Page 46 of Unending Joy
“Whyever for?” Patience asked.
“Parliament must be kept sitting to finish the accursed Bill of Pains and Penalties,” Faith replied.
“What an odd name for a bill, though quite fitting all the same,” Patience muttered. “All because King George is behaving as obstinately as any spoilt schoolboy and must press the Lords to strip poor Caroline of Brunswick of her rank.”
“Do not let anyone else hear you say that!” the Dowager gasped.
“’Tis naught but the truth, and it will not gain him any favours with his people.”
Joy concurred. Especially not with her.
Freddy enteredthe coffee room at White’s to discover Montford and Rotham already entrenched upon a sofa, brandies in hand, arguing whether the Lords should pass the Pains and Penalties Bill and strip the Queen Consort of her title—or whether, as Rotham contended, the very attempt had made a heroine of the errant consort.
A pile of newspapers littered the table with various headlines: ‘Queen Consort accused of adultery,’ ‘King George Appeals to Parliament for Divorce,’ ‘Pains and Penalties debated in Lords.’ Montford, whose cynicism on domestic politics was usually unshakeable, now thumped each paper as though it were artillery in a siege. Rotham objected that the real mischief was the delay of the coronation until August, thereby forcing every respectable household to remain sweltering in London when they should have taken refuge in the shires. Freddy drank a light ale and listened for ten patient minutes, but his thoughts were inclined to wander. Frankly, he had no head for politics, divorce bills, or the moral fate of Caroline of Brunswick. If the marriage was so distasteful to both parties, then why should it continue? At least King George hadn’t beheaded her like Henry the VIII had when he could no longer abide his wives!
A lull occurred when Westwood, Carew, and Stuart arrived. Freddy seized it.
“Have you discovered anything about St. John, Stuart?”
Stuart accepted a drink from the waiter, then answered, “To be fair, my researches show nothing nefarious. Colonel St. John’s commission is honourably held. There is no trace of any complaint against him.”
The group shifted uncomfortably at this news. Carew set down his glass, shrugged broad shoulders, and said, “And my enquiries revealed no hints of dipping too deep at the tables.”
“Debts of honour are not recorded in ledgers,” Freddy countered. “A vowel may pass from hand to hand.”
Carew gave a shrug. “Perhaps he avoids the gaming hells, which is from whence my sources hail.” He took a sip of brandy. “I share your instinct, Cunningham, yet evidence runs thin. Have you anything besides instinct?”
“Nothing beyond seeing the man at Ascot,” Freddy admitted. “Though Joy mentioned that a similar man appeared to be watching the modiste the other day. Perhaps there is nothing more than coincidence, but I cannot shake the sensation that something is not right.”
Stuart regarded him gravely. “Instinct saved many a soldier in the Peninsula. I would not discount it.”
Carew leaned forward. “What do you propose?”
“We could have him followed,” Stuart spoke up. “But in the meantime, I have no indication there is any harm in his continued courtship of Joy.”
“If that is what it is. He has not spoken to me,” Westwood confided.
A silence followed, filled by the hum of conversations around them. Freddy took the brandy set before him yet did not raise it to his lips. “What of St. John’s family?”
Stuart shuffled pages from a small leather notebook. “Second son and heir of Earl Trenton. His brother, the Earl, has no male issue, so I imagine this is why St. John now seeks a young wife. My enquiries have revealed he inherited a modest property, one Hathersall Priory in South Yorkshire, which has been let during his time in service to His Majesty.”
“Modest,” echoed Rotham. “Might be burdened. A let estate may as readily devour rents in repairs as generate income if there are no prosperous farms to support it.”
Stuart nodded. “The agent’s last report mentions timber blown down in the great gale and a roof needing slate. Nothing ruinous, but nothing to indicate great prosperity either.”
“Hence the possible need for an heiress,” Montford concluded. “And Joy, with Westwood’s guardianship and the dowry, is precisely that.”
“Do we fault him? Half the Marriage Mart runs on the same calculation.” Rotham was ever practical.
Freddy swallowed the bitter taste uncertainty left on his tongue. “I fault no man for wanting security,” he said. “I fault a man only if he trades truth for it.”
Carew leaned back, regarding him shrewdly. “You believe his suit lacks sincerity?”
Freddy’s fingers tightened round his glass. “I believe it lacks transparency.”
Westwood’s brows drew together. “You mentioned that Joy described a lurking fellow. Her vision is uncertain.”
“With the spectacles her vision is acute enough to distinguish a watcher from a passer-by,” Freddy replied coldly, then moderated his tone. He turned to Stuart. “You offered a plan. Put it in motion.”
