“You’d be his assistant, not a student,” I said. “However, they could not stop you acquiring knowledge while you were at it. Others might control where your body goes, but they cannot hinder your mind.”
Cynthia laughed, her good humor restored. “Always the philosopher, Mrs. H. Well, now, the lectures are done—let us go have a large slice of cake.”
Refreshments had been set up a little way down the walk, among a statue garden outside the Pompeian Court. The Pompeian Court consisted of a replica of an entire house from that unfortunate city, its door open to welcome visitors, though none went inside at this time. The refreshments tables were dominated by statues around the main fountain, one of James II of England, said its plaque, another of Dr. Johnson, who, according to the notice on the statue’s base, had written a great dictionary in the previous century.
The food and drink were indifferent, and I nibbled a few dumplings that were meant to be Chinese—they were not—and part of a seedcake that Cynthia plunked on my plate. She herself took a large portion, as she was fond of seedcake. I sipped tea, which was watery.
Lady Covington remained at her brother’s elbow, greeting ladies and gentlemen and thanking them for attending. Lady Covington and Sir Arthur were close in age, his hair the same shade of brown just going to gray, with a full mustache and no beard. I watched from a short distance away, close enough to hear Lady Covington assure the guests that investing in the Polytechnic was a good use of their income.
The rest of the family wandered about in a bored manner, none of them together. Harriet drank tea and stared at flowers around the fountain. George tried to engage gentlemen in conversation, but most quickly withdrew from him to speak to his mother and step-uncle. Jonathan darted down a dark row, and Erica entered the Pompeian house.
I came alert when Daniel and the gentleman he’d arrived with approached Sir Arthur.
Daniel had dressed in a dark suit that fitted him exactly, a discreet tie tucked behind the high vee of his waistcoat. His coat flowed neatly to dark trousers that gave only a glimpse of polished black shoes. The suit was adorned only with a watch chain and small gold stickpin.
He swept his gaze across the crowd as they neared Sir Arthur and Lady Covington. The gray-haired gentleman greeted them, shaking their hands.
Daniel saw me, but as before, his eyes registered nothing, and he returned his focus to Lady Covington and Sir Arthur. He spoke—nothing more than saying good evening—his manner that of a lethargic gentleman of wealth, his voice a fading drawl. If I’d never met Daniel before, I’d have labeled him a spoiled, pampered young man condescending to accompany his older friend to a tedious engagement.
I turned away, my heart pounding. My Daniel wasn’t visible within the weary young gentleman resting his walking stick over his arm. Could I ever grow used to Daniel assuming personas in order to spy for the police?
“He is the Duke of Daventry,” a quiet male voice said behind me. I turned to behold Mr. Fielding sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup, a twinkle in his eyes. “Old title, rich as Croesus. Has a mansion in Berkeley Square. Our Daniel is chumming up to him for some reason.”
“Has it anything to do with the murders in Ireland?” I asked in a whisper.
Mr. Fielding started. “I should not be surprised that you already know all. But yes, the duke’s enemies are putting it about that some of his money floats across the Irish Sea to those who want Ireland out from under Britain. Sounds barmy to me. Why would a duke of ancient lineage want to help rabble-rousers?”
“Is the duke Irish himself?” Some noble families had been granted titles to land there generations ago.
“Absolutely not. A more blue-blooded Englishman you’ll never meet. Makes you long to bloody his nose and see what color comes out. Daventry has businesses in Liverpool, which employ many laborers working themselves to the bone to line his pockets. Liverpool is a hop and skip across the water to Dublin. So his enemies say. I think it’s all . . . balderdash.”
“Then why is Daniel staying so close to him?”
“I am trying to find out, but Daniel is not letting me near.”
I studied Daniel again. “He unnerves me, the way he can take on a role.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Fielding sipped tea again, the very picture of a distressed vicar.
“You are a humbug, Mr. Fielding.”
His smile flashed. “Yes, but I know it. I have, however, thoroughly embraced my role as vicar, delivering sermons, sheltering those demon children, visiting the sick, giving the last rites to the dying.” He sobered. “That has turned me from a pure villain into something like a man. The comfort some take in me mumbling words over them is unsettling. All my schooling in theology did not prepare me for that.”
“It will be the making of you,” I assured him. “So will the demon children.”
“Dear lady, you are always determined to find the good in a person, including that reprobate, Daniel. Mark my words, I was never the villain he was. He’s reformed, it seems, and the world should heave a collective sigh of relief.”
I glanced at Daniel, now conversing with Sir Arthur. Mr. Fielding had told me in the past that Daniel had been far worse a rogue than he. At times I believed it, but then reminded myself that Mr. Fielding was a confidence trickster and an easy liar.
Sir Arthur faltered suddenly, his leg bending as though it had given out on him. He put a heavy hand on his sister’s arm, and his face took on a peculiar tinge of gray.
“Arthur!” Lady Covington’s cry rang through the vast space.
I hurried to them, Cynthia and Mr. Fielding joining me.
Daniel caught Sir Arthur, and he and Lady Covington escorted him to a chair. The duke, on the other hand, backed hastily away, as though fearing Sir Arthur had some contagion.
Mr. Thanos pushed through the crowd. “Sir, are you all right?”
“No.” Sir Arthur sank heavily to the seat Daniel steered him to. “I do not know what’s come over me. I was perfectly well a few minutes ago.”
Lady Covington hovered near, her face ashen. “Is it your heart?”
“No.” Sir Arthur folded his arm across his stomach. “Cramps. Horrible ones. And I can’t catch my breath.”
“He needs water.” Daniel spoke in the languid tones of an upper-class gentleman, one who was somewhat agitated but didn’t want to bestir himself too much. “You,” he said to me. “Fetch this man some water.”
I answered this demand with a derisive look. I knew that Daniel was not simply fortifying the idea that he had no idea who I was, but also attempting to send me out of danger.
“I’ll go.” Cynthia turned abruptly and made for the refreshment table.