Date: Mon, 19 Jan 2009 20:52:47 +0900
From: "graemefj@iinet.net.au" <graemefj@iinet.net.au>
Subject: The King's Beast 5

This work is a product of the author's imagination. Places, events and
people are either fictitious or used fictitiously and any resemblance to
real events, places, or people, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

The author retains full copyright to the material, and sincerely hopes you
like it!

If you have something to say about it that isn't flaming me then email me
at: Caleb <graemefj@iinet.net.au>


THE KING'S BEAST 5
by Caleb


	 The Marquess held his friend, Sir Charles Clifford, in the highest
esteem. As Jem began his study of the case against the Comte deMontfort,
the Marquess kept referring to his friend, sharing with Jem the part Sir
Charles was playing in the investigation.  Sir Charles, it seemed was the
Organizer.  It was he who sifted information; it was he who was the
principal go-between with the bureaucracy of the government and it was he
who warned the Marquess when vital information had fallen into the hands of
the French.

Jem found the role of the Marquess more difficult to define.  It was
obvious the man had the ear of Important Personages.  He had a unit of
militia at his beck and call, and it was he who decided the policy of
apprehension of the suspected traitors.  Jem had witnessed the many
occasions that Sir Charles had deferred to his friend, never the other way
round.  The Marquess was always The King's Beast - the avenging angel
protecting the secrets of the country.  Sir Charles was ever his loyal
follower.

	Sir Charles Clifford was, Jem decided, a little man.  He was bland
in his sartorial taste, meager in his ambitions, censorious in his
conversation and joyless in his religion.  Jem continued to be amazed that
this colorless man could be the best friend and principal confidante of a
man like the Marquess of Chesham.

	He was hard pressed to stifle a groan when the Marquess, quite
arbitrarily it seemed, announced that Jem would spend a few hours each day
under the tutelage of Sir Charles.

	"And you can wipe off that Friday face," the Marquess said shortly,
infallibly accurate in his assessment of Jem's thoughts, "Charles has much
to teach you that you will need to know.  You must be fully prepared for
the time you cross deMontfort's threshold."

	Jem sighed. "I am very uncomfortable in his presence.  He looks at
me only to find fault.  In his eyes I am ever the encroaching whore."

The Marquess gave a small snort of humorless laughter.  "Wherefore should
that overset you?  You are forever telling me what a whore you are."

Jem said quietly, "But you, my lord, do not think less of me for it."

The Marquess looked at him with keen penetration.  Jem continued, "Sir
Charles, on the other hand...."

	"Enough." The Marquess interrupted abruptly, "I would not ask this
of you if I did not think it important."

	Jem sighed again.  "I know, my lord.  I know."

The Clifford house was in Mount Street, a small modern brick edifice with a
very pretty wrought iron balustrade on the balcony overlooking the street.
One afternoon in the following week, Jem and the Marquess walked round to
Mount Street and they were met at the front door by Lady Clifford who was
about to set out on a round of visiting in her carriage that was waiting in
the street.  She smiled a greeting, informed them that her husband was
awaiting them, and with a casual farewell, left them to go about her
business.

Sir Charles received them in his shirtsleeves, which shocked Jem slightly,
having made up his mind that the man was incapable of anything so normal as
informality. They were led into Sir Charles's office, a small rather stuffy
room crammed with furniture and the walls covered with paintings.  There
were many papers and official-looking documents carefully laid out on the
desk.  Jem sat nervously on the edge of a ladder-back chair while the
Marquess and Sir Charles began a low voiced, earnest conversation in the
room outside the office.

	While the two of them were so occupied, Jem had time to look around
the office, and idly examined the paintings on the walls.  He saw, with a
jolt of recognition, that one of the paintings was a twin of the portrait
of the woman whom Miss Wyndover had named, "Uncle Nat's wife."  Jem walked
across the room and examined the portrait closely.  It was definitely the
same woman, and he supposed that it had been painted at the same time as
the one in Curzon Street, they being so very similar.

	He heard the front door close and realized that the Marquess had
left him in the company of his friend.  Sir Charles came into the room, and
with a curt business-like nod to Jem, sat at his desk and began sorting
through the papers.  While he was so occupied, Jem's eyes kept straying to
the portrait of the wife of the Marquess.

	Sir Charles's voice startled him.  " `Tis a portrait of my sister
Susanna by George Romney."

	Jem looked round in surprise.  "Your sister is married to Lord
Chesham?"

"Was.  She has been dead these ten years," said Sir Charles shortly, "But
how did you...?"

	Jem smiled apologetically, "There is another picture in Curzon
Street, very similar.  Miss Wyndover told me who she was, but not that she
had died."

	Sir Charles nodded absently.  "Ah yes, I had forgot."

Loath to abandon the subject, Jem said, "She must have been a very
beautiful Marchioness."

	Sir Charles shrugged.  "She was never a Marchioness.  The old
Marquess was still alive when they were married.  Only a Viscountess.  Nat
was Viscount Seaton while his father was alive."

	Jem merely said, "Ah."  Then he asked as the thought struck him.
"How did she die?"  He sensed it would be impolitic to express too much
interest in this mysterious woman.

	Sir Charles turned away and finished arranging the papers on his
desk.

	"Lost at sea," he said, "On her way to Italy."

The tone of his voice indicated that the subject was closed and Jem took
the hint and sat down across the desk from Sir Charles.

	Sir Charles became very businesslike.  "When you enter the house of
the Comte deMontfort ... " and here he paused.  His face showed no emotion
but Jem knew that disapproval rankled within him.  He began again.

	"When you enter his house, there are several things that you must
be on the look-out for, and, if you see them, you will immediately notify
myself or Lord Chesham."

	Jem nodded.

 "The first and most obvious thing is any official document that should not
be there."

	Jem looked at the documents laid out on the desk top in front of
him.

"Documents like these?" he asked.

"Documents like these," Sir Charles agreed readily, "though, of course, not
these ones precisely.  You are to become familiar with the seals and
letterheads of the various government departments.  For example..." and he
began pointing to each document as he spoke, "...the Office of the Prime
Minister, the Home office, the War Office, the office of the Foreign
Minister..."

	There were over a dozen different government departments that were
represented on the desktop.  Sir Charles took Jem through each typical
document, pointing out the various distinguishing seals and marks of each
so that Jem might recognize each document instantly, without reading the
contents.  Sir Charles discoursed learnedly on these documents with Jem
asking the occasional question.

	When he finally came to an end, there was a short silence and Jem
said quietly, "All this, Sir Charles, seems to me to be a pointless
exercise."

The man looked at him unsmilingly. "How so?" he asked.

"If this Comte deMontfort were to obtain any such document, it is surely
unlikely that he will leave it lying around in plain sight of visitors."

	Sir Charles said tightly, "We hope -- nay, expect -- that you
will become more than a casual visitor."

	Jem raised his eyebrows at the unspoken distaste in the man's
voice.

"Nonetheless," he continued, "would he not rather obtain transcripts of the
documents rather than the documents themselves?"

	Sir Charles nodded in cordial agreement. "Yes," he said, "that is
much more likely.  However, you must be prepared for any eventuality."

	Jem chewed hip lip thoughtfully.  "Shall I be expected to rifle
through his private papers at the first opportunity -- to search for any
incriminating evidence?"

	Sir Charles looked distinctly uncomfortable and answered,
equivocally, "We expect you to obtain any pertinent information quickly and
unobtrusively.  deMontfort must never suspect you of double-dealing.
`Twould be very ... unpleasant were he to do so."

	Jem said quietly, "Unpleasant for me?"

Sir Charles looked at him steadily, and then dropped his eyes.

	"Very, very unpleasant," he said quietly.

There was a short silence and Jem then asked, "What else would I be
required to look for?"

	Sir Charles avoided his eyes by flipping through a bundle of papers
and extracting a written list, which he handed to Jem, who scanned it
briefly.  It was a list that began with "Servants and Household staff", and
went on to enumerate such things as "Visitors", "Where the Comte goes each
day" and even "The time of night when the Comte retires".  Jem looked at
Sir Charles in a puzzled way.

	"This information," Sir Charles said, "may seem trivial, but it all
adds up to a complete picture of the activities of the man."

	Jem said with amazement in his voice, "Sir Charles, I must
protest. To obtain all this information on a day-by-day basis, I would have
to be with the Comte all the time.  He would never trust me to that extent.
He already knows I am under the protection of the Marquess."

	Sir Charles said abruptly, "How?  How does he know this?"

"He saw me in the company of the Marquess when we went to the tailor's
establishment in Bond Street.  Also..."

	"Yes?"

"I have made friends with Armand Duvall, the Comte's nephew.  I told Duvall
I was to be Lord Chesham's secretary ."

	Sir Charles stared at Jem, opening his mouth as though to speak and
then shutting it.  He stood in silence and then moved thoughtfully to gaze
out the window.

	"This is, perhaps, no bad thing.  Such a friendship would give you
entrée into the Comte's household.  It would also spare Nat from having to
introduce you to him, which I have always seen as the great weakness in the
plan."  He continued murmuring as though to himself.  "He would never
believe that Nat would willingly introduce him to someone like you."

	Jem heard the undercurrent of something unspoken -- something
that Sir Charles shied away from.

	"Sir Charles," he asked as cautiously as he could, "Is there
something between Lord Chesham and the Comte -- something I should know
-- something ...  personal?"

	Sir Charles turned and gave him a calculating look.

"Why do you ask?" he said

	Jem said, "When we encountered the Comte in Bond Street the other
day, they did not speak but it seemed to me that the Comte was ... laughing
at Lord Chesham. I knew of no reason why it should be so."

	Sir Charles looked at him curiously.  "What was Nat's reaction?" he
asked.

Jem thought back.  "He acted as though he had been insulted, or perhaps
challenged to a duel."

	Sir Charles nodded wisely.  He sat down at his desk again and said
to Jem, "What was your impression of the Comte?"

	Jem shrugged.  "Really, Sir Charles, I hardly know.  The encounter
was very brief.  I scarce had time..." and his words died away under the
cynicism of the other man's gaze.

	"Let me rephrase that question.  What was your professional opinion
of the Comte?"

Jem bridled at the tenor of the question.  "In my professional opinion, Sir
Charles," said Jem flatly, "I thought him to be extremely elegant,
prodigiously attractive and looked like he would be a damn' good fuck."

Strangely Sir Charles showed no reaction to Jem's deliberate coarseness.

He merely nodded and said, "You are perfectly correct in your assessment.
He is the leader of fashion in Society, a by-word for his elegance of
person, second only to the great Brummel himself.  As for the other --
well, we strongly suspect him to be an assiduous seducer of beautiful young
men -- like yourself -- and also," and bitterness crept into his voice,
"if the challenge of inflicting pain on a particular person be exciting
enough, of silly, headstrong, foolish, gullible young wives."

	Jem did not pretend to misunderstand him.  "Your sister Susanna,"
he whispered.

	Sir Charles bowed his head in agreement.  "Just so," he murmured.

Jem looked the man squarely in the eyes.  "And what was it about Lord
Chesham that presented an exciting challenge?"

Sir Charles looked at his hands.  "At the time, I had no idea." He clamped
his jaw firmly shut.

Jem almost grinned at his transparency.

You know now, Jem thought, Oh, you know.

So he said softly, "Then allow me to guess.  Since then you have come to
the conclusion that he had attempted to seduce the Marquess himself, had
been rebuffed and had exacted his revenge by seducing his bride."

	To say Sir Charles was startled would be to understate the matter
severely.  He looked at Jem with cynical admiration growing in his eyes.

"I congratulate you.  You have unerringly stripped the affair to its
essential elements.  That, I suspect, is exactly what happened.  It took me
many years to reach that conclusion, and it took you all of ten seconds.
Further proof, I think, of your superior knowledge of the Way of the World.
If I had any doubts before, I know now you are the very man to bring down
this degenerate."  He smiled bleakly at Jem.  "You think alike, you see."

	Jem ignored that comment.  "But didn't Lord Chesham confide in you?
You were -- are - his best friend."

	Sir Charles nodded sadly.  "Since childhood -- but there are some
things that even the best of friends cannot discuss.  `Twas a subject from
which we both recoiled."

	Jem did not know what to say.

Sir Charles continued speaking in a low voice.  "Their marriage was
arranged, you see.  It was the dearest wish of his father and mine.  They
might have been happy, I think -- well, at least, not unhappy - had
circumstances been different.  But Susanna was ... wild, restless
... unwilling to conform to her new position, and Nat was
... unschooled..."

	Jem's eyebrows shot up at that word.  It was so unexpected.  He
forbore to comment, but a whole world of possibilities opened up before
him.

	Sir Charles correctly interpreted the expression on his face.  "The
experience," he said in a low voice, "soured Nat.  It was then that the
King's Beast was born."

Jem said quietly, "And since then you have pursued the Comte."

	Sir Charles said with a sigh, "Relentlessly.  I sometimes fear that
Nat's obsession will destroy him."

	Jem leant forward and asked in a hard voice, "Give me the round
tale, Sir Charles.  Is the Comte really passing information to France?"

Sir Charles sat bolt upright.  "What?!  What are you saying?"

"...Or is it merely an excuse for you and the Marquess to revenge
yourselves on him?"

 For a moment, Sir Charles was outraged to silence by Jem's effrontery.

 He then recovered and said quietly and deliberately, in a voice of
controlled anger, "There has been a steady flow of information to the
continent.  This is indisputable.  We have several eyewitness statements
-- granted they are not reliable -- that the Comte has had dealings
with known felons -- smugglers, thieves and the like.  Your friend
O'Connor, for instance.  In addition, we know that the Comte has befriended
men in the lower echelons of the bureaucracy -- men with whom it is
inconceivable he would have anything in common.  All this is, of course,
suspicious though circumstantial. And we cannot prosecute him for making
unsuitable friends.  But there is also.."  And here he stopped.

	Jem did not prompt him but gazed at him steadily.

Sir Charles took a deep breath, opened a locked drawer and extracted
another paper and read to Jem in a quiet expressionless voice:

	April 1805 -- The body of Edward Carstairs, aged 22, was
recovered from the Thames in the vicinity of the Isle of Dogs.  The body
was savagely mutilated with many lacerations and had been violated via his
fundament.  An unknown symbol had been carved into the flesh of his chest.

	October 1806 -- The body of Thomas Wardle, aged 20, was found
half buried on Hampstead Heath.  The body was savagely mutilated and had
been decapitated.  The head had been buried with the body and the man's
severed hand had been wedged in the mouth.  An unknown symbol had been
carved into the flesh of his chest.

	February 1807 -- The body of Clive Jenkins, aged 19...

"Enough," muttered Jem.  "How many of these are there?"

	Sir Charles sighed and put the list back in a drawer of the desk.
"In all, eleven. Most of these young men had tenuous connexions with the
Comte.  A few worked for tradesmen who had dealings with the Comte's
household.  They may have been others, but these are only the ones that
have been reported to us.  The Runners have been following the cases only
since `05, but before they took over ... " He shrugged.

Jem remembered his treatment at the hands of the huntsmen, and quaked.

	A thought occurred to him.

"What was the symbol carved into these men's chests?"

	Wordlessly, Sir Charles withdrew another sheet of paper from the
drawer and handed it across to Jem, who examined the symbol sketched
thereon.

	"Do you recognize it?"  Sir Charles asked.  Jem shook his head.

"We have had experts examine it.  We thought at first it might have had
some arcane meaning, but no one could enlighten us.  We can only conclude
that it has some significance for the perpetrator of these ghastly
outrages, but for no one else."

	"The Comte, you believe?"

Sir Charles nodded dumbly, and both sat for a moment, wrapped in their own
thoughts.  At length Sir Charles stirred.

	"Mr. Fleet," he said slowly, "I would entreat you ... move very
very carefully when dealing with this man.  In spite of everything, I do
not wish to see your name added to that dismal list."

Jem was no self-deceiver.  His opinion of the Marquess was profoundly
changed by these revelations.  Before, he had seen the Marquess as a hard,
cold man of intellect, and now he regarded him as a man wounded by life's
experiences, a man who had had to contend with an affliction as great as,
if not greater than his own.  He felt a kinship with this somber, tortured
man, a kinship that could so easily turn to esteem and thence to love.  He
instinctively felt that the Marquess had much love to give, and he realized
that he longed to be the one that the Marquess loved.  In the Marquess, he
had found his ideal.

	He could not help but feel melancholy at these reflections.  What
had he to offer such a man?  The Marquess had everything -- wealth,
position, power.  What had he? He could not even lay claim to an unsullied
name.



Over the next few weeks the Marquess absented himself from Curzon Street on
several occasions, reappearing after several days.  He gave no explanation
of his absences and Jem was long-headed enough not to question him.  During
these times Jem's grooming continued under the critical eyes of Sir Charles
and Jessup -- Sir Charles guiding him through the intricacies of
government protocol and official documents while Jessup honed his skills at
self defense.  Swordsmanship was not the only thing on the agenda.  Each
day seemed to bring a new skill, a new weapon to be mastered.  Jessup
drilled him in unarmed combat, in knife fighting, in the use of the
quarterstaff and in pistol shooting.

	Jem felt something close to despair.  His sense of inadequacy grew
with each new method of fighting to which Jessup introduced him.  There was
never enough time to become sufficiently familiar with the weapons, let
alone develop anything approaching proficiency.  Yet Jessup relentlessly
pushed him on, seemingly insensible to Jem's ineptitude.

	Yet in spite of his deep misgivings, and in spite of the rate that
the humorless Jessup worked him, some progress was made.  In the fencing
exercises with Jessup, Jem began to hold his own even when Jessup
deliberately quickened the pace of the exercises.  Advice and comments on
the various weapons that Jessup dropped from time to time, Jem remembered:
"A pistol has only one shot -- do not rely on it in emergency
situations"; "Fancy sword play is all very well, but in life and death
situations forget fair play.  The object is to win at any cost."  Jessup
had many such observations on the efficacy of the weapons that were
obviously gleaned from a lifetime of covert violence, and Jem, recognizing
the expertise of the man, willingly took all he had to offer and tried to
make it his own.

	The weeks that followed were filled with days that Jem would look
back on as halcyon.  He quickly became accustomed to the routine of his
training and he began to hold precious the times that he spent with the
Marquess.  Around him at Curzon Street, the household was abuzz with the
preparations for Miss Wyndover's coming-out, and Jem was astounded to find
that the Marquess really expected him to take the position of his secretary
very seriously.

 While Jem was in residence at Curzon Street, the first Quarter Day of the
year occurred, and he found himself confronted by endless rent rolls and
lists of the employees and dependents of the Marquess. Laid out before him
was an accounting of the exact extent of the unbelievable wealth of the man
-- wealth that almost made Jem gasp.  He was guided through the labyrinth
of double-entry bookkeeping by the Marquess himself and by his man of
business -- a grey haired, desiccated man who showed only satisfaction
that Jem was settling into the position of secretary and was only too happy
(if such a man could express happiness) to shift some of his
responsibilities to Jem.

The arrival of Sir Henry Wyndover from Norfolk signaled that the Season was
upon them.  He had come to remove his wife and daughter to their own house
in Russell Square, but he was prevailed upon by his brother-in-law to take
up residence in Curzon Street where his family was settled.  Sir Henry had
no objection.  He was a bluff man of simple tastes, but as Jem quickly
found out, very shrewd in his assessment of his fellow men.

	When he was introduced to Jem by the Marquess, he cast a very
knowing eye over Jem and said to the Marquess, "Your secretary, eh?  Well,
I daresay you know what you are doing."  There was enough ambiguity in that
observation to cause Jem to color up and avoid his patron's eyes.

And there was another pair of shrewd eyes that would scrutinize Jem.  Lady
Sefton was due to arrive at Curzon Street at the invitation of her dear
friend Caroline, Lady Chesham, with the purpose of meeting Miss Henrietta
Wyndover and her mother.  Although this was the business of the invitation,
it remained unspoken between the friends and they pursued the convenient
fiction that it was for Lady Sefton's own self that her company was sought.

	This was the woman on whom Miss Wyndover's hopes for the coming
season depended. Approval by this patroness of Almack's would give her the
necessary éclat for her social success to be assured, and even though her
grandmother and Lady Sefton were the best of friends, her blessing was not
a foregone conclusion.

	Lady Sefton's acceptance of the Marchioness's invitation to tea
threw the whole Curzon Street household into a frenzy of nervous
anticipation, so that even Jem, who considered that the event had nothing
to do with him, was drawn into the maelstrom of preparation.  The only one
who seemed to be unaffected by the imminent arrival of Lady Sefton was Miss
Wyndover herself who privately confided to Jem that she thought Almack's
sounded a very fusty place and she was not at all looking forward to
attending her first ball there.  Jem had been dragooned into being Miss
Wyndover's dancing partner as her mother and grandmother drilled her in the
intricacies of the dances she would be expected to perform.

	"You'd better not let your mother hear you say that," Jem whispered
to her with a grin, as they stepped out the complex figures of
Mr. Beveridge's Maggot.

	Miss Wyndover shrugged and said, "I have to go, of course, but I
don't think I'll enjoy it.  I'd rather go to Vauxhall or someplace like
that."

	They were separated for a moment as they moved round the dance
floor as Lady Chesham plunked out the music on the grand piano with Lady
Wyndover watching her daughter like a hawk.

	"I mean," Miss Wyndover whispered to Jem as they came together
again, "I can't choose who will be my partner. It is unfair."

Jem thought so too.  "Who chooses for you?" he asked, "Lady Wyndover?"

	Miss Wyndover shook her dusky curls. "No.  Not even mamma will have
a say.  It will probably be Lady Sefton."  They parted again, and rejoined.

 	"I could be lucky," Miss Wyndover whispered, "she might choose
you."

Jem looked at her in amazement.  "I won't be there."

	Miss Wyndover stopped dancing with the shock of this revelation.

"Henrietta," her mother exclaimed, "what is the matter?"

Miss Wyndover became a little flustered and said "Sorry mamma," and picked
up the steps again.

She whispered in a furious undertone to Jem, "Why not?  Why won't you be
there?"

	Jem shrugged and said as gently as he could, "I don't think
secretaries get invitations to Almack's."

This obviously had not occurred to Miss Wyndover. She said, "Oh!" as she
considered the ramifications of Jem's explanation. Jem watched her
expressive face, and added wickedly, "...but I know of one who will be
there."  He waggled his eyebrows at her and said, "Armand Duvall."

	His partner flushed and dimpled prettily, and Jem decided that she
and the young Frenchman would make a very attractive couple.

	"You are not... not bamming me, are you?" she asked.

"Mais non," Jem replied gaily, "he told me that his uncle, the Comte
deMontfort, has already obtained vouchers."

	Miss Wyndover dropped her eyes, and bit her lip as she smiled a
secret smile.

Lady Wyndover declared she was satisfied with her daughter's proficiency
and a halt was called.  They all quit the ballroom, with Jem and the
Marchioness bringing up the rear.

"You move well, Mr. Fleet," the Marchioness commented.  "Are you sure you
have not had dancing lessons before."

	"Never, Lady Chesham," Jem was able to answer with perfect truth.

She turned and looked at him and raised a cynical eyebrow, but otherwise,
forbore to comment.

	"Well, my dear," she said, "you would grace any ballroom.  Any
hostess would be glad to have you on her invitation list."  Jem just
laughed in disbelief, expressing a self-deprecating modesty that did him no
disservice in the eyes of the Marchioness.

The first thing that Jem noticed about Lady Sefton was her hat.  It was a
very modish confection adorned with a stuffed hummingbird and worn at a
rakish angle with the strings tied (daringly) under her left ear.  Jem
could hardly drag his eyes from it.  Lady Sefton herself was very
fashionably dressed in brown silk with a luxurious fur tippet.  She was a
little round lady with pretty dimples but with shrewd eyes that missed
nothing.  It transpired that she and the Marchioness - "dear Caro" - were
old school chums.  She claimed Lady Wyndover and Sir Henry as old friends
too, and she remembered Lady Clifford's mother and was delighted to renew
her acquaintance with Lady Clifford herself.

	They were all in attendance. The Marquess, Sir Charles and Jem
rounded out the company. Afternoon tea was served again in the conservatory
and they all stood while Lady Sefton took her seat.  Her attitude to the
Marquess could only be described as roguish and Jem had to hide his grin as
she flirted with him outrageously. The famed address of the Marquess never
deserted him as she cast out her sly lures, and when he replied in kind, it
caused her to giggle delightedly and to admonish him playfully, "Oh, my
Lord.  You abominable quiz."

	  Jem himself was the last to be introduced to her.  The Marquess
performed the introduction - "...my secretary, Jem Fleet..." - and Lady
Sefton was too well-bred to register any surprise at being introduced to a
mere employee.  After bowing, Jem felt he could relax.  As far as Lady
Sefton was concerned, he was not worthy of her notice.

	There was no shortage of conversation as tea and scandal were
served.  The burning topic of the day, the king's latest bout of illness,
was much discussed.

	Lady Sefton, whose husband had parliamentary connexions, astounded
the company with an account of the king's fateful address to the House of
Lords which she had had the good fortune to witness from the public
gallery.

	"My dears," said she, "it was so affecting.  He began his speech,
'My Lords and peacocks..'  and we knew then his madness had returned.
There were those who laughed in the most vulgar manner but those of us who
loved him, could only feel sadness at this ruin of our beloved king." She
sighed a deep sigh.

	The Marquess nodded and said, "There is much talk of promulgating
the Act of Regency which was drawn up at the time of his last attack."

	Lady Sefton replied tartly, "Well.  I daresay Prinny is dancing
with joy at the prospect."

	She suddenly turned her attention to Jem, and said with a smile,
"And what part of the country are you from, Mr. Fleet?"

So unexpected was this question, like one of Mr. Jessup's rapier thrusts,
that Jem could not refrain, in the presence of all the household, from
blurting out the truth.  "L-Ludlow, Lady Sefton."

As soon as the words were out, he was painfully aware of having the
undivided attention of the Marquess.  Lady Sefton gave a vast sentimental
sigh and said, "Ah, bosky Shropshire!  What a beautiful part of the
country."

	Struck by a sudden thought, she set down her teacup and dropped her
voice to the level of conspiracy.  "That puts me in mind ... Lady Powis
confided that Lord Powis is in the middle of negotiations to purchase
Ludlow Castle..." and while she elaborated this strange piece of news to
the assembled company, Jem slowly raised his eyes and found the Marquess
looking at him with a strange smile playing about his lips.  Jem lifted his
chin slightly, standing his ground, and the smile broadened to a grin at
Jem's reaction.

	Miss Wyndover was then called upon to entertain the party.  She was
charmingly attired in sprigged muslin with a ribbon casually wound through
her curls.  She sang and accompanied herself on the harp to the delight of
all present.

	Jem could only marvel at the extent of the accomplishments that
were considered desirable (and necessary) for a young lady from an
upper-class family.  Miss Wyndover could sing well, she played the piano
and the harp with a genuine feeling for the music, she could embroider very
neatly and she danced gracefully.  Jem suspected that many many hours of
application had been necessary to achieve such effortless artistic
excellence.  He knew that had he been the one who was required to attain
such perfection, he would have fallen by the wayside long ago.

	Her performance for the group at this time was, of course, her
mother's way of exhibiting her for Lady Sefton's approval, and Lady
Wyndover was much gratified when, at the conclusion of her daughter's
performance, this good lady turned to her and exclaimed, with genuine
feeling, "She is delightful, utterly delightful, my dear Honoria.  Her
beauty is quite captivating and her style is excellent."  Lady Wyndover
flushed with pleasure and relief.  By this remark, she knew that her
daughter had won the approval of this patroness of Almack's.

	Jem was whole-hearted in applauding Miss Wyndover -- so much so
that Lady Sefton turned to him and smiled and said, "I see you agree with
me, Mr Fleet."

	Jem, by this time, was feeling very relaxed, and he replied
artlessly, "I do, Lady Sefton.  Very much.  I know that I could never
acquire even one tenth of Miss Wyndover's accomplishments."

	Lady Sefton looked amused by his answer.  "But you must have your
own accomplishments, sir?"

	Jem shook his head, smiling as he did so.  "No, ma'am.  I have no
accomplishments -- nothing to equal Miss Wyndover's..." and fatefully,
his inconsequential tongue betrayed him.  " No accomplishments," he
continued, "no family and no fortune.  So you need not trouble yourself to
consider me for vouchers to Almack's."

There was a ghastly silence.

As soon as he said the words, came the realization of the solecism he had
committed, and he flushed scarlet in horror.

	It was universally acknowledged that Lady Sefton was the kindest of
the despots who ruled Almack's, yet even she was known to depress the
pretensions of encroaching mushrooms with a savagery that left the
recipient speechless.  In this situation she could so easily have mounted
her high horse, but instead, she chose to be diverted.  After a shocked
pause, she let out a spontaneous peal of uninhibited laughter, that
continued for nearly a full minute while the others around her smiled
nervously.

"Oh, my dear Caro," she said breathlessly as she dabbed her streaming eyes
with a lace handkerchief, "he is an absolute original - so fresh and
unspoiled.  My Lord Chesham, I can see why you want him as your secretary.
He will brighten many a dull hour."

	Jem felt he had to say something.  "Lady Sefton, I must ..."

"My dear Mr Fleet," she replied, still bubbling with laughter, "it is you
whom I must thank.  It is a lesson to us all.  Never must we consider
ourselves above our company.  Your remark certainly has put me in my
place."

	Jem sprang to his feet and said in an agitated manner, "Madam.  I
pray you..."

	And here the Marquess effectively silenced him as he interrupted
and said charmingly to Lady Sefton, "I think, Lady Sefton, that Mr. Fleet
fears he may have prejudiced your opinion of Miss Wyndover."

Lady Sefton wagged her finger at Jem with arch amusement.  "Fie, Mr. Fleet.
It would pain me to think that you would believe I am of such a resentful
temper."  and this naturally had the effect of leaving Jem with nothing to
say.

It was not long after this that her ladyship left.  For the rest of the
time, Jem had the growing uncomfortable feeling that somehow he was being
ostracized by the company.  Even the Marquess had nothing to say to him and
as they all rose to accompany Lady Sefton to her carriage, Jem was left
alone in the yawning silence of the deserted conservatory.  As the servants
efficiently cleared away the tea things, he realized that even they were
ignoring him.  Feeling alone, he made his way to his bedroom and sat
forlornly on the bed gazing into the empty grate.  He slowly understood why
he felt this way. Unconsciously he had allowed himself to believe that he
belonged -- that the others looked on him as part of the family and that
he had foolishly allowed himself to dream.  What right had such a person as
he to believe something like that?  The family attitude to him was
unmistakable as they shut him out.

He was suddenly prey to overwhelming gloom and melancholy.  So
all-pervading was this sensation, that unbidden tears rolled down his
cheeks.

He sat there alone, for a long time, till unexpectedly he felt the bed move
as the Marquess sat beside him.  Jem could not acknowledge his presence.
The Marquess gazed at him for a long moment and then said quietly, "I have
something for you."

Jem turned his head slowly and saw that the Marquess was looking seriously
at him, and yet his eyes were twinkling.

"What is it?" Jem rasped.

With a straight face, the Marquess flourished a piece of paper and handed
it to him, saying, " You owe me ten guineas."

Astonished, Jem looked at the paper in his hands.  It was a voucher -- a
voucher for the opening ball of the season at Almack's.  After the printed
words, Pray admit ... there was written his name Mr. J. Fleet and the
voucher was signed Maria, Lady Sefton.

Jem's eyes flew to the man's face, scarce able to believe what he had read.
The Marquess was smiling broadly, a smile of triumph and pleasure.

"Dry your eyes, Cinderella," he said, "You too shall go to the ball."