LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

      While enjoying the social round, St. Clair made it a point to comment favorably on the concerned soul who was penning the letters. From that moment on it became de rigueur for all those in the ton to read these letters, even to commit the most affecting passages to memory in order to recite them at parties.

      Every week another communication was published. Each related a sad tale of a despondent mother forced to sell her young son to a chimney sweep, or spoke of an old woman found starved to death in an alleyway, or profiled a father of ten incarcerated for debt and denied habeas corpus because he could not afford £25 for a lawyer.

      The Peacock’s story of the plight of a crippled soldier—a man once seen fighting by the side of the Iron Duke at Salamanca—who had been caught stealing the piddling amount of five shillings’ worth of bacon, then sentenced to death because he was “undermining the whole structure of a free society and was not fit to live,” had been rumored to have reduced the Queen herself to tears.

      One other particular column had caused quite a stir throughout Mayfair, with a rich and pampered Society lining up on either side of the issue as to whether or not a hapless youth should be hanged for chipping the balustrade of Westminster Bridge!

      These letters, that gave the poor names and made them real, alive, and no longer faceless multitudes, had proven to be an inspiration. Soon the ton had been agog with delicious titillation, all the lords and their ladies certain that this mysterious, eloquent Peacock was one of them, but not knowing his true identity.

      But, over time, it hadn’t been enough for Christian to make his peers aware of the problems. He needed the laws changed, and he lived for the day Lord Sidmouth and his hidebound Tory cronies were removed from power. Christian was impatient for change, too impatient to content himself with working entirely behind the scenes.

      And that, George remembered now half joyfully, half worriedly, was when the Peacock’s further adventures had been conceived. Christian understood the ton now, had correctly deduced how their minds worked. He saw how they adored being amused, knew they universally despised ambitious mill owners and other tradesmen who believed their newfound wealth had earned them a higher rung on the social ladder, and cleverly surmised how they would rally behind a romantic figure who dashed about righting wrongs and causing Lord Sidmouth and all authority fits.

      The first mill owner had bowed to the Peacock’s demands within a week—not twenty-four hours after his vacant country house had mysteriously burned to the ground. The victory was heady, delicious, and soon to be repeated, even enlarged to missions designed to rescue individuals from Lord Sidmouth’s zealous laws—with all of it reported to the populace every week in the Peacock’s entertaining letters.

      George had seen this week’s letter before Christian had sent it on to the newspapers, and his comic depiction of the boorish, bombastic Herbert Symington was sure to send Society into convulsions of mirth at that ignorant, greedy man’s expense.

      And so it was that Christian, who had carefully set himself up as the last possible person who could be the daring Peacock, was now free to listen to the growing discontent for Lord Sidmouth’s laws within Society, help the peasantry, feel as if he were living out his convictions, and have a jolly good time while he was about it.

      Which, George had decided some weeks ago, was precisely the problem.

      To George’s mind, since the advent of the Peacock’s adventures throughout the countryside several months ago, Christian had begun to lose sight of his initial mission. He—indeed, all of them—had been caught up in the thrill of the thing, the hairbreadth escapes from Sidmouth’s spies, the purposeful hoodwinking of Society, the power to bend mill owners to their demands.

      And at what cost? Lord Sidmouth was drawing down on the masses more cruelly each day, punishing them with ever more oppressive edicts and deeper penalties, taking his revenge on them because he was thus far unable to capture the Peacock.

      Now Symington—backed by Lord Undercliff’s fortune—had openly declared that he would not buckle under pressure from the Peacock’s threats. Would Symington hire his own private army of brigands to seek out Christian and the rest of them? It wasn’t inconceivable. And how many more men, poor wretches like this Slow Dickie person, would be made to suffer for Christian’s ideals?

      George felt ashamed of himself, hated himself for what he was thinking. He was close to seeing himself as Christian’s Judas, a disciple who loved him dearly, admired him for his good works and high ideals, yet feared for what his friend was doing in the name of goodness. Judas had turned his friend over to his persecutors in the conviction he was helping him, helping those who blindly followed, believing in salvation. Would it come to that? Dear God, don’t let it come to that!

      “Grumble? Grumble!” St. Clair called out, laughing. “For the love of heaven, man, pay attention. You’re staring at that candy dish as if it contained golden nuggets. Why not just throw some into your mouth and have done with it? God’s teeth, but that’s revolting. Port and sugarplums,” he said, shuddering. “Now listen for a moment. Winnie has concocted an idea as to what to do about the problem of Slow Dickie. You must hear what he has to say. It’s priceless, Grumble, I promise. Absolutely priceless!”

      George looked up, shaking his head to clear it, happy to avoid Christian’s gaze by pretending to concentrate on Sir Gladwin’s scheme. “I know I’m going to regret this, but—what sort of idea, Winnie?”

      Sir Gladwin pulled a face, slicing a look at St. Clair. “I don’t know as how I want to repeat it, seeing as how Kit is grinning like a bear.”

      “Well, it is different, old friend,” Lord Osmond piped up, winking at George. “Especially that part about dressin’ up poor Grumble here as a washerwoman and settin’ him down in the village square as lookout. Grumble—you think you could manage a wriggle when you walk?”

      George rolled his eyes, sighing. How could he have been so stupid? Kit was no Christlike figure, and he, George Trumble, was no traitorous disciple. To think so would be nothing short of blasphemous. They were, all four of them, nothing more than overgrown children, perhaps a little more caring than some, and definitely more foolishly adventuresome than most—but still fairly ordinary, in their own twisted way. Unfortunately, they had placed themselves in extraordinary positions.

      George reached for the candy dish. No wonder he ate so much, he thought, sighing again. If he didn’t, he shouldn’t have the strength to worry so much. “Never mind, Winnie. You’re right. I don’t want to hear it.”

      Christian stood up, then leaned one arm negligently against the mantelpiece. “Very well, Grumble. You’re aptly named, I’ll grant you that. I suppose we should move on. After all, I have promised to grace the theater this evening and must soon begin considering my rig-out. Do you suppose the peach would suit? I shouldn’t wish to clash with the draperies.”

      Sir Gladwin frowned, obviously considering St. Clair’s question as if it really mattered, which everyone else knew it didn’t. “I don’t know, Kit. Refresh my memory: What color are the draperies?”

      George chewed another sugarplum, then quickly swallowed both the confection and his guilt. “Leave it, Winnie,” he said. “Kit’s only trying to muddle our minds so we’ll be confused enough to accept his plan to rescue this poor Slow Dickie fellow. You do have a plan bubbling inside that clever head of yours, don’t you, my friend?”

      St. Clair nodded, then flashed his closest friend a bright smile as he took his seat once more, perched just at the edge of the chair, obviously eager to lay his plan out for his friends. “I never could fool you, could I, Grumble? Yes, I have a plan; one that will serve us in two ways. Grumble, Winnie’s notions of you as a washerwoman to one side, tell me: Are you up for a bit of play-acting?”

      George stopped his hand inches from his mouth, the sugarplum hanging suspended in air as he narrowed his eyes, looking at St. Clair. “Why?” he asked, already sure he didn’t wish to hear his friend’s answer.

      St. Clair leaned back in his chair, still smiling. “No real reason. Let’s just say there is

Скачать книгу