“The defendant claims that you asked him to carry the cup back to the silversmith and have it engraved.”
“If that’s the case—and it isn’t—why was it under his bed?”
“Hard labor,” the judge said after another swallow. “I insist this time, Yer Grace. The man’s a fish-stealer.”
The duchess sighed and turned to the dock. “Oscar Sibble, this is your third appearance before this court, all three of which were for rather creative escapades involving stolen objects.”
Burch noticed that Sibble didn’t even hang his head, the way any proper man would. He grinned instead. “No one was hurt,” he said. “The cup’s back home with Burch.”
The judge’s eyes narrowed. “Transport him!” he suddenly bellowed.
The duchess patted his arm again. “We can’t do that, Reginald. The colonies are at war, remember? We don’t transport people there anymore.”
“Then drop him in the sea offshore,” the judge said. “He can swim over to them tarnishing Americans, most of ’em transported from this county anyway.”
“Two weeks hard labor,” the duchess said. “And Mr. Sibble, the only reason you’re not facing imprisonment this time is because the cup was recovered. You appear to have had a merry time of it, delivering the fish, stealing the fish again, pretending to be a barber, ending up with a silver cup. But life is not a game, Mr. Sibble.”
There was a moment of silence in the court.
“If you appear again in this shire court, you will face imprisonment.”
“For life,” the judge added thirstily.
The constable hauled Sibble away, and the duchess turned to Mr. Burch. “It sounds as if you’ve had a distressing time of it, Mr. Burch. I want to commend you on your restraint in the face of these indignities.”
Tom Burch stood up taller. Everyone had been hooting, saying he was a fool because of losing his silver cup due to a fish. But the Duchess of Berrow thought he’d showed restraint.
He put on his hat and marched out of the court. She wasn’t a real judge, of course. But she was what they’d got in Berrow, and it was better than nothing.
Everyone nodded to him on the way out.
Chapter Seven
In Which Strange Guests Arrive at Lord Strange’s House
February 5, 1784 Fonthill Lord Strange’s Country Estate
L ord Strange never managed to quite ignore his butler, although he frequently tried. Povy felt the need to make announcements three or four times a day, and although Jem had frequently pointed out that he had no interest in household matters, the butler persisted in informing him.
So Jem didn’t look up when he heard Povy’s tread in the hallway, and merely reminded himself to install a latch on the inside of the door as the butler came to a halt before his desk.
“Visitors have arrived, my lord. Perhaps you might wish to greet them.”
“I’ll greet them this evening, as usual.” He’d woken up in the middle of the night with two ideas simultaneously: one for a bridge suspension system, and the other for a madrigal. He had the bridge drawn in charcoal, and the madrigal in four parts and on the whole, the madrigal was the success. The bridge looked very pretty, but he rather thought the weight-bearing beams might be overburdened. Perhaps if he lowered the arch itself…
“The Duke of Villiers has arrived,” Povy announced.
“He likes the velvet suite, doesn’t he? Relishes all that frivolous splendor. Tell him I’ll see him at supper.”
“He is accompanied by the Duchess of Cosway.”
Jem looked up. “Who the hell is that?”
“To the best of my knowledge, the Duchess of Cosway is some sixty years of age and lives a retired life in Colchester.”
“Oh dear,” Jem said, grinning. “I gather that Villiers’s companion is not an antique countrywoman?”
Povy coughed. “It is remotely possible that the young woman in question is the wife of the current Duke of Cosway, son of the aforementioned duchess. I understand that he contracted marriage at a very early age, but since he left the country thereafter, Debrett’s does not credit the marriage as having reached full sovereignty.”
“Not consummated, in other words,” Jem said, tracing the line under the bridge again.
“Precisely.”
“Do you or don’t you think this young woman is the bride-to-be?”
“It is possible.”
“But equally possible that Villiers has brought a fancy piece with him, gusseted up like a Christmas lamb. I will greet the supposed duchess at supper as well, Povy. Put Villiers and the young woman in adjoining rooms.”
“Yes, your lordship. They are accompanied by a young man whom the duke introduced as a relative, Mr. Cope.”
“Never heard of him either.”
“He is quite young,” Povy said. It was evident in his tone that Povy considered the young man too young for the exuberant nature of a Strange house party.
“That’s not our problem, Povy. Has my new secretary, Miss DesJardins, settled in yet?”
“The young Frenchwoman seems quite comfortable, my lord. She is planning an entertainment for tomorrow. Something called a Tahitian Feast of Venus.”
Jem started smiling. “I knew she would liven up our entertainments. They’ve been deadly dull lately. Tahitian as in the country of Tahiti?”
“My sense would be that there is little connection, except perhaps that the land of Tahiti is a very warm country, which encourages lack of clothing,” Povy said repressively. “Miss DesJardins has requested that the fires in the South Ballroom be lit to their highest capacity and kept there.” He cleared his throat. “You might want to encourage the Duke of Villiers to confine his relative to his quarters tomorrow. Miss DesJardins is talking of twelve virgins.”
“Twelve?” Jem said, barking with laughter again. “She must be trafficking in miracles. There isn’t one in the house!”
“Mr. Cope…” Povy began.
Jem narrowed his eyes.
“The lad has a remarkably innocent face.”
“Innocence is a time of life, not an irrevocable blot.”
But Povy had known his master for many years, and he gave him a stern look. “Mr. Cope is not prepared for the Feast of Venus.”
Jem got up with a sigh. “I suppose I’ll come down. I might as well assess this child for myself. What a fool Villiers is, to bring an innocent to my house. Povy, you do remember Wilkinson, don’t you? He had an innocent face, but my word!”
“A very different kind of look in Wilkinson’s face,” Povy said.
Jem hated to leave his work, but he paid Povy a prince’s ransom just to know this sort of thing. His house sometimes shook from sins collected under its roof, but the one thing he could not and would not tolerate was the defilement of innocence. No young woman played a Tahitian virgin in his house unless she did it for pleasure. And no Mr. Cope was going to lose his wide-eyed purity unless he wished to.
Though honestly, he couldn’t remember the last young man whom he thought needed shielding. Villiers’s young relative was probably straining at the leash.
“Wasn’t there a time of life when you would have lusted to see a feast of Tahitian virgins, Povy?” he asked, leaving the room.