The Heart That Lies Read online

  Meldon snorted. “I doubt very much that Mr Wordsworth has the proper humility towards his Creator.”

  Smith looked crestfallen.

  “It is certainly a weakness,” he agreed quietly.

  “But there is still much to admire in his work,” said Meldon hastily, remembering that he was the guest here.

  “I wonder, though, how someone with such great weakness of character can produce such great poetry.”

  Smith seemed to be distressed by the thought and Meldon had no idea how to answer him. He had no wish to suggest to the boy that he might create great art himself by emulating his hero. Smith looked at him, as if waiting for Meldon to solve his problem.

  “Forgive me, my lord, you did not come here to discuss poetry.”

  To his surprise, Meldon felt insulted, for he suspected that the boy thought him unable to carry on the discussion.

  “Not at all, Smith. I am happy to discuss whatever you wish.”

  Meldon bit his lip, for now he sounded like a weak fool trying to curry favour with a recalcitrant lover. He ran a finger between his neck and cravat. It was damnably hot in this small room. He thought Smith paled slightly, but then the boy brightened.

  “Perhaps your estate, my lord. Mr Finch said you like to spend time there. My father was a farmer...”

  Meldon grasped the opportunity as a drowning man would a straw. To his relief Smith was knowledgeable about farming and knew a great deal about modern methods. An hour passed quickly and pleasantly. Meldon rose stiffly, sparing his injured leg as much as he could, for the chair had done as much damage as he had feared.

  “I have other calls to make this afternoon.”

  “I am sorry to have kept you so long.”

  “Not at all. I have enjoyed myself.”

  “So have I.” The boy smiled and Meldon realised that all his previous smiles had been but shadows. There was real pleasure in this smile and Meldon was happy to have contributed to that pleasure.

  “I hope I shall see you shortly at Brown’s.”

  Smith’s smile disappeared.

  “Yes, of course. Thank you for your invitation.”

  The visit ended on that awkwardly formal note and Meldon went down the stairs and out to his carriage wondering about the younger man’s very changeable nature.

  One evening a few days later, after dining with Finch and General Warren at his club, Meldon returned home to find Smith’s card waiting for him.

  “When did the gentleman call?” he asked Perkins, as he settled himself in his chair in his dressing room.

  “This afternoon, my lord.”

  “He left no note or message?” Meldon raised the glass of whisky the valet had given him, thought better of it and put it back on the table beside him. Perkins had put the footstool ready for him and Meldon stretched his leg out to it to ease the discomfort that the club’s dining chairs had caused. He realised that he was fidgeting and stopped. Having had no answer, he looked at Perkins expectantly.

  “No, my lord.”

  Despite himself, Meldon was disappointed, but what message could the boy have left? He could hardly have said that he would call again, for that would have been tantamount to telling the earl that he should wait at home for the call. He could not invite Meldon to call on him, for he could not be in a better position to entertain him than he had been when Meldon had last visited him.

  Meldon turned the card over, but there was nothing written on the back. He smiled; Smith was doing well for himself if he could now afford calling cards. Turning it back he read the address again. Smith was no longer in the lodgings where Meldon had visited him. He must be as good at cards as he thought he was. Meldon tapped the card with his fingertips then asked Perkins to have his pen, ink and paper brought.

  While he waited he composed the note to Smith in his head, but could not get the wording correct. By the time the servant had brought his pen and ink he was pacing. He forced himself to stop and sat at the table to write, but still the words would not come.

  His glass was empty before he had finished the short note inviting Smith to dine with him at his house a few evenings hence. Then he wrote another note to Finch, telling him that Smith had made contact. They had agreed that there might not be any significance in the boy’s asking to be introduced to Meldon, other than a desire to play at his table, but they had decided that they would keep an eye on him. They were always looking out for men who lost more than they could afford, especially those who knew their country’s secrets, for these were men who had something to sell to the enemy. Smith could not fall into this class, for he could know no secrets, but he might be trying to buy them.

  For a moment Meldon considered inviting Finch to the supper, but it had been his acquaintance that the boy had wanted to make. The visit to Smith’s rooms had not just been for the sake of politeness; Meldon had also wanted to see how much, if any, of the boy’s story had been true. Rather belatedly, Vincent’s death had warned him that his enemies could know as much about him as he knew about them and any new acquaintance could be potentially lethal. It pained him to think it, but the danger might also come from an old acquaintance. One line of thought was that Vincent had gone with or to someone he knew and that person had killed him, or taken him to his death. Very few of Vincent’s friends were known to him and Meldon himself had made it impossible for him to go to the two people who would be of most help to him in that area.

  He shook his head at how short-sighted he had been that night. His first thought had been for Vincent’s reputation, not discovering his murderer. Now he, and everyone else who worked for General Warren, was paying the price. No one knew how much Vincent had given away before he had died, but it was possible that all of General Warren’s operatives known to Vincent had been exposed.

  Meldon shut his eyes, but he could still see Vincent’s battered body and he still knew that his friend had been tortured before he died. He clenched his fists, but the image was still there. It crossed his mind that if he had been with Vincent that night he would have died with him, but he could not bear to think that his friend had died a painful and lonely death.

  Gradually he became aware that he had picked up Smith’s visiting card again. Opening his hand, he saw that it was crumpled and torn. If Smith had had anything to do with Vincent’s death, he would end up in the same state as his card.

  The next evening Smith presented Meldon’s card at the gaming club. Meldon wondered whether his note had prompted the visit or whether Smith’s own attempt to see him had been to confirm the invitation to play.

  Meldon enjoyed playing in this club. He had chosen it because it offered a certain amount of privacy, whilst allowing him and his guests to be in plain sight. He had a regular table in the smallest of the three gaming rooms. There were eight tables with enough space between them that it was impossible to eavesdrop from another table without it being obvious. The volume of conversation also meant that it was possible to have a private conversation without drawing the attention of other players. He knew all the men who played here regularly and most of those who were guests. Few of the men were as wealthy as Meldon, but most of them had enough money to allow a few losses at the tables. It was frowned on in this club to allow men to get themselves into too much debt, so it would raise some comment that he had invited Smith here, if the boy lost too much. If it came to it, Meldon would have to cheat to make sure he didn’t, but Smith’s good fortune so far encouraged him to hope that it would not be necessary.

  When the boy came into the room Meldon saw that Smith was even thinner than he had been at their last meeting. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes looked like those of a man who was staying awake only by a great effort. If that was the price of being a poet, Meldon was glad that he had never been tempted to write a single verse.

  “Your gaming has gone well?” he asked the boy as they bowed to one another.

  “And the writing?”

  The boy pouted slightly and, distracted, Meldon almost mi
ssed what he said. “I mean to write like Mr Wordsworth, but my poems come out like me.”

  “Still poor poems?” asked Meldon, glad that his head was clear enough to remember their earlier conversation.

  He had read enough of Smith’s poems to know that they were not poor, although they struck him as restrained, as if he did not yet know what his subject was.

  “Let us say that Mr Wordsworth does not have a rival in me.”

  “Perhaps not as a poet,” agreed Meldon, “but as a lover?”

  To his horror, the boy’s mouth dropped open and, dear God, did his eyes become moist?

  “I do find that the opposite sex seem to appreciate my few charms,” Smith stammered.

  That, at least, was something to be grateful for. Whatever Smith was doing to him, it wasn’t reciprocated.

  Meldon introduced the other men at the table to Smith. He had only recently met Johnson himself, on General Warren’s orders. Meldon had seen nothing of concern on the few occasions on which they had met. Commander Stallard had recently retired from the navy. A bluff exterior concealed the man’s innate modesty. He had played an important part in the war at sea and Meldon thought he deserved a quiet retirement. White, the final member of the party, had been a great friend of Meldon’s father and was currently a guest at Meldon House. Meldon watched their reactions as he introduced them to the young man, but, although they all smiled at him, none of them gave the boy a second glance except Johnson. This interested Meldon, because Johnson was his invited guest this evening. He had heard rumours that Johnson was showing a lot of interest in the fortifications along the south coast. In these times that wasn’t unusual, but Johnson was very interested in details, which was. Meldon’s property was near the coast and he had let it be known that he knew more than he did about the coastal defences. In fact, he had made it a policy to know little, so that he could judge the extent of the knowledge of others and not give away anything important under pressure.

  Johnson looked at the boy as if assessing whether or not he posed a threat. Meldon knew the exact moment at which Johnson decided the boy was not dangerous. He had not taken enough time, in Meldon’s opinion, and he had been wrong to dismiss him so quickly. Although physically unimpressive, the boy had a sharp mind. This was not, admittedly, immediately obvious in his conversation, but his poems were full of wit and intelligence. Meldon would rather read a livestock manual than a poem, but he read enough that he could tell this was not great poetry, but it sounded well when read aloud and the ideas the boy was expressing were complex and interesting. Meldon had taken a volume of Wordsworth from the shelf for comparison, then Pope. He found the boy’s style closer to that of Pope, which pleased him, for, if he were forced to read poetry he would always choose Pope over Wordsworth.

  The introductions made, the play started. Meldon deliberately threw a couple of hands so that he could watch Smith and Johnson play. The boy was as good as he had said he was. He played confidently and did not have to concentrate so hard that he could not participate fully in the conversation. Meldon believed he had been right not to underestimate him. He was relieved that he would not have to cheat.

  Johnson, on the other hand, made mistakes and grew flustered. It was clear to the earl that he was not here to play cards, but to learn what he could from Meldon. In his approach to this he showed more skill. It was only when Meldon gave the impression of being deeply immersed in the play that his curiosity turned to interrogation.

  “I believe your lordship has property on the coast.”

  “Yes, near Southampton.”

  “You must feel quite apprehensive about a French invasion.”

  Meldon looked up from his cards at him and smiled.

  “Why?”

  He hoped he looked puzzled and confident, rather than stupid. He had more reason than most to appreciate that the chances of an invasion were negligible.

  “That would be just where an invasion fleet would land.”

  “They’d have to get through the navy first,” Commander Stallard said, before Meldon could respond.

  Meldon much preferred watching Johnson’s reaction to talking to him.

  “No navy is invincible.”

  Stallard glared at Johnson and laid down the winning hand.

  “No,” agreed Smith, who shuffled for the next hand. “And it can’t protect all the coast.”

  “The forts are strong,” said Meldon. “They’re full of canon and soldiers.” This much was known to everyone.

  “But will they be enough?”

  White was an older man who had lived in constant fear of the French since his daughter, who had married a French count, had been guillotined during in the Terror.

  “I think so,” said Meldon, seeing his opportunity to feed Johnson what he wanted to hear.

  He laid out the information that he and Warren had agreed he should give. It was no more than a man who lived on the coast would be expected to know, but it was wrong. Meldon approved of the way in which Johnson allowed the conversation to carry on for a while and then moved it on to another topic. Johnson would bear watching. Meldon had already arranged for him to be followed for the next week, so that they could find out who he was passing information to.

  Now he was free to concentrate on Smith. The boy had been playing well all night and had more money now than he had had at the beginning of the evening. Meldon decided to push him to see how good he was. He was not in the least surprised that the boy noticed the change, responded to it and beat him squarely. There was some danger that Meldon would come out the poorer this evening.

  “Your lordship plays a changeable hand,” said Smith as Meldon once more threw losing cards onto the table.

  “I do not always concentrate as I ought.”

  The boy looked away and bit his lip. Meldon was ashamed; Smith had obviously noticed that the older man was attracted to him and attributed his lack of concentration to that attraction.

  It was a relief for Meldon when the evening came to a close. He had at least managed to give some wrong information to Bonaparte’s spies. If only he could find a way to resolve his situation with Smith as easily.

  Chapter Two

  However much Meldon told himself that the invitation to Smith to dine alone with him in his house was motivated by a desire to keep his eye on him and to make him talk, he was not entirely convinced. He was very much afraid that he just wanted to spend the evening alone with the boy. Finch’s presence would have allowed him to watch Smith more closely, he realised. Now he would have to make conversation and watch whilst giving the appearance of not watching.

  The meal was very pleasant. Smith’s manners were impeccable and Meldon began to suspect that there was more to him than met the eye; if he had not been brought up to high rank, he, or his father on his behalf, certainly aspired to it. Not only did Smith appreciate the food he was served appropriately, but he did not have to ask what any of it was. He even recognised the wines by taste. This was no farmer’s son from Lincolnshire. To be fair to the man, he had never claimed that his father was a farmer, but some kind of landowner, but the implication had been that the man was low born.

  Smith’s education seemed to have been rather fanciful, whether he was the son of a gentleman or a farmer. He was well enough read and he understood what he had read. He knew a fair amount of history and his knowledge of French, German, Greek and Latin could not be faulted. It was his lack of knowledge about politics that surprised Meldon. The boy did not seem to know whether he was a Whig or a Tory. He knew nothing of soldiering nor of what was happening on the other side of the Channel.

  “You’ll be telling me next you’ve never heard of Nelson,” joked Meldon.

  “Of course I have, my lord. He was a great hero.” Smith seemed put out at being the butt of Meldon’s small joke. Meldon hoped he wouldn’t form his beautiful mouth into a pout, for he had so far been very successful in managing the evidence of his attraction to the younger man.

  “Indeed he was,
” agreed Meldon. “I had the honour of meeting him twice. I was younger than you are now and my father entertained him at Meldon Hall, my house in Hampshire.”

  “What was he like?” asked Smith.

  “Courteous and flamboyant,” said Meldon. “He was a very emotional man.”

  “You were not tempted to take him as your model?” Smith smiled, as if he knew Meldon well enough already to know the answer. Meldon paused. In truth, Nelson had scared him. The man had been so governed by his emotions that no one knew what he would do next. Meldon preferred self-control and restraint. There had been nothing false about the man, but Meldon had no intention of being as exposed as the admiral had made himself to his fellow man. Tears had come as easily to Nelson as they did to Meldon’s father, reflecting the times in which they had been brought up. Meldon, who was much younger than his sister and had been brought up more as an only child, had grown used to keeping his own emotions to himself.

  “No,” he said. “That sort of thing is all very well if you have something to be flamboyant about. The man was a genius and I swear that if he had asked me to go sea with him, I would have followed him that day, but I did not wish to emulate him.”

  “And you chose to be a soldier.”

  “The Earls of Meldon have always been soldiers. I saw no reason to change that.” Even now, however, Meldon wondered sometimes whether it would have been better to have gone to sea. At least he would have known some of the glory that came with victory. The army had seen precious little of it in this war.

  They came to the end of the meal. Meldon picked up his glass and stood.

  “Shall we go into the drawing-room?”

  Smith followed him and they sat in Meldon’s comfortable chairs and drank. The windows were open as far as they would go in an attempt to cool the room. Occasionally they heard the noise of a passing carriage or someone walking along the street outside. Meldon hoped that the contrast with Smith’s lodgings was not too evident; he had no intention of making the boy feel inferior.