The Heart That Lies (2 page)

As Smith took the card his fingers brushed Meldon’s. A strange sensation
ran through his body and he clamped his teeth together so that he would not call out to the boy to beg him to stay. Smith stood, bowed and walked away.

When Finch returned they sat down to dinner together.

“How did you meet that boy?” asked Meldon after Finch had passed on some information about their most recent joint venture.

“I was playing cards at Tilton’s and I noticed him. He was doing very well, unusually so. I watched him and, if he was cheating, I couldn’t see it.”

“Then he wasn’t cheating. We both know you would have caught him out.”

“Eventually I managed to get the seat next to him and introduced myself. I thought he might be an interesting addition to your Thursday nights. He wasn’t interested at first and it was only when I mentioned your name that his attitude changed. He asked me if I were well-acquainted with you and I said that I was. Then he started asking me questions about you and your character. I suggested that I introduce you and then he could draw his own conclusions. I thought it most unusual. His attitude towards you was antagonistic.”

“In the same way it was this afternoon, or
even more obviously?” There was no need to ask if Finch had noticed the boy’s clenched fists.

“On the same level, I should say. He probably thought he was concealing it rather well.”

“And your reaction to him?”

Finch coloured slightly. Despite knowing one another so well
and for so long, there were still things that they did not and had never discussed.

“Much the same as yours. I don’t know when I last met such a
pretty young man.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

“Do you think he’s good enough to earn a living gambling?” asked Meldon while they were waiting for the port to arrive.

“Is that what he wants to do?”

Meldon nodded.

“Then he’s a fool.”

“That’s what I told him. But will he starve later rather than sooner?”

Finch thought for a moment.

“He’s really rather good. He might not starve at all.”

“He writes poetry as well.”

Finch choked on his wine. When he had recovered he said, “He really wants to make life difficult for himself, doesn’t he?”

“He says he’s published a couple of poems. I’ll seek them out.”

Finch raised an eyebrow. “Why are you showing so much interest in him?”

Meldon studied his face to see which question Finch was really asking.

“I’m not implying that you’re interested in him sexually,” said Finch, with the bluntness he displayed only towards those of whom he was very fond. “Now that we’ve raised the subject, I don’t believe you’re any more interested in boys than I am. I wouldn’t let you near Freddie if I thought you were.”

Still Meldon said nothing, not entirely sure that he could put his finger on the problem.

“It feels as if he came looking for me,” he said after a couple of swallows of wine. “Someone from Lincolnshire who has only been here a few weeks came looking for me. Why?”

“He heard you keep a table at
Brown’s and thought he could make a lot of money,” suggested Finch, “but that doesn’t explain the clenched fists or why he wasn’t interested until I said your name. You’re right. He’s a riddle and he will bear watching. Let me ask the questions. You can do the poetry, though.”

“Your education was
wasted on you.”

“If I were the son of an earl and not
the son of a manufacturer, I, too, could spend my time reading poetry.”

Finch grinned.
There was no substance to his argument and they both knew it. In much the same way that Meldon’s secret activities kept him away from his estates, Finch’s kept him away from his books. It was only because he feared the poetry would be bad that he had suggested that Meldon pursue that course, for Meldon knew that he believed the earl would not have the taste to notice.

Once more they lapsed into an easy silence. After dinner they went to Meldon House, where they drank whisky and discussed the advances they had made in iden
tifying the murderer of Vincent into the early hours of the morning.

Meldon tried, but
he could not get the boy out of his mind. He would wake at night, sweating from exertions that waking, mercifully, caused him to forget. He thought he was going insane and feared that he would end his days in Bedlam. In the daylight hours the boy was a constant distraction from the things he should be thinking about. He wrote letters to his steward and his mother, but stopped when he realised that he was telling the countess about Jonas Smith’s poetry. He had sought out the poems that Smith had sold. Their number grew slowly, but Meldon purchased all the publications in which they appeared. Smith could not, however, distract him from Vincent and the importance of finding his murderer.

Now, more than ever, he wished that Vincent were not dead.
He had been a man who could lead men. Meldon had hesitated to bring him to Warren’s attention because Vincent was a man who would make a difference on a battlefield, but Warren was as impressed by his strategic thinking as Meldon himself and had agreed that he would be an asset to the service. Even knowing what that decision had led to, Meldon could not regret introducing Vincent to his new life. They had become friends and Meldon had thought that they trusted one another, right up to that last night.

If ever he could be physically attracted to a man it would have been Vincent. He was tall, impossibly good-l
ooking and well-built, his dark hair hiding a childhood scar on his forehead. Whilst maidens didn’t quite swoon at the sight of him, there were plenty of them vying for his attention. Vincent, however, was as true in this as in everything else. He had fallen in love, proposed and been accepted. When Meldon had found out that he was a virgin and suggested that he take a mistress so that he would not disappoint his bride on their wedding night, Vincent had replied that they would find their way together, for he had always wanted nothing more than to love one woman and to be loved by her.

Meldon knew he had spoken true, which made it all the more incredible that his naked body had been found by the back entrance to a brothel. He had been beaten to death. His clothes and belongings had never been found. It had been assumed that he had quarrelled with someone in the brothel and his body
had been thrown out into the street to avoid too many inquiries inside. Fortunately, Warren had heard of it in time to prevent a scandal and they had spun a tale of a more honourable death to his family and friends. That tale had prevented Meldon from attending his friend’s funeral and had caused a few raised eyebrows at his club.

Meldon did not care that his own reputation suffered; he was alive and could change people’s opinions and his mother and sister had accepted the slightly different, but no less untrue, explanation he had given them
in case they should hear any tales. He had no right to care about his reputation; a soldier’s life was not his own in time of war.

Vincent had died as a soldier, Meldon was convinced of that. The younger man had left a message for him at his town house t
hat evening. Meldon had been playing cards in a gambling den and had only seen it after he had learned of Vincent’s death and concocted his story with Warren. By then he had dressed his friend, put him in a coffin and seen him start on his journey back to his family. He had sent his own messenger ahead of the coffin. Not surprisingly, there had been no acknowledgement from the family.

‘The blue moon rises’ Vincent’s
last message had said. The next blue moon was in next August, thirteen months away. It hardly seemed likely that an event so far away had cost him his life. Concluding that a different blue moon was intended, Meldon had visited all the taverns in London called ‘Blue Moon’, of which there were very few and none held any clues. Warren’s men visited taverns all over the country with no results, other than the odd hangover.

It was not a code they had used before and now he was working on the premise that Blue Moon was a person, but no one had reacted when he had rambled on about the importance of the moon to farming
in many different clubs and coffee houses.

And now this boy was distracting him from the one thing that was importa
nt to him – avenging Vincent. Vincent should not have gone alone that night, wherever it was he had gone. It was not that he had lacked experience or wisdom, but that he had not always understood that two heads were better than one and he had never understood that if he did go alone, he had to tell Meldon or Finch where he had gone.

Meldon felt the betrayal sorely.
Johnson, Meldon’s butler had told Vincent where he could be found that night and Vincent had not come to him. That spoke to the urgency of the situation, of course, but Meldon could see no sign that Vincent’s death had changed anything for the French or for the English. After two months of worrying over it, he was no closer to finding out why Vincent had died, nor who had killed him.

Meldon wished that he could avoid it, but he realised that he must visit Smith, to do anything else would be unconscionably rude. He should already have a paid the visit a few days after having been introduced to him. One afternoon, when he knew he could put it off no longer, he had Perkins dress him in his most fashionable (and uncomfortable) clothes, called for his carriage and set out for Smith’s lodgings.

Although
these were in a part of London where Meldon would not normally venture unless General Warren sent him, Smith was a gentleman and Meldon would not shirk his duty just because the man’s lodgings were undesirable.

Smith was
obviously not expecting visitors, for there was a delay between Meldon presenting his card to the girl and his being shown up to Smith’s rooms. Smith stood at the open door, looking slightly flustered. He bowed.

“Good afternoon, Lord Meldon. I didn’t think anyone would do me the honour of calling on me in this part of
London.”

The boy did not smile, but looked worried. Meldon was calmed slightly; meeting Smith again was not the trial he had expected.

“I do not allow the location of a gentleman’s lodgings to dictate whether or not I should visit him.”

Now
Smith smiled.

“No, I see you are a man who carries out his duties punctiliously.”

Meldon inclined his head slightly.

“Please, come in and sit.”

Meldon entered the small, dark room. Smith occupied rooms at the top of the house; only the servants lived higher. The windows were small and overlooked the narrow street outside.

The room contained a
chair and a small stool. Smith had offered Meldon the chair, which was over-stuffed and uncomfortable. The younger man perched on the stool.

Meldon
looked around the sparsely-furnished room, trying to work out why Smith had delayed receiving him. His few possessions were arranged tidily enough. Then he realised that there was no sign of Smith’s writing.

“You are not working on your poems today, I see.”

The boy blushed and cleared his throat.

“Then I interrupted you. I apologise. I had not intended my visit t
o be a distraction.”

“Not at all, my lord. I was struggling to find the right words and it might be that stopping will make it easier when I take up the pen again.”

There was a knock at the door and a small boy came into the room carrying a jug and two glasses.

“I took the liberty of sending to the
wine merchant for some wine, my lord. It will not be of the quality that you are used to.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Meldon,
touched that the boy was showing better manners than some of the gentry who considered themselves his friends.

Smith took the jug from the boy and poured
some into each of the glasses and gave one to Meldon, who tasted it cautiously. It was not as bad as he was expecting; the boy obviously had better taste than his lack of money had led Meldon to expect. He concluded that Smith had once lived in very comfortable circumstances. It seemed unlikely that a farmer’s son from Lincolnshire should have developed such good taste so young. He wondered briefly where the boy could have learned to appreciate good wine and to know that it should be given to guests.

“This is good,” he complimented his host.

“Fortunately Mr Horn, from whose cellar this comes, does not realise how good it is, otherwise I could not afford to drink it.”

It was hot in
the room, despite the open windows. The noise from the street below was so loud that Meldon wondered how the boy could concentrate enough to write anything. He valued peace and quiet himself and assumed that others did, too.

“You are settling into life here?”

“Yes, thank you. It is very different to Lincolnshire, but I manage. Soon I shall be able to afford lodgings that are more amenable to receiving visitors.”

“There is nothing to be ashamed of in living in accordance with your means.”
Although he was beginning to understand the boy’s obsession with money, Meldon was worried that it might lead him to do things that would harm him.

“I will not be
extravagant, my lord. I wish only to be a bit more comfortable and to offer my guests a chair that does not cripple them.”

He blushed as he realised
what he had said and Meldon shifted uneasily. It was true that the chair was uncomfortable and very low for a man of his height. He would not find it easy to get out of it when the time came and that would be an unforgivable insult to his host.

“I find very few chairs
comfortable since I was wounded,” he said, in an effort to make the boy feel better.

“It is too low for you, my lord.” He was obviously
in distress. “I should have thought and...”

“Please, do not concern yourself, Smith. I am too tall for most of my friends’ chairs. It is only in my
own house that I am able to be truly comfortable.” This much was true; Meldon found most chairs uncomfortable, unless he could stretch his legs.

“I am sorry to be so inhospitable.”

“Far from it. I am enjoying this wine very much.”

Smith smiled,
but his heart was not in it.

“Have you sold any more poems?” Meldon already knew the answer to this, but he
wanted the boy to be able to talk about something that would give him pleasure. To his surprise the boy looked even gloomier.

“I have sold two poems, but I cannot
write the kind of poems that people wish to read.”

“Oh?”

Meldon realised that he had set a trap for himself. Although he had read more poetry since he had met Smith, he was not really in a position to understand and discuss modern tastes. He had no idea what type of poetry other people wanted to read and doubted it was what he himself preferred.

“
How do you wish to write? Like Wordsworth?”

Meldon was
n’t sure he had chosen well. He did not like the little he had read of Wordsworth’s poetry and he certainly did not appreciate the man’s political views.

“
Mr Wordsworth ....”, the boy hesitated as if he did not wish to seem to be comparing himself with someone so widely regarded as a great modern poet. “Mr Wordsworth exposes himself to his reader so that you know who and what he is.”

Meldon thought Smith’s judgement was correct
, but it seemed that Smith admired, rather than deprecated, this style of writing. Meldon knew that he was old-fashioned in many ways, but he heartily approved of the new fashion for reserve and self-control. These came easily to him, but had earned reprimands from his father when he had been a child. Now they were essential to the way he managed his life as a spy.

“That is the
task of the poet,” continued Smith.

“To display himself?” queried Meldon.

“To examine himself and to lay himself open to examination.”

“At least in that he agrees
with Pope.”

“Yes.
‘The proper study of mankind is man’,” quoted Smith.

“Although I doubt he comes to the same conclusion.”

“No, I fear not. Mr Wordsworth is rather irreligious.”

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.”