A Dangerous Fortune(111)



“Of course, of course,” he said, and he subsided into a chair and peered at her through his grimy spectacles.

She told him in a few crisp sentences about Ben Greenbourne’s peerage.

“Most regrettable, most regrettable,” he blabbered nervously. “However, I don’t think The Forum could be accused of lack of enthusiasm in promoting the cause which you so kindly suggested to me.”

And in exchange for which you got two lucrative directorships of companies controlled by my husband, Augusta thought. “I know it’s not your fault,” she said irritably. “The point is, what can you do about it?”

“My journal is in a difficult position,” he said worriedly. “Having campaigned so vociferously for a banker to get a peerage, it’s hard for us to turn around and protest when it actually happens.”

“But you never intended for a Jew to be so honored.”

“True, true, although so many bankers are Jews.”

“Couldn’t you write that there are enough Christian bankers for the prime minister to choose from?”

He remained reluctant. “We might….”

“Then do so!”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Pilaster, but it’s not quite enough.”

“I don’t understand you,” she said impatiently.

“A professional consideration, but I need what we journalists call a slant. For instance, we could accuse Disraeli—or Lord Beaconsfield, as he now is—of partiality to members of his own race. Now that would be a slant. However, he is in general a man so upright that that particular charge might not stick.”

Augusta hated dithering, but she reined in her impatience because she could see there was a genuine problem here. She thought for a moment and was struck by an idea. “When Disraeli took his seat in the House of Lords, was the ceremony normal?”

“In every way, I believe.”

“He took the oath of loyalty on a Christian Bible?”

“Indeed.”

“Old and New Testament?”

“I begin to see your drift, Mrs. Pilaster. Would Ben Greenbourne swear on a Christian Bible? From what I know of him, I doubt it.”

Augusta shook her head dubiously. “He might, though, if nothing were said about it. He’s not a man to look for a confrontation. But he’s very stiff-necked when challenged. If there were to be a noisy public demand for him to swear the same way as everyone else he might well rebel. He wouldn’t let people say he had been pushed into anything.”

“A noisy public demand,” Hobbes mused. “Yes …”

“Could you create that?”

Hobbes warmed to the idea. “I see it already,” he said excitedly. “‘Blasphemy in the House of Lords.’ Now that, Mrs. Pilaster, is what we call a slant. You’re quite brilliant. You ought to be a journalist yourself!”

“How flattering,” she said. The sarcasm was lost on him.

Hobbes suddenly looked pensive. “Mr. Greenbourne is a very powerful man.”

“So is Mr. Pilaster.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Then I may rely on you?”

Hobbes rapidly weighed the risks and decided to back the Pilaster cause. “Leave everything to me.”

Augusta nodded. She was beginning to feel better. Lady Morte would turn the queen against Greenbourne, Hobbes would make an issue of it in the press, and Fortescue was standing by to whisper into the ear of the prime minister the name of a blameless alternative: Joseph. Once again the prospects looked good.

She stood up to go, but Hobbes had more to say. “If I might venture a question on another topic?”

“By all means.”

“I’ve been offered a printing press rather cheaply. At present, you know, we use outside printers. If we had our own press it would reduce our costs, and we could perhaps make a little extra by printing other publications as a service.”

“Obviously,” Augusta said impatiently.

“I was wondering whether Pilasters Bank might be persuaded into a commercial loan.”

It was the price of his continuing support. “How much?”

“A hundred and sixty pounds.”

It was a peppercorn. And if he campaigned against peerages for Jews with as much energy and bile as he had brought to his campaign in favor of peerages for bankers, it would be well worth it.

He said: “A bargain, I assure—”

“I’ll speak to Mr. Pilaster.” He would assent, but she did not want to let Hobbes have it too easily. He would value it more highly if it was granted reluctantly.

“Thank you. Always a pleasure to meet with you, Mrs. Pilaster.”

“Doubtless,” she said, and she went out.





CHAPTER FOUR


JUNE





1

THE CORDOVAN MINISTRY was quiet. The offices on the first floor were empty, the three clerks having gone home hours ago. Micky and Rachel had given a dinner party in the second-floor dining room for a small group—Sir Peter Mountjoy, an under-secretary at the Foreign Office, and his wife; the Danish Minister; and the Chevalier Michele from the Italian embassy—but the guests had left and the domestic staff had cleared away. Micky was about to go out.

The novelty of being married was beginning to wear off. He had tried and failed to shock or disgust his sexually inexperienced wife. Her unfailing enthusiasm for whatever perversion he proposed was beginning to unnerve him. She had decided that whatever he wanted was all right with her, and when she made a decision like that there was no moving her. He had never met a woman who could be so implacably logical.

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