Pump Room; and after an exasperated sigh, he lowered his voice once more. The next words were almost inaudible.

“… expect you to … method of securing my …”

Had I truly heard it aright? Securing what — the Earl’s freedom? His reputation? His interest?

His letters?

“… well. Good day, my lord.”

“Good day.” All private business concluded, the Earl achieved a more civil tone. “And remember me to your sister, Conyngham. I shall be in attendance at Orchard Street tomorrow.”

The actor bowed; the Earl received his deference with a faint air of irritation; and so they parted. Lord Swithin quitted the Pump Room by the door immediately opposite the Visitors’ Book, apparently intent upon returning to the White Hart. Hugh Conyngham plunged towards the opposite end of the vast hall. There was an expression of anxiety and despair upon his countenance I could not like.

“I must leave you, Eliza,” I said. “Forgive me. My compliments and best love to Henry — we hope to see you this evening in Green Park Buildings to drink tea, if you are not otherwise engaged.”

“What have you heard, Jane?” Eliza enquired with penetration.

“I hardly know. Everything — or nothing. Who can say?”

“Jane—” My sister reached a hand to my arm, restraining me when I would depart. “Had you not better leave such things to the magistrate, Mr. Elliot?”

“I do not understand you, Eliza,” I retorted.

“And as for tea—”

The Henry Austens were to attend the concert that evening in the Upper Rooms — a recitation of love songs in the Italian by Mrs. Billington[31] — and Eliza was pressing in her invitation that Cassandra and I should make an addition to the party. Though I may accomplish a Scotch air on the pianoforte with pleasure, I am in the general way no friend to music. Singing, I own, induces a tedium that may be relieved only by a thorough review of one’s neighbour’s attire and conversation. And for the present, all thought of love songs, Italian or otherwise, must be banished by the interesting notion of the Earl and the actor united in intrigue.

But I promised Eliza most faithfully to propose the scheme to my sister — and with a kiss to her cheek, ran thankfully away.

IN COMPARATIVE SOLITUDE I PASSED THROUGH QUEEN Square, where the first golden glow of an unfashionably early dinner hour now shone through the modest windows. My mother will persist in hankering after the square — it was the most select address that Bath afforded, in her girlhood — but the narrowness of the rooms will never do for so large a party as ours. She must be content with a weekly visit to the Queen’s chapel, where we hear divine service of a Sunday, and a passage through its park when business draws her to that part of town. We are treated, however, to a daily recitation of Queen Square’s advantages, and must allow it to be superior to every other location in Bath if we are to achieve any domestic peace.

I thrust my mother from my mind in the present instance, however, and saw again in memory the Earl of Swithin. What could such a man — of so lofty an establishment, and so recently descended upon the town — have to say to Hugh Conyngham? Who, however admirable his skill as a thespian, is as yet a provincial player, without birth or connexions to recommend him? I had expected to hear Richard Portal’s name, or at the very least Lord Kinsfell’s — and yet the two had spoken only of letters. Whose? And who was the mysterious she?

Maria Conyngham?

The actress’s magnificent form limned itself on the paving-stones at my feet, like an enchantress materialising out of the common snow and dirt; and I knew her immediately for a woman any man might die to possess. Maria Conyngham had fire, beauty, and all the spirit to be expected in one untrammelled by society’s conventions. I should not find it remarkable if her charms had ensnared a legion heretofore unknown to me — not least amongst them, the redoubtable Earl.

And then I sighed. Upon reflection, I should never be privileged to learn the truth — for my part in the drama must surely be at an end. With the Earl come in haste to Bath, and Lord Harold not far behind, any office I might have fulfilled, as silent duenna to Lady Desdemona, should be for naught. The unfortunate girl would be sent away to London, as soon as attention could be spared her, while the efforts of her relations should be turned to the vindication of the heir. The charge of murder brought against Simon, Lord Kinsfell, must throw his sister’s private troubles entirely into the shade.

And so it was in no very great humour that I pulled the bell of No. 27, in Green Park Buildings, and awaited the advent of Mary, the housemaid. She opened to my summons before the last peals had entirely died away.