The Dardanelles Conspiracy by Alan Bardos (best ereader for pc TXT) 📗

‘Sherry, I presume?’ Lady Smyth asked.

‘Actually, I’ve recently acquired a taste for gin,’ he replied, inspiring his wife to cock a surprised eyebrow. The first hint of emotion she’d shown since their reunion.

‘Gin, really, how martial of you. Has your stint at the Admiralty blown away some of the cobwebs? Still I suppose that sort of nautical thing is in your blood. Surely rum would be more appropriate?’ Lady Smyth asked, her mocking a reminder that he was no more than a few generations from a common shipping clerk.

‘It’s most kind of you to show an interest in my career,’ Sir George replied dryly. He may not have been able to form a strong attachment to his wife, but he did admire her composure and effortless superiority.

Libby, as she insisted upon being called, had been the scandal of the season when she first came out, Sir George mused, developing a reputation for insolence and a rather forward manner that far outshone her other accomplishments and drove off the most eligible suitors.

Yet it was her spirit that drew Sir George, rather than the prestige her lineage would lend to his career. After meeting her, it surprised Sir George to find how much he detested the type of simpering maid he’d always dreamt of acquiring to run his household and whelp the dynasty he was building.

‘It’s most kind of you to take the trouble to see your wife,’ Libby continued and handed him a large gin.

‘I’ve had urgent matters to attend to.’ He sipped the crisp gin and felt it sooth away some of the tension he was feeling.

‘What is more urgent than attending to your wife?’ Libby smiled sweetly and he felt a burning desire flood his loins. ‘I suppose as your people are… well, new money, it’s to be expected.’

Sir George let the sting of her words pass before continuing. ‘Duty comes first, my dear, you know that. I have nonetheless taken the first available opportunity to arrange for your removal from this city of vice. Where you are at the mercy of the officer corps of any rampaging army that passes through.’

‘Oh, how sweet of you, but I’m not returning to London. What on Earth would I do there, roll bandages and make jam?’

‘I have no intention of sending you back to England, where your total lack of discretion would do me further damage. I’m packing you off to a neutral country.’ Sir George finished his drink and held the glass out for a refill.

‘Well, I won’t go,’ Libby answered, ignoring his proffered glass.

‘I had thought that since you were one’s wife and having vowed to love, honour and obey, you might for once do something one asked,’ Sir George answered, slamming the glass down. He was damned if he’d give in and pour his own drink.

She gathered herself, emphasising a refined bone structure and noble breeding that stretched back to William the Conqueror. ‘George, please don’t be such a crashing bore. One seems to remember you vowing to worship me with your body, but that has been sadly lacking lately.’

Sir George felt a slight stab at his manhood, but controlled his desire. Her scorn never ceased to invigorate him, reminding him of the insolent manner that had drawn Libby to him in the first place. Her only fault, Sir George felt, was the irksome tendency to scrape the bottom of the barrel in her choice of lover. While other men’s wives became the mistress of the Prince of Wales, his behaved like a back-alley trollop.

‘I’ve saved your office lackey, my dear,’ Sir George said, trying to placate her.

‘Did you really “save” Johnny for me, or have you something in mind for my little beau sabreur?’ She accented the phrase ‘handsome swordsman’, with a little kiss of her lips.

‘As it happens, it might be opportune to use Swift to my advantage,’ Sir George said moving towards the drinks cabinet then stopping.

‘And the purpose of your long overdue visit is that you wish to involve me in one of your little plots?’ Libby asked, annoyed by the conversation now.

‘Swift is a man of rather base predilections, which makes him easy to control.’

‘He does lack a certain savoir-faire, but his expertise in other things more than makes up for it... What precisely will this entail?’ she asked, trying to maintain her indifference, although Sir George thought he heard a note of excitement in her voice.

He glanced at the painting of the Grand Canal. It was a Canaletto. The invoice had been attached to the letter that Libby had sent him when she asked for his help to save Swift. Sir George assumed it must be an original for the price he was expected to pay. Indulging her had long ceased to be charming. He supposed with the uncertainty caused by the war, art would be a more prudent investment than stocks and shares and could at least be put to good use.

‘I just need you to take a trip to Venice. You might even get there for the end of the carnival.’

‘Venice?’ Her surprise was palpable. For once he’d managed to breech her defences.

‘Will you do it, even in winter?’

‘Go to Venice, with Johnny? Yes, of course.’

‘You won’t be going with Swift per se. All I need you to do is distract him. I’ve made arrangements to ensure you are kept apart.’ Sir George managed to keep a measured calm in his voice, despite the growing nausea in his gut. He knew it was impossible to separate them, but he had to maintain some kind of pretence. All that mattered was that she did as she was asked.

‘If I find that you have chosen to debauche yourself with Swift you will have to condescend to live within your means, like a jilted courtesan, eking out a modest existence