Treacherous Temptations(36)

Hadley loosed his grip about the young man’s throat. “Perhaps to teach a lesson to an over-zealous whelp. Who sent you to meet me?”

“I am come under my own volition,” Cornbury snapped. “But you have not yet told me who you are.”

Hadley easily stared him down. “You need not know my name. That alone could get you dead.”

“Yet there is a certain element of mutual faith required for this meeting, is there not?”

Hadley replied with a half-smile, “You must satisfy yourself with the knowledge that I was sent by a mutual friend to meet with you. Now I ask, what is your purpose?”

Cornbury hesitated for a long beat, as if deliberating how much to reveal. In the end he exhaled the breath he’d been holding to reply, “I have letters. Very important letters. They are assurances of support that must be conveyed to Paris with all dispatch.”

“Might I know precisely to whom these letters are to be delivered?”

“They are intended for Monsieur le Marquis de Grosbois. Can I entrust them to you??

?To the French foreign secretary?? Hadley gave a bark of laughter. ?Treasonous letters indeed. Documents that will see me hanged…or worse…if they are found on my person. Why should I undertake such a risk for you??

?It is not for me but for Britain! Do you not see what is happening in this country? The government is rife with corruption and the popular discontent has risen to levels unknown since the South Sea scandal. You need only visit the coffee houses or attend the theatre to see it.?

?There is always political discord amongst the English,? Hadley scoffed. ?We are well-famed for it. The right to riot is a matter of English pride…and it means nothing.”

“You are wrong, sir! The time is growing ripe for a rising and only needs men of principle to come forth and muster the masses. Men like William Pulteney at The Craftsman who are working to expose the corruption and vice that plague our government like maggots on a rotting carcass. Those of us fortunate enough to hold positions of rank and privilege must stand up.”

Hadley regarded the younger man with disdain. “And you appoint yourself to such a role?”

“Indeed I do, sir.” Lord Cornbury jutted his jaw. “I come from a long line of staunch Tories who have never forgotten to whom the British throne rightfully belongs.”

“And why do you think you will succeed when so many others have failed? A French-backed invasion headed by James himself failed in ‘08. The Scots rose in ‘15 and were decimated. The Spanish Armada sunk in the attempt of ‘19. And only five years ago when Bishop Atterbury—”

“Atterbury was betrayed! The rising did not fail for lack of support, sir, but because there was a damned Judas within the midst!”

A fact that Hadley knew only too well, for he in fact, was the Judas who had copied the Bishop’s correspondence with the Pretender. This very meeting was equally duplicitous, for though he was sent from Rome as James’ emissary, Sir Richard had demanded the identities of those who plotted an insurrection. Indeed, this was one of the conditions to be met for Hadley to regain his title, but now in confronting the very man, barely more than a youth, who would commit treason, to risk his life for his ideals, Hadley felt an intense stab of guilt, and an unsettling awareness of his own unworthiness.

Had he ever stood up for anyone or anything without some personal gain? Not that he could recall. Bloody hell! First Mary, and now this?

“I’ll carry your letters, Cornbury,” he said after his disturbing moment of introspection, “but only after I have confirmed your claims with my own eyes and ears. I will do nothing on hearsay.”

Meeting Cornbury’s steady gaze, Hadley accepted the letters.

The viscount repeated, “Trust is indeed a mutual bargain.”





Chapter Fourteen


Mary’s entire day was filled with painstaking preparations for the opera. Lady Blanchard had summoned the mantua maker and her assistants to do the final fittings and finish the three formal gowns she had ordered for Mary, mantuas in silk damasks of buttercup yellow, soft ivory, and sea green, with fine laces such as she had never dreamt of wearing.

“Which one shall I wear this evening, my lady?” Mary asked the countess, unable to choose between the three loveliest gowns she had ever seen.

“The ivory,” the countess answered. “It evokes a certain virginal quality, does it not?”

“Oui, Madame,” answered the mantua-maker. “It is parfait for the young maid to make her debut. Since it is the Royal Opera, we shall add the seed pearl stomacher. Oui? It will be charmante.”

“It will do,” the countess replied. “Show yourself to me when you are dressed, Mary.” The countess departed to attend to her own preparations.

For the next three exhaustive hours, Mary was forced to stand and pose until every muscle ached while the sempstresses prodded and pricked her with pins, as they worked furiously to complete the gown.

Another excruciating hour was spent on her hair, but when finished, Mary gazed at her reflection with incredulity. Dressed in the damask sacque of ivory silk with a matching ribbon woven through loose curls, she could hardly recognize herself. It was as if Jenny and the dressmaker had worked some kind of magic. Although she would never presume to call herself beautiful, Mary was nevertheless amazed at the transformation.